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bigskydreaming · 3 years

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I am once more begging people, BEGGING, to at least READ Batman #416 if you’re going to cite every moment of Dick meeting Jason and then blowing up at Bruce, except in a totally ‘that’s not at all how it happened’ kinda way.

If I have to read ONE MORE sizzling hot take about how Dick blew up at Bruce and stormed off at the end of that encounter, when THIS is how it ACTUALLY ended....

Ah yes, the famous Dick Grayson temper, better described as ‘someone else loses their shit at Dick and fandom twists it into the exact opposite so he’s actually the bad guy all along.’

Was Dick heated before that point? Yup. Did he have reason to be? Also yup. Did Bruce, however, have reason to be heated that Dick had the gall to be coming back to his childhood home to confront him about the fact that after eighteen months of not speaking, when Bruce is the one who CHOSE to not even say goodbye to Dick or make any effort to still make a place for Dick in his life after firing him, with the only possible indication in all that time through which Dick was expected to come up with even an INKLING that Bruce missed him was discovering from reading the paper that Bruce had given his old mantle to a new, even younger partner? Its gonna be a big fat NOPE from me, guys.

There’s an exchange between them a few pages before this that always resonated with me....

Bruce: The truth is, I taught you everything I could. It was time for you to step out on your own.

Dick: So you figured the best thing for you to do was drive me out of your life, right? That’s exactly what you do to anyone who gets too close. Always hurt them before they have a chance to hurt you. It didn’t matter to you that I didn’t have any life other than the one we shared.

Like, I can not express any more clearly why it drives me so B-A-N-A-N-A-S to see people spin this so that it was Bruce that was somehow the victim of his son’s tempestuous, nomadic ways. Like he was somehow left behind, that Dick outgrew him or moved on, and everything Dick felt about Robin after the fact was him throwing spoiled temper tantrums that someone dared pick up something he no longer wanted. Umm. No times infinity and beyond.

Bruce was the one with all the power. Bruce was the one making all the choices. All Dick had, at most, was the choice to either stay somewhere Bruce seemed intent on driving him away from, or go somewhere else. This issue clearly expressed that like. Bruce wasn’t open to talking. Not when he fired Dick as Robin, there was no negotiating that, and even throughout this whole encounter here, where Dick comes here and says “I think you owe me some explanations” because based on everything Bruce was doing and how radically opposed those actions are to the last interactions he and Bruce had, which had a HUGE impact on Dick’s life, yes, he WAS owed explanations here, make no mistake....even here, Bruce spends the whole encounter acting like he’s being unfairly interrogated, like its trying his patience to even have to deal with Dick being there at all....

Phones work two ways, Bruce. There’s two people in this dynamic. If you haven’t heard from Dick in eighteen months, its equally true that he hasn’t heard from you in eighteen months. And if you missed him so damn much, you know what was always a perfectly valid way to express that, which DIDN’T involve anyone else? Picking up the damn phone and calling Dick and telling him that.

Bruce acts like that was never even an option, like HE was the one stuck with limited choices based on Dick’s behavior throughout all this time, and that’s just flat out, unconditionally, one hundred percent, NOT TRUE. Bruce was the one in charge. The one calling the shots. The one with the resources, the power, the authority. Dick was ALWAYS the one who had more to lose, of the two of them.

And Bruce knew all this when he took Dick in. He knew all this when he took Robin away from Dick while the latter was still a teenager, still living at home. And he was the one who failed to even so much as OFFER Dick an alternative take on how he could still be there, still be in Bruce’s life, part of his family, still share in being part of his life, the life the two of them had shared, now that Bruce had made the choice that Dick no longer had the option of living out his part of that life in the manner they’d BOTH built up for him originally.

And yet for so many years, fandom has added insult to injury by acting like the cherry on top here, Bruce giving away the very mantle he took from Dick, like this was somehow completely reasonable because in comparison, Dick is the one being unreasonable. People completely gloss over that little act of Bruce’s to focus instead on how Dick reacted, instead of giving that betrayal of trust its own fair due and focus, and the problem is....they don’t even actually focus on how Dick actually acted! Again, notice it was Dick who approached Bruce, and Bruce who told Dick to leave. It was Dick who had actual cause to be angry, but Bruce who blew up and broke shit because Dick dared demand answers.

And this is the way Dick leaves things with Jason, btw. I know people know this part by now, mostly at least, about the phone number and such, but how many people have actually SEEN how that played out rather than just heard it summarized in a dry recitation of events that underplays just how that interaction went?

Like, that wasn’t just Dick acting like this was being FORCED upon him and bleeding reluctance at every turn. He went above and fucking beyond to make Jason feel welcomed and secure in his position as Robin. But that’s not how the narrative goes in fandom, is it? Even when acknowledging this part, people act like Dick was at most doing the bare minimum, instead of acknowledging that Dick didn’t owe anyone this at all. No, it wasn’t Jason’s fault he became Robin, but NONE of this was Dick’s fault, Dick’s choice, or Dick’s RESPONSIBILITY. He wasn’t living at home, in Bruce’s life, and he wasn’t adopted yet let alone even still Bruce’s ward at this point. He’d aged out at eighteen. Dick had NO actual ties to Bruce and by extension Jason at this particular moment in time, and thus no ACTUAL obligations to either of them, no matter how much fandom harps on him having failed Jason as a brother back during this time when more accurately, Bruce was actively failing Dick as a father - as in not even being one, but Dick’s responsibilities towards a family he didn’t have at the moment are supposed to be still intact? NOPE. Don’t think so.

But Dick, INSTEAD, puts Jason FIRST, puts him OVER his obviously hurt and bitter feelings to focus on what’s best for Jason here, and gives him literally everything he CAN to do right by Jason here. He gives Jason his own old costume and clear approval, cementing Jason’s place as Robin in a way not even Bruce could when giving it to Jason, because it was never Bruce’s to actually pass on. Jason even wonders earlier in the issue if Dick might want his old role back, and Dick puts that fear to rest, without any hesitation or doubt.

In addition, Dick offers up support and solidarity he doesn’t owe Jason, doesn’t owe anyone, because its HIS time, HIS support, its not something someone can take for granted and yet too many people do....especially considering that in the hyper-fixation on how much support and time Dick supposedly DIDN’T offer or grant Jason, most people pay next to no attention to the fact that it wasn’t like Dick was being given time or support by Bruce, ie Dick is going out of his way to offer stuff he’s not even getting himself, because he RECOGNIZES from that what its like not to have it. Basically what I mean is all that talk about Dick being a hypocrite for doing to others what he complains about Bruce not doing for him? Patently untrue, as we see here, because this is Dick actively acting upon what he’s missing out on by making sure that others don’t miss out on it because of Bruce’s failings or emotional repression.

And look at the end result.....Jason’s enjoying his teamup with Dick, these aren’t two people who look pained at being forced into proximity or acting like the other is a burden to be around or thinking the other doesn’t really want to be here. They were comfortable from practically the word go, because Dick knows how to make people uncomfortable but he also knows how to make people comfortable, and he made the CHOICE, the INTENT to make sure he was someone Jason felt WANTED to be there with him, the complete opposite of someone who is taking out their bitterness or resentment on their replacement or at least not trying to hide it very well.

So my question is.....what the hell else is it people wanted Dick to do? When they cite this issue specifically, at least, when they talk about the time Dick went to Gotham to confront Bruce about Robin, when they talk about the phone number or the costume or the teamup or the things that so often get mentioned in passing like they’re insignificant or the bare minimum or mere formalities that do nothing to take away from all the supposed OTHER asshole behavior that Dick allegedly heaped on Jason despite never actually happening anywhere, even a little bit, and thus that some people claim is just an extrapolation of how Dick PROBABLY acted off the page, given his clear resentment and jealousy....umm. Huh? Based off THIS? Seriously, I mean it. What ELSE was Dick supposed to have done, to counter that take, what else could he POSSIBLY have done to do right by Jason here, that he didn’t actually already do? What exactly did people want from this character, in order to not hold this eternal grudge they have against him for what a big old jerk he was to Jason, who did nothing to deserve it - with that part being true at least, and literally WHY Dick made the point to recognize that and not take out his feelings on Jason?

Like, this will never not be an axe for me to grind because like. The SPIN fandom always gives all this, when look at the last page of this issue......Bruce is watching from a distance, and even he’s like thanks Dick, and that honestly bugs me so much. Because in the end, the only one of these three characters who DIDN’T get what he wanted here, was Dick. Jason got the validation and security as Robin he was looking for, the approval of his predecessor, and words of advice and an offer to listen and be there should he ever want to talk. Bruce got Dick’s validation of the actions Bruce took that he had no right to take when giving his old mantle to Jason, but that Dick ratified all the same, even if it was for Jason’s sake and not Bruce’s. Bruce still got the closure on that particular mistake of his, with the evidence that Dick was willing to see past it for Jason’s sake rather than drag it out....like. Dick is the only one who didn’t get what he was looking for there, he didn’t even get an apology from Bruce for overstepping when he passed on Dick’s mantle, an acknowledgment that this was WRONG, the most Dick got was Bruce admitting for a single panel that he missed him.....before telling Dick to leave and get out and effectively taking back anything Dick could have possibly taken away from that admittance. Because what the fuck does it matter if someone misses you if even though they finally have you right there in front of them, they still tell you to leave again anyway?

In conclusion, I hate this issue, lol, because everybody seems to know what’s in it and yet practically nobody ever seems interested in referencing what’s ACTUALLY in it. Instead just forever playing telephone with the most bad faith interpretation of Dick’s actions possible.

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softer-ua · 3 years

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I will never stop finding it endlessly hilarious that Bakugo is more color coordinated to Deku than Deku is to Deku

Look at them!

I fully believe that Katsuki planed his whole look around inconspicuously matching Dekus looks. Only for Deku to chose turquoise/teal as his color

It probably keeps Katsuki up at night,

Katsuki can’t sleep, his mind keeping him awake replaying mistakes and what if’s and blowing insignificant details instead towering behemoths

He could have chosen red as his accent color instead of orange. It’d have matched his eyes and it’d have matched Dekus current costume better.

But nooo he was so sure that despite the red shoes someone with green hair would never choose red as their accent color, orange was obvious choice!

Sure purple was a contender or maybe earthier tones, but Katsuki didn’t look right in those colors, so orange had felt like the right call, the only right call

He could match Deku without being conspicuous, cause grenades are green(maybe not usually exactly that shade but no one would notice) and orange made his eyes seem warmer, it was a win across the board

Until Deku came out dressed like a turquoise bunny with a hood that covered his iconic green hair!!!

And that girl came out dress in pink… they had looked so effortlessly coordinated. Like they were clearly separate individuals but they looked good standing together, they didn’t clash

It was supposed to be him! Deku was supposed to stand next to him like a fitted puzzle piece. It was supposed to be Katsukis opening to…but instead they’ve never been more separated and Dekus got some big secret with someone else.

Is it that gravity girl?? No, that doesn’t make any sense and they said they met in the exams…

But still now everything is ruined. A human bomb looks ridiculous next to a turquoise bunny!!! And the teal rabbit look wasn’t exactly much of an upgrade!

And the new white gloves with the blue strips?? Was he intentionally doing this?? They hung out with his parents enough as kids that surly some color rules had stuck!

*muffled yelling into a pillow *

#Deku I know your mom chose your costume but pls let your bf take over you look like a hot mess #Katsukis costume lives rent free in my head #it is so so good #Dekus haunts me like a never ending nightmare #Dekus costume is my sleep paralysis demon

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iamthenightcolormeblack · 3 years

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My Thoughts on Jane Eyre 2011: gorgeous but not the best adaptation of the book

After rereading Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte’s most famous work, I have become very obsessed with the book and have watched several adaptations. Here I’ll share my thoughts on the most recent adaptation, the 2011 movie starring Mia Wasikowska as Jane Eyre and Michael Fassbender as Edward Fairfax Rochester and why I don’t think it’s the best adaptation of the book. IMHO there is no “perfect” adaptation of Jane Eyre, since each adaptation has its flaws as well as strengths. It’s difficult to adapt Jane Eyre because it has so many themes in addition to the central love story (religion, feminism, the meaning of freedom, social criticism, family).

I’ll start with the things I liked before I criticize it, because objectively it’s a great movie:

Gorgeous cinematography: dark browns/blacks/grays for Thornfield, yellows/greens for the garden, browns/grays/blues for the moors. Each shot is like a painting and creates a gothic atmosphere. The choice to film Jane indoors is a great representation of her state as a “vivid, restless, resolute captive” trapped in a cage. The Thornfield scenes shot in the dark emphasize the house as a gilded prison.

Costumes were historically accurate for the 1840′s.

Music was beautiful.

Lots of original dialogue from the book (not overly simplified/few modernized additions).

Childhood at Gateshead and the Lowood School scenes. I like how Mrs. Reed’s dialogue refers to Jane as an “it” -- this shows how others have denied Jane her humanity from the very beginning of her life. The Helen Burns relationship, though abbreviated, is portrayed faithfully, since Helen gets to voice her religious beliefs (unlike the 2006 BBC miniseries, where she exists to tell Jane to advertise in order to escape) as guidance to an angry Jane, and her death scene is included (skipped over in the otherwise faithful 1983 BBC miniseries).

Acting. Michael Fassbender’s eyes are very captivating and convey lots of unspoken emotion. The two actors have lots of chemistry during the key romantic scenes. See my blurb about Mia Wasikowska for more.

Jane’s fear of marriage, which is emphasized in the book. This adaptation shows that Jane is afraid of marriage because she will lose her individuality to become Mrs. Rochester. In other adaptations, Jane is shown to be giddy at the prospect of marriage until the wedding veil is ripped.

Mia Wasikowska’s portrayal of Jane Eyre. Her restrained portrayal fits the character as presented to readers: fiery, intelligent, and perceptive, but on the outside looking plain and unremarkable; a wallflower. Because she doesn’t reveal much, we can see why Rochester wants to “draw her out.” She’s also youthful, has an otherworldly quality about her, and looks like an 18 year old, further emphasizing the age difference between her and Rochester, who is in his 30s.

Now here’s why I don’t think it’s the best adaptation, in spite of its strengths: the character development isn’t complete because of the short length and the removal of key scenes (some of which are included in deleted scenes).

Jane remains mysterious--with the exception of the very brief montage of the happy couple before the doomed wedding, we don’t get to see Jane laugh or come out of her cage. She seems to be dazed and confused in a good amount of the movie, probably because of the emphasis on her suffering (lots of crying on the moors, crying in her room, or just looking sad). The movie establishes that she wants freedom during a brief scene where she tells Mrs. Fairfax that she wants to see more of the outside world, but it never resolves how Jane finds her freedom. Though she runs away from Thornfield, the film presents Jane merely as one part of a psychic connection to Rochester, or as an insignificant part of nature. The shortened ending leaves the question of Jane’s freedom unanswered, as it seems that the only way she knows how to find her freedom is to run away.

