Please explain the timeline for pe!

Following October of 2022, keep an open, flexible mind to the dates and time. Here’s Chris and pe!reader’s relationship timeline.

2011

Chris first publicly spoke about having pe!reader as his celebrity crush during the NYC comic con.

2012

July - pe!reader starts filming The Spectacular Now alongside Miles Teller as the two leads.

August - pe!reader and Miles Teller are spotted on a date.

October - pe!reader and Miles are official.

2013

February - pe!reader and Miles Teller go public.

October - pe!reader and Miles’ first anniversary.

2014

March - pe!reader and Chris meet for the first time at Vanity Fair’s Oscar afterparty.

September - pe!reader and Miles break up.

November 28th - pe!reader and Chris meet again in private Interstellar release-celebratory party hosted by Christopher and Jonathan Nolan and hang out the entire night together. They exchange phone numbers.

November 30th - pe!reader and Chris go out for coffee.

December 5th - pe!reader and Chris go undercover to the movies to watch Wild.

December 7th - • Chris invites pe!reader over to cook for her, burns the meal and gets her her favorite takeout after googling it. • pe!reader and Chris were about to kiss but she stopped so they can take it slow.

December 24th - pe!reader and Chris are papped together.

December 27th - They have their own late christmas celebration at pe!reader’s New York apartment with Dakota Johnson, Jennifer Garner & Ben Affleck, Blake Lively & Ryan Reynolds, pe!reader’s best 3 best friends from theatre; Jia, Sophia, and Raymond.

2015

January - Chris realizes that he has strong feelings for pe!reader.

February - pe!reader realizes that she has strong feelings for Chris but chooses not to act on them because she wants to take more time to know him and be friends.

February 22nd - Chris and pe!reader are talked about when they greet with cheek kisses at the Oscars.

March - They frequently meet at each other’s houses as to not get papped.

April - Chris is busy with Avengers: Age of Ultron’s release.

May - First kiss and first date.

June - pe!reader is busy with Inside Out’s release.

July - They reunite with more dates and get papped once.

August - pe!reader meets Scott, and decides to stop going on talk shows and interviews unless it’s movie press.

September 21st - Chris and pe!reader make it official before she goes to Australia to start filming Hacksaw Ridge.

October - Chris watches pe!reader’s SNL monologue from the audience but it’s kept lowkey.

November - pe!reader and Chris decide to go public and are papped:

December - Hacksaw Ridge wraps up. pe!reader hosts a bigger Christmas party where people fawn over them as a couple.

December 31st - pe!reader and Chris spend the New Year’s together.

2016

January - pe!reader and Chris go to the Bahamas for a secret one-week getaway.

February - pe!reader and Chris make their red carpet debut as a couple at the Oscars & she meets the rest of the Evans’ family.

March - Chris meets pe!reader’s family, gets interrogated by her 7-year-old sister, Madelyn, but they welcome him.

April - Chris and pe!reader’s stepdad, Marshall, are papped golfing.

May - pe!reader decides to direct Lady Bird. Captain America: Civil War premieres. They make their Met Gala red carpet debut as a couple.

June - pe!reader hosts a huge surprise birthday party for Chris, and also celebrates CACW with him. They go all the way. She starts filming Mother!

July - pe!reader is papped having breakfast with Chris’ mom, Lisa.

August - Mother! wraps up. filming Lady Bird starts, Chris is papped visiting pe!reader on set and stays for one week in Sacramento with her.

September - • pe!reader and Chris celebrate their 1st anniversary. • First big fight. • pe!reader and Chris are papped on her NY apartment’s balcony

• pe!reader sues the photographer and their agency for violating her privacy and photographing a private property.

October - • Lady Bird wraps up, Chris hosts a celebratory party for pe!reader and the entire cast and crew. • pe!reader and Chris go on a 5-day trip to the Amalfi Coast. • pe!reader starts therapy after her role as Mother in Mother! took a toll on her mental health.

November - pe!reader moves in with Chris at his house in Boston.

December - Chris moves in with pe!reader at her NY apartment.

2017

January - • pe!reader rescues her, then, kitten, Pam and is hers and Chris’ first shared pet. • pe!reader visits Chris on Infinity War set, meets the entire cast

February - Pregnancy scare!

April - Chris adopts Dodger and he becomes their second shared pet.

September - • Second anniversary! • pe!reader wins Emmy award for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series for her role in The Handmaid’s Tale, briefly and vaguely mentions Chris in her speech.

November - Chris buys an engagement ring and tells his mom only about it.

December - pe!reader and Chris buy a house together in Italy.

2018

January - pe!reader and Chris go together to the Golden Globes. Lady Bird wins Best Motion Picture. pe!reader gives an emotional speech and thanks Chris in it.

February - Chris takes pe!reader to Disneyland in Paris for Valentine’s day.

March - • Chris is busy with Infinity War press. • pe!reader launches her skin care brand, Bare.

April - pe!reader joins Chris for the first time as his plus one for the Infinity War movie premiere despite that she doesn’t go to other movie premieres.

May - • pe!reader sets her LA house on sale. • Chris and pe!reader buy a new house in LA together. • pe!reader buys a private island at the Bahamas. • pe!reader and Chris attend Prince Harry & Meghan’s royal wedding together.

June - Chris proposes and she says yes! They celebrate all month with family and friends.

September 21st - Third anniversary!

2019

February - pe!reader becomes an EGOT winner after winning a Grammy for Best Spoken Word Album (Including Poetry, Audiobooks & Storytelling) for being the official narrator of the book, Circe.

March - • pe!reader hosts a big anniversary party for Bare. • Chris celebrates her on his own and buys her a 1967 Cadillac De Ville convertible car.

April - pe!reader joins Chris as his plus one again at the Endgame premiere and is papped crying emotionally because of Chris’ journey in Marvel coming to an end.

May - pe!reader buys Chris a yacht with ‘Property of Christopher Evans, with love, Y/N Y/L/N-Evans’ engraved on it. They’re papped.

June - They get married in Italy! They spend their honeymoon in Seychelles then went to Greece.

September - • Fourth anniversary! • They buy their farmhouse.

2020

September 21st: Fifth anniversary!

2021

March: pe!reader wins her fourth Golden Globe for Best Actress for Promising Young Woman.

April: • pe!reader receives her third Oscar for Best Actress for Promising Young Woman and thanks Chris so adorably in her speech. • They start trying for a baby!

September: • Sixth anniversary! • pe!reader wins her third Emmy award for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series for her role in The Handmaid’s Tale.

November: pe!reader and Chris get a false-positive pregnancy test because of her fertility medications.

2022

January: • pe!reader is pregnant! • They tell their families two weeks later.

February: They tell their close friends.

June: Chris announces the pregnancy on his Instagram when she’s 6 months pregnant.

July: pe!reader joins Chris for The Gray Man LA premiere and gets seen pregnant in an event for the first time.

September 14th: River Jude Evans is born. pe!reader announces a hiatus.

October: They move to stay at their farmhouse away from all the noise to raise River there for a year.

From that time forward, time truly is an illusion. Pe!reader and Chris will have 3 more kids and unless I write about this fic until 2028, I advise you read this fic with a grain of salt. Thanks for reading!

BETTER WEIRD THAN DEAD. eerie, indiana, season 1 episode 2 (1991.) + z nation, season 5 episode 9 (2018.)

ACD meeting Oscar Wilde

From Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle, by Daniel Stashower:

Why, then, should he have wanted to make his detective a drug user? For the modern reader, the image of Sherlock Holmes plunging a needle into his arm comes as an unpleasant shock. To Conan Doyle’s way of thinking, however, the syringe would have been very much of a piece with the violin, the purple dressing gown, and the interest in such abstruse subjects as the motets of Lassus. With Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle intended to elevate the science of criminal investigation to an art form. To do so, he needed to cast his detective as an artist rather than a simple policeman. Conan Doyle himself, with his broad shoulders, muscular frame, and ruddy complexion, could easily have passed for a stolid London patrolman. Holmes offered a striking contrast. He was thin, languid, and aesthetic. He easily fit the pattern of a bohemian artist, with all of the accompanying eccentricities and evil habits—one of which, sad to say, was cocaine. “Art in the blood,” as Holmes was to say, “is liable to take the strangest forms.”

The image of the Victorian habitué would have been very fresh in Conan Doyle’s mind as he sat down to write The Sign of the Four. Only a few days earlier, he had met a young man he regarded as the very “champion of aestheticism.” In August of 1889, Conan Doyle found himself invited up to London for a literary soiree. The editor Joseph Marshall Stoddart, of Philadelphia’s Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, had come to London to arrange for an English edition of his publication. While in Britain, he hoped to commission work from some of the country’s promising young writers. At the time, Conan Doyle’s work was receiving far greater exposure in America than in Britain, owing to the lack of American copyright protection for foreign authors. Several of Conan Doyle’s stories had appeared in pirated anthologies, which, he noted with dismay, “might have been printed on the paper that shopmen use for parcels.”

Conan Doyle may have regretted the lost profits from these unauthorized printings, but they brought him a substantial American readership at a time when his name was less well known in Britain. Now, with Joseph Stoddart anxious for a meeting, Conan Doyle had reason to feel warmly toward his American audience. “Needless to say,” he later wrote, “I gave my patients a rest for a day and eagerly kept the appointment.”

The dinner was held in the West End at the prestigious Langham Hotel, a setting that would feature in three future Sherlock Holmes adventures (SIGN, SCAN, and LADY—my note). Two other guests enjoyed Stoddart’s hospitality that night. The first was Thomas Patrick Gill, a former magazine editor who had gone on to become a member of Parliament. The second was Oscar Wilde.

At thirty-five, Oscar Wilde was already a notorious figure in London society. Though his great plays were still ahead of him, he had made his reputation with his early poetry and with essays such as “The Decay of Lying” and “The Truth of Masks.” From the first, however, his true fame owed less to his literary output than to his celebrated wit and flamboyant personality.

It would be difficult to imagine two men more unlike each other than Oscar Wilde and Conan Doyle, and their first meeting must have produced raised eyebrows on both sides. The hale and hearty provincial doctor, with his bone-crushing handshake and earnest, direct manner of speaking, had traveled up from Portsmouth in his best professional suit. The world-weary, languorous Wilde cut a rather different figure. “He dressed as probably no grown man in the world was ever dressed before,” the actress Lillie Langtry once wrote of him. “His hat was of brown cloth not less than six inches high; his coat was of black velvet; his overcoat was of green cloth, heavily trimmed with fur; his trousers matched his hat; his tie was gaudy and his shirtfront very open, displaying a large expanse of manly chest.” One assumes that such attire was not a familiar sight in Southsea.

The two men also differed in their literary views. Conan Doyle, the champion of historical realism, was a born storyteller, and took pride in his clear, unadorned prose style. Wilde, by contrast, had set himself up as the leader of a movement dedicated to “art for art’s sake.”

Even so, the two writers got along famously. “It was indeed a golden evening for me,” Conan Doyle said of his meeting with Wilde. “His conversation left an indelible impression upon my mind. He towered above us all, and yet had the art of seeming to be interested in all that we could say. He had delicacy of feeling and tact, for the monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman at heart.” Only eight years earlier, Conan Doyle had gone up to London to see Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, which featured a thinly disguised parody of Wilde in the character of Bunthorne, the “fleshy poet.” Now he found himself sitting beside the “singularly deep young man” himself, while the pair of them basked in the attentions of a renowned American publisher.

Wilde impressed Conan Doyle with his “curious precision of statement,” as when he described how a war of the future might be waged: “A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.” Not all of Wilde’s remarks showcased his famous wit. To Conan Doyle’s surprise, Wilde had not only read Micah Clarke but expressed enthusiasm for it. One must treat this report with caution. It is frankly difficult to conjure an image of Oscar Wilde, the archetype of Victorian aestheticism, with a lily in one hand and Conan Doyle’s robust epic in the other. In The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Bracknell expresses her disdain for the “three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality” that she has found in a perambulator. One imagines that Micah Clarke would have brought a similar reaction from Wilde, though he may not have wished to say so to the author.

