#arabian cinema

[dyingenigma]

Death of a Virgin and the Sin of Not Living (2021) dir. George Peter Barbari

[poesie-abstraite]

Il fiore delle mille e una notte 1974

Pier Paolo Pasolini

[milflewis]

feeling some sort of way about lewis lowering his head so he can curl into valtteri. with their arms around each other. and his fuck off gaylmet front and centre

[peggy-elise]

Maria Montez as Scheherazade in Arabian Nights 1942 🕌

[ikarussus]

I wanted to post this tomorrow but I`m overexited with this so I post it now

[thedrillerkiller]

Criterion: Trilogy of Life

Will be watching this over the break

[love1979]

Merciful Father,

I have squandered my days with plans of many things. This was not among them. But at this moment, I beg only to live the next few minutes well.

For all we ought to have thought, and have not thought.

All we ought to have said, and have not said

All we ought to have done, and have not done

I pray thee, God, for forgiveness.

[filmsandpoetry]

Arabian Nights (1974) / Pier Paolo Pasolini

[poetikcinema]

Arabian Nights (1974) / Pier Paolo Pasolini

[cinemaisinnocent]

[arabianmoda]

Marrakech Film Festival: A Glorious 2023 Edition Headed by Jessica Chastain.

[dyingenigma]

volubilis (وليلي) 2017

[poesie-abstraite]

La fleur des mille et une nuits 1974

Pier Paolo Pasolini

[villanandrogina-cine]

"Placer carnal y azar del hombre, en una mundanal visión de Pasolini"

"De la literatura a la imagen en movimiento, Pier Paolo Pasolini exorcizó las tinieblas ideológicas y religiosas de una nación aplastante que lo marcó desde la tierna infancia, mediante un ejercicio de exploración a la condición humana en su más banal y visceral expresión. Marginalidad, despertar sexual, fe y el destino violento del hombre es lo que Pasolini firmó con sangre como un sello autoral propio en una filmografía que generó un vendaval de controversia y odio hacia su persona. Y en esta primera entrada del blog no se queda en menos.

traducida como "Las mil y una noches", es la penúltima película de Pasolini. Con una visión filosamente blasfema y cálidamente provocadora ante los sentidos, Pasolini adapta el clásico de historias de medio oriente a través de un estilo visual inigualable que expresa una belleza estética y profana. Siguiendo una línea narrativa coral, entrelaza historias mundanales del folklore árabe y su mitología, llena de personajes hedonistas, canallas y enceguecidos en sus propios deseos. Componentes que conforman un relato empapado de escancia humana. Hombres y mujeres que, en su derrotero de vidas y encaminados por la incierta fortuna, viven tropezando con las primitivas necesidades carnales heredadas del pecado mismo y el azar como un oráculo presagiador del destino irreparable y hermoso del ser humano.

Arabian Nights es una película de cuentos mágicos imperfectos, de marginales crucificados a su propio olvido como el mesías, demonios amantes de menores, miembros viriles en primer plano, nobles reducidos a chimpancés, amores perdidos y encontrados. Todo lo que somos en la ruta incierta de una vida escrita a la imagen y semejanza de lo imperfecto de una creación divina."

[bloopy-writes]

Bruce having one night a month with each kid to spend some bonding time with them is such a cute idea I just had so here’s some examples of stuff they’d do:

So with Dick they go to an ice rink that Bruce rented for the night and spend the night having stupid competitions and Dick showing off how he can still flip on the ice and Bruce trying not to embarrass himself then they go to a private tour of a new zoo that opened

With Jason they go to a broadway show that he had been wanting to see for months and Jason will forever deny how touched he was that Bruce payed attention to his ramblings enough to remember what show he wanted but it meant a lot to him

With Tim he takes him to a really stunning lakeside park and sits with him as tim spends the evening indulging in his photography which is something he rarely gets to do and Bruce spends the whole evening listening to his kid passionately talk about how he’s gonna edit each photo and his process

He takes Cass to a ballet show and then afterwards a private session in a dance studio where she can dance in a professional setting to her hearts content and Cass totally gets him to dance with her for a few dances

Bruce takes Stephanie to a horror movie showing at the cinema and gets seats that are far away from other people and they spend the whole movie analyzing each movie and commenting how they’d escape in that scenario and then they go to dinner and watch a piano concert because Steph loves the piano