Rochester is too sympathetic, likely because the film omits Rochester’s confession to Jane about his French opera mistress Celine Varens. In the book this is significant because it shows that Rochester is a sinner and creates the question of whether he can be morally redeemed. Though the film tries to show that Rochester is morally gray because of his belief in hedonism (his remark that he values pleasure above all else is included in the movie), the viewer lacks proof of his degenerative nature without the Celine Varens story. (And my dad, who never read the book, was confused about where Adele came from). The story also establishes that Rochester is attracted to Jane partly because he wants to redeem himself through her good example.

Instead, he is presented as the suffering victim of an unhappy marriage to a lunatic. The film emphasizes Rochester’s sadness and his anger only appears during the failed wedding attempt. Overall he’s much more aloof, cold, and remote, possibly because of the reduced dialogue of the film and the emphasis on his sadness. This doesn’t fit the Rochester in the book, who is fiery and has a quick temper. While locking up Bertha Rochester and hiding her existence is wrong, Jane forgives him quickly for that because she feels that he has tried his best for Bertha instead of leaving her to die in an asylum. The backstory with the mistresses provides a stronger motive for why Jane runs away from him, as she fears that she will violate her Christian morals and possibly become another of his rejected mistresses.

An issue with many Jane Eyre adaptations: the actor cast to play Rochester is too handsome. Normally I do not mind, because beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when Fassbender’s Rochester was told he was not handsome, I was not able to suspend my disbelief.

Other key scenes were cut:

Gypsy scene. This scene is important because it shows that Rochester is manipulative and will resort to deceit to entertain himself. It also shows Jane’s intelligence in that she refuses to be manipulated.

Ripping the veil. Bertha’s ripping of the veil is significant as a protest against the repressiveness of Victorian marriage and an outward manifestation of Jane’s fear of marriage. It also hints to the reader that Rochester is hiding something and fits in with the gothic elements of the novel.

Because of the incomplete character development, Jane and Rochester are shown merely as suffering people who are together because they have a psychic connection. For people who have not read the book, the movie is interesting but the viewer is left to fill too many blanks as to character motivations/thoughts. If some of the deleted scenes (the Celine Varens story and Bertha ripping the wedding veil) were added back in, I might dare to call this the definitive Jane Eyre adaptation. The film is great as a summary of/brief introduction to Jane Eyre but struggles to convey the richness and complexity of the book. It provides a tantalizing taste of the story, leaving viewers enchanted but also wanting more.

@dahlia-coccinea @princesssarisa @fyjaneeyre-blog @jane-eyre-victorian-era @janeeyrequotes @appleinducedsleep @bananasinny @notherealjaneyre

#jane eyre #mr rochester #jane eyre movie #movies #jane eyre 2006 #jane eyre 2011 #movie review #literature #book adaptation

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cactus-joke · 3 years

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Honestly

That humorous little line: “What makes Loki a Loki?” - answered with: “Independence, authority, style.” illustrates so well how this writing team sees their main character. The answer is simplistic and generic to the point it becomes reductive, if not meaningless.

Independence is an interesting choice of word given that Loki’s whole life has been determined by someone else to the point where all of his weightier actions are traumatic reactions (Odin/The Other/Thanos) and, given that this Loki is fresh from The Avengers, he hasn’t even had the opportunity to explore what being truly independent of others’ control means for him. Of course, he does have that chance now, should the writing and production team deign to give it. Should he, you know, truly take charge of his fate (and the narrative).

Authority is something he’s never really been shown to have, this Loki in particular, as he never becomes king. The strongest glimpses of authority exist in The Avengers, but as a villain he was always doomed to lose it. Then, in the series, right after, we’re shown clearly that nobody sees him as a threat, nobody is really willing to listen to him (except for Mobius who only does it because he wants his help and is, in fact, the one with the authority over him). He’s meandering about, following the plot, having no control over anything and with all his attempts to take it failing in some way or the other (Understandable, for conflict’s sake, less understandable for him to follow instead of lead the narrative).

Style doesn’t seem to mean much, not to this Loki, who is hardly a showman, in my opinion. His actions in Thor 1 are mostly done behind the scenes up until the final battle while his actions in Avengers are less so colored with “style” and more so with desperation and pain. He does what he needs to do when he needs to do it and, mostly, if he can help it, behind the scenes. We could say, if we take Ragnarok into consideration, that he does have some theatrical qualities about him, and thus could possess them even now, but I wouldn’t really go so far as to say some of his buffoonery in the show has much, if any, flare of style (or those in Ragnarok, for that matter) as, here too, he flails and fails. He doesn’t even change his outfit to match his “style”, merely pops a collar and later rolls up the sleeves of his shirt (this may seem an insignificant detail, but costume design is as important as anything else in visual media and should, if done well, match the characters wearing the designs.)

All of these words are, at best, a pretense or, at worst, simply something an average “mischievous” villain/antihero character would say and truly mean it, which is what it sounded like to me. I feel like these words don’t belong to this character in particular, who has previously been shown to be a bit more complex than that.

Of course, it could all be a manifested desire, something that has been shown to be untrue but is something Loki would prefer to see himself as, or even deliberately said just so we understand how “pompous” a character he is.

Either way, didn’t like it much.

Perhaps this is a lot of meta for a line like this, but every detail matters when you’re building a story, I think. Besides, the question that begets this answer should be an important one, if not the most important one, for a show that purports to be about Loki. For me, at least, it hasn’t quite been answered in a way I feel it could be, nor do I see any reason to think something deeper might be hiding behind the seemingly generic line.

More than that, I’m still waiting for the actual character of our Loki to be explored beyond a recap reel. Given that episode four out of six is already coming up, and the terrible pacing we’ve had of the first three, I feel like I’m somewhat justified in saying that I’m perhaps, just a tiny little bit, worried that it won’t be.

Maybe it will be though, who knows. I just really really didn’t like that line lmao, so I thought I’d make that everyone else’s problem too :(

#harping on details yes because they matter also my brain is broken and i can't do anything else today so i thought i'd meta lmao #the loki show #loki show spoilers #loki series spoilers #loki meta

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vaguely-concerned · 3 years

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The Mandalorian s2 ep1 Reactions Post That’s right I’m BACK

and none of you not even god himself can stop me from rambling about space cowboy dad and tiny green baby stuff for much longer than any sane person should

the TL;DR is that I still love this show SO MUCH, beware a bunch of spoilers under the cut!

- costume design wise I LOVE how badly the armour fits Cobb Vanth

especially when you get shots with him and Din side by side for contrast:

It’s not just that it’s clearly not made for him (it seems he’s a lot lankier and more wiry than Boba is), he simply doesn’t know how to wear it, and he doesn’t know how to take care of it, because he doesn’t know what it means. Remember when Din’s breastplate got bent completely out of shape by the mudhorn and he had it repaired to the best of his ability long before they even finished with the ship? That’s why he looks so grounded and natural in it and Vanth has sort of a clumsy Spiderman-in-his-first-home-made-costume air about him. (also Boba’s helmet has a beautiful heft and solidity to it in this, they make all the beskar have a Feel and weight to it, makes it feel important)

I like that Vanth is taller than Din; everything that drives home that Din’s strength doesn’t come from being naturally physically imposing or impressive is a joy to me

- Boba’s armour seems to be confirmed to be real beskar, which gives me so much hope that they’re doing something actually nuanced and interesting with Boba and Jango’s cultural identities as Mandalorians (whether they do consider themselves that or not, for example), unlike George Lucas’ inexplicable yet unbending stance of ‘They aren’t and never were lol get fucked Fetts’

the way the triumphant heroic part of the mando music sputtered and died when the man himself showed up tho... uh-oh this might be bad news

man but that’s a stunning and surprising way to introduce a well-known character divorced from what makes them so iconic, though, just from that I’m going to trust they know what they’re doing (AND they got temuera morrison back I’m so EXCITED!!!). without the armor there’s the face of someone who shared that face with literal millions and at the same time must be looking older than his father ever got to at this point, and that’s super interesting as a starting point to me. (I... guess there’s still a chance it’s a fakeout and that it’s actually another clone, but that would be such a letdown when they’ve already given us this haha)

- an excellent [mando sighs] moment

this opening scene did a great job of re-summarizing him for the audience -- establishing again that he gives you one chance at dealing with him fairly and if you insist on continuing to be an asshole about it, you’re toast, the fact that his fighting style is so much about being able to tank blows rather than not getting hit in the first place, the horror movie monster mando setup as he stalked the dude down and strung him up, the Poetic Justice predicated on some very careful word choices, and most importantly “where I go, he goes”... all wonderful, I’m sure I’ll watch this scene back for fine details and better looks at the background characters many many times

(word seems to have spread about him and the baby for real now, which makes me VERY nervous btw)

- Pulserifle’s back! Jetpack’s back! Razor Crest’s back! Grappling line’s back! PELLI’S BACK!!!!!! Tattooine... is also back *Finn voice* Why does everyone want to go back to Tattooine????

I really enjoyed the way they fleshed out and (for lack of a better word) humanized the sand people, though, if you are going back to this desert hellplanet again that is a worthy reason to do it

- Din swearing :O!! and one of the less egregious star wars swears too, I’m fine with this

- in campaign star wars news: I guess there was sort of both a binbon and a jubna in this ep! what a time to be alive

- as usual I love the jawa. a bright spot in any day, just a bunch of lil goblin-y friends hanging out having the best time loving sparkly crystals and rescuing silver foxes.

get in loser we’re going shopping

I uh. Do you think. Hm. Is there maybe a metaphor here somewhere. Is there perhaps a hidden, one may say double, meaning, at play, right here, in this image? Who can say, it’s just niggling at me (there’s a very similar set of shots with Toro in season 1, but seemingly the show went ‘I fear we might have gone too subtle with it, let’s amp it up this time’ over the season break loool)

honestly though this dynamic really highlighted everything I love about the ways Din performs masculinity. It’s so much softer and more community/collaboration focused and more comfortable to be around than Vanth’s version -- and Vanth isn’t a bad dude by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not hard to see why he’s like that considering where he’s from, he’s just such a... man. The lone person who can protect this village! The only man who’s got what it takes! It’s all on his shoulders and no one else’s, so do exactly as he says or he’ll put a hole in you! (I think it’s telling that one of his first comments to Din is ‘I’m sure you call the shots wherever you’re from, but ‘round here, I’m the person who tell folks what to do’, because as we as the audience knows, Din very much does not call the shots of where he’s from lol) I guess it says some nice things about the tribe of Mandos Din is from that this is how he approaches things, and it says some good things about Vanth how quickly he comes around to this smarter and less confrontational/domineering style of doing things once he’s been exposed to it and sees how it works. it’s just neat

(it’s smart of Favreau to set his ~*lone gunslinger*~ character up like this, too, it makes him so much more interesting and versatile)

- With the way Din says ‘a Mandalorian Armorer sent me on my path’ it does seem confirmed that’s the equivalent of a priest role or a sort of shaman -- I wonder if he knows the name of ‘The’ Armorer or if they take on the role as a whole identity

- the sheer contrast between the two people who wanted Din to take his helmet off for them in this ep tho... wants Mando’s armour off for horrible awful reasons and got exactly what he deserved:

wants Mando’s armour off for entirely sympathetic and understandable, just culturally uninformed, thirsty thirsty reasons & also having drinks together:

(the sort of... little lick over his bottom lip he does there? keep it in your pants vanth my GODjflsadf he’s a good dude tho he understands and respects the ‘no armour removal before marriage’ thing and backs down gracefully)

- This is a nuanced thing: I don’t think I actually ship it (not in a requited way from Din’s side, anyway, Vanth I’m 100% sure about lol), but the incredible potential for out-of-context-taking of “Take it off, or I will”/”...we doin’ this in front of the kid?” is uh astounding

(anyone got the vibe Vanth sort of had something with the bartender too? no just me? well well)

- I was never really scared Din was actually dead or hurt b/c baby wasn’t scared and I figure he’d know lol, a very useful fear barometer

- “What’s the plan?” “Take care of the child” “What are you gonna do?” “I don’t know, but wish me luck *yeets his new bro out of harm’s way before diving in head first himself*” fksdjhfkjlashdfkjsldahfkasldjhfskldajhfsadkjfh WHAT a summation of Din’s entire approach to battle & life, dad please you carry a not insignificant part of my heart around with you be careful

(Also with the heavy implication that Boba was watching the whole thing... can you imagine him just looking on as Din throws himself down that gullet like a madman. There must have been some ‘o_-7 *headscratch headscratch* ???’ going on for him there)

it’s kind of sweet that din trusts vanth will take care of the baby if something happens though, they really bonded quickly huh

- the sand people who kept willingly going over to the krayt dragon’s cave are honestly braver and more admirable than anyone else has ever been, I kept just shouting in anguish as they were gobbled up, they deserved better

- can we talk about how clear it still is that Din’s just... lonely. When he thinks he’s found another Mando and he sounds almost reverent with relief... and then it gets odder and odder (’uh... drinks? I guess... does he have drinking straws with him or -- HE’S TAKING THE HELMET OFF???’ oh buddy)

I wonder if they’re building towards something about him realizing it doesn’t have to be Mandos for him to trust and bond with people longer term? Basically all the characters he’s met and we’ve watched him form attachments to and get help from are non-Mandos -- Kuiil :’^(, Cara, Omera, Cobb Vanth, IG-11 :^’’(, Greef Karga to a degree. Establishing so firmly what he’s looking for this early would be good setup for a ‘what a character thinks they want vs. what they need’ thing later on just on a writing level, anyway, Boba Fett could bring in some interesting points of view about Mandalorianness too

- baby’s happy gurgles when he sees pelli!!!!!! din speaking sand people language and petting alligator doggies!!!!!!

- pedro pascal’s voice work remains an utter joy to me. din’s measured, earnest, occasionally slightly stilted way of talking is still so good, and then he does things like inserting some more... idk life is the wrong word but that more charged and dynamic tone he took on when he said (”I thought you weren’t a gambler”) “I’m not”. *chef kiss*

- if the pulse rifle’s stun is able to do that to a fuckn krayt dragon... that’s some serious shit din is carrying around with him lol (interestingly the actual shooty pew-pew part of it didn’t seem to do much to it, but then I guess he was shocking it from the inside out and not through thick hide, so idk)

- my only real complaints about this ep: Vanth’s backstory ran a bit long, and not enough baby & dad interaction. the concept art’s got me tho:

(din often wears his original/old armour in concept art still, incidentally, don’t know what that’s about)

awwwwwww

+ omfg ;______;

- this sand people person conscientiously brushing a bantha’s teeth... blessed

- Customary flame thrower report: there was a rare useful deployment of the flamethrower. Good job Mando’s flame thrower for furthering the field of diplomacy

ETA: I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO MENTION THIS: DIN BEING COMFORTABLE(ISH) AROUND DROIDS NOW!!!! GROWTH????!?! IG-11 WE MISS YOU??????????