The evening ended with both men agreeing to produce a short novel for Lippincott’s. A few days later, Conan Doyle wrote to Stoddart to propose an idea. “I shall give Sherlock Holmes of A Study in Scarlet something else to unravel,” he declared. “I notice that everyone who has read the book wants to know more of that young man.”

Oscar Wilde also did well out of his association with Lippincott’s. His contribution was The Picture of Dorian Gray, one of the finest novels of the age. Upon publication, however, Wilde’s book came under attack for its perceived immorality. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,” Wilde declared, by way of defending himself. “Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Conan Doyle, who came to regard some of his own stories as a trifle risqué, would not have endorsed this sentiment. Nonetheless, he thought Wilde’s book was excellent and sent a letter saying so. “I am really delighted that you think my treatment subtle and artistically good,” Wilde wrote in reply. “The newspapers seem to me to be written by the prurient for the Philistine.”

——

To summarise, this excerpt supports the points previously discussed elsewhere:

1. The influence of the aesthetic movement and Wilde in particular on the image of Holmes. No wonder Holmes comes off as queer-coded. He is queer intrinsically.

2. Doyle admired Wilde and was vocal about it but chose to be more cautious in his own writing.

Picture credits: londonremembers.com, hauntedjourneys.com

@garkgatiss, @sherlock-overflow-error, @sarahthecoat

Good News This Week for Fans Of Eerie, Indiana Who Just This Week Put Out Their Long Time Unreleased Album ‘Broken Record’  

“We had no idea we were making a controversial record when we made it.” Band member Simon Holmes said this week, in an interview about the release of Broken Record, “I was just writing about my experiences. I guess my life was controversial.”  “I always felt like Simon never got enough recognition.” Admits the band’s front man Marshall Teller, “So when we made Broken Record I told promotion that it had to be equal this time, not like the mess that was promotion for JSNTF. When they decided not to put the album out, it felt like the label was just twisting the knife.” (note: JSNTF is Just Say Not To Fun was the band’s previous release) “Of course, then we had to throw something together from cut tracks and other bits we had lying around. I was never happy with the quality of America’s Scariest Home Videos. 

Broken Record was mostly forgotten for two decades before the band’s third member and later addition to the band, Dash X, was asked about it on an Instagram Q&A (of all things) when responding to a question from a long time fan he revealed that the band’s entire back catalouge had been destroyed by the label in an ‘accident’ and chances of release were ‘minimal’ unless ‘the bastards who keep leaking our tracks want to give us a copy’. Indeed, hard core Eerie, Indiana fans will know that various tracks from Broken Record have been making their way through fan groups for the last two decades since the initial recording. How they got there is difficult to say, though some sources claim that ‘Weird Kids’, ‘Tension’ and ‘Bigfoot is Real’ were all set to be singles and sent out to radio stations, and others claim to have taken them straight from work tapes of the record. One enterprising fan claims to have traded rare Taylor Swift tracks to someone who gave them a copy of ‘Ousted’, which they then shared on Periscope. 

Of course, how this release came about is as strange a story as one might expect from a band who released a concept album about being hypnotized into hating fun. Long time collaborate of the band, Janet Donner was apparently looking for pictures of her girlfriend and band mate Melanie Monroe (Both were considered part of the Indiana Six) in her storage locker with Teller when they came across a box marked ‘Marshall’s Junk’ inside was a variety of old ‘memorabilia’ from the era where all six projects were active at once. Among the junk was an old work tape of the first time the group recorded the album’s centerpiece ‘MMNH’, sheet music for several other tracks, and a large binder promotional material, lyrics and old photographs. Seeing that they now had the last remaining copy of any track off the album the band decided to get together and re-record it as a special gift to their fans. ‘Janet is a bit of a character. She hates to throw away anything to do with work, but she’s utterly ruthless when it comes to her personal life. She’s got three storage containers full of junk, and a house where she won’t even hang up artwork.  We used to tease her, but I guess it paid off in the end.” Teller said of the find

But what of the album itself? Well, the overall sound is like no other Eerie, Indiana album that’s for sure. Despite all their changes and use of multiple genres, one thing always held every E,I record together and that was Teller’s skillful guitar playing. Complicated riffs, long solos and difficult to reproduce life performances were a staple of the group, but almost utterly absent on this record, but not gone entirely from the tracks meant to be released as singles where the pop flavouring the band usually has remains undiluted. 

The most stand out track on the record is MMNH, which is sung by both Teller and Janet Donner, who take on the role of a dysfunctional couple arguing over the top of a beautiful piano track. The liner notes say that this fight is based on the arguments of Holmes’s parents and the personal digs that they take at one another are extremely niche and telling of that. While there are certainly no lack of tracks were Teller takes an emotional, confrontational stance with his singing, here it sounds much more refined and serious than he did at the time this album was originally recorded. Donner takes her voice an octave higher than her usual singing, and comes across as loud, and shrewd, at one point breaking down into tears while still singing. Conversely, Teller only gets louder, and angrier as the song progresses to a peak around the seven minute mark where his voice cracks, he stops and Donner sobbing is the only sound on the tape for minute afterwards. It’s an uncomfortable listen, to say the least, but the performances are perhaps some of the best in the career of both singers. The worktape version of the song is five minutes longer and very clearly an extremely early pass. Throughout the recording, someone, probably Donner, is wearing very loud, jangling jewelry. There are several long pauses on the track of Holmes at his piano, contributing a rare vocal performance of background vocals, which were cut from the final track. At the end, you can hear Holmes say cut, and Teller comforting Donner, who insists she’s fine just emotional. The track is experimental and clearly emotionally taxing, just like the rest of the album. While I wouldn’t have put it so close to the other most emotional track on the album, Broken Record, it’s certainly a one of a kind experience. 

Broken Record, the tile track, is also an extremely emotional track, but personally I think would have qualified the album and the track for grammys. The track is written and played solely by Holmes, the only track of it’s kind in the entire Eerie, Indiana cataloge that was released, though there are rumors that there were more Holmes led tracks that he personally refused to release due to dissatisfaction with his singing voice. The track is a ballad, performed with a guitar, and is essentially a letter to Holmes’s brother, Harley. He sings through the run time, apologizing for not being able to not protect him enough. In the gentle climax of the song, he professes to feeling like a broken record, apologizing and apologizing and feeling like he’ll never say it enough. This track too is a deeply emotional listen, and extremely sad. At the time the song was written, Harley Holmes was in a military academy after getting into to much trouble in the small home town of the bands two founding members. Truly, Holmes has a nice singing voice, but it’s imperfections make the track all the more compelling in my opinion. Thankfully, one quick look at his Instagram account shows that his relationship with his brother seems to be a happy one. The leaked version of the track is not notedly different to the released version, other than it’s remarkably low quality (probably from years of being traded as an MP3 through various fan emails), and sounds far sadder than the version released now that Holmes’s relationship with his brother is doing better. 

Of course, the track-list is not devoid of the usual Teller-isms one finds on an Eerie, Indiana album. The supposed first single ‘Bigfoot is Real’ is a spot of real sunshine on a very bleak track-list with your usual flavour of complicated riffs. The song is devoted to celebrating the friendship between the two leads, who met as children and in their own words were ‘kind of obsessed with proving that their hometown as weird’. It’s a fun, fast paced moment of happiness on the album. 

Ousted, the final leaked track is a song with steel drums leading the charge. Though Teller is once again the singer, he’s clearly just the mouthpiece for Holmes, who sings about being ousted from his home life with his parents and moving in with Teller’s family. While it seems like it might be another sad song, it’s actually a loving song about finding family and non-typical family structures. The opening samples a recording of the actual court appearance where the Teller family was awarded full custody of Holmes by a judge. The liner notes suggest that this was recorded by Teller illicitly because he wanted to remember the day ‘Simon became my brother for real.’ Like the band’s final effort, Reality Takes a Holiday, Broken Record is a one two punch sort of record where the theme you think you’re going to get isn’t quite what you get. Yes, Broken Record is about the disrupted home life of Holmes, there’s a lot of love in the happier tracks. Weird Kids, Inbetween Tweens and Bigfoot is Real are all about being loved and accepted by your friends, and the deeply rooted friendship between Holmes and Teller. It ultimately becomes a record about finding a home and a family who love and accept you for you. 

Dash X is largely absent on the album, though he is the guitar player on the intermission track, but since he was not a member of the band during the initial recording, and he is busy with his current job as a voice actor there is seemingly not a lot of use for him here. Not to say he doesn’t pop up on some tracks, there was an entire extra verse added to High Strung for him where his raspy, gravelly voice adds a new layer of sound and texture to an otherwise cutting floor worthy track. Another track that feels like a miss is Under Foreign Stars, which is a Teller penned track about feeling alone in a new town that belongs on Foreverware, or an early demo tape far more than it belongs here. 

The liner for the album contains the lyrics, and a lot of previously unseen photos apparently taken by Donner of Eerie, Indiana in the studio recording in all era’s of the band’s existence. Including an extremely rare picture of PDA between X and Teller, who were closeted at the time. When asked about the owner of the broken collarbone features on the back of the album, Holmes revealed that it actually belongs to Melanie Monroe, and that it was technically because of her that the album was re-recorded they wanted to pay homage to her and use an old x-ray of hers instead of the one that was featured originally, apparently a broken arm belonging to Teller after disregarding the instructions of a waterside. 

When asked if this means that Eerie, Indiana was reuniting, Holmes said that they were not, this was currently a one of project to say thank you to their fans. “Eerie, Indiana fans have always been such great supporters of our individual careers, we wanted to give them something new. But there’s always hope about Eerie, Indiana putting out new music. Who knows. Watch this space!” 

The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina Part 3 (2020)

**SPOILERS**

Ok, I have already completed the season, but I'm still gonna break it down episode by episode and give my thoughts during in retrospect. If you have not seen Parts 1 or 2, I recommend you start there.

Chapter 21: The Hellbound Heart

So, Sabrina (Kiernan Shipka) is trying to get Nick Scratch (Gavin Leatherwood) back out of hell and separated from Lucifer (Luke Cook). If you had forgotten, during part 2 Sabrina found out that Lucifer Morningstar was her biological father, and they trapped Lucifer inside of Nick. She enlists Roz (Jaz Sinclair), Harvey (Ross Lynch), and Theo (Lachlan Watson) to help. Besides the fact that their all besties, I have no idea what help Harvey or Theo would be. Theo is at least loyal and listens to reason. Harvey just goes off all the time. Roz is the most useful with her "cunning." Anyway. Before they figure out how to get to Hell, Mrs. Wardwell (Michelle Gomez) comes back to Baxter High with a new obsession with Dante's Inferno. But she's not possessed by Lilith (Michelle Gomez) anymore; Lilith is too busy defending her title as Queen of Hell. Also, props to Michelle Gomez. She flawlessly played two very different characters this season. Meanwhile, Zelda (Miranda Otto) and Hilda (Lucy Davis) are trying to save the coven because their powers are all fading. They aren't sure what to do with the remaining students or what to tell them. All of their powers are a gift from Lucifer, but he's not really in the position (or the mood) to be giving them any powers. Down in New Orleans, Ambrose (Chance Perdomo) and Prudence (Tati Gabrielle) are on their mission to find her father. When they come up short, they turn to Voodoo Priestess Mambo Marie (Skye P. Marshall) to help them with a different kind of magic. Dorian Gray (Jedidiah Goodacre -that is quite a name-) helps Sabrina and friends to get into Hell as long as they bring him a magic flower. They go in without any real plan, as you do. Seriously. Not even a map. Wtf. Luckily, they walked into the Shores of Sorrow and met Caliban (Sam Corlett), who told them to follow the river of blood because "all blood leads to Pandemonium." That's the capitol city of Hell I guess? They have lots of fun on the way, and when they get there, Lilith says that Sabrina has to deal with the Kings of Hell for her, but Lucifer tells Sabrina that she has to take the throne for herself. It has to be a Morningstar. Well, she does, but the Kings aren't convinced. Then our friend Caliban shows up again, naming himself Prince of Hell, and challenging Sabrina for the throne. It is worth noting that Caliban is ridiculously hot. And generally shirtless. Sabrina accepts the throne to get Nick out of Hell. Which is problematic for a lot of reasons, but most of all that she decides to do this BEFORE separating him from Lucifer. So she's just gonna keep Nick/Lucifer tied up in the dungeon until she finds another flesh acheron to hold Lucifer. What could go wrong?

