#so easy to make stylistic flourishes
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Ya girl is thinking of actually singing with her guitar at church camp in the talent show for the first time ever.
I'm so pumped. >:)
#im gonna sing hallelujiah#so easy to make stylistic flourishes#everyone knows me as a flautist and fewer as a ukuleleist#the vocal flourishes are reminiscent of my flute playing though tbh. lol
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☼ sensitive (Katniss Everdeen) ☼
summary; as part of Katniss' prep team, you hoped you had more time with her.
warnings; swearing,
wc; 1.6k
prompt: 29. "If you're going to cry, I'm going to punch someone."
–
In the Capitol, there’s a tradition for the prep teams and the stylists of the same District to gather together on reaping day. You all will go to the apartment where the tributes will be staying, and prepare to get your first look at the tributes that you’ll be taking care of for the rest of the week.
The avoxes will prepare the food off of the predetermined menu and serve drinks while the rest of you will wait in the living room for it to be time. The stylists for both genders will bring the designated closets for the tributes, and stock the rooms ahead of time.
When they’re done, there’s a lengthy discussion on theme ideas for the tribute parade and the interviews to make the tributes stand out. Typically, it’s preferred that the tributes have matching outfits to give the illusion of unity, even if they’re not allies. On the chance that it’s too obvious they can’t be matching, you’re forced to come up with two different outfits that fit their personalities but fall under one idea.
It’s an exercise to get the creative juices working. And between the two prep teams and the stylists, there’s enough ideas to fuel the next few years. They jot them down, and in the case of an emergency, they’ll be used.
This was new to you last year.
The year before that, you were training underneath Flavius, Venia and Octavia, working as an assistant to train you to work with a better district later on. It was fully intended for you to get moved to one of the careers, because you had the abilities. District Twelve was just supposed to be a stepping stool for you to get the experience for the better job.
Only, that opportunity never came, because each spot that became available at the end of the year, were continuously filled. You weren’t the only assistant that was waiting to be a prep team member. It’s a long wait list, and an even longer one if you want to be a stylist.
You were afraid that you were going to be forced to start over completely, until Cinna came to fill the District Twelve stylist spot. As a new stylist, he had many ideas, and he purposely chose Twelve because he wanted to evolve them from just coal miners to something eye-catching.
When he saw that you were in danger of being stuck as a floating assistant between his three helping hands, he managed to appeal to President Snow to let you become a fourth member.
Since you had been bouncing between Venia, Flavius and Octavia, you had an eye for every element that they did. It was to see where you flourished the most so that you could focus on that, but nothing ever spoke out to you. The only thing that you seemed to be able to do was spot the mistakes they often left by accident, because they would overlook those small details after working for so long. With your fresh eyes, you could go in and point out every mistake and by the end, the tribute could be flawless.
Cinna saw that, and ran with it.
Despite having a new role made for you, your friends were nothing but supportive, telling you that you’re made for a position like that. The only issue that sprouted was when Cinna informed you that you could be the blueprint for the other prep teams, if you succeed.
Hypothetically, it should’ve been relatively easy, because it’s what you had been doing anyway. Your friends saw your anxiety, so they walked you through what you should expect during the reaping, because it’s almost always the same pattern. If there’s any District to test on, it’s yours, the tributes aren’t focused on from day one.
What they had prepared you for was completely thrown out the window the second Katniss Everdeen volunteered over her younger sister. The silence in that apartment was deafening, as everyone tried to overcome their shock.
There were a lot of mixed reactions. It would be the ultimate test to see where you all were standing skillswise. With a new stylist, and a prep team that had been working their ass off to catch you up on everything they knew. Everything that you had been working for in the winter would be put to the test.
It didn’t help that it was history as well, District Twelve had never seen a volunteer in their life, which meant that the pressure was on.
The moment Peeta was drawn behind her, their fate was sealed. The Capitol finally had a pair of solid tributes from Twelve, and everything was going to be put into them to prove it.
Now that you’re sitting here, an entire year later, waiting for it to be your turn to talk to Katniss before you send her into the tribute parade with the other victors, you can’t help but to wonder if you cursed her instead.
You didn’t think you’d grow this attached to Katniss. You don’t think that the others had the same intention either, but after spending the last year and a half watching her, checking on her, ensuring that she’s set up for success—it sort of happened.
In six days, you will be forced to say goodbye and watch her go into an arena, again. This time, with twenty-two other skilled victors, in an arena that will be specially engineered to keep her on her toes every second of the day. This time, with lower odds of making it out alive.
You wish it didn’t have to be this way.
The door to the room opens, revealing a tearful Venia and Flavius. Octavia isn’t in the same state that they are, she seems to have just pulled herself together. You slide off the stool, catching the door as you go through, and shutting it tightly behind you.
“If you’re going to cry, I’m going to punch someone.” Katniss warns you.
You look up from where your eyes have fallen to the floor, finding a pointed look on her face. Just by looking at her, you can tell her whole body is tense. She must not take tears very well then. Venia and Flavius have a tendency to lay it on thick, too. It must’ve been a long morning for her.
You shake your head, go over to the table of supplies, and grab the flashlight that you’ll shine on her body to catch any stray details. “Katniss, name one time I’ve cried in front of you.”
She lets out a breath, one of relief. She slides off the metal table, holding her arms out without being asked. She knows the routine of you doing the body examination, “Never.”
“Then why are you worried?” You smile, shaking your head.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting them to cry the whole morning, so you might’ve had surprises for me.”
“If it’s any comfort, I wear my emotions on my face.”
“You and everyone else here.” She mutters.
The first time you were left alone in a room with Katniss to inspect her, you almost broke down. You were so used to someone else being in the room to help guide you through each step. The idea of the tributes having a tendency to be standoffish, meant that the pressure to succeed without looking like a moron was crushing.
The one thing that worked for you was talking to someone, it allowed you to take your mind off of what they really must be thinking. It’s hard to be mean to someone that’s making an effort to make both sides comfortable, right?
You remember the way Katniss didn’t say a single word to you the entire time, letting you talk her ear off while you went over every inch of her body to make sure that it was properly done for Cinna. And at the very end, you let her put an extra layer of the cooling cream on her body for putting up with your anxiety.
The next time you saw her, after the tribute parade, she struck up a conversation with you.
You found out that Katniss is only a few years younger than you are, and she has a lot of shared interests as you. You didn’t think that it would be possible for you to make a friend out of her, because of how intimidating she could be at times. Yet, here you are, not an ounce of tension between the two of you, and she feels comfortable enough to complain to you.
When you’re done, you pull the silk robe off the hook and hand it to her. She pulls it on immediately, and then takes a seat back on the metal table. You take in a breath to speak, and she waits expectantly, but you can’t force any words to come out.
What’s there to say? Your friends cried it out, all that’s left are apologies.
You try again, “You know, I was really looking forward to working with you and Peeta as mentors. It sounds selfish, but—”
“We’re friends, (Y/n).” Katniss says, “I was hoping we’d have more time, too.”
You don’t say anything for a long moment, “Maybe we will.”
Katniss gives you a knowing look, because you both know that it’s not going to happen.
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[ zion moreno, trans woman, she + her ] — whoa! gabriela "gabi" mendoza just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for nine years, working as a novelist & hair stylist. that can’t be easy, especially at only 27 years old. some people say they can be a little bit anxious and dramatic , but i know them to be determined and imaginative. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to the bronx!
overview.
full name: gabriela mendoza. nickname: gabi. age: twenty-seven. occupation: speculative horror author / hairstylist @ the mall. hometown: miami, florida. birthday: july 4th. zodiac sign: cancer. orientation: greysexual. marital status: single, mingling. languages: english, spanish. residence: apartment in the bronx shared with venus and one other roommate. secret: can recite the scripts of a few anime, in japanese, by heart. positive traits: determined ; imaginative ; reliable. negative traits: anxious ; dramatic ; distracted. mbti: entj.
biography.
born and raised in miami, florida, gabi never imagined herself leaving. having grown up in a family with a single father and one older brother, she always was surrounded by extended family members. never did she feel alone, with loud encouragement from all sides to pursue whatever dreams might come to her mind. she considers herself blessed to have had such support, seeing how so many of her elementary and middle school friends struggled. at that moment, she became determined to take care of her friends in the same way she has felt taken care of.
this, unfortunately, led to many relationships in gabi's teenaged years where her nature was taken advantage of. attempting to find the silver lining, she turned to the first outlet she knew: writing. having kept a journal off and on throughout her younger years, she began daydreaming in class, writing little stories in the margins of assignments and sometimes even tests. this often was seen as not paying attention to what was important, but she flourished in ap literature, writing a bilingual piece in english and spanish about her associations with love and loss.
this piece led to submitting to literary magazines, as well as getting into nyu's expository writing programme. when gabi left for new york, she thought that she would be there only for her college years. then, she had found herself. calling her dad every night, telling her brother what was going on, and they kept encouraging her: chase it whilst it lasts. keep it in both hands. she promised she would, even though it was not a lucrative endeavour. two years into the writing programme, and without enough of a scholarship to continue, she was forced to quit and try something else. her savings were enough to get through beauty school.
ever since then, she has been diligent. working to make ends meet whilst still not surrendering on her dream, but anxious about every decision and self-doubting nearly every step. what happens when someone who is the caretaker needs some care taken for them? she buries herself in supporting others, writing, and making others happiest with their cuts and colours. but when she looks in the mirror, she's beginning to see the exhaustion take its toll. just a little bit longer, and the dream will come true like the stories.
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The Contract - Chapter 7
*Warning Adult Content*
"I like your style Evan, you have this whole 'bad boy' vibe, and that's really hot right now, I can use this well to get you into the business," Natalie says, smiling as she looks at me, admiring my face.
"You're well-mannered and you're easy to talk to, I can tell you're going to be a pleasure to work with," she compliments me.
"It also helps that you're committed to staying healthy and in shape, you wouldn't believe how some well-known actors don't bother with basic hygiene."
I laugh and nod my head as she looks over her notes of everything, she's written down during our first meeting.
"Is there anything else that you need from me?" I ask, sitting forward.
Natalie smiles and shakes her head.
"Nope."
She puts her notes into a file.
"If I do need anything more from you, I'll contact you," she simply says as she goes to stand up.
"Well, it was nice to finally meet you, I can't wait to work with you and see you flourish here at Desire."
She extends her hand out and I shake it with a smile mirroring hers.
"Same, nice to meet you too," I say. "And thanks, for helping me out."
She waves me off.
"It's no problem, I wish all my clients were as perfect as you and followed my direction," she giggles.
Natalie hands me a paper with a list full of appointments she's made for me, from hair stylists to my own personal shopper the agency employs to look over their clients.
She's gotten me in for a haircut, a facial, acting lessons and auditions already lined up, all in the span of an hour of being here with her.
There's no joke when it comes to Natalie Springer, she's on a whole different level of impressive, today I'm going to be beyond busy trying to make all these appointments she's made.
Donovan really got me a great agent, I'll give him that.
She stands up.
"You have my details and I have yours, if you have any more questions or concerns, you are free to call me or throw me a text and I'll always get back to you as soon as I can."
She gets up and I open the door for her as we both exit an office at Desires HQ, I follow her down the hall until we stop at the elevator, she pressed the button for the ground floor and smiles at me politely.
"You have a busy day ahead of you, so I'll let you get to it," she says and I nod my head and shake her hand again as the doors to the elevator open.
"Thanks again Natalie, for everything," I say and she waves me off as I step into the elevator.
Natalie waves goodbye as the doors close and that's when I let out a deep breath, I didn't know I was holding.
I lean against the wall and rub my face tiredly, despite how easy and nice it was talking to Natalie, I was still super fucking nervous.
Donovan worked fast and hired amazing people, I feel like I'm being spoilt and living a life I only dreamt of it all happened so fast that sometimes I need to stop and take a deep breath and remind myself it's all real.
The doors opens and I head towards the lobby so I can make the hair appointment downtown and then meet a stylist, I was given a card I hand to the stylist to pay for the clothes, Natalie didn't exactly tell me how much was on it, only that 'price wasn't an issue for Desire talent.
I get to the lobby and I instantly see who it is walking through the entrance, making me halt and stop and hide behind the near large plant.
Donovan walks with what looks like bodyguards beside him as he makes his way to where I was.
"Fuck," I hiss out under my breath as I move from the plant and straighten myself up nervously.
I keep my head down and move, hoping he doesn't recognize me as he's too focused on looking at something on his cell-phone.
"Mr. Beckett," he greets me once I get close, making me halt and look up at him.
His stormy grey eyes focus on me.
"Mr. Steele," I greet him back, avoiding how others are giving me a strange look, especially his bodyguards.
He walks right past me, almost like yesterday didn't happen and he didn't just have sex with me but I allow it because the looks on the people inside the building and their faces start to annoy me as it's obvious, they're curious who the 'new guy' is and why he's talking to the boss.
If only they knew just what I was to Donovan, I wonder what their faces would look like then?
I take one last look behind me and see that Donovan did the same, his intimidating cold eyes meet mine which makes me instantly turn back around and rush towards the door and exit the building.
Fresh air... bright blue skies... but most of all, away from his intimidating hard stare, that felt like he knew everything about me and what I was thinking and feeling, it felt suffocating, like I had just done something bad and was being questioned.
The guy is handsome, I can't lie, what'd be the point, we've already slept together... if you'd call it that, so when even a guy like him looks at me like he does, of course, I'm going to feel a certain way about it.
I don't care about any of that though, I want a professional relationship for the sake of my career and once I want our relationship to be over, that's it, after all, I'm not interested in a relationship right now, I want to focus on my career and pay Donovan back, I'm not going to get carried away by some billionaire with a pretty face, nice body and voice.
My ass is hurting less but occasionally, every time I walk, I still get some pain, it helped that the bathroom had cream stocked for soreness, I don't know if that was a coincidence or just some sick joke by him but I used it anyway.
There's no point in thinking too much about everything, who knows what goes on in the mind of a guy like Donovan Steele, trying to figure it out would be a massive waste of the time and opportunity he handed to me.
I catch a cab and give him directions to the hair salon, then sit back and close my eyes and try and stop thinking about him but about the day ahead of me.
Today is going to be a long fucking day, but it's finally happening... my new life is starting and I'm excited, so damn overwhelmed but excited, nonetheless.
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How to install microsoft publisher for free
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Music for Films, Vol. II: Chick Habit
For good and for ill, Quentin Tarantino’s movies have been strongly associated with postmodern pop culture — particularly by folks whose reactions to the word “postmodern” tend toward pursed lips and school-marmishly wagged fingers. There for a while, reading David Denby on Tarantino was similar to reading Michiko Kakutani on Thomas Pynchon: almost always the same review, the same complaints about characters lacking “psychological depth,” the same handwringing over an ostensible moral insipidness. Truth be told, Tarantino’s pranksome delight with flashy surfaces and stylistic flourishes that are ends in themselves gives tentative credence to some of the caviling. Critics have raised related concerns over the superficiality of Tarantino’s tendency toward stunt casting, especially his resurrections of aging actors relegated to the film industry’s commercial margins: John Travolta, Pam Grier, Robert Forster, David Carradine, Darryl Hannah, Don Johnson and so on. There might be a measure of cynicism in the accompanying cinematic nudging and winking, but it’s also the case that a number of the performances have been terrific.