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #star wars #the mandalorian meta #meta #(I'm trying to label my meta more specifically these days b/c the general meta tag is a MESS on my blog lol)#mmmmmmmm feels good to break out the overanalysis goggles again it's time to OVERTHINK SOME SHIT my friends

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mabelleflanerie · 3 years

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The Birth of Fauvism

A Study of Matisse’s The Young Sailor II

As I walked through the Metropolitan’s exhibition gallery of Greek and Roman art, through the great hallway showcasing pieces from Africa, Oceania, and the Americas, and into the Modern and Contemporary Art galleries, I realized that within the span of three short minutes I had experienced the fastest chronological and geographical exploration of art history. Hidden towards the far back of the museum is a group of rooms showcasing a collection named “Reimagining Modernism”. It houses the paintings of everyone from Picasso to Grünewald. The smallest of the rooms, 904, is quite unlike the rest. It doesn't have a bright vibrant wall on which the paintings have been mounted. While the other rooms have walls painted in a rich burgundy or deep royal blue, 904 is a pale grey room. Upon further inspection of its contents, I began to understand the reason for the choice of wall colour: Filled with extremely vibrant artwork by Matisse, Vlaminck, Picasso, and Derain (to name a few), it would have been an eyesore to make the walls equally as colourful. It would have even taken away from the paintings themselves. The largest, most multi-coloured, and therefore loudest of all the pieces is Matisse’s 1906 painting The Young Sailor II. At first glance, I responded in shock and to be honest, slight fear. Why would Matisse choose a bright pink background for his model who is already dressed in a jarring blue and green get-up? Well, upon further research I have discovered that these colour choices are what made Matisse stand out from his fellow modern artists.

The Young Sailor II is a fauvist portrait of a young fisherman named Germain Augustin Barthélémy Montargè from a small Catalan village called Collioure (Rewald, 89). Germain is seated on a wooden chair and his facial expressions are painted in a very cartoon-like manner (Fig. 1). Although much sharper than Matisse’s first version, there is still a lot of ambiguity that is heavily present. The only sense of differentiation between the body parts or pieces of clothing is through colour choice. The painting itself is a striking palette of green, blue, pink, and orange. The face of the model does have a few details however: The eyebrows are extremely exaggerated and I even sense a playful expression being presented. Sabine Rewald, curator of Modern Art at the Metropolitan Museum states that Germain’s “theatrical looks and his colourful costume, set against the pink, candy-coloured ground, combine to make this work one of Matisse’s most decorative portraits in the Fauve manner” (Rewald, 90). The model is dressed in some sort of a bright blue jacket, green pants with a checkered printed cuff, pink shoes, and a blue-green cap. Being that Matisse has not included any details of the garments, I find myself staring at the cuffs of the pants wondering if he intended them to be boots or checkered socks instead. This sort of confusion seems to be a common reaction to Matisse’s artwork: Julia Brucker, contributor at The Art Story, states that although Matisse’s artwork “was important in endorsing the value of decoration in modern art” the manner in which he paints with his colours is frequently disorienting to viewers (Brucker). This fauvist portrait does exactly that and I suppose it is what forced me to keep staring at it until I was completely hypnotised and enraptured by it.

Matisse - Young Sailor II

“Fauve” was a word that kept appearing on the information plaques of 904’s paintings so I sought to discover the meaning behind this strange word. Synonymous to “grand félin féroce” or in English “wild cat”, “Fauvism” describes a movement in modern art where the artists focused on personal expression through eccentric colour use (Wolf). The artists, or “Fauves” as they were known, included Henri Matisse himself, Albert Marquet, and Georges Henri Rouault. They were inspired by the artwork of Van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, and Cezanne and they concentrated on the use of vibrant colours: “Matisse emerged as the leader of the group, whose members shared the use of intense colour as a vehicle for describing light and space, and who redefined pure colour and form as means of communicating the artist's emotional state. In these regards, Fauvism proved to be an important precursor to Cubism and Expressionism as well as a touchstone for future modes of abstraction” (Wolf). Justin Wolf, from The Art History Contributors specifies three key ideas important to Fauvism: Firstly, the Fauves saw the significance of colour and the atmosphere it created. Colour was in fact autonomous to the painting itself. Secondly, the Fauves drew attention to the flatness of the canvas in order to create a sense of unification in the artwork. Lastly, the Fauves focused on depicting human expression and inner emotions. Being that Matisse excelled in these three modes of painting, he was considered to be the forerunner and pioneer of Fauvism: “Synthesizing all these ideas, Matisse turned away from using subtle hues of mixed paints and began working with bright colour, directly from the tube, as a means of conveying emotion. He had been working outdoors since the mid-1890s, and his travels to Corsica and the south of France in 1898 increased his interest in capturing the effect of strong natural light” (Wolf). Looking at the painting, I see exactly what Wolf is describing. There is very little shading or colour gradient in the piece. The jacket is a flat blue with a small number of purple stripes and the pants are a solid green just as the background is a solid pink. The brush strokes are visibly large but other than that there is no sense of texture being created.

However insignificant of a fact this may seem to us, to Matisse, it was very intentional: “Rather than using modelling or shading to lend volume and structure to his pictures, Matisse used contrasting areas of pure, unmodulated colour. These ideas continued to be important to him throughout his career” (Brucker). The reason Matisse did this is because he felt it permitted him to better communicate the model’s emotion and the emotion that is depicted in the painting is one that is quite peculiar. The young man seems to be posing in a “look how fabulous I am” manner with a particularly wily look on his face. What I began to wonder while I was sat on the wooden bench in 904 staring in beguilement at this piece is how much say Matisse had in the posture or expression of the model. According to Brucker, it’s highly possible that Matisse was in fact using the model as a medium in which he could portray his own feelings by “reducing them to ciphers in his monumental designs” (Brucker). This theory seems to be proven by Matisse himself - “Matisse, by way of Cezanne and impressionism, attempted to realize his emotion in front of the object. (Matisse frankly stated in an interview of 1912: ‘I do not literally paint that table, but the emotion that it produces upon me’)” (Bock-Weiss, Matisse, 58). So now, this painting gives us much more than just a depiction of a sailor in Collioure. It gives us insight on Matisse’s life during the summer of 1906. Matisse painted The Young Sailor II while on one of his travels to the Catalan region near the Spanish border. This small village of Collioure was a frequent vacation spot of his and is in fact the birthplace of Fauvism (Brucker). Germain, the model, was one of many fisherman from this small seaside village.

Collioure, France (by journalistontherun.com)

But what exactly made Germain stand out from the eight hundred and ninety-nine other fishermen that lived in this village? According to Rewald, the Montargè family were unlike other Catalans: “Since Germain was six-feet tall and of athletic build – which is unusual for Catalans – it is not surprising that he might have caught Matisse’s eye during one of the painter’s early morning strolls along the pier in Collioure’s harbour… Another characteristic that made Germain stand out in a crowd was his Slavic features. These are shared by the Montargè family … and are still referred to, by the people in Collioure, as ‘cet air primitif’ (‘that primitive look’)” (Rewald, 89). Prior to this painting, during the summer of 1905, Matisse produced many other works of art portraying Collioure: The Open Window, View of Collioure, and Landscape at Collioure are among Matisse’s most well-known fauvist paintings. He worked alongside Derain and together they developed and refined the fauvist style (Wolf). After four months in Collioure, Derain and Matisse set off for Paris to present their work at the Salon d'Automne.

Matisse - Vue de Collioure

While Collioure proved to be the birthplace of the fauvist technique, the Salon d’Automne of 1905 is where the movement got its name: Louis Vauxcelles, an art critic who was inspecting the pieces at the exhibition used the phrase “Donatello parmi les fauves” in reaction to what he saw (Wolf). Translating to “Donatello among the wild beasts”, the word “Fauve” endured despite being disparaging. However slighting the reviews were, their portraits were bought by the likes of Leo and Gertrude Stein and Fauvism proved to be important to how colour was seen and used in the domain of modern art: “The Fauves liberated colour from any requirements other than those posed by the painting itself. "When I put a green," Matisse would say, "it is not grass. When I put a blue, it is not the sky." Art exerted its own reality. Colour was a tool of the painter's artistic intention and expression, uncircumscribed by imitation” (“Explore This Work - Henri Matisse, Open Window, Collioure”). What colour did was add meaning and context to the painting in a new and different way. Instead of asking why Matisse painted a sailor boy looking into the distance, we can now contemplate as to why the sailor boy’s ear is orange while his right hand is pink and what Matisse is trying to communicate by doing this. Before Matisse and Derain, artists were compelled to paint a blue sky, a tan face, and a red flower. Now, the artist was free to paint a red sky, a blue face, and a tan flower. Fauvism, for the first time diminished the authority the object had over how it was painted and it consequently gave way to the more successful abstract movements such as Cubism and Expressionism.

Along with painters such as his rivals Picasso and Mondrian, Matisse re-invented the way in which art was produced. By the use of simplification and color as the sole subject of painting, Matisse had a considerable influence on art and future abstract artists, proving him to be a major figure during the twentieth century. Be it Cubism, Pointillism, or Fauvism, the art of painting went through some drastic experimentation during the early 20th century and Matisse was surely an important part of it.

Bibliography:

Bock-Weiss, Catherine, and Henri Matisse. Henri Matisse: Modernist Against the Grain. Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009. p.58 Brucker, Julia. “Henri Matisse Artist Overview and Analysis.” The Art Story - Modern Art Insight, The Art Story Contributors, www.theartstory.org/artist-matisse-henri.htm. “Explore This Work - Henri Matisse, Open Window, Collioure.” National Gallery of Art, www.nga.gov/Collection/highlights/highlight106384.html. Kleiner, Fred S. Gardner's Art through the Ages: The Western Perspective. Vol. 2, Cengage Learning, 2009. P.688 Matisse, Henri. “The Young Sailor II” .Jacques and Natasha Gelman Collection, 1998. Succession H. Matisse / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York Matisse, Henri. “The Young Sailor I” . Private Collection, 1906. Rewald, Sabine. Twentieth-Century Modern Masters: the Jacques and Natasha Gelman Collection: , Metropolitan Museum of Art. Abrams, 1989. p.89-90 Schapiro, Meyer. Nature of Abstract Art . American Marxist Association, 1937. Wolf, Justin. “Fauvism Movement Overview and Analysis” The Art Story - Modern Art Insight, The Art Story Contributors, www.theartstory.org/movement-fauvism.htm.

#MATISSE #MODERN ART #ABSTRACT ART #ART #FAUVISM #ART HISTORY #metropolitan museum of art #MET #CUBISM #POINTILISM #MONDRIAN #PICASSO #france #PAINTING #ARTIST #ESSAY #WRITER #BLOG

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cayranwilde · 4 years

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Unpopular opinion rant…

All CATS fans, please keep an open mind when reading this.

So, I have seen a lot of negativity from fans surrounding the CATS film by Tom Hooper from the CGI to the choice of actors to the lack of a substantial representation of certain characters in the film, and finally, to the lack of certain characters completely.

Let me start by saying that the 1998 Cats film is NOT CANNON.

I am 30 years old. I first saw and fell in love with the 1998 film when I was 9 years old. I watched that film so much that I wore it completely out. I had the CD (still do) and memorized every song and dance move. Between 1998 and the present date, I have seen CATS live and in person 8 different times. What I have learned over these last 21 years is that every performance is different - WAS different. Every character changed, and even relationships between the characters were portrayed differently.

For example, lets look at Munkustrap and Demeter. In the 1998 film, they seem to be portrayed as a couple. However, in 2 of the 8 shows I’ve seen, Munkustrap has been paired with Cassandra, and once with Bombalurina while Demeter has been paired with Alonzo. Munkustrap and Demeter aren’t cannon – neither are popular pairings such as Rum Tum Tugger and Bombalurina or Mistoffelees and Tugger, or Mistoffelees and Cassandra, etc. Get the picture? Just because it was hinted to in the 1998 film doesn’t make it finite. Of course, everyone has their own preferred pairings and relationships, and that is wonderful – spectacular even, because that is the beauty of the musical. Everything is left to interpretation.

Just because your favorite pairing may not be portrayed in the 2019 film isn’t reason to get angry and “hate” something you haven’t yet seen.

The same goes for characters.

In the 1998 film, you have characters such as Electra, Etcetera, Asparagus Jr., and Exotica. In the 8 times I have seen the show live, I have only seen Electra in ONE of those performances. The others were not in the stage productions and were only mentioned in the “Naming of Cats.” Might I also note that there are some characters in adaptations in Europe and Russia that were never in the 1998 film nor portrayed in any North or South American adaptation, such as Gilbert, Noilly Pratt, Olivia, and Grumbuskin.

With that being said, I understand why some fans may be upset that characters like Electra and Etcetera are not in the 2019 film or have small, insignificant rolls (because yes, they are adorable and amazing characters) but if we’re being honest, they were never primary characters in the 1998 film, and therefore not necessarily needed.

The stage costumes are classic – I think we can all agree on that. They’re beautiful, and most of us when we picture CATS think wigs, leg warmers and leotards. I do, for one. However, let’s be realistic – the characters of CATS are humanoid felines. A lot of big time CATS artists found on DeviantArt, or who illustrate for the Jellicle Chronicles draw the characters as humanoid felines. This seems to be the route Tom Hooper decided to go, which if you want to create humanoid felines, CGI is about your only option. Yes, I would have LOVED to see the characters in actual costumes, but am I mad? No. It is technology – it is growth.

Another uproar I have seen is the change in appearance and lack of screen time for Demeter. Firstly, with regards to Demeter’s coat color, please take the time too google the Gothenburg production of CATS. That is just one example of the show where they’ve completely revamped the character’s designs, and not just Demeter’s. I will say that it is unfortunate that she seems to not have more of a roll in the 2019 film, but with every adaptation of the show comes subtle or extreme changes.

But that is the absolute beauty of it all. Every good story changes throughout the years. How many adaptations of Peter Pan, the Jungle Book, and Scrooge have we all seen? Were any of them the exact same? No. You can’t expect a story to be retold without changes. That is not realistic. Stories change based on the generation that tell them, and the technology provided by that generation. To grow, you have to use the skills and tools you are given; so, if you are mad the 2019 movie won’t be the same as the 1998 film, then I am sorry, but you sound like the grumpy old man at the pharmacy that constantly repeats “back in my day” to the millennial cashier.

Lastly, all of the reviews I have read from last night’s premiere have been mostly positive. Critics have called the film magical, emotional, bewildering, fantastical and wild – all things I hope to experience when I go see the film on Friday. Do I still absolutely love the 1998 version? Yes, with all my heart. I hope to share it with my daughter when she is old enough to appreciate it. But, with that said, I thoroughly look forward to this movie and expect to experience the same magic and wonderment that CATS has and will always exude.

#cats movie #cats movie 2019 #cats 2019 #cats musical #cats the musical #unpopular opinion but I don't care #fan rant #andrew lloyd webber #CATS

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orangeflavoryawp · 4 years

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Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 5

A bit later than I intended, but also longer to make up for it. :) WARNINGS: Mention of past rape in this chapter.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Five: More

“You have to be careful, Sansa.”

“For your sake?” she spits, unable to quell the spite, the frustration. Tainted by association, isn’t it?

“Damn it, girl, for yours,” he growls at her mouth, stilling her.

Sansa blinks up at him, chest heaving, hands still clutched in the material at his chest. - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

When the knock sounds at his door, and Jon beckons the visitor into his solar, Ned Stark is the last person he expects to see.

“Lord Stark,” he greets, brows raised, though his voice is still schooled into ease.

Ned gives a perfunctory nod, face perpetually solemn. “My lord.”