I really expected it to take longer for Sabrina to get to Nick, but considering the very twisted maze part 3 went down, getting to Pandemonium is pretty minor. Also, Sabrina's whole "I'ma do what I want and not tell my aunts so they don't stop me" is getting old.

Chapter 22: Drag Me to Hell

This one is a little less convoluted. Sabrina finds out that one of her duties as Queen is to drag souls to Hell. Specifically souls who have made a deal with the devil. We can infer from this that the only people who go to Hell are those who have sold their soul, so it would be far easier to not go there than some people in the real world would have me believe. The first soul, a cute old man who wanted to be chess Grand Champion, Sabrina decided to show mercy and sent him to heaven. Didn't go over super well with the Kings of Hell. Also, Sabrina is now a cheerleader at Baxter High. They call themselves the Ravenettes. There's a dance team from my high school called the Raiderettes, so that confused me for a sec. Lots more singing pop songs then actual cheers though. Reminds me of the Jailhouse Rock scene in Riverdale. I digress. Zelda has decided to reopen the academy and that she and Hilda were going to teach. Hilda was more voluntold. Agatha (Adeline Rudolph) doesn't really respond well. Prudence and Ambrose discover that Father Blackwood (Richard Coyle) is in Loch Ness, which is apparently super magical and can bend time and space? Idk, but I was highly disappointed that we didn't see Nessie. They see him at the very end of the episode looking like Mr. Bean at the end of the live action Scooby-Doo movie. They take him back to Greendale and use him to hold Lucifer so Nick can be free. Because what the world needs is Blackwood and Lucifer together. Back to Brina. Her second soul to collect (apparently this is a daily task for the ruler of Hell but she only does these two so there's a plot hole) is the ice cream man, Jimmy Platt (Matty Finochio). He tells her that he would like to extend his contract again by eating the heart of an innocent child. Sabrina confronts Lucifer about this later, apparently it didn't have to be a child, just an innocent soul. Adult virgins, beware. Sabrina tells Jimmy no (obvi) but Jimmy has already hidden the kid. So now she has to find this kid and collect his soul before the end of the day or there will be a coup in Hell. Sabrina wisely decides on just Roz to help her with this one. Roz is also the one who warns Sabrina against transporting herself into a freezer with no more information, but as per usual Sabrina goes anyway. Jimmy put warding sigils on the walls, so she's stuck and powerless. Luckily, Lilith knows what the fuck she's doing (as opposed to Sabrina who only thinks she does) and saves Sabrina. Sabrina takes Jimmy to Hell, but nobody is impressed. Caliban officially challenges her to find the unholy regalia- the three most powerful infernal objects, starting with Herod's crown.

This is a pretty typical Sabrina episode- she's way in over her head, but she either doesn't realize it or won't admit it. I'm never quite sure, but it seems like she genuinely doesn't know. I also don't remember if it's this episode or the next, but Harvey is suddenly feeling under a lot of pressure to have sex with Roz. But it never shows Roz being pushy about it, so idk wtf is going on in Harvey's head (besides convincing himself he's over Sabrina).

Chapter 23: Heavy is the Crown

For this one, Sabrina enlists Ambrose to help her find the crown because Ambrose is the most well read warlock ever due to his permanent house arrest. It's in Riverdale. They use a special compass to find it in a maple tree that the Blossom's use for syrup. If you've seen Riverdale, this probably has more significance and is less surprising. They steal the crown (somehow without realizing zombie King Herod is still in the tree). Sabrina wants to destroy it, but Ambrose wants to tap into its power to help the coven. Unsurprisingly, this does not work out well for them initially because Herod follows the crown and would very much like it back. Zelda is failing at getting respect from the students at the academy, and there's weird Lucifer beetles crawling in ears and controlling people. In other news, a carnival came to town! Obviously this has something to do with the larger plot because otherwise it would be a side note. Harvey, Roz, Sabrina, Nick, and Theo are all going together. Theo wants to invite the new guy, Robin (Jonathan Whitesell), because Theo is crushing hard. Robin is nerdy cute, I guess. I did think it was cliche to give the queer guy green streaks in his hair though. Harvey says tells Theo to invite him as part of the group, which Theo does, and Robin agrees. They all go to the carnival: Roz, Sabrina, and Theo ignorantly happy, Harvey struggling with his masculinity, Nick struggling with his ordeal, and Robin just happy to be there. Roz "sees" the carnival ringmaster as a satyr (or a faun depending on your preference for Greek or Roman deities, but they do tend to prefer Greek in this show), but she decides she was imagining things. Mrs. Wardwell talks to the fortune teller Circe (Lucie Guest) to try to find out what happened to her during the three months that Lilith was using her "skin suit." She doesn't get any concrete answers because that's not how fortune tellers work, Mary. Harvey stumbles across a snake charmer dancer woman in a tent full of pervy dudes and is almost entranced. Hilda goes to the carnival with her bf Dr. C, who proposes. Idk why she needed to throw her cotton candy on the ground during that, but I'm also on a sugar detox, so... Prudence and Ambrose are cleaning up Blackwood's mess by putting a living doll spell on Judas and Judith to hide them and putting his weird time warping monster fish egg thing in a fish tank. Yeah. No Nessie, but a weird egg. It's fine, I'm not bitter. Back at the carnival, Sabrina and Nick get attacked by Herod (who stole his crown back from Ambrose but knows it was Sabrina stealing it initially). Ambrose saves them, but Caliban pops in, steals the crown, and wins the first round of the challenge. At the very end, we find out why the carnies are important: they're pagans who worship the old gods and trying to resurrect The Green Man to rid the world of flesh since the Satanic witches have all but lost their powers. There is more than one voodoo practitioner, idk why they're not considered more of a threat because they're much more independently magical. They need a virgin to complete the rebirth, and that's why Robin (dun dun dun) was hanging out at the high school. Our potential virgins are Theo, Harvey, and Mrs. Wardwell.

I chose not to believe that Robin was actually bad because I want Theo to be happy. I chose to believe that even if he was using Theo, Robin was just trying to take his virginity to prevent him from being the sacrifice. Also, Sabrina is basically trying to force Nick to be normal even though she compared his symptoms to PTSD. Girl stop. He needs a sec.

Chapter 24: The Hare Moon

Zelda and Hilda have decided that the coven needs to celebrate the hare moon for the coming of spring to bolster good will. Sabrina isn't enthused (maybe because it requires her singing a song of summer into the forest to release a rabbit). Lilith tells Sabrina that they need celestial power to restore their strength, so she goes to Dorian, who has an angel trapped in one of his paintings (as all art collectors do). Sabrina drains some blood from the angel for her coven, but leaves in the process because she hears some screaming. Then she stumbles upon Nick and some sex demons doing BDSM. She's less than thrilled, especially since Nick low-key blames her for it. And Dorian has drank 90% of the angel blood, but they can't take anymore with killing him. So Hilda suggests using the little blood to make an oil mixture and take a moon bath under the hare moon (rub oils all over your skin and lie outside under the full moon) to absorb the celestial energy from the moon. During the daytime ceremony, they meet the pagans. Things don't go well. Zelda makes a bunch of petty insults, Hilda pisses off Circe, and Nick kills me the snake that bit Dorcas (Abigail Cowen). Circe puts a curse on Hilda to become a spider, and

Before the Monsters Catch Up (M-Dash Fic)

It had been too long since Dash had last turned up on the Tellers’ doorstep unannounced, though Marshall would have feverishly disagreed. The longer they went without Syndi or his parents learning anything about the sneaky grey-haired boy they occasionally saw stealing from the local shops or brawling in the street with some other bedraggled pauper, the better – except that every time he approached him or burst into his house (often without even knocking) was another chance they’d find out they were acquainted.

A small sting of resentment struck him every time Marshall ducked out of the way so as not to be seen with him, or whenever he threw his hand over his mouth to silence him in case somebody overheard him and saw them together. Even Simon had started to be more cautious about where they met up and had become a lot more secretive since the incident with Mr Chaney a month or so ago. While Marshall seemed to want nothing more than to forget it entirely, Dash brought this incident up frequently, reminding him that he had saved his life more than once and to his reckoning, Marshall was therefore indebted to him.

He smirked, contemplating what to demand from him in return, as he raised his fist to knock, only to be startled when the door opened before he had the chance. And in front of him appeared Marshall Teller, the very person he’d been thinking about (in fact, he thought about him a lot more frequently than he would have liked to admit and he was making it his primary ambition never to let anyone find out about that so as not to appear in anyway humanised, and besides, he had no desire to explain his thoughts to anyone, including himself).

The last thing Dash expected was to be invited inside, and for good reason. The door quietly clicked shut as Marshall stepped outside, being careful not to draw the attention from his family members as they were gathered around the dinner table, waiting for him to re-join them. He looked less than ecstatic to see him, the notion of which making Dash smirk a little more devilishly.

His smirk disappeared when Marshall opened his mouth, immediately demanding to know what he was doing there. Because it wasn’t like he ever barged into his home unexpectedly, Dash sarcastically noted. It was how they’d met – with Marshall and Simon bursting into the Old Mill with a video camera, desperately filming everything in sight with the hope of getting footage of the alleged ghost of Grungy Bill. And they’d done it a fair few more times too, with little to no regard of Dash’s privacy (though the Old Mill didn’t technically belong to him).

“It’s freezing out here,” he snapped in response, though that had nothing to do with why he’d gone there. It was always freezing and it had been ever since the day he’d woken up in the Old Mill several months beforehand.

“I know,” was Marshall’s only (and extremely sullen response). He turned away then, towards the door, about to re-join his family in the dining room when the grey-haired pauper made a dash in the same direction, bursting into the house without giving Marshall the opportunity to stop him. He was stronger than him anyway and could easily fight him off if he felt it necessary. Once inside, he had half a mind to suddenly and extravagantly announce his presence to the rest of the Tellers simply to spite Marshall and wolf down his dinner on top of that, but something told him they wouldn’t react graciously to his intrusion and silently headed upstairs instead, being careful not to be seen by anyone else. Closing the door behind him, Marshall stopped and watched him for a moment before returning to his family without another word.

Muffled voices followed. Mumbled snippets of conversations, the majority of which he had no hope of making sense of. At the top of the stairs, listening intently, Dash stared down at the cream-coloured carpet in a peculiar concoction of both awe and disgust. Awe with regards to Marshall’s devotion to the beings he called his family and disgust with regards to the very same thing. Family.

He often wondered if he had one and, if he did, whether they were searching for him. For all he knew they could have been the ones to steal his memories and dump him there with nothing but the clothes on his back. He wondered if they’d ever loved him, if they still did and if he’d ever loved them, because from the moment his memories had gotten lost, he hadn’t been able to imagine loving anyone at all – even family. On occasion, he wondered if they had grey hair too – if his unusual appearance, including the markings on his hands, was hereditary.

When the conversation from downstairs died down and footsteps began leading away from the dining room, he scrambled to his feet and darted into the room closest to him – which turned out to not be a room at all, but a built-in storage cupboard filled with a vacuum cleaner, a couple of buckets, a mop, toolboxes containing things he knew nothing about and an awful lot of dust. This was much more like a home to Dash than the clean, carpeted rooms he’d caught glimpses of downstairs. If no-one (besides a few spiders) was living in it, he decided he might as well.