With Duke Bruce decides to take him to an escape room where they face off in three different rooms and Duke ends up winning two of the three and afterwards they go to a poetry slam event at a local cafe that Duke really likes to go to and Bruce tells him that next time he’d love to see him preform

With Damian Bruce first takes him to an art gallery and asks him about all the paintings and his opinions and then he takes him to a pottery painting studio where Damian makes mugs for everyone and makes one for Bruce that Bruce doesn’t let anyone else touch and finally they go to dinner at an Arabian restaurant which Damian really likes cuz it reminds him of the food he grew up with

[spunknbite]

He’s thought about kissing Crowley before

On the banks of the Euphrates. Under a juniper tree in the Hanging Gardens. Traipsing through some desert — Arabian, Gobi, Namibian, Kalahari — they all ran together. Beside a rice paddy in the Qinling Mountains. In coliseums and amphitheatres, then theatres and pubs. Over wine or tea or coffee, over too many meals to remember. At an airbase nearing the end of the world, and on the bus ride home after the world didn’t end after all. All of the nights thereafter.

Of course, he’s thought about it. Sometimes it feels as if he scarcely thinks of anything but. 

Quiet down, you, he’d plead in those moments. No use in any of that foolery. Angels simply can’t want like that, the ache of the want be damned. Even fallen angels; there’s an order to things, lines in the sand.

But still, he’s thought about it.

Alone, after those clandestine, ill-conceived meetings of old. Hours later back at the shop, paired wine glasses empty, nose in a book in some paltry attempt to divert his wandering attention. He prays — to God, to the author of whatever book fails to hold his gaze, to his own sense of propriety — but the prayer goes unanswered and so he thinks instead.

A staccato inhale, a press of lips, flush. Who would initiate it? Did it even matter? Lean fingers pull him close and Aziraphale follows as if he’s allowed to, as if he can follow any but the path that was set out before him. And Crowley would taste of the wine or spirits that they’d been drinking hours before this torrid, little fantasy began.

How would Crowley kiss him? Aziraphale had no experience in the matter, naturally. But he’s read enough books, watched cinema, observed the couples on Whickber as they dawdle down the way after an evening out, and he can imagine it. The certainty of it, the way Crowley owns an idea and then just rushes heedlessly forward, assured. No doubt, no hesitation, just momentum and an inner gravity that pulls Aziraphale in, attracted to a sort of confidence that Aziraphale can’t understand. And he’d kiss him like that, firm and heady, like if they could just get close enough to one another they might carve out some sort of safety separate from Heaven and Hell and the nature of the cosmos that prevents this very act from occurring in the first place. 

Fingers would thread through his hair, a sharp hip bone knocks into him as they slot together, and suddenly all is warm and wet and perhaps this is what drowning would feel like if drowning was equal parts terrifying and astounding. Wicked and miraculous. 

“We could have been…us.”

The words only just register as Crowley has him by the lapels, and the kiss is now and here and real, and not some weak midnight submission. 

There is no finesse, no craft, no delicacy. Crowley’s wile and strategy, gone. Just want. He wants in a way that Aziraphale has never permitted himself to. A sort of desperate, wild anguish, and Aziraphale can feel the implicit please please please through every shudder, every movement. No assurance, no givens, only a reckless beggar, and Aziraphale could almost recognize the need as his own, if he’d ever sat with the feeling long enough to comprehend it.

He wants to lean in, wants to wrench Crowley somehow closer, impossibly, like he would in an evening wondering. Forsake Heaven and with it his chance, their chance, at any sort of redemption. He wants to succumb, wants to give himself over with yes and finally and now, because the righteousness of it all seems more absolute than anything Aziraphale has felt.

But he knows better. He was made better. His hands dance over Crowley’s back, unsure, hesitant, fearful that if he touches him the rest of his body may follow, and he may fall right alongside him. 

It’s over before it’s begun, a human expression. And Crowley’s gone.

His shuddering hand lifts to his lips, sore and unnaturally hot, an almost pins-and-needles burn across his mouth. Is it hellfire or purely Crowley? How to disentangle them? Aziraphale tastes the acrid I forgive you as the heat cools and fades off his lips and from his fingertips, and with it the prospect of seeing Crowley again.

***

now tidied up and on AO3