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harkanya · 2 years

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@alstroemeriadissonance part 3!

Friday

There was silence from Rosa that day and Vyn was thankful for the distraction in his own work. A healthy stack of psychology essays from students took up residence on his desk in his home office awaiting his attention. These essays were a considerable portion of the students’ grades and they had spent a proportionate amount of effort on them, Vyn hoped. He didn’t want to wield the Red Pen of Disappointment unless absolutely necessary.

Soft music filtered in through a speaker on the wall, enveloping the good doctor in serenity and peace. Or, rather, that was the intention.

Instead, Vyn blinked several times and shook his head, having fallen back into his new habit of daydreaming. Fifteen minutes had been spent mentally redecorating a wing of his imaginary estate and filling it with objects he had remembered seeing in Rosa’s condo. A soft and white rabbit plush toy for the bed, a vase filled with lilies for the table and a bookshelf filled to the brim with law, philosophy and the romance novels Vyn had once considered frivolous.

“‘The Princess’ Pensive Suitor’?” he had asked, holding the book, with its hideously bright color scheme, in one hand.

“Kiki–Kiki gave it to me!!” Rosa had explained, stammering with embarrassment. She’d turned away from him with rapidly darkening cheeks. “Yes, there’s a scantily clad man riding a white horse on the front but she said the plot was fantastic! And… and you yourself said you can’t judge a book by its cover!”

Did she dream of him riding to her rescue on a white stallion across meticulously manicured and impossible landscapes of technicolor flowers?

More importantly, did she dream of him with half his shirt open and billowing in the wind seductively, his chest glistening for some inexplicable reason?

…..what am I doing?

His mental estate, with all of its opulence and grandeur that symbolized who he was, felt empty unless she was roaming the grounds. Empty and devoid of pleasure unless she was within his walls. The paintings on the walls were lifeless, the tea tasteless, the natural light he’d prided himself on had grown dim.

With a sigh, he stood up from his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, walking to his window which overlooked the garden. The garden Rosa would help him tend the very next day. The weather forecast called for typical cold conditions but lacked rain until the evening. The perfect time for pruning, cleaning and garden lessons.

The dictaphone was by now full of his self-evaluations regarding his new problem. Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, phenylethylamine… all chemicals related to the euphoric feeling of love. This was the first instance Vyn had ever felt such a thing and the physical symptoms alone were quite alarming. The butterflies in the stomach effect was especially pronounced when in Rosa’s physical vicinity. Other problematic symptoms included the urge to smile when around her, the desire to touch her in some way and to engulf himself in her scent…

Utterly embarrassing. If he wasn’t able to tighten his control of himself, Rosa would turn to see him grinning like a lovestruck high school student one of these days.

A facepalm moment, Marius would say. Big oof, Luke would say and then would add something about hashtags.

Yes, he’d studied the psychology of love and attraction out of both curiosity and necessity. After all, many of his patients had troubles that revolved around love or the lack thereof. Experiencing the damn thing was another ball of wax entirely. As a young teen, Vyn had been absolutely convinced of his immunity to such folly. After all, his father was the first victim of love Vyn had ever known. Love at first sight, no less.Vyn had firsthand knowledge of how devastating such folly could be as it robbed him of his mother, archaic Svart laws aside.

And yet, here he was, pining for the woman who plucked a card from his carefully-erected test and had exceeded expectations so spectacularly. Vyn found himself staring down at the garden, wondering if he should bake for her tomorrow, if she would like it and whether she would enjoy tending the plants with him by her side. What tea should he prepare? What tea set should be used?

Is this what my father felt when he met mother?

I feel like I’ve lost control of myself…

In his mind’s eye, he recalled her peridot gaze softening ever so slightly when she laid her gaze upon him. It was a look wholly unlike any he observed her lavish upon Luke or Marius or Artem, or so he’d hoped. Surely there was something there. His overtures were elegant as always, caressing her skin like silk. Vyn cataloged her blushes, her stutters, the way she’d dip her head when embarrassed by his compliments.

Another hour had been spent toiling inside his own head. Vyn took a steadying breath and returned to his desk, determined to get some work done before tomorrow.

#tears of themis #marius von hagen #artem wing #luke pearce #vyn richter #mo yi #someone is horribly lovesick and hates it hahaha #mental redecorating #pining #boy is down bad

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 4 years

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hades!harry sneak peek

Harry’s circadian rhythm was fucked.

It was beyond fucked— it was royally, godly, supernaturally shanked.

It’s no mystery as to how or why his sleep cycle is such an utter disaster considering he lives miles and miles underneath the earth with no sun to filter through his curtains, no birds to chirp him awake, and no distinguishable change in climate to alert him of oncoming dawn. No, Harry very much lacks this simple overland luxury that mortals and other gods eagerly take for granted— the gift of being roused in the morning by nature and its beautiful accompaniments.

Instead, Harry is sequestered deep inside a giant fucking rock with endless emerald flames lapping at the walls of his palace and up along the windows of his bedroom, never changing color, never changing heat, and obviously never allowing a living, breathing bird to sing a single note in his ear.

One would assume he had gotten used to it after carrying a two thousand year lease on this fiery pit he calls home, but how could he ever learn to settle when he has spent time dwelling the human world and enjoying its little golden mysteries that any other soul rarely ever seems to cherish. There’s so much to love about living above ground, from the energy-packed colorful music festivals, to the illuminated skyscrapers that overlook incredibly diverse cities, to the vast expanse of crystalline bodies of water that twinkle brighter than any jewel he’s ever laid eyes on (which speaks plenty, given that gems and priceless stones are well within his domain of expertise).

The list of under-appreciated delicacies that the mortal realm holds is truly bottomless and he could drawl on for hours about how ungrateful and selfish people can be when they have everything at their fingertips. However, Harry would rather channel his thoughts into something more positive and beneficial to his sanity.

He often finds himself wistfully sifting through all of the charming earthly encounters he’s organized into that imaginary archive, using them as a means to escape the dim world he had been burdened with reigning. It’s not that he necessarily hates the Underworld— he’s quite proud of it, actually; proud of how far it’s come under his design and taste— but staring at the same brimstone walls, obsidian floors, and onyx marbled columns tends to get old after a couple of centuries, let alone twenty. There’s nothing treacherous about a bit of escapism, especially not when his favorite daydream is something so minimalistic and overlooked.

In Harry’s refined point of view, the most treasured aspect of the overland world is the ability to witness a sunrise. For decades upon decades, when he has the chance to spend a whole day as just another person in the crowd rather than a celestial being, the event he looks forward to above all is being awoken by buttery light cascading in through the silk curtains of an elegant balcony door, preferably in a quaint yet lavish hotel room somewhere in the backwoods of Paris or Rome. In his opinion, there’s nothing that can quite compare to the sensation that crawls across his bare skin as the first rays of sun tickle the hairs along his arms and caress the crests of his cold cheekbones. It’s an otherworldly experience, the way his flesh tingles as it absorbs the innocent heat and spreads it across every cell in his magically-heightened body. It melts him down to his icy heart in a manner that only one other thing— or person, rather— has ever managed to accomplish.

He thinks he could sit there for hours, on a cushioned deck chair with his feet propped up on the railing as the sun kisses his chest and nose raspberry red, the cool morning breeze carding into his tousled curls as he sips from a glass of finely mulled wine that costs more than any regular person would dare indulge, his eyes falling shut in bliss as a honeyed warmth drapes over him like a weighted blanket. He’s well aware that the over-exposure will later leave him itchy, stinging, and peeling, yet that understanding somehow always makes him crave it more. If there’s anything being an immortal god has taught him is that a little bit of heaven has to come with the hell, and if it makes you happy and numbs away some of your troubles— even if just for an instance— then any hell is definitely worth bracing.

It’s the small moments like that which keep you from teetering over the edge; if you have the chance, allow yourself to swim in it, or risk drowning in what could have been.

Harry wishes he could take credit for that quote— it makes him sound like a wise deity instead of a sulking one. It’s not his, however, and he refuses to take credit for such a perfectly articulated belief, especially not when it comes from the mind of someone just as perfect, if not more.

If he’s being truly honest, he knows it’s borderline unhealthy how all of his thoughts somehow always tend to funnel into his love for his wife. She’s always there, lurking in the back of his brain when she’s not at its forefront, influencing every action he partakes, every word that passes by his lips, and every notion that tweedles the gears in his head. Persephone has a hand in everything that makes his heart thaw, so of course her name is sprawled all over this specific piece of joy in his life, as well. And when he allows himself to fully bide on what could have possibly made this seemingly unimportant experience— something as casual as feeling the sun heating his skin as it rises in the morning— flourish into his most adored above-ground pastime, it’s obviously logical that Y/N is behind it. All his happiness continuously comes together through her, as it has for the last two millennia.

