#but a lot of people who only saw the show view ford as less of his own character and more as a prop for stan’s story

[nitrateglow]

Thoughts on a bunch of movies I saw recently

I haven’t posted much about what I’ve been watching, so here are some reviews.

Valley of the Dolls

This movie was sold to me as a campy mess and to be honest, that description is not inaccurate... but is it weird that the film actually moved me at points? Am I insane? Maybe.

The plot follows three young women in show business: good girl Anne (Barbara Parkins), who goes from secretary to model; the tragic Jennifer (Sharon Tate), a kind-hearted but talentless chorus girl who views her body as her sole value; and of course Neely (Patti Duke), the ruthless singing superstar with a passion for “dolls”-- that is, barbiturates. The stuff of soap opera ensues: love triangles, husbands with rare, incurable diseases, backstage backstabbing, affairs, etc.

The style is strange: director Mark Robson shoots this sleazy story as though it were a 1950s prestige picture, which somehow makes the material seem even more tawdry than it already is. The dialogue has some real corkers-- my favorite is, “SPARKLE NEELY SPARKLE,” belted out by Patti Duke in her ever-controversial hamfest of a performance. Or the wig in the toilet scene which is... well, I don’t want to spoil that insanity for you.

But in-between the cheese and the sleaze, there are weirdly affecting moments. Two stood out for me: one is when Anne returns home after a long period, reuniting with her down-to-earth family, and the other involves Jennifer’s awful fate. It’s so weird that this disaster actually has emotional scenes that work... but that’s what makes Valley of the Dolls so interesting.

The Fabelmans

I regret not seeing this movie in the theaters, because WOW. It’s so fantastic-- the acting, the direction, everything.

If you’re unaware, this is basically a thinly veiled autobiography of Steven Spielberg’s childhood and teenage years, when he developed a passion for filmmaking and dealt with his parents’ strained relationship. It’s a slow movie, more character-driven than anything, but it was so well-handled. The characters were three-dimensional and the emotional situations felt authentic.

A lot of people describe The Fabelmans as being about the power of movies, and while that’s true, I was more moved by the film’s depiction of that point in your life when you realize your parents are not all-knowing demigods but human beings with dreams independent of their parental roles and failings that don’t make them evil but simply all too vulnerable and human.

Also the scene where David Lynch shows up as John Ford is freaking hilarious. And the advice he gives about composition is actually very good advice.

Magic

I first heard about this movie from a YouTube video and from the moment I realized it was going to be a creepy puppet movie with Anthony Hopkins, I was sold. Hopkins plays Corky, a struggling magician who makes it big when he incorporates a foul-mouthed dummy into his act. The act gets attention from a television network, but the requirement that Corky submit to a medical exam, he balks and runs off to his remote hometown. It turns out Corky suffers from mental illness, relying on his dummy Fats as a kind of alternate personality, and he’s afraid of being exposed.

Back home in the Catskill Mountains, Corky reunites with his high-school sweetheart (Ann Margret), an unhappily married woman looking for sympathy. The two start an affair, which upsets Fats. And when Corky’s agent (Burgess Meredith) tracks him down, well... things get homicidal.

This is a great slowburn horror story, less about gore and jump scares, and more about psychology. Hopkins is sympathetic and scary in the lead-- actually, I think he’s more frightening in this than he was in Silence of the Lambs, probably because he’s so much more unstable. You never know when he’s going to snap, especially since the fear of being found out by the other characters terrifies him so. As Fats, he’s hilarious yet amoral and coldblooded. I don’t like dummies on a good day and Fats only intensified that aversion.

Richard Attenborough directed the film and this is probably the first time I’ve been impressed with him in that role. I tend to find his style meh, but here, he has great command of pacing and suspense, as well as blending comedy with scares.

Also, I found out while reading about the film that there was originally talk of Gene Wilder playing Corky-- and that would have been so fascinating to see. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen, and while I think Hopkins is phenomenal, I would love to travel to that alternate universe where Wilder got the part.

Georgy Girl

I’ve been going through a lot of British New Wave films lately and Georgy Girl is from late in the cycle, reflecting more of the Swinging Sixties and less of the Angry Young Man trope that had dominated the earlier part of the movement. It has a cult following, but I’m afraid the film didn’t win me over at all, though it’s too interesting for me to dismiss it.

Technqiue-wise, the film is very New Wave, using a quirky, playful style to tell what is at heart a pretty downbeat story. It’s about a young music teacher named Georgy (Lynn Redgrave), an awkward, virginal, sensitive young woman self-conscious about her weight and crushing on her beautiful, promiscuous roommate’s “sexy” (I cannot put enough quotation marks around that word) boyfriend (Charlotte Rampling and Alan Bates play the ever irritating couple). When her roommate becomes pregnant, decides not to terminate the pregnancy, and marries the boyfriend, Georgina becomes excited, hoping to help her friend care for the baby. Instead, she starts an affair with the husband, essentially becomes the baby’s sole caregiver because no one else wants to bother, and finds out the unhappy, self-absorbed couple are going to put the kid she’s grown to love up for adoption.

Oh, and a rich older man (James Mason) who’s known Georgy since she was a kid wants her to be his mistress. That subplot is every bit as awkward and ew as it sounds.

All of these points come together at the end, and I admit the ending is so cynical and weird (and very reminiscent of the following year’s The Graduate) that I had to respect it, even though the journey was not enjoyable for me in the least. I just did not like or care about a single one of these characters, nor did I find their sour misadventures terribly funny. I’m not going to fault the actors-- it’s just the writing I did not care for and well, when that happens what can you do?

And now the damn title theme song is stuck in my head again...

[taki118]

Thoughts on Otto Mentallis

I got back on my Pyschonauts bullshit and decided I want to talk about this character who I feel is highly misunderstood, not only by the fandom but characters in game. Otto is def a red herring as far as the plot goes but because of that people believe him to be a secret bad guy for the next game. (Which I don’t believe I believe there is a rat right under our noses the entire game but that’s neither here nor there) Anyway I want to take how Otto in perceived in the various mindscapes within the game and by remarks from those within the world to get a better understanding of this man. 

Helmut Fullbear

Let’s start with Helmut’s level because I think of all the Psychic Six he has the most objective assessment. 

Like the rest of the group Helmut associates him with one of the senses that being touch. And it makes sense for each of them.  Ford is Vision as he saw the potential in the others Compton is taste both for his apparent fondness for cooking and how taste and the tongue are quite sensitive Cassie being Scent makes sense as we often use smell to suss out danger such as bad food or gas leaks, and Cassie was good about getting herself out of danger Bob being hearing makes sense as he seemed to be an attentive listener in his younger days 

Then we have Otto as touch, he is noted in level as being “Handsy” which some have taken to mean he would touch Helmut inappropriately but I don’t think that was the intent. I believe it was truly literal in that as the inventor of the group he worked mostly with his hands. It is also possible that he was the one doing the most experimentation wise on the other members. 

It should be noted that Otto is present as a figment at Helmut and Bobs wedding likely indicating that unlike Bob he holds no ill feelings towards him. 

Helmut also seems to see Otto and Bob as being close through his representations of Dr. Touch and Audio O. The pair going off to bicker at the campgrounds may seem like an odd friendship but with what we know about Bob and Otto it sort of makes sense. Bob seemed to trouble expressing himself so if he had seen Otto as someone safe to vent to Helmut remembering them this way makes sense. A pair of friends who could be at ease with each other in their speech. 

Overall Helmut viewed Otto as a good person, at little gruff but overall good.

Compton Boole

Visualized as one of the judges along with Hollis and Ford, Otto appears to be a figure that Compton felt judged by or someone who’s opinion hold a lot of value or both. It should be noted that Otto’s representation is dubbed “the nice one” out of the trio. This likely indicates Otto was gentler in his words to Compton than Hollis or Ford, it could also mean that he felt less pressured by him. As Ford’s opinion meant more due to him saving him and Hollis actively trying to get him to engage with the interns, Otto likely left Compton be and any judgement he felt was in comparing himself to Otto. 

This is most evident in the memory vault that I think a lot of people misunderstand. In it we see what remains of the group at the opening of the new facility in various states of disarray all except for Otto. Firstly it should always be noted that memory vaults are not always accurate to the events they show but how the person felt in the moment. Secondly when know Otto doesnt express himself the same way as most, he states himself that his inventions are a personification of his feelings and emotions likely meaning he works through his feelings. 

I offer this assessment of Otto that he was just as broken up as the rest of the group but didn’t show it outwardly and even if he did the group did not recognize it as he was working. Much like Bob Otto likely kept himself busy with his Psychonaut duties to keep his mind occupied on the things he could do rather than what he couldn’t and because he did it so well no one noticed. He looked fine to them and this likely caused some resentment. 

(Also I know some people think he altered his mind with the lathe but I don’t think so he doesnt even seem to consider it until the post game likely indicating he’s not as all put together as he appears) 

To Compton Otto is a source of judgement either internal or external, though I would guess internal more. 

Cassie O’Pia 

Cassie seems to have complicated feelings towards the rest of the Psychic Seven as seen in her paper representations of them in her mind.  - Ford seemed to be the glue of the group to her and him going away being the catalyst for every bad thing.  - Helmut seems to be viewed only as a showman - Bob is very much who he was prior to the incident and very vague at that like Cassie is having trouble remembering him - Compton seems mixed, she views him as her best friend but also seems to resent how dependent he was on her - Lucy she views with sympathy, resentment and regret all in one. Stating that they were never very close cause she seemed to only care about Ford and that she ruined everything. 

So when we get to Otto and see that she views him as a pompous jerk who saw himself as self important it doesnt really seem like he was the odd one out there. My best guess is that they didn’t really get along because of their areas of study, Otto hard science and Cassie with soft science. 

When we look to the memory vault we again have to keep in mind the basis of the person remembering. Much like Compton Cassie seemed to have difficulty finding herself in the after math of what happened and seemed to resent how well Otto appeared to be coping. (Again I don’t think he was) She felt un-needed and useless especially after her plan failed, and Cassie needs to feel needed.

To Cassie it seems like Otto was a reminder of her own failures.

Bob Zanotto

Now this one is the most loaded of them all. I did talk about this in part in this post earlier but I want to really get into it here.

I do very much believe that the two were friends prior to loosing Helmut. Outside of Helmut’s level we have the bulb bob point out that Otto made the sword used in the ceremony himself. Knowing that Otto’s creations are extensions of his emotions or feelings this would showcase the care he had for the pair. And Bulb bob also says this fact fondly which I believe showcases he understood this aspect of Otto. 

However I think whatever good feelings he had for Otto were overshadowed by his negative, and I think it has less to do with Otto himself more than it has to do with timing. We don’t have an exact timeline of how things went down but I would raise a guess that among the original members Otto was the only one left active in the facility prior to Bob’s firing. Otto saw Bob at his absolute lowest the others didn’t, so he subconsciously attached all of his negative feelings about himself and what the former team must think of him to Otto. This being what caused him to not have a figment of Otto present at the wedding like everyone else trying to force himself to forget the good. But he still recalls the sword cause he can’t pretend someone else made it.

Notice the representation of him on the island doesn’t really talk like Otto and speaks for a collective rather than himself. Bob used Otto as a mouth piece. Be this because he was the last one there or he was the harshest or he was the most put together we will not know. 

But Bob had been left with a negative image in him, that was never his friend.

All of this on the surface isn’t looking great for Otto but i think I made it clear that my theory that the former Psychonauts all used Otto as a scapegoat to displace their own issues onto hold some weight.

For more evidence lets look at how his is presented in the present.

While these mental images of Otto present a man who was utterly fine interactions with him in game showcase the opposite. Otto is very much filled with regret and thoughts of wishing he’d done more just like the others. He also seems to do this for things not related to Lucy. This is seen when talking to Sasha likely inferring to what had happened to Truman, seeing it as another of his failures. 

However like I said he doesn’t dwell on these feelings like the rest do. In his mind the best thing to do is avoid thinking about those things, to instead press forward and create something to avoid such a thing happening again. 

It should be noted that unlike a lot of mad scientist characters Otto is portrayed as rather warm, he cares about his creations and those who use them (even if he makes you pay). He jokes with Raz and has an almost playful grandpa like vibe when they interact. He’s helpful to Sasha offering help but never over stepping. Were it not for these negative mental images of him you’d never think of him as a bad person. Amoral sure but not bad. 

Aside from being a good red herring I think it’s also a good showcase on how misunderstanding someone can warp them. When you look at it Otto did nothing wrong but maybe he didn’t grieve the way others thought he should, or express himself in a way that made sense, or just said the wrong thing. Its a testament that even psychics have trouble reading people. 

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Aredhel and Eöl

[I’m not sure if this is the take I want to stick with on Aredhel and Eöl, but it’s an idea that popped into my head and I wanted to explore it. There are a lot of fraught topics in here, so if I have messed things up, I apologize. There are triggers for abusive/controlling relationships.]

When Aredhel arrives in Aglon, she expects that her friends will soon return to join her. As the months pass, her enjoyment of the grand forests of this new land fades into impatience, then annoyance, then anger. At times she thinks of riding further east, so seek out both her cousins and this strange people of the Naugrim she has never seen, but at first she tells herself the wait will be only a little longer, pride forbids trailing after those who once abandoned her and now purposely snub her - for after so long, and with no question that they must have heard of her presence, their absence can only be deliberate. She had wanted to boast to Celegorm of her battles against the giant spiders and other terrors of the dark valley, but the stories of her adventures have grown old with waiting.

She rides further and further afield into the expanse of Middle-earth, and one day reaching the Celon on the borders of Himlad, she impulsively fords it and dives into the wood, its trees greater than any she has yet seen, blocking out the sun. She thinks to cut directly through the forest, and so come to Estolad and see the Secondborn of whom rumours have drifted north. She did not leave Gondolin to seek her cousins only, but adventure, and newness, and all things strange to her, the wonders of this wide land.

In the pathless forest she loses her way, who has never been lost in woods since she was a young girl (and then only for the joy of it), even in the great forests of Oromë in Valinor. For a time this is exciting, but as nothing reveals itself to her eyes but the same trees endlessly repeated it griws tedipus and wearisome. The sight at last of a hall and hearthfire is a joy to her, and the stranger who welcomes her intriguing. His accounts of the Naugrim and their deeply-dolven halls in the mountains, the treasures he shows her of both their making and his own - better even that Curufin’s, she thinks disloyally - and the descriptions of their making (for, though not a craftswoman herself, she is Noldor still and delights knowing how the work is done), keep her as a delighted guest for weeks, and his tales of the fearless dark before Sun and Moon during the years of Morgoth’s chaining enthrall her for weeks more. He is as good company as she has ever had, and yet new and different and fascinating like none others she has met. He tells her the story of Thingol and Melian, meeting in this very wood, ringed about by delightful allusions, compliments, and significant looks, and a new excitement stirs that she has never felt before. She wanted Middle-earth - and here is Middle-earth, in all its wonder and history and strangeness, desirous and enraptured of her.

When he asks for her hand, she accepts with the same impetuousity that has governed all the rest of her life.

At first, she is happy in his company, wandering together under the stars or hunting alone. Eöl prefers craftwork to hunting, but she rejoices in it and is far more skilled in Oromë’s arts than the servants, chasing boar and venison. She learns the ways of the wood and it ceases to appear directionless and unform to her. One days she says she feels she has become acquainted with the trees, and Eöl laughs and takes her into a new part of the wood, where she is astonished to see the strangest being imaginable, a tree with the limbs of a man and with hands taller than Aredhel’s whole body, whom he greets in a language beyond her comprehension. Learning the being’s language is a fascinating work of years, and his history yet more delightful; he has lived in Beleriand since the days the first elves awakened.

She is bitterly disappointed that Eöl will not take her to visit the dwarves in Nogrod and Belegost, but they are careful of their secrets, he explains, and would not abide him bringing a stranger uninvited to their fortresses. Nor will he permit her to visit the humans to the south, whom he views as uncouth intruders. Yet in spite of this they are happy, and all the more so after the birth of their son. She is troubled that he will not name the boy; he says that children ahould be named for their personalities, and an infant does not have one yet. In her own tongue, she names the boy Lómion.

One day, a little after Lómion has learned to walk, she suggests to Eöl that she could pay a brief visit to her cousins, who must be worried about her after so long; her anger at their neglect has cooled, and she wishes at least to let them know she is well. Prior to her marriage, neither her partiality for the Fëanorians nor Eöl’s hatred of them had been discussed; in the later years his sentiments became clearer, but still rarely expressed, and she likewise had spoken little of them. Now he calls them Kinslayers and murderers and thieves and invaders, and forbids her to see them - her fury rises in return, asking what he must think of her if he regards her kin so - he snaps that he does not blame her for their crimes - and in an intemperate instant the fateful word “Their - ?” leaves her lips, and he stops short, frozen, as if he had never seen her before. He holds her gaze, and memories deeply buried force themselves to the surface again - of darkness and blood and the heat of battle and the burning desire for freedom and the cold shock afterwards - and they are both shaking, and his gaze snaps away like the gate of a fortress crashing shut.

He leaves the house, and does not return that night, and she sleeps alone. On his return the next day, he does not speak for hours, sometimes staring at her intensely, sometimes letting his gaze slip away, attempting to look at anything - everything - else. In the evening he sits tensely, crouched in a chair, fingernails scraping at his arms as if he wished to scour away his own flesh.

He avoids the bed that night as well. So does Aredhel.

In the morning he breaks his silence in tones hard and chill as granite. Aredhel may depart as she wishes. His son will remain with him.

She refuses this. She will not leave her child, not under any circumstance and certainly not with a father who has not yet named him. She has not deceived him: he knew of the Kinslaying long before he saw her, he knew she was a Noldo and a Finwëan, and he had never asked her anything about it. She will not deny that she was in the wrong; yet something within her, too, has frozen in seeing her husband stare at her as if he had unwittingly married an orc.

They move into separate bedrooms. He never touches her again, save out of the most mundane necessities. It is two years before he will allow her to be left alone with their son; when Eöl is not present, a sevant must be. When he sees that she makes no difficulties and does not appear to be contaminating the child with Kinslaying Noldor ideas, this gradually lightens; at the same time, the bonds around her tighten. Eöl never repeats the offer that she may depart, mistrusting her, fearing what she may say to her kin of her treatment, fearing she could say he holds her son captive.

She seeks for the Ent, feeling the need of a friend and someone to talk to, but he is gone.

Years later, when Lómion is older, and called Maeglin by his father, Eöl takes him on his journeys to the dwarf-kingdoms, teaches him metal-working, and delights in his swiftly-growing skill. For the sake of their son, Aredhel and Eöl reestablish something that is more civility than silence.

Once Lómion is old enough that she can trust him to keep silence to his father, she finds relief in speaking to him of the things she misses, things she has not spoken of in decades, the beauties of Valinor and of Gondolin that once she wearied of, but were far less prisons than this gloomy forest. One day many years later, when he has reached his full maturity, Lómion - with the boundless optimism of youth - disregards her warnings and asks his father that he and Aredhel may visit her family. Eöl goes into a cold fury and threatens to chain him up.

When her son suggests they leave together for Gondolin, she rejoices, feeling freedom quicken the air air again, her heart beat faster with the thought of it. Lómion is old enough now that he could have been wed and had children already, were they not trapped in the forest; he has a right to choose what life he wants.

Fortune betrays them.

Why does she plead for her husband’s life when he kills her? Is it for some lingering affection? For the wish that their son may not be an orphan?

She looks at her brother and thinks, I want there to still be one of us who is not a Kinslayer.

[nataliedanovelist]

C-137 Vs. 46'\

C-137 Vs. 46'\ = A Gravity Falls & Rick and Morty crossover fic for @stephreynaart! I meant to finish this, like, forever ago, but I did my best and decided this has stayed hidden in my files long enough. I hope y’all enjoy it!

Stanchez for life!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Episode Placement: GF = after the finale (season 3) R&M = Between S1E10 and E11 (In S2E2, Rick dates 1/12/2015 on the drop-off papers for Jerry. Though Alex hates dating cartoons, it can be estimated that GF took place during 2013 thanks to Sev'ral Timez, so the next summer would be 2014. So… yeah. I put way too much thought into this.)

The vast galaxy in front of them was an endless sea of stars and space-clouds of many different colors. Some were green, some were blue, some were magenta, it honestly looked like a generic Hot Topic galaxy t-shirt.

But Rick didn’t give a shit about some fucking space-clouds or some fucking shop for teenagers who were trying too hard to be goth. Rick didn’t give a shit about the fact that Morty barely knew how to drive the fucking spaceship. Rick only have a shit about getting away from the other fucking spaceships that were after the humans, but he couldn’t drive because Rick had to repair the fucking weapon to kill those fucking bastards. Fuck.

“Aw, geez, Rick, hurry it up!” Morty yelled.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Morty!” Rick snapped back as he tinkered with the huge ray-gun that laid by his feet.

The spacecraft jolted to the side as a beam just barely missed it. Rick caught his screwdriver as it flew in the air for a second and he finished the final turn. Rick grinned maliciously and aimed the newest invention out at the enemy. He pulled the trigger and rather than a beam of light or a bullet escaping the gun, it appeared that nothing happened, until each spaceship seemed to be covered with blood and guts from the inside, covering the windows and halting the enemies’ spaceships.

“Oh my God, Rick, what the hell?!” Morty screamed.

“Relax, Morty, you’ve seen worse. It’s just a gun that released microscopic ninjas that slice people up from the inside until they’re nothing b-b-but guts.” Rick burped through the alcohol and leaned on the big gun proudly with a monotone voice and facial expression.

“No, Rick, what the hell IS THAT?!”

Rick looked ahead to see a wormhole of pink, blues, and whites glowing brightly in front of them. Morty was trying to turn the spaceship away, but they were being pulled in by gravity.

“Well, fuck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mabel was bouncing like she had springs on the bottoms of her shoes as she held her Grunkle Ford’s hand. They were both wearing ponchos and on their way to the magical part of the forest. Mabel, Dipper, Stan, and Ford had only been back in Gravity Falls for two days and Ford wanted to start off this summer right by bonding with his favorite grandniece in the Multiverse.

Ford felt guilty of the little time they had spent together the previous summer. True, he had arrived home a little late in the season, but he had spent plenty of time bonding with Dipper, leaving not nearly enough for Mabel. Ford loved her very much, but with Dipper things were more predictable. The boy was a lot like him, so Ford knew what to expect and how to bond with him, like playing Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons or working or investigating an anomaly together. Ford had no clue what twelve… thirteen-year-old girls liked and Mabel’s overwhelming flood of love and affection had startled Ford like an old alley-cat.

Still, he admired her positivity and loved to do arts-and-crafts with her. They had captured time last summer for her to make a beautiful hand-turkey on Ford’s six-fingered hand; she had said that the extra feather made it special. The old scientist had no idea what he had done to deserve Mabel… no, he didn’t deserve Mabel, but she seemed to like him, so he owed her some alone-time. Mabel seemed to like the supernatural almost as much as Dipper (Dipper took a more serious approach to it while Mabel seemed to accept everything with loving arms), so Ford offered to take her out to the magical part of the forest over breakfast and Mabel nearly choked on her Stan-cake out of pure joy.

Now, as the morning sun rose and was nearly above their heads, after about an hour of traveling and quietly talking, they were starting to reach the magical part of the forest.

“So, why do we need ponchos, Grunkle Ford?” Mabel asked as she used her free-hand to play with the yellow hood that was over her beautiful brown hair.

