#but here we are making broken english jokes and the audience is supposed to laugh at them??

[senadimell]

oof, the 1990s Agatha Christie’s Poirot is often very nice but it did NOT handle anything remotely east Asian with anything resembling tact.

[argylemikewheeler]

SO a lovely anon’s been asking for a screampost about season 2 byeler aaaaand guess who figured out what their screampost is gonna be about??? It’s ME, and it’s the freaking SHED SCENE. But I’m going to yell about it from the POV of an english major who’s writing an honors thesis and thinks they know shit about writing. OKAY LET’S GO:

SO. The main beef I have with the shed scene is: what the fuck was it for? Why was it so long and emotional and well done, if it was just to show the humanity of Will could be engaged/wants to get to showing he knows Morse code. Like, we see three stories told to him before we get him tapping out “HERE”. Why have those three? Why have everyone in the room? I understand the montage after with the music and the different stories is to keep the Mindflayer distracted and Will engaged. Makes sense!!! But that first part. That FIRST PART.

It’s extremely weird to think that it was just meant to be casual. Like. Of course I have time for character/dialogue analysis but first– as a writer (and this is just ME of course, I’m not an authority at ALL) I know that kind of scene. It’s where all the plot kind of lifts for a bit and you have this free spaces to create this MOMENT. It’s just for Will, it’s just shameless background– and it’s the most important moments of Will too.

It’s his Mom, his brother, and his best friend– who, no matter how you look at Mike, he’s been there the entire time. Mike’s plot started out being Minus One Eleven Plus One Broken Heart and became I’m Worried About Will and I’m Going To Make Sure I’m There For Him. I Said Crazy Together, Dammit. And that makes him logistically even with Will’s own mother and his brother speaking to him.

So the writers choose to have this moment for Will. It’s their chance to let these actors work their chops, get some background, let us feel SUPER invested in Will making it out Alive and Human, and also learn something about these relationships– before Will became Zombie Boy. Before the Upside Down. They know this is the moment to really just Go Off and Create. I mean, they have the open space! They can say whatever they want and make it canon! It’s a blank canvas of a scene that’s just WAITING to make us cry. And they tell three stories: Rainbow Ship with Joyce, Castle Byers with Jonathan, and Becoming Friend with Mike.

I’m looking at this like I was sitting in the writer’s room and I was thinking about what I would want to do and have each character say– and I acknowledge I do not write for a multi-million dollar netflix series and that shit is not easy. but WITH THAT SAID. I still, you guessed it, HAVE some THOUGHTS.

Jonathan’s story makes the most sense– very like Point-A to Point-B to me. It’s not a cheap shot or anything, but that story makes sense to tell. It’s something that 1. explains how Castle Byers came to be 2. gave us some timeline stuff 3. showed us how Jonathan dealt with the separation and 4. how close he and Will truly are, because most of the time Jonathan is just trying to save Will; they don’t really hang out, ya know? It’s a great story and writing wise it does a WHOLE BUNCH.

But it also does this really weird fifth thing of showing us that this is the first story that Jonathan thought to tell when faced with trying to reach Will. It’s the most emotionally rooted– I mean? That’s his brother! That was their father! And NOW, Will’s got a safe space! One that they made together. That’s so beautiful and human and definitely able to cut through The Mindflayer. Jonathan’s first story, and actually all of his stories, are rooted in things he did to get Will out of the abusive environment his father was creating. Jonathan’s first instinct and memory to bring Will back is: I know what you’ve been through and I know that you were scared, but you survived that. And you’re going to get back to us and survive this. Great writing, right? Good shit.

Then we get to Joyce and the Rainbow Ship! She tells this story of feeling SO proud of her son for creating something all his own. I’m not going to say anything about the, uh, rainbow thing, but we all know it’s there. They decided that not only was this ship just Different, it was Rainbow too. Crazy. But, the main point here is that the first story she chooses to tell Will to bring him back is probably one he doesn’t even think about often– which is a really great story for a Mom to have, when you think about it. What kid remembers what drawings they did– especially if they were embarrassed about it.

Well, Joyce comes through trying to pick at such a small and minute memory that only her Will would know. It’s the moment she, in a way, really started to see her son for what he is: creative and unrestrained by convention, bubbly and inventive, and just this happy joyous kid. This was probably one of those moments that she sat at the table alone, looking at the picture and hearing her son scribbling in the other room, and thinking oh i really have someone special here. oh i have to protect him.

For writing, Joyce’s moment was very detailed, completely new for the audience– but added a lot about Will’s childhood. The happy one that we know gets turned around down the line (before it goes Upside Down). Joyce misses her son and this story is a way for us to see that aching side of her and just CRY with her. It’s easy (not cheap though of course) tears and it’s incredible.

And then. And then the writers have Mike come into the mix. Like, we get the shot of Joyce and Jonathan together, wetly laughing at Will being “so bad at hammering” and the shot of Will’s hand trembling. And as a writer, I know, we’re there. We’re almost there. We set it up– Three’s a magic number. Send him over the edge let Will finally reach reality again AND–

It’s. It’s fucking Mike Wheeler. Bringing up the first day they met. Letting us in on the backstory we have NO primer to. Like, Byers Family Drama is semi-known; we know that there Is history there and it’s being given to us slowly. But how Mike and Will met? We have NO IDEA– we’ve just seen this boy calling when he’s out sick, being concerned when he’s quiet, assuring him he’ll keep him safe, “crazy together”, helping him explain his Bad Vibes with Dart without speaking over him, and just constantly thinking about Will’s well being while they’re fighting a literal monster.

So now, the writers have shown us this pure dedication and loyalty and go: they’ve known each other since they were FIVE. They make the decision in this moment that they want to tell us that Mike is literally Will’s longest and best friend. Nearly as long as this boy has been able to form memories he has known Michael Wheeler. That’s the move. That’s the info we get and that is chosen to be given. Mike’s friendship is turned into a center of Will’s formative years by simply implying that this story needs to be told to both Will and the audience. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

This story also, from a writing perspective, says a lot about Mike! They chose to have Mike remember the first day they met– not when the party all met or anything like that. No. Just the two of them. The writers don’t cop out on this moment at ALL. Like they take FULL advantage of this free moment and build such an intimate and short memory between characters you’re just supposed to Understand are friends. Like, the backstory isn’t always important sometimes– but right here, they tell us it is.

They tell us that Mike being alone and scared is something that stuck with him, it’s something he’s afraid of having happen again if he loses Will. They tell us that Will was a loner all the way back then too, but he doesn’t seem to mind being one (or being different). And then, mixed in with this backstory that shows both Mike and Will really haven’t changed they throw in that… uh….

Asking Will to be his friend is the best thing Mike has ever done. They wrote that sentence without any jokes, no laughs, no weak smile– Finn says that line and it’s dead. fucking. serious. The moment that speech was written into that scene, that entire relationship’s gravity changed.

And writers have to know that. They HAVE TO. Because of how close Will and Mike were the entire episode, there’s no way that this was a Red Herring– something just to throw us off the scent of… Will breaking through, I guess? Because he literally taps the chair in the next minute. It’s not a decoy scene or, as expected honestly, played for laughs. It’s a completely serious moment of an eighth grade boy, that has been emotional and angry and lashing out all season, stand in front of his friend and just CRY.

And what’s worse. Mike seems to only cry when El is involved (at the end of s1 and when Hopper tells him he was hiding her). And THAT’S a parallel, of course, but not only that, but the writers chose to show Mike having non-romantic emotional range. Which is GREAT, but dude this scene is SO… Tender??? Seeing a young boy cry at the feet of his best friend that he thinks he’s losing? And recounting the FIRST MOMENT THEY MET because that’s the BEST FIRST MEMORY? Like, literally just becoming Will’s friend is the best one because it allowed him to have every other memory? Dude that’s so profound. That’s so incredible to think of and to write.

And for no one in that room full of straight white dudes to say: Uh…. maybe that’ll seem gay in the 80s is CRAP. Sorry, not to be that piece of shit, but I know that they thought about it. So for them to still keep the speech in– even with their DUDE THAT’S GAY Monkey Brains going off– says something to me, as a writer. And not in a “they wanted to be progressive” kind of way.

They wrote a beautifully tender moment between Mike and Will, in a scene that could have been anything they wanted, with only Will’s family present. That scene was a creative writers dream! A free-for-all! A moment to just fucking make shit up and go crazy!!! and they decided to go with That…. BRO, ngl I’m kinda emo about it STILL….