Y/N had noticed a while back how during their adventures in the human world, Harry seemed to really enjoy sunrises; so much so that he’d shake her awake at the ass crack of dawn and drag her out of their very fluffy, very comfortable hotel bed and onto the balcony just so they could witness it together. He’d get this sheen of childish awe across his face as the sun would emerge from the distant horizon, bathing the dusky night sky in a splatter of drunken purples, mellow oranges, and pastel blues. He’d bend over the metal railing as far as it would allow, wanting to get as close to the natural artistry as possible, a wonderous, giddy smile twisting his dimples into place as the stars would disappear into the phenomenon.

Harry would point and laugh softly in sheer amazement as all of the stunning shades would swirl together among the clouds before eventually fading away, leaving him breathless and dazed at how something so mystical could be happening right in front of everyone’s eyes and yet not many put effort into appreciating it. He’d never understand how humans could sacrifice such an exhilarating experience for a few extra minutes of sleep.

Y/N filed under that group, unfortunately. She’d never really been one to pay much attention to sunrises anymore since she was used to living six months of every year on Olympus. Seeing the sun break through the clouds every morning was routine for her and as far as routines go, it had eventually gotten old. She’d lost interest long ago, save a few times here and there when she would be in a particular mood and savor it. But all in all, sunrises just weren’t that extravagant to her anymore.

However, Persephone had never stopped to think about what they meant to her husband— to a man who lived the majority of his eternal days underground in a literal hell hole, too busy with his kingly duties to come up and enjoy seeing daybreak. A sunrise is something short of a miracle to him, and watching his face light up with astonished joy— both metaphorically and literally— as they’d watch the scene together quickly became something short of a miracle to her.

[ coming soon! ]

#this is my first time ever doing an interactive banner omg #what do y'all think 🥺🥺#i think you guys will like this one it's based off of a soft morning sex concept someone sent in that made me go feral #i'm also introducing a new god into the au eheheheh

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kissmejae · 5 years

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Habits

PAIRING: Jung Jaehyun × Reader

GENRE: fluff, neighbours!AU (I guess?)

SUMMARY: Y/N has a bad habit of spying on the people living across the street, and when someone new moves in, everything changes.

WORD COUNT: 2.6k words

A/N: This is based on the prompt “a note, a cup of coffee, a new home” and where I live. Sadly there’s no Jaehyun or cute café, but the fat cat is there!! Also, I have no fucking clue how to use comma in English, sorry.

WARNINGS: Stalking if you squint really hard

You had a bad habit of looking through the windows on the other side of your lane. You lived on the third floor in a flat in the central part of town, and the old buildings stood so close that it was nearly impossible not to spy a little on the lives of all the people across the street. Just a little. You knew how the chubby red cat on the first floor liked to jump out the window at times, wandering the street and sneaking into the basement. The girl in the penthouse with the sloping walls would open the windows on sunny days and water her plants, standing for a while, taking in the view. The guys in the flat next to the red cat, who were probably your age, would always sit in the couch at night and watch football.

The middle aged man living directly across from your flat would always stand in the kitchen late at night and cook dinner, the antique lamp in the windowsill shining in a dusty orange hue. But today the lamp and its owner were gone. All of a sudden. You knew nothing about him, honestly – his name, his job and everything else was foreign to you. And still it hit you with a weird sense of melancholia that you’d never see him cook spaghetti again with his shirt unbuttoned, as you had so many times. The place was empty, but not for long.

It was the first day of the month, a busy time for people moving out of their old homes and into new ones. The neighbourhood you lived in housed many different types of people; college students saving money by living together, young couples that were amidst the milestone of having their first child, single adults that probably worked overtime too often, and the occasional retired citizens that had lived here for decades, never growing tired of city life.

You belonged to the first category, and it seemed that the new inhabitants of the empty flat were just the same. It was difficult to tell, but the guy unloading boxes upon boxes from a trailer was hardly a year older than you. You see, looking down at the street from the third floor, you could mostly see his brown hair and his strong shoulders, so it was more of a calculated guess. You had to admit that it excited you to have someone new to observe – mind you, you weren’t a creepy stalker at all, you just enjoyed picking up on people’s habits. And for that exact reason you stepped away to give him some privacy, even if he had no idea he was being watched.

Days had passed, and you had come to learn that two guys had moved in; the one you saw on the first day, and this taller friend. As with many young men, they didn’t seem to be experts at interior decorating, the place looked quite… minimalistic in it’s style as far as you were concerned. The thing is that you could only see through their kitchen window, as the other rooms faced away from your street, so maybe it was only the shared kitchen that was boring. Something that on the other hand wasn’t boring at all, actually rather amusing, was that the “first” boy had a lot of the same habits as the former renter, especially the part about cooking dinner late at night. He stood in the same position, body facing 90 degrees away from the window, concentrating on frying an egg, making noodles or boiling water for tea.

It was kind of relaxing to watch him stand there, but at some point he began cooking while being shirtless, which made it rather awkward for you. You had to admit to yourself that he had, shall we say.. good genes. It made your innocent act of watching seem very wrong and weird, especially because it made it even more tempting for you, and that annoyed you endlessly. Besides, you felt that it wasn’t simply his bare torso that drew you in, it was something more, something you couldn’t quite put a finger on. Sometimes, you’d turn the lights off in your room, roll down the curtains and look just for a moment, promising yourself that this had to end soon. Heck, you didn’t even know his name.

One of the best, if not the best part about living in an urban area was the Parisian style café at the street level of your complex. Everything they served was utterly delicious, and because you were a regular, they’d occasionally treat you to a coffee on the house. You didn’t always have time, but on the weekends you loved taking a seat in the sun, reading a good book while eating breakfast. Taking your time. And (you guessed it) doing a teeny tiny bit of people watching. Sometimes you’d even dress up for the event, wearing a flowy dress or some gorgeous sunglasses, pretending you were in an old movie. When you weren’t reading anything interesting, you’d bring your trusted old notebook and scribble whatever came to mind. Write a poem that you’d cross out immediately because it was too cheesy or too dull, make a caricature of the old man with the silver moustache that sits at the same café table every day, or maybe just make your grocery list.

This day, as you sat at your small round table with your orange juice and croissant, you saw him outside of the apartment for the first time. Well, the first time since the day he moved in. The whole scene that played out was so strange to you at first – as soon as he came out of the front door he crossed the street, walking straight in your direction. As if time slowed down, you reasoned that he had seen you staring through your window all this time, and now he was about to call you out for it in public. Your heart was beating so fast, you felt so, so stupid. As he was only a few meters away from, you made eye contact and you truly felt an imaginary ceiling crash down on you.

“Fuck” you whispered almost inaudibly.

But the impossible happened – he walked right past you, and you just sat there on the rattan chair completely confused. Did your life just flash before your eyes for nothing? Apparently it did, because when you turned your head slightly towards the bar, he was ordering a coffee to go, oblivious to you and your internal crisis. As you saw him leave and disappear at the street corner, you decided that you were so over your stupid curiosity. It shouldn’t be you that felt paranoid, right?

–

And so you turned back into a normal person that didn’t deliberately daydream over your neighbours. Of course you couldn’t help noticing the lit windows at night and so on, but nobody could. And frankly, besides thinking about him occasionally, you didn’t miss your habit much.

You still enjoyed staying at the café downstairs as much as your schedule and the weather allowed, and the unwritten rule was that it was okay to look at the people passing by here. It was always a mix of familiar faces and the faces you’d never seen before nor ever would again. You loved drawing inspiration from them; what they wore, what words they used when speaking on the phone with friends, how they walked… There was something comforting about how unique they all were. Maybe we didn’t all need to fit into some imaginary box to please others… Maybe it was okay to be yourself with being judged.

At one instance the unnamed boy came down for coffee again, but this time you were free of worry as your conscience was sparkly clean. You didn’t spy on him anymore. Eye contact was made once again as he walked by, and this time around he even flashed you a small polite smile of recognition. Needless to say you returned it, though he was almost past you already, but for the first time you got a full-frontal look at his face, and it made your heart flutter more than it should. It was acceptable to find a stranger attractive, but it was nothing but a bad idea to have feelings for someone you didn’t know. He made it very difficult not to.

Yet again you reminded yourself to stay in your own god damn lane.

–

Time passed, and by now you were both very much regulars at the café, the difference being that you always stayed while he always had his coffee to go. Always leaving and turning at the corner, lord knows where he went. You didn’t pay much attention to him anymore, but it all changed when he one day nonchalantly left a handwritten note on a torn piece of paper, as he walked by your favourite table. You felt completely frozen in your seat, as if he had broken a contract that neither of you had actually signed. You had done your best to keep to yourself for so long, and he had the audacity to acknowledge your presence? You were riddled as to what the content of the folded note could be. Your inner romanticist hoped for a phone number, but that was ridiculous. With slightly numb and shaking hands you unfolded the paper.

“We have the same taste in music, but you should close the windows next time if you don’t want the whole street to hear :~)”

You had to read it twice and process it all. Shit. You couldn’t help but to snigger a little, your face turning baby pink in embarrassment. You covered your face with your hands – all this time you’d been watching everyone else’s habits oblivious to the fact that someone was watching yours. Yes, sometimes you just had to bellow your favourite tunes, and the highest notes weren’t always easy to hit no matter how hard you tried. You really were a first class fool. And worst of all he knew you were a fool. The scribbled note had so much meaning to unpack; Was he mocking you? Was he flirting? What were you supposed to do now?? Knock on his door? Ignore him?