“Because the fairies we’re going to investigate are… rather messy.” Ford landed on. The Barf Fairies used to turn his stomach, but after traveling through dimensions for over thirty years, Ford’s stomach had hardened and since Mabel also seemed to have a strong gag-reflex, he decided that he would try to learn more about the less-than-pleasant type of fairies. “I would hate for them to ruin a Mabel Pines original.” Ford added with a smile down at the young teenager.

Mabel grinned braces-free (she had them removed back in February) up at the old scientist, loving it when he called one of her sweaters a Mabel Pines original, and her eyes twinkled when she saw the blue sweater through Ford’s poncho, the one she had made for him with a golden six-fingered hand on the front, like his old journals. “So, these are…”

“Barf Fairies.”

“Right. What do you already know about them?”

“Only that we should avoid whatever they eat.”

Mabel laughed along with him and said, “Okay. Well… I’ve actually never talked to or met a fairy before, so looks like we’re both starting from square-one. Did you meet any fairies out in the Multiverse?”

“Yes, but they were very different than the one here in Gravity Falls. I once landed in a dimension where the seasons changing was caused by the fairies, and in another dimension I met a giant fairy-queen that looked more like a slug with wings covered in glitter.”

Mabel opened her mouth to contribute to the conversation, but they both heard a noise and stopped walking in the woods. The sound had made them think of clanking metal and yells. They looked up and around at the trees, but a little puff of smoke confirmed that they had heard some sort of machine.

“What was that?” Mabel asked quietly.

“I’m not sure.” Ford said honestly and started to walk them to a clearing.

The two Pines left the cluster of pinetrees so they could look around the skies more clearly. It was a beautiful cloudless early-summer day. As they looked up at the heavens above, a flying-disk of a spaceship was whizzing over their heads, having trouble staying up in the air. Ford held Mabel close in fear of it crashing down near them, but the spaceship staggered over the woods and crashed landed from a safe distance.

“Aliens!” Mabel gasped. “Dipper told me about the one under the town! Do you think this is like that one?”

Ford, whose mind was racing, shook his head to try to think straight, and he said, “No, I… I think I know what it is, but… Mabel, I’m afraid the Barf Fairies are going to have to wait.”

Mabel peeled off her poncho and shook her hair free, revealing her purple sweater with a heart and sunglasses on it that matched her red skirt and headband. Ford also took off his poncho, pocketed both of the big yellow articles of clothing in his trenchcoat, but then pulled out his gun. He opened his mouth to tell Mabel to stay close, but she already pulled out her grappling hook and was standing behind Ford, waiting for him to lead the way.

Ford crept back into the woods with Mabel behind him. He had a good idea of what had crashed into Gravity Falls, but he had hoped that he was wrong. He didn’t want Mabel to meet him. Ford was hoping he would never show up in this dimension, but if he was still traveling around the Multiverse…

A low hissing noise from a busted engine told Ford and Mabel where to go. They only had to walk a minute before the spaceship came into view, landing in between two trees and leaving a trail of up-turned dirt in its path before coming to a halt. Ford and Mabel slowly moved towards the ship with their weapons in hand, but they found it unnecessary as a boy stumbled out and coughed into a fist, on his hands and knees and ruffled from the crash.

“Oh geez, oh man, we’re dead. We’re dead. We survived, but we’re dead.” The boy moaned as he slowly stood up. He looked about Mabel’s age, had short brown hair, and wore jeans and a yellow t-shirt with white sneakers.

Mabel pocketed her grappling hook while Ford let his arms fall to his side, but he kept the weapon in hand, just in case. “Huh. That was… not what I was expecting.” Ford said, more to himself than to Mabel.

Mabel stepped forward with her hands up kindly and she cleared her throat, gaining the boy’s attention. He blinked at the two humans and Mabel said in a soft voice, “Uh, hi, I’m Mabel. Are you hurt?”

“What?” The boy asked. He seemed jittery from the crash, his eyes darting and his forehead glistening with sweat. “Uh, n-no. No, I’m fine. I’m…”

“MORTY!”

The boy groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as he tilted his head upward. “Yup, that’s my name. Morty.”

An older man in a white lab-coat with blue-white hair stumbled out of the spaceship, and not out of drunkenness for a change. “Morty, you little…”

“Sanchez.” Ford growled and covered Mable’s ears. He knew this guy had a foul tongue, and while Ford and his brother might have sailors’ mouths, at least he and Stan knew to censor themselves around the kids. Ford’s old friend didn’t.

The old man in the lab-coat looked at Ford and his eyes widened in shock before he grinned. “Oh, no way! Good to see you again, Fordsie!” He laughed, amused by the scenario in front of him. “Great, another genius. Mind giving me a hand with this piece of… erm, crap?”

Ford groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, the sooner I can get you out of my home dimension, the better.”

The man Grunkle Ford had called Sanchez appeared shocked again and he dug around his coat. “Wait, wait, wait. Your home dimension?” Sanchez pulled out a white flat gun with a green bulb on top and he seemed to be reading off a tiny screen. “Huh. Dimension 46’\. This one’s way out of the loop. There’s no way I could’ve gotten you home with this thing. How did you manage to pull that off?”

“Long story.” Ford said and pocketed his hand in his trenchcoat.

“Grunkle Ford,” Mabel piped and smiled up at the visitor. “Who’s this?”

Ford looked down at his niece and decided to share this piece of his thirty-year-long journey in the Multiverse with her. “Sweetie, this is my old acquaintance, Rick Sanchez. Rick, this is my great-niece, my brother Sherman’s granddaughter, Mabel.”

“Oh, hey, nice to meet you, little lady.” Rick said with a small smile and then jabbed a thumb back at Morty. “That little screw-up is my grandson, Morty.”

“Oh, yeah, like you could do any better, Rick.” Morty huffed with crossed-arms over his thin chest.

“I could do better, Morty,” Rick said and rounded on his grandson. “You know what else I can do? I can also leave you behind on Asteroid 3924987, but I won’t. I can also feed you to a five-headed mega-bird from Bird-Person’s homeworld, but I won’t. I can also send you to the citadel and trade you in for a new Morty, but I won’t, as long as you quit being a pain in the ass.”

“Rick, please!” Ford hissed.

“It’s okay, Grunkle Ford, I heard worse when I went to get a snack and Stan was watching football.” Mabel giggled, remembering the other night when Stan’s team was losing and he let out a long stream of colorful swears that made him turn red when he realized Mabel had heard him.

“Of course you have.” Ford groaned and shook his head. “Well, let’s see what the damage is, Sanchez. What caused the crash? Did your micro-verse battery finally start a rebellion?”

“No, because they know if they do, I’ll get a new battery, Genius. When we came to this dimension through a wormhole we hit a mountain side and a part broke off here…”

The two old men examined the spacecraft and were discussing ways to fix it, meanwhile Morty walked up to Mabel and rubbed an arm nervously. “So, uh… I guess they met out in the Multiverse, huh?”

Mabel nodded; she didn’t know how these two old men knew each other or why these two humans were in a spaceship, but based on context clues, Morty’s guess made the most sense. “Wait, so you two are from another dimension?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Morty said with a shrug. “This is 46'\, right? My dimension is C-137.”

“Wow, cool!” Mabel said with shining eyes that threw Morty for a loop. “So, what’s different over there? Was Benjamin Franklin a man and never accomplished anything? Are dinosaurs still alive? Oo! I bet your sky is lavender-purple all the time, right?!”

Morty laughed a little and rubbed his arm again. “Uh, no. It’s, I think, pretty much the same as yours. My Grandpa Rick says there’s an infinite number of realities that are just slightly different from one another. M-M-Maybe the difference between C-137 and 46'\ is so small and unimportant it’s not obvious.”

“Oh, okay,” Mabel peered over to watch Rick and Ford work together for a little bit and then she smiled back at Morty. “So, do you always go on adventures with your Grandpa Rick?”

Morty sighed in a shaky puberty-voice and nodded. “Yeah, he’s always making me go on these stupid adventures with him.”

“What?” Mabel gasped with a smile. “They’re not stupid! I’d love to go to a different dimension with my Grunkle Ford! I’ve already been on one with him and Grunkle Stan when they had to rescue me from Dimension Mab3L. The other mes were a little self-centered, but it was a lot of fun to punch myself in the face and rescue my great-uncles.”

“Yeah, but from the sounds of it, your - what did you say, Grunkle Ford? - is nice to you.” Morty pointed out. “My Grandpa Rick treats me like garbage all the time, but then again he treats everyone like garbage, so at least he’s only signaling me out to stay hidden from the Federation or whatever.”

“Oh.” Mabel said quietly and held her hands behind her back bashfully, unsure of how to respond, but she decided to try to make Morty feel better. “Well, my other great-uncle, Grunkle Stan, is a little tough sometimes, but that’s only because he cares about his family and is toughening us up for a tougher world. He’s my hero!”

“That sounds nice.” Morty said with a small smile. He didn’t think Rick cared about his family like this Stan guy, but Morty wasn’t in the mood to kill Mabel’s optimism. “I like your sweater, by the way.”

“Thanks!” Mabel grinned proudly. “I made it!”

Morty’s eyes widened. “Wow, really?” Mabel held out her arm so Morty could feel her sleeve. “Oh my God, that’s amazing! You’re really talented.”

“Hey, thanks! If you want, I can make you one!”

“R-R-Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Sure! What’s your favorite color?”

“Uh… y-yellow.”

“Got it!”

Ford and Rick walked up to the teenagers and the six-fingered researcher said, “Well, I’m afraid the ship lost a part we need, but luckily I have the materials we need to build one in the lab back home.”

“Great!” Mabel said and grinned. “Let’s go! So, how did you two meet, anyway?”

Ford and Mabel led the way with Rick and Morty closely behind. “We met about twenty years ago in a high-security prison. I remember feeling relieved to see another human. I had been without human contact for a little under two years at the time since I had been stranded on some desert planet.”

“Yeah, this nerd got into big trouble for the extinction of a few million species on Planet 8824816.”

“What?!” Mabel gasped and looked up at her great-uncle, unable to believe that he would cause such mass genocide. “Grunkle Ford, you didn’t?!”

“Of course I didn’t, Mabel.” Ford quickly reassured his niece. “That was the planet I thought was a sandwich. Anyway, at least I didn’t do what Rick was in for…”

“What did he do?”

“I purposely caused mass genocide on Sector 56, Dimension “”113.” Rick said in a scaringly monotone voice.

“What?!”

“Rick!” Ford and Morty both scolded at the same time.

“Hey, it was either me or the Valakawns!” Rick snapped back. “Those bloodsucking leeches didn’t see what hit them, until the Federation caught me hanging from a tree upside-down, passed out and drunk.”

“Alright, enough!” Ford said firmly. “Let’s just build the part we need so we can get you two back to your home dimension. And, Mabel, once they’re gone we’re going to patch the wormhole with alien adhesive.”

“Okay. Last thing we want is for Dipper to get stuck in Dimension Dipp-3R or something.”

“Who’s Dipper?” Morty asked quietly.

“My twin brother!”

“Oh, cool! I don’t have a twin, but I have met multiple versions of myself.”

“Hey, me too! I’ve met Table-Mabel, Explainble, Threebel, Military-Expert-Mabel, Brainbel, T-Rex-Mabel, Fire-Mabel, and even Anti-Mabel!”

“I’ve met an Evil-Morty with one eye-patch who worked for the worst Rick in the Multiverse. I’ve also… Well, let’s just say I’ve met a lot of mes.”

The two teenagers talked while the two old men chatted on ways to fix the ship as they got closer to the Mystery Shack. Rick looked up and down the place and then snorted, amused. “Huh. Not the kind of place I’d expect from Mr. Stick-In-The-Mud over here.”

“My brother had to make some… changes in order to pay off the mortgage.” Ford explained and led the way to the back door. He opened it and said, “My lab is downstairs behind the vending machine in the gift shop. I believe Soos is giving a tour, so it should be safe to enter.”

“Gift shop?” Rick laughed and poked Ford’s shoulder. “When did you get so soft?”

“I am not< soft.” Ford said dignified.

“You’re wearing a blue sweater with a gold six-fingered hand.”

“My niece made it for me!” Ford said proudly and puffed out his chest.

Mabel rolled her eyes with blushing chubby cheeks and a smile and decided to let the old guys fight. She took Morty’s hand and said, “Come on! I’ll show you my room! I have a huge sticker collection you’ll love!”

“Oh, okay!” Morty said and allowed her to drag her up to the attic; it was nice being dragged to something nice and safe rather than some new monster of a different dimension.

“But hey, you turned your lab into a gift shop.” Rick was saying while the teenagers did their own thing. “Least you’re making a profit.” Ford wasn’t sure if Rick was being sincere or not.

“Actually, it’s all my brother’s.” Ford said and waved the subject away. “We’re getting off track. Let's just get you and your grandson out of my dimension.”

“Geez, you used to be way more fun.” Rick said with sagged shoulders. “What happened to the guy who ranked up million on Lottocron Nine and got tattoos with octopus-armed piglets? What happened to the interdimensional criminal who once shot fifty Bureaucrats to save a fellow scientist’s ass?”

“He discovered what was most important, Sanchez.” Ford growled with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh, HO!” A voice laughed as he shook his head and left the kitchen. “I know this guy isn’t talking about Mr. Goody-Nerds-Shoes!”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he wanted was for his twin and his old friend to meet, but it seemed like some greater being(s) really wanted this to happen, so here we go.

Rick grinned at the sight of a conman in his suit and fez, with a can in his hand, instantly giving Rick the vibe that this guy couldn’t be trusted but would be a hit at parties and wasn’t a total snitch. “Now THIS is what I’m talking about! Name’s Rick, Ford Two.”

Stan barked a laugh and shook his hand. “The name’s Stan, Genius. And please for the love of Moses you weren’t just talking about my brother?”

“Are you kidding, this guy was a total badass!” Rick jabbed a thumb back at the fuming scientist. “He was a total idiot, had no clue how the Multiverse worked, but he was always willing to barrel into whatever crap was out there and destroy some shit!”

“Okay, you and I need to talk.” Stan tossed him the can of soda and went into the kitchen to get some snacks. “I wanna hear more about what kind of crazy violent nomad Ford was back in the day!”

“You got it! Just tell me how the hell he ended up with a cool twin? What, did you inherit all the fun traits leaving him with hobbies like collecting alien stamps?”

Stan barked a laugh and was back, looping an arm around his skinny neck. “I love this guy! Now, please tell me you were there when he got his stupid tattoo.”

“Stanley,” Ford scolded. “We’re supposed to be working on building the part he needs so he can go home. Rick and his grandson are stranded here…”

“Please, I can make that piece of shit from scratch in my sleep.” Rick said. “And Morty’s fine. That niece of yours will keep his small brain entertained for hours.” He turned to Stan and asked, “You got any booze, we had a rough crash here and I need a drink.”

“I got a secret stash in my room,” Stan muttered. “I don’t like drinking with the kids here, but I guess you can have a shot of whisky to relax. Want some soda?”

“Sure, why not. There’s a bit in my flask to last.”

And the old men walked away for the ‘Employees Only’ part of the house, leaving Ford to grit his teeth in annoyance and then bite his lip in discomfort. This could only end one way and he was not looking forward to it.

To be continued...

[t100ficrecsblog]

an interview with @osleyakomwonkru (she/her) what are you working on right now? Several things! I’m the queen of many WIPs (let’s not even talk about the ones that are languishing in the limbo of old fandoms). But my priorities right now are my own Season 7  and the promptfills that I’m doing for Bellarke Writers for BLM (but not for Bellarke). I started working on my Season 7 fic last summer as soon as 6x13 aired because I couldn’t wait nine months to find out what happened to Octavia, I needed to answer that myself. So I spent months writing and planning and researching and compiling lore so that I could answer that question myself. Started posting it episode by episode at the beginning of 2020. Then pandemic got in the way of me finishing it before the official season 7 started airing, so right now the first 9 episodes are up, and the last 7 will be up after the official season 7 is finished. So if you want a season 7 that has a bit less planet hopping, more Bellamy, more TALKING and characters taking the time to sort through issues rather than the season 7 we’ve been having, then please check it out! what’s something you’d like to write one day? I’d like to actually finish and publish the myriad of original works I have in a state of perpetual incompleteness. I’ve been writing stories ever since I could hold a crayon, and I’ve never stopped. But the past decade I’ve been focused on a lot of fanfic. what is the fanwork you’re most proud of? Well, I love all of my word-babies, and I’m super proud of my S7 fic as mentioned above, but outside of that series, the fic that holds a special place in my heart is “fly away to heal my broken spirit (there might be peace on the other side)”, which is an Octavia-centric character study written between seasons 5 and 6, whereupon landing on the new planet, Octavia takes off on her own and takes the time she needs to heal from the pain of her past. why did you first start writing fic? Well, the reasons why I first started writing fic are perhaps different than what they are now. I started writing fic when I was a child, when I didn’t even know it was something other people did, let alone something people shared with one another (this was back in the Days of Yore before the Internet, so while now I know fanfic was going on at that time, it wasn’t easily accessible). The longest fic I’ve ever written was when I was a preteen, and it was 943 pages, handwritten, and it was a self-insert RPF where I became best friends with Alanis Morissette. Back then, I wrote fic because I wanted more stories, more adventures with the characters I loved, and in the case of that self-insert, I wanted to be a part of those adventures. But now I write fic for different reasons. Now I write mostly because I want to address the parts that canon leaves out. The parts that aren’t “exciting” for a TV audience, because they’re not full of flashy explosions and fights and whatnot, but that I want to see because they’re a vital part of the character journeys - the talking, the healing, the things that should be addressed so it makes sense to go from A to B in the storyline but tend to be swept under the rug. I’m in a fandom for the characters, so I want to see them and their thoughts and feelings addressed properly and not just get shuttled from one Plot to the next. So as this applies in this fandom, that mostly revolves around letting characters take the time to talk to each other, to sort out their issues, stuff like that. Because after everything they’ve been through, they need this! what frustrates you most about fic writing? Too many ideas. I have so much I want to write, but I also don’t want to abandon projects so it hurts to have to put ideas on the backburner. Also - middles. I often know how I want a story to start and how I want it to end, but the part in the middle is always a bit fuzzier. Middles are hard. what are your top five songs right now? Lunatica - Heart of a Lion (perfect Octavia song!) Icon for Hire - Supposed to Be (also a good Octavia song) Beth Crowley - Don’t Think Just Run (ditto) Really Slow Motion - Unbroken (same) Miley Cyrus - Mother’s Daughter (Hope’s theme song) what are your inspirations? Music is a lot of my inspiration. I have an entire Octavia playlist, and Spotify is really good at recommending more songs to go on it. Spotify has the only useful Internet algorithm. Also, just those moments in canon where you go WTF and you’re like… I need to fix this. Or, “there has to be more than just this”. A lot of scenes demand more than what we saw on screen, so I’m here to provide.

what first attracted you to Octavia? what attracts you now? I started watching t100 between seasons 4 and 5. The specific reason why I started watching was Chai Hansen (Ilian), because he’d just been cast on Shadowhunters, and he was hot, so I went looking to see where else he’d appeared and happened upon this show. So I watched some of his scenes on YouTube, and was intrigued by this chick (Octavia) he was with. Then the next scene I saw was Octavia winning the Conclave in 4x10 and making her speech of unity, and I was sold. I was all “I need to know who this girl is and how she got here”. 

So I went back to the beginning, and yes, she was the one. I have A Type when it comes to fandom favourites, and she fits it to a T - the misunderstood badass with a tragic past and a dark side. Octavia Blake, Regina Mills, Magnus Bane, Eliot Spencer, James “Sawyer” Ford, Juliet Burke, they all fit that same archetype. 

 I just love Octavia so much, because she’s been through so much and she’s still standing and she’s grown and changed and evolved and it’s all been beautiful. Even the dark parts. Especially the dark parts. Because without them she wouldn’t be who she is now. I hate it when people say she’s “back to her old self” now. No. No she’s not. She’s a stronger, wiser and more mature version of herself, and she wouldn’t be that without her darkness or without her healing. I could go on more, but for that you can just go to my blog and read all of my meta. BESIDES Octavia, what character or pairing do you like best on t100? Uhhh… well, Octavia’s kind of my brand. So everything does kind of revolve around her. But I also adore Echo, Diyoza (sob!) and Hope, and I’m so glad that canon Hope is like the Hope I wrote in my S7 fic - fearless, reckless, committed to her family and questioning what makes otherwise sensible women willing to die for Bellamy Blake. I ship Niytavia, and a fair amount of my Niytavia fic is written from Niylah’s point of view rather than Octavia’s. I’ve also written some bunker-era Mackson as best friends to Niytavia, but Miller being a jerk in season 6 has kind of soured that ship for me. But after 7x10 I’m hopeful that he’ll pull his head out of his ass so that I can like that ship again, because Jackson is still all kinds of lovely. 

But if we REALLY need to depart from the Octavia sphere, then Murphy’s my man. I don’t have a horse in the race as to which ship he’s a part of, because I can low-key ship him with just about everybody (even Octavia).

why did you decide to start writing for bellarkefic-for-blm? Because I wanted to do something to contribute to the BLM movement, but since I live in a tiny northeastern European country and have no money, going to protests or making donations myself isn’t something I can do. But I can write words so other people donate money, so here I am! 

what’s your writing process like? I don’t have a set process. Sometimes a story just FLOWS and I’ll get it done in a few hours. Sometimes it involves a lot of throwing stuff at the wall and hoping it sticks and days and weeks of contemplation and starting to write and hoping it’ll come together at the end. Same applies regardless of what I’m writing, be it my own idea or someone else’s. what are some things you’d like to recommend? My partner in crime in plotting my S7 epic, who I’ll message at 3 in the morning looking to brainstorm ideas, @easilydistractedbyfanfic . You want Murven? They’ve got you covered. Also, tacos, cheesy pasta, and sushi. Because food is delicious and I’d like to be in a country where I can get tacos again, so if you’re in a position to be able to eat tacos, eat tacos. They’re not available everywhere in the world. You can find @osleyakomwonkru here on Tumblr, or you can find her on AO3 here. If you’d like to request a fic written by her, you can do so via @bellarkefic-for-blm.

[aion-rsa]

Why Turner Classic Movies is Reframing Problematic Hollywood Favorites

https://ift.tt/3rnt3hu

Breakfast at Tiffany’s is a movie Alicia Malone fell head over heels in love with during childhood. Seeing it more times than she can remember in her native Australia, the future author and Turner Classic Movies host still recalls failed attempts to launch a high school film club with Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly as the star attraction.

“I thought for sure people were going to get excited about classic movies if they watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s because it has so much life to it!” Malone says today. How could they not fall for Hepburn’s iconic performance, which Malone still describes as luminous? “Holly Golightly is a complex female character, and for the times it was quite sexually progressive.”  Yet there was always another element, even in those halcyon days, which Malone recognized as uncomfortable—that discomfort has only grown to modern eyes.

Beyond the movie’s bittersweet romance between a pseudo-call girl and the kept man living in the apartment upstairs, there’s a grossly racist caricature of Japanese Americans in the movie’s margins, and it’s portrayed no less than by Mickey Rooney in yellowface makeup. It’s technically a small part of the movie, only appearing briefly and sporadically, but each time the character arrives, it’s like a sledgehammer swung across the screen. For decades the performance has been rightly criticized by Asian American advocacy groups, and even Rooney acknowledged late in life that if he knew people would become offended, he “wouldn’t have done it.” Nevertheless, the shadow that character casts over the movie has only loomed larger with time.