The writer-director brings a similar sensibility to his sound-tracking choices, demonstrating the cooler-than-thou, deep-catalog knowledge of an obsessive crate-digger. Tarantino thematized that knowledge in his break-through feature, Reservoir Dogs (1992). Throughout the film, the characters tune in to Steven Wright deadpanning as the deejay of “K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies”; like the characters, the viewer transforms into a listener, treated to such fare as the George Baker Selection’s “Little Green Bag” (1970) and Harry Nilsson’s “Coconut” (1971). As with the above-mentioned actors, Tarantino has sifted pop culture’s castoffs and detritus, unearthing songs and delivering experiences of renewed value — and thereby proving the keenness of his instincts and aesthetic wit. “Listen to (or look at) this!” he seems to say, with his cockeyed, faux-incredulous grin. “Can you believe you were just going to throw this out?” And mostly, it works. If the Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling” (1974) has become a sort of semi-ironized accompaniment to hipsterish good times, that resonance has a lot more to do with Tim Roth, Harvey Keitel and Co. cruising L.A. in a hulking American sedan than with the Disney Co.’s Guardians of the Galaxy (2014).
In Death Proof (2007), Tarantino’s seventh film and unaccountably his least favorite, soundtrack and screen are both full to bursting with the flotsam and jetsam of “entertainment” conceived as an industry.
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In just the opening minutes, we see outmoded moviehouse announcements, complete with cigarette-burn cue dots; big posters of Brigitte Bardot from Les Bijoutiers du claire de lune (1958) and of Ralph Nelson’s Soldier Blue (1970) bedecking the apartment of Jungle Julia (Sydney Tamiia Poitier); the tee shirt worn by Shanna (Jordan Ladd), which bears the image of Tura Satana; and strutting under all of it are the brassy cadences of Jack Nitzsche’s “The Last Race,” taken from his soundtrack for the teensploitation flick Village of the Giants (1965). Bibs and bobs, bits and pieces of low- and middle-brow cinema are cut up and reconstructed into a fulsome swirl of signs. And there’s an unpleasant edge to it; the cuts are echoed by the action of the camera, which has been busily cleaving the bodies of the women on screen into fragments and parts. First the feet of Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito), propped up on a dashboard; then Julia, all ass and gams; then Arlene’s lower half again, chopped into slices by the stairs she dashes up (“I gotta take the world’s biggest fucking piss!”) and by the close-up that settles on her belly and pelvis, her hand shoved awkwardly into her crotch.
As often happens in Tarantino’s movies, furiously busy meta-discursive play collapses the images’ problematic content under multiple levels of reference and pastiche. The film is one half of Grindhouse (2007), Tarantino’s collaboration with his buddy Robert Rodriguez, an old-fashioned double-feature comprising the men’s love letters to the exploitation cinema of the 1960s and 1970s. In those thousands of movies — mondo, beach-cutie, nudie-cutie, women in prison, early slasher, rape-revenge, biker gang, chop-socky, Spaghetti Western and muscle-car-worship flicks (and we could add more subgenres to the list) — symbolic violence inflicted on women’s bodies was de rigueur, and frequently the principal draw. Tarantino shot Death Proof himself, so he is (more than usually) directly responsible for all the framing and focusing — and he’s far too canny a filmmaker not to know precisely what he’s doing with and to those bodies. The excessive, camera-mediated gashing and trimming is a knowing, perhaps deprecating nod to all that previous, gratuitous T&A. His sound-tracking choice of “The Last Race” metaphorically underscores the point: in Bert I. Gordon’s Village of the Giants, bikini-clad teens find and consume an experimental growth serum, which causes them to expand to massive proportions. Really big boobs, actual acres of ass. Get it?
Of course, all the implied japing and judging is deeply embedded in the film’s matrix of esoteric references and fleeting allusions. You’d have to be very well versed in the history of exploitation cinema to pick up on the indirect homage to Gordon’s goofy movie. But as in Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino doesn’t just gesture, he dramatizes, folding an authoritative geekdom into the action of Death Proof. In the set-up to Death Proof’s notorious car crash scene, Julia is on the phone, instructing one of her fellow deejays to play “Hold Tight!” (1966) by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. Don’t recognize the names? “For your information,” Julia snorts, Pete Townsend briefly considered abandoning the Who, and he thought about joining the now-obscure beat band, to make it “Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, Tich & Pete. And if you ask me, he should have.”
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It’s among the most gruesomely violent sequences in Tarantino’s films (which do not run short on graphic bloodshed), and Julia receives its most spectacular punishment. Those legs and that rump, upon which the camera has lavished so much attention, are torn apart. Her right leg flips, flies and slaps the pavement, a hunk of suddenly flaccid meat. Again, Tarantino proves himself an adept arranger of image, sign and significance. Want to accuse him of fetishizing Julia’s legs? He’ll materialize the move, reducing the limb to a manipulable fragment, and he’ll invest the moment with all of the intrinsic violence of the fetish. He’ll even do you one better — he’ll make that violence visible. Want to watch? You better buckle up and hold tight.
Hold on a second. “Hold Tight”? The soundtrack has passed over from intertextual in-joke to cruel punchline. It doesn’t help that the song is so much fun, and that it’s fun watching the girls groove along to it, just before Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell) obliterates them, again and again and again. The awful insistence of the repetition is another set-up, establishing the film’s narrative logic: the repeated pattern and libidinal charge-and-release of Stuntman Mike’s vehicular predations. It is, indeed, “a sex thing,” as Sheriff Earl McGraw (Michael Parks) informs us in his cartoonish, redneck lawman’s drawl. Soon the sexually charged repetitions pile up: see Abernathy’s (Rosario Dawson) feet hanging out of Kim’s (Tracie Thom) 1972 Mustang, in a visual echo of Arlene’s, and of Julia’s. Then listen to Lee (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) belt out some of Smith’s cover of “Baby It’s You” (1969), which we most recently heard 44 minutes before, as Julia danced ecstatically by the Texas Chili Bar’s jukebox. Then watch Abernathy as she sees Stuntman Mike’s tricked-out ’71 Nova, a vibrating hunk of metallic machismo — just like Arlene saw it, idling menacingly back in Austin, with another snatch of “Baby It’s You” wisping through that moment’s portent.
For a certain kind of viewer, the Nova’s low-slung, growling charms are hard to resist, as is the sleazy snarl of Willy DeVille’s “It’s So Easy” (1980; and we might note that Jack Nitzsche produced a couple of Mink DeVille’s early records, connecting another couple strands in the web) on the Nova’s car stereo. Those prospective pleasures raise the question of just who the film is for. That may seem obvious: the same folks — dudes, mostly — who find pleasure in exploitation movies like Vanishing Point (1971), Satan’s Sadists (1969) or The Big Doll House (1971). But there are a few other things to account for, like how Death Proof repeatedly passes the Bechdel Test, and how long those scenes of conversation among women go on, and on. Most notable is the eight-minute diner scene, a single take featuring Abernathy, Kim, Lee and Zoë (Zoë Bell, doing a cinematic rendition of her fabulous self, an instance of stunt casting that literalizes the “stunt” part). Among other things, the women discuss their careers in film, the merits of gun ownership and Kim and Zoë’s love of (you guessed it) car chase movies like Vanishing Point. One could read that as a liberatory move, a suggestion that cinema of all kinds is open to all comers. All that’s required is a willingness to watch. But watching the diner scene becomes increasing claustrophobic. The camera circles the women’s table incessantly, and on the periphery of the shot, sitting at the diner’s counter, is Stuntman Mike. The circling becomes predatory, the threat seems pervasive.
If you’ve seen the film, you know how that plays out: Zoë and Kim play “ship’s mast” on a white 1970 Dodge Challenger (the Vanishing Point car); Stuntman Mike shows up and terrorizes them mercilessly; but then Abernathy, Zoë and Kim chase him down and beat the living shit out of him, likely fatally. In another sharply conceived cinematic maneuver, Tarantino executes a climactic sequence that inverts the diner scene: the women surround Stuntman Mike, abject and pleading, and punch and kick him as he bounces from one of them to another. The camera zips from vantage to vantage within the circle, deliriously tracking the action. All the jump cuts intensify the violence, and they provide another contrast to the diner’s scene’s silky, unbroken shot. The sounds and the impact of the blows verge on slapstick, and our identification with the women makes it a giddily gross good time.
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So, an inversion seeks to undo repetition. Certainly, Stuntman Mike’s intent to repeat the car-crash-kill-thrill is undone, and predator becomes prey. But, as is inevitable with Tarantino’s cinema, there are complications, other echoes and patterns to suss out. For instance: as the women stride toward the wrecked Nova, while Stuntman Mike pathetically wails, the camera zooms in on their asses. Bad asses? Nice asses? What’s the right nomenclature? To make sure we can put the shot together with Julia’s first appearance in the film, Abernathy has hiked up her skirt, revealing a lot of leg. Repetition reasserts itself. In an exacerbating circumstance, Harvey Weinstein’s grubby fingerprints are smeared onto the film. Rodriguez’s Troublemaker Studios is credited with production of Grindhouse, but Dimension Films, a Weinstein Brothers company, handled distribution.
When the film cuts to its end titles, we hear April March’s “Chick Habit” (1995), with its spot-on lyric: “Hang up the chick habit / Hang it up, daddy / Or you’ll never get another fix.” And so on. Even here, where the girl-power vibe feels strongest (cue Abernathy burying a bootheel in Stuntman Mike’s face), there are echoes, patterns. Note how the striding bassline of “Chick Habit” strongly recalls the pulse beating through Nitzsche’s “The Last Race.” Note that March’s song is a cover, of “Laisse tomber les filles,” originally recorded by yé-yé girl France Gall. The song was penned by Serge Gainsbourg, pop provocateur and notorious womanizer. The two collaborated again, releasing “Les Sucettes,” a tune about a teeny-bopper who really likes sucking on lollipops, when Gall was barely 18; the accompanying scandal nearly torpedoed her career. Gall refused to ever sing another song by Gainsbourg, and disavowed her hits.
Again, that’s all deeply embedded, somewhere in the film’s complicated play of pop irony and double-entendre and the sudden explosions of delight and disgust that intermittently reveal and conceal. Again, you’d have to know your pop history really well to catch up with the complications, and Death Proof moves so fast that there’s always another reference or allusion demanding your attention as the cars growl and the blood spurts. Too many signs to track, too many signals to decipher — that’s the postmodern. But perhaps we have become too glib, assuming that all signs are somehow equivalent. Death Proof insists otherwise. Much has been made of the film’s strange relation to digital filmmaking, of the sort that Rodriguez has made a career out of. Part of Grindhouse’s shtick is its goofball applications of CGI, all the scratches and skips and flaws that the filmmakers lovingly applied. They are digital effects, masquerading as damaged celluloid. Tarantino cut back against that grain, filming as much of the car chase’s maniacal stuntwork in meatspace as he safely could. Purposeful practical filmmaking, for a digitally enhanced cinematic experience, attempting to mimic the ways real film interacts with the physical environment and its manifold histories. Is that clever, or just more cultural clutter?
Amid all the clutter that crowds the characters onscreen, and their conversations in the film’s field of sound, it can be easy to lose track of the distinctions between appearances and the traces of the real bodies that worked to bring Death Proof to life. Which is why Tarantino’s inclusion of Bell is so crucial. She provides another inversion: Instead of masking her individual presence, doing stunts for other actresses in their clothes and hair (for Lucy Lawless in Xena: Warrior Princess, or for Uma Thurman in Tarantino’s Kill Bill films), Bell is herself, doing what she does best, projecting the technical elements of filmmaking — usually meant to bleed seamlessly into illusion — right onto the surface of the screen. And instead of allowing one group of girls to slip into a repeated pattern, bodies easily exchanged for other bodies, Bell’s presence and its implicit insistence on her particularity (who else can move like she does?) breaks up the superficial logic of cinema’s market for the feminine. She disrupts its chick habit. There’s only one woman like her.
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Jonathan Shaw
#music for films#chick habit#jonathan shaw#dusted magazine#death proof#quentin tarantino#reservoir dogs#grindhouse#Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick & Tich
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Are you tired of Great Albums being about music people have actually heard of? Do you want me to just go ape shit, and review obscure minimal wave cassettes from the 80s? Admittedly, Oppenheimer Analysis’s New Mexico is one of the most famous weird minimal wave cassettes, and for good reason: it actually holds up quite well as an album! Come check out what all the fuss is about. Transcript below the break.
Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be talking about a very cultish cult classic, and an album that’s one of the definitive works in the very underground scene of so-called “minimal wave”: New Mexico, the only full album released by the duo “Oppenheimer Analysis.” The band’s namesake was actually lead vocalist Andy Oppenheimer, who became acquainted with instrumentalist Martin Lloyd at the 1979 World Science Fiction Convention, where the pair bonded over speculative fiction, Midcentury graphic design and propaganda, and the work of early British electronic pioneers like the Human League. 1982’s New Mexico was these two’s first recording as a group, but Lloyd did go into it with one credit--the year prior, he and David Rome of Drinking Electricity released a double A-side, featuring the jumpy, playful instrumentals “Surface Tension'' and “Connections.” They referred to their act as “Analysis,” making it feel very much a part of the Oppenheimer Analysis story.
Music: “Surface Tension”
Oppenheimer, meanwhile, was a true outsider artist, making a living as a nuclear science writer without any substantive musical background. While not all minimal wave is “outsider music,” and not all electronic outsider music is minimal wave, there’s certainly a correlation there. Oppenheimer’s reedy, somewhat strained voice lends New Mexico the punkish charm that only utterly untrained vocalists can offer: a vessel that cracks and buckles as it fails to contain the raw emotion within.
Music: “Martyr”
The addition of a singer is one major distinction between New Mexico and Lloyd’s earlier compositions, but they’re also very different in tone. As I said earlier, the “Analysis” instrumentals are sort of light-hearted and sprightly, a bit reminiscent of the jazzy synth experiments of artists like Jean-Jacques Perrey and Gershon Kingsley. New Mexico is substantially darker and more gothic, as befitting an LP that’s at least partially a concept album about the nuclear age.
Music: “The Devil’s Dancers”
While nuclear anxiety is an indispensable theme of the album, it’s never a suffocating one that makes it feel horribly antiquated to modern ears. It’s a very aestheticized rumination on nuclear themes, that never jumps up and hollers, “bombs are bad!” Take, for example, the track “Radiance,” probably the best-known track on New Mexico...to the extent that any of them are that well-known. It’s one of the album’s most languorous, atmospheric moments, and paints a vividly desolate picture of ground zero after a detonation, with its fluttering, delicate, but ultimately frigid synth flourishes.
Music: “Radiance”
I think my favourite part of “Radiance” is actually its lyrical turn: an atomic blast isn’t like the radiance of a thousand suns, but rather, vice versa. The latter is the one that’s merely theoretical and dwells in the realm of poetic license, whereas the former is a historical fact that we all have to contend with. “Radiance” is quite solid, but in many ways it’s a pale imitation of the title track, a seven-minute sprawl that works exquisitely as a kind of musical landscape painting:
Music: “New Mexico”
Painfully evocative, with an eerie, almost yearning undercurrent, “New Mexico” is easily the track that feels the most grand and epic. I would really have loved for it to be given more of a place of honour in the tracklisting, possibly as the closing track, but it’s wedged somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the second side. I suppose we can’t expect quite as much from a gonzo underground mail-order cassette release, though. At any rate, while “Radiance” and “New Mexico” are absolutely about atom bombs, they remain very emotionally intimate--almost torturously so. A lot of the other tracks are less about the bomb itself, and more about the rise of “Big Science” in the Midcentury consciousness in the wake of the Second World War--chiefly, “Men In White Coats.”