Jon stares up at him a moment, before standing from his chair, setting his parchment aside and quill back in its inkwell, motioning for Ned to take a seat beside him. Ned offers a quick, half-formed smile in thanks, hands moving from their hold at his back to settle himself into the cushioned chair.

Jon takes his seat once more as well.

“I’ll not waste your time, my lord,” Ned says gruffly. “I’ve come to ask something of you – concerning my daughter.”

In a strange, intangible sort of way, Jon finds this scene familiar. Except it’s his father sitting across from him, revealing the betrothal. It’s his father, setting Sansa in his path. It’s his father – commanding, and not asking.

Jon nods, mouth a firm line. “Of course, my lord.”

Ned takes a moment, drawing his breath in slow and measured, releasing it evenly. “I ask that you dispense with the bedding ceremony.”

Jon blinks at him, considering, a single brow cocking upward in silent question.

Ned scowls, the expression dark on his weathered face. “I’ve never liked the tradition myself. Forbade it for my own wedding, and my wife, well, she feels very much the same concerning Sansa. We’d rather she didn’t endure it.”

Jon nods, watching the older man quietly, leaning back in his chair to appraise him. “And what of what Lady Sansa wants?”

Ned’s frown deepens. “Apologies, my lord, but you’re far less observant than I’d taken you for if you think a bedding ceremony is considered one of my daughter’s even remotest wishes.”

Jon catches the laugh along his tongue at Lord Stark’s brusque tone, the blatant transparency of his remark refreshing beyond measure.

Like father, like daughter, Jon thinks. She has the Tully look, for certain, but also, apparently, the tongue of a Stark – winter-sharp and unrepentant.

“Then take care of her – properly.”

Are they all this unabashedly forward?

Jon shifts in his seat, elbow resting on the armrest, hand gliding over his beard. “No, I hardly took Lady Sansa as the sort,” he answers, lips pursed in thought. “I only meant, why does she not ask this of me herself?”

Ned seems to contemplate his answer a moment, arms stiff at his sides along the armrests of his chair. “She is…too dutiful, at times.” It’s said almost mournfully.

Jon wonders what it means to raise a daughter like a promise, to commit your flesh and blood to another, to grow them soft and pliant and knowing you can never let their roots take.

He wonders at what point it becomes regret.

“Sansa knows what this marriage means to our family,” Ned continues, voice rough and thoughtful, “What it means to both our families.”

‘Both our families’. As though Jon is not his. As though he is other.

Jon grinds his jaw, teeth aching in their clench.

It’s just another reminder, after all.

Ned seems to notice the slip a moment too late, mouth opening, considering, and then slowly closing shut.

Jon knows better than to foster false hope.

(Knows better than to call it hope.)

Jon clears his throat, hand falling from his beard. “You needn’t worry, my lord. I’d no intention of allowing the bedding ceremony in the first place.”

Ned narrows his eyes at him, but it’s not a suspicious look, simply a curious one. “Why? Not that I’m ungrateful for the consideration.”

“I’ve a distaste for the tradition myself,” he says, and it’s not a lie.

But it isn’t the whole truth either.

The whole truth is that he’s never been very good at sharing. And he’s brave enough to admit now that Sansa Stark is not something he wants to share.

She’s to be his – perhaps the first thing in this world that could rightly be called such.

His.

Jon curls his hands along his armrests.

No, he will not be sharing Sansa Stark – with anyone.

Ned nods at his answer, looking to the desk at their sides. “I know she will appreciate the gesture. It is a good start to the marriage.”

“Gods willing, it will be a better start than our betrothal had.”

Ned chuckles at that, glancing back at him, and the sound is warm and deep and stirring.

Jon watches, fascinated, as the lines at Ned’s mouth curl out into affection, the weight of his concern lifting with the humor. Jon has to look away before long, swallowing tightly.

Rhaegar hasn’t bothered to ask Jon about his preferences concerning the marriage, and he doesn’t expect him to. This is a duty, after all – to his family, his father, his kingdom. There is nothing ‘preferred’ about it.

And yet, even still, he’d have liked to be asked what wine he’d want served, how he’d like his cloak sown, which minstrels he’d want playing at their reception feast. Any of these tiny details, really. To know that it was his wedding, in some small measure, that they were celebrating.

His choice – in whatever insignificant way he can claim it as such.

Jon glances back to Ned.

Lord Stark loves his daughter dearly, Jon knows, to come to him with such a request. Something of admiration blooms faint in his chest at the thought.

“You’ve been married a fair amount of years, my lord,” Jon says in observation.

Ned leans his weight to one side, a brow arched in response.

“Can I expect the same with your daughter, do you think?”

“Well, that depends entirely on you,” Ned answers, amusement lighting his features.

It’s an unfamiliar expression on the grave man’s face, but Jon must admit to the charm it adds. “What do you mean?”

Ned settles back in his chair. “You have to be in this marriage with her, and not against her.”

Jon scowls, brows drawn down. “You say it like I’m actively trying to sabotage this marriage,” he contends.

He only raises a brow in response.

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You could hardly expect a Stark and Targaryen to get on from the beginning,” he says plainly.

Ned purses his lips, the amusement slipping from his face. “You’re more than a Targaryen,” he says lowly, almost furtively.

Like a long-kept secret let to air.

But Jon’s never thought to be more.

Bastards, even royal ones, know where the lines are drawn – perhaps better than anyone. They know what it means to long for more.

And what it means to bleed for it.

Ned cocks his head at Jon, a curious expression crossing his face.

“What?” he asks tentatively.

Ned shakes his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,” he says, “Nothing, I’m just…just lost in my ghosts is all.” His voice cracks at the end, swallowed back by a bitten off grunt.

Jon realizes belatedly that Ned’s been watching him, appraising him in a fashion, and when the older man’s mouth goes slack, and his brows knit together, and his eyes sheen with a faint wetness – Jon nearly bolts from the room with the sudden, unnerving realization.

His breath rakes through him painfully. “Do not tell me I look like her,” he says warningly, voice tight.

It needs no mentioning who ‘her’ is supposed to mean.

The recognition in Ned’s eyes tells him he knows, regardless.

Do not tell me I look like your dead sister, Jon thinks harshly, throat bobbing with strung emotion. He doesn’t know where this ache in his chest has come from. Cannot find the source. Doesn’t know how to clip it.

Do not tell me I look like my mother.

If he could smother this feeling, he would. If he could ring it out like a water-ladden cloth, he would. If he could cut it free like a fish struggling at the end of a hook, he would.

But he cannot.

“I’m not one of your ghosts,” he says quietly, far less firm than he intends. “So, don’t tell me I look like her.” The words are strung through with a thread that stiches its sounds together like a plea in warning’s guise.

A falsity.

A costume.

“I wouldn’t,” Ned says, voice rough. He blinks back the wetness, as though it never was, face solemn once more. Familiar. “Aside from it being only marginally true,” he attempts to jest, a sad sort of chuckle lighting along his throat, smoothing out into a contemplative hum, “I don’t…I don’t think the remark would be particularly appreciated.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Jon says in answer, throat tight. He clears it again, silently curses the falter in his words.

“No, I imagine not,” Ned muses quietly, something like regret marring his features.

Perhaps they are each other’s ghosts.

Perhaps theirs is a reflection neither has the heart to look upon.

They stay staring at each other for only moments longer, before Ned is pushing from his seat, offering a quick but respectful bow. “Then, let me excuse myself, my lord.” He moves to stalk away, back to the door, away and away and out of there. Unreachable. Another smokescreen settling back into place.

(And Jon is just so tired of falsities – of costumes.)

He turns abruptly in his chair. “Did she – ”

The words die instantly, choked back on a sharp inhale of restraint.

Still, the questions blister about his mind, endless, unquenchable.

Did she understand what she was doing? Did she love my father? Did she regret it? Did she miss you at all, miss Winterfell and home and the North? Did she suffer, in the end?

Jon swallows back the words –

Like a water-ladden cloth, twisted out and left to dry –

Like a fish struggling at the end of a hook, gasping.

Did she want me?

Jon closes his eyes, nails digging into his armrests, a heavy sigh breaking from him.

Ned stills at the threshold of his solar, shoulders broad and taut, dark hair brushing them, a slight turn to his head as he glances back at Jon, hesitant and hopeful in equal measure.

Jon begins to think he will never know the answer to such questions – never know, even, how to voice them.

But perhaps that’s the rub, isn’t it?

How do you ask for what you’ve never been allowed to want?

No, Jon thinks, eyes opening on a harsh exhale. Do not tell him he looks like his mother. Do not tell him of the North in him. Do not make him miss what he never had.

Ned stays staring at him silently over his shoulder. And then he takes a deep breath, lets it fill his lungs, releases it just as evenly. His eyes are impossibly soft in their harrowing greyness. “If – when – you want it, when you are ready – I will tell you about her. Everything I know. Everything I loved.” His voice grows strained, his throat flexing beneath his heavy swallow. “You need only ask.”

Jon stares at him for many moments, rooted to his seat, eyes unblinking. And then Ned is nodding his farewell, turning from him.

Jon feels it swell in him – this unexplainable hunger, this yearning for ghosts he doesn’t know how to lay to rest. “Thank you,” he says, voice catching, “Uncle.”

Ned halts with his hand at the door, and Jon can see the white of his knuckles when they clench around the knob. And then he’s offering a gruff exhale in acknowledgement, his grunt caught in his throat, before he’s turning the door handle and stepping from the room.

Jon cannot find it in himself to regret the words.

* * *

“Don’t use your wrists,” Jon finds himself saying, watching the young Stark boy swinging at the straw dummy when he comes upon him in the training yard. After several minutes of observation, he finally makes his presence known.

Bran glances back at the remark, stilling in his practice, arm held mid-rise toward the target in his path. “What?” he asks, startled at Jon’s sudden appearance at his elbow.

Jon reaches for the young man’s arm, hand gripping at his sword wrist, pulling it taut, straightening it. “Don’t bend at the wrist. Keep it locked – aligned.”

Bran adjusts in his grip. “Like this?”

“Yes. Now, with your shoulders. That’s where the strength is.” He steps back to let the boy swing.

Bran strikes at the straw dummy, a resounding blow landing at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He beams at the jostle his target takes.

Jon frowns at him, eyeing the young Stark’s stance. “You’re too old to be making such a mistake. Who have you been training with?”

“Ser Rodrik.”

Jon grumbles his disapproval. “Not much of ‘ser’, is he?”

Bran turns to face him more fully, a scowl at his lips. “He’s a great knight, my lord, I’m just…”

Jon raises a brow in question, a silent motion to continue.

His sword dropping in his hold, Bran sighs up at Jon. “Well, I suppose I don’t listen like I should sometimes.”

Jon has to smile at him then, at the unabashed way the young Stark admits to the failing. There’s something endearing about the admission. “Impatience kills as easily as incompetence,” he says.

Bran wrinkles his nose in distaste at the remark. “That’s what Ser Rodrick says.”

Jon chuckles. “Then I suppose you do listen to him sometimes.”

Bran grins roguishly up at Jon, sword tipping into the dirt, nearly forgotten. “Only sometimes.”

“You know, that’s hardly becoming of an aspiring squire.”

Bran’s grin wilts slightly, his brows bunching. “Well, Robb never squired for anyone and he’s the best swordsman in Winterfell.”

Jon nods at him, mouth pursed in thought. “Yes, but your brother seems far less the impatient sort than you.” He cocks a brow, as though in challenge. “Ignoring your lessons doesn’t make you the greatest swordsman in Winterfell, after all.”

Bran peers up at him thoughtfully. “He says you can handle a blade well enough yourself.”

“Does he now?”

“Which in Robb-speak, means you’re the toughest opponent he’s ever faced.” Bran flashes him a brilliant smile.

Jon laughs at the sight, unable to smother the sound when he brings his fist up to cover his mouth. “Yes, well, that comes from not ignoring my mentors,” he says pointedly.

Bran looks up at him with a boyish eagerness. “Who did you train under?”

Jon’s soft grin wilts at the edges, a soreness lighting in his chest at the remembrance. “Ser Arthur Dayne,” he says, swallowing tightly, “before his passing.”

Bran taps the end of his sword in the dirt, watching it mulishly. “I should have liked to meet him.”

Jon clears his throat, looks to the side. “He was the best man I’ve ever known.” It comes out like gravel in his throat.

“Ser Jaime squired for him, didn’t he?”

Jon looks back to Bran only to find him watching him curiously. And all at once, he knows where the young Stark is leading this. His lip twitches at the thought. “He did,” he says, words clipped.

“To squire for Ser Jaime would be the next best thing, then,” he says, though it comes out almost like a question – searching for some kind of confirmation. Approval, perhaps.

Jon finds the idea unsettling in its assumed intimacy.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his mouth, moving around to the weapons rack to peruse the sparring blades. “Is that what you want?”

Bran shrugs, coming up beside him, looking up at him. “I want to learn from the best.”

Jon frowns, throwing him a cautious look. “Perhaps you’re too young to understand, but there’s a certain amount of politics to these sorts of things.”

Bran huffs, exasperated, the kind of boyish frustration that comes with being told one is ‘too young’ one too many times marring his features. “What does politics have to do with me squiring for Jaime Lannister?” he asks hotly.

Jon turns a warning look at the boy (man, almost, he corrects himself, voice no longer cracking, limbs not so much gangly as they are long, something keen about his eyes that tells Jon he’ll have to offer up more than a simple ‘Because I said so’). With his eyes still trained on Bran, Jon traces the hilt of a sparring sword absently, before he drops his hand back to his side and turns to face him fully. “You know your history, I’m sure. I could hardly believe Lord Stark not educating his children on that front.”

Bran eyes him shrewdly. “What do you mean?”

“Jaime Lannister killed Robert Baratheon in the rebellion.”

“Not without almost dying in the process.”

“Yes, but that’s not – ” Jon huffs, licking his lips. “That’s not the point.”

Growing restless, Bran sets his sword against the rack, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then what is your point, my lord?”

Jon almost rears back at the question, baffled as to how the matter could be so entirely and unarguably lost on the boy. It brews an exhausted frustration in him, his brows pinching together. “You’re asking about squiring for a man who killed your father’s dear friend – his sworn brother.” He cannot say it more plainly than that. He regrets that he has to at all, in some respects.

But Bran only looks at him, cocking his head. An acutely pensive look crosses the young man’s face, blue eyes blinking furiously at him, lips pursed in consideration. He opens his mouth, speaks with a surety that is strangely foreign to Jon in its self-awareness. “I’m not my father,” he says simply, as though he doesn’t understand how Jon doesn’t understand this, as though it should be universally known – a clear and substantial rebuke to any kind of ‘politicking’ such a relationship would garner.

And Jon wants to laugh suddenly.

“Why should I bear the repercussions of something I had no hand in?” Bran asks honestly – guileless and unpracticed.

The boy (man, Jon tells himself again) says it as though that is the end of it, as though Jon is the foolish one here – trying to pin ghosts at their feet he has no intention of acknowledging, draping them with a weight he has no intention of carrying.

And what a wonder – to be so free of the past. To refuse the haunting.

Jon blinks back at Bran, mouth tipping open, tongue heavy.

“I’m not my father.”