“I just kind of hold my breath and half shut my eyes every time Mickey Rooney shows up,” fellow TCM host Dave Karger says during a Zoom conversation with Malone and myself. “Mercifully, he’s gone pretty soon, and I’ve chosen actively not to let that performance ruin the movie for me, because ‘Moon River’ and the party scene, and George Peppard looking so great—there’s just so much to love and appreciate, so I actively choose to focus on that.”

Despite those personal struggles with the movie, Karger and Malone are both unafraid to examine the full implications of Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi head-on. It’s why they hosted, alongside Ben Mankiewicz, a lengthy discussion of the character’s legacy last week during a special Turner Classic Movies presentation. That conversation was part of TCM’s Reframed series, a new season of content from the network which looks at some of the most beloved Hollywood classics of the 20th century—the crème de la crème, as Karger describes them—and studies why they can also be problematic and, in some cases, stunningly offensive. In the case of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, that can even lead to larger discussions about prevailing anti-Japanese attitudes and stereotypes in American society that persisted in the immediate decades after World War II… and can still be found as echoes in the anti-Asian stereotypes of today.

For Karger and Malone, these are the types of discussions TCM hosts have been having off-screen for years. So bringing those dimensions to the forefront for new generations of viewers felt only natural with Reframed.

Says Malone, “We often talk to each other about how we approach certain films when it comes to writing our scripts for our intros and outros for each individual film. We also talk with the producers about what we should bring up, what we shouldn’t bring up; if we should talk about an actor or director’s problematic past during that particular film, or if it doesn’t go with the content of the movie.”

So the five main hosts of TCM–who also include University of Chicago Professor Jacqueline Stewart and author Eddie Muller–were eager to have these frank discussions on screen while offering historical context from a modern perspective.

“All of us at TCM are watching the world change and watching the culture change,” Karger says, “and even though we show movies by and large from the period of the ‘30s to the ‘60s, we all realized that it doesn’t mean we can’t be part of today’s cultural conversation. It’s not a stretch at all to talk about classic movies from a point-of-view of the 21st century; that’s very possible to do, and I think a lot of our fans are looking for that kind of context when they watch the channel.”

The Reframed series, which was spearheaded in part by Charlie Tabesh, the TCM head of programming, and organized by producer Courtney O’Brien, looks to balance what Karger describes as the push and pull between nostalgia and criticism. Both Malone and Karger are acutely aware of the hesitance some classic movie fans might have about evaluating works from nearly a century ago through a 21st century prism, however the new program is intended to renew engagement with these movies—particularly in an era when there are just as many loud voices that attempt to dismiss or wipe away the legacies of these film’s from the cultural canon.

“That’s really important to remind everyone that this series is not here to shame these movies or to tell anyone that they can’t love these movies,” Karger says. “And if there’s a frustration that I’ve had in this last month, it’s to see some of the reaction to this series be along the lines of ‘you’re part of cancel culture with this series.’ It could not be more the opposite of that. We’re not cancelling anything; we’re showing the films a hundred percent in their entirety, we’re just talking about them.”

Malone further emphasizes this is what can keep so many of these movies vital in an era when sequences like the aforementioned Rooney scenes in Breakfast at Tiffany’s are being deleted from a Sacramento film festival—effectively erased from the collective memory.

“I think everyone at TCM sees this as the way forward,” Malone says, “the way that we can continue to make sure these movies stay alive for younger generations. We can continue talking about them, discussing them, they can change over the years, our feelings can change about them; you can love a film and not be able to justify parts of it at the same time. What’s so important though is just to have the discussion, to talk about these problematic areas and face up to them rather than hiding them. To me, if you take out a film from existence or you just delete parts of a film, you’re in a way saying these problems never existed.”

Indeed, even the opinions of folks as steeped in this history as the hosts of Turner Classic Movies can evolve as the culture does. Ben Mankiewicz, for example, is TCM’s unofficial statesman but he surprised some viewers two weeks ago when he revealed during a Reframed discussion that he can no longer comfortably watch Gunga Din (1939), a rollicking adventure movie set in British India. Based on a Rudyard Kipling poem, that classic film’s influences can still be felt in more modern blockbusters like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984). However, Gunga Din is also a movie that glorifies the British Empire at the expense of then-contemporary Indian independence movement, with the villain being a character who Mankiewicz noted is physically modeled after Mahatma Gandhi, who would’ve been seen as subversive by some white audiences in the ‘30s.

“I’ve never been a huge fan of that movie, even though Cary Grant is my favorite actor,” Karger says. “And I was even a little surprised when Ben and Brad Bird included it on [the TCM program] The Essentials last year. Not because it’s not a revered classic movie, but because it’s more than a little offensive. And it was fascinating to be part of that conversation with Ben, talking about the evolution of his feelings for Gunga Din, because he’s been with the network 15 years. I can’t imagine how many times he’s talked about that movie, and it’s just showing you that culture and history are living, breathing things.”

Opinions change. Malone had a similar experience when she joined Mankiewicz and Muller to discuss John Ford’s seminal Western, The Searchers (1956), a movie where the director began reckoning with his depiction of Native Americans on screen. The film is a touchstone to this day for filmmakers like Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, and George Lucas. Mankiewicz and Muller note that Ford is grappling with the racism of his earlier films via John Wayne’s lead character, an unrepentant bigot who becomes both the movie’s protagonist and antagonist. However, the film still bathes Wayne’s character in heroic imagery, and still relies on Native American stereotypes.

“Watching The Searchers again with the lens of talking about it during Reframed, I just saw so much,” Malone says. “I know John Ford was trying to have a conversation about racism involving Native Americans, but there’s just no doubt that many of his films contributed to the very dangerous and horrific stereotypes based around Native American people. And I think Native American people have suffered greatly because of the way they’ve been stereotyped in Hollywood films.”

That subject of intent comes up quite a bit during the Reframed series; Karger describes the movies they discuss as running the gamut from mildly problematic to extremely offensive, yet that ambiguity should invite education about the times they were made in, as opposed to preventing audiences from knowing about those eras.

Says Malone, “I think [Reframed] does show an attempted evolution on the parts of the filmmakers, and that’s interesting. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and The Searchers, and My Fair Lady are trying to comment on a particular issue. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers comments on the sexism of the brothers in the film; My Fair Lady comments on the misogyny of Henry Higgins; and The Searchers comments on racism. But at the same time, they are also sexist, misogynistic, and racist.” She ultimately concludes movies can be both progressive and not progressive because of the times they’re made in.

Read more

Movies

From Hitchcock to Star Wars: What Makes a Great MacGuffin

By David Crow

Culture

Was John Wayne High Noon’s Biggest Villain?

By David Crow

My Fair Lady (1964) will be the centerpiece of TCM’s final night of Reframed programming this Thursday. A lavish big screen adaptation of Lerner and Loewe’s Broadway musical, which itself was an adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s 1913 play, Pygmalion, it deals with the story of cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn) being remade into Professor Henry Higgins’ (Rex Harrison) ideal woman through diction lessons. And the fact the musical, written in the 1950s, changed the more transgressive ending of the original play where Eliza leaves Higgins behind, will invariably come up on Reframed.

“Some people would look at that and say, ‘My Fair Lady? What could be the problem with that? It’s a very strong female character who stands up for herself and has so much agency and power in the movie,’” Karger admits. “But then when you really look at specific scenes, particularly the end of the movie, which is what I think we talked about a lot, there are certain things that just kind of make the movie, for me at least, have the tiniest bit of a sour note.”

The question of whether My Fair Lady is a sexist movie or rather a movie about sexism became the heart of its Reframed discussion.

Adds Malone, “We also talk about the fact that that ending has been changed by some stage productions. That is happening now, and we also talk about the idea of the makeover movie. I think the Pygmalion myth is something that’s fairly sexist and outdated when you look at it, but there’s also so much to love about My Fair Lady.”

The opportunity of having these discussions has been a gift for Karger and Malone. They both stress they don’t have the answers to all the questions they raise, and that even with added time for the outros on Reframed, there is no way to cover everything that needs to be said about a film in a handful of minutes.

“I thought about multiple things I wish I said or I forgot to say, or just didn’t have time to say,” Malone says. However, she hopes the series gives viewers the tools to begin engaging more seriously with these films and embrace a greater curiosity about the past. On tonight’s line-up alone, Malone and Karger will both get to engage in discussions of films they lobbied to have included in the Reframed series.

“I had just a brief conversation with Charlie [Tabesh] about including something around the idea of gender identity, or the transgender community, because I wanted to delve into that,” Malone says. “And of course from there, it becomes what do we have the rights to? What’s in license, what can we show? So there are certain limitations on the types of films we can show in the series.” The film they ended up agreeing on is Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

“I love the fact that it is one of the classic movies that everyone should watch, a horror classic,” Malone adds.

Karger by contrast will be discussing another Audrey Hepburn movie, this one dealing with Hollywood’s history of depicting LGBTQ characters on screen.

Says Karger, “I will never forget watching the documentary The Celluloid Closet in the mid-1990s when it was released, and that was one of the seminal moments for me, as far as looking at film critically. This was a history of LGBT characters in film history over the years, and one thing you learn when you watch a documentary like that, there was this trope in films where if there was a character who was gay, that character would not live to survive at the end of the movie. That character would either be murdered, have some kind of horrible accident, or end his or her own life.”

He continues, “So you think of The Children’s Hour in the early 1960s and at first you think, ‘Oh this is something to applaud. Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn playing two women who may or may not be lesbians. Wow! This is a great thing to bring attention to.’ And then you realize they couldn’t even use the word lesbian in the movie… then the character who ends up being gay also ends up being dead by the end of the movie, and I just think it’s this unfortunate trope that tells people, consciously or not, that you can’t be gay and you can’t be alive in society… It’s a shame, because it came so close to getting it right but you realize it didn’t have the opportunity to get it right in 1961. It couldn’t with all the restrictions in the film industry and society in general.”

It will be the last night that TCM dives so directly into the murkier waters of some of Hollywood’s legacy, although both hosts hope for a second season of Reframed. Karger, who admits he shouldn’t spend so much time on social media, has seen the predictable social media reactions of “you’re ruining these movies” by talking about these elements. But he’s also been heartened by responses from fans who wished TCM provided Reframed discussions on movies that aired later in the evening, like Stagecoach (1939) or Tarzan, The Ape Man (1932). Karger says if he has it his way, they’ll include all those movies in a second season of Reframed.

Meanwhile Malone would really like to continue a thread begun with the screening of the Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy classic, Woman of the Year (1942), from several weeks ago.

“I love having discussions for films where we talk about the representation of female characters,” Malone says. “That’s something I’ve done a lot of work on, so that’s something I’d like to continue—to talk about the way women have been portrayed in films throughout Hollywood history, and we could talk about that in terms of their beauty and how that was seen to be the most valuable quality a woman could have, or the way they could search for love. I love all the women’s pictures that forces the woman at the end to give up everything for love, but for most of the movie she is a fantastically independent woman.”

Other examples of this trope she cites are His Girl Friday (1940), and nearly every movie Katharine Hepburn made after The Philadelphia Story (1940).

Karger conversely would be interested in revisiting movies with extreme age differences between couples.

“I’d love to look at films like Gigi or Love in the Afternoon,” the host says, “because I think there are some people who have issues with the much older man and much younger woman pairing. And I think I’d love to hear what my fellow TCM hosts have to say about that, because you never see it in the opposite direction.” In fact, based on just this one comment, Malone began thinking aloud about all the ageist movies spawned by Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), a camp horror classic that kicked off what Malone describes as “hagsploitation.”

When it comes to revisiting (and reframing) Hollywood classics, the options for learning more are limitless. Not that the lessons should be intimidating.

“I think it’s quite exciting the way things change,” Malone says. “Society changes so quickly, and you learn more and have different opinions, [including] on films. I love being more educated and finding out more of my own blind spots and trying to fix them.”

Reframed continues that search on Thursday March, 25, beginning with My Fair Lady at 8pm EST.

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[unexpectedreylo]

Here It Is:  My Spoilerific Review/Post Mortem of TROS

When I saw The Last Jedi two years ago, the movie haunted me for days, for weeks, for months.  It inspired the imagination, dragging me into the world of Reylo and reassuring whatever reservations I had about the post-Lucas sequel trilogy.

The Rise of Skywalker haunts me too but more in a “Demon House” kind of way.  It fires up the imagination, but more in the sense that it keeps you up at night thinking of all of the ways it could’ve been better.

This isn’t to say I hate the movie.  I don’t.  It’s not even entirely or mostly bad which is what makes it extra frustrating.  You can laugh your way through a total disaster like “Cats” or “The Room” but a movie with plenty of promise and of talent behind it that makes some bad decisions is tragic.  Especially since this is the closing chapter to a trilogy and the saga itself.

You can see there are bones for what could’ve been a really good, maybe even great movie.  One of my favorite parts was the opener where Kylo Ren literally descends into hell/the underworld to confront the devil for no other reason than he didn’t even want Satan above him, a man who serves no gods or devils.   (That right there is a classic Byronic hero.)  Exogol is a great haunted house/spooky setting.  The revelation that it was Palpatine manipulating him all along was a shocker and makes Ben’s story that much more poignant.  I also really liked the contrast with Rey’s introduction, a beautiful shot of her in the verdant forest floating among rocks as she’s meditating.  She is Persephone in her element (which makes the ending all that more baffling but don’t worry, I’m getting to that).

This sets the stage for the revelation that the two are part of an intriguing concept, a Force dyad, kind of a Star Wars version of soulmates maybe even twin flames.  The two just had to acknowledge the feelings between them, reunite, and take out the Sith trash while Rey finally confronts her own dark side.   I don’t mind the latter concept at all because with the trilogy’s thickest plot armor, I think it’s valuable to put her in some peril and to have her better understand Kylo/Ben.

Abrams also wanted to recapture the feel of 1980s blockbusters like the Indiana Jones films or The Goonies, both made by his old mentor Steven Spielberg.  That’s most palpable when the Space Scoops Troop, er “trio,” falls into quicksand and pokes around an underground cave looking for one of the film’s many MacGuffins.  Abrams does good set pieces and powers them along with snappy dialogue.  Like TFA, it’s peppered with some genuinely funny scenes.

If nothing else, you can’t blame the cast for any of the film’s problems.  Everyone does the best they can with what they’re given and the long-standing chemistry between various pairs (Adam and Daisy, John and Oscar, Adam and Harrison Ford for example) do a lot to serve their scenes.  I think Oscar’s best scene was when he confesses to Leia lying in state that he doesn’t know if he can be the leader the Resistance needs.  It’s an honest, human moment.  Daisy continues to infuse Rey with her natural luminance.  I particularly liked the few quiet moments she has, such as meeting the children on Pasaana or healing the snake.  It shows her compassion and foreshadows healing Ben.

Daisy does pretty well with what she is given about struggling with her dark side.  (Remember, she didn’t write her own screenplay.)  Maybe it’s unpopular to say this but I kind of liked her brief turn as “Dark Rey.”  I have no doubt had she turned dark she would be pretty scary.  Her desire for revenge and fear of her own nature--driven by genetics or not--were intriguing concepts and I thought she tried to make the most of it in her performance.

Ah Adam Driver.  God bless that man.  He brings his considerable A-game 100% of the time no matter what and it shows.  He could sell sand on Tatooine.  I have no idea why they put the mask back on him other than a marketing department decision as I suspected, but taking it off when he’s making his appeal to Rey before she leaps out to the Falcon carries a gravity few people can pull off.  His reconciliation with Han was one of the film’s highlights.  For once the repetitive nature of the script actually worked in TROS’s favor, as Kylo retraces his steps in that fateful scene from TFA and finds a way to clear his conscience.  I also think this was originally meant to help the audience forgive him, especially since right after this he renounces the dark side.  Which makes later choices baffling, which I’ll get to.  Driver’s shiniest shining moment though is when he is once again Ben Solo.  Deprived of dialogue for the rest of the film other than “ow,” he nevertheless manages to convey a different personality that is very much Han Solo’s son.  His fight scene is right out of a 1970s martial arts movie, imbued with determination and sass.  I want to see a trilogy about THAT guy.

The Reylo scenes are, well, until it goes south, wonderful.  Some of us would’ve  preferred a lot less fighting but I see it as mostly Rey trying to deny herself and Kylo not being sure if he really wants Rey to turn to the dark side.  (On that note, I wish we’d seen Rey’s vision of sharing a throne with Kylo rather than just hear her talk about it.)   As I predicted, the turning point of the relationship came after the lightsaber battle on the Death Star wreckage.  I find it interesting that Kylo hesitates to kill Rey--partially because of his mother’s influence--and it’s she who could’ve killed him.  She immediately recognizes the dark side was turning her into something she didn’t want to be and nearly costs her the man that deep down she loves.  She heals him completely and along with her confession that she would’ve taken Ben’s hand, his soul is nearly healed by the power of love alone.  Which makes the film’s later choices baffling.  If you think about it, Ben’s turn is even more dramatic than Vader’s.  Vader chose his son over the Emperor at the last minute, some inkling of his light still there shining through at the right moment under duress.  Ben flat out rejects the dark side of his own volition.  That is pretty powerful.  Which makes the ending far more painful.

Rey and Ben’s one big romantic moment was tender and sweet and that was a pretty good kiss.  We finally get to see Ben’s big toothy grin.  Even though we all hate it, Driver did an amazing job conveying first his sorrow over Rey, then his relief, his joy, his love, and finally his strength leaving him.

Visually, the film looks great.  I think J.J. did an even better job shooting this film than TFA.  Adding to the visuals is the fabulous art direction.  They hired supervising art director Paul Inglis immediately after his previous flick Blade Runner 2049 came out, and that decision paid off.  This leaves the film with a number of beautifully-rendered scenes, whether it’s the haunted house scary underworld beneath Exogol, Kylo Ren’s starkly white quarters, the landscapes of Pasaana, the stormy seas around the Death Star II’s wreckage, the shot of Rey hesitating in the Star Destroyer’s hangar before leaping out to the Falcon, or Rey meditating among the floating rocks during her introduction.

I liked D-O and Babu Frick.  I even liked the lady who complimented Kylo’s helmet.  

Where do I start having problems?  The first time I saw the movie the scenes with Leia didn’t bother me but the second time I saw it, it was far more apparent they wrote around the bits of footage they had left.  It was a valiant effort to make Carrie Fisher part of the last film she never had the chance to perform in but it didn’t feel organic.  Since Leia dies during the movie anyway, I don’t know why having her pass away offscreen in between TLJ and TROS is less merciful to the audience than having her body lie beneath a sheet for half the film.  No wonder Billie Lourd skipped the premiere of this flick.  I couldn’t take it if it were my mother either.

On my second viewing, the Resistance base scenes started to get on my nerves.  Maybe it’s because I got tired of looking at the same group of like 10 people over and over.  Maybe I was annoyed that the only purpose of those scenes was to earnestly spout exposition.  Now, exposition is important.  I’m surprised Abrams, notorious for not bothering with it even if it’s necessary, even did this much.  But there was something about George Lucas’s Rebel base scenes that made these people look and act like guerrilla soldiers.  Maybe it was Lucas’s experience shooting films with Navy guys as a student, or his documentary style.  Abrams’s Resistance behave more like college students and activists than soldiers.  

But TROS’s biggest problems lie in its breakneck pacing and its writing.  Parts that should’ve had greater emotional resonance don’t because it moves along too fast.  I would’ve sacrificed one of the set pieces/action scenes or chuck one of the pointless new characters for the sake of deepening the relationship between Kylo and Rey or showing us more Ben Solo.

Some of the characterizations seemed off.  I know a lot of fans are deeply unhappy Rose Tico didn’t get to do much but I was surprised to see her in it even to the degree she was there.  What gets me about the whole Rose thing was her relationship with Finn is totally forgotten FOR NO REASON.  Really, why drop it?  There was no narrative purpose for doing so!  

General Hux is totally wasted in this film, reduced to little more than a cameo.  Sure it might be a surprising twist that “I am the spy!!!” (LOL) but his reasons for it are totally OOC.  He might despise Kylo Ren but to the point of helping the Resistance?  This is the guy who cheerfully blew up the Hosnian Prime system and wanted to blow up more.  He’s evil, a psychopath, a true believer in the First Order.  He might give the Resistance a tip that would result in embarrassing Kylo Rey and use that to start a coup against him but just helping the Resistance out of petulance and spite?  Nah.

Poe tries in this film to be a combination of rogue and deadly earnest idealist, but you generally don’t find those two qualities in the same person.  One second he’s talking about smuggling space dope, the next second he’s saying stuff like “Good people will fight if we lead them!”

Finn, God love him, is reduced to largely running around yelling, “Reeeey!” and eagerly trying to tell Rey something but the film never really got around to what it was.  It wasn’t until a Q&A session that Abrams revealed Finn was trying to tell Rey he was Force sensitive (something that should’ve been developed over the course of the trilogy).  Abrams had time to show us a random lesbian kiss for representation points, but no time for Finn to tell Rey he was Force sensitive?  Huh?

The story not only contradicts the previous films--I wonder if Abrams even saw his own movie TFA much less anything else besides the OT--it contradicts itself throughout.  Palpatine’s return is never really explained and his motives with Rey keep changing.  MacGuffins are added on top of MacGuffins with side missions thrown in.  Chewbacca is blown up then he’s miraculously alive on another transport we didn’t see.  Abrams and Chris Terrio didn’t just add to Rey’s origins, they blatantly spackled over it and TLJ’s overall message.  Discovering one is of evil origins is a gothic storytelling trope but really, it should’ve been developed since the first film so it doesn’t feel like whiplash from something else.  Everyone keeps telling Rey don’t be afraid of who you really are, but Rey ultimately does nothing but run from who she really is.  With each reversal, retcon, or contradiction in the film, it leaves a mess.  We’re supposed to believe Rey was better off sold to Unkar Plutt than be with her not-so-bad parents?   Who the bloody hell had sex with Darth Sidious?  You mean to tell me Luke and Leia knew all along Rey was a Palpatine but they never bothered to say anything and somehow they had more confidence in her than in their own flesh and blood?  Oh while we’re at it, I noticed the second time I saw the movie they straight up gave away Ben’s death before it happened!  WTF?  “Leia saw her son’s death at the end of her Jedi path.”  It seems like Luke and Leia were resigned to Ben’s fate as some horrible destiny that couldn’t be changed but Rey was still an open book to them.  That’s so stupid and really fellow OT fans, how does this respect our childhood faves?  Han comes off as the only decent person in this thing.

Rey and Ben taking on the Emperor was a great applause moment, the dyad unified against the ultimate evil.  For the most part it was fantastic...until The Yeetening.  Two things annoy me about the remainder of the conflict against Palpatine.  One, Rey and Ben should have destroyed Palpatine together.  If Rey could do it on her own then what the hell did she need Ben for?  He could’ve sat out the rest of the movie at Starbucks and remained alive while Rey killed Palps on her own.  There’s no point to their combined power because it wasn't necessary.  Two, while poor redeemed I-turned-back-to-the-light Ben was crawling up the pit with no help from anyone, every good guy we ever knew of in Star Wars, even from the cartoons, is giving a voice over pep talk to Rey.  (It seems cheap too since we don’t see the characters.  Avengers Endgame did this kind of thing far better.)  How about if the pep talk was given to the BOTH of them?  That Anakin Skywalker, the man Ben had idolized, had time to say “wakey-wakey” to his tormentor’s granddaughter and not his own grandson is appalling.  The third thing is while Darth Vader defeated Palpatine with the love for his son and his long-gone wife, Rey defeats Palpatine simply with power.  Rey and Ben’s love for each other could’ve been the force that defeats the Sith once and for all but for some reason it doesn’t occur to Abrams and Terrio.