Remaining still and silent, his senses overcome by the sound of his own breathing, he waited behind the darkness, straining to hear the approaching footsteps as they ascended the stairs. There were two sets now – something he hadn’t noticed before. One went right passed him without a second thought, straight into the room at the end of the narrow hallway. The other stopped at the top of the stairs, as if its owner was waiting for something. A sharp, short hissing sound suddenly seeped in from the other side of the door and, after a brief moment of nothing happening, somebody knocked gently on the cupboard door and hissed again, louder this time.

“Dash!” Another knock. “Dash! Are you in there?” And then, under his breath, he heard him mutter, “If you’ve gone in my parents’ room, you’re dead.”

With a small smile playing on his lips, he pushed the cupboard door open and half-jokingly chuckled, “Why? What’s so important about your parents’ room?”

“Nothing. Now shut the hell up and get in here.” This was the first time Marshall had ever grabbed him so roughly and aggressively and Dash couldn’t help but despise it, though it would have been a lie to say that he wasn’t even vaguely impressed. Violence and hostility was his trademark attitude. Marshall was the compassion and approachability that balanced him out. He was the bad cop; Marshall was the good cop. And he hated it when a good cop tried to play bad.

But he brushed it off and – just this once – allowed him to shove him into the room on his left, which he instantly concluded must have been Marshall’s room. In the corner was the fabled evidence locker he occasionally heard Simon reference (he got the feeling Marshall wasn’t as open about it as Simon was, but he was in its presence now so he supposed he must have gotten over the idea of keeping it a secret from him) and across from him was an unmade bed that looked like heaven compared to sleeping on a dusty old wooden floor like he had been doing. Next to the bed was a desk with an open book lying on it, turned to a page about memory loss. Ignoring Marshall’s command that he kept away from his belongings (probably from a perfectly rational fear that he would steal something important to him) he took a closer at it, glancing at the front cover which explained that it was some sort of psychology book.

Memory loss? Letting go of the book, he frowned, and held onto the desk instead, noticing his hand shaking slightly as he did so. How many other people did Marshall know with memory loss? It couldn’t have been many, if any at all. That book looked like it was designed to diagnose people with psychiatric disorders. Like it was designed to spot insanity.

“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He spoke slowly, firmly, like a shrinking violet feigning extraversion. Trying to convince not just Marshall, but himself. Then his face broke out into a smile, he took his hand – no longer shaking – off the desk, and joked, “I’m mad, but I’m not crazy.” His smile was wide and toothy, like a shark’s, and his eyes dark but sparked with something menacing.

Marshall’s, on the other hand, alluded only fear. “Y- Yeah, I know,” he choked, barely able to speak with Dash’s gaze clawing viciously at his throat, suffocating him with just a glance. “It’s not about you… It’s- It’s Simon. Yeah, he’s been forgetting a lot lately. I’m just trying to help him.”

“Well,” Dash started, his voice its usual low, threatening growl. “We’d better get reading then. Don’t want anything to happen to old Shrimpenstein, do we?”

His dislike for Simon Holmes was Dash X’s worst kept secret; his best being his… whatever it was… for Marshall Teller. This was in spite of Simon being much friendlier towards him than Marshall (or anyone, really) had ever been. He was the one who had first pointed out that Marshall wouldn’t have survived his attack from Mr Chaney had it not been for Dash, as well as convincing him to let him into his home the first time. (He’d only been invited in for a minute or two because Syndi had been due home shortly afterwards, but since then Marshall had never let him into his house and it was plain to see that it had to have been because Simon hadn’t been there to convince him otherwise.)

Yes, he supposed he did acknowledge that having Simon around could occasionally be useful. He also supposed, however, that Marshall would focus a lot more attention on him should Simon to disappear from the picture for a while. Not that he’d ever try and make that happen, of course.

The book did intrigue him and he flicked through a couple of pages, not for Simon’s sake but to indulge in his fascination for what he assumed reflected Marshall’s opinion of him. He’d lied. He probably was crazy – or something like that. He couldn’t remember what. He could barely remember anything.

Even the last few days were a blur. It wasn’t just his entire life from before he’d found himself in the Old Mill that were blocked from his mind, it was nearly everything. Most of what he could remember was just him and Marshall, and Simon being irritating and friendly, which really was just another word for irritating as far as Dash was concerned. The rest was hazy and indecipherable. So, maybe he really was insane. Marshall certainly seemed to think so.

He was watching him intently, cautiously, like a deer prepared to flee at any sign of a sudden movement. Dash returned the favour by slamming down the book and glaring back, eyes aflame with something that wasn’t quite anger, but far from fear and even further from contentment. “I haven’t completely lost my mind yet, Marsh,” he spat, prompting a slow response of relief from him – a sigh that was still hesitant, still cautious, still fearful.

“Yet?” Marshall repeated questioningly. “Yet, as in…”

“As in I’m bound to lose it sometime.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment or two, gazing lazily around the room at everything he hadn’t seen yet – books, the wardrobe, the clothes scattered on the floor by the bed. “Speaking of Simon… I wonder where he is. Seen him lately?”

And of course Dash knew that he hadn’t – not because of what he’d done, but because he simply happened to know. No-one would have believed him though, regardless of all the other strange goings on in the town of Eerie. So aside from that one little jab he kept quiet, all the while keeping to himself a peculiar little secret he couldn’t wait to forget.

AO3 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036314/chapters/29818947

Sad start to what should become happier compassionate release tales after passage of FIRST STEP Act

Though the (clumsy) increase in good-time credits has received considerable attention since the passage of the FIRST STEP Act (see prior posts here and here and here and here), I find the change to the administration of so-called compassionate release rules to be among the most fascinating elements of the new legislation.  If legislative enactments can have "sleeper provisions," I would call the compassionate release changes the sleeper provisions of FIRST STEP.  This four-page FAMM document, titled "Compassionate Release and the First Step Act: Then and Now,"  reviews some basics of the changes made by the FIRST STEP Act for those eager for a short accounting of before and after.

Today's New York Times covers this issue through one particular sad story under the headline "A New Law Made Him a ‘Free Man on Paper,’ but He Died Behind Bars." This article is worth reading in full, and here are excerpts:

At a federal courthouse in Tennessee, a judge signed an order allowing an ailing inmate to go home. But he died in a prison hospice before he heard the news.

At his wife’s home in Indiana, as she was getting a wheelchair, bedpans and other medical equipment ready for his arrival, the phone rang. “It was the chaplain,” said the wife, Marie Dianne Cheatham. “He said, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you.’ And my heart fell through the floor. I knew what he was going to say.”

For years, terminally ill federal prisoners like Ms. Cheatham’s husband, Steve, have in theory had the option of what is called compassionate release. But in practice, the Bureau of Prisons would often decline to grant it, allowing hundreds of petitioners to die in custody. One of the provisions of the new criminal justice law, signed by President Trump on Dec. 21, sought to change that, giving inmates the ability to appeal directly to the courts.

Mr. Cheatham, 59, did just that, filing a petition last month so that he could leave prison in North Carolina and go home to die. He became one of the first to be granted release under the new law. But then came the harsh truth that made so many families pin their hopes on the law’s passage in the first place: Days and even hours can mean the difference between dying at home or behind bars.

Created in the 1980s, compassionate release allowed the Bureau of Prisons to recommend that certain inmates who no longer posed a threat be sent home, usually when nearing death. But even as more and more Americans grew old and frail in federal penitentiaries, a multilayered bureaucracy meant that relatively few got out.

A 2013 report by a watchdog agency found that the compassionate release system was cumbersome, poorly managed and impossible to fully track. An analysis of federal data by The New York Times and The Marshall Project found that 266 inmates who had applied between 2013 and 2017 had died, either after being denied or while still waiting for a decision. During the same period the bureau approved only 6 percent of applications.  Many state penal systems, which house the majority of American inmates, have their own medical release programs with similar problems.

“It is a system that is sorely needing compassion,” said Mary Price, the general counsel for Families Against Mandatory Minimums, which advocates criminal justice reform....  The law’s passage has caused a scramble to use the new appeal process for compassionate release, said Ms. Price, whose organization has worked to arrange lawyers for some of those inmates. “There’s a road map now for this, and a way home for people that we’ve never seen before,” Ms. Price said.

Before the First Step Act passed, Ms. Cheatham followed its fortunes closely, hoping it could lead to a shortened sentence for her husband, whose health was deteriorating. Last fall, he was diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer and told he had only a few months to live. In mid-December, he applied for compassionate release, Ms. Cheatham said.

The new law requires that prisoners be told within 72 hours of a terminal diagnosis that they may apply for compassionate release, and that the Bureau of Prisons aid those who wish to apply but cannot do so on their own.  After a few weeks, Ms. Cheatham had heard nothing back.  The Bureau of Prisons declined to answer most questions about Mr. Cheatham’s case, but did say that it had not received his application for compassionate release until Jan. 11.  According to the judge’s order, the request was filed on Dec. 13.

A senator’s office said the government shutdown would make it difficult for them to provide immediate help.  Finally, she called a federal public defender in Tennessee, where her husband had been sentenced, who told her about the new process allowing an appeal after 30 days.  Within a few days, on Jan. 25, they filed a preliminary motion for immediate release.

It was to be a homecoming to a home Steve Cheatham had never seen.  The Cheathams had met and married after he was already in prison, serving a nearly 16-year sentence for a series of bank robberies in 2006.  According to an F.B.I. agent’s account, Mr. Cheatham passed notes to tellers at three banks in Tennessee, making off with about $13,000. The agent made no mention of any weapon....

On Jan. 30, the formal request for compassionate release was filed, and the next day, a judge signed the order to send Mr. Cheatham home.  Ms. Cheatham got the news shortly after 1 p.m.  “My heart just was so full of joy,” she said.  “I called everybody I could think of to tell them,” including the prison chaplain, whom she asked to deliver the good news to her husband.

Later that afternoon, the chaplain called back. Mr. Cheatham had died before he could tell him about the judge’s order.  Ms. Cheatham was devastated, but expressed her hope that on some level, Mr. Cheatham may have sensed the news.  “At least,” she wrote to a supporter, “he died a free man on paper.”

Some of many prior related posts:

New report assails (lack of) compassionate release in federal system

Effective commentary urges greater us of "compassionate release"

DOJ review confirms government waste and mismanagement of BOP's handling of compassionate release

Inspector General report highlights problems posed by aging federal prison population

Spotlighting BOP's continued curious failure to make serious use of "compassionate release"

Another sad account of how US Bureau of Prisons administers compassionate release program

Notable new push to push for expanded use of compassionate release programs

Lamenting latest data on how federal Bureau of Prisons administers its compassionate release program

Recommending FAMM's great new report "Everywhere and Nowhere: Compassionate Release in the States"

Effective (and depressing) report on compassionate release (or lack thereof) in Wisconsin and nationwide

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8247011 https://sentencing.typepad.com/sentencing_law_and_policy/2019/02/sad-start-to-what-should-become-happier-compassionate-release-tales-after-passage-of-first-step-act.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

Sad start to what should become happier compassionate release tales after passage of FIRST STEP Act

Though the (clumsy) increase in good-time credits has received considerable attention since the passage of the FIRST STEP Act (see prior posts here and here and here and here), I find the change to the administration of so-called compassionate release rules to be among the most fascinating elements of the new legislation.  If legislative enactments can have "sleeper provisions," I would call the compassionate release changes the sleeper provisions of FIRST STEP.  This four-page FAMM document, titled "Compassionate Release and the First Step Act: Then and Now,"  reviews some basics of the changes made by the FIRST STEP Act for those eager for a short accounting of before and after.

Today's New York Times covers this issue through one particular sad story under the headline "A New Law Made Him a ‘Free Man on Paper,’ but He Died Behind Bars." This article is worth reading in full, and here are excerpts:

At a federal courthouse in Tennessee, a judge signed an order allowing an ailing inmate to go home. But he died in a prison hospice before he heard the news.

At his wife’s home in Indiana, as she was getting a wheelchair, bedpans and other medical equipment ready for his arrival, the phone rang. “It was the chaplain,” said the wife, Marie Dianne Cheatham. “He said, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you.’ And my heart fell through the floor. I knew what he was going to say.”