(Can it be so simple?)

Bran uncrosses his arms, looking out across the training yard with a weary sigh. “Why does it have to be more complicated than that?”

Jon sucks a sharp breath in, chest tingling beneath the draw. He wipes a hand over his mouth, shaking his head, and the soft, rueful chuckle that lights his lips is both drowning and dawning.

Because maybe it really is that simple.

Bran blinks up at him curiously, gaze appraising, a glint to his Tully blue eyes that seems all at once older than his years and yet young beyond measure. Infinite. Fathomless.

What could the past be, really, to such clear, keen eyes? What could it be, beyond someone else’s burden?

Jon purses his lips, his chuckle smothered instantly behind grinding teeth.

What could it mean, beyond shadows?

Horizons are sunlit things, after all, and Bran’s eyes are trained forward.

Jon grabs for Bran’s forgotten sword, hefting it toward the boy. Bran catches it clumsily, mouth tipping open in argument, but Jon is grabbing his own sword off the rack, circling over to the center of the training yard. “You want to learn from the best?” he asks harshly, more a demand than anything.

Bran watches him with owlishly wide eyes, holding the blade to his chest, before following dumbly toward him, readying into a low stance.

Jon frowns at him. “Tuck your thumbs in,” he says brusquely.

Bran does – although badly.

Jon raps him on the hand with his blunted sword.

“Ow,” Bran whines sharply, whipping back from the sudden strike, shaking his hand out as he takes the sword in his other hand.

Jon steps around him slowly. “Tuck your thumbs in,” he says again, near on a bark.

Bran’s eyes go dark, focused, brows drawn down in concentration. He grips his sword again, thumbs tucked properly.

Jon lunges again, sword striking the young Stark’s knuckles once more. Bran nearly drops the blade this time, a sharp yelp leaving him when he draws back, cradling his reddening sword hand. He scowls up at him, “My lord – ”

“Ser Jamie will give you worse,” he says, face still sharp and focused. “Now, again.”

Bran blinks at him.

Jon whips his sword in a low arc. Bran parries it at the last second. Another swing. A dodge, backstepping, fingers curling tight along the hilt.

“Again,” Jon barks.

Bran grinds his teeth, knuckles aching, skin welting red. He glares up at Jon, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold of his sparring sword. Smarting and wounded, he stands.

Jon lets the smirk blossom at the edges of his mouth, stepping into his lunge.

Bran is panting, ragged, eyes blazing up at him.

But his thumbs are tucked in – finally.

Jon’s smirk widens, knees bending when he lowers into a ready stance. A slight nod – an acknowledgement.

The sun is high over the courtyard, the shadows waning.

“Again,” he demands.

Bran meets him without hesitance.

* * *

She’s in her solar when Jon finds her. His knock is short and clipped – efficient. She stands in greeting when he sweeps into the room upon her beckoning, the door swinging shut behind him. He comes in like a gale, stops just as abruptly at the edge of her desk.

Her mouth tips open, her surprise halting the words along her tongue until a curious “My lord” finally broaches her lips.

Jon nods in greeting, mouth pursed.

It’s a stiff silence that descends upon them then, with Sansa wavering behind her desk, her letter to her mother laying half-penned atop the wood. She remembers her courtesies suddenly. “Please, my lord,” she says, motioning for the two cushioned chairs beside her desk, walking around the edge toward them. “Shall I call for some wine? Tea, perhaps?”

“No,” he says gruffly, hand wiping down his mouth, “No, you needn’t bother, my lady.” He follows her urging and takes a seat beside her in the cushioned chairs.

She stays silent, just watching him. She folds her hands demurely atop her lap.

He says nothing.

Sansa stays staring at him, hesitant to broach the quiet, preferring to let him come to his words in his own time.

He’s staring at the desk, throat flexing in his swallow.

Instantly, Sansa is reminded of that day she’d watch him spar with Robb. She’s seen her brothers and Theon sparring often, seen them with Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel, even with their father at times when he was in a mood to humor Robb. But Jon is…

Sansa straightens in her seat, a thrum of recollection lighting her skin.

Jon is something else entirely when he’s got a blade in his hand. She’s not too proud to admit the sight had taken her breath away. She’d watched in mute fascination as he glided around Robb effortlessly, striking with a strength that resounded throughout the courtyard, the coiled muscles of his forearms clenching with each swing, glinting with sweat beneath the afternoon sun. His hair had grown damp with sweat soon enough, clinging to his forehead in dark wisps, and his tunic had –

Sansa glances to her hands.

She’d clearly been able to see the definition of his chest, the hard lines of his waist, when he’d twist into a parry, the cotton material of his tunic pulled taut over sweat-lined skin. Her eyes had followed the sinew of muscle at his throat down, down, down – beneath the unlaced collar of his tunic.

And yet, what had struck her truly breathless – what had rooted her to the spot with a thrumming anticipation that made her throat go dry – was his eyes. That heady, uninterrupted stare when he tugged open the laces of his jerkin at the start of the spar. The way he kept staring, as he pulled the material from his body, purposeful and intent. The dark, unfettered look he’d pinned her with as he stalked toward the center of the yard, body a rigid, lean line.

The way she hadn’t been able to stop herself from glancing at his full mouth for half an instant when he’d finally torn his gaze from hers.

She wonders, deliriously, if his lips are as soft and plush as they look – if he would take her mouth gently and ardently. Or if he would take it roughly – as heated and cutting as the words that have spilled from that deceptively supple mouth of his.

Sansa presses her knees together, an unfamiliar warmth suffusing her, knuckles white in their grip atop her lap. She clears her throat.

This seems to drag Jon from whatever haze has overtaken him. “Apologies, my lady, for interrupting you.” He motions to the unfurled scroll atop her desk.

Sansa brushes away an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “It’s no interruption, really. A letter to my mother, is all.”

Jon watches her, pensive. “You miss her?”

“Of course,” she says, something halfway between a scoff and a laugh leaving her. She smothers it quickly.

But Jon does not comment on it, only nods, glancing back to the desk. “You’ve given up much to satisfy this betrothal.”

Sansa furrows her brows. “It is my duty, my gift to my people. It is not a sacrifice made unwillingly.”

Jon glances back to her, eyes alarmingly grey – Stark grey. And Sansa is thrown once more. Such familiarity, framed by such strangeness. It’s a face she feels she should know, somewhere inside her.

Jon releases a rueful chuckle. “A sacrifice, huh? Is that what marrying me is to you?”

Sansa catches her lip between her teeth, suddenly regretful of how she’d said the words. She’d meant to reassure him, not estrange him. She fumbles for a response.

Jon doesn’t let her flail for long, though. He shakes his head, a hand waving her off. “No, that’s not – that’s not what I meant.” He heaves a long-labored sigh.

Sansa blinks at him, skin tingling, unsure and hesitant.

He sighs again, harshly this time, a hand raked through his curls. “I mean – do you not want more?”

Sansa sucks a sharp breath between her teeth.

Oh, but she’d dreamt of more. For so long, and so fiercely, and without reprieve. She’d dreamt of more since she first caught sight of him atop the steps to the Red Keep, wrapped in Targaryen red and black, a dark silhouette against the burning sun, her shadow-lined prince, her unmitigated future.

Her storybook tales set to a dark, uncompromising backdrop.

Her wonder made harrowing.

She licks her lips, curls her hands atop her lap. “’More’…how?” she asks tentatively.

More, she thinks – in every way.

(Even in ways she doesn’t recognize yet.)

More – somehow – than settling, at least.

Jon cocks his head at her, watching her in consideration.

She feels her cheeks heating beneath his stare, unbidden. He makes no comment on it.

Many moments pass – quietly and uninterrupted – while they sit staring at each other. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s a lulling, thoughtful one, eyes curious and yielding. A temperate sort of ease settles between them.

And then Jon draws a soft, quick breath in. “May I tell you a story, Lady Sansa?”

Her mouth tips open, skin flushing at the strangely intimate way he mouths her name, the syllables awash in a tenderness she can’t decipher. She nods mutely, her breath still held prisoner in her lungs.

Jon’s gaze goes hard, hands bunching into fists atop his lap. He takes a single, deep breath – lets it to air. Something seems to settle within him. “Seven years ago, with Stannis’ last attack on the capital, my sister was abducted.”

Sansa’s mind whirls. “What?” she says on a soft exhale.

“Rhaenys,” he continues, voice low and rough, a tight swallow halting the words a moment. “She was taken from her bed the night of the siege.”

Sansa’s eyes go wide, spine straightening in her seat. “But I – I never heard…”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Sansa steals a sharp breath through her nose. She recalls tell of the failed siege from her father and mother, though never of any harm falling upon the royal family. Aegon and Jon fought in the siege themselves, but Stannis was driven away eventually, though not without losses, of course.

“But…how?”

“Baratheon loyalists in the Red Keep,” Jon supplies. “She was to be his bargaining chip, should he lose the siege. She was recovered that same night but…but not before the damage could be done.”

Sansa feels ill suddenly, a hand slinking up to grip at the collar of her dress. “Was she… was her virtue – ”

Jon stands swiftly, effectively cutting her off. He stalks over to the desk, bracing his hands along the edge as a heavy breath racks him. She can see the clench of his knuckles from where she sits. “Was she raped?” he spits, putting form to the words she couldn’t fathom herself.

She hasn’t even the strength to nod, staring at him with a sickening horror when he turns to look at her over his shoulder, gaze dark and angry and more vicious than she’s ever seen him.

Her mouth parts, words failing her.

His only answer is a short, perfunctory nod, his jaw grinding, a sheen of wetness over his eyes that he blinks away instantly.

“Oh gods,” Sansa says on a spent breath, her hand releasing her collar to press over her mouth. She closes her eyes, shakes her head.

If it were her or Arya that was taken, if it was her life and her honor that had been threatened, taken, defiled so.

Gods, she couldn’t even fathom the wrath Robb would set upon the world.

She blinks her eyes open to find Jon turned fully from the desk, leaning back on it with his hands gripping the edge behind him. He’s watching her, chest heaving in the recollection of his fury, eyes unblinking on her.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, the sickness still bobbing at the back of her throat.

How vile.

How utterly, needlessly vile. To be a girl in this world, and to suffer for it so.

‘A bargaining chip’. Worth only in what she can be traded for – whether that be her father’s surrender, or a single night of stolen honor. Sansa finds an unfamiliar anger stirring in her gut, slowly overtaking the disgust.

“Whether her rape was Stannis’ intention from the start or just that of the sick, detestable men who took her, just a game to pass the time before they met up with the main Baratheon camp, I’ve no idea. And I don’t fucking care, either.”

Sansa realizes, distantly, that she should be offended by such language, but it’s the furthest thing from her mind at the moment. She stands then, stepping toward him cautiously.

“It was done in his name,” Jon continues, words a grated hiss, quite literally shaking in his fury. “That’s on him. It will always be on him,” he promises darkly. He tears his gaze away, glaring at the far wall instead, taking a steadying breath in.

“The Baratheons are a gutless sort. No honor amongst them.” Jon’s words from that night ring hollowly in her ears. She swallows that thick slice of unease back, tucking it beneath her tongue.

“How did she…?” She hates how her words have failed her in this moment, but it’s a tangled pit of anguish brewing in her chest that she doesn’t recognize, and it’s jarring, and alarming, and soon to overtake her. So, she breathes deep, licks her lips, concentrates on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the glaring white of his knuckles, the harsh line of his frown. Her mind narrows to a pinprick focus:

Jon.

She stifles the urge to reach for him.

Jon seems to understand her fragmented words regardless, and Sansa doesn’t linger long on what that means.

He drags his gaze back to hers, something flickering in his eyes that looks strikingly like grief – long-honed and cradled like a wound. “Ser Arthur Dayne,” he says, voice cracking at the end.

Sansa narrows her eyes in confusion. “Ser Arthur Dayne died in the siege, didn’t he?”

Jon cocks his head, a subtle shake only intensifying her confusion. “Not…exactly.”

She takes another step toward him, standing but a foot away now, hands bunching unsurely in her skirts. “What do you mean?”

Jon rubs a hand down his face, sighing with the motion. He glances away from her again, and the sheen of wetness is back, glaringly discernible in the low afternoon light through the windows. “Arthur rode out after them when he’d realized what happened – rode the whole night through, laming his horse, following their tracks until he came upon their camp. Managed to kill her captors without waking the rest of the camp, got Rhaenys on a horse but she was – she was mad,” Jon cuts off, shaking his head, “She wouldn’t stop wailing, brought the rest of the camp out of their tents, and Arthur barely got them onto the horse, tore out of there in the night, the Baratheons running after them and he – ” Jon chokes back the sudden catch in his words, hand brought up to his mouth, jaw quaking.

Sansa moves instantly, before she even realizes the need in her, and she settles her hand at his arm, fingers gripping at his sleeve.

He stares down at the touch, his hand sliding from his mouth.

Sansa feels the salt sting of tears at the edges of her eyes, and she doesn’t know whether it’s from embarrassment or a deep, shuddering grief, but she thinks it doesn’t matter, in the end. It doesn’t matter at all, because he’s still staring down at her hand and she thinks she even hears his breath catch and she realizes, suddenly, that it’s the first she’s ever reached for him herself.

That warmth from earlier, that unfamiliar coil tight in her gut – it curls in the pit of her now.

Her hand tightens over his sleeve, thumb brushing hesitantly along his forearm through the fabric. She barely breathes as she watches him beneath the flutter of her lashes.

He’s still staring down at her hand when he finally speaks, voice clogged with emotion. “He took seventeen arrows to the back – a shield, in place of her – as they rode away.”

Sansa’s eyes flutter shut at the words, that sundering grief carving deeper.

Jon takes a breath, glances up at her. “We came upon them near dawn,”

Sansa opens her eyes as he continues, hand jerking when she catches him watching her. Her nails must be digging uncomfortably into his arm now, she thinks distractedly, but he makes no move to disentangle from her.

“Aegon and I, and only a few of our most trusted men, went out to catch the bastards immediately following Stannis’ retreat, when we’d discovered what happened. Father had Rhaenys’ attending maids taken for interrogation, or maybe just to silence them, I can’t be sure.” His gaze hardens on hers, shifting along the desk as he straightens somewhat. “You must understand, even if she’d remained untouched in their hands, her virtue would come into question regardless, were her abduction made public. She would be tarnished forever, her honor irreparably marred, her marriage prospects void – ”

Sansa’s other hand comes up to mirror the first at his rising voice, his sudden heated panic.

He seems to calm visibly, a heavy, shuddering breath leaving him, his eyes screwed shut as he reins himself in.

“I understand,” she says softly, her own anger broiling in her chest. Her tongue is tart with it.

Jon looks upon her again, mouth a thin line, eyes impossibly dark. “We barely made it six leagues from King’s Landing when her half-dead horse came over the hill toward us. Arthur was already dead at her back, his arms still locked around her, his head lolling over her shoulder, his blood drenching the front of her dress and all down her back, and the look on her face – gods, but the look on her face. She may as well have been as dead as him. So pale and drawn, eyes like I’ve never seen. Like she couldn’t see me. Couldn’t see me at all. And when we stopped her horse and Aegon dragged her from the saddle like a weightless doll, and Arthur’s body fell to the ground and we held her between us, Aegon and I, and she just didn’t move at all, just – just completely catatonic, and she was whispering something, eyes dead, and when I bent my head to hers I could finally hear her –

“’Ride,’ she kept saying. Over and over again. Said she’d begged him to stop, cried for it, clawed at him, every time she felt the thunk of an arrow piercing him as they fled, and he just tightened his hold on her and told her…‘Ride’.” Jon dips his head, face a ruin.