Okay. I don’t know if this makes any sense, but as someone who’s writing a longer piece that has many character relationships to juggle and show the reader piece by piece, this moment of OH we can give Will some Memories and Audience Some Background is very clear to me– and I don’t mean that like, it’s cheaply done or it’s obvious in a bad way. I just know the vibe: when you get to sit and ask yourself WHAT do I want to say about my character here. It doesn’t have to be related to ANYTHING ELSE that’s happening. I get the reins back. What. Do. I. Want. To. Say.

And they chose. To Say THAT.

I’m not going to scream about season 3 because I think st3 needs st4 to make sense all the way. Like, I think it’s a set up for the Big Finale, so I won’t say they “didn’t follow through with ANY OF IT” because maybe they will. But let’s just say, if they do not. Please print this out and send it to the Duffer Brothers.

Alright. Word, thanks for reading this ridiculous rant

[freddie-roger-brian-john]

Kisses of Fire - Mamma Mia!Au

A/N - right, so this is the first part of a little series thing. It will feature John, Roger, and Brian as the boys that Y/N meets when she travels to Greece in search of something fun. Hope you enjoy :)

Warnings - none

Word count - 2k

——————

“Excusez-moi- oh.”

When John had hurried downstairs, in nothing but a hotel bathrobe, he was expecting to see an old man standing behind the counter, ready to begrudgingly help him gain entry to his hotel room. What he wasn’t expecting to see was someone who was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She looked up at him when she saw him halt abruptly on the stairs.

“Oh, bonjour, mademoiselle,” John said, somewhat awkwardly. The inconvenience of the situation, and the way the woman was staring at him, made him extremely aware of how strong his obviously not-French accent was. The words leaving his mouth sounded silly as his voice screamed I’m from Leicester! I’m not French! I have no fucking clue what I’m talking about!

“Je suis...” he tried, “locked out de ma chambre. Uh, je, um... put my tray out-” He knew how stupid he must look and sound. An obviously English man, standing in a bathrobe, making pathetic gestures to try and convey what he was trying to say. “-uh, dans le corridor, mais, uh, malheureusement quand je, um...”

Even he didn’t quite know what he was saying.

“...turned back, uh, la porte tait ferme. Et maintenant, j-je need une, uh, uh... uh, spare key, uh, uh, pour, uh, reentrer dans la chambre.” His hands fell limply to his sides and he smiled embarrassedly. “S'il vous plat, mademoiselle.”

He could tell she was trying not to laugh at him. Her mouth was stretched into a thin lipped smiled as she tried her best to contain it. John knew he was bright red in the face.

“Sorry, I didn't understand,” the woman told him. “Could you say all that again?”

“Oui,” John said. He hurried down the last few steps and leaned over the counter she stood behind, hoping that if he was close enough, she may be able to decipher whatever the hell he was saying. “Je suis...”

She was grinning again, now no longer attempting to hide her amusement. “Wait a second,” John muttered. “You’re... you’re not French, are you?” With a shake of her head, she finally let out a quiet laugh.

“No,” she told him, “and I don't work here.” He raised an eyebrow at her, now curious as to why she was standing behind the counter.

“Well, I should call the police?” He asked with a slight smile, half reaching for the phone on the counter. As she smiled at him again, his grew to match hers.

“I'd rather you didn't,” she said. John nodded, his hand retracting from the phone as he shrugged.

“They probably wouldn't understand my French anyway,” he said, the redness in his cheeks dying down to a pink as they stared at each other. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he realised how close he was actually leaning to her face. “Sorry,” He said, takin a step back. He outstretched his hand across the counter. “I’m John Deacon.”

She took his hand, still smiling at him. “Nice to meet you John. I’m Y/N.”

As both of them had not planned anything for their day out in Paris, Y/N had asked John if he wanted to go sight seeing with her. John couldn’t recall ever agreeing to anything more quickly.

As soon as he was able to get back into his hotel room, he quickly changed as Y/N waited outside for him. When he was ready, he saw her sitting on a bench outside the hotel, her face looking up into the sun, her eyes closed.

He could tell she was thinking. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at how warm the early morning sunlight made her face. She seemed utterly relaxed.

It may have just been how young he was, or because Y/N just gave off such an interesting and freeing vibe, but in that moment, John was in love.

“You enjoying the view?” She asked, her relaxed face parting as she grinned, her eyes still closed against the sun. John took a step back and stumbled a little. He coughed and tried to act like he hadn’t been staring. She peeked one eye open and looked at him, thoroughly amused and entertained by the skinny English boy.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t looking, I was just...” God, he was a mess.

“It’s ok,” she said, still giggling as she stood up. “Shall we go?” He nodded quickly. “Great, I heard there’s these beautiful gardens nearby - ooh and big lodge that serves breakfast.”

John had managed to retain from embarrassing himself any further at breakfast. He learned that Y/N had come to Paris simply because she was bored and wanted to see the world. He both admired and envied her. She was so free, everything he had never been.

“So, John, you’re studying electrical engineering?” She asked as they strolled in the gardens after a light breakfast.

“Unfortunately,” He said. “I'm fulfilling my destiny I suppose. I always assumed I’d do something interesting or important with my life but, I guess it is what it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” she suggested with a shrug. “What did you want to do when you were a kid?” John smiled, looking down at his feet.

“Nothing, it’s unrealistic and kinda silly,” he said, shaking his head.

“No, come on, tell me,” she said, giving his arm a little nudge. John took a deep breath.

“Well,” He said, “when I was younger, I kinda wanted to be in a band.” Y/N raised both eyebrows as she looked John up and down.

With his tight white trousers and button up, John didn’t exactly look like a rockstar.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said quickly with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“No, no, it’s not stupid,” she assured. “Was just a little surprised is all. Do you play anything?”

“Bass,” he explained. “Haven’t been playing as much as I used to but I think I’m still pretty good.”

“There you go then,” she told him. “You’ve got the talent, you just need an audience.”

“And a band,” he reminded her.

“And a band,” she said, happy that he was beginning to smile and open up to the possibility. “Look, I’m not saying to drop your university course and completely dismiss the whole electrical engineering thing. But, maybe try join a student band as a hobby, see if anything comes of it.”

“A student band?”

“Yeah,” she encouraged. “Pink Floyd got together at their college. Hell, the Rolling Stones were primary school friends.”

“Really?” He asked. She nodded. “Well then, maybe I will.” He noticed her gaze fall from him to look around the scenery that surrounded them. They had left the gardens during their search for John’s destiny and Y/N found herself slightly distracted as she watched the way water poured out of a particularly beautiful fountain. “What will you do?” John asked her.

“What?” She asked, turning back to look at him.

“What are you going to do?” He asked. She thought for a moment.

“Well,” she said slowly, the word drawing out. “I suppose you’re fulfilling your destiny and I’m searching for mine.” He imagined not having a plan for a moment. He imagined never returning to England and going off to see the world for the sake of just seeing it. “I have a feeling it’s in Greece.”

“Why Greece?” John asked curiously.

“I'll find out when I get there,” she said with a shrug. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Y/N nodded. “Right. Better move fast then.” She raised her eyebrow at him, wondering what he meant. “Um- would you mind carrying your bag on your other shoulder?”

“Uh, sure,” she said, pulling the strap down and swinging it onto the other arm. “Why?”

“Well, 'cause then, you see, the hand nearest me would fall straight down, and mine could sort of brush against it,” he explained. “And then I could take your hand in mine in a completely natural and spontaneous way.” Y/N nodded, staying quiet for a moment. She didn’t trust herself to speak without laughing.

“Or you could just ask to hold my hand,” she suggested, seeing the pink return to his cheeks.

“Of course, that's plan B.”

As the two settled down for lunch, Y/N continued to tell John about her thoughts.

“It's not just Greece generally,” she explained. “It's a specific place. At the far end, there's an island called Kalokairi.” John loved the way her face lit up when she talked about that which she was passionate about. Her eyes would get really big and her lips would tug up into that smile he had become so accustom to seeing in her face. “And people used to think that if you sailed on from there, you'd fall off the edge of the world.” She put a chip in her mouth and rested her chin against her palm. “That sounds like the place for me.”

“It absolutely does,” John agreed. Except he wouldn’t be the one sailing away from her, she was sailing away from him. “And that’s precisely the reason I would like to change the subject slightly.”

“Yeah, course. Go ahead,” she said, interested to see what he had to say.