I could’ve forgiven most of this--the jar of Snickles and all--had they got the resolution right.  But they didn’t.

ROTJ and ROTS’s endings were masterful.  ROTJ gives you an idea of what trajectory our heroes were likely to follow:  Han and Leia were going to end up together, Luke was going to bring forth the next generation of Jedi.  ROTS sets up Obi-Wan on Tatooine, Yoda on Dagobah, Leia on Alderaan, Luke on Tatooine, Darth Vader on a Star Destroyer, and poor Padmé on her way to Star Wars Heaven.  I have no idea what happens to Finn.  Maybe he’ll train with Rey.  Maybe he’ll go to college.  Maybe he’ll backpack through Europe.  I have no idea.  His story just stops.  Same deal with Poe.  Aside from getting shot down by Zorii, what’s he going to do?  The film gives zero indication.  It goes from the Free Hugs session to Rey squatting at the old Lars homestead.

The biggest crimes though occur to Ben and Rey.  Ben’s death sucked all of the air out of the film.  Yes, it’s beautiful that Ben loved Rey so much and so selflessly he was willing to surrender his life for hers.     It’s beautiful that it never mattered to Ben who Rey was, whether it was “nobody” in the last movie or the granddaughter of his tormentor/enemy in this one.  Had the Palpatine concept been there all along, there would’ve been something sweet about healing the rift originating in the prequels.  But I wanted Ben to live.  I wanted for once for someone to address the issue of atonement but Terrio and Abrams were too lazy to bother.   If The Grinch could be redeemed AND find atonement with those he wronged in a 30 minute Christmas special with commercials, then why not Ben Solo in a 150-minute movie?  

I could have lived with a sacrifice arc though had it been handled correctly.  But they flubbed it big time.  The sacrifice isn’t honored at all.  He just dies, he vanishes as Leia’s body vanishes, and he’s “never to be seen again.” Or mentioned.  Rey barely reacts on camera.  It’s as though reviving Ben from certain death, choosing good over evil, making a valiant attempt to save his girlfriend armed only with a blaster, and giving his life for hers weren’t valued by anyone.  The movie didn’t give a damn.  When Vader died in ROTJ, he at least had final words with Luke who then burns Vader’s remains on a pyre.  We see Anakin restored to his true self join the Force Ghost crew at the end of the movie.  We got none of this with Ben.

It’s also the most frustrating and disappointing disruption of a romantic arc since 1980′s “Somewhere In Time.”  In that film, Christopher Reeve travels back to 1912 and finds true love with Jane Seymour.  Everything is going great and Reeve’s character has made the choice to stay in that time and marry Seymour.  Then he pulls out a 1979 penny and is sent “back to the future” as Seymour screams.  At least that film though had the decency to reunite the love birds in the afterlife.  Which might explain why the movie still has a cult following to this day.  Tragic love stories always make sure there’s some kind of catharsis for the audience.  Rose takes Jack’s name, lives her life as he asked her to do for him, tells his story, and reunites with him when she dies.  Romeo and Juliet are united in death and the healing of their respective houses begins.  Even Padmé got a state funeral and had the legacy of her children.  There was no such catharsis for Rey and Ben.

Rey ends up right where she started:  alone and in the desert.  She got the Dorothy ending, there’s no place like home.  But the difference is Dorothy is a child not yet ready for the big scary world and the answers to her problems weren’t out there but right where she was.  Rey is a grown woman.  She should’ve been treated like one.  Instead she is deprived of her lover/soulmate and while such a separation should have been painful, it doesn’t even register.  She has a “found family” but they’re not there with her.  She’s in a home others tried to escape from, haunted by ghosts instead of being among those she loves.  Taking the Skywalker name seems tacked on, as though they realized if the name is to live on somebody needed to take it.  Why not then just have made her Han and Leia’s or Luke’s daughter in the first place?  It’s worse when you remember it’s a Palpatine who’s usurping the name.  Or when you realize she’s still hiding who she is.  

Here’s what would’ve been better.  Rey tells the Resistance about the pure selflessness of the Skywalkers and she wants that to be the core value of the new Jedi going forward, where every new student was going to learn their story.  Then we see her anywhere but Tatooine, happy and surrounded by students of all ages.  Maybe Finn training too.  She sees the approving Force ghosts of Leia, Luke, and Anakin.  Then Ben, clearly a different entity, materializes beside her.

Or something, anything other than what we got.

It’s as though they kept making story decisions without giving any thought at all to their implications.  They tried to do too much while being lazy about it.  They went for expedience--copy pasting ROTJ when convenient--over meaning.

The ending accomplishes what no other Star Wars film has done to me in 42 years of being a fan...it broke my heart and fulfilled my worst suspicions about where the ST was going to end up, largely due to its deflating ending and terrible denouement.  It leaves for me and many other fans a big gaping open wound, not closure.  

Ultimately the sequel trilogy’s biggest flaw is that there clearly was no plan.  What we got was a billion dollar game of exquisite cadaver with no real design for characters, their arcs, the story, or even what message these films are supposed to have.  Every decision was based on the director’s own ideas along with corporate meddling.  So we get conflicting ideas and blatant spackling over what the last director didn’t like. Was Kylo Ren meant to be a guy we love to hate or a lost boy we want to come home?   Was Rey a heroine we can all aspire to be or a lost princess of darkness?  What the hell was the point of Finn or Poe?  What does this add to the saga overall aside from more stuff?  Who are these films even for, old OT fans or young fans?  I believe it’s this lack of a plan that has generated so much confusion and bitter internet wars among fandom.  

[isitandwonder]

Anon from mrchalamet-mrstyles. I'll quote him directly, from an interview at the 2018 BAFTA Tea Party, "I shot a film in LA this past year for like 3-4 months and I had a base all of a sudden. In a way LA's always felt very off the ground for me so I have a lot of gratitude for Armie and Elizabeth." I believe he said more about this in other interviews but as you know there were probably hundreds and my memory isn't that good so I wouldn't know where to look. (cont...)

I didn't say he was an unknown. But he had 6000 Twitter follows in August 2017 and now he has 1.4 million. It's apples and oranges. At that time, Armie was the more famous, more followed of the two and therefore the one that was billed first despite not being the lead etc. Even if he had his family and Kiernan, there is plenty of evidence he spent a lot of time with the Hammers and friends and he has been openly appreciative of it. (Cont...) 

He was there a lot. The pasta moment you mentioned. The pajama party with the kids. Getting ready for an event at the Sunset Tower Hotel. Elizabeth feeding him milkshakes to help him regain weight from BB. Ford's birthday party that he was late to. Whenever the pistachio shells moment was. Timothee said he must annoy them because he likes to randomly turn up at their home. We have photo evidence of most of this. I'm confused as to why constantly invoking Armies wife would be a promo tactic. 

As for the Russian, I don't understand why that matters? I doubt Timmy was aware of this considering he often spoke about what a great husband Armie was. So it wouldn't have affected how he felt about their home then and there. Sure there are alternative reasons. The same could be said for any of his friendships. But at the end of the day, I think back to his speech about Armie in Austin and dont see any way that what he expressed there wasn't genuine affection and gratitude. But you do you. 

I just don't understand why my initial ask caused you to feel the need to counter it. I paraphrased something that he said. We don't know what's actually in his brain, the same can be said for when he's talking about Cudi. It was a small movie with a tiny budget that had excellent reviews and Oscar buzz from day 1. It's not Marvel. The only people stalking Elizabeth's Instagram for content were the ones that were already going to see the movie. I'm sorry if me appreciating their bond bothers you

 ---------- 

 Hey, anon, thank you for switching over here. And thank you for staying civil. Why did I write a comment? I mean, you posted a question to @mrchalamet and so I guess you wanted a discussion. And you got that. Isn't that why we are all here, to discuss, to speculate? 

You are right, maybe I overreacted re your ask and you got something you didn't deserve and I thought you implied something you didn't. Let me just tell you where I come from: Usually, when someone praises T&A together, it ends up with more or less 'And they are so in love, have been for years, and are fucking for real now. Die if you think otherwise, homophobe.' Experiencing that attitude around a lot might explain - not necessarily excuse - why I might have read something into your ask that wasn't there (and I don't mean the fucking bit, I mean the death wishes for people who don't see it). 

Let me say now, I don't think their friendship was all played up. They liked each other. But it was played up to some extent imo. So, yes, Tim was there, but what does base mean? And of course as this is their chosen narrative, they stick to it because none of them is interested in making public a rift or a cooling off of their friendship when it helped (re)launch both their careers. (Armie might have been more famous back then, but not necessarily successful, but Tim was rising, without 2 major flops around his neck; Armie was rather down when CMBYN happened and I think that was one of the reasons he took it on - nothing to lose).

 Again, you are right, we know nothing for certain about their firendship now, it's only, we don't see much of it lately. That can mean they keep it private now or that it dried up. Rn I'm team dried up. But that is of course just speculation. And we can now debate back and forth what base means and how often he's been there and why these things were posted at the time and who was there when... But let me play advocatus diaboli: Their friendship, interactions and Tim staying over at the Hammers lasted roughly the same time as awards season. There is a logical explanation because then they worked together to do promo, cheap promo, precisely, for an indie movie. What is cheaper than curating a friendship on sm? It doesn't cost as much as ads in EW. And it worked because even GQ 'shipped' them... so their friendship (with implications for more) worked very well for CMBYN. Just saying. It could have been genuine, could have been played up and curated, could have been a mixture of both. (I tend to played up; Tim has other firends but they all vanished from view while Armie was put in the spotlight during that time. Tim was with a friend in Paris beginning of 2018 for the Haider show, but you didn't see that; but you saw him A LOT with Armie at professional events, them talking about how good pals they were). 

Just going by what I see - and again, I'm aware I'm not seeing all - we got shown less and less content of them both together after CMBYN promo ended. And that makes me think... I never quite got what they had in common apart from working together anyway (10 years apart, Armie married with kids, Tim just finding his footing), so there has for a long time been a bit of doubt re how close they really were. 

As a shipper, I played their closeness up myself. Now, seeing where this shipping ended up - harrassing Liz, Lily, Eiza, Tim's and Armie's friends, even a bagel shop, not to mention al lot of fellow fans who allegedly (as charmies put it) went over to the dark side and get death threats, doxxing threats etc on numerous plattforms for mentioning that maybe that ship is just a fantasy (I'm not kidding you here) - I try to show that things could have been different from what we were shown. That's all. I'm just arguing my point, as you do yours. As long as we don't whis the other dead, I can live with agree to disagree.

[sprnklersplashes]

not beyond repair (15/?)

AO3

Seven months earlier.

JD bites on his nail, like the action is going to stop the seemingly bottomless pit that’s forming in his stomach. He scoffs at himself, hidden from view in the backseat. He’s being stupid. It’s just another foster home. Just another foster home which he can handle, and apparently, can handle him this time around. Handle him and all his baggage.

Except it’s not just another foster home. It’s another foster home in Sherwood, Ohio. The last place he saw his dad. The last place he had a real home… he guesses. He doesn’t go as far as saying a real family because the only thing that bonded him and his father together was the blood in their veins. DNA, numbers and letters that mean nothing to him and never did. But still. The car drives past his-their-old house and he can’t help but shrink down in his seat. In the front yard, he sees a little girl with pigtails trying and failing to make a tricycle move forwards, her mom hanging sheets out on the line. Not a care in the world. When that kid goes to bed, her mom’s probably going to be tucking her in and reading her bedtime stories and telling her she loves her. They’re the antithesis of what was there before them.

If those walls could talk, what would they say? The story of a little kid making dinner for his dad and a fridge with more booze than actual food in it. For a moment, he feels like he’s there, back in the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the stove, money he’s earned sitting on the counter. He gasps before he can stop himself and tears his eyes away from the window, blocking it out. He imagines the past behind him, dissolving into the exhaust fumes, and it helps. Sort of.

“Are you okay, Jason?” He nods weakly, mumbling a half-response. His social worker nods in the front seat, but she’s unconvinced, as per usual. He can bullshit foster moms and owners of group homes and other nosy/concerned kids, but not her. Never her.

There were endless arguments about sending him here. Some with him in the room and some behind closed doors with him pressing his ear to the wall. He even did that trick with an empty glass. The same phrases kept coming up and going around, like those little toy trains the kids in his home played with, endlessly circling around the same tracks. “His father” “an unhealthy environment” “bring back memories” “he’s made a lot of progress”. He could rhyme them off the same way he could rhyme off his favourite poetry.

But then his social worker Aimee piped up, calm as the morning sea “well, Jason has told me he enjoyed Sherwood”. And behind the door, JD had pumped his fist in victory. “He said he had even made his friends there. Maybe going back to a familiar setting will be good for him.”

And that’s the other thing. Sherwood, Ohio isn’t just where he had last seen his father… it was where he had last seen Miss Veronica Sawyer. The girl who had kissed him in the playground and held him tightly until he had to leave. His first real friend. Maybe more than that. They never really got to dinner and movies.

He had been looking around since they passed the beaten up ‘Welcome to Sherwood’ sign, as if she was going to pop up the moment he crossed the town line. When they stop at a traffic light, he sneaks a glance at the car beside them, wondering if maybe he’ll see that wild mane of dark hair, a denim jacket swung over a floral dress the way only she could pull off. Maybe he’d hear her laugh, loud and carefree, and he’d-

He’d what exactly? Run up to her and shout “surprise, it’s me?” Or maybe something a little more charming. Ask her if she had missed him. Would she have missed him? He got that letter she sent him all that time ago. Slept with it under his pillow. Kept it folded carefully in his jacket pocket, and then between the pages of his book, read it until the ink burned onto the backs of his eyelids. But maybe she didn’t feel the same. Maybe she read his reply and tossed it aside, went back to her normal life of sleepovers and homecooked meals and geography projects.

The thought terrifies him.

Still, he’s due to start (restart) at Westerberg next week. Maybe he’ll get his answer then.

They pull up outside of a small house, red brick and lace curtains, silver Ford parked in the driveway. Potted plants in front of the blue front door and a sloped roof. It looks exactly like its pictures, he guesses. Nothing special. It’s a lot smaller than what he’s used to, but he was told to expect that. No other kids in here, just him. He’s not sure how he feels about that. He supposes he’s grateful for the privacy and tranquillity, but he’s grown used to having kids of all ages running around at his feet and hiding under the table and jumping on his back as he tries to do homework. It’ sort of became comforting to him. And well…. He never disliked having them hang around and ask about his books or be asked to fix a TV or glue a Barbie back together.

“Here we are,” Aimee says.

“Home sweet home,” he replies, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder and getting out of the car. There’s a chill in the air that penetrates through his coat and hits deep down in his gut as he gets his other bag out of the trunk. His entire life is in these two bags and not for the first time, he feels how sadly light they are.

He bites on the inside of his cheek as he and Aimee walk up to the door, skirting past the patch of grass that’s growing slightly wild in front of the house. He would say he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous but let’s be real-of course he does. Who wouldn’t be? He’s done this once before and thought maybe this time would be easier. Maybe this time it would be easier to stand on someone’s doorstep and silently beg them to like him.

He was wrong. Somehow it’s more terrifying, despite him having overheard Aimee tell people that this woman-Claire-has experience with kids like him. He takes her word for it, having only spoken to Claire on the phone, once, for her to tell him how happy she is to have him. He doesn’t know if all that makes him less relaxed or more.

“Hi there.” He was so lost in himself he didn’t even notice the door opening. He’s not sure what he imagined, but she’s small, messy brown hair back in a half-braid and glasses perched on top of her head, pink sweater slightly too big for her, hanging over her floral print jeans. Her looks match her voice, he thinks. He guesses that greeting was directed at Aimee too, but he can’t know for sure, because all her attention is on him. The soft way in which her mouth turns up into a smile is painfully comforting to him, the open sincerity in her eyes scares him and almost draws him in. He doesn’t want to get too secure here. Comfortable yes, but not secure. Miss it when he leaves, but so much that it hurts.

“Hey,” he says after a while, realising he hasn’t spoken.

“Nice to meet you, Jason,” she says, holding out her hand. “Officially.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking her hand. “You too.”

She steps back, opening the door a little more, the sun shining on wooden floors and white-painted walls, and lets him come in. He almost feels too big for this place. Like he’ll move in the wrong direction and snap something in half.

“I’ll show you your room,” Claire tells him warmly. There’s something about her gentle voice and seemingly real smile that make his stomach flip. Something that makes him either want to run out of this house and never stop or follow her up the stairs. He picks the latter.

She doesn’t do anything when she opens the door. Every other place he’s been in open it dramatically, flourishing arms, one even did a “ta-da!”, like they were showing him the grand ballroom on the Titanic. Claire simply props the door open with the same smile she’s had since they met and leans against it. Maybe she knows he’s a little too old for those kind of theatrics. The silence leaves him to take in the tidied bed and empty shelves, the spotless rug on the floor and TV set up in the corner.

“I get a TV?” he asks, a laugh lining the edge of his voice.

“One of the perks of being the only kid here,” she replies, folding her arms and shrugging. “Got it for one of my first placements. It’s a little old, but it’s in colour at least.” With his back to her, he smiles. He may not use it that much, but he feels like there’s some deep part of him that’s just glad it’s there. Like he’s high-fiving his little twelve year old self. “I know you’re used to group homes. Think you’ll cope well here?”

“Well there’s no one to steal my food or draw in my books,” he says flatly, making Claire chuckle. “I’ll be fine here.”

“Good. Cool. Also you’re set to start at school next week.”

“Westerberg High,” he says, toying with the edge of his coat. He burrows into it out of habit. Like if she sees more trench coat than person, she won’t see what’s going on inside.

“You know… I have talked it over with Aimee,” Claire begins. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her picking at her nails. “If you want, you can go somewhere else.”

“You and I both know there’s no other schools in this town,” he sighs, sitting down on the bed, half-facing her. “Except for that Catholic school and I’ll be damned if I….” His voice trails off when he catches sight of her. Her mouth is still turned up into a smile, but it doesn’t look real anymore, like someone took a sticker and put it on her face. She holds her wrist tightly, twisting it in her hand. He’d been around enough to recognise a nervous habit when he sees one and wishes he could stuff the stupid shit he said back inside of him. He can’t though, so he clears his throat and offers her what he hopes is a friendly grin. “I’ll be fine there, really.” He shrugs. “And maybe it’s fate. You know if I’d have stayed here with my dad, I’d have ended up at Westerberg anyway.”

An unspoken ‘yeah right’ hangs in the air. They both know if he had stayed with his dad, he’d have been out of Sherwood in three months, max. As long as it took for his dad to find a new job somewhere else. He suppresses a sigh, the wave of self-pity looming over him and threatening to crash. He guessed he was always going to leave Sherwood, leave Westerberg, leave Veronica. He just left quicker than he expected. At least this time around, he’s got a written guarantee that he’s here until he graduates high school. And three verbal ones, just to make sure.

“I’ll let you unpack,” Claire says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Get settled in. I have some stuff to talk about with Aimee anyway. T’s to cross, I’s to dot.” He nods, knowing what she means, of course. She’s not the type to say ‘okay well I’m off downstairs to talk about your many, many problems and what therapist you’re going to and what medications you need and what you get like on the bad days’. He flinches at an old memory, of him creeping downstairs and listening behind a kitchen door to a woman lamenting on the phone that she couldn’t cope with him. At least his experience of foster care went up from there.

“Cool,” he says.

“And I was thinking for dinner… do you like risotto?” she asks. “It’s an old family recipe. I only wheel it out on special occasions.”

So now he’s special?

He tries not to smile too much at that.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Claire heads downstairs, leaving the door slightly open, exposing a sliver of the white walls of the hallway. He sets about putting his clothes on hangers, arranging his books on the shelf. Outside, the September sun turns lawns and sidewalks golden, playing a trick on him, telling him it’s still summer. He leans against the glass, watching mums and dads and kids and teenagers walking and running. He finds himself looking for messy brown hair and scolds himself for being creepy. Instead he looks beyond his new neighbours, his eyes drawn to the building looming in the distance. Westerberg High. Building a semi-decent home life, that’s one thing. He’s gotten kind of okay at that. All he really needs is the right people and Claire hasn’t set off any warning bells so far. But school… Veronica aside, building a good school life is another thing. So far his grades have ranged from below average to fair and his social life from decent to dismal. His breath fogs up the glass, spreading across until the school is nothing but a smudge in the distance.

“Okay, Ohio,” he says, shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the bed. “Let’s make it a good one this time.”

                                                                                               *****

Present Day

He gets better.

It takes time. Some days are better than others. Some days he sits and laughs and makes jokes and throws grapes into MacNamara’s open mouth. Some days he passes Veronica little notes during study hall, compliments written in tiny scribbles with a badly drawn cartoon.  Some days he spins her under his arm as they walk home together. And some days… some days he walks slowly and takes deep breaths before going into the cafeteria. Some days he holds her hand that much tighter and buries his face in her shoulder when they hug.

But she feels him coming back to her, the bad days getting fewer and further between.

He apologises to her, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ against her collarbone, and it tears at her heart every time. She kisses his head and tells him that it’s okay, that he’s forgiven, completely forgiven, and he will be in the future too. For the present she just holds him, playfully kissing his hair and nuzzling into his shoulder, smiling against him and watching the sun breaking through the grey clouds.

                                                                                               *****

When he comes out of his therapist’s office on Friday, Claire’s car is parked right outside, one of three on the street. Friday night, everyone else’s cars are in the drive, after long weeks at work or school or whatever. And she’s here instead, sitting in the front of her car with her sudoku book waiting for him, after driving all the way across town to pick him up.

“Hey, kid,” she greets brightly, marking her page with her pen and sliding it into the glove compartment.

“How many did you get?” he asks.

“Two by the time you got out,” she says proudly. “Next time maybe take a little longer in there and I can make it three in a row.”

He laughs, but it’s half hearted. He’s been in for longer than usual these past weeks, sessions sometimes running five or even ten minutes overtime and he’s just glad he’s the last one she sees before closing. Still, as time goes on, his mind gets brighter, and he’s sure they’ll be back to their regular, done-at-five-on-the-dot schedule.

He follows her into the house, swinging his backpack from his hand, toying with it like it’s a weight, while Claire makes inquiries about what he wants for dinner, telling him about some new curry recipe she stumbled upon that she’s been dying to try out.

Rather than giving a vague answer and running up to his room, JD leans on the table and discards his jacket, listening to her as she takes stuff out of the fridge and flips through a magazine. It wasn’t too long ago now when he was sitting here, his eyes vacant, his blood cold, with her sitting opposite him, pushing a plate of food in front of him and rubbing his back while he let out everything, a million thoughts and memories rushing out of his mouth and painting the room red with his anger, grey with his grief. And she had stood there and held him in the midst of that hurricane. She was there until he dragged his ass back up to bed and even after that.

He thinks he should know by now that she gets paid for this, and she’s a nice enough person to do it for anyone else, but there’s a familiarity that’s both soothing and scary, one that tugs on old memories and brings them into the light without making them hurt. There’s a feeling that comes along with her, with this house that almost makes him feel like he’s meant to be here. That almost takes the foster out and leaves the word ‘home’.

“Hey, Claire?” The words battle their way from his mind to his lips, pushing past the last defences, the ones that still think he’s better off on his own. He guesses they’ve been crumbling for a while now anyway. He must have sounded like he feels, because Claire stops dead in her tracks and turns to him, concern shining in her brown eyes, half-hidden behind a smile. He coughs as if that could clear the butterflies in his stomach, his hand curled into a tight fist.