Sansa steps into him, her skirts brushing against his legs, her hands sliding up his arms to grasp at his shoulders. She’s shaking her head, the tears gathering in her eyes unabashed now. Her throat is parched, the words laying slaughtered there – no air.

“He was the best man I ever knew. And he was – he was like a fa – ” Jon stops abruptly, catching the words before they hit air, clearing his throat painfully.

“Oh Jon, I’m so sorry,” she says softly, shaking her head, an ache in her, hands sliding back down his arms in what she hopes is comfort.

He stiffens beneath her hands.

She stills then, suddenly recognizing her slip in decorum, her informal address of a prince. She blinks wide eyes at him, but there’s no trace of offense in his gaze, no discomfort or irritation. Instead, his eyes are searching and narrowed, his mouth pursed tight as he reaches a hesitant hand up toward the ends of her hair spilling over her shoulder. He catches a tendril between his thumb and forefinger, pressing it between his fingertips almost reverently. Sansa tries not to think of the way his hand is half a breath away from brushing her breast, or the way he leans toward her almost unconsciously, or the way his gaze flickers to her lips for the briefest of moments. She notices, belatedly, how close she’s standing to him, how intimate their position against the desk, just as he stands fully, narrowing that distance even more, and she steps back to avoid the proximity, her hands falling from his shoulders as if burned.

She doesn’t miss the brush of his fingertips along her waist as though he’d meant to reach for her, before she’s backing away enough to avoid the touch.

Jon releases the strand of hair in his grasp, staring at her silently, chest heaving. She smooths her hands over her skirts, trying to rein her breath in. “Apologies, my lord, for the informality. That was imprudent of me.”

“No, I – ” He doesn’t finish, mouth clamped shut over the words.

They stand before each other in stifling silence, Sansa unable to meet his gaze, and Jon unwilling to tear his from her. A sound brews in Jon’s throat – not quite a grunt, not quite a sigh. It draws Sansa’s attention back to him.

“The realm lost a great knight that day, and I…I lost more than that,” he says cautiously, and Sansa cannot help the wonder that branches through her lungs at the admission, the openness of it.

Her hands unclench from her skirts unconsciously.

“Rhaenys and I, we – ” Another tight swallow, a glance away. His gaze shutters off, dark and remote again, as though in another time – a place she cannot reach, nor is allowed to. “We were ill-equipped to deal with the aftermath.”

He offers nothing more, though something digs beneath her skin with wariness at the words. She doesn’t linger on it long though, another kind of dread pricking at her awareness instead. She cocks her head at him, brows furrowed in thought. “Why are you telling me this, my lord?”

Jon looks back to her, and he looks so utterly exhausted somehow – so worn and weary and grave. She sees it now, in the lines at his mouth, and his dark brow, and his steady, unavoidable gaze. She sees the glimpse of her father she’d thought to shut out, the Stark she was beginning to think had died somewhere along the way, before she ever set foot in a sunlit dragon pit.

(A face she feels she should know, somewhere inside her. A face she finds she does know, now – if even in the smallest of measures.)

Jon licks his lips, and Sansa barely resists the startling urge to watch the motion, her own lips parting in quiet anticipation.

“I want to be in this marriage with you,” he says, gaze intent on hers. “And not against you, Sansa.”

She stares at him, chest tight, the sound of her name on his lips nearly stumbling her. Her brows angle down sharply, throat flexing beneath her tight swallow. “It is my wish as well,” she says numbly, breathless, still reeling from the thrum of heat his proximity had lit in her.

A gruff sigh leaves him, face flooding with irritation. “Then please understand why I spoke to you the way I did that night at dinner.”

Sansa flushes with the remembrance, a familiar anger washing out the tingle of heat along her skin. She frowns instantly at the reminder, teeth clenching, though she tries to temper her reaction with the knowledge of what he’s just shared with her, his rightful wrath toward Stannis, his fierce defense of family – a fierceness she understands all too well, given her own staunch loyalty to much the same.

“You want to be in this marriage with me,” she says, testing the words along her tongue. “And I appreciate that sentiment, more than you can know, especially given what you’ve just shared with me, completely of your own volition. And believe me, my lord, the importance is not lost on me.” She straightens her shoulders, lip caught between her teeth, stepping toward him hesitantly. She ignores the shudder that racks through her when his gaze catches the motion, following her with a dark look. “But this marriage takes two of us.”

And maybe it’s selfish of her, maybe it’s spite. To still want an apology. To still smart from his remarks, his rebuke, as though she were a child playing at court. And maybe she is.

Maybe this is how Jon Targaryen apologizes, and she’s just too stubborn to recognize it for the attempt it is.

Sansa sighs, pursing her lips.

No, she should be more gracious. Jon had nothing to gain by sharing his and Rhaenys’ past with her, nothing at all but her faith, her understanding. The chance at her walking this path with him. To know him.

In all the painful, ill-kept ways he’s so clearly reluctant to allow.

And yet, here he is before her.

What is left, Sansa wonders, when it all gets stripped away? The princely titles, and the courtly conduct, and the house fealty. What is left, of Jon the man?

She thinks of the wetness dotting his eyes, and the soft press of his fingertips at the edge of her hair, and the easy, intimate way her name had left his lips.

Jon, the man.

Sansa swallows thickly.

She thinks she may be closer to it than she imagines.

“Thank you,” she says, a strange longing settling in her chest, “For trusting me with this.” She clears her throat, overcome with the weight of it. “I know it couldn’t have been easy. I know…” She trails off, her words slowing to a halt.

Because what did she know? Truly?

What did she know?

Tears prick at her eyes – born of frustration and helplessness and a keen, ripe sorrow.

(She knows she doesn’t want to be alone in this. That much she knows. Everything else is static.)

Jon’s hands wind around her face suddenly, without warning, and he’s stepping into her, backing her up with the fervency of it, and Sansa gasps at the motion, hands going for his wrists, eyes wide, breath raking from her. “My lord, what are you – ”

“You’re in danger here, don’t you understand?” he hisses lowly, mouth braced just above hers, eyes blazing suddenly, the heat of him pressed to her chest.

Sansa wrenches her arms between them, pressing at his chest. “I don’t – I don’t…” She stops, swallows, trembling in his hold. “What are you doing?”

His fingers flex over her cheekbones, warm along her skin, his eyes darting between hers, and she slumps against him instinctively, hands curling in his tunic. “You’re a traitor’s daughter, whether you agree with the title or not,” he says lowly, dragging her back to him when she moves to pull away, anger spitting white hot along her skin at his words. She narrows her eyes dangerously at him. He ignores the glare, eyes imploring on hers, a quiver to his brow that throws her. “And you have to be careful, Sansa.”

“For your sake?” she spits, unable to quell the spite, the frustration. Tainted by association, isn’t it?

“Damn it, girl, for yours,” he growls at her mouth, stilling her.

Sansa blinks up at him, chest heaving, hands still clutched in the material at his chest.

Jon licks his lips, eyes still fervent on hers, his whole body taut like a strung bow. “I’d no intention to belittle you, to condescend, please, you have to know that. You’re to be my wife, and I will stand by you, I swear it, but you cannot expect me to stay silent when you flirt with treason at my family’s fucking dinner table,” he snarls, desperate, breath hot against her cheeks, fingers digging into her flesh as his hands slip down from her cheeks, brace at the nape of her neck, cupping the back of her head. Her copper hair streams through his fingers, and a sharp, uncontrollable rush lances through her at the intimacy of the touch, the roughness of his hands, the possessiveness with which he holds her to him.

“Our father is a fair ruler, but you can be sure, he will not tolerate treason.”

The words come back to her instantly.

"My father is a good, faithful lord."

"No one is denying it. I'm simply warning you, in hopes that it stays such."

A warning, he’d said.

Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth.

It’s always been a warning, not a condemnation.

“Let me go,” she whispers hoarsely, trembling beneath his hands, weak and humbled beyond words.

He releases her reluctantly, stepping back from her, fingers trailing absently past her jaw when he withdraws.

Sansa presses her mouth into a tight line at the retreating touch, inexplicably cold at his absence.

(Ice used to be so comforting before.)

“For your sake, my lady,” he begins lowly, his words slow and measured, “And for your family’s.”

She looks up sharply at that.

He sighs, and it seems to take all of him. “Do not be so reckless with your words. There are worse things to suffer in the capital than a wounded pride.”

Sansa remembers berating Bran, when they first arrived at King’s Landing, for even mentioning the issue of succession should Prince Aegon die. And yet she had openly contested the Targaryens’ position in the rebellion, defending her father (her father who had willingly knelt – to save his people).

Wolves do not kneel, she had once thought. But more than that – like an incessant whisper at the back of her mind – an inescapable knowledge settles over her –

Wolves protect the pack.

So, she will keep her tongue, so long as it means her family’s continuance. She will collar her treasons, if it means safeguarding the North.

Sansa takes a hard look at Jon, at the open way he watches her, desperate, anxious.

Her shoulders pull taut.

She will keep her husband’s confidence.

(With him, and not against him.)

The first offer of trust between them – tentative and half-formed, a new road being eked out in the wilderness.

“I understand, my lord,” she says, the words steady. Her hands smooth over her skirts, jaw clenching tight.

Jon sighs, nodding. His gaze flicks to the wall, across to the door, back to her. He wipes a hand down his mouth, brows knitted together. “The past is the past. Let it be that. And nothing more.”

She looks at him shrewdly – silent in her skepticism.

Jon takes her hand, startling her. Her mouth parts, a sound catching in her throat.

He is infinitely gentle with his touch. “I will do my best to keep to that, as well.” He offers a crooked grin, blinking up at her through the dark fringe of his curls.

The image is far more charming than she expects, her skin tingling when she feels the tender swipe of his thumb over her knuckles.

“You are free to call me on it, if I don’t,” he offers on a light chuckle.

“I will,” she says automatically, mouth clamping shut after the words. She doesn’t trust herself to say more.

Jon nods, looking at their joined hands. A weariness seems to overtake him then, a slump to his shoulders. “Let the boy squire for who he wishes – no politics about it.”

Sansa sucks a quiet breath in, watching him in keen interest. “Let the past be the past?”

“Let the past be the past,” he agrees softly.

So that the future may grow untethered.

Sansa is about to curl her hand around his, to anchor her touch to his, when he brings her hand up and plants a kiss atop her knuckles, quick and unexpected, releasing her hand after a moment’s lingering.

She finds she wasn’t ready for him to let go so quickly.

“Then, if you’ll excuse me, my lady. I should let you return to your letters. But I…I thank you for your time.” He folds his hands behind his back, keeping her gaze for another moment, and then turning swiftly for the door.

She watches him go, eyes trailing over his broad shoulders, the dark cut of his leathers, the shadow he lines her room with.

A slant of light from the nearby window breaks across his silhouette when he stops, turns to her.

“I would have done the same,” he tells her.

Sansa arches a brow in question.

“You asked if I would have done differently from your father, if it were my father and brother murdered so.”

Sansa’s breath halts in her chest, a faint blossom of yearning planted deep within her.

She dares not move.

Jon reaches for the door, palm stilling over the handle. His eyes are dark and purposeful on hers when he tells her, “I would have done the same.”

She moves toward him, but he is already pulling the door open, already stalking through it, already leaving her.

Sansa stands, quaking, fingers knotted together before, halted in the center of her solar, staring at the wide-open door he’s left behind.

(More – somehow – than settling.

She had hoped for it once.)

His lips leave a burning imprint over her knuckles.

(More.)

There’s a wolf at her breast, its teeth pressed to her heart, bared over her ribcage.

More, it howls.

And Sansa does not know how to smother it.

#jonsa #from instep to heel #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #game of thrones #got fanfic #my writing

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marryat92 · 4 years

Photo

Screen shots from a DVD of Carol Reed's 1935 film adaptation of Mr. Midshipman Easy, starring then 15-year-old Hughie Green as the title character. It opens with a stirring rendition of “Haul Away Joe,” backed by a full orchestra, as a surprisingly impressive HMS Harpy sails into view. There’s not much else to recommend it.

My expectations for the special effects were low, and I was pleasantly surprised by the quality. The frigate looks good, the naval scenes are better than I expected, and while the costuming is flawed it's not too detracting. The movie doesn't look or feel low-budget for its time period.

On the down side, the casting of major characters was poor— they really look nothing like their descriptions in the book. Hughie Green is a little blond slip of a boy who looks nothing like the tall, heavyset character with curly black hair who is already an expert fighter from his schoolboy days. The actor playing rival midshipman Vigors looks more like Jack Easy than Jack Easy, shown here in a scene where they confront each other in the midshipmen’s berth.

I like the casting choice for Ned Gascoigne, at right, although I will never get over blond pipsqueak Jack Easy. The actors are age-appropriate for their characters although they look like children to me. It drives home how much warfare in this time period involved minors (who were very much considered to be minors, since a man did not legally reach adulthood until age 21). Many Marryat heroes, Jack Easy included, impatiently wait to reach the age of majority.

Here’s a very good First Lieutenant Sawbridge at left, and a handsome Captain Wilson at right. But what is that thing in the middle!? I’m so dismayed that that is supposed to be the boatswain Mr. Biggs. He’s a “slight, dapper man” in the book, who is inordinately proud of his fancy watch, but in this movie adaptation he’s a slovenly, obese character played for laughs (and the trousers-stealing scene doesn’t even make it into the movie.)

I’m equally annoyed with the Mr. Easthupp in this movie, at right next to Biggs. The book doesn’t talk about his age or physique (although he seems young-ish to me), but the purser’s steward is a “remarkably neat dresser” who is effeminate and very stylish. I’m really not getting that from this character actor, who is British but makes no attempt at Easthupp’s Cockney accent and buckish slang. The famous three-way duel with Easthupp, Biggs, and Jack Easy is in the movie, but in a mangled, truncated version that loses all the humor.

I understand that you have to cut out a lot of material from Mr. Midshipman Easy to condense it into a feature-length film; this is the case with all Marryat novels. In a perfect world they would all get television miniseries. But even allowing for the abridged version of the story, it's just too different in this adaptation. The characters in some cases have very little resemblance to their book versions, and others have been reduced to an insignificant role.

Margaret Lockwood plays Easy's love interest Donna Agnes. Although Lockwood was only 19 at the time, the heavy makeup and penciled eyebrows make her look much older; and with the 15-year-old Green looking like he's 12 they make for a creepy-looking couple. I’m glad that they parted as girlfriend and boyfriend in this version rather than getting married at the conclusion.

In the book their relationship is handled in a surprisingly respectful and deft way. Agnes is only 14 to Jack’s 16 or 17 when they meet, and they get to know each other better over the course of years. Jack even learns Spanish to write love letters to Agnes. (In the movie all the Spanish characters speak accented English, because of course they do.) The movie adaptation is very shallow in every way, compared to the book.