“Well, since you’re leaving tomorrow and chances are, we’re probably never going to see each again so I was wondering if we could discuss the advantages and disadvantages of us spending the night together.”

Y/N choked on her drink. She quickly set the glass down and accepted the napkin John passed her to quickly dry the table.

“Wow, Uh, that’s a bold move there, Deacon,” she said.

“Sorry if that’s a little forward,” John said, “it’s just that, it seems to me that it’s pretty much all upside with very little reason not to just crack straight on.”

“Well, um...” she had absolutely no idea what to say. “The thing is, John, my family don't really react well to foreign romances. Years ago, my dad was in Ireland and he had his heart broken into a million little pieces.”

“Right,” said John. “Right, yes, sorry. It’s just, there is one more reason though.”

“And what would that be?” She asked.

“You'd be doing me a huge favor because this... this would be my first time.”

Had it been anyone else, Y/N would’ve assumed they were joking and laughed. However, John was an incredibly strange enigma. The long haired, yet clean cut student who wanted to be a rockstar. The nervous boy who wore button ups who also had the courage to be so blunt about what he wanted. John could’ve slept with hundreds or he could’ve slept with zero. Both answers would be just as plausible in Y/N’s mind.

“Are you're kidding?” She asked.

“No, it's a thing I always say to make me look cool,” he said sarcastically. “No, I-I'm not kidding.”

“Wow,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “One person calls you a rockstar and suddenly it seems your trying to fit the bill.”

“Oh no, oh god, that’s not what I’m trying to do at all,” he stuttered quickly, trying his best to assure her. “Shit, you’re right, that came out wrong.”

“Little bit.”

“It’s just, there’s something about you,” he tried to explain.

“John, we just met today-”

“Yes but when you know, you know,” he said. “When you fall, when you.” He stood up. “And when you’re defeated by love, you’re utterly defeated.”

—————

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[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2019, Part I

On one hand, I fear the direction of American cinema, and I feel more personally distracted from great art with each passing day. On the other hand, my viewing was up 5% from last year despite my belief that I’ve gotten choosier. I even approve of most of the films nominated for Best Picture. Are the offerings just top-heavy this year? Are my standards declining? Answering questions like those is part of why I present a paragraph or two on everything I see each year, though I can’t even imagine someone sitting down and reading all of this.

Full disclosure: I haven’t seen Just Mercy, Monos, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Good Boys, Frankie, For Sama, or An Elephant Sitting Still. The tiers, as always, are Garbage, Admirable Failures, Endearing Curiosities with Big Flaws, Pretty Good Movies, Good Movies, Great Movies, and Instant Classics. GARBAGE

129. Cold Pursuit (Hans Petter Moland)- A film professor of mine showed us Wings of Desire and City of Angels, its American remake, in order to show us how a film can technically cover a story while losing the essence that made it special. I can only hope that Hans Petter Moland's Norwegian original is better than his stab at an English language remake, which fails completely at balancing violence and comedy. The movie almost announces its own boredom with the protagonist as it shifts focus first to the villain and then to cops on the case, all of whom have artificial quirks to try to give them life where there isn't any. The Neeson character's journey toward revenge is empty, so the film drifts from him, but it doesn't have anything to say with the other characters either. 128. Domino (Brian De Palma)- Seeking revenge, a Libyan informant roughs up a potential terrorist by throwing him over a restaurant bar. Cut to two cops driving wordlessly. Cut to the Libyan guy dunking the other guy's head in boiling soup. That interruption spells out what the rest of the film does: De Palma could not be less interested in his replacement-level actor's shoddy policework, especially in the self-parody of the last twenty minutes. Any intensity the movie has comes from terrorists (or Guy Pearce over-salting a salad), and then the police drain the momentum. Just make a movie about terrorists, Brian! And, as I've urged you for years, get rid of Pino Donaggio. 127. Beach Bum (Harmony Korine)- Moondog, the spacey, Floridian hedonist poet at the center of the film, is supposed to be "brilliant" and "a good guy" at heart according to his daughter. But at the daughter's wedding, he shakes the hand of her fiance, whom he usually calls "limp-dick," and he says, "What's your name again?" The line got a laugh in my theater, but is it likely that he didn't know the name of his daughter's fiance? Especially if he's a good guy who doesn't hurt people on purpose? It's one example out of a thousand of Harmony Korine making the goofy decision instead of the one that would benefit character or story. I thought that Korine had taken a turn for the lucid with Spring Breakers, but he just isn't interested in making anything consistent enough for me. There's an hour of consequence-free episodes to follow, though I did cherish Jonah Hill's three improvised scenes, for which he tries a sort of Tennessee Williams voice. You can admire how audacious some of the choices are--describing Zac Efron wearing Jncos makes the film sound more fun than it is--but looking at the poster gives you about 70% of what you would get out of the long ninety-five minutes. Yes, McConaughey's shoes are funny, but what else have you got? 126. Fyre Fraud (Jenner Furst, Julia Willoughby Nelson)- Half as good as the Netflix one. Please, by all means, explain to me what a millenial is again. 125. The Kitchen (Andrea Berloff)- One of my mentors stressed that Shakespeare worked in "cultural touchstones," truisms that weren't difficult to prove but served as a sandbox for all of the juicy stuff. So we all know that, say, too much ambition is a bad thing, but having that North Star at all times allows Shakespeare to ply his trade with character development and imagery and symbol. I know that The Kitchen isn't funny or cool or original, but it also doesn't really have an emotional or thematic core. It's a movie with neither the window dressing nor the window. I don't know what I'm getting at, but I watched the last five minutes twice to make sure that it actually was as anti-climactic and inert as I thought.

124. Climax (Gaspar Noe)- Ah, to be a provocateur who has made his best work already and took all of the wrong lessons from it. I don't envy Noe, who insists on formal rigor even when it adds nothing, who goes to greater, more desperate lengths to shock. A third of this film, embedded somewhere between the three openings, is gross young people talking, lewdly and clinically, about whom they want to bone. I thought I started watching French art movies to get away from locker rooms. 123. The Best of Enemies (Robin Bissell)- The supporting cast of Anne Heche, Wes Bentley, and John Gallagher Jr. avail themselves better than the finger-wagging, scenery-chewing leads, but that hardly matters in a movie this fundamentally broken. Apparently no one saw the problem with making a Ku Klux Klan president the dynamic hero of a school integration that he fought against, but that's how the story functions. He's the guy who casts the deciding vote and gives the speech at the end, but it's a bit anti-climactic for an audience that assumes, yeah, the White race is not morally superior to any other race. Congratulations on your realization, buddy. Long before that, Sam Rockwell’s character is inconsistent. Neither the Rockwell performance nor the Robin Bissell script can thread the needle between showing the heinous terrorist that a Klan member is and revealing the depth that foreshadows the character's change. The answer is to show the character being nice to his developmentally disabled son, which, again, doesn't get all the way there. That's cool that you love your own son, but, uh, that has nothing to do with the hatred that made you shoot up a girl's house because she has a Black boyfriend. Of course you can show these contradictions and changes in a character incrementally--lots of good movies have--but this one ain't going on the list. 122. The Intruder (Deon Taylor)- Probably the most two-star movie of the year. Prototypical in its two-starness. Instructive to me as far as what I give two stars. There’s a point of view error in the first twenty minutes that ruined it for me. ADMIRABLE FAILURES 121. Little (Tina Gordon Chism)- We're all good on body swap movies for a while. This one, otherwise undistinguished in its comedy or storytelling, is notable for just how specifically 2019 it might look in a time capsule: Here's a joke about transitioning as we're on our way to our job developing apps; there's a kid doing The Floss and talking to Alexa. Whoops! Bumped into a guy wearing a VR headset! 120. The Kid Who Would Be King (Joe Cornish)- I appreciate that somebody is still making movies for 9-10 year old boys, but I checked out hard and kind of just left this on until it was done. I don't like lore. Much less funny and urgent than Attack the Block, and it's crazy that this is the only project that came together for Joe Cornish in the intervening eight years. 119. Godzilla: King of the Monsters (Michael Dougherty)- Exhausting and joyless in its large-scale destruction, Godzilla: King of the Monsters pitches everything at the same volume, and even the end of the world ends up not mattering as a result. Despite (or maybe because of) the presence of such great actors, the screenplay dilutes the characters by having three fighter pilots or three scientists when all the lines really could have been given to one of these interchangeable figures. That's first draft stuff, homie. Still, Kyle Chandler is kind of awesome as the weathered one shouting about how everyone else is playing God. He reminds me of Larry Fitzgerald toiling away with professionalism on teams that would never sniff the playoffs. 118. Blinded by the Light (Gurinder Chadha)- I made it about twenty minutes into this movie before flipping the switch and making fun of it relentlessly. It tries to strike the heart-on-sleeve authenticity that a Springsteen song does, but if The Boss never overwhelms you with language, almost every line of dialogue in this film spells out what the character is thinking. The overbearing father is especially intolerable: "What is this music? You need to get rid of distractions and focus on getting a good job so that you don't end up a taxi driver. Like me!" I'm only sort of paraphrasing. Blinded by the Light is too well-meaning to be offensive, but it's absurd in its spoon-feeding. LMK, ladies: On the third time that I have headphones in my ears during a conversation with you, and I start buttering you up with lyrics to "Jungleland," will you still love me? 117. Fast & Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw (David Leitch)- What a summer, huh? The go-for-broke final setpiece redeems the film somewhat, and Vanessa Kirby is a welcome addition to the universe. But Idris Elba's first line, responding to a question about who he is, is "Bad Guy," and the characterization doesn't go too much further. I feel as if I have honed the requisite disposition to enjoy a Fast and Furious movie, but that doesn't mean that the most cliched thing has to happen at the most cliched time in the most cliched way.