Music: “Men In White Coats”
As in “The Devil’s Dancers,” Oppenheimer happily accepts the role of an evil or insidious narrator here, and sells us this megalomaniacal perspective with aplomb. A lot of early 80s synth, minimal wave and otherwise, is characterized by more deadpan vocalists, but I can’t stress enough how much Oppenheimer’s piercing lead vocals bring to this album. It’s perhaps the most critical on the tracks that delve into more traditionally emotional topics--chiefly, the standard romantic love numbers. Take, for instance, the harrowing, neurotic “Scorpions”:
Music: “Scorpions”
I’m certainly a fan of the title “New Mexico,” which just ties together all the right connotations. First and foremost, New Mexico is a place--a place you can visit. And this is one of those albums that really wants to ground you in a narrow and specific sense of place, a sonic landscape. New Mexico is mostly empty desert, large tracts of which have been government land even before it started being used more intensively for military research in the 20th Century...most famously, of course, on nuclear weapons. I like to think that the name also suggests novelty and recency of place. We are, after all, entering a “new” world, defined by the advances of science, and the upending of earlier ideas about the world.
The representation of the album art for New Mexico that I’ve been showing you is actually the imagery of the 2010 reissue of the album, which I’ve chosen because I think it’s a bit better known, and I simply prefer it, personally. The most striking thing about it is this colour--a ghostly green, that instantly evokes the common imagery of atomic phenomena. Radiation doesn’t really glow green, of course, but, like everything else about the album, it’s clear that this choice is meant to be a reflection upon the greater cultural imaginings and social impact of the Atomic Age, so I think it’s a perfect fit. At the center of the composition, we see a figure, head bowed and face shaded to provide some sense of anonymity, reaching a hand towards the side of his face in a gesture that’s almost reminiscent of using a cell phone at first glance. What exactly he’s up to is as unclear as his identity. Between the modernist styling of the architecture to his left, and his antiquated attire, the image is quite suggestive of a Midcentury setting. But the real narrative angle here comes from the right side--several figures are approaching that central character, possibly in hostile pursuit. Espionage gone wrong? A desperate attempt to silence a whistle-blower? Much like the music, there’s an ambiguous, mysterious, but also menacing ambiance to this cover.
For historicity’s sake, I’ll also discuss the original cover of the homemade cassettes of New Mexico. As we might expect from the nature of this release, it’s a fairly simple graphic, featuring a nude woman whose full-figured body type, popular on pin-up models, and short hairstyle convey that Midcentury aesthetic almost as well as her clothed counterpart on the reissue. Our eyes are naturally drawn to her exposed breasts, where they meet a pair of radiation warning signs censoring her nipples. A simple image, but a deeply perverse or twisted one. Is it a kind of union between the vulgar, crass profanity of pornography, and the depravity of atomic weapons? Is it a visual representation of the way Oppenheimer Analysis have beautified the nuclear landscape, conflating man’s inhumanity to man with something voluptuous or pleasurable? This cover is at least as complex a symbol for the album as the reissue one is. And while it’s easy to dismiss it as lowbrow, I think it’s worth noting how the salacious or saucy aspect of it would have helped it fit in with other underground cassettes of its era, many of which had lurid or provocative imagery.
Of course, this discussion of the differing incarnations of the album is a natural segue to addressing the release history of New Mexico. The story of Oppenheimer Analysis is deeply entwined with that of New York-based Minimal Wave Records, founded in 2005 by Veronica Vasicka, a radio DJ fascinated by underground electronic music. The label specializes in making obscure, self-published works like New Mexico widely available in digital form, so that more music enthusiasts can get a chance to hear them. Without her, I myself might never have heard this album, and certainly wouldn’t be in a position to make a review like this! Vasicka felt strongly about the artistry of Oppenheimer Analysis, and gave the honour of her label’s first-ever release, “MW001,” to a self-titled EP compiling several of the tracks from New Mexico. Later, in 2010, when she was able to rerelease New Mexico in its entirety, she gave it the honourary designation of “MW001D.”
Vasicka is the one responsible for coining the term “minimal wave” to describe the subgenre she was interested in, and, fifteen years later, I think it’s safe to say it’s had some staying power. While it may be a bit vague and subject to individual interpretation, that’s a problem all genre labels contend with, and I think fans of minimal wave ought to be proud that this term was at least coined by a passionate and dedicated fan, who made her favourite music more accessible to everyone, as a labour of love. It’s also not the only genre term to come about much, much later than the music it seeks to describe. At any rate, New Mexico will always have a place in the minimal wave hall of fame, and it’s a genre-defining work, if in hindsight. The stylistic hallmarks of New Mexico are, for better or for worse, now also those of a whole movement: harsh, tinny rhythm machines, strident synth lines, anxious, unmannered vocals, and technological themes.
But what actually happened to Andy Oppenheimer and Martin Lloyd? In light of the renewed interest in their work in the 00s, they actually got back together for a bit, releasing some archival material from the 1980s and laying down a handful of new tracks, very similar in style to those on New Mexico. Lloyd passed away suddenly in 2013, but Oppenheimer has remained interested in keeping their ideas alive. He’s been performing live as well as putting out new music, first as “Touching the Void,” alongside Mark Warner of Sudeten Creche, and more recently as “Oppenheimer Mk II,” with Mahk Rumbae of Konstruktivists.
Music: “You Won’t Disarm Me”
Something that I think really stands out about New Mexico, especially when compared to a lot of other small-time minimal wave releases, is that it’s a very consistent quality throughout. As you might expect with an underground genre, a lot of the music to choose from is varying degrees of amateurish and clunky, and it’s arguably better to listen to Minimal Wave compilations than the LPs that exist. New Mexico is an exception, though, and doesn’t have any particularly weak tracks. The favourite tracks cited by fans of the album tend to vary pretty widely. My top pick, though, is the album’s opener, “Don’t Be Seen With Me.” It’s a perfect marriage of dizzying, spiraling synth runs, and one of Oppenheimer’s most frenetic vocal performances, that creates a masterful portrayal of being swept up in infatuation with somebody you really shouldn’t be fooling with. That’s all I’ve got--thanks for listening!
Music: “Don’t Be Seen With Me”
#music#great albums#album review#album reviews#minimal wave#minimalwave#coldwave#minimal synth#oppenheimer analysis
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Hammett Made It Easy
To put it bluntly, it is simply, humanly impossible to watch Roy Del Ruth’s original 1931 film version of The Maltese Falcon without drawing comparisons and parallels with John Huston’s much more popular (if not exactly “timeless”) version from a decade later. After all, in many fundamental ways the films are a nearly identical match, scene for scene and line for line. Almost, anyway. Enough so that you’d notice.
The fault for this lies squarely on the shoulders of author Dashiell Hammett. whose 1930 novel made straying from the original source material extremely difficult. The sharp dialogue, the snappy pacing, and the already cinematic scene structure are all so very good that there was little reason to go messing with it. In fact, as the story goes, when screenwriter John Huston made the decision to move into directing, Howard Hawks gave him a copy of the book as a potential first project shortly before Huston left on a vacation. Huston handed the book to his secretary and told her to type it up in script format. She did, and it was that initial version straight from the book that was green-lighted by the studio—even before Huston had had a chance to read it.
Huston later made a few minor changes and additions, but one has to wonder if ten years earlier screenwriters Maude Fulton and Brown Holmes didn’t work much the same way, given how much of the 1931 film’s dialogue reappears verbatim in Huston’s—with the notable exception of the Shakespeare quote that closes the latter (a line supposedly suggested by Humphrey Bogart).
Granted, Huston’s film runs twenty minutes longer than Del Ruth’s spiffy 80-minute number (for a number of reasons, including a much larger role for the hapless gunsel Wilmer and an extended final sequence), but nevertheless if you remove the script from the equation, comparing the two films becomes much easier. At that point the remaining important factors are the directors and their styles, and the casts and their performances.
By 1931, Del Ruth was already well underway in a directing career that would find him making comedies, musicals, dramas, Westerns, and even the occasional horror film. Although comedies were his real forte (he would soon direct Lee Tracy in Blessed Event), taking on something like the Hammett novel was not that unusual. He was not a particularly remarkable director, and stylistically his films resembled most other standard films of the day. The scenes were quick, the camera was static, he didn’t have much time for pizzazz. As was the case of so many of the films of the era, his pictures often resembled filmed stage plays. He was on a tight schedule, and as soon as he finished one he had to be on to the next in a couple days. In the end he crafted an entertaining, well-told story, and that’s all the studio and audiences were looking for.
Meanwhile, The Maltese Falcon was going to be Huston’s directorial debut after having solidly established himself as a respected screenwriter. Some of the suits at Warner Brothers were hesitant to let him make the leap, so he had to prove to them he could do it, and approached the film with the kind of energy and big ideas you find with so many first-time directors. Although the film wasn’t as flashy and inventive as Citizen Kane, Huston did pull out a few tricks, like the famed seven-minute take, and the camera work was fluid and energetic. Even if audiences didn’t notice a number of his little flourishes, it was still a very confident film. More importantly, it was an entertaining, well-told story—and that’s what the studio and audiences were really looking for.
(It’s worth noting, however, that Huston’s version was much tamer than Del Ruth’s—perhaps for obvious reasons. In Del Ruth’s version there’s no pussyfooting around the fact that Sam Spade really is having an affair with his partner’s wife. Nor is there any question what happens after Spade accuses Ruth Wonderly/ Brigid O'Shaughnessy of only using money to buy his allegiance.)
What Huston really had on his side was, if not star power exactly, then at least a handful of familiar faces. It might have been Sydney Greenstreet’s film debut, but audiences certainly recognized Mary Astor, Peter Lorre, Elisha Cook, and Bogart. Up until this point of course Bogart had only been a character player, but his star was definitely on the rise, and broke with this film.
Del Ruth, on the other hand, was working with an armload of good, available B actors. Most of them worked regularly, but they weren’t exactly Joan Blondell or Douglas Fairbanks.
It’s in looking at the performances of the two groups that the real differences between the films arises. Take the character of Sam Spade, for instance. Bogart’s performance as the womanizing, sharp tongued private dick always struck me as stiff and stagey—you can almost hear him thinking of each gesture before he makes it, and each line before he speaks it. There’s something tangibly artificial in his performance, the feeling that we really are watching an actor, and moreover one who’s not trying very hard. Or maybe one who’s letting his stage training get the better of him, thinking the dialogue alone will carry the day. I of course love Bogart, just not here, particularly.
Ricardo Cortez (in reality the NYC-born son of Austrian immigrants) portrayed a much looser, more easy-going Spade, always ready with a quip and forever chasing skirts. He gives a much more relaxed performance that often borders on the straight comic. In spite of the fact that Cortez is much more comfortable in the role, it seems, his Spade is almost out of place here, smirking his way through a double murder investigation.
Seen today, Greenstreet’s Gutman seems so unique a performance that it immediately became iconic, and a character and performing style he would go on to recreate for the rest of his career. It seems unique anyway, until you see Dudley Digges Gutman from a decade earlier. The similarities between the two performances are shocking. The intonation, vocal tones, the side mutterings, the laughter, the gestures, even the facial expressions are so nearly identical it’s almost as if Greenstreet studied Digges’ performance closely and decided to recreate it for the remake. Strange thing is, for American character actor Digges, it was a unique role quite unlike anything else he’d played before or would play again. Unless you care to argue that the spirit of the true Kasper Gutman inhabited both actors (and then stayed in Greenstreet), it’s a mighty remarkable coincidence.
One of the more interesting distinctions can be seen in the character of Spade’s secretary, Effie Perine, and more specifically it boils down to a single line reading.
In one of the first and most famous lines of the film, Effie informs Spade that a new client is waiting to see him. In the Huston version, bubbly Lee Patrick says, “You’ll wan to see this one anyway—she’s a knockout!” She seems awfully enthusiastic about it, happy to encourage her boss’s assorted flings. It seems a little odd, but then she spends the rest of the film running errands for Spade and we never give her another thought.
In Del Ruth’s version, Una Merkel’s Effie does not smile and does not chirp when she says dourly, “You’ll want to see this one anyway. She’s a knockout.” There’s so much stifled bitterness, frustration, and jealousy in the line that we can read her entire character—almost her whole life—in those few words. And for the rest of the film, whenever Spade asks her to run another errand or do another favor, we know what she’s thinking when she agrees. Thanks to Merkel, Effie becomes the one honestly tragic figure in the entire story, with the possible exception of Wilmer.
As Gutman’s henchman and punk, far be it from me to compare anyone with the great Elisha Cook, Jr.—unless of course it’s the equally great Dwight Frye. Sadly Frye has been given very little to do here except look sullen and angry. In fact he’s only been given a single line of dialogue (“I’ll fog him”). Still, he’s always fun to watch—though admittedly not as much fun here as Cook, who gets to give Bogart a vicious kick in the head.
In the end and over time, the choice of which, if either, version is superior is a simple matter of taste. It does become easier to understand, though, why in the 1950s Del Ruth’s version was redubbed Dangerous Female in order to distinguish it from Huston’s.
by Jim Knipfel
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IAIN GLEN in ANCHOR ME, a meta
ANCHOR ME
I’m not sure why @bellahadar and I chose this film to begin our series of metas on Iain Glen’s work, but it soon became evident that this production resonated deeply and personally with us… for reasons explained at the very end. No, don’t scroll down ;-)
Though this production is lacking in budget and directorial flourishes (made-for-tv productions had not come into their own in 2000), its screenplay, narrative structure and performances, by IG especially, amply make up for it. We have rarely come across a narrative showing such a deep empathy for human frailties and understanding of the effect of family trauma and the ways we can heal from them.
Bella and I have discussed the what and the how, concentrating on a few tropes, motifs, symbols and stylistic figures. For your enjoyment, we hope! Under the broken line !
PARADISE LOST and THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON
Bella:
If your favorite actor is Iain Glen, you don't expect something easy and lightweight. And Anchor Me is no exception. Dr. Freud and Dr. Jung would be proud. The film is about "Lost Paradise". About a man, who can't be happy in his adult life because of some horrible thing that occurred in his childhood. It's about trauma. And as therapists say, it's not the trauma itself that breaks us; it's unresolved trauma. It traps us in that period, and in that moment. Nathan was a teenager when his younger brother Michael died tragically, an accidental death his family believes he could have prevented, and a big part of Nathan's soul, his personality, remains stuck in that era, not able to get over the trauma, returning to that incident again and again, like an anchored ship. Anchor me... And we can clearly see that Nathan sometimes acts like a teenager: when he decides to "pause" his relationship with his wife and live apart for a while, he expects SHE’LL be the one to tell their son, not HIM. He is clearly afraid of responsibility.
Nathan’s trauma IS unresolved: after the death of his youngest brother, his parents refused to speak about the event. They avoided the subject, tried to resume their lives as if nothing happened, but implicitly, the feeling was: this DID happen. Only Nathan tried again and again to speak about it, to make things clear, and to get the confirmation that it wasn't his fault. But nobody responded. Even when he started crying at the dinner table, as a boy, repeating "It wasn't my fault" - his mother just told him, poker faced: “Nathan, go get a tissue and return when you're ok.”
Nathan feels guilty about his brother's death. Well, it's normal for children to feel guilty about bad things that happen in their lives. But somehow - his parents felt he was guilty too. And that is not normal at all. Because of this dysfunctional situation, Nathan yearned from a young age to leave his parents' house, and he did - went to London and became an architect. Becoming once more a "bad son", because he then rarely visited his parents. Given how his father and brother treat him when he does come back, it’s no wonder he stays/stayed away. And Nathan’s brother Billy, of course, completes the “prodigal son” narrative: he stayed home, was the dutiful brother, and of course resents his older brother’s success and the effect he has on their mother when he visits.
Clarasimone:
Bella, I love your notion of Paradise Lost and if I were to paraphrase your observations and maybe add to them, I would talk about how IG's character Nathan and his childhood sweetheart Jackie try to regain this lost paradise as Adam & Eve.