I’ve read praise for the British Guyanese actor Robert Adams, who plays Mesty in this film, but Mesty’s role wasn’t handled well either. Marryat doesn’t exactly write in a racially enlightened way, since he makes Mesty speak in a stereotypical dialect —including having Mesty learn English from Irish immigrants, so Marryat can mock Irish as well as black dialects— but the fact that Mesty has experienced unfair racial discrimination is taken pretty seriously in the book. In the movie he’s a bland supporter of Jack Easy with no pathos of his own.

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sebthesnipe · 4 years

Text

The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagin an Analysis? Part 2

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Dreamer

by @whatwashernameagain

Reminder: Spoilers under cut!

So… Where were we? Aw yes… The desperation for acceptance of a POV which is both unique and far out of the reach of the human populous as a whole. In other in other words, Logan being very lonely and wanting to share his ideas with the world and hoping against hope he will not always be alone in them… heartbreaking…

The next portion of Whatwashernameagain’s work introduces The Dreamer. Going into the work with foreknowledge of the ship and the characters within, we as the readers (or I, rather) know that Roman is The Dreamer and thus know that Logan is referring to him. So, to be completely honest I am not sure if I am imagining this next bit or if it is truly the case (hence why I have chosen to focus more on Reader-Response theory rather than some of the more closed reading disciplines). However, in Logan’s first description of The Dreamer there are a few …. Odd choices in wordings. Eva writes:

“The one thing consistently standing between him and the fulfillment of his plans had turned out to be an outrageously insignificant detail…. This thorn in his shoe showed up at the most inopportune moments, predictably puffing up his chest in his ridiculous, unpractical costume, ready to boldly reassure the public before thoughtlessly storming in to hinder his plans with his irritating presence” (Whatwashernameagain).

There are a number of things in this small paragraph that gives way to yet even more of Logan’s personality, still molding the mental image that the author is painting while still leaving the blanks to be filled in our heads. ‘Consistently’ being italicized, for example, provides me with the mental image of a small tick of annoyance like Logan is mentally hissing the word while his index finger and thumb are pressed together drawing it out with annoyance (kinda like Moriarty during the pool scene in BBC’s Sherlock). Anyways, it immediately pulls the reader back into his frustration but this time… something is different.

Lets recap a moment, So far we know that Logan is a cold calculating man with only his work to keep him company; we know that he wishes for someone to share his view points but otherwise hasn’t really shown any emotional fluctuations (he obviously has emotions, there just seem muted almost) and yet his train of thought here, indicated by the italics is fairly harsh. His choice of words far less calculated than we’ve seen thus far. Here we see him use something akin to an oxymoron calling The Dream ‘an outrageously insignificant detail’. Why would he use so many words when a simple ‘insignificant’ would work? Unless… He is compensating. Many authors will push a thought or description to further lengths than necessary to give the owner of said thoughts a unique perspective. One of the best I’ve ever seen/read would be Robert Jordan in his The Wheel of Time series. Jordan switches from POV to POV flawlessly without pausing to explain it to the reader but as talented as he is at making each so unique the reader never needs the explanation, following along without a hiccup. As much as I would love to say that Eva is there, she isnt... at least not yet… but then again, I haven’t found anyone on par with Robert Jordan’s use of POV and character development as of yet. My point is that she uses the type of flow shifting POV very fluidly without having to spell it out for the reader; and the use of the additional descriptors are a testament to that. (I hope I am making sense I am so very tired #dead).

Logan goes on to talk about the ‘puffing up’ and how ‘unpractical’ The Dreamer’s costume is and his ‘irritating presence’, he talks about grand speeches and attempting to appeal to Logan’s ‘humanity’. The tone of the paragraphs is that of annoyed humor as if it were amusing to think Logan had any humanity at all. That being said… another literary study comes to mind when reading this portion of the work. I will do my best to keep from going too much in depth but basically back in the early EARLY 1900s Sigmund Freud invented psychoanalysis with his publication of The interpretation of Dreams (Rivkin, Julie). Why was it such a big deal? Well, before the publication psychology assumed that what goes on in the mind was limited to the conscious (Rivkin, Julie). What does that have to do with Logan? Well, the revolution was a huge part of history and the strides that were made in psychology didn’t only affect the medical world but the literary one as well. Psychoanalysis wasn’t only limited to a person but the work they created as well; it began to be used as a way of studying literature, analyzing the author through their work. But… I’m veering a bit too far to the left. The reason this is important is because some of Frued’s research was based on the ‘defenses’ that the ego mobilizes against unacceptable libidianal or unconscious material (Rivkin, Julie). I.e. The mind can invert a feeling into its opposite, so that a yearning for contact can become a desire to do violence (Rivkin, Julie). That, of course, is an extreme but we see the same psychological mechanism here for Logan. The Dreamer is a man who represents the very thing Logan is determined to pull down; it would be extremely illogical to have any sort of attraction to the man. There for, to put it simply, he’s in denial. (Yes… I am aware I went into a bunch of Fruedian jargon just to say Logan is in denial and everyone already knew that… He would have approved though so I’m not editing it out. You will just have to deal with it.)

This says a lot about Roman’s character as well. Those who are familiar with the character knows how outrageous the creative man can be, but Eva writes (from Logan’s POV) ‘the idiot was actually attempting to change his mind’ (Whatwashernameagain). This give another shift in the emotional tone of the work, feeding off Logan’s annoyance and dark undertones and changing it into something more hopeful; giving us our first glimpse at the painting of The Dreamer; so far nothing but a symbol of hope (and a ‘thorn in Logan’s shoe’).

Going to reverse for a moment as well. Bringing up the metaphor of ‘a thorn in his shoe’; there is a lot to be said about this line as well. It really puts The Dreamer in perspective from The Utilitarian’s point of view…. At least his conscious one. It shows that Logan wants the hero to be beneath him, that he consciously tries to convince himself that he is. That The Dream is at his feet causing more annoyance than actually damage. I’m a sucker for a good metaphor and this one certainly isn’t a bad one.

Within the next paragraph Logan goes on ranting about The Dreamer being a nuisance, continuing on his rant that really only cements his attraction to the hero. But, once again, the image of The Dreamer is becoming more detailed. Logan describes him as ‘clinging desperately to his ancient, deontological ethics with its rules that mustn’t be broken at any cost’ (Whatwashernameagain). It sounds as if despite the way Logan whines about The Dreamer he sees him as misguided. If he truly believed that the ethics The Dreamer represents were the man’s own then we would no doubt see the frustration we did when Logan spoke about the state of the world. Instead, we see the deflection of the blame from The Dreamer to ‘ancient, deontological ethics. It is obvious that Logan doesn’t blame him but rather sees that he is attempting to simply ‘do his duty’. This provides a sense of honor for The Dreamer which is quite fitting for Roman really.

Logan only cements his denial and affection for the hero but commenting on his concern for the man’s well-being despite his inconvenient presence: “Many a times he’d foiled his operation with simple stupidity, like running into an already unsafe sweat-shop he was about to blow up in order to rescue the industrialist he’d tied up in the vicinity” (Whatwashernameagain). It is possible that he has this concern for everyone that is not directly involved in the crimes he is attempting to shine some light on but it is doubt full.

To add to the growing case against Logan’s inaffection for the man, he actually tries to defend himself! He claims that he hadn’t planned on killing the industrialist, just make a statement and ‘singe his eyebrows’ (Whatwashernameagain). I love this line; it does a lot for the story is so few words. So, first it paints Logan, the cold calculating villain, as a sulking teenager who has been scolded. I love the imagery. It also brings a bit more humor into the work than the subtle outlines of Logan’s denial had been providing. It is makes it even more clear that Logan does not dislike Roman enough to actually want to hurt him; in fact, quite the opposite. It paints Roman as someone he would like to protect, emphasizing the ‘misguided hero’ view of The Dreamer once more.

Now to the good bits: “He knew very well how much the media loved [The Dreamer] with his uniform accentuating his broad shoulders and his lush, caramel hair, his blinding smile and perfect, tan skin” (Whatwashernameagain); Really Logan? Lush, caramel hair? Who talks like that? Only someone with a crush…. And boy do you have it bad! You think he’s smexy with a capital ‘M’! I don’t even have to explain this one… we all know… We all understand.

After that oh so very subtle remark, Eva follows up with a ‘He was a nuisance, is what [Logan] was trying to say’ (Whatwashernameagain)…. Mhmmm suuurrrrree D-E-N-I-A-L. Freud would love you! Just saying!

I think from now on I’m just going to break it down paragraph by paragraph. This is getting quite long and I don’t want anyone having to jump back and forth. So:

“The Utilitarianist prided himself in his polite, calm manners, yet this – man – brought out a temper he was not fond of. How dare this simpleton speak to him about right and wrong? Despite knowing the math advised against it, he found himself drawn into moral arguments repeatedly … and had almost gotten caught by those strong hands several times due to his frustration. He found himself simply unable to refrain from correcting the man when his claims were just so utterly stupid.” (Whatwashernameagain)

We’re going to jump back into Freud’s work now… be prepared. So, obviously Logan blames Roman for Logan’s reactions, his loss of self-control. This is known as projection. In projection, we assign to others feelings or thoughts in ourselves that are unacceptable (Rivkin, Julie). What possible feelings could Logan be having that are unacceptable? Maybe it has something to do with being caught by those ‘strong hands’. -eyebrow wiggle- This is also a good example of intellectualization. In intellectualization, we avoid potentially overwhelming feelings by focusing out attention on things that allow us to exercise that part of our mind devoted to reasoning rather than emotion (Rivkin, Julie): Hence, the arguments.

Before I move on, I want to point out the author’s talent here. Writing characters with a lot of depth can be difficult especially with characters that weren’t originally yours. I say that because I do these analysis’ constantly; I do them for work, I do them for school… I obviously do them for fun on occasion… but, while talking psychoanalysis can be daunting and perhaps a bit boring; the fact that I can apply these theories to a CHARACTER not the author is astounding. That is when you know someone has a great talent for their character formations. Sure, I can slap a few fancy words to describe a character but to actually be able to analyze a fictional character’s psyche… that is when you know that they are fully formed.

I’m afraid I will need to end Part 2 here. Once again work is approaching. I will be back with a Part 3 When I get the chance, however. Hopefully, I can get through more than 5-6 paragraphs of the work then… Some dialog is coming up so it should be a bit quicker. I am quite enjoying this analysis and I wanted to thank everyone who had read/commented/liked/reblogged Part 1; and for all of the asks I have received. I quite enjoy hearing from you and love answering questions so feel free to drop a line! Special thanks to Whatwashernameagain, as always, for writing so brilliantly and just being a genuinely wonderful human being. Until next time…

(Please forgive any poor grammar or misspelling. I tend to run short on time so I don’t really proofread)

Rivkin, Julie. Literary Theory: a Practical Introduction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2017.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 1.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/187581477262/the-dreamer-chapter-1.

#THe dreamer #villain!logan #hero!roman #sanders sides #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #logan/roman #analysis #readerresponse #sigmund freud #reaction #fanfiction

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thattimdrakeguy · 5 years

Text

I know I just literally posted a picture that Bendis posted on Instagram about Young Justice.

But it just bums me out how in general it seems like Young Justice is already the series Bendis cares the least about that he’s currently wrting. It’s now just that other thing he does, and all the hype has vanished from it already even just from the general fanbase.

No one even really cares that Tim’s getting a new name, if anything people are either heavily upset about the dumb decision, or simply “oh that’s neat, maybe, I suppose, I trust Bendis so I’ll see how it is” or at least from the general standpoints I’ve being seeing online, perhaps a pure “meh” in there, but I am sure there is at least one guy other than Bendis that is excited about it somewhere, because there’s always at least a few guys that’s excited about something no matter how the quality is for better or worse. However regardless, there was no build up towards the incredibly out of no where name change that has people scared, it’s a super sudden decision. The brand new costume for the apparent name change doesn’t fit his personalty because it’s gut wrenching-ly generic and absent of the personality the Gleason costume gave Tim again after years of costumes that never quite suited him. The hype is just missing, I mean I hate the decision to change Tim’s name in general, but even just for other peeps, in general a name change has typically implied importance, but no one seems to really give a crap about this besides the odd few I’ve seen. It’s mostly just pure disdain from those who’ve been paying attention and are aware of it.

People already probably forgot about Cassie’s interactions with Zeus in issue 2, I mean heck, I have a feeling Bendis already forgot about it. Is that ever even gonna come back after being the biggest story in issue TWO of Young Justice? Or that just there because Bendis wanted to make Cassie important by putting her in issue 2, even if it goes no where and doesn’t do much of importance after the first arc (potentially anyways. I sure hope she’s important, she deserves it, and the second issue. Do not get me wrong). I’m so scared that it was only there for build up for a story that may never come into fruition.

Even though people were mad about it, I bet lots of people forgot Conner had a wife and a kid on Gemworld, because besides the first issue they appeared in they haven’t been important since and are already gone, probably to barely be brought up ever again, except maybe some possible flashbacks. Honestly I’d like flashbacks, I enjoyed them, but I have a feeling most people wouldn’t be excited about it because either they hated the random inclusion or they just forgot already and are instantaneously meh about it from lack of excitement.

When DC announced Young Justice was coming back the return was so hyped up by fans of the characters, the energy around the first revealed pieces of art for the series was insane, it was so exciting. It felt like it was going to entirely make up for the New 52 Teen Titans. All the character’s where back as they were, with modernized costumes that actually SUITED the characters instead of just bland “cool” costumes that I kept seeing and saw before.

Now it didn’t even take a full arc and people already don’t care anymore.

Gleason left, leaving an artist that doesn’t have an art style that feels like Young Justice to draw every new issue.

Story-lines are already being forgotten only a mighty 7 issues in.

No one’s excited for the new ones, people barely even react to hearing the new ones.

They’re already taking away the stuff that made people so hyped up to begin with.

and Bendis himself barely brings it up as much anymore. He’s already onto the next thing just to leave Young Justice behind besides for the fact he continues to write it for his job.

Those first few issues were amazing besides (mostly) insignificant problems to a large number of fans. Now even the fans are barely even talking about it anymore besides some casual “Oh I like Young Justice” and occasional fan art.

I’m not saying it can’t be better, and perhaps the stupid name change may still be a red herring. For all I know John Timms will get better at making the series feel like itself again and so forth, but it’s a heart crushing feeling about how it descended to such mediocre feelings this fast.

It’s not even really bad, just meh, and in the latest issue they were already struggling to give all the members something to say. We still don’t have a status quo. It just feels like something Bendis accepted to do because he liked the source and he knew that the fans would be excited, and he had a couple ideas for it, so he decided to do it and write his idea. Then stuff kept happening, and he didn’t put the most thought into his ideas and stuff just feels like it already dropped the ball.

Bendis is a writer I’m still a fan of, I still like the older stuff he’s written, and despite me hating his story choice for Tim, he’s still the guy who’s written Tim the best in the past decade. None of the other writers even come close. So I can’t complain there. I’m only complaining about the stuff I genuinely have a problem with. He isn’t Lobdell/Tynion levels of crappy Tim writing, but when it seemed like such a perfect match of writer and character to me after reading Ultimate Spider-Man, it feels having such a major decision that sucks so harshly, come so fast, is something that sucked a part of my soul out a bit.