116. I Lost My Body (Jeremy Clapin)- Not for me ultimately. The film presents itself as above the tropes of cinematic romance but sure seems to circle around them. Clapin is willing to set up the pins of, say, "I'm actually the pizza delivery guy but have kept it a secret for a year," but he is unwilling to knock the pins down with anything resembling catharsis. I don't know if the French bowl, but feel free to substitute whatever kind of metaphor they might get offended by.

115. The Lion King (Jon Favreau)- I saw the original Lion King when I was ten: old enough to think that Disney movies were beneath me but young enough to know nothing about art or the world. And I remember the way that the songs transcended reality: "I Just Can't Wait to Be King" turning into a Busby Berkeley number, "Be Prepared" taking on an expressionist green tint. It was mass entertainment that was far from experimental, but I remember thinking, "Can you do that?" As an artistic experiment, this remake is kind of confounding, to the point that I don't know whether to classify it as an animated or live-action film. The final scene starts upside down, and your eye adjusts to the idea that you're looking at a reflection in a stream, but that stream is a Caleb Deschanel-aided, computer-generated reflection of a reality. However, I return to my original point: You're missing something if you think The Lion King is a better story if it's more realistic. Capably made as The Lion King 2019 is, no one is referencing 42nd Street. These Disney remakes just reference themselves. 114. Stuber (Michael Dowse)- The critical community has been pretty forgiving of Stuber; I guess because it's a type of studio film that used to be common but now is not. Judged on its own merits, however, it's labored. The screenplay circles around questions of masculinity, but not in a way that hasn't been done better in other recent comedies. Perhaps most disappointing of all, I've seen Iko Uwais and Bautista fight before, and it looked a whole lot cooler than the way they're sliced and diced here. The ending's sweet at least. 113. After the Wedding (Bart Freundlich)- Think of what Julianne Moore could have accomplished in the time it took in her career for her to shoot four crappy movies with her husband. This is the type of melodrama that makes more sense after all of the revelations have cleared the air, but that doesn't mean the preceding hour and a half was any more fun because of the aftermath. 112. The Goldfinch (John Crowley)- One day someone's going to figure out how to coherently adapt a Dickensian novel and actually do that thing Crowley is trying to do: condensing two hundred pages of back story into 1/8th of a page here or a line there. Somebody's going to be able to figure out the little moments that are important and the big moments that aren't. And you'll all be sorry. The movie is ultimately hampered by the bad ending of the novel, in which a person who isn't a mystery writer has to solve a mystery. Perfect casting for Luke Wilson though. He definitely looks like a whiskey-faced dad who would steal your social security number. 111. The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg)- This movie is autobiographical. The protagonist has the same initials as Joanna Hogg, and she's attending film school at the same time Hogg did. But what a self-own it is for your hero, based on you, to be this inexpressive and restrained and deferential. The film is mostly about a cold romantic relationship--and I guess what the character learns through that experience--but when her beau's friend asks what she sees in him, she can't really say. Neither can the audience. I guess it's a skill to write a scene in which a family is having an argument that is so clenched-jaw reticent that the viewer can't even discern the topic of conversation for a few minutes, but it's not a skill I appreciate. 110. The Dead Don’t Die (Jim Jarmusch)- Jim Jarmusch must be a very good friend.

109. Velvet Buzzsaw (Dan Gilroy)- If the film were funny, I wouldn't mind the lack of narrative drive. If the film had narrative drive, I wouldn't mind the lack of atmosphere--glaring for a film that circles around to horror eventually. If the film had more to say, I wouldn't mind how pedantically it says it. If the protagonist's change of heart made sense, then I wouldn't mind that his conversion apparently happens off-screen. At least most of the actors seem to be having fun. I wasn't. 108. It: Chapter Two (Andy Muschietti)- I started squirming in my seat during a sequence somewhere in the circuitous second hour. Bill sees his old bike in an antiques window, haggles with a Stephen King shopkeeper cameo, and finishes the scene on a triumphant note, believing that his old bike will ride like the wind. Cut to the bike falling apart on the road, deflating his pride with comedy. Cut to a flashback of him riding the bike with young Beverly, serene and warm. Cut to him riding the bike again with determination until he stops, terrified. Within fifteen seconds, the film jerks us into four divergent emotions at a whim. The overall tone felt just as arbitrary to me, and that's before we get to the always-unclear line between fantasy and reality. And this time, the flashbacks of each young character's encounters with Pennywise are less scary because we know they all live into the present. Andy Muschietti just does not have a light enough touch to make this movie work.The last forty-five minutes are interminable. But I had all the same gripes with the first chapter, so personal taste is a factor. 107. Trial by Fire (Edward Zwick)- Perfect example of a true story that could use some poetic justice. I don't want to give away anything that the first line of the imdb summary doesn't already, but this ending could have been much more satisfying by changing one or two lines. This is a movie that recreates, multiple times, babies burning alive, but the ending is somehow more punishing. It's also one of those films that should have just begun at the halfway point. If we can praise special effects when they're done well, then they should be fair game when they're this embarrassing. Zwick definitely put his flash drive into the Lifetime computers for fire.exe.

[artificialqueens]

late bloomer chapter seven (trixya) - ladyalix

finally getting back to this! should be one more chapter after this plus an epilogue! remember to leave a comment at ladyalix on AO3 and say hi at @zamclodchikova here on tumblr!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Katya’s heart was racing the way it always did before a big gymnastics meet. It was funny how much sex was like gymnastics - not just in the crude logistics of course, but in the way it could consume you until you neglected everything and everyone else around you. How you still wanted it. The drugs had been like that too. Katya still smoked, of course. She was smoking a joint right now. But the harder stuff - it was all part of Katya’s unfounded craving for the joy, the freedom, that came during the brief airborne moments before she came crashing down and looked into the faces of the judges. She couldn’t believe Trixie didn’t know about Sasha. How they would have liked each other - the only two people who ever got Katya to laugh, really laugh. Trixie wondered, though, about Katya’s past, about why she never spoke about her life in Russia; Katya knew that. It was so much easier to let people wonder. It was why probably half the people in this gallery had a different story of who Katya was. Some said she was a Romanov heiress, others said she got into hooking to finance her flat because she couldn’t possibly make money from her art career. Some people looked at her with disdain, others with envy, and still others with respect or lust or just curiosity. And yet no one, not even Trixie, knew the real Katya. Katya wasn’t sure she knew the real Katya.

Shit wasn’t supposed to happen between her and Alaska and… yet it did. That is not to say it wasn’t consensual. It was, it very much was. But as soon as they finished, as the night drew to a close and Katya realised with a pang that Trixie was probably standing alone without a clue where her girlfriend was, she knew she had fucked up the best thing that had happened to her since she was seventeen. Was she afraid of it happening again? Was she protecting herself by destroying that tenuous grasp at happiness? What the fuck was wrong with her?

“If you want to get out of here so we can do this a little more, um, classily, like not in a fucking bathroom, we can,” the singer was saying. Her head hurt. She fucked up, she fucked up, she fucked up.

“I’m fine,” she said icily. “I have to go and apologise to Trixie.” Alaska’s eyebrows shot up. “You and Trixie - that girl, Trixie - you’re - “ she sputtered. This made everything worse, that she’d been misleading. That Alaska genuinely didn’t mean to cause harm.