For years, terminally ill federal prisoners like Ms. Cheatham’s husband, Steve, have in theory had the option of what is called compassionate release. But in practice, the Bureau of Prisons would often decline to grant it, allowing hundreds of petitioners to die in custody. One of the provisions of the new criminal justice law, signed by President Trump on Dec. 21, sought to change that, giving inmates the ability to appeal directly to the courts.

Mr. Cheatham, 59, did just that, filing a petition last month so that he could leave prison in North Carolina and go home to die. He became one of the first to be granted release under the new law. But then came the harsh truth that made so many families pin their hopes on the law’s passage in the first place: Days and even hours can mean the difference between dying at home or behind bars.

Created in the 1980s, compassionate release allowed the Bureau of Prisons to recommend that certain inmates who no longer posed a threat be sent home, usually when nearing death. But even as more and more Americans grew old and frail in federal penitentiaries, a multilayered bureaucracy meant that relatively few got out.

A 2013 report by a watchdog agency found that the compassionate release system was cumbersome, poorly managed and impossible to fully track. An analysis of federal data by The New York Times and The Marshall Project found that 266 inmates who had applied between 2013 and 2017 had died, either after being denied or while still waiting for a decision. During the same period the bureau approved only 6 percent of applications.  Many state penal systems, which house the majority of American inmates, have their own medical release programs with similar problems.

“It is a system that is sorely needing compassion,” said Mary Price, the general counsel for Families Against Mandatory Minimums, which advocates criminal justice reform....  The law’s passage has caused a scramble to use the new appeal process for compassionate release, said Ms. Price, whose organization has worked to arrange lawyers for some of those inmates. “There’s a road map now for this, and a way home for people that we’ve never seen before,” Ms. Price said.

Before the First Step Act passed, Ms. Cheatham followed its fortunes closely, hoping it could lead to a shortened sentence for her husband, whose health was deteriorating. Last fall, he was diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer and told he had only a few months to live. In mid-December, he applied for compassionate release, Ms. Cheatham said.

The new law requires that prisoners be told within 72 hours of a terminal diagnosis that they may apply for compassionate release, and that the Bureau of Prisons aid those who wish to apply but cannot do so on their own.  After a few weeks, Ms. Cheatham had heard nothing back.  The Bureau of Prisons declined to answer most questions about Mr. Cheatham’s case, but did say that it had not received his application for compassionate release until Jan. 11.  According to the judge’s order, the request was filed on Dec. 13.

A senator’s office said the government shutdown would make it difficult for them to provide immediate help.  Finally, she called a federal public defender in Tennessee, where her husband had been sentenced, who told her about the new process allowing an appeal after 30 days.  Within a few days, on Jan. 25, they filed a preliminary motion for immediate release.

It was to be a homecoming to a home Steve Cheatham had never seen.  The Cheathams had met and married after he was already in prison, serving a nearly 16-year sentence for a series of bank robberies in 2006.  According to an F.B.I. agent’s account, Mr. Cheatham passed notes to tellers at three banks in Tennessee, making off with about $13,000. The agent made no mention of any weapon....

On Jan. 30, the formal request for compassionate release was filed, and the next day, a judge signed the order to send Mr. Cheatham home.  Ms. Cheatham got the news shortly after 1 p.m.  “My heart just was so full of joy,” she said.  “I called everybody I could think of to tell them,” including the prison chaplain, whom she asked to deliver the good news to her husband.

Later that afternoon, the chaplain called back. Mr. Cheatham had died before he could tell him about the judge’s order.  Ms. Cheatham was devastated, but expressed her hope that on some level, Mr. Cheatham may have sensed the news.  “At least,” she wrote to a supporter, “he died a free man on paper.”

Some of many prior related posts:

New report assails (lack of) compassionate release in federal system

Effective commentary urges greater us of "compassionate release"

DOJ review confirms government waste and mismanagement of BOP's handling of compassionate release

Inspector General report highlights problems posed by aging federal prison population

Spotlighting BOP's continued curious failure to make serious use of "compassionate release"

Another sad account of how US Bureau of Prisons administers compassionate release program

Notable new push to push for expanded use of compassionate release programs

Lamenting latest data on how federal Bureau of Prisons administers its compassionate release program

Recommending FAMM's great new report "Everywhere and Nowhere: Compassionate Release in the States"

Effective (and depressing) report on compassionate release (or lack thereof) in Wisconsin and nationwide

Transcript for Son becomes prime suspect in mom, brother’s murders: Part 3

Reporter: Sugar Land, one of the safest cities in America has just been the scene of a horrific crime. Apparently the whole family has been shot. Reporter: Two dead, two wounded. It looks like the scene of a horrific burglary gone bad or is it? There were some things that stuck out in our minds as being odd, but nothing that we could really hang our hat on to say, this is not what it appears. Reporter: To sergeant Marshall slot the signs of burglary didn’t seem quite right. The drawers being pulled out like they were and not rifled through was not typical of a burglary scene. Reporter: Nor was the fact that the only thing missing from the house was Bart’s cell phone. And the burglar leaves the gun, leaves all the electronics, but takes a cell phone that we couldn’t find in the scene. That was a real oddity that stuck out in everybody’s mind. Reporter: It’s the little details that can be the undoing of one who would devise the perfect crime. The first clues for police arise out of the whitakers’ last supper. It was a celebration of Bart’s announcement that he had just graduated from Sam Houston state university, but — Bart Whitaker had not aduated from Sam Houston state. Reporter: A tiny imperfection in Bart’s plot — that became a big crack. He had not even been attending the university. He was listed in their records as a freshman on academic probation. Reporter: In sergeant slot’s mind, now Bart is a person of interest. At the time you were celebrating this are you enrolled in college? I don’t even remember. I don’t think so. You weren’t graduating from college? Certainly not. No. Reporter: Bart lying to his parents about attending school when in fact he was hanging out in a townhouse they had given him as a present. We took that information immediately and went to Kent Whitaker first with it. Reporter: Kent is blindsided by his son’s lie. I realized — how could he be so stupid? I was so mad at him. I got in a wheelchair and wheeled down to his room and I just read him the riot act about how if he had been telling the truth he would not be a suspect. Reporter: He may be a proven liar, but there’s still no proof that Bart is a scheming killer. But then a police officer raises a big red flag when he remembers a call to this house two years earlier. Trish and I were awakened by a phone call from the Sugar Land police department telling us that Waco police had contacted them that Bart was on his way down here to kill us. It was something that a friend overheard Bart talking to his roommate about and they concluded that it was a misunderstanding. Reporter: Misunderstanding or not in light of the murders it is significant to sergeant slot. We’ve got the burglary scene that just doesn’t look right. We now know that the son is not graduating from Sam Houston. Reporter: And now a prior instance of an alleged plot by Bart Whitaker to kill his family. All those little pieces set off bells and whistles in our heads — just thinking, “We need to start looking at the son.” Reporter: They warn Bart’s father who refuses to believe that his son might be involved. I didn’t believe it for a minute. No. 57:00 — 7:54 P.M. Reporter: Indeed, sergeant slot was has a little more than a hunch about Bart and a lot of questions. How might he have orchestrated this? Who might he have talked to to get this done? Was this something where he was planning for a big jackpot, a payout, somehow? Officer Dubose is going to be playing the part of the suspect. Reporter: So sergeant slot returns to the whitakers’ home for a vote reenactment of the murders with the two survivors, in identical arm slings. I hear “Bang!” And the next thing I realize is that I’m lying down like this. Reporter: First with Kent — and then Bart. I got shot and I fell back into the couch and onto the floor. There were no other witnesses. So my only two sources of information, one of them is the father of the primary suspect. One of them is the primary suspect. So that was a juggling act. Reporter: Then a huge break from an mystery man who walks into the police station one night. Adam Hipp, a bank teller who went to high school with Bart. And then he dropped some bombs on me as far as, hey, Bart has contacted me before and asked me about making plans to kill his family. His father, his mother and his brother. Reporter: Adam Hipp claims Bart tried to recruit him as a shooter in an earlier murder plot. One of the plans that he laid out to me that he and Bart had discussed was the exact mirror image of the actual crime scene. Reporter: Sergeant slot decides to hatch a plot of his own. He eists Adam Hipp to trick his friend, Bart, on a trapped phone line. He told me how your mom and brother were killed and how your dad and you were shot. All that was very similar to what one of our plans was. Adam, stop saying “Our plan.” Okay. Stop saying tt. All right. I was very, very, very afraid of what he had to say. Reporter: On the phone tap Bart agrees to pay Adam $20,000 in hush money. You’ll pay at least $20,000? Yeah. All right, we’ll work out the details. Reporter: Using a courier service he sends Hipp a $250 down payment, but then he does something brazen, signing the waybill with the name of a murderer borrowed from a Hollywood movie. Anyone could have worked for size that was his power. Reporter: Kaiser soze, played by Kevin spacey, is the criminal mastermind in the hit film the “Usual suspects.” Latent fingerprints, that’s what all those markers are. Every one of them on the package that was identified came back to Bart Whitaker. Reporter: Now, the police know they must warn Kent Whitaker about his son. We feel wholeheartedly that he is responsible for this and that you are living with a murderer. Reporter: But, to protect the investigation sergeant slot gives no details to Kent Whitaker. I knew they couldn’t show their whole deck of cards, but they could at least tell me something if they wanted me to believe them. Kent’s response to me was, “You guys are either way wrong, or my son’s a monster.” Reporter: Despite the warning, Kent lets Bart move back home and for the next several months Bart spends every free moment with his father, playing the perfect son, studying the bible. He appeared as if he was really listening. And I told him, “Bart, I can’t read your heart. You’re either zero percent responsible or a hundred percent responsible. The point is that I love you. God has allowed me to forgive everyone involved.” He truly forgave the person that did this. I mean, he was the first real Christian that I’d ever met that really did what Jesus Christ told him to do. Reporter: He asked you point blank, “Did you do it, Bart?” Yeah. Reporter: And you said, “No, dad.” Yeah, I did. Reporter: Even though he was going to forgive you. Yeah, but it’s not that simple. I didn’t want to cause that pain on me primarily and on anyone else, secondarily. So, I just was weak. I was a coward. He was lying to everybody, he was fooling everybody. He did not move out of the home. And, it was very soon after that — Bart went missing. Reporter: Seven months after the murders, Bart’s abandoned SUV is found engine running outside a Houston apartment complex. And it was crushing because up until then, there was at least one member of my family that was still here. And now he’s gone. Reporter: But then a mystery man appears with evidence that would crack the case. Stay with us. And you look amazingly comfortable.

This transcript has been automatically generated and may not be 100% accurate.

via The Trump Debacle

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Eerie Indiana, eerie indiana: the other dimension Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Marshall Teller/Dash X (past?) Characters: Mitchell Taylor, Dash X, Marshall Teller, Stanley Hope Additional Tags: Crossover, Guns, Monsters, evidence locker, possible future dash x/mitchell taylor Summary:

#134 was the first time Mitchell was forced to take drastic action. It was also the first time he met that weird kid with grey hair, the first time he ever broke his nose, and the first time he ever ran for his life in an abandoned refinery on the edge of town in the middle of the night.

Here is a weird fanfic I wrote

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Joanie-9, Tommy-14, Maxie-62 In those first few tenuous years after Tommy came into his care Maxie hated to deny Tommy anything. He’d already taken so much from the boy. He held his ground on this though. The girl stayed. She would not go back to whoever put those burns on her too skinny arms. She wouldn’t tell them her name. So Maxie called her Joan. After Joan Vollmer, an old flame from a different time. When he called people like Gloria Schmitt and Neal Cassaday friends. Joan watched the man and boy carefully, but without much fear. Years later she told Max that her mother constantly had new people over. Boyfriends, dealers, bodyguards, free-loaders, and handymen. She’d been with Maxie and Tommy just under a month. She didn’t leave Maxie’s home in the woods. People were searching for her. Even her methhead mother was capable of calling the police once she noticed she was gone. Max was a bit appalled by how long it took for missing posters to go up. He finally learned her real name, Princess O’Callaghan, but when he tried to call her by it she refused to answer. He’d never met a girl with a less fitting name, so he stuck to Joan and she seemed to like it. For the first month he couldn’t go out and buy her clothes because he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. So she wore Tommy’s hand-me-downs. Baggy jeans rolled up, basketball shorts triple knotted so they would stay up, and t-shirts with band logos for Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Marshall Tucker Band. After a few weeks, when the missing posters were faded and splattered with rain Maxie began spreading word that his (fictional) daughter had adopted a little nine year old girl and he was going to be a grandfather! He talked at length about how he planned on spoiling her rotten, so no one thought it strange when he started purchasing books, toys, clothes, and candy. Joanie loved candy. For the first two weeks Tommy kept his distance from Joanie. He was a serious kind of kid, but not so serious that he couldn’t loosen up and enjoy the company of another kid. He took it upon himself to teach Joanie about “good” music before Max turned her into an unmitigated snob. Max would probably turn her into a snob anyway, but Tommy would make sure there was at least some mitigation courtesy of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Guy Clark, and the Allman Brothers Band. There was only one place where Tommy and Maxie’s tastes aligned. Johnny Cash. The man in black was playing basically anytime Tommy and Maxie were both in the house. Neither could function without music nor could either stand the other’s taste so Cash was the true soundtrack of Tommy and Joanie’s childhood. Maxie took it upon himself to teach Joanie about good books before Tommy got his hooks into her. Before Max had bitten Tommy he’d been well on his way to becoming another Lorraine redneck. At the age of fourteen he’d already flipped a four-wheeler and broken his leg while hunting, come up with several recipes for squirrel, and refused to wear any shoes besides cowboy boots. He listened almost exclusively to swamp rock and held a general disdain for reading, preferring instead to watch those nasty horror movies. Max would not let Joanie suffer the same fate. He read to her constantly and made her read to him as well. Hemingway’s ideas were grand but his words were simple. Thoreau instilled in her the same war that raged in himself, the love of company and the sharing of ideas constantly battling with a desire for isolation and peace. He read her Shakespeare and did voices for every character. She didn’t understand a single individual word but knew every story by its end. The beauty of Shakespeare lied in its performance. You didn’t need to understand the words, the story came through anyway if the teller was committed and the audience was awake. At the beginning of every play there would be a moment of disorientation but once a performer lands the first joke and the audience finds itself laughing, they have fallen into the story and won’t leave until it spits them back out with a wedding or a funeral in the final scene. Joanie may end up a redneck like her brother, but she’d be a well-read one. He didn’t read her the works of his friends. Not then. Not yet. Only when she was older would she stumble onto her burning desire for a life on the road through the works of Kerouac, Burroughs, and Delphinium. It would be cruel to show her this world when the hard and simple truth of it was this: she wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a long time. *** Joanie-Not yet born, Tommy-Not yet born, Maxie-19 Max and Happy Delphinium were fast friends. They were fast friends in the way only 19 year olds can be, when they make their first friend based not on physical proximity, but mental proximity. They met in Reno Nevada. Despite being from opposite sides of the country they had come to the seemingly simultaneous decision to ditch college and come to Nevada. Happy went straight to Reno. Maxie took a brief pit stop in Vegas. He realized he hated Las Vegas nearly as much as it hated him and left fairly quickly for the biggest little city on earth. They’d each spent almost all their money on the journey and didn’t have much left over for fun. So they found themselves at the Shy Clown, a very suspect bar with a low buy-in poker game running 24/7 in the back corner. Max thought he might try to get in on the game after he’d had a few drinks. Happy just liked suspect places. Happy had been in the Clown for several hours when Max walked in. The first thing he noticed was that Max was very tall. The second thing he noticed was that Max had the absolutely lethal combination of blonde hair and brown eyes. Happy knew from experience these boys were always big trouble, but dynamite in the sack. The third thing he noticed was that Max looked beaten all to shit, with double black eyes and splinted fingers. Max didn’t notice Happy. Not at first. Anytime Happy was in public he was surrounded by two or three girls, their faces were subtly different but their desperation for his attention was the same whether he was in New York, San Francisco, or Reno. Happy’s green eyes, black curls, and easy smile attracted brassy dames who patronized places like the Shy Clown unescorted. The ones who saw past his horn rimmed glasses and crooked incisors to see how handsome he was. Their lipstick was dark and their laughs were loud. Happy liked the girls, they were beautiful and fun but sometimes he longed to go somewhere for a drink and not catch battering eyelashes everywhere he turned, but he and the girls were the same breed. They’d feel out of place anywhere else. So they were stuck together. Happy was half-mexican half-irish. He waged a constant war with his hair. His parents had been migrant workers. When he was 5 his father had died when an improperly latched hay wagon exploded open sending tons of hay tumbling on top of him, crushing him. His Mhamo told him his mother died of a broken heart not long after. After that he went to live with his Mhamo in Brooklyn, spending a disastrous year with his abuela in California when he was 14. His Mhamo was big and irish and kind. She slapped him on the head whenever her love for him seemed too big to contain any longer. She taught him to sing and how to cook. He adored her. He was superstitious, poetic, and hardscrabble. Despite his tough beginning he had a deep abiding love for beauty and a sense of whimsy that clashed against his hustler existence. What he lacked in charm he made up for with sincerity. Max sat down at the opposite end of the bar from Happy. He ordered a well gin and tonic. Happy dug around for his last two dollars. He signalled the bartender and sent Max a bombay sapphire martini. Once Max finished his gin and tonic the bartender presented Max with the martini. Happy couldn’t hear Max ask who sent it, but he knew that’s what he’d said when the bartender pointed him out. Max raised his glass to Happy. Happy mirrored him. After twenty minutes Happy was able to convey to the girls that their energies would be better expended elsewhere and they dispersed. Maxie took the recently vacated stool beside Happy. “Thanks for the drink pal,” Max said. “Don’t mention it,” Happy said. “Looked like you could use it.” Max pressed the pads of his fingers onto one of his black eyes, exploring the edges, gently prodding. He winced. “Vegas didn’t agree with me.” “About what?” “Just about anything. Apparently card counting is frowned upon,” Max said. “Jesus,” Happy said. “I heard they’re all mobbed up down there. That where you got the shiner?” “No, that’s where this happened,” Max held up his hands. He had three broken fingers on each one. “I think I made ‘em mad. I was piss drunk and didn’t really feel the first couple. So they held onto me until I sobered up a bit.” “Shit oh dear,” Happy said. “Well, what’s the shiner from?” “I was walking to my motel from the hospital and some asshole rolled me. I couldn’t fight back too good with these.” He wiggled his splinted fingers and winced. “Let’s get you another drink.” “Nope, nope, my turn to buy.” Maxie said. “I thought you were broke,” Happy said. “I’m never broke for long,” Max said. He pulled several wallets from his jacket. “Me neither,” Happy said. He produced a pocket book and a coin purse he’d lifted from a member of his harem. They grinned at each other. “So what do you do?” Maxie asked. He stretched out on top of a pool table like it was a lounger by a pool. It was late. Casino’s never really close, but around two or three in the morning they seem to grow muted and personal. The lights seem lower, the cigarette smoke smells like home. Dealers feel like comrades instead of opponents. No one is going to win anything. It’s just enough to be part of that crowd. The hardcases, the three time losers, the cigarette mamas, and the trucker hat daddies. Conversation ebbs and flows easily depending on who’s conscious enough to make it. It’s still hours until the neon spits the losers onto the sidewalk squinting in the sunlight with a bloody mary in one hand and a fifty cent bacon and egg breakfast in the other. For now the lights hold them close. Happy rested his head on one arm. With the other he sent an eightball bouncing off a wall of the table, each time the ball came within millimeters of smacking Max in the head. He was either too drunk or too trusting to care. “I go to Columbia, went-went to Columbia. For poetry,” Happy said. “No shit?” You’re a writer?” Max said. “Hopefully.” “Man, I knew there was a reason I came over here.” “Yeah. I sent you a drink,” Happy said. “Asshole. I’m a writer too.” “Do you go to school?” Happy asked. “I was invited to discontinue my attendance of Boise State...recently,” Max said. “Like last year?” “Three days ago.” “Well, you’ve gotta come back to New York with me,” Happy said. “To Columbia?” “I’m taking a leave of absence, but the city’s great. You can stay with me and my Mhamo.” At that point Maxie was forced to vacate the pool table as someone actually wanted to play. Max and Happy exited the clown and walked down Freemont Street. They stopped and asked some cowboys in beautiful fringed paisley shirts and dirt-stained hats where they could find a good time. Happy envied Max’s easy casual manner with the cowboys, born of growing up in the west. They told him there was a “helluva good concert” at the Nugget. The guy was an animal, been playing for six hours. “Alright, don’t get too fucked up you goddamn brushpoppers.” Max said by way of farewell. His voice kicked into a twang Happy hadn’t noticed before. Maxie seemed to be able to pick it up and put it down at will. Happy thought if he tried to call any of those boys a brushpopper he’d get punched in the face. He had no idea what a brushpopper was, nor a jordan valley loop, nor what it meant to turn your toes out. This was a secret language he’d never be privy to. He hoped maybe someday he and Max might have their own secret language. Mac caught his eye and smirked at him. Once he was sure he was out of earshot he told Happy, “I got a few cousin’s who rodeo so I run into guys like that a lot. They love it when you start talking about people from different regions like you’re some sort of goddamn expert. I don’t know a fucking thing about Jordan Valley or how they throw their ropes, but all those cowboys seem to like it.” A knit between Happy’s eyebrows that he hadn’t realized was there melted away. Maxie clapped a hand on Happy’s shoulder. “Let’s go watch the shitkicker messiah.” They walked toward the Nugget. Maxie left Happy’s side for a moment. He darted into a tiny liquor store and exited minutes later with a bottle in a brown paper bag. He pressed it into Happy’s hands. Happy took a sip and gagged. Canadian whiskey. Max tipped the bottle to Happy’s lips again. “Drink. It’ll put hair on your chest,” Max said. “I don’t want hair on my chest.” Happy replied. “Drink anyway. It builds strong bones and stronger character.” “I want a base and low character.” “Even better. Drink, it’s what men of low character do.” Happy drank. They entered the Diamond Showroom at the Nugget. They’d been let in for free since technically the concert had ended three hours ago. Most of the audience members who remained were passed out on the carpeted floor, empty drink glasses filling again with watery ice scattered on every table. Those still awake swayed in a trancelike state to the rhythm of the performer’s guitar. Sweat poured off the performer. He sat on a folding chair with his guitar, he was alone. He was lost somewhere in a haze of whiskey and narcotics only country rock prophets can seem to find any beauty in. A place Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and Waylon Jennings all inhabited, making music as stunning as their decisions were terrible. One of the performer’s fingers was bleeding. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Crimson streaked the e-string on his guitar. Happy and Max leaned against one another. Nodding in time to the music. They could feel it in their chests. An hour passed. Then two. Happy wasn’t surprised to find he was crying. He turned and saw Max was as well. The last plaintive note issued from the speakers and the song was over. It hung in the air as the performer huffed and drew his thumb over his lip. He was awakening, disoriented. Maxie walked up to the stage and reverentially offered the performer his whiskey. The performer took a heavy pull off the bottle. It had a stabilizing effect on him. He gratefully wandered back into the haze and started another song. At around 6 AM they stumbled into Happy’s room at Fitzgeralds. Neither made it into the bed. Happy slept on the floor. He sat crosslegged, leaned against the wall. Passed out while he waited for Max. Max fell asleep in the bathtub. He’d had a notion to take a cold shower and sober himself up a bit, but he’d fallen asleep while taking off his shoes. He didn’t remember crawling into the tub. A few hours later Happy was awakened by a crisp knock on the door and a polite voice discreetly calling “housekeeping.” Happy hauled himself to his feet. He lost his balance several times but eventually was able to open the door. The maid was a beautiful plump mexican woman. “Hola,” Happy said. At the sight of her stricken face he hastened to add “Esta bien, entra. Lo siento.” The maid pushed her cart into the room. Happy yawned and said “Saldre de tu camino. Buenos dias.” He grabbed his rucksack and left the room. He was halfway to the elevator when he heard a feminine scream. Followed by a masculine yell. He ran back towards his room. The door was propped open by the brass loop of the swing lock. Happy entered the room and found the maid throwing complimentary bottles of shampoo at Max. He ducked and cowered in the tub. A bottle struck him in the ear. “Senora. El esta bien. Es mi amigo,” Happy said. “El es tu amigo?” She said, hand cocked behind her ear to huck another bottle. “Si, si, es mi amigo.” Happy said. She threw the bottle at Happy. “Bastardo. Me asusto hasta la muerte.” She said. “Lo siento, lo siento. Ay!” A bottle smacked him in the stomach. “Chingao! Para! Lo siento!” Max grabbed Happy’s hand and dragged him out of the room. One last bottle hurtled through the door before they closed it. It smacked Happy in the forehead. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Let’s get a drink,” Maxie said. *** Joanie-13, Tommy-18, Maxie-66 There came a time when Joanie stopped calling. Tommy left Max’s home in the woods when he was eighteen, which was to say he left Max’s home the very instant he could. Joanie badgered him while he packed and he finally disclosed he was going to New Orleans. He’d decided he would stay at the Babineaux Motor Lodge. His father stayed there during his rodeo days.It held a romantic place in his mind. For his gruff exterior Tommy was very susceptible to nostalgia. A week later he dropped his bags on the floor and flopped onto the bed. He wondered if this was the room his father had stayed in. He wondered if the oyster house down the street was any good. He wondered if Joanie was all right. He didn’t have to wonder long on that count. Joanie called him every day he stayed at the Babineaux. She never really seemed to grasp the concept of long distance charges. He never picked up. She didn’t care. She left lengthy messages on the answering machine in his room.. She would tell him about the book she was reading,the album she was listening to, how good she was getting at rolling cigarettes. At those points she would pause and wait for him to register his disapproval then plow onward. She talked more on those messages than she had in the previous four years combined. He wondered what that meant. There was a forced casualness to her voice that seemed ominous to him. After a couple weeks in New Orleans he left for Memphis Tennessee. After he left she bullied a clerk into admitting they were forwarding a package to him at the Seven Spoke Inn in Memphis. She called him every day. There was no message machine in his room and so she would leave messages with the desk clerk to pass along to him. She’d shot a squirrel the other day. She’d made eggs benedict and didn’t break the hollandaise. She’d done the dishes without anyone reminding her to. After a few months in Memphis he left for Dallas. He didn’t leave a forwarding address. He had no idea how she tracked him to the Bluebird Motel, but she did. He didn’t answer the phone. She left messages like she was picking up the thread of a conversation they’d had five minutes ago. After a few days at the Bluebird he knew to expect a call from her at 9 PM his time. When 9 hit he glanced at the phone, expecting to spend a few minutes agonizing over whether he should or could answer it. Then it was 9:01. No call. 9:02. No call. Joanie always called at the same time. Tommy called the front desk. “Have there been any calls for me?” “No, sir. Are you expecting a call?” “No. Thank you.” “If you need to place a call hit 4 to dial out.” “Thank you.” He hung up. The phone rang. Tommy snatched it out of the cradle. “Joanie?” “I’m sorry sir, it’s Michelle at the front desk. It’s actually 9 to dial out. Not 4.” “Thank you.” Disappointment gnawed at his stomach. That was the last time the phone rang for Tommy in Dallas. Tommy liked living in motels. He liked the neon. He liked how impersonal they were. He liked the smell of chlorine and cigarette smoke. He liked that there was maid service every day. After living with Max and Joanie, neither of whom would ever be renowned for their hygiene, he really liked the maid service. The Bluebird felt like a place he could stay, but it wasn’t exactly how his father had described it. His father had told him about a cooler of beer that held a place of prominence near the cracked concrete pool. Anybody could toss a few quarters into the red solo cup that sat next to the cooler and take a beer. His father had told him about the grubby algae encrusted fish tank that sat behind the clerk’s desk in the lobby. One albino goldfish swimming through the murk. About the owner, a cranky old bastard who told stories from Korea if you knew the right questions to ask. The cooler was a liability. The fish was dead. The owner was dead. He didn’t know why this should make him feel like he’d lost his parents all over again, but it did. Maybe the Bluebird didn’t feel like a place he could stay. He decided he’d try Colorado next, someplace small. He’d had enough of this big city stuff. When he left Dallas he figured his trail would go cold. After he’d been in Coyote Den Colorado for a few weeks the phone rang in the middle of the night. Three times. Then it was gone. When he got his room charges he saw it was the old 541 number. Oregon area code. He didn’t receive any calls from that number for four years.