It’s like there’s enough small problems that add up more than anything else for the majority of it.

There isn’t tons of giant problems all the time like there was in Super Sons (another series I was looking forward too, although not nearly as much) where things were going wrong from the beginning with logic issues, tone issues, out of character moments, and a contrived/forced nature. Like Super Sons let me down way harsher than Young Justice, and Young Justice had way more hype for me because of the characters involved with it. So it’s not exactly the same situation that way, even though they’re both series I’ve talked about how they’ve let me down before. It’s just different.

Young Justice besides a lot of plot convenience meet ups and Gleason struggling to draw Tim initially (which in issue 4, he drew Tim the best he’s looked in literal years), it was a pretty solid series straight from the beginning. The character’s felt in-character, the banter felt very Young Justice, the art-style was really well-fitted to the energy Young Justice has, it was pretty great besides the small things that were easily excusable given everything else involved with making it work.

It was one ball being dropped after another. Cassie’s currently irrelevant plot build up with Zeus, Conner’s already forgotten family (that people didn’t even want and hated), Bart has no plot going on at all, Tim’s getting a name change with no build up or logic behind it yet as of now with a single issue in no way gonna give a satisfying reason that doesn’t feel completely contrived, and I’m pretty sure they just plain forgot to tell us Keli Quintela’s name originally. I wouldn’t be shocked if people reading this didn’t even know who I was talking about by saying Keli Quintela because it wasn’t brought up and then suddenly it was. Not that I’m complaining about it being revealed, the name is absolutely lovely.

Personally, I’m honestly super hoping that there’s a big boom moment for the Young Justice creative team where they’re like “oh we really have to try harder, this is bombing more and more” and they work towards fixing up all the problems, but with Young Justice missing a month, I’m pretty sure the series has already been dumped into obscurity, and it’s breaking my heart.

But at least it’s selling moderately okay, maybe that’ll keep up. Maybe that’ll motivate more effort in the creative team’s side.

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analyzingdestiel · 5 years

Video

youtube

DESTIEL 4x7: It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

SCENE 1/3

Sam enters their motel room and immediately draws his gun, and moves forward in an offensive stance, ready to attack.

Sam: Who are you?!

Dean rushes in, and tries to stop Sam.

Dean: Sam! Sam, wait! It's Castiel.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's gun and pushes it down, and Sam stands there stunned.

Dean: The angel.

Dean spots another figure in the room, standing by the window (URIEL).

Dean: Him, I don't know.

Sam looks at Castiel in wonder and a smile crosses his face.

Castiel: Hello, Sam.

Sam: Oh my God – er – uh – I didn't mean to – sorry. It's an honor, really, I – I've heard a lot about you.

Sam steps forward and holds out his hand to shake Castiel's. Dean goes and closes the door to their room, and Castiel looks at Sam's hand like he isn't sure what to do with it. Sam shakes it a little, and Castiel finally understands and puts his right hand in Sam's.

Castiel: And I, you. Sam Winchester –

Castiel: The boy with the demon blood.

Castiel: Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities.

URIEL is still facing the window, but speaks.

URIEL: Let's keep it that way.

Dean: Yeah, okay, Chuckles.

Dean looks back at Castiel.

Dean: Who's your friend?

Castiel: This the raising of Samhain, have you stopped it?

Dean: Why?

Castiel: Dean, have you located the witch?

Dean: Yes, we've located the witch.

Castiel: And is the witch dead?

Sam: No, but –

Dean: We know who it is.

Castiel walks over to the table by the bed.

Castiel: Apparently the witch knows who you are too.

Castiel picks up a hex bag and shows it to them.

Castiel: This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn't found it, surely one or both of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?

Dean and Sam exchange a look.

Dean: We're working on it.

Castiel: That's unfortunate.

Dean: What do you care?

Castiel: The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals.

Dean: So this is about your buddy Lucifer.

URIEL: Lucifer is no friend of ours.

Dean: It's just an expression.

Castiel: Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs.

Dean: Okay, great, well now that you're here, why don't you tell us where the witch is, we'll gank her and everybody goes home.

Castiel: We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful, she's cloaked even our methods.

Sam: Okay, well we already know who she is, so if we work together –

URIEL: Enough of this.

Dean: Okay, who are you and why should I care?

URIEL turns from the window and looks at Dean.

Castiel: This is Uriel, he's what you might call a… specialist.

URIEL walks toward them.

Dean: What kind of specialist? What are you gonna do?

Castiel: You – uh, both of you – you need to leave this town immediately.

Dean: Why?

Castiel: Because we're about to destroy it.

Sam and Dean exchange a worried glance.

Dean: So this is your plan, you're gonna smite the whole friggin' town?

Castiel: We're out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved.

Sam: There are a thousand people here.

URIEL: One thousand two hundred fourteen.

Sam: And you're willing to kill them all?

URIEL: This isn't the first time I've… purified a city.

Castiel: Look, I understand this is regrettable.

Dean: Regrettable?

Castiel: We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already.

Dean: So you screw the pooch on some seals and this town has to pay the price?

Castiel: It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There's a bigger picture here.

Dean: Right, cause you're bigger picture kind of guys.

Castiel: Lucifer cannot rise. He does and hell rises with him. Is that something that you're willing to risk?

Sam: We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die.

URIEL: We're wasting time with these mud monkeys.

Castiel turns away from Dean to URIEL.

Castiel: I'm sorry, but we have our orders.

Sam: No, you can't do this, you're angels, I mean aren't you supposed to – You're supposed to show mercy.

URIEL: Says who?

Castiel: We have no choice.

Dean: Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You've never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?

Castiel: Look, even if you can't understand it, have faith. The plan is just.

Sam: How can you even say that?

Castiel: Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just.

Dean: Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves.

Castiel: Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn't you obey?

Dean looks at Castiel and takes a second.

Dean: Well sorry boys, looks like the plans have changed.

URIEL: You think you can stop us?

Dean starts over and stands in URIEL's face.

Dean: No, but if you're gonna smite this whole town, then you're gonna have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving. See, you went to the trouble of busting me out of hell. I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how he digs that.

URIEL: I will drag you out of here myself.

Dean: Yeah, but you'll have to kill me, then we're back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something.

Dean turns back and looks at Castiel.

Dean: We can do this. We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning.

URIEL: Castiel! I will not let these peop–

Castiel holds up his hand at URIEL.

Castiel: Enough!

Castiel stares at Dean for a second.

Castiel: I suggest you move quickly. ______________________________________________________________ DESTIEL REVIEW FOR SCENE 1/3

Sam enters their motel room and immediately draws his gun, and moves forward in an offensive stance, ready to attack.

Sam: Who are you?!

Dean rushes in, and tries to stop Sam.

Dean: Sam! Sam, wait! It's Castiel.

This scene is quite telling. To begin, we see that Castiel does not only feel Dean but that Dean can feel Castiel as well. He knew Castiel was in the room before he even stepped into it. This in itself is quite intimate even if not sexual in nature; the fact that they can feel one another.

I do wonder if Castiel announces his presence in Dean's mind or if Dean himself feels Castiel, or if they both feel each other at the exact same time almost like a magnet connecting to a refridgerator once it's come close enough to it.

URIEL: This isn't the first time I've… purified a city.

Castiel: Look, I understand this is regrettable.

Here we see that there are differences between Castiel and Uriel, and that Castiel seems to have more of a conscience than Uriel. I bring this up because Destiel wouldn't exist if Castiel was incapable of feeling emotion such as love or desire, but I feel he is certainly capable of feeling. He can come off as stoic but ultimately, he is a being with feelings; so far we've seen him frustrated, irritated, regretful, sympathetic. He may not feel in the same way the average human would but he definitely shows feeling. He is not robotic.

I feel it is especially obvious considering that Castiel was willing to shake Sam's hand. Uriel most likely would have not shaken Sam's hand if given the opportunity. It is apparent that Castiel doesn't look at himself as highly as Uriel does and that he seems to view humans as equals. There was great kindness and care in the way he rested his other hand on top of Sam's after shaking it. Far from emotionless.

Castiel: It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There's a bigger picture here.

Dean: Right, cause you're bigger picture kind of guys.

I feel it was important to bring this up; that in the car with Dean in 4x3, when he appeared to be disapproving, I had questioned if it had been because Dean was willing to sacrifice the lives of many to save his family. Sacrificing many for the few. Here, it almost confirms that... but then Castiel says something later in the episode that may make more sense and explain the expression in 4x3 during the ride in the car.

Dean turns back and looks at Castiel.

Dean: We can do this. We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning.

URIEL: Castiel! I will not let these peop–

Castiel holds up his hand at URIEL.

Castiel: Enough!

Castiel stares at Dean for a second.

Castiel: I suggest you move quickly.

This could initially be viewed as Castiel putting his trust in Dean, and I do feel he does, though he was also ordered to follow Dean's orders (as we find out further in the episode). Not that this rules anything out, but even if he didn't trust Dean, he most likely would have done as he asked because it's what Heaven ordered. Though I feel he does trust Dean, based on following scenes. ______________________________________________________________

youtube

SCENE 2/3

Castiel is standing and URIEL is sitting on a park bench, as some children skip by in Halloween costumes.

Castiel: The decision's been made.

URIEL laughs.

URIEL: By a mud monkey.

Castiel: You shouldn't call them that.

URIEL: Ah, it's what they are, savages, just plumbing on two legs.

Castiel: You're close to blasphemy.

URIEL sighs at him.

Castiel: There's a reason we were sent to save him. He has potential, he may succeed here.

Castiel sits down on the bench next to URIEL with a sigh.

Castiel: And any rate, it's out of our hands.

URIEL: It doesn't have to be.

Castiel: And what would you suggest?

URIEL: That we drag Dean Winchester out of here and then we blow this insignificant pinprick off the map.

Castiel: You know our true orders. Are you prepared to disobey?

URIEL just looks at him. ______________________________________________________________ DESTIEL REVIEW OF SCENE 2/3

Castiel: The decision's been made.

URIEL laughs.

URIEL: By a mud monkey.

Castiel: You shouldn't call them that.

URIEL: Ah, it's what they are, savages, just plumbing on two legs.

Castiel: You're close to blasphemy.

Castiel shows clearly that he disagrees with Uriel's descriptions of humanity; particularly Dean as he is the one who's made "the decision". Though I don't feel Dean was being singled out here, I feel Castiel truly cares about all of humanity and not just Dean. Though Castiel, as far as I've seen, does seem to be attached to Dean in particular. I feel this is less of a preference and more because Dean has become a part of his mission as an angel. He was told to pull Dean from Hell, no one else. But this was not really a decision on Castiel or Dean's part - Castiel was given orders and he followed them.

Castiel: There's a reason we were sent to save him. He has potential, he may succeed here.

Castiel continues to have faith in Dean; this is why I said in review 1/3 that Castiel does truly trust Dean. He makes it clear in this scene. So even if he was given orders, he does seem to genuinely trust Dean as well. Even if it's because God chose Dean and Castiel places his trust in God, "his father". Ultimately it is equivalent to trusting Dean, which is important. ______________________________________________________________ SCENE 3/3

Dean is sitting on a park bench watching kids play. The camera pans around to show Castiel on the park bench next to him. Dean is looking the other way, but senses the angel's arrival.

Dean: Let me guess you're here for the "I told you so".

Castiel: No.

Dean: Well, good, cause I'm really not that interested.

Castiel: I am not here to judge you, Dean.

Dean: Then why are you here?

Castiel: Our orders –

Dean: Yeah, you know, I've had about enough of these orders of yours –

Castiel: Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain, they were to do whatever you told us to do.

Dean: Your orders were to follow my orders?

Castiel: It was a test, to see how you would perform under... battlefield conditions, you might say.

Dean: It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive.

Castiel laughs.

Dean: So I, uh, failed your test, huh? I get it. But you know what? If you would have waved that magic time-traveling wand of yours and we had to do it all over again, I'd make the Same call. 'Cause see, I don't know what's gonna happen when these seals are broken, hell I don't even know what's gonna happen tomorrow. But what I do know is, that this, here? These kids, the swings, the trees, all of it is still here because of my brother and me.

Castiel: You misunderstand me, Dean, I'm not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town.

Dean: You were?

Castiel: These people, they're all my father's creations. They're works of art, and yet, even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken and we are one step closer to hell on earth, for all creation. Now that's not an expression, Dean, it's literal. You of all people should appreciate what that means. ( Dean looks at him a little pained, and sad. ) Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?

Dean: Okay.

Castiel: I'm not a… hammer as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't.

They share a look, and Dean looks out to the kids again. When he looks back, Castiel is gone. ______________________________________________________________ DESTIEL REVIEW SCENE 3/3

Dean is sitting on a park bench watching kids play. The camera pans around to show Castiel on the park bench next to him. Dean is looking the other way, but senses the angel's arrival.

More proof that Dean does indeed feel Castiel. This is profound. I don't feel romance but I do feel that intensity.

I find it interesting that Dean has been frightened by Castiel's sudden appearance up until this episode. This may be a sign that Castiel has learned that he's been frightening Dean and so started to warn him by alerting his presence in Dean's mind. He could do this without Dean's knowing, if he does possess the same abilities most guides do possess.

To feel one's presence is exactly that, a feeling. Certain beings feel certain ways. Everyone has a very specific frequency. Castiel could gently help Dean to feel his presence, his vibration, his energy field/frequency, before he ever appears. He could make it seem as if it's Dean's own knowing.

So did Dean become more aware of Castiel's presence on his own? Or is Castiel helping him to become aware of his presence to reduce the chances of frightening Dean and getting a sour response out of it? For me, I feel the latter makes more sense.

Dean: It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive.

Castiel laughs.

This is the first time we see Castiel laugh. It seems he finds Dean humorous. That is interesting and again shows that Castiel has emotion.

Castiel: You misunderstand me, Dean, I'm not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town.

I feel Dean's view of him has been bothering him for quite a time, it's about time this was stated.

Dean: Okay.

And this also brought me to the conclusion that perhaps in 4x3, in the car with Dean, that Castiel may not have been showing disapproval on his face with that expression, but perhaps confusion. Perhaps Castiel wasn't sure of what he was supposed to agree with, himself (even if the past couldn't have been altered either way). Ultimately, I feel Castiel doesn't want anyone to die. Not the few, nor the many. Though it can be easy to come to the conclusion that saving more is better than saving a few... how could anyone agree to allowing those few to die? To actually kill them? It is certainly confusing and is a tough decision to make.

This is also important because we see that Castiel is actually opening up to Dean and sharing with him his vulnerabilities. He is allowing Dean to see him truly, which is a big step.

But here we have yet even more proof that Castiel is a being of emotion. He has doubts, he has concerns.

And he finds Dean funny. One could say he finds Dean endearing. There's more of a sense that Castiel is rather attached to Dean and isn't just doing a job.

DESTIEL RATING (based on how believable): 2/10

#castiel #dean winchester #supernatural #destiel #4x7 #blog #review

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