It was all too much for you at once, but you decided that it was a good thing that you had the same taste, and that he included the smiley at the end. You couldn’t answer the perhaps most important question though – why did he not write his name?

That night your thoughts kept you up for a bit. Regarding his name, it was of course possible to cross the street and check the name list on intercom, but 1) maybe there wasn’t even an intercom, 2) there would probably be two names since he had a roomie and 3) (most important of all) it was too desperate. The whole situation was so strange to you, you had truly never experienced something like it before.

It sparked a tiny flame of anxiety within you. You felt scared to go to your café again in case you ran in to each other again, because you truly wouldn’t know what to do. Yet again you had lived here much longer than him, so what was his business making you embarrassed to be in your very own neighbourhood? You also felt cautious about doing anything out of the ordinary in your bedroom, because what if someone saw you? It really troubled you because on one hand, you didn’t want to be the butt of someone’s joke for singing with open windows, and on the other hand, whenever you had been watching people through their windows, you only found their habits and lives endearing, so why were you so afraid? You decided that it was only reasonable to keep doing you fearlessly, and that overthinking it all led to no good.

And so you did. On one of the last Sunday mornings before autumn took the warm weather away from you, you were sat at your table downstairs. Everything was as usual. As expected, your brown-haired neighbour bust out the door, crossing the quiet street to get the same coffee as he always got. You busied yourself with reading a novel, you couldn’t stand to look him in the eyes as you’d only fall harder and deeper. You were so engulfed in the book that you didn’t notice him coming towards you instead of leaving the same way he always did.

“Can I sit?” his caramel voice spoke from behind you.

You jumped a little in your seat from the shock and turned your head instantly.

You looked at him for a second before replying with a “Yes” in the most unaffected way you could muster. You were not about to be a fool again. It took everything in you to seem normal. Internally all alarm were going off and you could feel the heat rush to your face.

“I don’t think you read my note” he broke the silence.

You looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“I did read it?”

He couldn’t hide his smile, as if he knew something you didn’t.

“Really? Because I still hear you sing at full force from time to time.” He took a sip of his paper cup.

“How can you be sure it’s me,” you retorted in an unamused voice, trying to be innocent.

“Oh, there’s this great invention called windows, you can see right through them!” he nudged you with his elbow.

You help but to warm up at his kind and funny nature, laughing a little at his words.

“Ok you got me. But don’t pretend that I’m the only human on earth doing that!”

“I’m just messing with you,” he smiled, “but it is kind of hilarious to watch you sometimes… You and all your habits.”

“My habits?” you asked, mortified.

“Yeah, you have so many, but I swear I’m not a stalker!”

You couldn’t really blame him could you.

“You just… Sometimes you take aaaall the clothes out of your wardrobe and try everything on, posing for the mirror, it’s honestly endearing. I’ve also seen you practice your dance moves in front of that mirror, and I know you hate to hear this, but I think you should keep that mess inside of your room for now,” he chuckled. “But I really like hearing you sing so I’m glad you didn’t shut your windows.”

You were completely speechless. It was a lot to take in right now, but the smile on your face didn’t lie. It was super weird to hear these things you never even noticed yourself, but it wasn’t as bad as you feared it could be – after all he seemed smitten by your goofiness, not judgmental. Part of you wanted to hit back with all the weird things you’d seen him do, but you opted for something simpler.

“This is so weird right?” you began, “I’ve seen you stand over there in your kitchen cooking at the weirdest hours of the day, blaming myself for creeping on you, and all this time you did the same? And we don’t even know each other’s names?” You were sort of astonished with your own honesty, but his company made you feel oddly safe.

“You like people watching too?” he asked.

“Who doesn’t,” you answered.

“I’m Jaehyun,” he finally admitted, offering his hand.

“I’m Y/N,” you replied, shaking his soft hand.

He studied you for a moment, and took the chance to ask: “Can I take you out some time? Maybe go people watching?”

Your heart was beating rapidly as you immediately accepted his offer, and he smiled as he told you a secret.

“I know that you read my note. I made sure that my roomie Johnny watched you from the kitchen window, he said that your face went red as a tomato.”

#jaehyun fic #jaehyun fan fic #jaehyun fluff #nct fic #nct fan fic #jaehyun fanfic #nct fanfic #nct fluff #jaehyun #jung jaehyun #yoonoh #fluff #nct #wow i haven't posted a pic in YEARS #pls lmk if you liked it

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alamanyar · 5 years

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marti and nico are both soft, we all know that.

this one is for nico though.♡

i want to talk about nico’s softness for once. it has touched me tremendously. while he’s full of energy and ideas, he carries this emotional strength inside of him that i find inspiring.

there are characters i love and admire for their badassness, for their confidence, and for their determination. and when i see softness under all these attributes, you can bet your ass that i won’t shut up about it. especially, when softness is ultimately the prominent attribute a character is made of. sometimes i think softness is underrated, when in reality, it’s one of the most badass attributes in the world (in my humble opinion).

it starts right from the beginning. first look at nico and he just stands there talking to some guy outside of school and then greeting sana. sure, we see him from afar through marti's eyes, but he looks like the softest bean, ever smiling while talking. nico has the most genuine smile. that’s how we meet him.

his first words to marti though? “why did you stop?” and that look. you can see he’s flustered, because he’s talking to this boy he already is so keen on!! (my headcanon is that he didn’t stare back at marti outside of school (i guess he didn’t see him. who knows) nor during the radio meeting, cause nico wears his heart on his sleeve, alright? just re-watch niccolò [for instance]. marti is oblivious sometimes). anyway. during the whole talk he’s happy, so soft, like he’s begging for attention in the most adorable way: being cute with the boy who got his attention immediately. and then they talk on the terrace where he hopes they can be alone for a while and they are, and nico asks questions, carefully checks out marti. he glances at marti every now and then even when emma arrives and he’s all flustered again when they sit in silence, the three of them. head down, head up *look* *blushes* head down again. touching his hands nervously, tapping his feet to an imaginary beat.

when he sees marti on the bus, he stands up at once. ‘wahh, there’s this cute boy again i can’t stop thinking about. quick, talk to him. be suave.’ and he is, but he’s also shy. alas.

of course he’ll help out marti and “lend” him some weed.

he draws skulls, but also giraffes and i see softness there, too. he crafts his own things. little experiments. he has brushes and drawing utensils all over his room. there's an ukulele on his shelf. and just outside of his room, there's a piano waiting for him. i imagine him playing the softest tunes (some celtic music?) even when he's upset. maybe. but what stands out is that he’s artsy. his room looks soft, too. light yellow curtains, pastel-ish walls and wooden furniture.

he cooks carbonara for them and it’s a disaster, but hey, he’s already so soft for marti, he’s gotta try, alright? and when he tells marti he put honey in the pasta while he was on his phone... well, even though he's obviously jealous here, he's soft. his little shake of the head? a puppy who was denied attention.

he’s soft when he touches his lip after he gives the headphones back. hey babe, seems like the guys don’t know what’s up. it’s okay. i’m saving your ass with a white lie, no biggie. call me maybe?

during sylvia’s party he’s hurting on the couch when marti and emma leave to dance. re-watch the scene and look how soft he still is while hurting!! nervously playing with his fingers again, looking defeated. it hurts me. because after he lashed out (at emma and said some dumb stuff to marti), he tries to gather himself on the couch. he’s introverted, but he tries, okay!!

the infamous pinky touch, yeah. of course. he gazes at marti softly after his joke while marti starts gazing at the night sky. and then he extends his pinky. his ringfinger trembles. have mercy. and when marti looks at him, nico looks at their hands, as if to say: this is real, alright? i’m gonna make a move right now, you can’t stop me. but i’m also asking for permission with this gesture, okay??? he wears an earnest look on his face when he moves in. marti smiles and then, nico smiles, too. soft boyfriends in the making.

“why not? we can go together if you want?” (...) “okAy?“ “okay.” “OKAY!!”

well, during the talk with the girls on halloween, nico is moping. softly. he’s also hurting after maddalena berates him on the drinking. but when the girls are gone, he’s back on his soft ass, pointing out that his and marti’s glasses are in the same position. nope, i didn’t make that up.

[while i never like it when people ditch people (or try to kiss ‘em) in order to go for someone else, i have forgiven nico. i have forgiven them both. nico was already so soft for marti and when i look at the outcome of this/their story, when i look at how things turned out, i’m certain it was inevitable. and because i am soft for their love, i am able to forgive them.]

let’s carry on.

i find nico’s suggestion to go to his place and take his bike for a ride soft?? excuse me, what a wonderful idea! and while they’re driving he looks content. bless. i’m thinking he really loves his bike. (does he take his bike for a ride on a regular basis?) when they arrive at their location, he takes his time to park it thoroughly, i mean.

his "undress, or you won’t have a chance at beating me" it’s soft. especially the way he says “undress.” his voice is like an octave higher, but it’s not shrill. it’s calm and steady.

he’s soft when he’s challenging marti “ah-ah”

he’s soft when he starts tickling marti underwater, never losing his smile.

he’s soft when he keeps his promise that he won’t touch marti this time and then instantly grasps marti’s head when he’s being kissed.

he’s soft when they lose themselves in their kiss and he holds marti’s ellbow and then supports him when he pushes for the surface.

when they wake up in his bed, he’s gazing at marti, embracing him carefully like he’s fragile goods. waking him up with a sweet kiss. nuzzling his nose. bringing them breakfast. tracing a coffe heart on his arm. goddamn.

and when we witness his vulnerability, it’s so palpable. he lets us see. he lets marti see. he’s open and soft and i just want to wrap him in a blanket and give him a hot beverage, telling him everything’s okay. it’s okay being soft, it’s okay being vulnerable. here, have a cookie, too. take care of yourself, you soft, soft soul.

he's so very soft, because he hangs up a red thread of fate for marti to follow. he already left, but he makes sure that marti will wake up with a smile at least, leaving him little notes to read. he tells marti how cute he looked sleeping. ufff. he tells marti to have breakfast. he wants to take care of marti even though he can't be there with him when he wakes up.

he nervously plays with his hands (again) when marti arrives for their secret meeting. i love that detail, but it also makes me sad. i think he’s soft when he notices marti’s upset that he didn’t text earlier and he tries to make it up. he reaches out with caution, touches him on the shoulder, showing his affection while saying sorry.

“i want to be with you. don’t you want to be with me?” he whispers, especially the question. goosebumps. he’s so gentle here. and brave. because his display of vulnerability is out in the open. he wants to go all in, even if that could mean to be rejected. nico fears rejection.

something that touched me deeply is when he realizes what marti’s words could possibly mean. he doesn’t get angry. no, he just continues listening and even though a part of him shatters into tiny pieces right there in the school bathroom of the second floor, he doesn’t let it show. he smiles at marti and goes in for a kiss. a good-bye kiss if you want. look at his eyes and tell me you didn’t feel his pain. his eyes say so much in this scene, it fucks me up. i have trouble breathing watching it. eff you, rocco. this scene belongs to you entirely.

and then they leave the bathroom giggling and he kisses marti’s neck. even though marti hurt him to the bone with his words, he doesn’t want to leave (him) in anger.

he’s soft when he meets marti after his recording for the radio. he pretends everything’s alright, but we all know it isnt. marti can’t see it, but we can. nico makes a joke, tries to get his attention, tries to apologize, tries to make him see how much he misses him. i’m very sorry, okay? please believe me!? we could go up to the terrace again some time. maybe i'm brave enough to explain myself. but marti’s wrapped up in his own hurt (understandable) and he doesn’t see. nico tries so hard to reach out, but it just wouldn’t work.

he’s a soft soul when he hides a strip cartoon on post-its (how long did he work on that?) in nico’s backpack, asking him to hold on for him, look out for him, because he’s trying to figure it all out. he’s a soft soul when he hides the antidote in marti’s dictionary, telling him that he misses him. “davvero.” and that he understands that he’s not easy to handle, but that he’s working on it. just wait for me a little longer, please?, he asks him and hopes that marti will hear him after he didn’t see how sorry he was at the radio. maybe words will get through to him.

he’s soft when he takes marti’s words to heart and works on figuring out how to talk to him. how to get to him. cause marti’s in bracciano. he’s all soft when he’s standing in front of him when they finally reunite. he smiles shyly and looks down at his feet.

while he’s set on making marti understand how real this all is for him as well, and basically ravishes him, he’s also soft, cause he’s a man on a mission. he drove to bracciano, because that’s where marti was and he had to see him. he had to make him see. just that.

[still, because i bet the words marti uttered in the bathroom of the shool building lingered in his mind].

he’s soft when they wake up the next morning and it’s marti asleep on his chest. he’s soft when he tries to make him understand that it isn’t easy to leave a relationship like he has/had with maddalena. that he wants to figure out by himself what he feels and duh, isn’t it obvious, amore mio? you know what i feel, don’t play hard to get. but it’s okay, i’ll serenade you anyway. i sing to you while planting little kisses on your lips and face, and grazing my thumbs over your cheeks. i’m holding you like this, because you mean so much to me and i don’t want to lose you again. do you understand?

he feels sorry that the boys haven't had a comfortable night while him and marti where sharing a bed. so of course he proposes to take them out for breakfast. it's the least he can do.

he’s soft when he’s thrilled that marti’s about to meet his mom. he’s soft when he apoligizes later, because that didn’t go so well. he’s soft when he asks for him to wait outside of school so they can walk in together. he covers marti's eyes and asks him "who am i?" he'd love a kiss, but marti's not ready for pda. that's okay though, he'll wait. he’s soft even when he’s hyper and wants to escape the real world. after all, he wants to escape together with martino. only with him.

he’s soft when he kisses him on the cheek when they take a selfie on the train. he happily shares little kisses and smiles here and there in the streets of milano and on the balcony of their rented apartement. he’s cheeky, but also soft when he steals a kiss from marti in front of the red neon light. and he’s so very soft when he kisses marti’s heart. when they're standing with naked torsi in front of each other, he kisses marti's heart. just like that. he's soft when he shows marti his utter happiness during the red scene of love. always smiling, breathing him in. he gently asks marti if he can take that last piece of sushi. and right before he runs off into the cold night, he looks at marti with this broken look, but he says “it’s only you and me.“ he always thinks about marti. even in a moment like that.

he’s soft because it probably took him hours to draw a giraffe on his mobile phone from the last century. he softly tells marti that his heart isn’t the one betraying his feelings. it’s his brain. he tries to make marti understand that, even though he must have felt ashamed. he’s soft, because he still keeps reaching out to him.

he softly underlines this statement by telling him that he’s on the terrace where they more or less met and that he’s thinking of him. that he’s fallen in love with him, but that he doubts that marti will believe him. he’s so very open and soft and brave in that moment. he really is. and he stays there for what? yes, he stays there for hours thinking about marti. because he knows he’s in one of those shining lights he can see from up there. i imagine that makes him a bit less sad.

and when marti finally understands and reaches the terrace, he does not hide his vulnerability. it’s not as if he is able to. nico can’t quite grasp that marti really came for him. but marti’s answers with his own piece of softness and so he lets himself fall into his embrace.

he’s vulnerable when he struggles with marti’s devotion to make him feel better. he’s brave when he lets marti in and he lets himself be soft with him even though he’s not feeling well. he would never turn down marti's kisses on the nose. because he's soft for marti and marti deserves soft kisses on the nose, too.

he’s soft when he asks how marti’s exams went. his exhaustion doesn’t stop him from thinking about marti’s life.

he’s soft in his braveness. he will kiss marti good-bye. he doesn’t care where. he doesn’t care who could see. all he wants his a good-bye kiss and a promise to talk later.

he’s soft when he comes up with an idea how to help the boys. he’s soft when he tells luchì that he could still be the first one to talk to sofi. he gazes at marti when the boys leave the kitchen. heart eyes at its finest.

he’s soft when he tells marti that his mother wants to meet him again. that she’s sorry. maybe that’s even a metaphor for him still being sorry for everything he’s put marti through, so he thinks. he cautiously checks if marti’s sure “si?” you’ll come over tomorrow to meet my mom? you sure?

he gives the softest panettone flavoured kisses. they both do.

he’s soft for marti taking care of him. it’s all in his eyes. in his body language.

he softly admits defeat when marti tells him he’ll flush down the weed. because marti knows it’s not good for him. and in the end, he appreciates it.

he fell hard for marti when they talked in the radio booth for the first time, separated by glass. and now, that they both got rid of that barrier together, he falls even harder for marti with every day, because marti wants to be with him no matter what (happend in the past).

so, imagine, if nico hadn’t be soft on so many occasions. imagine. would marti x nico have overcome their misunderstandings, their [own] barriers? would they be together now?

nico could have just let marti go after they talked in the school bathroom. but he was already so far gone for marti, he held on to the hope that marti didn’t really mean what he said. if nico just showed him how much he cared for him and that his mental illness didn’t hinder his love for him, that it was all real for him, one day marti could love him, too, no?

who would have blamed him, if nico hadn’t tried again with marti after this? but he did. for deep inside of him, there lingers a softness that asks him to try again. with marti. with life in general. he could give up so easily, and maybe he thought about dismissing his emotions and turning cold in the process, but he tries and tries and tries. nico doesn’t give up, he always tries again. it touched me deeply.

season two was about martino, and i have so much love for his character in my heart, i could write endless essays about it. but nico? if marti is soft, so is he. it was all there in the open for us to see. it was in the little moments and details, in the silly moments and in the ‘grand gestures.’ nico’s softness was visible, but it was so very palpabale, too; i swear i could feel it in my own bones when i followed him on screen. and i’m so incredibly glad, that in spite of all those struggles, i could witness him grow bit by bit, reaching acceptance step by step.

so, in conclusion:

being soft is not a weakness, on the contrary, it’s brave being soft. it's brave being gentle and open. and it's brave trying to continue being soft even when things look bad. especially then.

nico embodies that to the bone. and for that he has my ♡

i wish there were more people in the world who also carry softness in their heart besides their strength like nico. perhaps i haven’t paid enough attention in the last months. i know those people are out there. they have always been existing. and they will continue to. i know that. so perhaps this hasn’t been a wake-up call on a personal level, but more of a reminder. i can say this now with conviction after seaosn two ended, i know i needed it. it evoked a lot of memories, feelings, and well, hopes. i have seen a little bit of nico in myself. i hope i can rediscover my own softness. and i hope i can be as brave as nico one day, as brave as all the nicos in the world. i see you. even more clearly now and you all have my ♡ truly

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seanpatricklittlewriter · 3 years

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The Movie Post

Greetings and salutations, true believers. I haven’t posted anything in a while other than shameless book promotion stuff for #FourthAndWrong, and for that I apologize. I always say I’d let you know if anything good happened immediately, but nothing good has happened. The new book is out. A few people who have read it told me they liked it. It’s not selling well. Lack of sales means a lack of reviews, which only helps it not sell faster. It’s all a vicious cycle. At a certain point, you have to remember that you’re only writing books because some tiny voice in your head won’t let you stop, and you just throw your hands up and let everything else fall as it may. For the first time, I’ve actually bothered to try real advertising. I’m giving advertising on the Kindle lock screens a go. I’ll let you know if actually works.

In the meantime, I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts while puttering around the house, going for walks, and ignoring the gym. (I gotta stop ignoring the gym…) If you haven’t watched “Ted Lasso” on AppleTV yet, I HIGHLY recommend it. It’s one of the best shows I’ve watched in a long time. Great writing. Great characters. Great story. Very uplifting and wonderful. One of the show’s writers, creators, and stars, the wonderful Brett Goldstein (who plays the gruff Roy Kent on the show), has a podcast called “Films to Buried With.”

I started listening to his podcast because I enjoy him on the show so much, and I’ve found out that I enjoy his podcast as much as the show. He’s a genuinely sweet man, and he gets comedian and actor friends to guest on his podcast. The show’s conceit is that Brett invites guests on, tells them they have died, and then gets them to relive their life through the films that meant something to them. It’s a fun little chat show, and a solid way to waste an hour while you’re getting through doing the dishes or mowing the lawn.

It’s precisely the sort of podcast I would love to be on. I’ve always said you can judge your level of success by what people invite you to do. I always said I’d know if I “made it” if I could ever get invited to be on one of the podcasts I enjoy, rather than trying to wrangle my way into someone else’s podcast or blog. So far— this has not happened. That should tell you what level of success I’m stuck at. I don’t get invited to the movies by my imaginary friends. But Brett encourages people to share their ideas and opinions on social media, anyhow. It’s a fun way to play along at home, tell other people about the podcast, and start conversations around your favorite movies. Stories bind us together. They give us common ground and build bridges toward strengthening relationships. If you meet someone new, you can tell if you’ll get along with them by what films they enjoy. So in that spirit, I’d like to answer the questions Brett asks his guests by discussing a few of my favorite films. If you’d like to play along in the comments, please do. I always love reading about what other people think about movies, books, or music. I won’t bother going through the death/afterlife conceit he uses, but I recommend listening to a few of his podcasts if you enjoy this sort of thing. It’s a fun little premise he uses to generate the episodes.

--What’s the first film you remember seeing?

I remember bits and pieces of several films from my childhood. I remember the Muppet Movie in the theater. I remember seeing The Black Hole. I remember a lot of little chunks of a lot of Disney animated films. But the movie that sticks out in my head is “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” It was 1981. I was six. I remember going to see it on a Sunday matinee with my family. I remember it was packed. People were literally sitting on the floor in the aisles. We got three seats someplace, but I remember my dad having to sit in the row in front of us. I don’t remember a ton about the movie the first time I saw it other than being scared of the pit of snakes and the melting Nazi faces. However, I remember the iconic moment when Harrison Ford pulled the gun on the swordsman and shot him. I remember the audience reaction and thinking, “That’s a hero.” I’ve long been a Harrison Ford fan. Between Han Solo and Indiana Jones, he played two of the most iconic heroes of my childhood. When I wrote the TeslaCon novels, I made no secret that my protagonist, Nicodemus Clarke, was just a shallow rip-off of Indiana Jones. It’s funny, but to this day, in my head, if you ask me what a hero looks like, it’s always going to be Harrison Ford.

--What’s the scariest film you’ve ever seen?

The scariest film I’ve ever seen is Kevin Smith’s “Red State.” It’s a movie about a religious cult that’s very reminiscent of the Westboro Baptist Church, David Koresh/Waco compound, or any of the other extremely far-right Christian separatist movements. It’s scary because there are many, many of these gun-hoarding compounds, and the movie, while extreme, is not too far off from possibility. Michael Parks plays the leader of the family at the heart of the film, and his performance was award worthy. He was truly terrifying. As an aside, prior to Red State, I always told people the movie that scared me the most was the original “The Amityville Horror.” Basically, I saw the scene where the poltergeist made the drop-sash window fall on the kid’s fingers and nearly sever them, and that was it. I had the same drop-sash windows in my bedroom, and I was scared of them from then on. I’d like to say that I outgrew my fear of drop-sash windows, but I’m 46 and they still skeeze me out when I see them. A movie I saw 40 years ago warped me forever.

--What’s the movie that made you cry the most?

I used to not be someone who cried at movies. However, years of thyroid issues and depression have messed with my response to emotional moments, so I do get teary nowadays at movies. Emotionally speaking, it’s not sad movies that get to me. It’s movies where someone overcomes something difficult. Especially sports movies. The ones that get me the most teary-eyed now are movies like the first “Rocky,” “Hoosiers,” “Miracle,” and “Rudy.” I also get teary-eyed at points of bravery to the point of stupidity. The best example of that is the climax and denouement of “How to Train Your Dragon.” Strangely enough, when a movie does something that is supposed to be a tear-jerker moment to the point that it panders to the audience, I don’t cry— I actually get angry. Anything Nicolas Sparks has ever had his name attached to, for instance. It’s maudlin, and it doesn’t deserve our respect.

--What the film that made you laugh the most?

This is not going to be a popular answer. If I was a little more erudite, I’d say something like “Airplane” or “Blazing Saddles” or “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” However, I didn’t see any of those in the theater originally. I was home, watching them on video. While they were funny and some of my favorite movies, I did not really do a ton of laughing while I saw them. I went to see “BASEketball” with my sister, and the theater was packed. Something about seeing a movie in a crowded theater heightens the emotional impact of jokes, and for whatever reason, that movie put me on the floor a couple of times. It’s a silly movie full of cheap laughs, but I remember hurting as I was leaving the theater. My sides and cheeks were sore. Second on that list was the movie “Bridesmaids.” I don’t think I’ve laughed harder at any movie than the scene where they all get diarrhea in the bridal shop. Especially Melissa McCarthy: “LOOK AWAY!”

--What is the sexist film you’ve seen?

For me, I will never forget seeing “Bachelor Party” on HBO at a friend’s house. Monique Gabrielle’s scene is probably the first time I saw full-frontal female nudity in a film. It burned itself into my brain. I probably have a thing for redheads to this day because of that scene. The rest of the movie is very wild and funny. It was one of the launching blocks for Tom Hanks’s ridiculously amazing career. But that one moment stands out as one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

--What film did you used to love, but now it’s not that great?

Pretty much anything with “Rocky” in the title and a number following it. I still enjoy them, but Rocky III and IV, especially— not that good. I used to love them. I used to watch them whenever they hit TV, but now I only need to watch the first “Rocky,” and maybe the final fight in “Rocky II.” Anything else, I can leave out. They just feel a little overclocked at this point in my life.

--What’s a film that people and critics panned, but you enjoyed?

“Goon.” It’s a hockey film written by Jay Baruchel and starring Seann William Scott. It didn’t get wide release—almost straight-to-video. It didn’t get great reviews. I think Metacritic has it around 60%. But something about that movie hit me, and I love it. I suggest it to people all the time. It’s got great performances. It’s a solid flick. It’s not going to overwhelm you. It’s now one of my comfort films. When I’m bored and need something on in the background, I will often choose “Goon” or its sequel, “Goon: Last of the Enforcers.” The sequel was not as good as the original, but it’s still worth a watch. Kurt Russell’s son Wyatt is the villain in the sequel. He’s extremely good.

--What’s a film that people love, but you hate?

Hands down: “Avatar” or “Titanic.” Something about a lot of James Cameron films just don’t work with me. I think it’s because they’re too grandiose. They try too hard. Also, the scripts are just there to get him to the big, visual set-pieces. They’re thin on both character and plot. I can’t stand either of them.

--What’s a film that means a lot to you, but it’s not because of the quality of the movie (i.e. you saw it with someone and it’s special, or it has importance to people around you, etc…)?

Easily, “The Man From Snowy River.” This is a family favorite. I grew up watching this flick, and I made my daughter watch it when she was younger. I will never get tired of it. I probably watch it maybe three or four times a year. There’s just something about the cinematography of the climax when Jim goes down the mountainside on Denny’s back. It’s always breath-taking. Also, if you watch “The Man From Snowy River,” you see what my dad always wanted his life to be. Most boys’ fathers want their sons to be doctor or lawyers. My dad wanted me to be a cowboy.

--What film do you relate to the most?

“Clerks.” I saw “Clerks” when I was a senior in high school. Rented it from a local video store. I saw two dudes who were outliers in their social group working crappy jobs and dealing with the mundane nothingness of life. It hit me right in the gut. I resolved to do something better than that. So far, I’ve failed to do so, but I keep trying.

--Empirically speaking, what is the best film? (Not necessarily favorite film— but what film do you think is the best film ever made?)

I have to say it was “Lawrence of Arabia.” The casting was amazing. The cinematography was incredible, unrivaled, really. The story was excellent. And the ordeal of the entire filming process was without peer. What they went through to make that movie, hands down, makes it the best film ever made. The scope of the film alone is mind-boggling. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is a close second, but that’s technically three films, so I went with Lawrence of Arabia.

--What film have you seen the most?

I have watched “The Muppet Movie” a ton. I still love the movie “Roxanne.” I have also seen “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” and “The Quiet Man” more than any single person probably should. If I had to think about it and pick one film I’ve seen more than other…it’s probably “Meatballs.” Growing up, my sister and I watched that flick a thousand times. I can probably recite it from memory. It’s also one of the films that cemented an undying loyalty to Bill Murray.

--And finally: You die and go to heaven. And in heaven, they ask you to pick one film that summarizes your life, one film that makes people understand you, or a film you want people to watch to help them know you better. What is that film?

Nothing has had more influence on my life than the movie “Ghostbusters.” It defined me in several ways: my love for comedy, my love for the paranormal, and my love for snark and snappy comebacks. I loved Ghostbusters so much that I watched it on a weekly basis. I ran the audio cables from our VCR to a tape deck and recorded an audio copy of the film to play on my Walkman while I road the bus to school every day. I still have the film memorized word-for-word. I will often let my eyes go a little weird and turn to my daughter and say, “Then, during the Third Reconciliation of the Last of the Meketrex Supplicants, they chose a new form for him, that of a giant Sloar! Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of a Sloar that day, I can tell you!” To know me is to understand Ghostbusters on a molecular level. I owe that movie a lot.

Anyhow, this was a fun way to waste my night. I encourage you to play along. Answer some or all of the questions Brett asks his guests. I highly recommend listening to a few episodes of “Films to Be Buried With” on your favorite podcatcher app. And if anyone out there knows Brett Goldstein, please let him know I’m available to guest on his podcast. Until next time—Thanks for reading.

--Sean

#FourthAndWrong #filmstobeburiedwith #brett goldstein #movies #films

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nedraggett · 7 years

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Run ragged

It didn’t work. And while I wasn’t surprised by that, I did want to tease out why, at least for myself.

I honestly was openly skeptical of Blade Runner 2049 for a while, so I can’t hide my bias there. I wasn’t totally ‘salt the earth and never mention it again’ then and am certainly not saying that now. But each new trailer left me feeling more ‘uh...really?’ and the explosion of immediate praise from many critics even more so. I wasn’t contrarian, and neither did I think groupthink was at work, but I suspected a massive wish fulfillment was.

So I generally avoided reactions after that and figured I’d wait for things to die down a bit -- even more quickly than I might have guessed, seeing its swiftly collapsing commercial performance over here. My Sunday early afternoon showing near here was about maybe 2/3 full on its third weekend, so it’s found an audience, but I’m in San Francisco -- I expected an audience there. Enough friends have posted theater shots where they were the only person in the room to know this is dying off as an across the board thing, and never probably was.

I’m not glad it failed, but I’m not surprised -- in fact, being more blunt, I think it deserved not to be a hit. The key reason for me played itself out over its length -- it was boring. It’s a very boring movie. It’s not a successful movie except in intermittent moments.

That said, of course not everyone agreed (I’ll recommend as an indirect counterpoint to my thoughts this piece by my friend Matt, which went up earlier today). And boredom is not the sole reason for me to crucify it -- there were a variety of things one can address. I’ll note two at the start since they could be and in a couple of cases I’ve seen were particular breaking points for others:

* The sexual politics of the movie, however much meant to be in line with the original scenario as playing out a certain logic, were often at least confused or hesitant within a male gaze context, at most lazily vile beyond any (often flatly obvious) point-making. I often got a mental sense of excuses that could be offered along the lines of ‘well...you know, it’s supposed to be like that in this world, it’s a commentary!,’ which is often what I’ve seen in positive criticism of, say, Game of Thrones. Maybe. That said: not that any sort of timing played into it, but the fact that Harvey Weinstein’s downfall began two days before release, and the resulting across-board exposure and on-the-record testimonials from many women against far too many men, couldn’t really be escaped. Further, since the fallout was first felt, after all, in the film industry, seeing any film, new or old, through the lens of what’s acceptable and who gets through what hoops -- and who is broken by the experience -- is always important. It’s not for nothing to note that the original film’s female lead Sean Young got shunted into the ‘she’s crazy’/’too much trouble’ file in later years where male actors might perhaps find redemption; the fact that she played a small part in the new film made me think a bit more on her fate than that of her character’s. (Another point I saw a few women brought up as well -- having a key to the whole story be pregnancy and childbirth as opposed to infertility wasn’t warmly received.)

* It’s a very...white future. Not exclusively, certainly. But people of color barely get a look in, a quick scene here, a cameo there. A black female friend of mine just this morning said this over on FB about the one African American actor whose character got the most lines, saying:

to have the only significant black character be this awful, creepy man who seemed to be an "overseer" type to the children, was really uncomfortable and another perfect example of scifi using an 'other' narratives or american slave narrative but within a white context. We all know what it's supposed to represent and so it's just straight up lazy writing at the end of the day and exploitative.

Meantime, another sharp series of comments elsewhere revolved around how a film perhaps even more obviously drenched than the original in an amalgamated East Asian imaginary setting for the Los Angeles sequences barely showcased anyone from such a background. Dave Bautista certainly makes an impact at the start, but after that? The fact that I can think of three speaking roles for actors of that (wide) background in the original, as in actually having an exchange with a lead character, and only one in this one, maybe two if you count the random shouting woman in K’s apartment building, is more than a little off. Add in a ‘Los Angeles,’ or a wider SoCal if you like, that aside from Edward James Olmos’s short cameo apparently has nobody of Mexican background, let alone Central American, in it, and you gotta wonder. My personal ‘oh really’ favorite was the one official sign that was written in English and, I believe, Sanskrit. Great visual idea; can’t say I saw anyone of South Asian descent either.

Both these very wide issues, of course, tie in with the business and the society we’re all in -- but that’s no excuse. And there are plenty of other things I could delve into even more, not least my irritation over the generally flatly-framed dialogue shots in small offices that tended to undercut the grander vistas, or how the fact that Gosling’s character finding the horse carving had been telegraphed so far in advance that it was resolutely unremarkable despite all the loud music, etc. My key point remains: boring. A sometimes beautifully shot and visually/sonically striking really dull, draggy, boring film.

The fair question though is why I think that. A friend in response to that complaint as echoed by others joked what we would make of Bela Tarr films, to which I replied that I own and enjoy watching Tarkovsky movies. Slow pace and long shots aren’t attention killers for me per se; if something is gripping, it will be just that, and justify my attention. Meanwhile, the original film famously got dumped on for also being slow, boring, etc at the time, and plenty can still feel that way about it. Blade Runner’s reputation is now frightfully overburdened and certainly I’ve contributed to it mentally if not through formal written work; it succeeds but is a flawed creation, and strictly speaking the two big complaints I’ve outlined above apply to the predecessor as much as the current film, it’s just a matter of degrees otherwise. But if you told me I had to sit down and watch it, I’d be happy to. Tell me to do the same with this one, I would immediately ask for the ability to skip scenes.

I’ve turned it all over in my head and these are three elements where things fell apart for me, caused me to be disengaged -- not in any specific order, but I’m going to build outward a bit, from the specific to the general, and with specific contrast between the earlier film and the new one. These discontinuities aren’t the sole faults, but they’re the ones I’ve been thinking about the most.

First: it’s worth noting that the new film brings in a lot of specific cultural elements beyond the famed advertising and signs. Nabokov’s Pale Fire is specifically singled out both as a visual cue and as an element in K’s two police station evaluations, for instance. Meanwhile, musically, I didn’t quite catch what song it was Joi was telling K about early in the film but a check later means it must have been Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” featured on the soundtrack. Sinatra himself of course shows up later as a small holographic performance in Vegas, specifically of “One For My Baby,” while prior to that K and Deckard fight it out while larger holographic displays of older Vegas style revues and featured performers appear glitchily -- showgirls, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis in his later pomp, Liberace complete with candleabra. All of this makes a certain sense and on the one hand I don’t object to it.

But on the other I do. Something about all that rubbed me the wrong way and I honestly wasn’t sure why -- the Nabokov bit as well, even the quick Treasure Island moment between Deckard and K when they first talk to each other. The answer I think lies with the original film. It’s not devoid of references either, but note how two of the most famous are used:

* When Rutger Hauer’s Roy Batty introduces himself to James Hong’s Hannibal Chew, he does so with a modified quote from William Blake’s America: A Prophecy. (This fuller discussion of that quote and how it was changed from the original is worth a read; it’s also worth noting that Hauer brought it to the table, and wasn’t planned otherwise.) But he doesn’t do so by spelling out to the audience, much less Chew, that it is Blake at all. You either have to know it or you don’t. If, say, we saw Batty clearly holding a copy of the book -- or maybe more intriguing, a copy in Deckard’s apartment -- then that would be one thing...but it becomes a bit more ‘DO YOU SEE?’ as a result. Clunkier, a bit like how Pale Fire worked in the new film.

* Even in the original soundtrack’s compromised/rerecorded form, I always loved the one formally conventional song on the original soundtrack, “One More Kiss, Dear.” I just assumed as I did back in the mid to late 80s, when I first saw the film and heard its music, that it was a random oldie from somewhere mid-century repurposed, a bit of mood-setting. It is...but it isn’t. It’s strictly pastiche, a creation of Vangelis himself in collaboration with Peter Skellern, an English singer-songwriter who had a thriving career in his home country. It just seemed real enough, with scratchy fidelity, a piano-bar sad elegance -- which was precisely the point. You couldn’t pin it down to anything, it wasn’t a specifically recognizable element. It wasn’t Elvis, or Liberace, or Sinatra.

This careful hiding of concrete details -- even when the original film showcased other clear, concrete details of ‘our’ world culturally, but culturally via economics and ads -- is heavily to the original’s benefit, I’d argue. There’s a certain trapped-in-baby-boomerland context of the elements in the new film that, perversely, almost feels too concrete, or forced is maybe a better word. It’s perverse because on the one hand it makes a clear sense, but on the other hand, by not being as tied to explicitly cultural identifiers -- whether ‘high’ literature or rough and ready ‘pop’ or whatever one would like to say -- the original film feels that much more intriguingly odd, dreamlike even. I would tease this out further if I could, but it quietly nags -- perhaps the best way I could describe it is this: by not knowing what, in general, the characters, ‘human’ or not, read, listen to, watch in the original, what everyone enjoys -- if they do -- becomes an unspoken mystery. Think about how we here now talk about what we read, listen to, watch as forms of connection with others; think about how the crowd scenes in the originals feature people all on their own trips or in groups or whatever without knowing what they might know. We know Deckard likes piano, sure, but that suggests something, it doesn’t limit it. We know K likes Nabokov and Sinatra -- and that tells us something. And it limits it.

My second big point would also have to do with limits versus possibilities, and hopefully is more easily explained. Both films are of course amalgams, reflections of larger elements in the culture as well as within a specific culture of film. The first film is even more famously an amalgam of ‘film noir’ as broadly conceived, both in terms of actual Hollywood product and the homages and conceptions and projections of the term backwards and forwards into even more work. It is the point of familiar reference for an audience that at the time was a couple of decades removed from its perceived heyday, but common enough that it was the key hook in -- the weary detective called back for one last job, the corrupt policeman, the scheming businessman, the femme fatale, etc. etc. Set against the fantastic elements, it was the bedrock, the hook, and of course it could be and was repurposed from there, in its creation and in its reception.

2049 is not a film noir amalgam. Instead, it’s very clearly -- too clearly -- an amalgam of exactly the wrong place it should have gotten any influence from. By that I don’t mean the original film -- above and beyond the clear story connections, its impact was expected to be inescapable and as it turns out it was inescapable. Instead it’s an amalgam of what followed in the original’s wake -- the idea of dystopia-as-genre -- and that’s poisonous.

Off the top of my head: Children of Men. The Matrix. Brazil. Her. Battlestar Galactica, the 2000s reboot. A bit of The Hunger Games, I’d say. A bit of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (not a direct descendant of the original at all, of course -- George Miller always had his own vibe going -- but I caught an echo still). The Walking Dead. A fleck of The Fifth Element. Demolition Man, even, if we want to go ‘low’ art. But also so many of the knockoffs and revamps and churn. There could be elements, there could be explicit references, there could be just a certain miasma of feeling. But this all fed into this film, and made it...just less interesting to me.

Again, the first film is no less beholden to types and forebears. But the palette wasn’t sf per se, it was something else, then transposed and heightened and made even uneasier due to what it was. 2049 has to not only chase down its predecessor, it has to live with what its predecessor created. But did it have to take all that into itself as well? It becomes a wink and a nod over and again, and a tiring one, a smaller palette, a feeding on itself. And it’s very frustrating as a result, and whatever spell was in the film kept being constantly rebroken, and the scenes kept dragging on.

This all fed into the third and final point for me -- the key element, the thing that makes the original not ‘just’ noir, the stroke of genius from Philip K Dick turned into tangible creations: the replicants, and the question of what it is to be human. Humanity itself has assayed this question time and time over -- let’s use Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as a start if we must for the modern era, it’s as good as any. We as a species -- if we individual members can afford the time and reflection at least -- seem to enjoy questions of what makes us ‘us,’ and what we are and what we have in this universe. This much is axiomatic, so take that as read.

The replicants in the original film -- famously thought of differently by Dick and Ridley Scott, to the former’s bemusement when they met and talked for their only meeting before the latter’s death -- set up questions in that universe that are grappled with as they are by the characters in different ways. Between humans, between replicants, between each other, lines always slipping and shading. Their existences are celebrated, questioned, protested against. But we don’t live in these conversations for the most part, we tend to experience the characters instead; it’s often what’s unsaid that has the greatest impact. And if the idea of a successful story-teller is to show rather than tell, then I would argue that, again, flawed as it can be, the original film succeeds there be only telling just enough, and letting the viewer be immersed otherwise. (Thus of course the famous after the fact narration in the original release insisted upon by the studio, and removed from later cuts to Scott’s thorough relief.)

By default, that level of quiet...I would almost call it ‘awe’...in the original can’t be repeated with the same impact. The bell cannot be unrung, but that’s not crippling. What was crippling was how, again, bored I was with the plight of the characters in 2049. How unengaged in their concerns I generally was. One key exception aside, I never bought K’s particular angst outside of plot-driven functionality, and frankly they often felt like manikins all the way down from there. Robin Wright’s police chief had some great line deliveries but the lines were most often banal generalities that sounded ridiculous. Jared Leto’s corporate overlord, good god, don’t ask. As for Joi and Luv, Ana de Armas and Sylvia Hoeks did their best, and yet the characters felt...functional. Which given the characters as such would seem to be appropriate, but their fates were functional too. Of course one would do that, of course the other would do that, of course one would die the one way, of course the other would die that way, and...fine. Shrug.

So, then, Deckard? Honestly Harrison Ford had the best part in the film and while I found him maybe a bit more garrulous than I would have expected from the character, he did paranoid, wounded and withdrawn pretty damn well. Not to mention comedy -- the dog and whisky combo can’t be beat, and it’s worth remembering his nebbishy ‘undercover’ turn in the original -- and, in the Rachel scene, an actual sense of pathos and outrage. I bought him pretty easily, and it made everyone else seem pretty shallow. When K learns about the underground replicant resistance and all, the bit about everyone hopes they are the one was nice enough, but the rest of it, clearly meant to be a ‘big moment,’ was...again, dull, per my second point about the limited palette. A whole lot of telling, not much showing, and such was the case throughout. It was honestly a bit shocking -- but also very clear -- to myself when I realized how little I cared about humans or replicants or any of it at all towards the end. It all felt pat and played out, increasingly unfascinating, philosophy that was rote. It could just be me, of course -- maybe this is an issue where the stand-ins of replicants versus realities of robots and AI, along with the cruelties we’re happy to inflict on each other, means the stand-ins simply don’t have much of an imaginative or intellectual grip now.

Still, though, I’ll give the film one full scene, without Ford. As part of his work, and to answer the questions in his own head, K visits Ana Stelline, a designer of replicant memories. This, more than anything else in the film outside of certain design and musical elements, felt like the original, or something that could be there. It introduced a wholly new facet -- how are memories created for replicants? -- while extending the idea that instead of one sole creator of replicants there are multiple parts makers with their specialized fields in an unexplained (and unnecessary to be explained) economy. Stelline’s literal isolation allows for space and the limits of communication to be played out in a way that makes satisfying artistic sense, and Carla Juri plays her well. It builds up to an emotional moment that sends K into an explosive overdrive that is actually earned, and Juri’s own reaction of awe and horror is equally good. But -- even better -- the scene ends up taking a wholly new cast later in the film, when more information reveals what was actually at play, and what K didn’t know at the time, and makes the final scene a good one to end on in turn (and by that I mean back in her office, specifically).

The problem though remains -- one scene can’t make a film. One can argue that it’s better to reach and fail than not at all, but it’s also easily argued that one gets far more frustrated with something that could have worked but didn’t. I don’t think an edit for time would have fixed the film but it would have made it less of a slog while not sacrificing those visual/sonic elements that did work; it still would leave a lot of these points I’ve raised standing, but it would have gone down a little more smoothly, at least. But sometimes you’re just bored in a theater, waiting for something to end.

#blade runner #blade runner 2049

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gizedcom · 4 years

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Mysteries of the senses: The boy who broke almost every bone in his body – but didn’t feel any pain

Most young siblings spend their summer holidays building dens together, or imaginary castles out of cardboard boxes. But playtime for Paul Walters and his sister Vicky, from Essex, was somewhat more dangerous – usually landing them in hospital.

Those of a faint disposition may want to stop reading now.

They’d often be found attempting to pull out their own teeth, burning their hands on an open fire or, a particular favourite, sitting directly in front of a swing before it pelted them in the face.

The reason for this shocking behaviour: neither Paul nor Vicky can feel physical pain.

They were born with the disorder congenital analgesia, in which, for a variety of reasons, the messages that normally carry the ‘warnings’ of pain from one place in the brain are somehow interrupted.

Playtime for Paul Walters and his sister Vicky as children, pictured, was dangerous – usually landing them in hospital

Why the condition occurs isn’t fully understood. Sufferers’ other sensory perceptions are completely normal – they perspire when hot and are sensitive to touch. But when it comes to pain, be it a burn or injury, they feel nothing.

It is so rare, just a few hundred people across the world are believed to suffer from it.

And although it may sound like some kind of superpower, it’s far from it. Those with the condition commonly suffer horrendous, disabling injuries.

One reason it’s so rare is that few people with congenital analgesia reach adulthood as, unconstrained by pain, they do ever more dangerous things.

Now 35, Paul, a retail supervisor, says: ‘I’ve broken just about every major bone in my body.’

Their father, Bob, adds: ‘As children, they would place their hands in front of the fire just to listen to their skin sizzling – almost like a steak in a frying pan. Their hands would blister but it only made them laugh. They both broke their nose, had black eyes and needed stitches in their heads. Yet all the time they thought it was funny.’

Paul says that the constant litany of bone-shattering injuries he endured throughout childhood has stunted his growth. Today, he stands under 5ft tall.

‘Psychologically, the biggest effect of the condition has been on my height – I hate being short,’ he says. ‘It happened because I used to do stupid things like jumping down the staircase, or off a roof. There was no downside because I never felt the pain of breaking a bone. All I noticed was that I was getting loads of attention.’

At the end of this month, Paul’s exceptional story will be heard for the first time, along with several other medical mysteries, in a fascinating new BBC radio series.

Presented by leading neurologist Dr Guy Leschziner, it reveals the weird and wonderful things that happen when our senses go haywire. Dr Leschziner travels the breadth of the country meeting those plagued by bizarre conditions that affect how they smell, taste, touch and hear. There are those who can ‘hear’ their eyes moving inside their head, a man who can ‘taste’ words and a woman who sniffs roses and detects a repugnant smell of sewage.

Paul says that the constant litany of bone-shattering injuries he endured throughout childhood has stunted his growth as today, pictured, he stands under 5ft tall

‘Our senses can be surprisingly strange,’ says Dr Leschziner, who treats patients with these types of problems at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. ‘Especially when they malfunction due to injury, disease or genetic abnormalities.’

The reason for Dr Leschziner’s investigations, documented in the upcoming five-part series, is not merely entertainment.

‘These rare cases are vital for helping us to improve our fundamental understanding of how our senses work,’ he says. ‘They may pave the way for new treatments for these and other conditions.’

In the case of congenital analgesia, experts hope one day to create new painkilling medicines by studying the condition.

During the series, Dr Leschziner also meets 61-year-old James Wannerton, from King’s Lynn in Norfolk, who since early childhood has been able to ‘taste’ words. Doctors first dismissed James’ claims as the product of a young imagination. But brain scans showed areas associated with taste become more active when he reads words. Certain sounds even make him feel hunger pangs.

‘My name tastes like chewing gum that’s lost most of its flavour,’ says James. ‘My father’s name, Peter, tastes like processed peas, while my sister’s is blackcurrant yogurt and my grandmother’s was creamy, thick, condensed milk.

‘As a young boy going to school with my mum on the train, I’d read the names of the stations out loud, as we passed through.

‘A particular favourite tube was Tottenham Court Road because Tottenham had the taste and texture of sausage, Court was like a lovely crispy fried egg and Road was like toast. So it was almost like a full English breakfast.’

James’ condition is called synaesthesia – where the senses become jumbled. And it’s not too uncommon, affecting roughly one in 2,000 Britons, to some degree. The stimulation of one sense can cause an involuntary reaction of another – seeing colours when you hear certain words, for instance.

Paul’s exceptional story will be heard for the first time in a fascinating new BBC radio series, along with several other medical mysteries, including James Wannerton, pictured in 2008, who has been able to ‘taste’ words since childhood

Doctors don’t yet know the specific process that causes this but it is thought to involve the misfiring of brain cells, akin to the phenomena experienced by many of feeling physical reactions, such shivers or goosebumps, when hearing rousing music.

For James, not every word evokes a pleasant taste or smell. ‘I was at a social function once where a woman called Maureen asked me to describe how her name tasted,’ he says. ‘I had to break the news to her that it was, sadly, like vomit.’

While this is, ultimately, harmless – if bizarre – other problems can be simply terrifying for the sufferer. Imagine chatting with friends over dinner, and suddenly being deafened by the sound of your own lungs, heaving up and down in your chest. It may sound like a scene from a horror film. In fact, it is 50-year-old Mark Buschhaus’s reality.

The toy shop owner from Crawley in West Sussex first noticed a strange change in his hearing during his 40s.

While in the pub with friends, conversation would be drowned out by one specific bodily noise, such as the sound of his teeth crunching a crisp, or, more disturbingly, the squelching movement of his eyeballs as he glanced around the bar.

‘It was as if someone had turned up my internal volume control to 100,’ says Mark.

‘I felt like I was in a bubble. Every time I took a step, my footsteps sounded like a big bang that sent echoes through my skull. I could even hear my lungs breathing.

‘It got to the stage where I didn’t want to go out and was making excuses about going to the pub.

‘I’ve never felt so low – I was really struggling.’

After years of misery, Mark finally got a diagnosis – superior canal dehiscence syndrome.

The condition, which affects one to two per cent of Britons, is caused by tiny holes inside the inner ear which affects the way internal sound is processed by the brain. Doctors are unsure what causes the holes, but they are thought to be present from birth.

Bob Walters, father of Vicky and Paul, pictured as youngsters, said his children ‘would place their hands in front of the fire just to listen to their skin sizzling – almost like a steak in a frying pan’

Bodily sounds can leak through the small openings in the inner ear and reverberate in the brain, making them appear louder than usual. Some sufferers can hear the blood flowing through their veins, while others are haunted by the thumping sound of their heart beating.

Thankfully, following pioneering surgery to repair the hole, Mark saw an ’80 to 90 per cent improvement’ – and was able to enjoy going to the pub again.

Elsewhere, Dr Leschziner explores the devilish brain tricks that affect all of our senses – those that occur with age.

A quarter of Britons over 65 suffer some form of hearing loss. But, for a small number of these people, the world doesn’t only get quieter, it sounds stranger, too.

It is estimated that roughly three per cent of those in their 60s suffer auditory hallucinations.

In other words, they hear sounds that aren’t there.

Dr Leschziner explains that when we start to lose our hearing, the auditory cortex, part of the brain that processes sound, can become overactive because it is being starved of the input it normally gets from the ears.

My father’s name, Peter, tastes like mushy peas

This hyperactivity then interacts with memory circuits in the brain – which explains why the phantom sounds are often based on long- held memories.

One noteworthy sufferer is the comedian, musician and avid birdwatcher Bill Oddie, 79, who began hearing phantom jazz tunes two years a go.

‘I was in the house and I thought somebody next door was playing music very loudly,’ the ex-Goodies star tells Dr Leschziner.

‘It sounded like a brass band, with a lead trumpet player and occasionally some male vocals, and even an announcer. But as I went towards the wall it faded. This went on for weeks.’

These bizarre symptoms often lessen if hearing improves, so patients are encouraged to try hearing aids – which Bill plans to do.

lThe Compass: The Senses starts on Wednesday, July 29, at 3pm on BBC World Service.

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