La La Land

Why the Backlash? and The Cipher of the Musical Film

By Colby Herchel

Originally posted here. 

       La La Land is a movie that is doing exceptionally well across the board, and deservedly so. It’s getting people from all walks of life into the theatre, and this reviewer has been dazzled by the work of both director Damien Chazelle and composer Justin Hurwitz, from both this outing and 2014’s Whiplash. So some are rightfully confused with the “Oscar backlash” it’s getting from both film critics as well as lovers of musicals. Why, if something is reaching out to everyone as a fun dose of optimism, is it worth the trouble nitpicking? There are certain moments that the film goer should relax and take it in, and not linger on inconsistencies. Tom Hanks said of it, “if the audience doesn’t go and embrace something as wonderful as this then we are all doomed.” I guess we’re not doomed.

       But there comes a moment, namely tying the record number of Oscar nominations, that gives these critics a pause for thought. This is no longer a fun distraction— this has become the representation for the musical film. And to answer the question, should it be? No, it should not.

       I’m certainly not making any friends here, but I urge you to see it this way: this article is not a put down of the movie in any way, but more importantly, a context provider, a reaching hand into another understanding. What were choices, what were mistakes, and, most importantly, where do we go next?

Musical on Film on Musical

       First and foremost, I would like to make one thing clear: a medium is a means of expression, like a book, a painting, a play, or yes, a film. They do different things and have their strengths in different areas. None are superior; they are different at the basest level. A genre is a trend or style of storytelling, like science fiction, horror, or comedy. As you may have noticed, the world at large lists the musical as a genre. This is understandable, as there are certainly tropes in classic Hollywood musicals that are consistent. But when you really think about it, the musical doesn’t have to have a romantic or cheesy slant in order to be a musical. It simply has to be a story told with the characters singing. In fact, musicals have their own genres, think of Jesus Christ Superstar and Hair as rock musicals, and Hamilton and Bring in ‘da noise, Bring in ‘da Funk as hip-hop musicals. So you can find it problematic that in the same genre are smushed Sweeney Todd and Hairspray. They tell completely different stories with completely different music, but both happen to have characters who sing. Isn’t the musical beginning to sound like a medium to you?

       Now, when you throw in the musical film, you have a whole new set of issues. For some reason or other, when people see a musical live, they are more forgiving of the singing. Whether people used to treat showtunes as pop songs or that hearing music live adds a concert feel to the event, it seems to work. But when you film a character singing, it is an entirely different moment. Film is constantly trying to create the most realistic scenario, and Theatre always requires a bit more imagination (which is why puppetry is especially jarring at first). When a character in close up belts that she is telling you she’s not going, there is no realism. The illusion is immediately shattered, and many film goers can no longer stomach it.

       This issue is usually explained away by this (which Damien Chazelle has discussed in interviews): the character has reached an emotional point in which they can do nothing but sing their feelings. I am not fully subscribed to this, as have you ever met anyone who has been so emotional that they have to sing? With backup orchestra and all? Chazelle, for that matter, does not subscribe to this either, as there is probably one instant in La La Land that the character sings a song out of desperate emoting. Oddly, we have some modern entries in this category, Les Miserables and Into the Woods, which I think both work pretty well, but lack a certain reasoning which is inherently off-putting. Adapting a stage musical to film is always an issue, to be sure.

       So alright, the Gene Kelly and Vincent Minelli explanation falls flat. And it physically did, in 1969, when the Hello, Dolly! film was an inordinate flop (which is a shame, that movie is comic GOLD). The stories that had characters just sing for no reason other than singing were no longer working.

       The musical film could never be the same. Bob Fosse, that rascal, was the first to really challenge back. With Cabaret in 1972, Fosse made a film where every number took place diegetically in a music bar, which offered commentary on the scenes. This device was so well received Fosse beat Francis Ford Coppola for Best Director at the Oscars the year The Godfather was up to bat. We all forgot about this device until Rob Marshall brought it back for Chicago in 2002 to similar praise. Every song occurs in Renee Zellweger’s booze addled brain. I personally like this idea, but unfortunately, it doesn’t allow for the freedom other solutions bring.

       So along came a little picture, a humble, indie darling you’ve never heard of. Moulin Rouge! I think it’s called. This was the first to sell the idea that sometimes, in a musical, everything is ridiculous and you can get it or get out. This is fun, but not very challenging. This embrace of the ridiculousness of the medium also bleeds into La La Land, but to a lesser extent. Obviously people in the real world don’t sing, but forget it, it’s fun! “What if they don’t like it?” “Fuck ‘em.” I usually find myself crinkling my nose at these outings, mostly because they do really well, and stigmatize musicals even more than they are by everyday moviegoers. To put it in perspective, I also classify Mamma Mia! in this subset. The post-Seinfeld cynical self awareness can go so far, but meta humor is a kind of well that all too quickly runs dry.

What is The Umbrellas of Cherbourg for Christ-sakes?

       What is this reviewer’s favorite, you may ask? Well, let’s rewind back to 1964, before Hello, Dolly! and even The Sound of Music. And while we’re taking the time tour, let’s pop over the Atlantic Ocean. Jacques Demy’s les parpluies de Cherbourg, or, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, is a film entirely told through a jazz soundtrack about two ill-fated young lovers (Michel Legrand the more than competent composer this time around). Sound familiar? The differences, then, are twofold. The characters only sing in this film, which makes Les Miserables critics moan. Don’t worry, the songs never take their time to withhold information, but rather press on at the rate any movie would (its run time is a blessed 90 minutes). It actually has more in common with opera than you would expect, but that’s a thesis for another day. The other difference between this and La La Land is in the fact that the characters are decidedly not dreamers. They are a poor daughter of a single mother, and an orphan who works at a petrol station. The dramatic kick comes at the end, at the pan out from a gas station. These emotional highs and lows came from the most mundane of locations, and the reason for singing is a beautiful one: your difficult life is worthy of music. How does this translate as a format, then? Simple: give a thematic reason. It doesn’t have to be revealed the minute the movie starts, but as long as it plays into the major themes of the film, it fits. These characters constantly talk about the opera, and about the melodrama in their lives. Genevieve and Guy are much more self aware, and both get full, emotional arcs. I’ll say no more, everyone who likes musicals should see this film.

       “Aha!” you may cry, “Chazelle has cited that very film as his major influence! Isn’t La La Land just as thematic?” Well, you certainly have a point, but please don’t interrupt me until I’m finished. Certainly, the choice of color palette, the cinematography, and many portions of that ending are swiped right from les parapluies de Cherbourg. The name of Mia’s character in the one act? Genevieve. That circle wipe that stops, then keeps going? Demy. The use of a jazz score? Gershwin, but Michel Legrand really was the one to perfect it on film. There are full scenes swiped from it in La La Land, and Chazelle seems to be kind of embarrassed about it. From a personal friend who broached these similarities with him, this is one of his favorite movies (as well as Casablanca). That’s not to say it’s a bad film— no, steal away! What else do we make art for but to be a reference? And to answer the question on whether the music comes in thematically, well, yes and no.