“Thank you,” he manages. “For taking care of me. When I was… you know…” He taps his nails on the table, searching for words to describe something he doesn’t even know. “Thanks.”

“Aw, kid.” She comes over to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me, Jason.”

“I know I can’t have been easy to deal with,” he says quietly, guilt causing his voice to crack. He wraps his hand around her arm and doesn’t let go.

“Don’t,” she tells him sternly, her fingers stroking in a steady rhythm against his shoulder. “Don’t talk like that, kid. You were just having a rough time. You just needed a bit of help, that’s all.” He nods while Claire runs her hand up and down his arm. Just needed help. “Besides, you’re not that hard. Not for me, kid.”

“Oh stop,” he sighs, half-laughing, fighting back the rush he feels flowing through him, colouring his cheeks a faint crimson. He still hears past ghost’s words ringing in his ears and trying to slap down any good feeling he can have, but they’re weak, weaker than they’ve been before.

“I mean it,” she replies, stroking his hair. Her weight lifts off him as she steps back and JD finds himself oddly empty when she does. “Now come on. You want lamb or chicken in this curry?”

“Whatever you’re having,” he says, sliding off the chair and hoisting his bag on his shoulder.

“Well I need your seal of approval if I’m going with the lamb,” she warns. “Because I’m not having you complain to me that you don’t like it once I make it.”

“Have you ever known me to complain?” he asks.

“You want an answer?” she retorts. Warm laughter escapes from both of them.

“Lamb’s fine, Claire,” he assures her. “I’m going to go start my homework.” She grins, shaking her head fondly, not enough to make it obvious but enough to make him notice. He guesses she thought he was halfway up the stairs by now. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. She’s not built for lying. “Just… really excited about this curry.”

“Okay…” he replies, making a swift ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, to which she replies with a lazy, two fingered salute.

He swings around the doorframe and heads up the stairs two at a time, the books and pencils in his bag tapping out a mismatched tune. Despite what he told Claire, he’s not entirely sure what-if any-he’s going to get done tonight. March has brought a steady tide of deadlines and tests and homework, and not to brag, but also a steady tide of As and Bs for him. He attributes them to Veronica, but she shakes her head, telling him that he’s the one with the brains. She’s just there to push him. And sometimes he takes a minute to congratulate himself, to remember that Veronica has had less cause to push.

He flips open a copy of The Great Gatsby he got in a thrift store last year, covered in highlighter pen and biro. In the quiet of his bedroom, he hears Claire at the stove, the news on the radio as she cooks, and smiles to himself before he even realises why.

He could have ended up with anyone, he knows that. Anyone in quite a few states, even with all of his issues. There’s fewer than he’d like, but group homes for “troubled teens” and foster parents who think they’re up to the challenge exist, only to hold him at arm’s length or send him back to the group home with the first two weeks. Who aren’t willing to drive an hour to get your to a therapist or to hold you when your mind is falling apart or make sure you have enough meds to get you through the month. And the more he thinks about it, he guesses he’s really, really lucky he ended up with Claire.

                                                                                               *****

Veronica won’t, and has never, claimed that she’s experienced in relationships. Her experiences before JD were Simon Andrews kissing her on the cheek at Ram’s tenth birthday party and reading old romance novels from the more neglected parts of the library. And with that inexperience, she vaguely wonders if there’s meant to come a point where her boyfriend kisses her and she doesn’t feel a thrill running down her spine.

If there is, she’s yet to reach it. Because right now, JD is on top of her and the backboard of her bed is behind her and his lips are on her neck and she feels the same kind of breathlessly giddy as she did the night she climbed into his window. She grabs his shoulders as his lips meet hers, their legs tangling and kicking notes and textbooks off her bed. Her hands trail down his body, leaving phantom marks on his back.

She hopes she never loses this feeling because holy hell, does she love it.

“You know, I thought you brought me over here to study,” he teases breathlessly.

“I did,” she replies, poking his cheek. “Not my fault you distracted me.” He laughs again, kissing her lips and her neck and her cheek. While he’s distracted, she sees her chance, wrapping her arm around his waist and pushing him over, grateful for the size of her bed giving him a comfortable landing, even if it does shake and creak against her floor, the headboard knocking against the wall. It’s messy; he lands on his side and traps her arm underneath him and she’s almost too busy laughing at his expression to remember that the whole point was to get on top of him in the first place.

“Jerk,” he says playfully, tapping her nose.

“Oh is that what I am?” she asks, bending to kiss him, deep enough to leave him wanting a little more. “Am I still one now?”

“Um… a litt-no,” he replies, shaking his head, his charm deserting him, leaving him helpless and bewildered. “No you are not.”

She kisses him again, one arm around him, the other pressed against his chest. She’s not going to straight-up have sex on a school night, least of all in her own house with her parents downstairs, but she is up for something halfway there. She presses a kiss to his jaw and buries her hand in his hair, tilting her head to make it a little more-

“Veronica!”

She flies off the bed, landing in a heap on the floor. In the split second between her mom knocking and the door opening, she does what she can only assume is an Olympic level stunt to get to her desk. The door opens to her mom holding a green plastic tray of food and Veronica would groan, if she wasn’t still trying to catch her breath.

“Did someone fall?” she asks. JD- who thankfully had the sense to sit up and grab the nearest thing to him, her French textbook-shakes his head, the very picture of innocence.

“Um, no,” Veronica says, avoiding her mom’s knowing gaze. “I-uh-my bag fell off the bed.”

“Uh-huh,” her mom replies, utterly unconvinced. Veronica waits with crossed fingers, hoping her mom is too innocent (or too oblivious) to catch onto them. “Well, remember what we said, when company’s over the bedroom door stays open.”

“You know, Mrs Sawyer, that is exactly what I have been telling her,” JD replies, his voice at least half an octave higher, gesturing with the pen in his hand before burying himself back in the textbook of the class doesn’t even take.

The freaking audacity. And he just smiles, butter wouldn’t melt expression on his face and a knowing glint in his eye.

Little shit.

“Well I’m sure you’ve been given the same speech by your-your foster parent, JD,” she tells him.

‘You are unbelievable,’ Veronica mouths at him over her mom’s back.

“I just came up to bring you kids a little snack,” her mom says, placing the tray carefully on Veronica’s desk. “I know you’re working hard up here.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Veronica says, making a show of looking through notes.

“You two need anything else?”

“Nope, we’re fine,” she says, shooting JD an apologetic look while half-hiding behind her hair. She waits with a sharp impatience before her mom takes the hint and leaves, the door staying wide open behind her.

“Oh my god,” she grumbles, pushing herself up from her chair and closing the door as much as she can get away with. “Sorry, J.”

“Sorry for what?” he asks. “Is it selfishly hoarding the snacks on your desk so your poor boyfriend can’t get at them?”

“Are your legs broken?” she asks. Still, she picks up the plate and brings it over to the bed, motioning for him to scoot over before she sits down. Wholemeal crackers, some with smushed avocado and salmon, some with pate. It’s better than when the Heathers were over and she made them little finger sandwiches, cut into triangles and everything. Veronica had never wanted to die more than she did in that moment.

“Hey.” JD pokes her in the cheek, pulling an exaggerated pout that gets a laugh out of her. “Why are you Miss Frowny Face? Don’t be Miss Frowny Face. Be Miss Smiley Face.”

“Okay how much sugar have you had today?” she asks. JD raises an eyebrow playfully, and she gives in with a sigh that screams ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’. She flops backwards, bouncing a little as she hits the bed. “She’s making me snacks. I’m 18 and she’s making me snacks and bringing them up to my room and reminding me to keep my door open.”

“And that’s… bad?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she groans. “I can make my own snacks if I need them. And I can do whatever I want in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

“Ew.”

“Oh shush, you know what I meant,” she scoffs, slapping his leg lightly. “Just… I don’t need her to bring me food.”

“Wow. I’ve heard a lot of shitty parent stories in my time, but this one truly takes the cake. Veronica Sawyer, the girl whose parents made her snacks. The fiends.” She feels a pang of guilt at what he said. Has she really been walking through her life that blindly? She doesn’t believe herself to be callous, she’s always thought of herself as a good person, even now. But now she feels like someone’s opened her window for the first time and she’s looking outside, looking out at the world of Big Bud Deans and kids who cook their own food, parents who raise voices and hands at their kids. She’s looking at it all, and she’s kicking herself.

She sighs and turns onto her side. Her face must tell everything, or maybe he can just read her like that, because he starts running a gentle hand through her hair, as though he can run the bad stuff out of her brain.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Why does that make you feel bad?”

“It’s stupid,” she sighs. It’s also not something she wants to admit, not verbally. It’s something for her diary, where she can let her thoughts out and keep them hidden and at bay at the same time.

“No it’s not.”

“How do you know? I haven’t even told you.”

“Because it’s you, and you can’t be stupid if you tried.” She buries her grinning face in her covers. “So you want to talk about it?”

“Fine,” she replies, half-peeking out. She reaches out and strokes the fabric of his jeans, the rhythm building her nerve and dampening her shame with each stroke. She shouldn’t feel ashamed anyway, and she doesn’t want to be, not with him, but without a little hint of shame, would she be human? “She made me snacks when I was a kid. Like when me and Martha were having sleepovers. And that was fine. And then I got bigger and people had cooler parties that I didn’t go to and their moms didn’t bring them snacks and-” She lets out a long breath as JD pets her hair. “It’s not cool.”

“And you care about being cool?”

“Yeah.” She closes her eyes and remembers Heather Chandler’s kitchen dwarfing her, Heather Duke’s parents giving her full, unrestricted access to the kitchen, her flaming cheeks as Chandler had looked from her mom to the liverwurst on the plate with equal amounts of disgust.

“Well, look at that,” JD sighs. “Your mom brought you snacks, and yet I still think you’re cool.” She huffs a laugh as he pokes her stomach. “Especially since your mom makes amazing food.”

“I should count myself lucky that she makes me stuff at all,” she sighs, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Right?”

“Just a little,” he admits, smiling softly at her. “Come here, love bug.” He pulls her against his body, too comfortable amongst her pillows to get up properly, settling her head below his chin and legs amongst his. She supposes there is one upside to her mom’s “open door” policy, and that’s that at least she can hear her coming as well. His knuckles run slowly up and down her back. “There are worse things in life than your mom making you snacks, Ronnie.”

“I know,” she murmurs into his chest. An ‘I’m sorry’ plays on her lips, but she holds it back, nervous of awkward conversations, and almost sure he already knows. He kisses her head, taking a moment to nuzzle into her hair. “J?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Never call me love bug again.” His laughter shakes the bed, and her, and if there was any awkwardness or tension left, it chases it away.

Mindful of her parents in the living room, she makes do with a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek when JD leaves.

“See you at school,” she tells him quietly.

“See you,” he agrees. His eyes move behind her, over Veronica’s shoulder, and he straightens up. “Goodnight, Mrs Sawyer.”

Veronica keeps her eyes on JD has he leaves, mainly because she knows the lecture she’ll get if she catches her in the eyeroll. She only turns around when he’s out the door and down the front path and her mom is back in the kitchen.

“So did you guys have fun?” she asks her once she steps into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle.

“Yeah, studying is so much fun,” she says flatly, running her hand through her hair and stretching her neck out. Her momentary study breaks only distract her so much, but the pressure still weighs down on her and presses against her back.

“Come on, sweetie, you know it’ll all be worth it when it’s over,” her mom says, running a hand up her back.

“So you keep saying,” Veronica sighs, running a hand over her face. She’s heard it said that the more you say something, the more you believe it. She’s wondering if there’s an inverse; the more you hear it said, the less you believe it.

“How’s JD finding Westerberg?” her mom asks, as though it’s October and he just rolled into town. Sometimes his presence is so natural Veronica finds it had to really believe that he ever left.

“Fine, Mom,” she replies.

“He’s still not planning on going to college?”

“Not as far as I know. I don’t think so. I don’t really ask him about it. Where’s the peanut butter?” Her mom hums behind her and doesn’t move when she turns around. She has to skirt around her just to get to the counter, trying not to notice the vacant look in her mom’s eyes, or the way she wrings her hands, or the question sitting on her almost-parted lips. When she’s doesn’t even flinch at the PB&J she’s making herself, that’s when Veronica begrudgingly gives into the ringing alarm bell in her head. “Mom? Still with me?”

“Fine,” she manages, giving her a toothy smile. “You’ve met his foster mom, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. She’s awesome.”

“And he’s happy with her?”

“Yeah. He really likes her.” Veronica straightens up against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest, right where the heavy weight is sitting. She curls her clammy hands into fists. “Mom what’s going on?”

“Why do you think something’s going on?” She crosses her arms too, but she’s not Veronica’s reflection. Her mother is on the defence, and Veronica’s on the offense.

“Because you’re acting… weird,” she answers. “You kind of do a lot whenever JD’s around.

“Don’t use that word,” her mom replies, so sharp that Veronica’s only hurt for a second before she realises how false it is. “Weird.”

“Well that’s what you’re being.” She can’t really work out if it’s a persistent curiosity or frustration at being lied to or genuine worry that’s causing her to push like this. “Why… why do you care so much about JD?”

“Am I allowed to worry about people? I’m a Mom, Ronnie. I can’t help it.”

You’re not his she thinks. Instead of saying it, she keeps her eyes locked on her mother with a laser focus, quietly demanding the truth from her, while she hides behind a titanium shield. Veronica’s hands wrap around her arms, realising she’s locked herself in a battle of wills with one of the people she never thought she’d fight with. She almost wishes she was back making them study snacks. Despite what her mom might think, she doesn’t like fighting with her. But she also doesn’t like her hiding things from her.

When mom bristles under her gaze, she’s not just smiling because she’s winning. She’s breaking because it’s almost over.

“You really want to know?” she asks. Veronica nods stiffly.

“Well…” Mother and daughter both snap, their battle stances collapsing. Veronica lets herself lean against the counter, but her guard doesn’t drop down. There’s still a simmering tension keeping her upright. “You remember back when you and JD were kids? When he lived here?” Veronica nods again. It seems that’s all she can do. “When you told me about him… how he made his own dinner… I got worried.”

Shit.

“Worried?” she echoes.

“Call it parent’s intuition,” she says wearily. “But what you told me rubbed me the wrong way. So I contacted the school. Asked what they knew about his family.”

“You did what?”

“Well I was right, wasn’t I?” she fires back. “The school, turns out, had the same concerns I did. So they contacted a social work team to investigate.” Veronica grabs the countertop as her legs start swaying. Cold sweat trickles down her back. “And then they found out-”

“I know the rest.”

A wave of nausea takes over her and makes her knees buckle as she sees everything set out before her. She tells her mom. Her mom tells the school. Her school tells social workers. And then JD… JD gets taken off his dad and goes through court and tossed around the system before ending up coming back to her.

All because she told her mom.

“Mom…” her voice trails off, unsure of what she’s even accusing her mother of. She doesn’t even know what she’s feeling, just knows there’s a pit in her stomach and a prickling heat on her cheek and a terrifying realisation.

“I’m going to have to tell him,” she says, more to herself than her mom. Her mom takes it anyway and grasps her hand gently.

“You don’t have to,” she assures her. “Why does he need to know?”

“Would you?” she retorts. “If you found out you wrecked Dad’s life, would you tell him?”

“You think you wrecked his life?” Her mom shakes her head and pushes her hair away from her pale face. “Veronica… was he even happy with his father?”

“I don’t think that matters,” she replies. She swallows past the lump in her throat and pushes herself off the counter, stumbling over her weak legs. “I still have to tell him.”

“Veronica?” She stops in the doorway, looking just over her shoulder at her mom’s anxious wide eyes and wringing hands, and that adds another layer of guilt to the wave she’s riding. Her mom tries to smile, but every attempt fails. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Is she? She feels like she should be.

“Depends if he is,” is her answer.

Dear diary,

She runs a hand over her face, the words on the pages almost blurring together after a near-sleepless night. She had a textbook open on the desk and a highlighter uncapped, but she can’t so much as lift it. Her mind is too frazzled to focus on the perfect tense. At least in study hall, she can hide her diary on her lap and people are either too busy or too tired to care.

I have to tell him. I know I do. He has a right to know what happened, how those people found out about his dad.

He knows I’m keeping something from him. And I feel like shit about it. He won’t tell me, but he’s doing all his comforting stuff- kissing my forehead and squeezing my hand and he even hugged me before homeroom. I must look worse than I thought.

I’m telling him. I told him I have to meet him after school. It’s the right thing, if nothing else.

I’m just… scared.

I’ve gotten used to loving him. I’ve gotten used to him maybe loving me. I don’t want to have to get used to him hating me.

I don’t think I could ever get used to that.

He beats her to their garden after school. He’s hunched over a book, his eyes looking at pages that his mind isn’t reading. She knows a pretence when she sees it. She hides behind the doorframe for a second, her heart hammering against her ribs. She thinks that there’s a good chance that all the waiting is going to hurt just as much, if not more, as him leaving her. That’s why she asked him to meet her before she could stop herself, why she’s pushing herself over next to him now. Not knowing is so much worse than knowing.

“Hey,” she greets him, wincing as the words scratch her dry throat.

“Hey,” he replies, looking up at her. He takes her hand and pulls her to sit, her forcing her knees to bend. When he brushes his fingers against her cheek, she pushes his hand away instead.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I guess I’m a little nervous right now.”

“Ronnie-” His voice cracks. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. You know-” He shrugs. “As long as you’re not pregnant or anything.”

The concept is so bizarre and so far away that for a second, she actually allows herself to laugh.

“Wait you’re not pregnant right?” he asks, words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid succession.

“God, no, J, I’m not pregnant,” she sighs, the smile falling from her face as quickly as it had come. She looks down at the clasped hands in her lap, her cold fingers fidgeting and picking at each other. “I just… I found something out.”

“Okay. Hey.” He takes her hand, linking their fingers together, and brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I promise. Whatever it is, we’ll be okay.”

She sighs, letting go of his hand to stroke his face. She knows now what this is, this warm calm she feels around him, how settled she feels in his arms, the butterflies she feels when he kisses her, the way she can never seem to have enough of him. She’s in love. And it’s different from what she’d read before. It’s not Buttercup and Westley or Romeo and Juliet or Elizabeth and Darcy. It’s different and it’s better.

And it’s too good to lose.

“Can I ask you to do something?” she asks. “Try not to hate me?”

“Veronica,” he scoffs, like she’s said something offensive. “I could never.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.” He kisses the inside of her wrist, sealing their deal.

She opens her mouth, tears threatening to build in her eyes.  She wishes she was a worse person so she could keep this from him without a guilty conscience.

“JD… back when you came here the first time… remember when someone called social workers on your dad?”

“Of course I do.”

She takes in a deep breath. She’s looking back on everything they’ve been since the day he came into her homeroom, they day she said hi to him at the lunch table. When she had watched him punch the shit out of Kurt and Ram, when something unlocked in her chest for the first time. If she knew then what he’d become to her, would she have kept quiet? If she had known it would mean keeping him?

“That was my mom.”

“What… what was your mom?”

Don’t make me explain it she thinks. Getting words out is hard enough.

“My mom called the school. And the school called social services on your dad.”

She doesn’t look at him. She hears him though, hears the sharp intake of breath. She knows how tense his body probably is, judging by the way he’s gripping her hand tighter by the second. He’s either holding himself together or one second away from falling apart.

“How did she find out?” he asks.

“I told her. I told her when I got back from your house about you making your own food and that tipped her off and she called the school and- JD, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know until last night and I never meant for you to-”

He kisses her. He kisses her quickly and cups the back of her head, probably to stop her from falling off the bench in shock. She kisses him back, mostly in relief.

“What was that for?” she asks, heat rising in her cheek against his cold hand.

“Kind of to get you to stop babbling,” he teases.

“Remind me to babble more often,” she replies. “JD, I-”

“Don’t,” he whispers. He traces her jawline, pressing his thumb gently to the bottom of her chin. “Veronica, why would you be sorry?”

“Other than the fact that I kind of messed up your life?”

“A lot of people messed up my life,” he tells her. “You could never be one of them.”

“I got you put into foster care,” she reminds him. A small voice in the back of her mind asks her why she’s doing this after he’s just kissed her like that. She thinks she should be holding on tighter, not giving him reasons to go.

“You did,” he agrees. “And it was the best thing to ever happen to me. Look, some parts of foster care suck, but they suck a lot less than they did with my dad. I got happy. You’ve seen me with Claire. I’m happier with her than I ever could be with my dad.” She only realises she was crying when he wipes away the tear on her cheek. He smiles breathlessly at her, shaking his head slightly. “Please don’t ever blame yourself. Getting away from my dad was the best thing to ever happen to me.” He kisses her forehead. “One of them anyway.”

“You mean it?” she asks. Despite the question, she starts playing with his necklaces, her fingers brushing against his skin.

“Definitely,” he says firmly. His smile is wider than she can ever remember seeing it. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

She wraps her arm around his and nuzzles into his shoulder, unsure if she’s weak with relief or it’s just him. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and squeezes tightly, punctuating their walk home with gentle kisses and sweet nothings murmured into her ear.

Him leaving was the best thing for him, no one can deny that. And it worked out for the two of them in the end. The universe, or God, sent him back to her, so she figures she can’t complain, especially not if it meant he was safe, emotionally for physically. If she had known what she knows now, would she have still spilled the beans to her mom about JD’s dad? Absolutely she would have.

Even if she’ll always wonder what would have happened with them if he had stayed.

                                                                                               *****

Days turn into weeks after Veronica’s confession, and JD would say they return to normal, but the truth is that they don’t. They somehow become stronger, like something broke between them. They had never shied away from each other before, but JD swears he can feel a difference in the way they hold each other, the way she lays her head on his chest, even if he can’t quite explain it. Maybe it’s him knowing that she saved him. No, not saved him, there’s danger in language like that, but it’s something like that. Maybe it’s a change in her, in that beautiful mind of hers that he’ll never work out. But it’s wonderful, whatever it is and he won’t question it.  

It brings him closer every day to I love you and while that scares him, there’s something about the fear he actually likes.

“Hey, I’m home,” he announces, one Wednesday afternoon. He frowns, the lack of a TV or radio or phone conversation standing out starkly. “Claire?”

“In the kitchen. Jason can you come in here a second?” He frowns, and the idea of company being over is the first that comes to mind. Very quiet company. He checks himself in the hallway mirror for a second, pushing the dark curls away from his face before straightening up and heading to the kitchen. His first guess is an inspection, and while Claire has nothing to hide, these kinds of things have always given him the heebie-jeebies. Like when a security guard passes you in a store; you know you’ve done nothing wrong, and yet all you can think of is all the bad things you’ve done.

His guess was proven wrong though, since the kitchen is empty bar her, sitting on one of the chairs, back straight, glasses perched on her head and some forms on the table. She’s deliberately not chewing her nails, instead tapping them on the table and her lips rolled into a thin line. He’d probably prefer it if she was chewing them.

“What’s up?” he asks, approaching the table like it’s a ticking bomb. “Claire what’s up, are you-”

Then he sees it.

He sees the document sitting on the table. He sees the agency logo at the top. He sees his name at the top. He sees them and he puts them together, one by one, and the big picture is staring him directly in the face.

“You’re sending me away.”

“What?”

“You’re sending me away.”

He explodes. Things he hasn’t felt in a long, long time come rushing back and the strangest part is there’s a degree of comfort in them. There’s comfort in the rage and the terror, even in all its wild chaos as it tears at his throat and eyes and skin. Maybe there’s a part of him that’s used to it.