Nathan especially is very nostalgic when he comes back. I love the details that communicate this. He's not "allowed" into the family house (he rings, no one is there) BUT he knows how to get in regardless, and he's very excited to find the key under the flowerpot (love his smile and his exclaiming in French: Voilà! ;-) It's like entering back into the Garden of Eden uninvited, isn't it? And he almost tiptoes through the house like one does through a secret garden. When he peeps into a bedroom, he compulsively opens his hand, his nervousness showing through (thank you for reminding me bellahadar). He double takes on family pictures showcasing past happiness. He enters his bedroom like one enters Ali Baba's cavern, with joy and awe.
Do you recall when he finds his old artist's crayons and material? He caresses his old tattered tools. He WAS so happy as a young person before the tragedy. And the next thing he finds (a fishing bubble) gets him to remember Jackie, and his own sexual and romantic awakening. His nostalgia and yearning for Paradise Lost is palpable when we see him not being shy about telling Jackie how fondly he remembers their time together. His past is so very near the surface. One scene in particular shows this beautifully. Nathan and Jackie are walking in the green field (Eden) and though Jackie has just told Nathan that she never indulges in reminiscing, Nathan opens up to her. The moment starts at 33M50: Nathan playfully attacks Jackie to tickle her, a spontaneous but love-hungry attempt at intimacy. Then, the music starts and the mood shifts. Nathan goes into himself and tells a moved Jackie he remembers how proud he was to be in the football team as a kid, knowing he was going to walk her home and his mom was going to make them a special treat for tea. IG's face and voice soften so much then (he moves me to tears) and he says: "I remember thinking: I'm as happy now, as I'm ever gonna be." And then we learn he was just 8 years old! My God, such prescience! And his acting, dear God…
He does it again, on the construction site, before the characters run off to make love. When Nathan tells Jackie how sometimes he thinks he's happy and then suddenly he'll feel this heaviness, in the pit of his stomach, and he knows, and he remembers. My God, that childhood trauma not giving him one moment's peace, you know. God how I feel for him... And how AMAZING he is delivering those lines. His pause, the tears welling and his voice breaking and getting lower... Kill me Ser.
So much pain. No wonder his character suffered a form of arrested development when tragedy shattered Eden… to the point of pushing him to exile himself. Nathan is, in effect, banished from Paradise, pushed away from the green countryside community where he grew up and fell in love, and I felt so deeply for him and Jackie as they tried to recapture what they once felt. But not as a futile act of juvenile make-believe (like recapturing one's youth) but as a healing process, in order to actually feel complete. Their young love was cut in the bud and they want to achieve the closure they were never allowed… this closure being tightly linked to the closure Nathan is looking for with his family, his mom in particular.
I thought it was one of the many deep truths and daringly original propositions of the screenplay to have Jackie tell Nathan, up front, that she wants this affair between them because they never got the ending they deserved. It's so very surprising to see her being so level-headed, and say she's initiating this because she wants to end things between them, not pursue them. What a mind-blowing concept :-) It has nothing to do with sexual or emotional frustration on her part. She loves her husband (though one may sigh at the thought; see the end notes). So, it has nothing to do with him, Billy. It has everything to do with her. She needs this experience with Nathan to close a door that needs to be shut for her to move on with her life. A life without regrets. And, of course, it's a similar experience for Nathan. The fact that the intimacy he longs for with Jackie is not rooted in lust is well communicated through casting. Jackie is played by an actress who has a very homey, girl next door look. It’s Nathan’s wife who is exotically beautiful. So, truly, Nathan yearns for Jackie not because of some sexual mid-life crisis but because he needs to rekindle their intimacy to recapture who he was, who he is, and to move forward from some kind of arrested development.
Bella, you added that Nathan’s plea for a break from his wife, in order to find himself, and sort himself out, is therefore not the usual cop-out, but a very real need, and I agree. The film makes sure we understand that Nathan loves Sarah. There is no one else in Nathan’s life when he asks for a break. Or, if there is, well, it’s him. He needs to find, not another woman, but himself… to find Paradise again.
Also, I love the fact that though Nathan must learn to become a more mature man, he is the only one brave enough to try and try again to make his siblings talk about the incident and do it with sensitivity (like the artist that he is: nice touch to have made him an artist, an architect !). I never perceived it as an egoistic impulse on his part, not the way IG plays him. There’s even something of the valiant knight in him! Nathan and Jackie's first kiss, for instance, comes after the scene where Billy is especially cruel and abusive to his wife (throwing mashed potatoes to her face). The kiss is Nathan’s way to rescue Jackie from the humiliation she has just suffered at the hands of her husband. It’s like Adam nurturing Eve.
Also, I think Nathan’s courage rubs off Jackie when, after telling him she never recalls their childhood crush, she comes clean and admits she remembers everything about it. That was such a beautiful moment. The actress was shaking as she was communicating this: “I remember every second! (…) I remember the way your fingers felt on my skin and your lips on my body and the way your mouth tasted.... and I remember how ecstatic I was just being next to you and just to breathe the same air as you!" OMG... That, again, is very much akin a chimeric dialogue which Adam and Eve could have shared after their banishment from Eden.
And Nathan deserves this testimony, this show of love from Jackie, you know? It's the first time in the film when someone from his past tells him he mattered, he had value, he brought them joy. I'm crying as I'm writing this… How not to feel for Nathan? Especially when we learn, from the father, at the end, as he spills the truth to Nathan's wife, that Nathan did not imagine the hurt he was inflicted. His mother DID push him away. Though her mind knew better, her whole being thought her son responsible and acted accordingly. Obviously, she suffered from this as much as Nathan did. It's terrible because she's a good person, but these things happen in real life, don't they? The unspeakable happens. And the film does not shy away from these truths, while showing one way out of them, one way to heal. One way to recapture paradise.
EROS VS THANATOS
Clarasimone:
One of my favorite things about the film is the way it uses the juxtaposition of Eros and Thanatos, Love & Death, to build the narrative and the characters’ arcs. It's made abundantly clear in all love scenes of the film.
First, the moment of the “original sin”: Michael dies because both his parents and his older brother Nathan were too involved in romantic trysts to notice him endangering himself. His parents kiss under the fireworks, and Nathan gets distracted by Jackie. And it’s THE great injustice in Nathan’s life that his parents should have displaced their own (never avowed) guilt unto him. They believe he should have kept an eye on his brother, but they were there! It was their responsibility to make sure all their children be safe. Eros distracted them but only Eros’ pull on Nathan was considered punishable. How unfair and tragic. But how typical to see this type of displacement, isn’t it?
Then, of course, Nathan and Jackie make love where Michael died. The symbolism is overpowering, and of course deeply cathartic.
And, finally, they make love again, so joyously, so beautifully while Nathan's mother's dies!
The same is true of the teenagers who also come together in almost perfect synchronization with their adult counterpart.
Fighting death with sex, this unstoppable life force, there is nothing more primal, more beautiful. I was floored by this proposition! And IG excels in expressing this, doesn't he? :-) Not only in the raw emotional nakedness of the first sex scene when he cries... but later through the sensual hunger he demonstrates when he lunges for Jackie, devouring her with open-mouthed kisses, his tongue darting out and his hand digging under her panties when they try to make love in their enchanted cottage. It's a wonderfully playful moment how the erotic fire of their embrace is thwarted by Nathan's chili infected fingers come to burn Jackie's intimate flesh. From spicy food to spicy sex; this scene almost prefigures DELICIOUS ;-) It's perfectly hedonistic and life-affirming. And a few minutes later, IG excels again at showing the joy in sexual prowess when he smiles a bit devilishly into Jackie's eyes as his thrusts lift her to make her climax. It comes at 1H31H00-02, just before they kiss. And all of this, all of this amazing show of emotion and joy and sexiness occurring while Nathan's mother is dying. OMG! The contrast is heart shattering!
I thought that it was also immensely brave of the screenwriter, who manages to make us root for the adulterers, to then seemingly punish them by having them miss the mother's death because their tryst occurs at the same time. I literally screamed with my hand on my mouth when I realized the parallel. Nathan is not there when his mother forgives him! And missing this crucial family event threatens to plunge the lovers in an even deeper experience of shame and regret than the accidental death of Michael... In the final act of the film, I was reeling! But you see them surmounting this new ordeal with great emotional courage, and the whole family actually benefits from having to go through this ultimate blow and "hour of truth". Wow. I've really rarely seen such a mature, wise, empathic look at the human heart. Everyone in this film is multidimensional and flawed and terribly human.
Bella, you have this esoteric theory (your words ;-) that by making love, Nathan changes the paradigm of his life and enables/births his mother’s pardon during the parallel montage… whereas I felt the editing rather suggested that the delirious mother seemed to dream her son’s liberation ;-) It’ll be interesting to see what they ladies think…
MIRROR EFFECTS
Clarasimone:
There are multiple mirror effects in the film, which beautifully complexify the narrative structure and inform the heroes’ arcs. The main one occurs between two generation of lovers: Nathan and Jackie, and their respective children, Michael and Cassie. The first time I perused the film, I did it by fast-forwarding (of course, to get to the love scenes ;-) and I thought I was seeing flashbacks when we see the teenage lovers, when, in fact, we’re seeing Michael and Cassie in the present tense of the film. In a way, they are reenacting Nathan and Jackie’s childhood flirt. It’s a great narrative device, especially to show the pull of fatality. Because, how foreboding to see Michael and Cassie’s own affair spiral down into possible tragedy in the final act of the film, while Nathan and Jackie’s tryst is also being discovered. All their fates seem intrinsically linked because somewhere in time, a great injustice occurred.
Did you notice that the moment the two couples’ story almost come crashing into each other occurs perfectly mid-point into the film? I rarely do this, but I checked the time code and sure enough, we're perfectly at the half mark in the narrative when the kids see their adult counterparts make love on the construction site. It’s actually the original ending of part 1 but our copy reedited the film into one seamless work. In this moment, the kids get to experience a fall from grace. THE most important moment in all of their lives in this story. How disappointed Michael and Cassie are at seeing their parents as adulterers… and how upset they look at having lost their innocence. Because it is a “textbook lacanian mirror phase moment” to have them cease to be kids the very moment they get to witness the primal scene...
Of course, the moment is also life-altering for Nathan and Jackie, who never truly consummated their love for each other when they were kids and get to, finally, but on the very site of Michael's death. The symbolism isn't lost on us: their cathartic sex scene occurs where the original sin/trauma of the family took place, and where Nathan's development came to a stop. Maybe we can see hope in the fact that this place isn't a graveyard (the original barn) but the site of something being constructed anew. And so, of course, IG's character would be crying as he finally makes love to Jackie! I couldn’t understand why when I fast-forwarded the film, but he's both mourning his brother and celebrating life, finally making love to the girl he was forced to leave behind and, most of all, reconnecting with who he is, or trying to be!...
Bella:
…and because he’s returning to himself. To that teenager, who was SO HAPPY before his brother's death... It’s probably why Nathan doesn't disgust us but why, on the contrary, we sympathize with him very much.
It’s also interesting how, when Michael and Cassy see Nathan and Jackie having sex – it’s the boy who can't handle it and runs away. How do you think, why? Why not the girl? (clarasimone: later on, I proposed a metaphorical answer: that line which Ygritte tells Jon, “Girls see more blood than boys!” so of course Cassie is better equipped to handle this ;-) Oh, Cassy understands her mother very well, I think. The way she’s looking at her uncle, a bit provocatively, calling him Nathan instead of "uncle Nathan", trying her young awakening sexual charms on him - she finds him very attractive… She even tells her mother “I reckon you married the wrong one” after asking “How come Nathan is better looking than dad?”
Though Nathan and Jackie long for inner catharsis, and not simply for physical pleasure, the relationship between their children, Cassy and Michael, is clearly about sex, the awakening of it, the irresistible pull and force of it. After they saw their respective parents making it - it kinda gave them permission to do the same, it opened this door for them. They couldn't forget what they saw, and when Jackie went "to a friend" on the weekend, and Nathan went "working" - their children knew of course, that these two were secretly getting together. Michael asks: "What do you think they’re doing now"? And Cassy answers: "You KNOW what they are doing now" and, she starts to kiss him...
Interestingly, the next scene shows us Nathan and Jackie NOT doing it (contradicting their respective children), but TALKING... Because, let’s repeat it, their coming together is not about sex per se, but a very therapeutic moment for both of them...
Another mirror effect concerns Sarah, Nathan’s wife, who plays the role of the nurturing spouse/mother which Nathan's mother should have played but has been unable to for many years now. She’s the one who inspires Nathan to make things right with his mother, and to bring their son Michael along, so he can learn what lies behind the heritage of his namesake. And, it's a wonderful testament to Sarah’s maturity and level of empathy that, though she is deeply hurt by Nathan's tryst with Jackie, she not only forgives him but understands him.
In fact, she understands so much from the first. Triggering the whole story. Later telling Nathan, in a beautiful field of green (Eden again), that she understands why he needs this time away from her. She loves him, but she won’t beg. He must come back whole or not at all.
Of course, she did not guess what the healing process would entail but… near the end of the film, when she confronts Jackie, what really gets to her is not the infidelity but learning that the reason Nathan did what he did was that he needed to recapture how he felt before Michael's tragedy. So Sarah was right, all along, and in that moment, where she cries the hardest, she does so because she feels the depth of Nathan's pain... and her own too, at realizing that this means she never knew her husband as a truly happy person. All she had access to, was this deeply injured man.
Sarah’s moment of epiphany comes soon after Nathan mother’s death, who herself lived a similar epiphany since she was able to acknowledge Michael’s passing in her delirium. The woman dies peacefully… and Sarah knows joy when, having mended her relationship with Nathan, she knows he’ll come back to her as a happy, whole, person.
HOW STYLE INFORMS DISCOURSE
Clarasimone:
Though it chagrines me that this profound and nuanced work is “trapped” in the shape and form of tv-movie aesthetics, there are nice cinematic moments that do inform and enhanced the discourse and performances, and they merit to be singled out.
One of them comes very early in the film. The scene occurs after Nathan gets the phone call informing him of his mother’s dire condition. We don't know what he hears but we understand, from his expression and the cut to a flashback, that something terrible has happened.
That flashback is interesting for many reasons: it gives us access to Nathan's interiority and therefore establishes him as the main protagonist, especially because it's shot in pure subjective POV (a rare instance) and the mise-en-scene insists on symbolic elements: the town's church is being repaired (links to the film's biblical references?) and the scaffolds possibly foreshadow Nathan trying to repair his family, and becoming an architect (to repair and construct ? the wheel goes round). The construction workers whistle at Nathan's mother, which sexualizes her, and I like the fact that the character is/was therefore not simply a mother but a woman. And that Nathan was exposed to this. It's not developed and does not impact the narrative much but, being a parent AND a sexual being is clearly something that inhabits Nathan's psyche.
The most important aspect of the flashback of course, has to do with how Nathan's mother is caring, how she helps him when he falls from his bicycle and smiles lovingly at him to calm his tears. It's the mother he lost after the death of Michael. It's the mother he longs for. It's the feeling of being loved and safe that he was robbed of at a crucial time in his life. When we exit the flashback, Nathan's wife impresses on him that he could use this opportunity (going to see his mom) to mend things with her. His fear to commit to this "mission" is well communicated when the camera then dollies into IG's face. A rare event in the film, composed mainly of shot counter-shots and very functional, invisible cam movements.
A second dolly-in occurs much later, when Nathan suffers as he explains how his mother won’t address Michael’s death: "She's dying, and she won't talk about it!" The two dolly-ins bookend Sarah's insistence that he broach the subject to his mother.
There’s another nice little cinematic moment soon after the first reminiscing scene between Nathan and Jackie: when the camera first captures her, in profile, looking out the window as she does the dishes and there's this pan to the right showing Nathan just looking at her. All this time, and unbeknownst to us, he was gazing at her longingly :-)
Other nice use of camera movement:
There's a dolly-in on Jackie the first time she says "We never had an ending. I want an ending." It marks the moment, obviously, and helps us engrave it in our memory.
There's another dolly-in when Jackie prepares to tell Nathan that his mother died. This too acts like a bookend to the earlier shot of him getting the phone call informing him of his mom's illness. I'm glad the director took the time to shoot these moments like this. I just wish there were more of them…
For example, he really was inspired when Nathan rejoins his dad after the mother's death, and we’ve seen the older man caress and smell his wife’s clothes. A loving moment which, alas, Nathan does not see, as you so justly pointed out Bella. Their reunion is shot in one take and it creates a wonderful emotional tension, suspense and release. It goes on for about a minute and a half at 1H45M22 - 1H46M51. The shot starts on the father's hands packing his wife's belongings, while Nathan appears in the background, out of focus, coming up the stairs. He comes into the bedroom, they speak, Nathan tries to help his dad who's too distraught to register Nathan's love and pain, and then, the director has this wonderful idea: he makes the father walk left, and tracks with him, leaving Nathan behind, who disappears from the frame. The father speaks and speaks and then he turns around and pauses. He's seeing Nathan. We don't. But his silence creates a moment of suspense which shatters when the father comes back to his son, the camera tracking once more… revealing IG in tears! Wow! And, bonus: Nathan is holding his mom's yellow raincoat, the one from his childhood flashback! The happy flashback when she smiled and cared for him as he cried. UGHHHHH my God. And the way IG cries with abandon, chocking on the word "mum," and the way his father embraces him, with his whole body engulfing him like a papa bear. Wow!
Final detail: I love how one of the last scenes of the film is a flashback to Paradise Found: the 3 brothers with young Jackie running in the green near the flowing river on a golden sunny day. Though it shows the past, the scene has the power to impress our mind as emotionally occurring now. The ghosts are happy :-) And then we cut to another bookend scene: Nathan and Michael in the car, but going back to London, their faces all battered but smiling, and in harmony as father and son. Beautiful!
THE ONE REALLY ANNOYING WEAKNESS? ;-)
We mentioned how Nathan’s brother Billy completes the Return of the Prodigal Son trope of the narrative. Watching the film, Bella and I were acutely aware that we were supposed to feel for Nathan's brother and though one can accept the proposition --it makes sense, he was so dutiful-- our heart couldn't. Because the film fails to give the character enough introspective moments to make us feel for him, truly. Actually, he only gets one scene that shows him as an exceptional person, when he reads to his younger kids. This lack, plus the filmmakers’ decision to have Billie humiliate Jackie twice, through a form of public spousal abuse (the mashed potatoes and the beer throwing) just made us shut down. The filmmakers were possibly trying to stretch the envelope, to see how far they could go in showing this brother’s faults while still making us understand how Jackie can love him, regardless, and forgive him. But it didn't work for us. We believe that if they redid the film today, they would either balance the brother a bit better or have Jackie leave him at the end. But not for Nathan. Leave him to be self-partnered ;-)
***
Personal notes on the personal “anchors” we felt with this production:
Bella has experienced the heartaches that come with the “Return of the Prodigal Child”; and I have experienced the healing process which IG goes through in the film, being intimate with someone else than my life companion in order to find myself and feel whole. Can we call this being unfaithful, when it has everything to do with finding faith in oneself? The film turns this question into a beautiful and heartfelt narrative.
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[jaydick] Before That, And Colder
Chapter Four
AO3
Previous Chapter
Dick kicks his foot in the air repeatedly, inspecting the pink flowers on his white Oxfords. He’s pretending to ignore the people around him — possibly, he is actually ignoring them, as the outlines of their bodies blur around his fancy footwear. He leans farther back on Jason’s desk, conjuring the picture of ease. To his left rests Jason’s Red Hood helmet in a gargoyle-fashion. Everyone here knows Jason Todd is the Red Hood, but Dick is just Richie Grayson, D-list celebrity. The sleeves of his pretentiously silk bomber jacket, embroidered with colorful roosters, slip slightly down his shoulder.
“Is this really the best time to be hiring people? Specifically this person?” This question comes from James — or “Wingman,” as Jason earlier informed him of. James is up-and-coming, bat-themed, Gotham-based vigilante who believes the Red Hood is absolutely critical to public safety. Dick has not yet shared this detail with Batman, having only received it an hour before this current meeting, but he’s hoping they’ll share a good laugh over that.
“No time like the present,” Jason says without much concern. He stands beside the desk, a few feet from Dick.
Dick catches James crossing his arms from the corner of his eyes. The defensive body language convinces him to focus more on the arrangement of people. Suzie Su still sits on the recliner, seemingly indifferent. Her sisters, one of which Dick recognizes as the waitress who intercepted him and Miguel earlier, flock around Su either on the couch or near her armrest; all except for Night, Dick’s blackjack dealer yesterday, who now occupies a distant corner of the room by herself. Miguel sits in the recliner opposite Suzie Su, playing with his tie. James stands the closest to Dick and Jason and busies himself with looking like he eats nails for breakfast.
“The son of Bruce Wayne is hardly a sound addition to the Outlaws,” James points out.
Suzie Su’s head swivels towards Jason. “Oh, no,” she says, suddenly invested, “Whatever ‘the outlaws’ is, count me out of it. I’m going legit, you promised!”
Jason takes a page from Dick’s book and seats himself on the corner of his desk. He grips the edge, knees spread, so that he looks like he’s riding a horse. For an unstably diverse crowd, he’s rather at ease at the head of it, Dick notes. Jason holds up a silencing finger and begins his address, “Firstly, the Outlaws are too legit for any mere mortal to handle, that includes you, Su, so stuff it. Secondly, James, you can also stuff it because no one’s inviting Richie Rich onto the team except you, it would seem.”
So, does that mean I don’t get to see the Super Secret Clubhouse and make friendship bracelets? Dick almost says. Instead, he receives a text alert and checks his phone to see Bruce left him a message.
What is your plan of action? it reads.
Dick quickly shoots back a non-committal text, wary of Jason sensing Batman’s concern through the phone. Luckily, Jason doesn’t pay Dick’s texting any mind, preoccupied with his stand-off against Wingman.
James persists, undeterred by Jason’s skilled dismissal. “Batman isn’t exactly in your corner, Todd. He is, however, in Wayne’s pocket. As is Richie Grayson.”
Dick frowns; his current persona is apparently no longer a good fit. He will need to adjust accordingly. Dick sits up straighter on the desk and tucks his legs. “I have my own funds, as a matter of fact,” he speaks up. Jason’s eyes slice into him — oh, right, Dick’s not supposed to talk while meeting the in-laws. Oh, well. He continues, “I work for the Bludhaven Police Department.”
Dick touches his jacket collar and inspects the interior fabrice. “I try to dress nice when there might be cameras so I don’t make Bruce look bad, but most of it’s bought off-price at Marshalls.” This last part is a lie as he rarely buys his own photo op clothes. Bruce has a personal stylist who keeps everyone’s wardrobe at the Manor stocked. Dick hit up his old bedroom on the way to the hotel.
“You’re a cop,” James repeats.
Dick holds back a wince. So much for Agent 37’s kick-ass undercover portfolio. “Every cop’s a little dirty in the ‘Haven,” he says, hopefully smoothly.
Unfortunately, James does not find this comforting. “So not only are you a cop who knows about the Iceberg’s business, but you’re not even a good cop?”
Dick points at Jason. “He murders people,” he deflects.
Jason sighs obnoxiously loud. “Richie has information and contacts,” Jason increases his volume when James looks like he wants to say something else, “neither of which are anyone’s business at the moment but mine. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty attached to my life, in both a literal and figurative sense, and so if I say the guy from that one lady-service Pantene commercial is going to keep my organs safely inside my body, rest assured, I have done my research.”
This standing ovation inspires Dick to wonder whether Jason saw that commercial on cable or some other venue. He tries and fails to imagine Jason watching Friends reruns. Maybe he caught it off some gun review video on Youtube. This is the kind of media Dick assumes Jason consumes.
“Great to know,” says Suzie Su flatly. “So, Richie, who’s trying to whack our boss?”
“No one yet. There have been no attempts on his life thus far,” Dick responds. Then, “Also, you can just call me Dick.”
“Shouldn’t be too tough,” Suzie Su remarks.
“The situation will escalate, though,” James states, “There is no doubt that Red Hood is the final target.”
“Correct. Which is why it’s important that we trust each other,” Dick says. He levels a gaze at everyone in the room except for James, which should indicate to him that he’s the object of criticism without presenting Dick as outwardly hostile. “If we are too busy suspecting each other without any evidence, we allow for outside threats to slip past our radar.” Dick can only hope they will take this to heart; it will be harder for him to investigate Jason’s people if they’re also investigating him.
“Truth,” Miguel agrees as he stands to his feet and walks towards Dick. “Although it kind of worked out for us this time, right? You following me, us following you?” As he approaches, he extends a hand and Dick dismounts from the desk. “Welcome to the team, Dick,” Miguel says, clapping Dick on the shoulder as they shake. His smile is warm and sincere. Dick feels an equally genuine grin spread across his face.
“Alright, alright,” Jason says, leaning from his spot on the desk to bat an arm at them. “What did I just say about teams, dude,” he gripes. Miguel shrugs rather blithely before he returns to his chair. Dick appreciates what he hopes will be the one easy-going personality in this tense bunch.
Jason claps his hands together and stands. “Okay, here’s the deal: I want someone always watching my vehicle for the next, fuck, two weeks, I guess? One week?” He looks to Dick for confirmation. Dick mouths, ‘longer.’ “One week to start, cool,” Jason locks in his answer. “I don’t mean from the cameras, as I really am hoping to catch this person ASAP and get back to my regularly scheduled gangbanging.”
Dick watches the crowd: Miguel gives a whoop, Suzie Su rolls her eyes, one of the sisters not standing in the corner laughs.
“So, that means I need you,” Jason flourishes his arm in the air and brings it dramatically down like a hammer, finger pointing sharply at Miguel, “to physically be in the parking lot.”
Miguel looks around in bafflement. “I’m the owner. That would look weird,” he says, gesturing towards himself.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure everyone is lining up for your autograph, too, now come off it. No one here is instantly recognizable except for me, and that’s mostly to do with the helmet,” Jason pats the helmet beside him emphatically, “giving me serious red Darth Vader vibes.”
Dick suppresses a laugh. Jason hears him anyway, but that turns out to be not so bad. Jason’s eyes flicker towards him but they’re absent of reproach, which is how Dick realizes he had expected to be growled at for his humor. But Jason made the joke, didn’t he? He goes so far as to smile, not threateningly, but pleasantly. Dick wants to call it soft even.
Jason’s eyes are back on the ragtag team within the second. He explains properly his reasoning to Miguel. “The subject’s abilities and target range are unknown to us. You’re our safest bet for handling whatever he might be capable of. And you can wear whatever you want.” Dick assumes that last bit is weighted with the implication of a supersuit, although Miguel’s secret identity may very well be known considering the lack of visible confusion on anyone’s face. Of course, that could just be indifference; no one in this room seems particularly interested in each other.
“If you see someone snooping, wait it out. If you see someone put something on my bike, apprehend them and bring them to me where I can then proceed to shoot their brains out,” Jason instructs. Dick tries to say something, but Jason says over his attempt, “If they’re guilty.”
“Not really the problem,” Dick mutters.
“The Su Brigade can, I don’t know, keep doing what you’re doing, I guess? Keep an eye on suspicious figures.”
Dick chimes in, “This time, however, immediately report to Jason or myself. Don’t rush in unless the threat is urgent. Don’t,” he motions to James, “text James, or whatever it is you guys did. That was sloppy and uncoordinated.”
James shifts his weight more evenly. Dick instantly recognizes the implicit challenge and straightens his back. “Text you, huh? What, you the boss now?”
Dick files through his possible responses, weighs the best tone to take, the stance to adopt. Should he pick up the gauntlet and try to assert dominance, or go for diplomacy? He doubts this will come to blows, but the direction he takes this could have later consequences, could affect Jason’s safety even in the long-run.
Dick almost misses the change in Jason’s posture, but it’s instantaneous. “He’s close enough,” Jason has already spoken, no longer leaning against the desk but standing with his hands deceptively plunged into his jeans pockets and his searing green eyes locked on James. “More the boss than you are, at any rate, so yeah, I’d text him.” He sounds almost casual, accent set in a lazy Gotham drawl, yet there’s an angered click to how he sets his teeth. He’s intimidating, alright, the sharp cut of his cheeks complementing his strong jaw. He’s quite Hollwood-esque actually, Dick thinks — at least before he realizes Jason is looking right back at him. Jason raises his eyebrows and spins his fingers in a prompting manner. “Well? Anything else you’d like to derail the meeting with, Dick?”
And just like that, Jason manages to personally undermine the power he just gave him. Dick is bordering on impressed, restrained only by his sudden irritation. Dick simply smiles and says, “You’re the boss.”
“Fantastic. James! How do you feel about interrogating people you can’t beat up?” Jason proposes to the next member of the non-team.
Dick thinks James could question people without beating them up just fine, especially after the practice he got in while interrogating Dick. James doesn’t comment on whether he’s up to the task, however, but replies, “Who am I interrogating?”
Jason grins and quickly bows his body. “A witness. Exciting, right? Unfortunately, no, not exciting. This will suck for you. Daniel Garcia, the second victim, should be at Gotham General Hospital — fingers crossed he has insurance, because otherwise you’ll have to find out where he lives and talk to him there.”
Dick could be projecting, but he thinks James puffs up his chest at this. “I can find anyone anywhere,” vows James.
“I’ve no doubt, buddy. I just would prefer he not have to relive everything the second he gets home because a stranger wants to hear the gory details,” Jason explains. His tone is slightly scolding. There might be some decency in him yet. Dick immediately feels guilty for being surprised. Jason is a good guy. A good guy. He’s said as much to Bruce. Did he forget to tell himself the same thing?
“Bring some flowers to soften things,” Dick suggests.
“Flowers don’t soften a crowbar, Dick,” Jason disagrees. Still, he adds for James, “But yeah, bring flowers. The family won’t like you for it, but they’ll hate you even more if you don’t.”
“Do we have to do anything?” Suzie Su asks, a little unhappily, it would seem. Dick doesn’t trust her. Then again, would she be so openly disloyal if she was double-crossing? The only person in this room Dick trusts is Miguel — and even then, if there’s one thing Batman has been trying to drill into him for half his life, it’s that trust is a liability. Anyone here could logically be a mole. Anyone here could be loyal, too.
“No, Suzie Su, I expect absolutely nothing from you and that’s why I dragged you to a staff meeting, so you could sit on your ass and pick at your nails,” Jason intones. Suzie Su drops her manicured nails to her lap and glares at him. Jason sticks his tongue out in response. “You and your lovely sisters of questionable bloodline are my ears to the ground.”
“So, same as before?”
Jason cocks his head, shakes it up and down as if weighing the question, and says, “K-i-i-i-i-nd of? It’s like what you were doing before, but not complete garbage. Need I remind you that you let this idiot into my office.” Jason jabs his thumb in Dick’s direction.
Miguel raises his finger. He’s properly relaxed in his cushiony recliner, legs crossed and arms spilling over the back. “Ah, but you let the idiot stay,” he reminds Jason.
Dick twists his lips. “Thanks, Miguel. Or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” Jason decides. “Alright, everyone out of my office and onto the things I demand of you. Dick, you’re coming with me.”
The crowd is already dispersing. Dick hops off the desk and pats the wrinkles from his pants. “Why’s that? I thought you didn’t want me breathing down your neck.”
Jason’s back is to Dick as he fastens his Red Hood helmet over his head, which tips Dick off that some of his people outside the office might still not know who’s under the mask. Jason’s response is rougher than before. “You saw the tapes, didn’t you?” The energy from only a minute ago has melted from his voice. The helmet lights up then and Jason’s next words are modulated, shrouded in static. “That makes you the expert.”
Dick does not miss the irony of this statement.
___________
Dick has Jason drive him to Bludhaven. Jason has many cars and not a single one is worth less than $80,000. “How do you blend in?” Dick asked on the way to his shitty apartment across the pond, Jason looking absolutely put-upon by the half-hour drive. His Red Hood helmet has been stowed away in a personally customized, hidden compartment. “I don’t,” Jason simply replied. Dead guys, according to Jason, don’t need to feign poverty. Especially if those dead guys are better known for their underground empires and resort casinos. However, two rich men in a luxury vehicle don’t have much business commiserating with the family of boys like Terry Weind. So, the two stop by Bludhaven to pick up Dick’s Saturn and allow him to change into less flamboyant clothes.
Dick chooses a threadbare BPD t-shirt and jeans. Jason stays in his signature ensemble of leather jacket and combat boots. He raises his brows at Dick’s outfit, but Dick insists it’s a good choice. Even if they don’t like the police, he’s still out of uniform and unarmed, and they’ll know this isn’t his territory. He’ll seem like a commuter, which might even win him some subconscious sympathy; many people in downtown Gotham have to commute to Bludhaven, albeit usually for a fishery job and not the police department.
Jason waits in the car for Dick to come out. Dick invites him in, but secretly he’s relieved. The place is a mess. If how he keeps his office is a hint, Jason’s habits are immaculate. They would put Dick to shame. Dick taps Jason’s window to signal they’re switching to the Saturn. Jason takes an excessively long time to part with his car, all but cooing at it, but does eventually make it over. He settles into the passenger seat, looking Dick up and down.
“What?” Dick asks, perhaps defensively. He should’ve said something like, “Like what you see?” but it’s too late for that.
Jason shrugs casually, but his eyes flicker to Dick’s hair. “Nothing. You just look normal now.”
Dick jams his keys into the ignition, because he has to be rough for the car to start, and rolls his eyes. “You mean my hair’s not gay?”
“Eh. Less gay.” And then Jason is reaching out and ruffling his hair, fingers curling through the still-damp waves. Dick stuck his hair under the bathroom sink’s faucet before putting his shirt on. He got water everywhere, but he needed to get the product out. He weirdly hopes Jason doesn’t feel any lingering stickiness, that his hair is soft to touch.
Jason’s face abruptly screws up in confusion as if he isn’t sure how he got here. Slowly, he retracts his hand and sits straight in his seat. Dick didn’t notice how open Jason’s body language was just a moment ago, but he notices how it closes. His knees no longer point towards Dick but to the windshield; his arms, once extended towards him, now fold across his chest. Dick stares at him for a moment, trying to piece together the puzzle he suspects they almost had.
Jason’s presence always has that mystifying effect on him, however, like he’s a monument to all the almosts they’ve been. When Jason was Robin, they were almost friends. When he was the Red Hood, they were almost enemies. Then they might have been brothers, could have been, maybe. There had been that night on the rooftop when Dick had managed to slip through Spyral’s many fingers — when Barbara had run away and Damian had embraced him and Tim demanded why, why — Jason had drawn blood as his voice broke because you don’t do that to your. Almost.
They are always on the verge of some new meaning.
“Well?” asks Jason. “Are you waiting for me to set up the GPS? You know the address, let’s go.”
Dick quickly recovers and begins edging out from his spot between two other parked cars on the street. “What are we, drag racing? Jeesh.” They avoid traffic for the drive over but do swing into a corner store once they’re in Gotham again. Jason buys the most expensive bouquet available while Dick fiddles with a rack of playing cards. Pokémon? Magic? Would Terry care about either of those games? He sees Jason head to the counter and grabs a random card pack to check out. His phone buzzes in his pocket just as he finishes counting off the dollar bills. He hands the cashier $16 and unlocks his phone. It’s from Bruce.
Any progress?
Dick begins typing out an answer when he remembers the boundaries he agreed on with Jason. He said he wouldn’t share any details with Bruce unless Jason okay’d it. He could let Jason know Bruce is asking, but even mentioning Bruce tends to sour him. Dick would rather get through this meeting with Terry Weind first. He makes a mental note to inform Jason later and give Bruce a non-answer if he says no.
Ten minutes later and they’re standing on narrow porch steps. The wooden planks are dark and splintery and covered in cigarette butts where an ash tray has been knocked down. Dick squats down and picks it up; ceramic, woodsy-green and leaf-shaped. He sets it atop the paint-chipped banister while Jason knocks on the door. The walls are thin enough that Dick can trace the sound of someone walking down the stairs. It’s summery outside today, the earth baked through by the sun, but he’s thinking of winters down here. Even with a good furnace, these walls must let the chill in.
A woman opens the door in her nightgown, one hand on the knob and the other on the frame. Her eyes are red and the skin beneath them sags. Her skin is almost ashen. She looks tired. She is tired, she’s exhausted, Dick can feel it when he looks at her. Her exhaustion is a heavy substance that spreads out and sinks into his flesh.
“Are you Terry’s mom?” Jason asks. He has the flowers already at his chest. His voice is stiff with emotion. Dick recalls his comment about Daniel reliving trauma and wonders if that’s what Jason is doing right now.
The woman nods and says that, yes, she is, but little changes in her expression. Dick had been expecting confusion, but she accepts the flowers without hesitation. Evidently, they are not remotely the first ones to share condolences. “My name’s Laura,” she says, touching the waxy petal of a calla lily. Her voice is soft and deep as if it’s been anchored to the bottom of the ocean.
“I’m Jason.”
“Dick,” Dick says after him.
Laura opens her mouth silently for a few seconds before carefully telling them, “I appreciate you boys coming here and wishing us well. It’s been hard, but we’re grateful to the community’s response, it’s been wonderful. I hope you don’t mind me not inviting you in, it’s just that I work grave and don’t get much sleep, and Terry’s resting.”
“We understand. But actually, we’re not just here to offer our sympathy — though you do have it, of course,” Dick conveys. He rushes the words of each clause so his speech comes out in quick, nervous chunks. He’s dipping head, taking up as little room as possible while moving closer to her. Jason takes a step back to accommodate him. He wants to represent himself as sincere, perhaps too sincere to the point of being clumsy. People often think inept and trustworthy are the same thing; the logic goes, you can’t be hiding any tricks up your sleeve if you’re more likely to spill them on the floor.
“If you turn us away, we get it, don’t worry,” assures Dick, “but this is our city and our kids are getting snatched.”
Laura begins shaking her head. “Oh, no, he’s not answering any questions — ”
“We won’t ask as many questions as the police,” Dick hurries to say. “We don’t need to. We,” here, Dick breaks off his speech and looks uncertainly at Jason, feigning hesitance. Then he takes a galvanizing breath, readying for his big leap, this information he’s sharing only with Laura. “I work part-time at the Park Row Memorial. I’m a guard, similar work to what I do with the Bludhaven Police. We have it monitored 24/7 so it doesn’t become a high-crime area again.” Dick sighs in frustration and bites his lips. “Laura,” he says firmly, staring into her eyes. Her pupils have dilated along his story. Good. “I saw Terry that night. The police haven’t even asked Park staff yet, they don’t care. But I saw it happen and I think I can do something about it.”
The best cover story is always based in reality. The best lies are true.
Laura’s eyes drop the ground as she thinks. She’s also biting her lip. Dick ponders over whether she does that often and Dick got lucky, or if she’s mirroring him. Either way, he’s won her over. She shuffles to the side and waves them in, her movements less languid than before.
She leads them to the stairwell and says, “If he doesn’t want to answer questions, he doesn’t have to. I’m not going to force him, you got it? Get what you can and hope it’s useful.” With this, she climbs the steps to the second floor, Jason and Dick following at an appropriate distance. They pause at the top step while she enters Terry’s room and explains in hushed tones his guests. She relates Dick’s reason for being here and then there’s a long pause before Dick detects a faint, “Sure.”
Dick and Jason share a look that confirms: they’re in. Laura places a light hand on Jason’s bicep and guides them to the door. “I’ll stand right here,” she says firmly and waves them forward. Dick looks around for a chair, sees none, and settles on the windowsill facing Terry’s bed. He’s faired better than the next two kids, all injuries considered. He was out of the hospital in a month. He lies in his twin-sized mattress beneath a crisp sheet, a blue comforter shoved to the foot of his bed. A square bandage covers his right cheek, there’s stitching over his right eyebrow, and there’s more stitches on the right side of his skull. His right arm and knee have been set in casts. Dick remembers him curling onto his side at one point in the video.
In the wake of the other victims’ hospital records (courtesy of Oracle), Terry’s assault had been carried out with perfunctory brutality. Dick recollects the scene but recalls no hesitation in the attacker’s swings, yet their violence has clearly increased. Perhaps they are doing someone else’s dirty work and the job has just now awakened a taste for pain in them. Or maybe it’s one guy after all and they’re adjusting to the role.
“So, you know the fucker who did this?” Terry speaks up first. His voice is a little rough and definitely fatigued. Despite his current infirmity, Dick can tell he’s a sturdy kid. He’s got the same build Jason had at that age, youthfully broad with natural muscle in the absence of training. A body with room to grow in.
Dick shrugs. “Not personally. But we hold out hope. What did his face look like? Any defining features?” he attempts, even knowing that Terry’s report claimed to make out nothing from the night of the attack.
Terry was looking at Jason beforehand, which Dick can’t blame him for. Jason takes up most of the room as he stands by Terry’s feet, stock straight with his massive arms folded. Dick has a habit of downsizing Jason in his head. In general, Dick’s guilty of subconsciously diminishing certain people’s threat levels, letting his familiarity with them obscure the danger they still pose. He does his best to put himself in Terry’s shoes and see what he might see; he accomplishes this by summoning the first night he encountered the Red Hood before he was also Jason Todd, fallen boy wonder. Even without the vigilante get-up, the man’s intimidating.
Now that Dick has asked a question, however, Terry’s eyes appraise him. Dick once again folds in on himself, tucking his arms closer to his sides and leaning back so he’s as out of Terry’s space as he can be. Then Terry’s eyes stray to the floor and he mumbles, “Looked like nothing. It was dark.” But he doesn’t say it like it was nothing.
“You saw something,” Dick contests. He’s not going to wheedle or coax, he decides, because that would just leave Terry room to equivocate. “You don’t know what you saw, but you saw something, and whatever that is will help us more than pretending there weren’t streetlamps.”
Terry grimaces. The twitch of his battered face reminds Dick of his age and his heart aches. There should be a grace period for children, an exception made for those still new to this earth. He hates that pain is one of the first things they learn. “He was white, I guess,” Terry supplies. His good fingers have found a loose thread on the hem of his pushed-down sheets. He picks at it. “He never said a word the whole time. It was quiet. He — I saw his hands. I thought, I thought the police would find his thumbprints or whatever, on me, but that’s not how it works, they said. They were all fucked up.”
“The hands or the police?” Jason interjects.
Terry doesn’t look up from his loose thread, but one half of his mouth pulls up into a faint, flickering smile. It manages to be bright even so. “The hands. There were old scars all over the knuckles. Dry, too, like he never heard of lotion.”
Dick supposes the attacker could work in manual labor, but it’s unlikely if there were truly that many scars and all old. “Just the knuckles?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Dick guesses he’s experienced with combat. The ugly, close-up kind. Still, just the knuckles, that sounds more like punishment than accident. And the dry skin? That could easily be eczema, although wouldn’t a seasoned killer think to cover up, prevent skin follicles from falling into a lab tech’s hands? It is summer, but Gotham runs more humid than dry, so perhaps they’re dealing with a foreigner. “And the face?” he prompts.
Terry abruptly drops his hand from the nervous thread and sighs raggedly. “Nothing, man. I couldn’t see anything, okay, it was,” Terry falters, “confusing.”
“Confusing how?” Jason asks.
“I don’t know!” Terry’s voice pitches in frustration. “It was weird, all swirly and shit.”
Dick can hear the criticism leak into Jason’s tone when he curtly repeats, “Swirly.”
Terry backpedals. “I said I don’t know,” he mutters.
Swirly voices sound familiar to Dick. He used to have one for a time when he played James Bond for Spyral. “I think we might have a contact, Jay,” Dick muses.
“Really?” Jason says with noticeable surprise. “Swirly’s our big break?”
“Emphasis on the might and ixnay on the big.” To Terry, he says, “Tell me, does tsuchigumo ring any bells?”
Terry’s face scrunches up. “Does what huh?”
Dick will take that as a no. “Oh, well. Still worth looking into,” he says. Dick stands and retrieves the card pack from his plastic bag. He holds it up for Terry to see before setting it down on the bed. Terry takes it immediately and brings it up to his face for inspection. “Your mom has the flowers. I wasn’t sure what to get you, but let me know if you need or want anything. Oh.” Dick swivels his head around the room. There’s not much to it aside from a bed, a dresser, and a box T.V. collecting dust. “Do you have something I can write my number on?”
Jason chooses that moment to step forward, sliding between Dick and where Terry lies. He leans across, a crisp, laminated paper balanced between his index and middle finger. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you have any more information or if either of you need help,” he explains. Terry sets Dick’s gift down and gingerly accepts the card. He flips it over: no logo, just a phone number.
“That’s it?” says Terry. “What contact? Who did this?”
“It’s too soon to tell. I wish I had more to give you two,” Dick says sympathetically to Terry and Laura, the latter of whom hasn’t left her post by the door. She rests her cheek on the frame and watches on.
Terry has more questions though and he’s edging on excited. “Are you P.I.’s? Why do you even care? I bet you fucking did this, or one of your boys — ”
“I understand your distrust,” Dick says over him. He glances nervously at Laura to gauge what she thinks of the accusation and if she’s about to step in. She’s a little straighter, body no longer depending on the wall, but her face is still impassive if alert. Dick hurries to smooth this over. “You don’t know us well enough to understand why we care. We have to prove ourselves, I get that. And we will. Until then, you’ve got nothing to lose, right? All we know is you didn’t see anything.”
Terry stares at him silently, suspicion darkening his eyes. There is risk in coming here, of course, depending on how well Terry’s attacker can trace Jason’s footsteps. But Dick has already weighed the risks and he’s betting that Terry’s part is done here insofar as the criminal is concerned. Luckily, Terry can’t identify what he’s got to lose or how much he has told them between the lines, so the charges drop like that.
There’s a few beats of silence before Jason starts fidgeting. “Yea-a-a-h, we’re going to go now,” he announces, pointing over his shoulder towards the window. Dick could cringe, he’s so awkward.
“Thanks to both of you,” Dick says and smiles as warmly as he can. He trails closely behind Jason who shuffles towards the door, his body too tall and too broad to fit comfortably in the modest room. Unthinking, the pads of Dick’s fingers feather over Jason’s back as if to guide him forward. As Jason moves, Dick lets his fingers linger in the air, covering up the touch with empty space. He curls his fingers in and tucks them behind his back. Laura follows them out.
“Thank you again,” Dick says at the door. “We’ll be in touch if anything develops,” he promises. And he will be; if not as Dick then certainly as Nightwing.