But she didn’t apologize to Trixie. She didn’t even say anything to Trixie. It was raining outside now, heavy sweet-smelling rain that flattened Trixie’s curls and made her look ridiculous. It would have been funny if Katya didn’t feel terrible. This kind of rain was uniquely Parisian, the way it made the sidewalks glow and the buildings run together like a watercolour painting. She hadn’t known this kind of rain when she was in Boston or in Russia, and it always made her think of her first year in Paris. She was perhaps more of a mess than she was now, if that was possible. A skinny alcoholic lesbian who could barely speak French, whose English still betrayed her status as the wrong kind of expat. At twenty she had given up on enough dreams, felt lost and lonely and little enough still that the rain only made her melancholy. Everything was supposed to be better now, wasn’t it? “Should we get a cab?” asked Trixie, shaking Katya out of her memories. “I don’t want to get my dress all gross.” “I suppose so.” When the taxi finally arrived, they sat in silence in the backseat, an uncomfortable distance between them that had not been there ever before. Trixie kept looking out the window at the droplets of rain running down the glass like falling stars. “I know,” Trixie said softly, still avoiding eye contact. “Know what?” Katya asked, fully aware of what the American meant. “I know shit went on with you and the singer tonight. You’re a terrible liar, Katya.” Katya tried hard not to look Trixie in her eyes but she couldn’t help herself; the mixture of hurt and bitter humor made her heart sink. “Are you mad, Trixie? Because you have every right to be. I am so sorry.” Her words sounded hollow, false, as if they came from someone else. Against her better judgement, maybe because she was high or because she was good at digging herself into deeper holes, she kept talking. “I’ve never been good at holding on to good things. It’s like, like I have to fuck things up when they make me too happy. I can’t let myself be happy and I ruin everyone else’s happiness alongside it. That’s why I’ve not been in a relationship in so long - not since I was seventeen.” Katya stopped herself just in time, biting her lip until she tasted blood. Trixie was staring at her now. Katya remembered fleetingly how she had always been the one to try to catch the American’s eyes before. “Okay,” she was saying now. “What the fuck happened when you were seventeen? Because maybe I’d have a little more insight about why I’m being treated like you’re in high school and I’m your fucking toy.” Katya took a deep breath. It looked like she was about to tell Trixie what she hadn’t told anyone in - gosh, was it really seventeen years? It felt like yesterday sometimes, on particularly lonely nights, and other times like a whole other lifetime. “Okay,” she said shakily. “So, you know I was a gymnast in Russia.” Trixie nodded solemnly. Ordinarily she might’ve made a joke about how bendy Katya was during sex or about how she’d gotten old and out of shape; no such joke left her lips. Instead Trixie said, simply, “continue.” “There was this - this girl, on my gymnastics team. Sasha Velour.” Katya closed her eyes for a moment. Saying her old flame’s full name out loud felt like pulling out your favourite book from a dusty shelf after misplacing it for years. She could almost see clearly the sharp features, the thick eyebrows and cropped hair and full lips, almost hear her soft voice crooning “Katinka, we will be together forever.” Katya’s eyes stung, but she forced herself to continue. “I was only a girl then, you know. And I’d never been in love before, never found any of my male classmates attractive, so when I met Sasha it was only then I thought I wasn’t totally… broken. Everything made sense. And, um, we spent all of our time together, and one thing led to another. I’m sure she wasn’t quite as taken with me as I was with her but being with her, it was - it was magic.” Realizing her audience, she added quickly, “just like you. You and Sasha were the only women in all these years who ever made me feel this way.” “Anyway, our coaches found out the summer the two of us were supposed to go to Sydney for the Olympics. As was the law, we were both disqualified and banned from training or competing, and my parents kicked me out of their house. I was homeless for about a year, selling drugs and sex until I got to Boston, and I never heard from Sasha after that. To this day I never knew who turned us in and I’ve never let myself admit it, but there’s always been the suspicion that Sasha betrayed me herself. No one else knew.” Katya finished her story in one breath, trying to sound nonchalant and detached and over it and failing miserably. Trixie’s beautiful brown eyes were wide with a sympathy Katya didn’t deserve. “Oh my God,” she murmured, “that’s… that’s… awful. And that’s why you’ve been so weird about us?” “I guess so,” said Katya hoarsely, “but I don’t want to put all the blame on her. Plenty of people have been heartbroken before and don’t act the way that I do.” “Well, thank you for telling me, Katya. It helps me understand a lot of things. Except - you said that I made you feel that way too.” “Exactly, and that’s why I freaked out,” said Katya. “Not that that’s any excuse, but -” she stopped as Trixie’s hand met hers, the first physical touch since they’d gotten to the gallery. “What if we take things slower?” Trixie proposed cautiously. “It seems like jumping into being in love was what set you off. Why don’t we, like, start over, get to know each other a little better? We don’t have to be a thing right now. Because I don’t think I’m ready either, if you’re going to keep doing this, to be honest. So let’s just… take this slow.” Katya squeezed her kind of-maybe-sort of girlfriend’s hand back.

“I don’t deserve you, Trixie. I really don’t.”

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 3: Lima - In Which I Visit Pisscat Park

After my first proper, uninterrupted sleep in...god knows how many days at this point, you'd think that I might have woken up to my first full day in Lima – and indeed Peru as a whole – with a spring in my step and a song in my heart (a welcome change from the limp and funeral dirge pounding away in my guts that I normally have to endure), however this was unfortunately not the case. Be it from jetlag, overexertion or just my chronic and inexplicable inability to ever feel good, I felt thoroughly and irredeemably mangled.

I peeled myself from the bed and oozed my way to the bathroom. The toilet sported a sign above it which warned me against putting sanitary towels or toilet paper into it. Laughing, I pointed this out to Sam, believing it to be a translation error. I mean where else was I supposed to put my toilet paper, right?

“In the bin.” Came her response.

I laughed again.

“I'm not joking. You're supposed to put toilet paper in the bin, here.”

I stopped laughing and instead slinked, silently deciding then and there to pretty much just ignore that rule when such a time came that it might be pertinent. It's not my sewage system, after all; why should I care if it breaks? 1-0, Lawrence.

The Airbnb in which we were staying was decked out with almost none of the amenities you'd realistically want for preparing food, so, after our breakfast of children's cereal, eaten out of a mug, without a spoon, we were fairly keen to see the back of it and head out into the city for a bit of exploring.

I had pieced together a fairly relaxed agenda for the day, which led us round some of the nicer, less stabby areas of Lima. We walked first along the seafront boulevard, which afforded us both our first ever glimpse of the Pacific Ocean with our own two (four?) eyes

Wow, cool...

oohing and ahhing at the various sights, sounds and smells that the boulevard had to offer

Ooh...

Ahh...

while dodging and weaving through a haze of remarkably persistent tat-peddlers, all trying desperately to part us from our money in exchange for pieces of gaudy turquoise jewellery or stale muffins, sold from broken, leaking plastic containers; dismissing each one with a curt “no, gracias” and the quiet hope that they wouldn't mug us.

Shockingly, our cup full of chocolate cereal didn't do much to satify our hunger for very long, and so we ducked into a seafront creperie for some food, which I am loathe to describe as brunch and which, to be honest, wasn't particularly good, either. I ordered the ceasar salad crepe, which, honestly probably only met its own description by the barest minimum of standards. The sauce was watery and insipid, the chicken overcooked and the crepe itself tasted very strongly of banana. It felt a little like eating everything left in the fridge at the same time, the day before a big food shop. Still finished the whole thing though. I'm not a proud man.

Our walk then continued through an outdoor shopping mall, which was carved, picturesquely into the seafront, which, comparative to other malls in which I've been, was very nice, but was still...pretty much just a shopping centre and offered essentially the same views as the rest of the boulevard did, but with added gaudy designer clothing outlets, so, honestly, it probably wasn't really worth visiting, at all. We did meet Paddington there, however

Paddington, back in his native land after unfortunately being deported due to bear-brexit.

so that was nice.

Continuing our tour of things-that-weren't-as-good-as-we-expected, we walked some fair distance to our next stop: Barranco, which we were told was an artsy little community, full of galleries and artisanal shops and all that hipster bollocks

pictured: wank

however, the parts we saw, at least, seemed to be little more than a motorway (which, of course, we walked down the side of- keeping the vagrant tradition alive) with a couple of museums of contemporary art and the like dotted alongside it, which, both Sam and I unanimously agreed we could not be fucked visiting. We did see the odd, quite impressive mural, painted on the sides of various buildings, though, which were fairly lovely, if still not quite worth the incredibly long walk to see

I mean, if you’re into space-birds or whatever...

Aside from these murals, however, Barranco didn't strike us as particularly different from any of the other areas which we had visited, thus far and so, not wishing to pour any more of our day into that particular time-sink, we headed back to Miraflores and to our next stop, Kennedy Park.

From what we had read about the fairly modestly sized park in the pre-amble to this trip, it was the home of nearly the entirety of Miraflores' stray cat population. This was obviously a tremendously exciting prospect for me as, as fans of this blog will know, nothing makes me feel closer to what I imagine happiness feels like, than befriending a stray cat, and them all being in the same park at the same time was essentially like having a captive audience.

I can't really fault the park, to be honest; it was, as described, full to bursting with strays, all asleep on the grass and raking through bins, like the worlds least well organised cat cafe. Quickly though, it became quite apparent that a lot of them were really not very friendly

10/10 would not touch

and the ones that were, were generally, to describe them in the nicest possible way, unforgivably manky and all fucked up to buggery

Eugh, no.

and all of them, without exception absolutely reeked of piss. I plucked up enough courage, at one point, to give one a stroke along the back of its neck and, genuinely, my hand still faintly smells of its urine, nearly a week later. At least I hope that's what it is...

After sitting for a while, eating a nice bit of cake with my non-dominant, non-pissy hand, we bade farewell to the cats of Kennedy park, receiving a sea of several hundred, furry middle fingers in response, and moved on to our penultimate stop of the day; some pre-incan ruins which were, unusually nestled right in the heart of the city, whose name I can't remember and honestly, wouldn't be able to spell, even if I did.

We walked for so, so very long to get there (to be clear though, geographically they were really very close to Kennedy Park, but every junction and crossing in Lima takes about five solid minutes to cross, thanks to the incredibly heavy and wildly unregulated traffic that, to be totally honest lost its novelty after the second road we had to cross. If I never hear another car horn, ever again  in my life, it will be too soon) and eventually, found ourselves  standing outside the ruins, peering in through the fence, as is the vagrant way.

...Close enough!

We traced our way back to the actual entrance and were greeted by a stern, chubby looking man who told us that you needed to have a guide to enter the ruins and that the last English speaking tour of the day was set to depart in the next few minutes. We quickly debated whether or not to go for it, but to be honest, we were still very tired from the previous day's travels and, given that we had clocked up, at that point, 25,000 steps on my pedometer, both unanimously decided that we couldn't be fucked, though this time at least, we did vow to return later in the trip, because it did actually look pretty neat.

We hobbled back to our apartment, where we rested only briefly, before heading out into the city once more to a restaurant which Sam had picked out for us. A plan, with which I saw no obvious flaws with at its inception.

Now basically dragging our broken little legs behind us, using our hands as sort of rudimentary claws for another twenty minutes, we arrived exhausted and sore at the restaurant. It was only then, that I remembered that Sam is a salty, Geordie fish lady and had therefore chosen a place that almost exclusively served seafood, which, to be totally honest, I was not really in the mood for. Being the hero and very good and supportive boyfriend that I am though and having neither the energy to walk somewhere else nor complain, I silently relented and begrudgingly took my seat.

The place was really very heavily sea-themed, as you might expect of a seafood restaurant, but was only about 8% as classy in reality as it thought it was. I'm not sure how they expected waiters wearing Hawaiian shirts, or seats made from a sawn-in-half rowboat to scream elegance, but it was pitifully apparent that they did. We were served a free taster of ceviche (the national dish of Peru; raw(ish) fish, cooked by some chemical reaction it has to lime juice or something) which was basically fine and an equally free, very alcoholic sour little cocktail thing, which I obviously didn't drink, meaning that Sam had to have mine as well as hers in order to save me (but mostly her) from embarrassment.

I perused (pun intended) the menu and decided that, given that I was in South America, should be a little more daring than I usually would. I didn't really fancy a full plate of Ceviche, however, and so instead, opted for fried calamari with spaghetti and squid-ink sauce after making one hundred per cent certain with the waiter that I would be served rings of calamari and not, as I have seen so often, entire baby squid, which I refuse to eat, because I am a gastric coward.

Obviously, fucking obviously the plate that was plopped down in front of me was positively riddled with fully formed, tiny little baby squid, staring up at me with their sad, black eyes. Perfect. I ate around them, picking out the ones I could see and heaping them onto Sam's plate -  who was not so concerned about fully ingesting entire offspring – though even that was made more difficult than it should have been due to spaghetti, blackened by the squid ink, looking remarkably similar to baby squid tentacles. In the end, I probably had about five mouthfuls of spaghetti and a big sulk. After eating only a crepe and a cup of cereal throughout the day, this was not even close to enough to keep me going, (which is weird because normally a good sulk can sustain me for days). Thus, out of equal parts hunger and spite, I ordered myself a pudding. I'm not sure what it was called, but it was a creamy, cinnamony, biscuity, dulce de leche-y tart thing and it was so good that it single-handedly saved the entire holiday, which, after that meal, I was pretty prepared to just throw in the bin, to be totally honest.

After our meal, the fatigue set in once more (or more accurately just...worsened) and so we paid our far-more-expensive-than-I'd-have-liked-to-have-paid-for-food-I-didn't-really-enjoy bill, hobbled the requisite twenty minutes back home and passed out almost immediately. To be honest, I may even have passed out on the way for all I know. I genuinely remember that little of it.

[destination-of-fate]

(English) After the Rain interview from Utattemita no Hon Magazine (May 2017 edition)

Buy the magazine overseas here (Includes large poster of the Soramafu cover art, as well as lots of other utaite pics and posters!) After the Rain was interviewed in the utaite magazine “Utattemita no Hon” for their May 2017 edition, which was published at the start of April. They discussed each track on their 2 new single CDs, the process that went into making them, and they also answered some random April-themed questions at the end :P Italicized questions here are what the interviewer was asking them to respond to. Enjoy, and let me know if you spot any typos or anything weird~!

Releasing two singles together at the same time is quite a special event. How did you feel when you first planned this?

Soraru: We never thought that we would receive offers to perform the OP and ED for two anime series in the same season, so it was truly an honor. It made me want to be sure that the songs were as good as we possibly could make them. Mafumafu: I associated “singles” with having very few songs included on the CDs, so I caused a fuss and said that I wanted each CD to come with 4 songs. Do you have any memories or topics you’d like to discuss from the creation process? Mafumafu: We immediately failed our “Have a Reasonable Schedule in 2017” plan. Soraru: I was constantly struggling with my bronchitis. It took me much longer than usual to record my vocals, and I really caused Mafumafu a lot of trouble with that… But I believe I did my best, as much as I was able to. Please tell us about your goals and hopes for “After the Rain” in 2017.

Mafumafu: Even if we do large events or sell out concert venues, I hope to spend each day studying things diligently. I want to devote myself to being able to make great music without slacking off or becoming too proud. Soraru: First, I want to be absolutely sure not to neglect my physical health. Other than that, I want to focus and learn how to create even better music. Just like how I played guitar in the filming for our recent music videos, I want to challenge myself to do things that I’ve never done before. -Single #1: Kaidoku Funou- (T/N: Titles in parentheses are my rough English translations of the names. They’re not the official titles, just the meanings.) Kaidoku Funou (Indecipherable) Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu

Soraru: This is the OP song for the anime “Atom: The Beginning.” This is our first theme song as AtR where we handled the sounds and everything entirely by ourselves, and we struggled greatly with parts, but worked really hard on them. I strongly felt that I wanted to make it sound good, since Mafumafu wrote us a really great song, but the more I listened to it, the more I became unsure of what to do. I ended up making major changes to it right before the deadline. I believe that I was able to make it sound satisfactory for all the time I put into it. The version used in the anime has a different mix and mastering than the CD versions, so I hope you are able to hear both of them. Makeinu Drive (Loser Drive) Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Soraru: As far as the sound goes, this is the simplest song out of all 8 of them, and I think it would really excite the crowd if we performed it at a concert. I want everyone in the audience to yell the “woof woof!” part. It was an easier song to mix because it didn’t have a lot of tracks, but Mafumafu has a ton of vocal tracks (harmonies, etc.), so the chorus and harmonies and such during the interludes were really difficult to deal with. I considered its role on the single and tried to make it the kind of song that you can listen to easily and smoothly. Keikoku (Courtesan) Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Mafumafu: I wrote about a person who seems radiant at first glance, but in reality they are trapped somewhere that they don’t want to be, and I compared that to a silkworm moth. Silkworm moths look very lovely, but they can’t fly despite having wings, they don’t even have mouths to intake food or drink, and they die after only a few short days. My songs rarely ever contain any sensual content, so while writing these lyrics, I felt a bit excited, like I was doing something I shouldn’t be (laughs). The expression “rain that has never known the sky” is used as a metaphor for tears, and I particularly liked that phrase so I put it at the very end. As for the sound side of things, in order for the low tones that make up Soraru’s voice to come alive, I arranged the song so that each instrument’s rhythm was even more prominent than the musical pitches themselves. I wonder if it would energize the crowd at a concert (I’m sorry the chorus is so high). 

Wasurerarenbo (Forgotten Love) Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Mafumafu: One day, I happened to come across the words of someone who had drifted away from me, and from that I created this song. The more recognition you get, the more people come to know you as a result, but you also are forgotten by others more as well. That’s what this song is about. I don’t say that in a negative way at all, but rather, I wrote it to say thank you for letting me stay in your life even for just a little bit, and thank you for accepting this purely self-satisfying music of mine. I was very nervous about writing a one-sided song towards my listeners, since ever since I first started this line of work, I’ve always just covered my ears, put up walls around me, and only did the things that I alone wanted to do. I’ve uploaded a video for this song online, and the fact that it was accepted by everyone is just more evidence of how blessed I am. -Single #2: Anti-Clockwise-

Anti-Clockwise Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Mafumafu: I wrote this song as the ED for the anime “Clockwork Planet.” “Anti-Clockwise” means “counter-clockwise.” The lyrics are about the things in life that we’re unable to change as humans, and the ever-present beings who try to stand in our way. I tried to convey a sense of things coming to their end as I wrote it. The section referring to the “partially-destroyed piano” among other things is supposed to express how as innocent children, we found our own ways to enjoy broken toys, and even if that was the wrong way to play with them, we would get completely absorbed in them anyway. The lyrics are hard to understand, but I think I was able to condense the message pretty significantly with how I put it in the song. As for the music, I wanted to make it sound both robotic as well as convey a sense of mechanical insanity. Even right from the beginning it sounds pretty strange, with the intro piano part adopting the essence of an atonal “twelve-tone technique,” and while the other instruments are playing in a key, the piano partially loses its key as it’s mixed in. I really nit-picked with this song’s arrangement. Saiteki na Hito no Ayamekata (The Best Way to Kill Someone) Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu

Soraru: This song is about a girl who falls under what you’d call the “mentally ill” or “yandere” type. She wants to fill the empty space in her heart, so she actually goes and… it’s like that. I wanted to bring out the ominous feeling in this song, so I sang it while thinking in particular about the degree of volume in the chorus. This was the last song we finished, so I think we were able to produce its sounds pretty smoothly. Datsuraku Jinsei E Youkoso (Welcome to Dropout Life) Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Mafumafu: I wrote this song to share jokes, self-deprecation, and black humor directed towards those of us who post videos online! It sounds like a really dumb song, and the lyrics and music itself really are just dumb. I wouldn’t say that it’s disavowing who we are as people, but rather, it’s a positive song about the various people who live in this strange, fun world, as well as an invitation for you to come join us in this world too. It might seem like these lyrics were written with just the “right brain and muscles,” but there’s phrases like “tachimachi tachimashita” and “ori ga oniai no you” included that I think are fun usages of words!

Suisei Ressha no Bell ga Naru (The Bell Rings on the Comet Express) Vocals/Engineering: Soraru | Vocals/Lyrics/Composition/Arrangement: Mafumafu Soraru: This was the first ATR song where we ever recorded live drums or requested certain performances for each part. It was a real struggle to figure out how to work with those sounds. Maybe in a certain way, you could say it was the most difficult of all the songs… We re-recorded parts of the vocals and changed the mix for the CD as well, but the more we performed it at our concerts, the more the “image” of the song became solidified, so now it sounds quite different if you compare it to the original video that we uploaded. I think we improved it quite a bit.

April marks the start of a new school year. How did you two make friends when you entered a new class? Mafumafu: I wonder how I could have done that. Soraru: Mafumafu’s answer is way too sad. You don’t want to waste your youth while you still have it, so first you need to use your courage. It’s best not to wait with things like this. What do you like to eat while looking at cherry blossoms? Soraru: Meat. Mafumafu: Sweet dumplings and sakuramochi. April 26th is “Bath Day.” Please tell us the process of how you bathe. Soraru: I start with the left arm and then rotate around, washing myself as I go. Mafumafu: I enter a healing capsule and my entire body is washed automatically. I like open air baths and cypress wood bathtubs.

[justaplacetothrowanything]

phelim mcdermott on mime

40 Years of the Mime festival This is a transcript of a speech I gave at the opening party of the 40th London International Mime Festival

Phelim Enters stage.. Before he gets to  the mike he opens a mimed door and goes inside the room which the microphone is within.

Phelim: Before I began speaking I wanted you to see something. I wanted you to see the thing that I have done more than anything else onstage. In all the years since I started performing I have entered more imaginary doors than anything else. This is mostly because I have been doing improvised scenes since the mid 80’s. And throughout that time the one thing I have continued to do is enter rooms without knowing what is on the other side.

The beauty of mime of course is that it is as simple as that. Someone walks onstage and with nothing else creates images in the audience’s mind. This ability as many of you here know is mime’s blessing and its curse. There is a reason that Dustin Hoffman pushes over a mime artist in the film Tootsie. What could be more annoying than a mime artist?

The comedian John Dowie tells a story he posted on facebook recently: He is attending an early gig of the newly formed group Tyrannosaurus Rex fronted by the singer Mark Bolan. Before the main act appears a young performer comes onstage to open for them. He then proceeds to perform the most toe-curlingly embarrassing Mime act that has ever been seen….He later learns the name of the performer is David Bowie.

It is 1985 and I am attending an early workshop with the teacher Philipe Gaulier. You can tell it is an early workshop as Philippe is still smoking … He looks like he has one of those joke shop pipes where the moustache is glued to the stem of the pipe.. He sits there fuming…  literally.  In Gaulier’s broken English he Challenges the performers..  He is the embodiment of the ring master archetype..

Next

One by one the performers leap up.

Next

You are not funny..

Urgh.. not funny…

Are we supposed to be laughing..

This is a crime to theatre..

A young  Brazilian performer leaps up excitedly.. He is very keen… And very enthusiastic  He uses his body… This is “Physical theatre”.. Then the unthinkable…

What are you doing here?

You are A MIME!   Aargh.. what are you doing ere.. you are Mime artist. I hate MIME! We don’t want to see this… Please keep this at home… Only In your bedroom.. Get off the stage..

Each time the performer jumps up.. Always the same…

Off!

Off! you are Mime!  We don’t want to see this..,  It is disgusting…

All this is at once very painful and very funny.. On the last day there is what is known in the tradition of the workshop as the Clowns’ rebellion..  Just as every other day.. Our keen Brazilian performer leaps up and is challenged to get off the stage..

OFF!

But wait.. He Summons all the courage in his heart and refuses to budge..

Off the stage…

He does not move

Off!

No.. He is not only sticking his ground.. he is advancing on the ring master and moving towards Gaullier.. And yes he is doing it… he is actually miming a glass wall. Then proceeds one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Gaulier begins to turn red.. He is smoking.. .Fuming…From his pipe…From his ears… He is ra ging… He is also desperately trying not to laugh.. As he is slowly, methodically and beautifully imprisoned within a perfect and very small, glass mime box. I swear to you that box slowly filled up with the smoke from his pipe.

I  make theatre, direct, improvise, devise, it’s visual, physical and live. It often involves putting things together that haven’t been combined together before. That could be the kinds of people involved for example  The Tiger Lilies and puppeteers in Shockheaded Peter. Or It could be the form: Opera with juggling in the Philip Glass Opera Akhnaten. I first came across the Mime festival through hearing about the kind of shows that were in it. First from John Wright at Middlesex Poly and then from talking to like minded performers who were on the kind of training workshop I did with people like Gaulier, Keith Johnstone.  Just now a quick glance through the list of shows from every year amazed me.

40 years! The only year I could find where there wasn’t somebody who I hadn’t perfomed or collaborated with at some point over the years was in 2014. People who make visual theatre are a community that knows how to find each other. The number of people who are influences or inspirations from visual theatre is endless. The seminal gig I did with the Mime festival was the Edward Gory: Vinegar Works trilogy with my then company “dereck,dereck Productions”. We were commissioned to create it by the Mime festival at the Almeida in 1989. We rehearsed the show in Richard Jones’s flat. And created a melodramatic Theatrical Family called “The Frastley’s” who were performing their show as therapy for having their child abducted by “The Insect God”

The final piece in the trilogy:” The West Wing" consisted of strange noises, scene changes as theatre and wallpaper peeling itself off the wall. The costumes were made entirely from hand sown paper and only just outlived the four performances we did. The show was the first to use the melodrama techniques I had learned with Gaullier. If the Vinegar Works hadn’t happened I would never have made “Shock Headed Peter”.

In 2006 at the equivalent of this same evening tonight I was introduced by Joe and Helen to the woman who was performing the aerial show Line Point Plane in the festival.. She is now my wife. I have lots of things to thank the mime festival for..

Of course the Mime festival would not exist without the amazing spirit of Jo Seelig and Helen Lanagan. Every year they never falter when asked the same old question: "Why isn’t the mime festival just about mime?”  Of course  when you think of mime you think of someone opening that invisible door I walked through. However the reason I have done that gesture more than anything else onstage (and this is especially as an improviser) is that of course we know it’s a door.. But on the other side is the unknown.. The as yet unimagined.. To limit what the Mime festival does then just think of that door. To really do it justice remember the infinite world that exists in the imaginative space beyond that frame. The Mime festival is a dream door to the limitless imagination of what theatre can be and all the theatre  that have not yet been imagined. As long as there is a need for that imagination..  (Never more than now… ) and as you know all problems, all conflicts are a failure of the imagination. Then there will always be a need for the Mime festival. It is a beacon for mainstream theatre to aim for and to be inspired by. It’s a home for the visionaries of theatre.As the dreams of the world are ever more threatened the Mime festivals role becomes more vital. We need this place of possibility… It’s cross cultural, multi faith and welcomes the outliers. It brings us together in a place where people’s dreams are made real. I love the mime festival. I love the fact it is still called the mime festival. A true home for the theatre that is beyond language. Ladies and gentleman please raise your glasses and if you don’t have one you know what you have to do…

Mimes raising a glass

Ladies and gentlemen.. The 40th London International Mime Festival.

[clusterform]

40 Years of the Mime festival

This is a transcript of a speech I gave at the opening party of the 40th London International Mime Festival

 Phelim Enters stage.. Before he gets to  the mike he opens a mimed door and goes inside the room which the microphone is within.

Phelim: Before I began speaking I wanted you to see something. I wanted you to see the thing that I have done more than anything else onstage. In all the years since I started performing I have entered more imaginary doors than anything else. This is mostly because I have been doing improvised scenes since the mid 80’s. And throughout that time the one thing I have continued to do is enter rooms without knowing what is on the other side.

The beauty of mime of course is that it is as simple as that. Someone walks onstage and with nothing else creates images in the audience’s mind. This ability as many of you here know is mime’s blessing and its curse. There is a reason that Dustin Hoffman pushes over a mime artist in the film Tootsie. What could be more annoying than a mime artist? 

The comedian John Dowie tells a story he posted on facebook recently: He is attending an early gig of the newly formed group Tyrannosaurus Rex fronted by the singer Mark Bolan. Before the main act appears a young performer comes onstage to open for them. He then proceeds to perform the most toe-curlingly embarrassing Mime act that has ever been seen….He later learns the name of the performer is David Bowie. 

It is 1985 and I am attending an early workshop with the teacher Philipe Gaulier. You can tell it is an early workshop as Philippe is still smoking … He looks like he has one of those joke shop pipes where the moustache is glued to the stem of the pipe.. He sits there fuming…  literally.  In Gaulier’s broken English he Challenges the performers..  He is the embodiment of the ring master archetype..

Next

One by one the performers leap up. 

Next

You are not funny..

Urgh.. not funny…

Are we supposed to be laughing..

This is a crime to theatre..

A young  Brazilian performer leaps up excitedly.. He is very keen… And very enthusiastic  He uses his body… This is “Physical theatre”.. Then the unthinkable…

What are you doing here? 

 You are A MIME!   Aargh.. what are you doing ere.. you are Mime artist. I hate MIME! We don’t want to see this… Please keep this at home… Only In your bedroom.. Get off the stage..

Each time the performer jumps up.. Always the same…

Off!

Off! you are Mime!  We don’t want to see this..,  It is disgusting…

All this is at once very painful and very funny.. On the last day there is what is known in the tradition of the workshop as the Clowns’ rebellion..  Just as every other day.. Our keen Brazilian performer leaps up and is challenged to get off the stage..

OFF!

But wait.. He Summons all the courage in his heart and refuses to budge..

Off the stage…

He does not move

Off!

No.. He is not only sticking his ground.. he is advancing on the ring master and moving towards Gaullier.. And yes he is doing it… he is actually miming a glass wall. Then proceeds one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Gaulier begins to turn red.. He is smoking.. .Fuming…From his pipe…From his ears… He is ra ging… He is also desperately trying not to laugh.. As he is slowly, methodically and beautifully imprisoned within a perfect and very small, glass mime box. I swear to you that box slowly filled up with the smoke from his pipe.

I  make theatre, direct, improvise, devise, it’s visual, physical and live. It often involves putting things together that haven’t been combined together before. That could be the kinds of people involved for example  The Tiger Lilies and puppeteers in Shockheaded Peter. Or It could be the form: Opera with juggling in the Philip Glass Opera Akhnaten. I first came across the Mime festival through hearing about the kind of shows that were in it. First from John Wright at Middlesex Poly and then from talking to like minded performers who were on the kind of training workshop I did with people like Gaulier, Keith Johnstone.  Just now a quick glance through the list of shows from every year amazed me.

40 years! The only year I could find where there wasn’t somebody who I hadn’t perfomed or collaborated with at some point over the years was in 2014. People who make visual theatre are a community that knows how to find each other. The number of people who are influences or inspirations from visual theatre is endless. The seminal gig I did with the Mime festival was the Edward Gory: Vinegar Works trilogy with my then company “dereck,dereck Productions”. We were commissioned to create it by the Mime festival at the Almeida in 1989. We rehearsed the show in Richard Jones’s flat. And created a melodramatic Theatrical Family called “The Frastley’s” who were performing their show as therapy for having their child abducted by “The Insect God”

 The final piece in the trilogy:” The West Wing" consisted of strange noises, scene changes as theatre and wallpaper peeling itself off the wall. The costumes were made entirely from hand sown paper and only just outlived the four performances we did. The show was the first to use the melodrama techniques I had learned with Gaullier. If the Vinegar Works hadn’t happened I would never have made “Shock Headed Peter”. 

In 2006 at the equivalent of this same evening tonight I was introduced by Joe and Helen to the woman who was performing the aerial show Line Point Plane in the festival.. Matilda Leyser is now my wife. I have lots of things to thank the mime festival for.. 

Of course the Mime festival would not exist without the amazing spirit of Jo Seelig and Helen Lanagan. Every year they never falter when asked the same old question: "Why isn’t the mime festival just about mime?”  Of course  when you think of mime you think of someone opening that invisible door I walked through. However the reason I have done that gesture more than anything else onstage (and this is especially as an improviser) is that of course we know it’s a door.. But on the other side is the unknown.. The as yet unimagined.. To limit what the Mime festival does then just think of that door. To really do it justice remember the infinite world that exists in the imaginative space beyond that frame. The Mime festival is a dream door to the limitless imagination of what theatre can be and all the theatre  that have not yet been imagined. As long as there is a need for that imagination..  (Never more than now… ) and as you know all problems, all conflicts are a failure of the imagination. Then there will always be a need for the Mime festival. It is a beacon for mainstream theatre to aim for and to be inspired by. It’s a home for the visionaries of theatre.As the dreams of the world are ever more threatened the Mime festivals role becomes more vital. We need this place of possibility… It’s cross cultural, multi faith and welcomes the outliers. It brings us together in a place where people’s dreams are made real. I love the mime festival. I love the fact it is still called the mime festival. A true home for the theatre that is beyond language. Ladies and gentleman please raise your glasses and if you don’t have one you know what you have to do…

Mimes raising a glass

Ladies and gentlemen.. The 40th London International Mime Festival.