“You-you promised!” he screams. “You promised I’m here until graduation everyone promised me that! The first day I was here Aimee said to me, and she said to me before that, she told me I wasn’t leaving until I graduated!”

“I know, Jason, I’m sorry-”

He can’t breathe. His chest is too tight so that it can’t do anything but burn. His thoughts crash over him and drown him and leave him flailing helplessly, trying to grasp for a clear line, but everything moves too quickly and jumps too suddenly. He tries to remember everything he’s learned in therapy, not just now but since he first started going, but they’re half-formed and vague, the voices distorted and garbled. His head aches, fragmented pieces of his mind ricocheting like bullets until something becomes half-clear to him.

“I can change,” he says. His hands curl around the kitchen chair and cling tighter than he’s ever held onto anything. “Claire just tell me what I’m doing wrong and I’ll stop.”

“Jason, you’ve got it all wrong,” she says, her own voice shaking in desperation. Her fingers brush against his strained hand. “Jason… I’ve been getting the paperwork to adopt you.”

His knees his the ground after his hands fall from the chair. He only manages to throw one hand in front of him to stop himself. He takes in huge gulps of air, the tight chord that had been wound around his lungs cut now. All that’s left of the frantic racing of his mind seconds ago is a ringing in his ears.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” she says as she rubs his back.

“You’re doing what?” he asks breathlessly.

“Adopt you,” she replies.

The word adoption has sort of become synonymous with Santa Claus. A far off dream that’s fun to think about, something that little kids talk about with wide smiles and laughter in their voices he can’t bring himself to correct. Something that’s reserved for kids and kids only. He was never lied to and he appreciates it; his chances of being adopted have been slim since he entered the system and dwindled with each passing birthday. The closer he gets to aging out of the system, the less likely someone is to look at him and want him around. He can’t really argue with them-who would want a teenager instead of a cute tiny baby or squealing toddler they can have all the firsts with. All the excitement has gone out of him. Add all his baggage on top of that and he’s a turn-off for perspective adopters.

Well, he thought so anyway.

“Really?” is all he can ask.

“Yes, really,” Claire says, laughing. “I never wanted to do anything without your permission. I mean, I legally can’t. You’re 18 soon anyway.” She hesitates before wiping his face. “Sorry I scared you.”

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” he replies. He shrugs weakly. “I guess I just saw the papers and…” He bites the inside of his cheek. He’s seen similar papers once before, last year, accompanied by the excuse that ‘It’s nothing personal Jason. You’re a lovely boy, just a little too much for us to handle right now’. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, kid.” She sits back, wrapping her arms around her knees. “So what do you say?” She swallows and adjusts her glasses. “I know I’m not your Mom, kid. I know no one can replace her. I just want you to have a home here. With me, if you want it.”

“You’re not kidding?” She shakes her head. He pinches himself under his leg, where she can’t see. He pinches until it can’t hurt more, and he’s still sitting there. Nothing’s changed… so this is real.

He crashes into her, his weight nearly sending them both toppling to the ground, saved only by Claire’s quick thinking. He feels the past five years shaking inside him, the uncertainty that had lurked in the background of his life finally calming.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” He nods against her, nothing but a small, trembling gasp escaping him. Laughing, she hugs him back, somehow enveloping him despite being half his size.

It crosses his mind that he can’t wait to tell Veronica about this. And he will, even if she won’t understand what this all means for him. She can’t, few people can, and that’s more than fine. It’s not lost on him that in some roundabout way, he sort of owes this to her, but at the same time, he and Claire are their own thing. His own… dare he say it, family? Even if she’s not his mom, she’s something close.

He opens his eyes to the same wooden floor he’s trodden over every day for months. Familiar, unextraordinary. Utterly simple. But it’s transformed now. It’s his future now and he’s just as much part of this house now as these floorboards are.

His dad told him years ago that Sherwood Ohio was his new home. And now, five years later, it finally is.

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #5: Will Slater.

Talking mullets and other manes with the man behind the internet’s definitive ‘exploding helicopters in movies’ catalog.

“Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment.”

A London-based PR man by day, by night Will Slater has a thing (and a podcast, blog and Twitter account) for movies that feature exploding helicopters. According to his Letterboxd bio, it’s “the world’s only podcast and blog dedicated to celebrating the art of exploding helicopters in films… as well as shaming those directors who dishonor the helicopter explosion genre”. As Will tells Jack Moulton, he also loves film noir, Wakaliwood, masala movies and much more. Just don’t get him started on the one action movie cliché that never fails to disappoint.

Sylvester Stallone takes aim in ‘Rambo III�� (1988).

First things first, have you ever had a ride in a helicopter? Will Slater: What, do you think I’m mad? Of course I’ve never flown in a helicopter! If I’ve learned anything from watching hundreds of films where helicopters spectacularly explode, it’s that they are a singularly dangerous form of transport. You never know when Sylvester Stallone is going to pop up with an explosive-tipped arrow and blow you out of the sky.

I’m going to say the words ‘the definitive action hero/heroine’. Who pops into your head first? No runners-up. Go. Snake Plissken, no question, for a number of good reasons. First, there’s the look: that eye-patch, the beaten-to-hell leather jacket and Kurt Russell’s lustrous mane of hair. Second, there’s the attitude: his contempt for authority, the drawled sarcasm and all-round bad-assery. And I also like that he doesn’t have any special abilities. Action heroes generally tend to be either musclebound slabs of beef—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Stallone—or martial arts specialists—Jean-Claude van Damme, Jackie Chan—Plissken is just a pissed-off, angry dude who’s trying to stay alive. He’s very relatable. Plus, I’d argue he pretty much invented the whole anti-hero formula that rules our screens today.

Kurt Russell as Snake Plissken in John Carpenter’s ‘Escape from New York’ (1981).

When did you start your podcast and which film got you into looking deeper into the topic? It was while watching the cheesily bad Cyborg Cop that I first had an epiphany about the weird and wonderful ways in which helicopters seemed to continually explode in movies. But the film that convinced me to start documenting the phenomenon was Stone Cold. If you’re not familiar with the film, it was an attempt to turn former gridiron star and mullet-king Brian Bosworth into the next big action star. It goes without saying that Stone Cold did not transform ‘The Boz’ into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the film wasn’t a total failure as it features a helicopter explosion that is as brilliant as it is gloriously stupid.

And that was the prompt to start the Exploding Helicopter. I launched the website in 2009, and the podcast followed 2015. Since we started, our aim has been a simple one: to celebrate the strange and inventive ways that helicopters explode in films.

Motorcycle crashes into helicopter in mid-air, ‘Stone Cold’ (1991).

When did you join Letterboxd? What are your favorite features here? I’ve been around since 2013. As for the features, the stats are very cool. When you dig into your viewing history, you can learn some very revealing things about yourself. For example, I generally like to think I have a commendably broad taste in film, and watch only the most important and influential works from every decade, genre and country. But then you look at the data and find you’ve watched Thunderball nine times in the last five years, so maybe you’re not as cool as you thought.

We noticed that your profile faves are low-key and explosion-free, given your theme of choice. Why these four and not Die Hard four times? Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment, between watching whirlybird conflagrations. There’s a little bit of nostalgia tied up in The Ipcress File. I first saw it as a kid, and it made a big impression on me. It’s very stylishly directed, has a great John Barry score and a star-making turn from Michael Caine. I’m a big film noir fan and Sweet Smell Of Success is a beautifully sour tale of cynicism and manipulation. To borrow the words of Burt Lancaster in the film, it’s a “cookie full of arsenic”.

Jean-Pierre Melville is my favorite director and Le Samouraï was the first of his films that I saw. What Melville does so masterfully in this, and his other crime films, is distil the elements of film noir. Basically, he takes the genre’s iconography—the gun, the trenchcoat, the fedora—and familiar plot tropes—the betrayed assassin, the heist gone wrong, the criminal doing one last job—then elevates them above cliché into something almost mythic. And what do I really need to say about Taxi Driver, other than it’s a masterpiece?

Now you say you shame directors who dishonor the art of helicopter explosions? Which directors did you dirty? Well, one of the biggest names in our hall of shame is Tony Scott. For a man who specialized in hyper-stylized, pyrotechnic-filled action movies, he flunked every helicopter explosion he filmed. In our eyes, one of the most egregious offences you can commit is failing to show the helicopter explosion. And in both Spy Game and Domino, old Tony cheats the viewer by having the chopper fly out of sight before it explodes. Now, I can accept such visual chicanery in a low-budget film, where they presumably don’t have the money to stage the scene, but what’s Tony’s excuse? If you look at his filmography, at one time or another he’s wrecked trains, planes and automobiles in spectacular fashion. But for some reason, he repeatedly couldn’t be bothered to give us a satisfying chopper conflagration. At a certain point, it starts to feel like a personal slight. Tony, what did I ever do to you?

In your immortal words, “a film is always improved by a helicopter explosion.” When has this been especially true? When you see lists of worst-ever directors, Uwe Boll is a name that always seems to turn up. And, according to the internet, one of his worst-ever films is the video game adaptation, Far Cry. Now, I’m not going to try [to] convince you that the film is a neglected classic, but it does have a very imaginatively staged exploding helicopter scene. It’s too convoluted to explain here, but take my word that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Fast and Furious movie.

What about the unsung heroes; the stunt artists, the pilots, the pyrotechnicians, the VFX wizards who have worked on numerous iconic action moments, all of whom deserve a shoutout? Personally, I don’t understand why the Academy doesn’t have a stunts category. But if they did, I’d be lobbying hard for Spiro Razatos to get the first award. These days, he works as a stunt coordinator on the Fast and Furious and Marvel films, but I’d like to draw people’s attention to some of his early work. Back in the nineties, he did a lot of work with PM Entertainment films, an independent company that made low-budget action films for the home video market.

They might not have had much money, but they put every cent on the screen with glorious, raucously inventive set pieces that were often more spectacular than big-budget Hollywood offerings. And remember: this was in pre-CGI times, so every death-defying detail was absolutely ‘real’. Go back and watch films like The Sweeper or Rage, and you’ll can see why Super Spiro has now graduated to these more prestigious gigs.

Narrow this list down for us: which is the ultimate most spine-tingly epic “we got company” movie moment? As you may have gathered, I do like an action movie cliché. When you encounter one in a film, it’s like meeting an old friend. And one of my favorites is when someone uses this classic line of dialog to signal that a car chase or a gun battle is about to start. I’ve heard people deliver the line in all sorts of ways–funny, scared, angrily and often just badly. But if you want spine-tingly, then you can’t beat Harrison Ford in Star Wars. He drops the line during the detention-block scene after failing to bluff an imperial officer. As soon as he says it, John Williams’ iconic score kicks in. It gives you the ‘feels’ every time.

“Boring conversation anyway.” Han Solo and Chewbacca in ‘Star Wars’ (1977).

And which action movie cliché can you simply not stand? Stop it: my hackles are raising just thinking about it. For me, the trope that never fails to disappoint is the ‘reluctant’ hero being convinced to take up arms and join the fight. You know the scene. Invariably, the hero has hung up their spurs and is living a bucolic existence ‘off the grid’, when a gruff buddy shows up asking them to risk almost certain death by taking on ‘one last job’. Now, dialog is rarely an action film’s greatest strength, and these beefcake actors generally are not cast for their dramatic chops. Which means we get subjected to the same perfunctory and uninteresting scene over and over again: “I told you, I’m out the game”, “Goddamnit, we need you”, “OK, I’ll do it”. These scenes just never work and are never less than painful to watch.

Which up-and-coming action director are you most excited about? In terms of up-and-coming action talent, I’d pick the director Stefano Sollima. I first noticed his work on a couple of TV series: the fantastic Italian crime dramas, Romanzo Criminale and Gomorrah. The way he composed shots really stood out, and it was clear he had a very cinematic eye. He rather reminds me of Michael Mann. He’s now on Hollywood’s radar and got to direct Sicario: Day of the Soldado the other year. And he’s lined up to make a Tom Clancy adaptation with Michael B. Jordan. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

Have you witnessed the glory that is Wakaliwood—Ugandan DIY action filmmaking—three of which make Letterboxd’s official top ten films by black directors? Which international films do you feel out-match Hollywood? I love the Wakaliwood films I’ve seen. It’s fascinating to watch action films from around the world and see their different styles and flavors. Recently, I’ve been trying to investigate Indian cinema and, in particular, what are known as ‘masala movies’. These mix action, comedy, drama, romance and dance numbers into one big, crazy, entertaining mess. They’re a unique experience. If you want to check one out, I’d suggest Dhoom 2. It’s bananas.

Can you believe there are only two female directors represented in your exploding helicopter list? Do you believe that’s due to systemic or thematic reasons? You have to say it’s systemic. Men have dominated filmmaking for more than a century. Until women have the same opportunities to direct and make films as men, it’s impossible to know what their interest may or may not be in blowing up helicopters. [Will has previously written about the search for “true gender equality in the world of exploding helicopters”.]

To address the elephant in the room, how has Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate death earlier this year changed the way you look at these scenes? Obviously, I appreciate that Kobe Bryant’s death was very shocking and a tragedy for his family and fans. But basketball really is not a thing on these grim shores, so it didn’t register with us unenlightened Brits other than [as] a sad headline about a US sports star.

What was your most anticipated movie event of 2020 before Covid-19 pushed every tentpole back? That’s easy: No Time To Die. I’m a huge Bond fan and as soon as tickets were available, I booked myself in to see it on opening day at an IMAX. But if the Daniel Craig era is synonymous with anything, it’s lengthy delays between films.

Freerunner Sébastien Foucan in the opening scene from ‘Casino Royale’ (2006).

What’s a fond memory you have in theaters related to the Bond franchise? I remember going to see Casino Royale. I was excited, but also nervous to see it. The Brosnan era had ended with the risible Die Another Day: invisible cars, kitesurfing and, worst of all, John Cleese’s awful Q. Since that had come out, we’d had Mission: Impossible, Bourne and the Triple X films, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Bond might be finished. Then the first ten minutes of Casino Royale happened. And while that outstanding parkour-inspired chase was terrifically exciting, it also hit me like cinematic Valium. I suddenly realised I could sit back and relax, safe in the knowledge that 007 was going to be just fine.

Are you planning on returning to theaters as soon as you can? When would you feel comfortable? I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. I’d love to see films back on the big screen again, but I want to know more about how cinemas are going to maintain social distancing inside.

Finally, what three Letterboxd accounts should we all be following? Why not give Todd Gaines, Jayson Kennedy or Fred Andersson a follow? If you’re interested in genre films that are a little off the beaten trail, they’ll likely all steer you towards some hidden gems.

[thelostnymphaeum]

I'm with you 'til the end of the line.

Entry: 004

// Cinema //

Marvel Cinematic Universe

MARVEL MANIA

Superhero movies were not my thing. The only superhero movie I have watched as a kid was Spiderman. I am not into sci-fi or superhero movies albeit being a huge fan of cinema. But during this quarantine, I decided to experiment with my taste and try to indulge in a new set of genre – the Marvel Cinematic Universe. These movies were a far cry from films that are to my liking, such as “Brooklyn” and “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”. I used to find superhero movies corny or cheesy, because they were not based on real people and I fancy movies that tackle the inner spectrum of humanity. Additionally, I used to think that actors who choose to be in these movies are not “real actors” because portraying a superhero does not really seem to me as a role where you have to internalize the character. I was probably the only person in my class who did not cry when someone said “I love you, 3000” after the Endgame came out, and the only one who did not get the “Wakanda forever” reference. That changed because yester night, I finally finished the entire MCU. I came in with a viewing guide from my friends and I came out feeling like I just had a whole cultural experience.

THE AVENGERS

I like all of them. Except maybe the Captains. I don’t like Captain America. I understand that he’s supposed to be the poster boy of “superheroes” where he’s all righteous, courageous, virtuous and kind to everyone – but that does not seem realistic at all. His character just seemed predictable and bland for me. Maybe that’s why I prefer Tony Stark, he is more dimensional. He is someone who is unapologetic, makes mistakes, smart, arrogant; but his heart will always come from a good place. During battles, it’s always Tony Stark who is thinking of ways to end them (like how to diffuse Ultron at Sokovia) so I feel as if it’s him that should be leading them. Captain America only lead them because he was born in 1918 (just kidding, don’t eat me Steve Rogers stans).  He also looks way too good. It’s unreal. What a knucklehead (Loki will agree with me on this). Jk. Anyways, he earned plus points from me when he returned the infinity stones successfully. As for Captain Marvel, I don’t think I need to explain why I find her insufferable. 

A little piece about Spiderman. I like this reboot of Spiderman, and Tom Holland deserves all the hype he got because he worked so hard for his movies. No one can beat Tobey Maguire of course, but we are all just glad that Tom did not ruin Spiderman for us. The only thing I did not like about his reboot was that he relied too much on Mr. Stark. Tobey’s Spiderman never relied on anyone, he was just his own superhero. But for the sake of integrating him into the MCU, I guess that they have make this fun and fresh Peter Parker juvenile in order to be able to develop his character more. So I think I’ll give it a pass.

I personally like the Thor films the best. Because it was based on Norse mythology. Because of Loki. Because Anthony Hopkins is in it. I dislike the Captain Marvel movie the most.

ENDGAME THOUGHTS. We did not need Captain Marvel. Thor did not deserve to become a drunkard and a greasehead – he’s a freaking Norse God! Why was Pepper Potts at the final battle against Thanos? Thank you, Doctor Strange. Tony was genuinely and undeniably- the heart of the Avengers.

SCORSESE, COPPOLA & PEWDIEPIE

Along with its colossal popularity, the MCU movies have also acquired prominent detractors. Prior to watching the entire MCU, I would have probably agreed with Scorsese, Coppola and Felix (here is his “controversial” video on “I don’t like Marvel movies”).

“Honestly, the closest I can think of them, as well made as they are, with actors doing the best they can under the circumstances, is theme parks. It isn’t the cinema of human beings trying to convey emotional, psychological experiences to another human being.” – Martin Scorsese

"Martin was kind when he said it's not cinema. He didn't say it's despicable, which I just say it is." – Francis Ford Coppola

Parts of it are true, on the basis where the entire plot lines are predictable and it’s not the kind of cinema I learned to love as well. Marvel movies usually follow the same backbone. This is a huge reason why some cinephiles don’t like them, because the mystery is gone and it’s all obvious. After watching all of them in a 3-week streak, I could pretty much sum up the Marvel movie plot line into this:

The protagonist is in a helpless or vulnerable position.

The protagonist meets someone who can help them.

The protagonist works hard to get to his pre-final form and along with it, learns to fight in the name of eradicating the bad guys. 

The protagonist finds out that her/his master is not all-good.

Chaos but then they forgive and understand the master.

2-3 battle fights, the last one is usually the peak battle where we see the protagonist in final form.

I like movies that tackle more about realism. I like seeing actors play roles that depict humanity as humans. I’m not a huge fan of special effects or super powers either. When Scorsese said that they are “not cinema”,  I understood it because there are no intricacies or space for a different form of expression when you’re doing mega franchise films that are meant to sell to the general public. Which brings me to another point, that MCU is largely a business profit. These movies are made by mega corporations in the film industry, and it might also hinder other smaller filmmakers from showing their films if a titanic franchise is showing on the same week as theirs. Comic book fans are enormous in numbers which is why there is such a huge following for these movies even if they use the same plot lines all throughout. Humans are slaves for nostalgia, and people like to see the characters they have read and admired during their childhood come to life. Because of that, these corporations will try to capitalize on that and make more movies for as long as they can, and in a sense, you can see that they might be doing it only for the sake of money and not of art any longer. This is what the disparagers would say; that there is very little artistic values to these films because they are made to be sold, not appreciated for its artistry. 

“Many of our grandfathers thought all gangster movies were the same, often calling them “despicable”. Some of our great grandfathers thought the same of westerns, and believed the films of John Ford, Sam Peckinpah, and Sergio Leone were all exactly the same. I remember a great uncle to whom I was raving about Star Wars. He responded by saying, “I saw that when it was called 2001, and, boy, was it boring!” Superheroes are simply today’s gangsters/cowboys/outer space adventurers. Some superhero films are awful, some are beautiful. Like westerns and gangster movies (and before that, just MOVIES), not everyone will be able to appreciate them, even some geniuses. And that’s okay.” – James Gunn, Guardians of the Galaxy Director

Here’s my two cents on this whole hullabaloo. Art is expressed in different ways. Just because something is popular does not mean that you should hate it or feel as if it lacks creative value. For one, I think that if the Norsemen would see the Thor films, their jaws would drop. Art in these movies is seen through the elaborate special effects and costumes. A lot of people work behind the scenes to make this kind of art form. They are not any less of an artist. The effects are wonderful, amazing and beautiful. Sure, they don’t have meandering plot lines or mysteries that are meant to make you think. But they are able to show art in a way that is along with the times, showing the capabilities of what computer generated imagery could be. It gives us the fantasy that otherwise would not be achievable in real life (for all I care, my favorite scenes are seeing Spiderman glide across the buildings of New York).

These movies are intended for children and teenagers (adults are there for the sake of nostalgia or lighthearted entertainment, I guess?). For kids, it inspires them that they can be anything they want to be. For teenagers, it might be a good footing for their moral compasses. For me, it just inspired me to get fit (hehe). My point is, these movies are made to cater to a particular type of audience, and the others are there just for the spectacle. If all the movies were Scorsese or Coppola, what would the kids watch in the theaters? Kids would not understand “Taxi Driver” nor would be a good foundation for their morals. It was a classic and it deserves the reputation it has, but after only a certain age will you be able to appreciate it, and only if you had a particular knack for appreciating films. MCU movies are made for people who just want to have a good time; you don’t have to like high-brow or art-house movies to understand it, and that’s all there is to it. It’s made for entertainment, what’s so wrong with that?

And the actors – a lot of them played the characters so well which made me realize that taking on a superhero role does not lessen your credibility as an actor. My particular favorites are Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Scarlett Johansson, Tom Holland, Mark Ruffalo and Robert Downey Jr. (bonus points for Anthony Hopkins, his range, man, his range). They were able to bring their roles to life in such a distinct way that it would be hard to never associate them as superheroes, which of course, is a double-edged sword. As a starting actor, that could be a bubble that is hard to get out of. For example, Tom Holland as Spiderman; people will always associate him as that, and how many of you has actually seen the movies he has done aside from MCU? It might be hard for him to bridge his career from being a huge franchise film protagonist into doing films to his own preference. MCU movies make the popularity and the money; indie films – not as much. 

I don’t think that the existence of MCU is throwing away the spotlight from smaller filmmakers. Because back then, I simply chose not to see MCU movies because I was not interested. People will find ways to support art that they like, and just because MCU existed, it did not hinder me from looking for movies that I like. The cinema is made by individuals who like to create movies. There are different ways to express them. There are different subscribers to different genres. To each their own. But then again, I am not working in the film industry, so I can’t speak for them, I can only say what it’s like for a movie buff like me.

These are the movies that make up people’s childhood. These are characters that gives reason for people to bond together. When Tony died, the entire world felt like they lost a father. If it’s able to touch lives as much as any other film, why should we discriminate against it? Love is love, after all.

[detectivejigsawpines]

Hideous Creatures-part 8 (Showdown)

Surprisingly, Stan was late in showing up at the glen the next morning.  And his cart was missing.

At once Ford was suspicious-he knew his twin far too well to think he was throwing in the towel and surrendering the bet, so he was definitely up to something.

He was about to go looking for his brother, when a new crowd of tourists began filtering through the trees-even bigger than the ones that had come in the last two days.

Maybe this was his plan-to try to overwhelm me by making me deal with all of them at once.  Nice try, Stanley.