Laura thanks them half-heartedly. Dick suddenly feels self-conscious about the Pokémon cards. He may as well have given them a box with nothing inside it or a flashlight without a bulb. He heads back to the car, feeling Laura’s heavy gaze on his shoulders the whole way.
Dick is buckling himself in when Jason opens the passenger door. “Mind sharing with the class what information was so decisive you had no further questions?” he asks as he climbs into the car.
“No questions Terry could answer. This is the best we can do for a lead,” Dick explains. He needs to make a call, but that will have to wait until they’re on the road and not idling outside a victim’s house. Maybe he can take them to a restaurant, buy Jason a drink, a friendly gesture. Would Jason want to drink with him though?
“Yeah, about that,” Jason says as the car shoots off, “what lead?”
Scratch the drink; neither of them are lightweights, but on principle, they shouldn’t drink during an ongoing investigation. Still, he could buy them some sub sandwiches. He used to buy food for Tim all the time back in the day, as a reprieve from the typical Batman and Robin style of accidentally fasting until the case is resolved.
They reach a redlight almost immediately. Dick drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Spyral uses this tech called ‘Hypnos 2.0.’ They slide in kind of like contacts? They’re eye implants basically, but they transmit information between your brain and the brain of whoever’s looking at you. Their most common application was hiding your identity. If someone looked at you, they’d just see a scrambled mess instead of a face.”
Jason’s face scrunches up as he stares out the windshield. He scratches his head. “Scrambled like Picasso or.”
The light turns green. “More like a spiral,” Dick says lightly, nodding conversationally.
“Thematic,” Jason comments.
“Very. And the uniforms weren’t too shabby either.” He adds the joke more to test the waters than anything, gauge how delicate a topic Spyral is between them. Everyone in their family has a slightly different relationship with Dick’s double life. Bruce and Damian’s have been the easiest, marked by faint curiosity about his activities and begrudging acceptance of help from associated colleagues. The others have been noticeably more dodgy and uncomfortable regarding for Spyral. Dick’s stint as as Agent 37 has made everyone evasive, even for bats.
If Jason would normally have an emotional reaction to Spyral, he’s too preoccupied for one now. Dick can practically see the gears in his mind turning as his eyes narrow and his chin falls to rest on his hand. Dick feels simultaneously relief and shame; of course, Spyral is just a lead. Spyral may have been Dick’s life at one point, but to Jason, it’s just an organization. At best, contacting Spyral could save his life. At worst, well, Dick’s not expecting Jason to unpack whatever baggage Dick left in Gotham.
Dick resists the urge to grimace at his own thoughts. He’s overthinking. Can one overthink a ruthless spy agency that up until a year ago controlled his every movement?
Jason’s voice, slow and thick with the sound of a city that’s always been his, reels Dick back to shore. “Dare I ask what the uniform entailed?”
“Cargo pants,” Dick answers simply. He’s watching the road ahead, but he can hear Jason make a pleasantly surprised noise. They pass a fire hydrant painted to look like a sunflower. Dick thinks it’d be nice for Bludhaven to do that and makes a note to push the idea at city hall after the case.
“So, you think that this guy is from Spyral?” Jason asks.
Dick shrugs. “That, or he’s connected enough to snag some tech. We should check first with the other two victims, see if their descriptions match up with Terry’s. If they do, it’s probably Spyral and not some low-grade black market street vendor. Nine of out ten optometrists do not recommend mind control contact lenses.”
Jason slams his hand down on the middle compartment. “Mind control?” he exclaims. When Dick glances at him, Jason’s expression is mostly shock with a sliver of what might be plain rage. But that would be an overreaction considering all the other crimes Spyral is guilty of. All the crimes they’re guilty of, especially Red Hood, although making that argument would be more trouble than it’s worth.
Dick tries not to let Jason’s sheer judgment weigh on him. Dick has far more pressing guilt elsewhere to torture himself over. Still, it’s hard not to feel righteous rage on Jason’s behalf. He often forgets this part of Jason’s character, this abrupt sense of justice that powers him, but it’s no less prominent than it is in Bruce or himself. It might actually be stronger in Jason, a little left of center, but bleeding red nonetheless. Unfortunately, car safety dictates Dick not be on the receiving end of justice, so he replies as casually as possible, “Well, that’s what Hypnos is, essentially.”
“No way.” Jason points an accusatory finger that Dick sees from his peripheral. A street corner features a hot dog stand. Dick nearly pulls over, but the finger might kill whatever buzz a chili dog can offer. “Don’t ‘that’s-what-Hypnos-is-Jason- obviously ’ me. You just said it transmits info.”
Dick did not think his tone had come off condescending in the least. But if that’s what Jason got from it, then perhaps he missed casual and landed on dismissive. Bludhaven must be eroding his tact already. “Sorry. When I said it transmits information, I meant it as a blanket statement for everything it does. Hypnos can alter memories, which is more-or-less how the identity protection works, by modifying one’s memory of a face. It can send someone a location address or really anything you have stored in your own memory, which is helpful. It can also send orders.”
“Yeah, I bet that’s helpful, too,” Jason derides. He looks like he smelled something bad. Was Dick this perturbed by Hypnos when he first joined Spyral? He doesn’t think so. He had been so quickly embroiled in so many terrible things. What was a little crowd control in the face of cold, efficient, and constant murder?
The guns. The feel of one is his hand like death itself, how they loomed in his bedroom and among his gear, beckoning him closer to an edge everyone wanted to push him off of. The guns had overshadowed all else for him.
“Either way,” Dick carries on, “it’s unlikely this guy has his hands on Spyral tech without Spyral knowing something about him. They keep close enough watch over people that have nothing to do with them, let alone people that have access to their technology. He could be anywhere from an engineer to a passing contact, but he’s no ghost.”
“Terrific. Exactly what I need, a mind-controlling stalker from an quasi-omniscient spy organization hellbent running around on the streets of Gotham.”
Dick shrugs. “Gotham’s had it worse.”
“Have I?”
“I don’t know. Have you?” Dick retorts.
Jason scowls. “Wouldn’t be my first assassination attempt, I suppose,” he concedes.
Dick perks up and offers him a grin. “And it won’t be your last!” he crows.
Jason just stares at him, utterly perplexed. His brows are furrowed and his mouth is curled above his teeth in bewilderment.
“Because you’ll be alive,” Dick hurriedly explains. “You know, like, woohoo!” He takes one hand off the wheel to pump the air triumphantly.
“Woohoo,” Jason repeats hollowly. “Insanity.”
“What?” asks Dick. They will be coming up on the grinder shop soon. Should he suggest lunch to Jason or just drag him in? He’s leaning towards dragging. That seems more effective.
“That we’re all just living to hopefully get killed a day that’s not tomorrow,” Jason observes.
It’s not more cynical than funny, but something in Jason’s tone — the utter resignation, perhaps — makes Dick laugh anyway. “Everyone on earth’s on borrowed time, really,” he says, not unhappily. Death hasn’t frightened him since he was young. Exposure therapy, he called it once during some Titans mission that feels a lot farther in the past than it is. “The reckless and foolhardy like us, we’re just more aware of it.”
Jason blows air out from his nose in a mix between a snort and a laugh. “And here I thought vigilante-types were less aware of their own mortality.”
“Are you kidding? You have to know you’re walking towards death to find that exact path each night. Snatched purses, drug rings, elitist assassins dressed as owls, fear gas and escaped convicts and murderous clowns — and we run right towards them with open arms,” Dick says, irony guiding his grin as Jason smirks back at him.
“And open chest cavities, half the the time,” Jason tacks on.
Dick nods fervently. “Yes, let’s not forget that,” he tries to say seriously, but laughter trips him on the last word. “I don’t know. I think it’s all very sane, actually, to see what’s going on and get involved, do what you can to make everything a little bit better. But too much sanity can look like insanity, for sure.”
Jason does snort this time. “Keep moralizing like that and you’ll sound straight out of a conversation between the Joker and B.”
Dick wrinkles his nose. “Ew. I hope not.”
“‘We’re the same, you and I,’” Jason croons in a wispy, sing-song voice. “‘Sane and in-sane.’”
Dick can make out the small, white-background-red-letters sign of Hester’s Grinders a few yards down the road. There’s just enough room before the fire hydrant — this one plain, chipped red — to safely park. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll keep my philosophies to myself. And so long as we’re changing the subject — hungry?”
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COMICS BLOGGING OF A RAMBLING AND DIGRESSIVE SORT
I am embarrassed to admit it, but I do believe I buy things as a way of coping with my own uselessness. I’d like to attribute a universality to this character flaw, and claim everyone spends money on things they don’t need to fill some sort of existential void at the center of their being. My habits are relatively healthy, some people get shitfaced in response to the stimuli that makes me simply want meat, cheese, and carbohydrates. I have at various times read books at a pace comparable to eating, where everything got finished to make way for something else, but just because “reading books” is viewed as something good for your brain doesn’t make the act of buying them feel any less like a bit of brainless consumerism, especially when one is broke, and a global depression looms. Still, considering my worries that the postal service and retail outlets might go away if we do not support them and this will make life even more unbearable I convinced myself now was not the time to be a spendthrift.
All this is to explain why I bought a handful of comics I wasn’t sure I even expected to be good. Namely, I bought a bunch of issues of Alan Moore’s Tom Strong that I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d read before. I intended to parcel them out and savor them, but when I buy snacks at the grocery store, they get eaten faster than the vegetables. I bought these, along with some other single issue comics, from wowcool.com. From Powell’s, I preordered the first volume of Taiyo Matsumoto’s Ping Pong, which should arrive in a few weeks. I also ordered a few new releases direct from Fantagraphics.
Most notable among these is the Olivier Schrauwen/Ruppert And Mulot collaboration Portrait Of A Drunk. I’m on record as liking all the artists involved, and this one demonstrates why pretty clearly: While Olivier Schrauwen specializes in comedy about dumb guys, itself a form close to my heart, Ruppert And Mulot are darker and meaner, so here the dumb guy is an indifferent murderer. Being set in a pirate milieu allows for pretty amazing sequences of action and hallucination to flourish, their skills at color and composition tie it all together. Highly recommended. The back of the book announces Fantagraphics will be publishing the Ruppert And Mulot books made in collaboration with Bastien Vives starting next year. Hopefully I will end up reading comics by people other than my known favorites this year, but during a period of belt-tightening, there’s no guarantee even one’s favorites will live up to the increasingly-burdensome expectations put upon them.
Still, those Tom Strong comics outperformed my expectations. I believe I discussed how much I like Chris Sprouse’s work when I wrote about Alan Moore’s Supreme run, but let me reiterate: There’s a handful of comics Sprouse drew in the early nineties (A Batman annual with a Two-Face story written by Andy Helfer, an eighty-page Justice League Quarterly story, the first few issues of Legionnaires) which are emblematic of a certain DC Comics skillset I really value: This George Perez style ability to draw a lot of characters, rendered with this Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez spareness, this Kevin Maguire sense of facial expressions, a certain openness to the faces which is youthful and attractive and optimistic. There’s something similar to Graham Nolan’s art too: I don’t know how much other people like this stuff, it’s not really “cool” or gnarly looking, but there’s an unobtrusive cleanliness I associate with the DC “vibe” of this era, which I find vastly more appealing than the sort of post-Image-studios runoff that was their standard look more recently. As much as I love a good stylist, his is a good house style variant. Considering that, it rules that Tom Strong is what Chris Sprouse is known for. Those early nineties comics all have a lot of panels per page, but Moore, working in a post-Image mode, lets him breathe and do action sequences. He’s not an explosive artist, his drawing has this sort of style-guide quality to it, that feels perfect for the sort of “platonic ideal of a mainstream genre comic” tone that their collaborations aim for.
Reading these comics, I realized a few things: One, I hadn’t actually read them before. Two, they’re twenty years old. The years have been kind to them, in that I spent them aging, and while I was really into Top Ten and Promethea as a teenager, I still suspect that if Tom Strong is your favorite Alan Moore comic you are probably a dad. There’s a heavily nostalgic quality to all the genre pastiche going on, and its anchored by this character who is pretty upstanding, possessing this sort of all-seeing but benevolent competence aspect, and the storytelling affirms his liberal values. Peaceful coexistence is treated as preferable to violent conflict. It’s the work where Moore’e desire to issue a corrective to what he sees as a negative influence he had is most evident, it genuinely seems to be trying to be morally instructive to a young audience. I don’t think any of these things are bad, but it’s pretty easy to see how, reading the issues as they came out, many of them would register as somewhat bland. I seem to recall comic book writers at this time like Warren Ellis, Grant Morrison, and Mark Millar all deriding what they called “dad comics,” not necessarily talking about Tom Strong, as a way of hyping up their own efforts, many of which I followed more avidly at the time but do not expect would hold up nearly as well. (There’s an issue that’s a homage to old Captain Marvel Family comics, featuring a few pages of Kyle Baker art, I particularly enjoyed.)
After being reminded that Moore is a great writer, and never forgetting for a second we live in dark times, it felt appropriate to read From Hell again. I texted a friend and found he had started rereading it at the same time. I don’t consider it Moore’s masterpiece the way that contrarians that don’t want to give the nod to Watchmen do. While the darkness feels organic to the subject matter in a way it often doesn’t in Moore’s eighties superhero work, I do feel the whole “Jack The Ripper gives birth to the twentieth century” thing is a bit of a reach. I believe I will end up reading some of Eddie Campbell’s solo comics before quarantine is over, I am impressed by how organic the pacing feels, how natural it progresses while largely avoiding calling attention to Moore as a writer. The skill set that enables Moore to do a densely researched historical conspiracy thing is evident when he does a genre serial. Many of the elements in Tom Strong do not feel like they are imagined from whole cloth so much as they feel appropriated from various sources and then connected into this larger whole. The “peaceful coexistence” remit of Tom Strong allows for a structure where stories that seems tossed-off come back into play as plot elements. You rarely receive this kind of payoff from extended serials, but it’s built into the structure of screenwriting, and it is satisfying to retroactively realize like you weren’t having your time wasted when you thought you were.
I also ordered from Wowcool the Dunja Jankovic comics Sparkplug put out circa ten years ago. They’re very cool, reminiscent of Anke Feuchtenberger and Gary Panter, slowly shifting their sense of texture over multiple pages, so that while I don’t think I realized at the time these comics were released that they’re very well-drawn, it is obvious when you actually read them. I anxiously await her “Richter’s Game” minicomic being translated into English, though obviously this is going to be a tough year for self-publishers selling zines with widespread show cancellations. My hope is that Fantagraphics’ Now anthology will just start running work by people like Dunja, Alyssa Berg, Nick Norman, and Beatrix Urkowitz, but maybe there are good reasons for that not to occur. Maybe anthology pages can’t compete with the profits one stands to gain from self-publishing, or maybe my own idea of what I consider my broad-minded and catholic tastes would not actually appeal to large sections of the indie comics market, the same way my idea of what I consider “good” in mainstream
comics is actually far too nostalgic a model for the aesthetic preferences of the market as it currently stands. I offer these recommendations solely as another way of coping with my powerlessness.
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12, 19 & 21 for the fic questions?
12) Is there a trope you haven’t written yet but really want to?
Somehow, despite how much I love cuddling to stay warm and ‘oh no there is only one bed’ I still haven’t written a single fic with it??? Tragedy! Blasphemy!
19) Who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? Why?
Hm, thinking about this in general...I generally enjoy (and find it easier to write) characters who are incredibly soppy, heart on their sleeve and impulsive. I also tend to find it easier to write characters who think in metaphors of food, sex, or violence, which means that writing someone like Cait (Fallout) or Isabela (Dragon Age) feels a lot easier for me because they feel things, they feel things intensely, and they show that feeling in very obvious ways, so I don’t have to worry about showing their inner and outer expressions in conflict, and I have an easy bank of internal metaphors to draw from, especially when I like to wax lyrical and poetic. (Or simply purple-prosed!)