The Themes of La La Land

       Alright, so before we go any further, you should probably have watched La La Land if you don’t want to be spoiled. Below, I will discuss the thematic push behind the film.

       First, of course, is dreams. This is made apparent from the opening number— the difficulty of living life for one’s dreams. And this is essentially what’s at stake throughout: will Mia achieve her dreams, and to a lesser extent for some reason, will Seb do the same? This concept is brought forth in Whiplash, Chazelle and Hurwitz’s earlier venture, which makes this reviewer ponder if they are meant to be companion pieces. Whiplash is a much more cynical outing, exploring the selfishness of dreams in a high paced thriller. La La Land, is, essentially, the optimistic fluff. The stakes are never that big, and that’s ok. It is interesting that Mia is not punished for cutting off her connections to other people as much as Miles Teller’s character. She gets her dream, and leaves Seb (I really, really hate this name) behind. He’s sad about it, but all in all more than supportive.

       The second theme is less inherent— the death of art. Namely jazz, and Hollywood sensibilities. Seb explains that jazz is lost on young ears. You have to listen to it for the dialogue, which gives a cue for the rest of the film, particularly concerning their relationship. Mia, who claims she hates jazz, once taught how to hear it, finds a way to appreciate it. But other than these two, everyone else seems to be just fine with its fade from popular ears.

       Of course, there’s love, but isn’t there always?

Song to Theme

       I’ve heard some silly critiques that say Hurwitz’s score is not “hummable.” That is an absolutely useless critique unless you are trying to make popular songs. When you are writing songs for characters, all that matters is you honor the character and the story. Hurwitz’s score is deeply lyrical and rich and his orchestrations for that matter are quintessential. I give him every credit— but thematically, I have a few issues.

       Let’s begin with that opening number, Another Day of Sun. I personally really like what this song is saying. It’s an excellent way to delve into the struggle of all these everyday dreamers. As important to the song in a musical film is the way it’s shot. And Chazelle has done his homework, because we begin with Fellini’s opening scene from 8 1/2: a person in bumper to bumper traffic who, through some bout of magic realism, finds a beautiful escape (Guido Anselmi flies up and out, the cast of La La Land break into a musical number). This is a great way to indicate to the audience that their watching an old-style musical, right?

       But how does Chazelle shoot it? After celebrating the width of the aspect ratio (dear God, throw a parade why don’t you), we pan along different cars listening to all different kinds of music, some pop, some hip-hop, some classical. Oh! What an excellent way to launch into the death of jazz! Ah, but hold on. We keep panning, and begin to have that sure feeling that, oh no, he’s going to try his hand at the long take. And suddenly everyone, all these different people who from the first minute were shown to have separate tastes in music, are jumping out of their cars and belting jazz music! Is jazz truly dying in the world of this movie? No! It seems to be the heartsong of an entire traffic jam! The idea here is that since we’ve decided this is an old Hollywood musical, you can suspend your belief. Which is all well and good, but largely why I find this more akin to Moulin Rouge! than les parapluies de Cherbourg. “What if they don’t like it?” “Fuck ‘em.” Why on earth not use the music that the people were listening to in that same take? Make a fusion of styles to accurately represent the modern world, and, therein, one of the major struggles for our main characters? What could, and should have been an introduction into the major theme of the movie ended up being sacrificed for nostalgia.

A note on the long take: I think it’s absolutely fun, but unless there’s a good reason behind it, it is only a gimmick, an ‘Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better’ between directors. Alphonso Cuaron has made it his trademark, but you’ll notice he always has a thematic and filmographic reason to use the device. The Spielberg “Oner,” like the ferry scene in Jaws, is always trying to hide in plain sight, without convincing the audience that he is clever, but rather exploring the dialogue with proper attention and depth. Hitchcock, who explored it to its fullest extent in Rope, found it to be cheap and unfulfilling for the rest of his career, and very much regretted using it in the first place. Reel it in, Chazelle, Mendes, and Iñarritu.

       As you imagine these problems bleed throughout, at least concerning the other large group number, Someone in the Crowd. The song doesn’t seem to decide whether it’s critical of this ambitious world or not. Is it a joyful celebration of the struggling actor, or a condemnation of the shallow world? The prevailing image is the yet another long take of spinning in the pool, watching the chorus dance around like zombies. But in the following scene, we have an 80’s cover band featuring Seb at one of these parties. Good Lord, what is the real world of this picture? Is it in Mia’s Turner Classic Movie Mind? That could work for the party number, even A Lovely Night (sweet as a song, but clearly the talents the number is given can’t make it spin), but not the opening.

       Moreover, John Legend gets a song too, We Could Start a Fire, which clearly delineates popular music from jazz. Why, since the production was openly aware of their choices and the world around them, would they not remain consistent with this theme?

       Now, I do give a lot of credit to the cinematography, even in its gimmicky moments. It’s very difficult to shoot chorus numbers in a non stagnant way. Famously Tim Burton cut the wonderful chorus parts from his adaptation of Sweeney Todd, but this in effect made his film work that much better. Chazelle crafts a deft and complete world.

       Mia and Seb’s love theme is gorgeous, and a rival to many love themes throughout cinema history. The dance scene in the planetarium is just wonderful. But after a while (and as a composer I absolutely have suffered from this) it’s repeated a little too often. Hurwitz’s jazz arrangements are lovely, particularly Herman’s Habit. Here’s to the Ones who Dream is the only number to really come from a character’s emotions, as stated before, and largely it is the best song in the movie, if preachy. A few lyrical flubs, but we’ll certainly get to that.

       That dream ballet at the end is basically a medley of all the songs to come before it, which orchestrally, it’s lovely, but thematically, it’s weird. When we get into sequences of the film repeated we have all the right beats, their love theme and the audition song most prominent. But at the beginning, there are musical mentions of Another Day of Sun and Someone in the Crowd whichonly serve as musical filler. When a musical theme is assigned to a scene, whenever it is played again, it should have a direct correlation between them.

       You’ll notice I left out a rather popular song.

City of Stars is Terrible

       The big question that always comes up for a songwriting team is “What is written first, the music or the lyrics?” Friends, we don’t have to ask this question about Hurwitz and his lyricists. We know. It is the music first.

       The lyricists of the film are actually fairly well versed in the musical genre, Benj Pasek and Justin Paul. They are both composers and lyricists, known for Rent of the year Dear Evan Hansen as well as Dogfight and the Christmas Story musical. This reviewer thinks they are more than competent and have a deservedly rich career ahead of them.

       Therefore, it is troubling how many awkward lines sneak into the final film. Theatre can always be changed and edited, but a film is forever. We have some slant rhymes in many songs:

“When they let you down/you get up off the ground”

Another Day of Sun

“Then everybody knows your name/we’re in the fast lane”

Someone in the Crowd

       In City of Stars, we have issues of prosody (how syllables and poetry are naturally spoken) and the difference between masculine and feminine rhymes. To illustrate the culprit of prosody, I have put the strong syllables in bold:

City of stars/Are you shining just for me/

City of stars/There’s so much that I can’t see

City of Stars

       Repeat those lines back in the as if you’re speaking them, then in the rhythm of the song. Do you feel how they don’t fit together? Rhyme goes beyond words, it’s in the meter as well. An example of how it should be done:

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

My Favorite Things, The Sound of Music

       Feel how they’re different? And now the culprit at the end of the song, the recipient of the masculine/feminine rhyme debacle. A masculine rhyme has the center of the rhyme based on an emphasized last syllable, i.e. Men/Den or Forgot/A Lot. A feminine rhyme puts emphasis on the second to last syllable, i.e. Belly/Smelly. You would never force a masculine and feminine rhyme together, like Foreplay/Today, simply because you never say Today or Foreplay. For each rhyme, the emphasized syllable must fall on an emphasized beat of music, be that at a downbeat or at least on a kind of beat. Not off. That’s when you feel that weirdness. So our culprit in question:

City of stars/Are you shining just for me/

City of stars/You Never shined so brightly

City of Stars

       Other than “Me” rhyming with “-ly,” there is really nothing in common with the final couplet. You never say “brightly,” you say “brightly.” These flaws show that the text was smushed in to fit the music, and not composed hand in hand. This juxtaposition ruins the intent of the song.

       “What a nitpick!” you must be screaming. “People don’t need to rhyme correctly for it to be good!” And I would say you’re correct if we were talking about popular music, and stuff you can listen to day in and day out, without needing to pick up everything on first listen. But what, I ask you, is the function of rhyming? Clarity. And what, then, is the great function of film language? Clarity. So, in a film, if you’re not doing your due diligence to perfect every facet of being clear to an audience, then, you are doing a disservice the audience and diluting your craft. But don’t take my word from it— living legend Stephen Sondheim quoted lyricist/composer Craig Carnelia in his book Finishing the Hat:

       “True rhyming is a necessity in the theater, as a guide for the ear to know what it has just heard. Our language is so complex and difficult, and there are so many words and sounds that mean different things, that it’s confusing enough without using near rhymes that only acquaint the ear with a vowel… [a near rhyme is] not useful to the primary purpose of a lyric, which is to be heard, and it teaches the ear to not trust or to disregard a lyric, to not listen, to simply let the music wash over you.”

       Moreover, City of Stars stops the movie still to sing a Falling Slowly wannabe, which never really comes back into play. It could be there love theme but we already have a clear theme in their waltz. The lyrics, on the whole, try and double as generalizations about love and what the characters Mia and Seb are feeling. The song, at least in terms of the movie, is largely a lie. Everyone in Los Angeles is looking for their dreams to come true as dictated in the opening number, but now we also say that everyone is just looking for love. Dreams win, poor Seb.

       So, other than a hit love song, it doesn’t really service the movie. We already gleaned they were happy in love from the waltz, and maybe this articulates their thoughts with less subtext, and maybe (though it’s never clear) this is Seb’s love song that he’s testing out with her. Either way, we’re not learning anything.

       And then there’s the fact that-

Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling are… Okay

       Alright, alright, they’re absolutely cute together on screen. But in a film that tries so desperately to soar with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, it feels like your college’s club musical. I’m the first in line to claim that it is better to see an actor who can sing over a singer who can act, but goodness. If we’re buckled in for a nostalgia trip, why cast people who cannot tap in a tap number? What a Lovely Night made me long for the actual Singin’ in the Rain. And though this reviewer respects both of their acting abilities in a great way, and loves their work, Emma Stone’s singing voice is rather breathy, and Ryan Gosling is, frankly, flat. Whilst Russel Crowe felt the brunt of the masses for Les Miserables, ol’ Gos gets a pass.

       There is the rebuttal that this amateurishness was entirely the point, which is absolutely fair. Most dreamers are amateurish, and only the lucky few make it. But ask yourself seriously, in a world where they casted some of the myriad of amazing singer/dancer/actors who might not have the name recognition of Emma and Ryan, would you have been upset that they gave good performances? Not really.

Conclusion

       Is La La Land a musical? Yes, it has songs, but you’ll notice that after the first 20 minutes, there are barely any tunes until the end. This is more of a romance/drama than a complete musical. And that’s wonderful for it. It seems to keep the music as a reference to happy times, and the spiraling out of Mia and Seb’s relationship is done in silence. But when a musical is plotted, that’s when the songs really mean the most. They say Broadway composer Jerry Herman makes his name on production numbers, namely Hello, Dolly!, Mame, and The Best of Times. But go to one of his shows, and you find yourself enraptured in the sad moments, the I’ll be Wearing Ribbons Down My Backs, the If He Walked into My Lifes. The musical has not been explored to its fullest extent, and La La Land has ignited a spotlight. It is dangerous to be represented by a mere pastiche of the past, albeit lovingly and warmly. We must understand that this movie is not the example— rather a doorway. I really enjoy this film, even plan on buying it when it’s available, which is why I’ve thought so deeply about it. Through this lens, we can clarify much about where we are to go. Focus on telling a story with music, telling it surely, honestly, and clearly. There are a myriad of possibilities, and perhaps it’s time to move on from nostalgia and pastiche, and into the forays of tomorrow. Medium, not genre.