Ford cleared his throat, and drew himself up to his full height like he had when giving presentations in school.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Tours of Mystery!  I’ll be your host today-”

Before he could continue, his eardrums were nearly imploded by the blare of a horn.

Ford whirled around in time to see Stan come roaring into place in his cart.

Which was now covered in bright red, glittery paint, and had a sign reading “MYSTERY TOURS (™)” on the roof that was decorated with bright, flashing neon lights until it looked like a traveling carnival wagon.

Stan himself was wearing the same suit and fez as usual, but his tie was the same shade of red as the carts, and it looked like some glitter might have gotten splashed on the suit as well.  And as he screeched to a halt and leaped out, grinning widely and lifting his arms (which somehow earned him a chorus of cheers from the crowd), Ford noticed that his eyes, though wide and smiling like normal, were also somewhat bloodshot and manic-looking, like he hadn’t gotten anywhere near enough sleep and was trying to make up for it with an overdose of caffeine.

...Not that Ford knew about that from personal experience or anything.

“Howdy, folks!” Stan boomed.  “Sorry I’m late, I was getting a few extra things set up for the tour of your lives!  I’m your other host, Mr. Mystery, here ta show you befuddlements and wonders the likes of which your kinds have never seen before!”

Ford saw one of his hands twitch, and a few seconds later actual fireworks came bursting from the back of the cart, exploding in the air above them.

The crowd loved it.  Ford didn’t.

In fact, he decided he’d finally had it.

“Really, Stanley?!” he demanded over the cheering.  “You’re trying to upstage me?”

“Seems like I’m not just trying,” Stan retorted, folding his arms and grinning.  “Face it, Poindexter-I’m better at gaining a crowd’s interest than you are.”

Ford scoffed.  “Wow. I’m surprised that you didn’t do something like steal my keys or slash my tires, if you’re sinking low enough to try to sab-”

As soon as the last part left his lips, he realized that that was going too far.  His words screeched to a halt.

“No, I-I didn’t mean that-”

****

There was no finesse or grace to this next part.  In fact, it mostly consisted of them scuffling and shoving each other in the dirt, similar to when they were little and had gotten into one of their rare arguments that was bad enough to devolve into fighting.

Many of the tourists stared at them in confusion...but several loved it.

“Whoa, humans fighting!” exclaimed a new figure in a black hoodie who also may or may not have been a vampire, pushing through the crowd to watch in delight.

“I gotta preserve this for the kids!”  An unusually hairy guy pulled out a video camera and pointed it at the fighting brothers.

“My money’s on the bigger one!”

“Nah, the one with the extra fingers!  That probably gives him an advantage!”

Oblivious to all this, the brothers wrestled back and forth, one of them enraged beyond words, the other trying ineffectively to placate him.

“Stanley-stop-I wasn’t-”

“The heck you weren’t!”  Stan wrestled Ford to the ground, pinning him by the shoulders.  “You think I’d do that ta you again?  Just because I’m not gonna let you take this away from me doesn’t mean I’m gonna stoop that low!”

Something about the way he said that made Ford tilt his head and frown at him.

“...Take this away?”

Stanley’s rage dissipated a little bit, and his eyes darted to the side.

“N-Nothin’.  You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, not if you don’t tell me.”  Ford managed to extricate himself without any struggle on his brother’s part, and sit up, expression open and inviting.

Stan bit his lip, before finally saying, “...I’m just tryna pull my own weight, okay?  I’m tryna make sure I’m not leeching off you, and this job is the first thing I’ve found that I was really good at.  Something that made real money, where my skills as a liar and cheater were good for somethin’.  These people like what I’m selling, and they keep coming back for more, and it’s not even really illegal stuff for the most part, and it’s-it’s fun.  And you just-all you see is a waste of time ta be gotten rid of.”  He sat back, hugging himself uncomfortably.

After a second of processing all this, Ford murmured, “I thought you viewed this whole tours thing as just another con.  I didn’t know you felt that way about it.”

Stan snorted.  “Yeah, obviously.”  Then, with less venom, “But it’s not like I told you.”

“That’s not the point; I should have been able to see it from how much you were enjoying it.”  Ford scooted around until Stan was more or less looking at him. “And you’re not leeching off me at all, Stanley-how can you say that?  You’ve provided me with more samples of unicorn hair and gnome hair and stuff than I know what to do with! I would never have even gotten unicorn hair if you hadn’t set up your business with them-not to mention you’ve been bringing home actual gold!  You haven’t been just pulling your weight-you’ve been surpassing me in doing so.”

Stan shrugged a little, but he did look somewhat pacified at the reminder of the gold.

“Sorry about...gettin’ all annoyed when you tried ta correct me about stuff.  I know you like it when people have the facts. I just don’t feel like a lot of these jokers are ready for them, ya know?”

“...Yes, you might be right,” Ford admitted.

“Eh, it happens once in a blue moon.”

They smiled a little at each other.

“...So, are we gonna have tours now or what?” yelled a creature that appeared to be a mix between a bear and an owl standing at the edge of the crowd.  Several cryptids grumbled in disappointment about the fighting having stopped; another, which looked like a giant bird with the face of an old woman, wiped her eyes on her wing and sniffled, “Reconciliations are so beautiful!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your fur on!” Stan called back to the owlbear, before getting to his feet and offering Ford a hand up.

Both of them were scraped and bruised, and their clothes and hair were covered in grass and dirt.  But Stan went and retrieved his fez, and Ford cleaned off his glasses (thanking heaven that they hadn’t been broken in the fight), and they began organizing who went into which cart.

****

After the tours were done for the day, they brought their profits back home, and found Dan sitting on their front porch.

He looked at their disheveled appearances with a raised eyebrow, before finally asking, “...What happened?”

“Accident,” Ford said, at the same moment that Stan said, “Beavers.  Giant meat-eating beavers.”

Dan gave an amused grin as he stood up.

“Knowing what this town’s like, I could almost believe that.”  He chuckled as they stalked past him inside.  “Told ya to fix your issues the manly way.”

The barrels, when they poured the profits into them, were both overflowing.

“...Does that mean we both win, or we both lose?” Stan asked.

“Yes,” Ford said, catching a few gold coins before they could fall to the floor.  “So I guess that means we need to come up with a compromise.”

He went on, “I guess the tours can stay.”

“Yes!”  Stan punched the air in delight.

“We may need to work out a few extra details later, but yes.  They can stay. In the meantime, I believe there were other aspects to the wager…”

The jubilation faded from his brother at once.  “Yeah, about that-”

He rushed for the stairs.

“STANLEY!!”

****

Later

The omelette felt like it was doing weird things to Ford’s tongue; when he finished he’d have to check in the mirror to see if it had been turned to plaid.  With a grimace he added more salt and pepper to see if that would make the flavor any better.

Stan came into the kitchen and headed for the fridge, pulling out a can of Pitt.

“How’d it go?” Ford asked after swallowing his mouthful.

Stan shrugged.  “Fine.”

“...Just fine?  What did he say?”

“Not much.”

“What did you say?”

“...Not much.”

Ford glared at his back.  “You hung up after asking to speak to him, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly…”  Stan said innocently.

Ford groaned.  “What did you say to him?”

Stan popped the tab on the soda.  “Pretended to be a telemarketer, and he hung up.”

“Stan-!”

“Hey, you never said anything about me needing ta tell him who I was.”  He smirked, and left the kitchen.

Ford rolled his eyes, and finally dumped the rest of the omelette in the trash, figuring if Stan was only going to half keep his side of the deal then he was too.

It wasn’t even that he wanted Stan to try to reconcile with Pa, or be accepted by him again, he mused to himself.  Having learned more about what his brother had gone through since being kicked out, he certainly didn’t feel like having a friendly conversation with their father anytime soon; and besides, Pa seemed to have no regrets whatsoever about getting rid of his own son.  But…

But it felt like Stan should try to find some kind of closure with him.  Even if it was just to tell him to go to hell.

Ford sighed, and washed his dishes in the sink.  And then turned his mind to more light-hearted matters, such as figuring out what new attractions to show the supernatural visitors to Gravity Falls.

********

Since Ford needs some days off to do his research, Stan ends up being the one in charge of most of the tours, with Dan sometimes pitching in too. He also sets up a gift shop in the forest that sells things like abandoned car keys, light switches, and other human stuff that in this context is absolutely useless but that the supernatural creatures go ga-ga over.

Ford, when he has time to spare, gives classes to monsters who are interested in learning more about human stuff-and he even has to teach some monsters basic skills such as reading and writing, and how to read human signs, which decreases the amount of supernatural roadkill in the area by 50%. He makes more of the brochures, and Stan starts handing them out during his tours too. They're able to make quite a decent profit off their business, and if people in town ask Stan where he and his brother get their money from (after he takes some of the gold to the city and sells it) he says that they had a rich uncle who left them a large inheritance as long as they continue living in Gravity Falls.

It's funny how effective lies are as long as there's a grain of truth to them. Because after all, they're unlikely to get paid for things in gold and jewels anywhere else.

[chiseler]

The Madness of Ken Russell

Critical thinking in Britain has always taken the view that Ken Russell was a wild, ill-disciplined talent who ultimately went artistically mad: this was also the view in the film industry. The only major disagreement was about when he went from being merely excessive to being balls-out crazy: different parties chose different tipping points.

(WAIT! WHO CARES ABOUT CRITICS?)

(Bear with me: in Russell’s case, the critical consensus serves as a valuable reverse barometer.)

Russell, a suburban boy, former merchant seaman and Catholic convert, made a few brilliant short films with his wife and fellow genius, costume designer Shirley Russell, before landing a job at the BBC’s flagship arts program, Monitor. His stint here taught him to fight, and placed him under the stern patronage of producer Huw Weldon, probably the only authority figure he ever respected. Many good fights were enjoyed. When Russell joined the program, there was an absolute ban on dramatization and re-enactment: the most he was allowed was to show a composer’s hands at the piano. By the time he finished up on the show, he’d managed to twist it out of shape to the point where he’d been allowed to make complete dramatic works in the guise of documentary. These TV plays are highly cinematic, kinetic and bold: like Kubrick, Russell had a love of both stark symmetry and dynamic movement. Control and its opposite.

Russell found actors he liked, including Oliver Reed, with whom he enjoyed a strange kinship: both were heavy drinkers, both affected a casual attitude to their work, though Russell was never ashamed to call himself an artist. Ollie became the John Wayne to Russell’s Ford (in a roiling, nightmare vision of classical cinema).

The point when Russell moved out of TV is the first moment his detractors choose to mark his decline into self-indulgent craziness. He made a modest, eccentric comedy, French Dressing (with mounds of inflatable girls piled up like Holocaust victims) and a wild, idiosyncratic spy movie, The Billion Dollar Brain, a Russophile anti-Bond movie full of flip humor and Eisenstein homages. Critics saw these films as work-for-hire, as perhaps they were, and largely discount them. They are quite brilliant.

Women in Love is counted by others as the last pre-madness film, and its relative sanity can be attributed to the control exerted by its writer-producer Larry Kramer. Russell’s excesses are held in check, it is argued, and the tension between its creators was productive. It’s a very good film, but I find it too sedate in places, though the vivid color and Shirley Russell’s bold designs, and some scenes of genuine wildness and invention stave off actual boredom.

The Music Lovers, his dream project, expanding the TV composer film to the big screen and color, is where a real case for craziness begins to be made: the choice to explore Tchaikovsky’s homosexuality now seems mature rather than lurid, but Ken is undeniably pushing the biopic into unfamiliar terrain: fantasies of decapitation by cannon-shot, a filthy madhouse, a demented honeymoon on a train rocking like the Starship Enterprise, complete with crotch shots. Maybe even worse, from the critics’ viewpoint, Russell, who had directed one TV commercial before walking away from that business in disgust, co-opted the visual language of the shampoo commercial to depict the images conjured by the composer’s music. Russell was in love with romanticism but saw through it too. Ironically, the filmmaker constantly castigated for unsubtlety injected an irony into the film that critics missed, taking the soppiness at face value and not seeing how the concealed satire blended perfectly with the overt caricature and phantasmagoric visions.

Still, the subject was respectable, but with The Devils, Russell managed a film maudit that took decades to be reappraised, and earned him criticism of a uniquely vociferous sort, admittedly in keeping with the hysteria of the film itself. An account – or channelling – of a 16th Century witchcraft trial in France, the movie didn’t so much push as cremate the envelope as far as sex, violence and blasphemy were concerned: Russell, who had converted to Catholicism in his youth, lost his faith while making this one, converting to an animist worship of the Lake District, a religion of his own devising. Well, he did have a substantial ego.

Russell was upsetting: apart from the torture, abuse and madness, the film threw in discordant tonal shifts, creative anachronisms and deployed all of his cinematic influences, which prominently featured Orson Welles, Fellini, Fritz Lang’s German silents, and the musicals of Busby Berkeley, which supplied the top-shots used to depict the rape of Christ on the cross, a scene cut by the censor and lovingly preserved by the director for a future restoration, still explicitly forbidden by the film’s backers, Warner Brothers.

Asides from his crisis of faith and crises in his marriage and his dealings with the studio, Russell was also knocking back the wine. “Better before lunch,” was his prop man’s characterization of the director. Production designer Derek Jarman recounted Russell asking him, “What can I do that’ll really offend the British public?” “Well you could kill a lot of people,” mused Jarman, “but if you really want to upset them you could kill some animals.” A plan was then devised to have King Louis with a musket blowing the heads off the peacocks on his lawn: the birds were to be fitted with explosives at the neck, like Snake Plissken, but Russell backed away from this extreme, even by his standards, approach, and instead had the target practice performed with a man dressed as a blackbird, and the King saying “Bye-bye, blackbird,” and Peter Maxwell-Davies’ remarkable score quoting the popular twenties song, and that infuriated the critics just as much as actual bird-blasting would have.

Less amusingly, Russell was also guilty of unsafe practices involving the naked girls and rowdy extras: the stories here get really dark. As does the film: a demented masterpiece that shows Russell for once engaging with the political: a film about corruption that uses physical disintegration alongside social and spiritual rot.

Just to confuse us even more, Russell made The Boy Friend the same year, an epic music and a miniature at the same time, allowing him to recreate Busby Berkeley’s pixilated fantasias in a seedy English theater. It’s light and charming, but Russell’s version of these qualities was not recognized by the critics, and it’s true that his wit is clodhopping, his whimsy grotesque, everything is overplayed, in your face: but you have to climb aboard the film, get into its spirit, and then it really is a very lovely reversal of the usual nightmare.

The seventies brought more composer films, Mahler and Lisztomania, and also the rock opera Tommy, which earned Russell slightly better reviews as his boisterousness was judged more in keeping with the material (critics, it seemed, could not stand the idea of a filmmaker responding to classical music for its passion and energy, its rock ‘n’ roll qualities, rather than for its assumed civilising effect). Russell got away with showing Ann-Margret humping her cushions while slathered in feculent chocolate sauce, shot Tina Turner with a 6mm lens to uglify her as she thrashed around a steel sarcophagus studded with hypos, and put Elton John on ten-foot platform shoes.

Lisztomania is another movie that’s seen as marking the decline into lunacy: its producer, David Puttnam, hugely impressed by Russell’s flare and his ability to shoot Mahler after half the budget fell through, felt that ultimately the relentless negative press knocked his enfant terrible off-balance. Instead of rolling over in submission, Russell perversely doubled down on the excess and became a parody of himself. And he had already been a parody to begin with (but a parody without an original, unless we take him as a combined burlesque of all his cinematic influences). I’ve always adored Lisztomania, which knows it’s going too far, knows its japes and conceits are ludicrous and indefensible, knows it can’t get away with Roger Daltrey as Liszt and Ringo Starr as the Pope. And just. Doesn’t. Care.

Valentino, which marked the end of the Russell marriage (there would be a bunch more), was dismissed by Russell as the fag-end of his first British period, “everything about it was bored and boring, including me,” but it’s actually rather good. Nureyev as Valentino (well, he was used to being called Rudolph), Russell as Rex Ingram wielding a megaphone the size of a cannon. The twenties, as lived by Rambova, Dorothy Arzner, Fatty Arbuckle, or as dreamt by Mad Ken.

Russell had made his career in Britain at a time when the industry was in collapse: he largely missed the explosion of energy that marked Swinging London, the British new wave, and the only kitchen sink he liked was the one he was always throwing in. Now, the domestic business seemed to have expired of ennui, senile dementia and blood poisoning, but Hollywood beckoned. Russell was bottom of a long list of directors who all turned down Paddy Chayefsky’s Altered States, a late-mid-life crisis film about sensory deprivation tanks and psychedelics which takes John C. Lilley and fuses him with Dr. Jekyll. Russell took it on despite being forbidden from changing a line of dialogue, but got his revenge by having his actors speak fast -- like Jimmy Cagney fast, not so much throwing away their lines as firing them like tennis balls. And by having them eat at the same time. And by expanding the hallucination sequences until they took over the movie, so that they were all anyone talked about. Druggie audiences would hang out into the lobby, Russell gleefully reported, posting a sentry in the auditorium who would yell “Hallucination!” whenever one was starting, and everyone would rush back in to get a hit of audiovisual delirium.

A bit like Women in Love, Altered States benefited from the creative clash between director and writer (who took his name off the script in protest at Russell’s backhanded fidelity), but the reaction among respectable types was mainly a theatrical eye-roll: the maniac was up to his old tricks. Crimes of Passion, starring Kathleen Turner and Anthony Perkins, was next, with she as a Belle de Jour career girl by day, working girl by night, he as an insane sex-obsessed preacher, some forgettable soap opera type as leading man, the whole thing soaked in neon colors and spliced full of Bearsley and Hokusai, whom the American censor duly deleted in horror. “They cut out anything to do with art,” observed the filmmaker.

And that was it for America, save occasional pieces for HBO, progressively more televisual, the locked-off symmetrical winning out over the kinetic. Russell returned to the UK to make theatrical features, and again you heard the cry off “Whatever happened? He used to be good!” Gothic dealt with Byron and the Shelleys and the birth of Frankenstein, and was fruity, literate, dirty good fun. The Rainbow was a return to Women in Love territory, on a lower budget and with less energy and star wattage: Russell declared it his best film since that imagined zenith, and a few critics wanly agreed. The Lair of the White Worm was another journey beyond the pale, thrusting some of the same actors into a ludicrous vampire and snake goddess phallic farrago with Hugh Grant and a kilted Peter Capaldi attempting to snakecharm with bagpipes. A vampirized policeman gets his head impaled on a deco sundial. Marvelous. And the sequence was rounded out with Salome’s Last Dance, which stages Oscar Wilde’s biblical wet dream in a Victorian brothel, an inspired no-budget solution and a film which, unlike Altered States, really respects its words, lingering over them, rolling them salaciously over its tongue. Add in also Ken’s episode of Aria, in which he stages Nessun Dorma as an accident victim’s operating room hallucination, with porn mag model Linzi Drew, a new Russell favorite, in the lead.

Time was running out, the budgets shrinking like a Fu Manchu death chamber, the ceiling pressing down and clearly constraining what Russell could achieve, despite his continuing ambition. Lady Chatterley’s Lover for the BBC scored huge ratings, and he was never asked back. Commercial television’s top arts programme, The South Bank Show, run by Russell’s old screenwriter from Women in Love, Melvyn Bragg, kept him going with more-or-less annual commissions: he’d come full circle, or did when he moved back to home movies, shot in his garden or in his favorite Soho pub, which he hoped to “flog on the internet.” The symmetry of the career, its ourobousness, is more pleasing to contemplate than it must have been to live, though the last marriage lasted and was happy, and the ever-moving critical pendulum had reached the place where people were starting to say that The Devils and some of the other seventies work was really good, actually.

I can admire everything up until the final home movies, and maybe I’ll come round to them: Russell was right to admire all his earlier films. He spent decades more or less brushing off French Dressing, then saw it on TV and thought, “This is a masterpiece!” which it is. But only a minor one compared to what was those around it. Seaside-postcard humor, musical comedy performances, pop art imagery, Wagnerian and Stravinskian soundtracks, a defiant rejection of subtlety. “I don’t believe there’s any value in understatement […] This is the age of kicking people in the balls and telling them something and getting a reaction […] Picasso was not restrained, Mahler was not restrained!’” His detractors thought he should be, possibly in a straitjacket and with megadoses of Thorazine, but Russell was a volcanic eruption in cinematic form, a purple-faced tyrant of the Stroheim school, a demonic force driven to possess reels of celluloid and make them glow in the dark with a sugar rush radiation that has yet to decay. He was too big, too vulgar, too beautiful, too nasty and too beautiful for a national cinema mired in lethargic literary-theatrical respectability. “The visual arts have never had a foothold in England,” he sneered.

Ken!

Life is not a Ken Loach movie. It is a Ken Russell movie.

by David Cairns

[aceofstars16]

Stanuary Week 2 - Travel

I gave y’all fluff last week so...this week you get some angst...

Art c) @aceofstars16/ @aces-creative-corner

@stanuary

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Below is a fanfic that kind of goes along with each picture, except the last bit of it, I added it on just for pain...

Now Leaving New Jersey.

Stan barely saw the sign, it was just a glimpse from the corner of his eye, and yet it hit him in the chest. It wasn’t like he had never left the state before, it wasn’t that big after all. But the times he had left were few and far in between and now…he could never go back.

He was leaving for good.

Part of him wanted to be happy. But he couldn’t…not really. Even after leaving Glass Shard beach, he still drove through the town. Sometimes he even drove past the pawn shop. Once or twice he had almost stopped, almost gone to the door, but he had always stopped himself before he hit the brakes. He couldn’t go back, not until he proved himself, till he showed his worth.

And now he could never go back, no matter how much he might want to.

The heaviness that was growing in his chest expanded as Stan realized the true reality of it all. There was no going home. If he even tried the police would send him away, not even mentioning his Pa, who probably would just throw him out again. His entire life had been pulled away and now he was well and truly alone. And it was terrifying.

Shaking his head, Stan tried to clear it away. His family has deserted him, he had to accept that and move on. It’s what he had been telling himself for months – he could only rely on himself. But that didn’t mean he wanted to.

With a hard blink and a wipe across his eyes, Stan focused on the road again. He was alone, that’s just the way it was going to be. The sooner he accepted that, the better...no matter how much it hurt.

The moon shone in the sky, lighting up the dim stretch of road Stan was currently parked on. Maybe it wasn’t the safest place to stay the night, but he didn’t have the money for anything else. Well, he did have enough money to make a phone call, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually speak when he heard his brother’s voice on the other end.

Stan wished he could simply turn of his feelings, or joke them away, or talk himself out of them. But every time he tried to, they only grew. Like a monster trying to pull him even further into the hopeless muck of his mind.

If only he could restart his life. If only he could change the past, just one little mistake, that’s all he needed to fix. Then maybe, just maybe, things would be better, or at least he’d have Ford by his side through it all. But time travel wasn’t an option. The only option he had was this – traveling on the road, going from state to state, sometimes trailing into Mexico, scamming whatever people he could before he got caught.

Some people might think it was a life of adventure. But the reality of it was far less thrilling. Countless nights sleeping in his car, sometimes without food, and any food he could afford was hardly healthy. Not that he minded but it sure drained his energy…man growing up sucked.

Eyes flicking to the picture tapped to the sun blocker of his car, Stan felt the same remorse pierce his heart every time he saw his brother.

“Sure hope you are doing better than me, Sixer…” he whispered before reaching up and pushing the picture out of view, knowing that if he kept looking at it, the sorrow would swallow him completely.