It also means that characters like Vivienne and Aveline are more difficult for me to write, because I think Vivienne’s prose should reflect her character: elegant, lavish when appropriate, and always with an opinion on matters of taste. It’s something I struggle with even though I deeply love the character, because I try to adjust the prose, not just the dialogue, to match the POV I’m in. Aveline, on the other hand, is incredibly blunt (so easy to write, in that sense) but less inclined to the stylistic flourishes that I personally love to put in fics, so that’s a different kind of difficulty.
Also, I find Danse incredibly difficult to write, despite having already written one longfic with him and having another in drafts!!! I write him with an intensely reserved self-loathing, more likely to get caught in his own thoughts struggling to do what’s ‘right’ while still lacking enough self-awareness to realize all the ways in which he’s still making his own battles. He isn’t as expressive or eloquent in his own mind, which means sometimes I have to sigh and sand away my own prose to ‘feel’ more like something he would think or say.
21) What is the one fic that got away?
Aveline/Cassandra Groundhog’s Day fic!!!! Cassandra meets Aveline, puts her foot in her mouth, and they get ambushed and killed before she has a chance to correct that horrible first impression. It’s sitting in my drafts (still) and about half-written before I realized that I was missing a fundamental piece: how was Cassandra changing, reacting, and showing that change to other characters as she kept reliving Aveline’s death? Trying to figure out why this fic wasn’t gelling for me made me re-analyze what I like (and dislike) about time loop fics in general, and I realized I had to rework my basic premise. I wanted to show Cassandra falling in love with Aveline as an actual person, rather than just a figure from Varric’s stories.
Except I realized that it’s actually...kind of weirdly one-sided and creepy that Cassandra keeps learning all these little things about Aveline, facts and history, but Aveline never got that same chance to learn about her? And Cassandra still had to figure out how to save Aveline’s life while still remaining true to the character that she is; she can’t realistically say ‘no, we won’t be chasing these bandits because you will die’ or tie Aveline up and lock her in a closet, and she’s not the kind to shy from her duties. And then I wanted to figure out how to up the stakes and provide a sense of urgency beyond ‘well, they keep dying, and Cassandra’s not sure which day will be their last death.’
So. Uh. I added Vivienne in on the time loop, because Cassandra has enough history with Vivienne that if Cassandra marched in and said ‘Vivienne, tell me something that only you know. It’s important. Please.’ that Vivienne would give her that information and then they could proceed with Vivienne aware of the time loop. Except then the fic started veering more Cassandra/Vivienne, so…
Now you know why this fic remains in my drafts. :’) I keep thinking I’ll revisit it at some point, but I suspect it would mean completely reoutlining and rewriting what I already have, and I just don’t have the passion for that right now!
Thank you for asking, I had fun with this! :D
(Questions from this meme!)
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Through His Eyes - Part 13 [Final]
Summary: Losing your sight after your accident was traumatic, and Jaebum’s guilt of knowing it should have been him instead creates an intricate bond between you both, as you overcome adversity and try to find your way in life again.
Genre: angst / romance
Characters: Im Jaebum x female reader
A/N: This story is emotional and raw compared to some of the content on my blog. It is in no way an attempt to glamourise or undervalue the lives of those who suffer from something similar. This story is purely fictional.
Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13
Jaebum was unable to relax.
Over the last year of your relationship with him, he believed he had mellowed out considerably. You had found yourself when you were apart and only continued to flourish at his side. If anything, you called the shots more than he did.
Which was rather refreshing.
Sometimes he didn’t agree with some of the choices you made, and since both of you were stubborn, it had led to a lot of arguments. Only to end up back in each other’s arms, apologising, compromising, reconnecting.
Jaebum had been adamant about refuting one thing you wished to do, however.
“Come on, like it’ll happen again,” you whined, and he groaned loudly, reaching down to fill Nora’s food bowl and then turning to the breakfast dishes pointedly.
Your arms slipped around his waist soon after, and he paused in scrubbing the plate, your lips finding his bare skin easily. After a series of kisses that led up to his ear, you sighed into him, Jaebum not needing to turn to see the pout now upon your lips. “Just one time, please?”
“I’m not relenting on this,” he announced and for three months, he had successfully stuck to this vow. He couldn’t fathom having you in the same situation as you had been that day. Even if you both agreed that your accident had to happen for you to be this in love with one another, Jaebum still wanted your eyes to see the world that he did. He knew in some sense, you did. Your artwork had been recognised and now you were being offered the opportunity of holding an exhibition. You spent just as many hours working as he did now, sometimes your schedule was fuller than his was. Your paintings and sculpts littered his apartment as much as your own, taking up as much residence as you did in his home.
Not that he minded, he loved whenever you stayed over with him.
But he had to admit your world had grown considerably larger and you weren’t struggling to keep up with it. And that was one of the reasons why Jaebum had eventually been overruled with his protective stance. There were only so many excuses he could use that you couldn’t refute. With the growth of your business-like mind, your tact and articulation exceeded his, presenting him with even a list of reasons why he shouldn’t hold you back from what you wanted.
With the last line of, ‘if anything were to happen, I know you’d be right there’ as a reminder, he had caved, allowing you this one visit.
Jaebum knew that if this went well, you would request more opportunities and that was what accompanied his nerves as he got his makeup done, the realisation that you were dynamic, able to achieve anything you wanted, regardless of how much he tried to ground you.
Once you had taken flight, there was no stopping you.
“It’s going to be fine,” Jackson assured from the seat beside him and Jaebum half-smiled, still unable to accept those words. He had chanted them since waking up this morning, and still, they held no true belief in his mind. He knew he needed it to be fine, a perfect execution with your safety paramount. Sure, onsite accidents had decreased since new regulations came into place after your loss of sight. His company held stringent checks on all places their artists performed now, and Jaebum had been relieved that the concert hall passed all safety checks the day before.
His nerves didn’t dispel, no matter how many reassuring hugs Mark gave him, or firm squeezes of his shoulder that came from Jinyoung. And when you stepped into the bustling environment with the help of his manager, Jaebum’s movement faltered, his eyes holding onto your approach and checking everything that surrounded you as fast as his brain could process.
Why had he agreed to this?
“Noona!” Yugyeom cried as he leapt off the stage towards you, and you grinned, hugging everyone who came your way before slipping into Jaebum’s arms.
You tensed only for a moment, your head snapping up to his, shooting him a reproachful look. “Are you seriously this worried about me?”
“He’s been driving us insane all morning with how anxious he is,” BamBam announced, and Jaebum glared in his younger friend’s direction.
Youngjae chuckled. “I’m convinced you are the most important person in his world after today.”
“Is that right?” you murmured, unable to hide your elation. Jaebum flushed with colour, which you managed to pick up on, allowing him the chance to bury into you. As everyone else moved off, back to their positions in the rehearsal, you gently rubbed circles on his back, soothing his wired body.
Jaebum was exhausted, and he had not even performed yet.
“Relax for me, hm?”
“Easy for you to say,” he retorted, stepping back just enough to look down at you. Now that you were here, Jaebum was conflicted. He felt your effect relaxing some of his physical reaction but his mind was still concerned for your protection.
“If you’re not relaxed then how can I enjoy your performance? You forget how easily I can hear when you’re out of tune or offbeat now. I’ll only be disappointed in myself if I’m the cause to all your fans having a sub-par performance from you.”
He gaped at you. “Y/N, are you playing the guilt trip on me now?”
“No, of course not,” you responded sweetly, a giggle soon escaping you. You patted his arm and then ushered him off. “I’ll be right here, listening on and expecting a good rehearsal from you.”
With a final grumble and farewell, Jaebum headed back up onto the stage, looking out to where you had taken a seat with some of the other staff. You were already animatedly conversing something with his stylist and Jaebum smiled, it was just like you to find a place in any setting these days.
Rehearsals continued for the majority of the afternoon and by the time the last song ended, Jaebum was in a different element. He was no longer fretting about your appearance on set; instead, it had propelled him to put on a better show. The reactions you gave were genuine. He watched all your emotions that you openly showed for each of their songs, laughing with the playful moments in the segments and then rendered speechless with the powerful way he and the six other members performed. Even if it was a dry rehearsal, you were impressed and Jaebum was feeling accomplished because of it.
He knew that taking you on tour now would be something he would no longer fear. Even if something were to occur, you could both face it together.
It was how you had come thus far as a couple, after all.
He didn’t allow himself to focus too much on you when the show actually began. Sure, he would look towards your seat next to where the members’ family sat now and then, grinning when he noticed how bright you looked and the way you fondly held onto his mother’s hand throughout. Jaebum focused on putting his all into his performances, not just for you, or the fans, but for himself as well.
He hadn’t felt this at home on stage since your accident. It was as if having you present could allow him to finally reach for his passion and share it around the arena all night long.
He had been exhausted earlier in the day, but after stepping off stage, he was full of energy.
It was you who was wiped out from the experience.
“I didn’t expect it to take that much out of me,” you admitted as you departed ways from the small gathering after the concert, leaning into his side as he slipped into the driver’s seat of his car. Jaebum glanced at you, leaning in to kiss your head softly. You sighed, your hand moving over his waist and holding him tightly. “It was a success.”
“You told me not to worry,” he reminded you and you sighed, not lifting your head up to face him.
“I’m glad you stopped and allowed me to in your stead.”
He grinned; he had noticed now and then you would slowly look around during the rehearsal, jumping when someone would start banging on something in the stage setup. It would be just like you to take on the universe and ensure him to leave it all to you. He nudged you lightly, starting up the ignition. “Next time, don’t try to take on so much.”
“I’m exhausted mostly because of how many emotions I faced due to your music, not because of that,” you stated, pulling away from your position against him, avoiding the vibration of his chuckles.
Yet you held his hand all the way to your home.
When the car came to stop in the parking lot, neither of you moved to get out of the car immediately, savouring your time together. Jaebum knew your mother would want to have you home tonight. Her concern over you would not always be at ease, even if you were proving to be a capable young woman despite your life changing almost two years ago. It was a mother’s right to worry for her child and in your case, she always would. Allowing you to come out to the concert had been a big thing for her, especially doing so without chaperoning. It was up to him to deliver you back tonight, safe and sound.
That much he would do.
He just didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.
And neither did you.
“What if I went up there, said hello and then came back?”
Jaebum chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve been with you for most of the day; let your mother have your final hours before bed.”
“If I make an hour, I’m so tired.”
“See, so it’s better you just go home and unwind with her before sleeping. I can come around for breakfast tomorrow,” Jaebum suggested and you let out a small huff of air. He knew that you had conceded, even if you weren’t openly happy about it.
“My bed has space for you,” you attempted and Jaebum leaned over to draw you into his arms, uncaring of the gearbox between you both. “Come stay with me. Mum won’t mind.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
Staring at you, he brushed the hair away from your face tenderly. He couldn’t wait for the time when you would fall asleep and wake up in his arms every day. You stayed over at his whenever he was home, sometimes going an entire week before you trudged back home, albeit with a delighted greeting for your mother when you saw her. You really did love the woman, even if you protested leaving his company every time. It was why he made a point of taking you home even when he didn’t want to let you go.
Jaebum knew your mother had been hinting at putting a ring on your finger lately, her not so subtle answer to allowing him what he craved. Only when you were truly bound to him would she allow you to leave the nest he had first found you within. Back then, your wings were unable to fly to his house, and she had nurtured you more than he could have.
It meant a lot to him that your mother was allowing him the ability to be that strength at your side now.
That’s why he made sure you spent as much time alone with your mother presently. When you moved in with him, he might not be as willing to let you stay away from him.
“You know you have a really bad habit of overthinking and not giving me an answer, Im Jaebum.”
He snapped out of his thoughts with a smile, which you reached out to touch with your thumb. He pursed his lips into you, kissing your hand softly and then undid your seatbelt. “Come on, let me take you home.”
You obliged despite his lack of an answer, swinging your linked arms softly with every step you made together. Soon you were standing outside your apartment and turned to face him, attempting to shoot him a luring smile. He laughed. “I’m not coming in.”
“No? Your loss then,” you tempted and he stepped up to you, hugging you warmly and kissing your forehead. “I’m going to go to bed and dream of someone other than you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” you informed, though you were smiling too much for it to be effective. “Since you don’t want to be at my side tonight, I’ll choose someone else.”
“Suit yourself, Nora will be all too happy to take your spot anyway.”
You huffed again and he laughed. For a moment you were both jovial and then his smile faded, his eyes searching yours.
Even without sight, they were beautiful. The colours, the depth, he had fallen in love with them. In the hallway lighting, he spotted your faint scarring, the lines he had traced upon your face many times over. He had come to love them too.
All of you.
Yet the question remained on the tip of his tongue and he rocked back on his heels, unsure if he should ask it. You placed a hand on his cheek, rubbing it gently. “What is it?”
“Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Seeing the world,” he admitted, watching as you blinked slowly.
And then you shook your head. “No. I don’t any more.”
“Really? Wouldn’t you love to see what’s around you? View the things you haven’t in so long? What about the people you hold dearly in your life now, do you crave to see them at least once more?” Jaebum wondered, holding you back in his arms again. He was confused; he had thought there would be a small part of you that would long for vision of some sort. Some times, on your better days, you could make out vague shapes for moments at a time. That was the extent of your recovery. The doctors had ruled you wouldn’t perform some sort of miracle and gain your sight back.
Smiling again, your hand still on his face shifted, feeling along the strength of his jaw and up his cheekbone. Your fingers lightly dusted over his eyelids that, with instinct, he shut upon your touch there. When you stopped, he reopened his eyes, gazing at you and anticipating your answer.
“I already see enough of the world through you. Why would I crave anything more?”
Leaning into kiss you, Jaebum allowed the tears to fall from his eyes. He never knew what to expect with you sometimes.
But he would take care of his sight as best as he could.
Since he knew you would look through his eyes forever.
The End.
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several Steps to Healthy Normal Hair
Where's My Curly hair? After graduating from cosmetological school, having a fundamental comprehension of hair, one day I noticed my hair was distinctive from my childhood hair, inside density and length, and length, I mean not having virtually any. Where was my frizzy hair? It was an undeniable question to get so many who surrounded myself friends, family members, ladies inside the grocery stores. If hair increases to an inch per month when healthy, why were numerous struggling with hair growth? Most have been getting relaxers, so the major culprit had to be the substance service and inadvertently detrimental hair. Because I am dedicated to the overall health of locks (and finding our hair), I went beyond the idea and embarked on research to the chemical underpinnings of the visitor attractions product that we so voluntarily had slathered in our mind every six to eight weeks. This specific discovery revealed seven important principles to healthy hair which can be now the key concepts with regard to achieving and maintaining stunning and healthy natural tresses. natural hair
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7) A New Head of Hair. Given that chemicals were part of the non-healthy hair problem, it makes sense to employ a line of products to better serve normal clients. A hair and scalp research should be performed to understand often the historical and current express of your hair and scalp beyond an informed guess. This is necessary to figure out what challenge and/or disorder complaintant may have such as dryness, flakiness, oiliness, or perhaps dermatitis. Realizing this hair background allows the stylist an opportunity to customise a cleanser and moisturizing hair product that will best suit specific frizzy hair needs. Customized cleansers in addition to conditioners four goals must be to: Remove residue, Restore equilibrium, Retain moisture, and Support strength. And you thought you merely needed cleansers to remove locks product build up and hair conditioners to soften.
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