Squeezing his eyes tight, Stan fought back against the loneliness, against the wetness in his eyes. This was his life, he just had to keep going. He told himself that every night. But tonight it didn’t to anything, it only hurt more. And he knew exactly why.

Pulling down the sun blocker again, Stan reached up and grabbed the picture, studying it for a moment before holding it to his chest.

“Happy Birthday, Ford…”

The hollowness in his chest only grew and Stan curled up as much as he could in the car seat as tears fell silently down his face.

Hope. Stan hadn’t felt it in so long he barely knew what to make of it. Oh sure, there was the occasional hopefulness that came when he got a good hand in poker, or when he was about to make a big score. But this…this was totally different.

Eyes flicking to the postcard sitting next to him, emotions fluttered in his chest. He couldn’t make sense of most of them, and worry continued to come to the surface as he tried to figure out what had prompted Ford to contact him. Especially after ten years of no communication. But that didn’t matter, Ford had asked him to come, and there was no way Stan was going to let this opportunity pass him by.

Sure, it was a little terrifying. There would be a lot to talk about, and Stan knew it wouldn’t be fun, especially not facing up to the guilt that had been eating away at him for years. But it would be worth it, because it would mean getting his brother back. They could work things out, Stan could apologize, they could catch up, they could make things right. They could be brothers again.

The hope building up in his chest was almost overwhelming, but Stan accepted it. After years of depression, of isolation, of brokenness, hope was more than welcome. Because things were about to change, he could feel it in his soul. This was a new start. For the first time in ten years he wasn’t going to be alone.

The wind howled outside, ramming against the side of the shack as loud as the winter storms of Glass Shard Beach. But Stan barely heard it. His entire body was numb, he could barely think as the events of the day kept replaying over and over again in his mind. All of the mistakes, all of the hurtful words. Everything he would take back in an instant, if only to bring Ford back. But no. Once again, he had ruined everything. Ford was gone. And this time there was no phone number that could reach him, nothing Stan could do to try and contact him again. Just a gaping hole in the middle of a broken machine he didn’t understand one bit of.

“Stanley, do something! Stanley!”

Ford’s last words rang around in Stan’s mind, pressing in on him until he felt like a child again. When his father yelled at him, when other kids mocked him for being the stupid one, when Ford closed the curtains of their room, leaving him to face the world alone. The weight of it all was too much and he couldn’t fight it. Just one sob. Then another. And then he was shaking and shivering and crumbling, breaking in a way that could never be fixed. Because he had caused it all, and he would never be able to fix it.

Time was irrelevant, only sorrow and pain existed. Stan couldn’t feel, and yet he was feeling too much. He was drowning there was no one to save him.

Then something sharp jabbed into his back and he could barely move his arm to grab the source of the problem. Ford’s journal.

For a moment, Stan just looked at it – the six fingers on the front, his haggard reflection in the reflective logo. But a spark of…something flared in his chest as he remembered Ford’s words. This journal…it held the key to turning on the portal again.

“I’m not smart enough to fix it though…” Stan muttered to himself, and he knew it was true. Ford was the smart twin, he was just the brawn. But then Ford’s desperate cries echoed through his head once again and in desperation he grasped a hold of the idea, of that minuscule determination.

Yes, it might be foolish, it might run him more ragged than before. But God help him if he didn’t at least try.

No matter what, he wasn’t going to stop trying. No more driving around with no direction. The days of traveling across the country were over. Stan was staying put until he brought Ford home…or until he died trying.

“I’ll get you back, Sixer…I…I promise.”

[switchinspirals]

Texas Turnaround Part 2 Safe!

Continuation of request for @texanstrong

Trevor took his time his time washing Jake’s body down in the shower. The new sensation of smooth hard larger muscles lathered in soap and dripping with water was erotic in it’s own right. He did think to himself for a second how familiar it was standing in this shower. His strange lucid waking dream of being in this very shower with that other guy. Except this time he was in the actual body of Jake not his own. After finishing his shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, he went to investigate the apartment. It was an older apartment on the south eastern side of Dallas based on what the GPS said on his phone. It was a mess, it looked like there was a party here recentlty. Although looking through the clutter it seemed as if laundry day only happened once every month if it that. Trevor also got the strange sensation that Jake didn’t spend to much time here, and the one called BAE probably didn’t either. He turned on the TV and Telemundo switched on, he didn’t realize it was just background noise for the moment as he turned on Jake’s phone and begin to look.

Jake didn’t have a facebook, or atleast not the mobile app, but he and instagram, grindr, scruff, jack’d, and tinder. All the profiles read the same.

“Jake,  Age:22  Hieght:5'11 Latino,  Speaks English and Spanish, Body Type: Jock, Bodybuilder, Toned.  Negative, In an Open Relationship”

It matched his apperance perfectly. And the picture was a seductive image of selfie of Jake showing off his perfect body. The discription about himself was different for each app, yet very similiar. The grindr one had the most detail though. “Vers top, but bottom for the right guy, I am picky but for cash I can get into any dude, prefer if you host, if I host don’t be a bitch about my place. I have a bf he sometimes down for 3somes but prefer not to get him involved, don’t be a dick or a racist.” It was a strange sensation for Trevor to read someone else’s profile yet know it now currently belonged to him. Trevor was no stranger to hook ups, but he was more picky about who he had sex with, and had never in his life had or considered getting paid for sexual favors or sex it self. Yet now being in Jake’s body and life, there was an excitement about getting paid for it, even if the dude wasn’t attractive. Trevor knew he was good looking and a catch, but Jake was the superior to his former body in every way. And Jake didn’t give one fuck about what people thought of him, and for the first time Trevor realized how hot it was to have a guy so infatuated with him even if he wasn’t that attractive. Trevor thought back to the night before, the blonde kid in the shower, he was cute but his body was only slightly toned and less impressive than his old body back in Houston. Yet during that strange experience he enjoyed the way the boy felt up his body. Now knowing he was feeling up Jake’s body made that whole experience even hotter. He saw how many guys had messaged him on grindr alone, all sorts of boys and men. Older muscular men, big hairy men, twinks of types, jocks, it was like almost any type of guy one would want. He did notice a lack of white dudes reaching out to Jake though. Most of the messages were positive, sensual and seemed to lead to a hook up. It was rare to find a negative conversation or one not leading to sex but they were still in there. He learned from those Jake was a high-school drop out, and slutted out a few years earlier and pissed of a lot of guys who still held it against him for sleeping with their boyfriends or husbands. Trevor didn’t know how to feel about that, in some ways it bothered him how Jake seemed to not care about those people’s relationships, yet at the same time him sleeping with them sounded hot, and exciting. As for being a high-school drop out well it seemed sad but maybe if he was trapped in this body long enough he could change that.

Trevor decided to stop reading all the messages and then swiped to his calendar, Jake it seemed was a landscaper, had his own truck somewhere around this apartment complex. He seemed to do most of his jobs in the surrounding suburbs of the DFW metroplex. That’s when his alarm went off, the alert was for “GYM TIME” Trevor wasn’t sure where Jake worked out at but he figured this apartment had to have some sort of gym. He looked through his wallet, there was no gym membership card, and not credit card, just Jake’s drivers license confirming his grindr profile was accurate, and fifty dollars of cash. Trevor found blue tank top with the words “RAVE” on ot it, and some black very short gym shorts, he quickly put them on and walked to the bathroom again. He admired himself in the mirror, Jake or rather he now looked sexy as fuck. Part of Trevor wished he could get back in his body if only to make out feel and have sex with Jake, it was a pleasurable torture being so hot and desiring the very some flesh you inhabited and Trevor was loving every second of it.  He walked out of the messy apartment and into very warm and sunny Dallas day.

He did find a small gym for the older apartment complex, it barely had any machines or weights, Trevor using Jake’s voice mumbled to himself “This probably isn’t where he works out” but he didn’t feel like getting lost looking for a gym. So he started to do his normal routine with what he had available there, which wasn’t much. Trevor first started to work out using some free weights, doing basic bicep curls, in front of the mirrors. As expected it was a sexy and very exciting to watch the muscle stud work out. Trevor found himself making seductive faces and holding on the the flex of the bicep curl longer to show off the muscle. And in return the sexy stud Jake flirted back to him through his reflection and showed off his muscles. It was hot and making him horny. But it was also getting hard to focus, it seemed as if the more he saw himself in the mirror the more he wanted to rip off his clothes and jerk off again. Trevor wasn’t sure if Jake had a higher sex drive than he was used to, or that his ultimate fantasy of being someone else was just to much for him to handle, or if both of those facts were keeping his new uncut cock hard in those sexy gym shorts. He decided to turn around and work out facing the windows.

The view was much more grounding for Trevor, he clearly lived in the poorer part of Dallas, it wasn’t very nice, it reminded him the neighborhoods and area’s in Houston that were old, falling apart, and rather depressing. A far cry from the suburbs of Houston he was used to. Yet despite that he still felt a rush of anxiousness and excitement. It was a new life, and one where he didn’t have to give a fuck. In part because Jake never did, and also because there was no longer and consequences to his sexuality. He could truly just enjoy being young and sexy. Even in less than two hours he had inhabited this body, he knew Jake’s life was far from perfect, the grindr profile showed a dude who had great sex, but also experienced some rather disturbing racism. And his view showed what privilage he had in his old life, but there was something about not worrying about his sexuality anymore and being able to expeirence anything that made the more negative changes worth it. And after turning his head around to see that sexy face smiling at him, he knew it was worth it. Trevor took a picture of himself and posted it to instagram. It went viral to the several of thousands of followers Jake had on his instagram. Commets filled with compliments and lustful desire.  A direct message came in from someone named Alex.

“Loved the pic, I am bored and have $50 I wanna spend, come over let me lick you up and fuck me raw and it’s yours cutie.” Trevor felt another surge of excitement. He quickly looked up Alex’s instagram pictures, they were for the most part rather dull and ameraturish. His face was nothing to brag about and his body was that of a very smooth, very skinny twink. There was some toned definition on it but he was even more skinnier than the kid Jake was fucking in  the shower before. Yet the lure of fifty dollars, his chronic horniness and a strange new desire to fuck this twig of a twink pulled Trevor’s ambitions and desires and make him use Jake’s hands to text him back. “Hey! Ya would love to fuck forgot where u live send address?” Trevor waited. A reply and an address, a quick search on google maps revieled he lived in a near by suburb. Now came the hard part finding Jake’s truck. Wondering around the parking lot like an idiot Trevor kept clicking the lock button on his keys to see if he could hear a beep. After about ten minutes of searching he found it. The truck was a modest 2011 White Ford F150 with a landmower, and landscaping equipment in back, most of which was rather old and needed to be replaced. The inside of the truck was hot, smelly and needed to be cleaned but that wasn’t important he had to get to Alex’s place. The drive was uneventful and Trevor made it to Alex’s nice place in the suburbs. Clearly he still lived with his parents. When he knocked on the door, the young only been eighteen for four months twink greeted him with a overly friendly hug. They both walked into the nice clean house and sat on the couch. Small talk was made, and Alex’s hands were already trying to explore. There was the occasional gesture of him rasing up Trevor’s tank top to feel a single one of Jake’s abs. A single “You know what it’s like honey” followed by Alex’s kind yet obviosily clever excuse to put a palm on Jake’s firm pecs. “So where are your parents? They aren’t going to walk in on us?” Trevor said in Jake’s sexy Spanish accented voice. Alex was amsused and laughed “You weren’t so bothered the first two times that shit happened, but no they are out of town no need to worry, you don’t have to lie and say your some poor exchange student I seduced or anything.” Trevor gave a surprise looked using Jake’s face of course. But Alex was tired of talking and went in for the kiss. It was a passionate yet sloppy kiss. Alex’s hands went crazy all over Jake’s or rather Trevor’s new body. Trevor had had guy into his body before but this was different. Alex was significantly smaller and skinnier, and because there was money involved he felt Jake or well Trevor up as if he owned him. It was a strange sensation for Trevor but he enjoyed it. The kissing went down his neck, Alec playfull licking, touching, kissing, Trevors dark muscualr pecs. The foreplay was hot as hell for Trevor as much as it was for Alex. Then it happened Alex dipped his hands into Trevor’s briefs ignoring the gym shorts and grabbed Jake’s big thick uncut cock. The sensation was once again new, it was like the first time Trevor felt someone touch his cock, except it was better. He could feel Alex rubbing the foreskin up and down. In a panic Trevor down his shorts to free his growing cock. Alex stopped for a second, watching Jake’s foreskin stretch. He seemed a little bit repulsed by the foreskin.

“Something the matter?” Trevor said as he looked to Alex, “No honey, just foreskin always looks weird to me, feels like I am not looking at a cock is all, no worry once you get hard it looks better.” The feeling made Trevor feel embarrassed and a little annoyed. He decided to ignore it but it felt strange to be objectified to the point that his foreskin which to this point was something he wished he had in his old body, was now a turn off for this kid. Well time to try being aggressive. Trevor used his new found strength and wrestled Alex to his back. “Well you wanted a dominant jock, you got one suck on this cock” And with that he jammed Jake’s now his cock into Alex’s mouth. And again the sensation was brand new, like the first time yet it felt different, the foreskin making this experience even more pleasurable. Despite Alex being a bit of an asshole, his blow job skills were really impressing Trevor and he seemed to know how to take it rather deep with out gagging. There was several times Trevor almost came, both from the hand job and now the blow job.

He pulled out of Alex’s mouth and then put on a condom and began to fuck Alex, it started of slow and almost vanilla.  Trevor was having such an amazing time with another new sensation of the foreskin in an ass that he didn’t notice Alex’s boredom till Alex moaned “What’s wrong with you, make me your bitch Jake, fuck me like you always do” Trevor decided why not, and began to really thrust faster and harder. He typically never tried to fuck too rough, but he decided to do it now and it felt amazing. Trevor got fully into character and started to moan loudly, calling Alex his bitch, and fucking harder, he said a few phrases in Spanish too, since Alex requested that in between his moans. And then he came inside Alex into the condom.

“That was way too fucking fast…” Alex said “Sorry I just…” Alex laughed, “Don’t sweat it cutie, I loved how rough you were today I could tell you didn’t hold back.” He then started to feel me up, “Grab my dick and jerk me off” I complied and did as he said “Fuck for once you’re doing it right” Alex moaned. “It’s like you learned how it feels to jerk off with out foreskin and aren’t holding back.” It was true Trevor was using his normal tactics to get Alex off. After about five minutes of jerking and sucking Alex’s cock while he felt up Trevor’s new muscular body Alex came. And He handed him the fifty dollars. Trevor was unsure what to do but  Alex gave him the non-verbal cue with his hands to get dressed, and so Trevor did. “Well that was fun, I gotta get clean up have a safe drive back to wherever you live,” And with that Trevor was once again back in the sunny warm humid day walking to his truck.

[billvsamerica]

Sin City

We’ve all noticed the lingering stare of a pervert.

On the high street when you’re shopping for Christmas presents or in the cinema when you’re watching the late night showing of Toy Story on your own again. But imagine you’re in a city full of them. Tight polyester trousers with flared bottoms, beer bellys flowing over the top of cheap plastic belts, topped off with a nice scruffy pair of Reeboks from the late 90s. But enough about my dad, this is the story of our latest adventure west.

A savory couple in a far from savory place

I always thought Vegas was a debauched place. That’s where it gets the nickname - Naughty Little Town for Naughty People. Prostitution and weed are both legal, but somehow in a much less savoury way than Amsterdam. With all that being said, we could never have known that the most morally reprehensible act we would witness would take place on the connecting flight from Chicago to Vegas.

Some of the most exciting parts of a holiday go on in the walkway of the airplane. Thoughts flood your mind: ‘Where will we be sitting?’ ‘What are my chances of survival if this thing goes down?’ ‘Who will the “third” person be?’ ‘Hopefully, there isn’t a “third” person!’ ‘Oh God, this things coming down, I’ve had a premonition. I need to warn everybody else on board.’ ‘No, don’t ruin it. It’s fine. You’re being stupid.’ ‘Oh, Jesus Christ! I just signed our death warrant.’ ‘I wonder if they have a TV?!’ etc.

Shelby and I took our spots next to the "third" person in the window seat, who we immediately disliked just for existing in a space near us, and opened our books: Shelby was reading an interesting book about the Appalachian area of America and taking on a challenging Sudoku puzzle. I was reading a different kind of book, still just as challenging though, the instructions on how to work the TV.

After the internal struggle of whether it’s okay to ignore the air stewardesses safety announcements, the passengers settled into the flight. The aircraft was not quite Wright Brothers old, but it was missing the mod cons of a transatlantic flight, like being able to choose an individual movie. However, it did have DirectTV channels. Shelby and I stuck on the Oscar nominated Can You Ever Forgive Me?.

I glanced over at the "third" person's film choice. I couldn't recognise the show, but the vibrant colours and teenage actors led me to believe it was some sort of kid's show. I looked at the man. No, it wasn't a large child traveling alone. It was definitely a man - a man wearing a tight t shirt that accentuated his man breast. I poked Shelby, she grunted her usual response:

"What the fuck do you want, fuckwit?"

She said, in a loving way though.

“What show is that?”

She glanced across at his screen.

"i-Carly"

"No, you Shelby. Now, what show is that?"

"It's called i-Carly. Now will you shut the fuck up?"

Bit weird.  Maybe he just put it on by mistake. Probably not watching it.

Fast forward three hours, I-Carly is still on his TV. And the man is inches from the screen. I looked at him intently. Does he not know we can see him? He's not in some sort of invisible perv’ chamber, although I'm sure those exist somewhere in Vegas.

I looked down to make sure nothing dodgy is...  Unfortunately, the man was definitely touching himself. Now, I'll give him a bit of credit. His hand was outside the trousers, but that only made it slightly better. Suddenly, it dawned on me - Shelby was in the middle. I wasn’t worried about her, per say. He was clearly into much younger people, but she might accidentally be hit with his flailing elbow or something. She looked across at him then up and me and mouthed,

"What do we do?"

For the last thirty minutes I tried my hardest to put the man off. I gazed out the window and loudly said a range of off-putting phrases:

"Wow! Look at that skyline," "Can't believe we're flying in the sky right now!" "Do you know why they stopped serving peanuts on flights? What about the people allergic to pretzels? Nobody ever thought of them!"

If that lot didn’t put him off, nothing would.

As we walked from the airplane into Vegas airport, we discussed what we should do. I was going to confront him, and say what? Don't do that sort of thing, you sick freak. I was going to grab him by the scruff of the neck, shake him and say,

“That's digusting, you sweaty little cretin!”

I was going to be the hero and stop all bad things happening forever everywhere... I... I... I picked up our bags and we got in a cab to Caesar’s Palace.

The taxi from the airport into Vegas took us adjacent to the strip. Huge replica buildings designed to look like other things. It’s all smoke and mirrors, a mirage in the middle of the dessert like the magic shows that run every night of the week. After taking a detour we didn’t ask for and racking up a huge bill, we arrived at Caesar’s Palace.

Anybody fancy a crap? (That’s not my dad, but a man in a shirt)

We walked through the modern building designed to look like the Colosseum - a gaudy Rome rip off - and bumped into our own ancient relics in the form of my parents. We hugged. They were here again, but their bags weren’t.

That night, we had a quick go on the slot machines, or as cool locals call them, ‘the slotties’ (and lost a bit of money). My dad became slightly enamoured with the virtual blackjack game, and then we all headed to bed to recuperate for the next day. The city may never sleep, but we were certainly going to.

The next morning, we looked out through our curtains at the view of the famous Belagio Hotel’s dancing fountain show, the Eiffel Tower, and a giant poster of Donnie Osmond. We had a fat breakfast, then walked down the strip.

Along the way, we ducked into a casino for a cheeky lil dabble. Dad spotted the virtual blackjack, and I saw his eyes light up. He was straight on it. We watched eagerly with anticipation as he turned his $20 into $5 and then into $25 and then into $15 and then he cashed out. With his cashed out voucher, I jumped onto a huge slot machine that I had no idea as to the workings. I hit a few buttons, and it flashed on the screen “Extreme!”. The lights started strobing and the lines span like the slick tires on a Ford Escort. My cash started building along with my adrenalin..  15-20-25... It kept going up and up and stopped, eventually, at $85. I took the money out and left the casino $85 richer because I didn’t give my dad his investment back.

What a start! Maybe I was a natural. Next stop, World Poker Tournament, but first, the off license for a can of beer that I could legally drink on the high street. It was like being back in Worcester on a Tuesday morning, I mean Wednesday afternoon, I mean Saturday evening.

The strip was packed with hen-dos, lad’s holidays, and waddling families who wanted a change from Disney. Me and my dad walked passed a man selling his hip-hop CD. I declined.

“Forget you then in your Bill Cosby sweater,” he said and laughed.

This drove me to grab another beer from a CVS. Inside, the cashier said,

“What a lovely sweater!”

Me and dad-livin’ it large Vegas

As you can imagine, I had very mixed emotions on the jumper and have not worn it since.

Shelby and mom stormed ahead up the strip, leaving me and dad to be awkwardly approached by dancing girls requesting a photo with us. It’s as if we looked like a couple of creepy blokes or something. We walked next to a bar where a man was strapped to a wooden chair and being forced to drink a strange green liquid by a woman in her underwear. Normally, this might be cause for alerting the authorities, but not in Vegas.

A group on a stag do walked passed us and my dad turned to me,

“Did you see that shirt? I need to get one of those!”

I had to tell him that it said “VAGITARIAN” not “VEGETARIAN”.  He didn’t want one anymore.

After walking the equivalent of a half marathon up and down the strip, Shelby wanted us to recuperate at one of the West’s staple restaurants, In and Out Burger - a place known for juicy hamburgers. We’d heard that they also had veggie burgers for the three of us who don’t eat the carcasses of dead animals.

Our number came up and we sat down at a table that had just been vacated. The remnants of ravenous tub tubs lay around and an In and Out employee was kind enough to offer to clean it up for us. She picked up a tray with the remains of a sweaty burger on it. In slow motion, the burger, wrapper, and discarded sauce tumbled off the tray and down, down, down, onto my dad’s cream trousers, the only pair he had as his bag was currently somewhere in Uzbekistan.

Turned a corner in Nevada to see the New York Skyline (and a rollercoaster)

This hilarious event only slightly made up for the fact that the veggie burger was two pieces of lettuce and a tomato between a couple of soggy bits of bun. As the name suggests, we were in and out of there real quick.

The next day we went to Fremont Street, the second most famous street in Vegas after the strip. A biting wind whipped through the dimly lit passageway lined with souvenir stores, Irish bars and strip clubs. Grubby looking men stood along the street staring wildly at the tourists passing by. They held cardboard signs that read quite witty things like “I’ll look after your wife while you gamble” and some less witty - “Horny!”.

A woman danced on a huge stage with barely any clothes on while a bunch of homeless people rocked back and forwards in front of her, totally unaware, it seemed, that she was there. An abandoned car with red flashing lights moaned and groaned as a zombie popped out the top. In fairness, it was advertising a local Walking Dead Exhibit, but I wouldn’t have been that surprised if it was actually happening on this street.

Having survived Fremont Street, I decided another dabble was in order (I was continually having these dabbles the whole time, but I’m only going to tell you about the times I won). I selected my machine, one without a chair that looked very old, and put in my note. The machine started to freak out and I knew I was onto another winner - $160 coughed up this time. I was a genius. A genius I tell you and definitely did not spend all that money very quickly in other machines. Ahem.

Join me next time as I recount the next stage of the adventure, our journey to the grandest canyon of them all and beyond to the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona.