#but just picture arthur being naively oblivious to everything you’re supposed to do as a parent in the modern world

[aetherdecember]

Another snippet from my Flipping the Coin au. Probably won’t make it into the actual fic, but I’ve been obsessed with these two and keep finding myself writing moments like this ^^

…

Mordred was sprawled over Arthur’s chest, with his thumb tucked in his mouth, and blue eyes serious as he listened to the story with the gravity of a judge. The two of them are slumped in their favorite armchair, the red velvet blotchy from numerous spilled drinks, sticky snacks, and misguided attempts at crafts. It was too warm for a fire, but in the dim evening, with the lone table lamp for light and the window cracked open for a breath of air, it took Arthur back to countless evenings spent in another room. One built of stone and lit only by candle flame.

Aloud, Arthur read, “Because he was the king…”

Personally, it wasn’t his favorite retelling, but Mordred had seen his name on the cover and insisted on hearing it, so he had conceded. Maybe he should’ve waited until Mordred was older before telling him that there were stories about characters who shared their names, but in these last few years, the events from long ago had been so close to mind Arthur had wanted to share it. He assumed Mordred would fixate on the sword fighting and tournaments. Instead, Mordred had picked a book that started with babies being sent out to sea.

“Two by two, he carried—“

Mordred pulled his thumb out of his mouth. “Did you really do that?”

“No.” Arthur marked his spot with a finger and ruffled the thick, black curls. Still damp from the bath, they were in need of a comb. And soon, if Arthur hoped to avoid dealing with tangles. “I never did that.” Dipping his fingers to tickle the back of Mordred’s neck, he smiled as Mordred giggled and tried to escape. “I could never.”

Sitting up, Mordred’s knobby limbs found all of Arthur’s soft spots as he settled knees first on top of Arthur’s chest. “If you had to, could you?”

“Would you,” Arthur automatically corrected.

“Would I?” Mordred’s pitch went comically high. “Nooooooo! Would you!”

Arthur gave him a look, one that Mordred immediately leaned in and mimicked with a giggle. “Would I, Arthur Penn, a man far removed from the ancient past, cast a boat full of babies into the ocean? Absolutely not.”

“What if Merlin told you to?”

He’d never had to. History hadn’t played out like that. But Arthur couldn’t tell his young son that he definitely knew it hadn’t happened because he couldn’t even explain his own past and all that entailed. All Mordred knew was that his father was named after King Arthur, so that meant he’d been named after Mordred. Because they were father and son and that was how it was supposed to be. He didn’t know that in another life they hadn’t been related and that the first time Merlin met Mordred he had helped save him.

“Nope.” Arthur popped the ‘p’. Out of Mordred’s sight, he set the book on the ground. It was time for a better story anyway. “Not even then.”

“What if Merlin did it?”

“Listen, let me tell you about the—“ He almost said ‘the Mordred I knew’ but luckily stopped. Instead, he says, “—the story I heard. It took place when Uther was still king. The first time Arthur met Mordred he was only a little boy…”

[letterboxd]

Bong Hit!

Today Parasite overtook The Godfather as the highest-rated narrative feature film on Letterboxd. We examine what this means, and bring you the story of the birth of the #BongHive.

It’s Bong Joon-ho’s world and we’re just basement-dwelling in it. While there is still (at time of publication) just one one-thousandth of a point separating them, Bong’s Palme d’Or-winning Parasite has overtaken Francis Ford Coppola’s Oscar-winning The Godfather to become our highest-rated narrative feature.

In May, we pegged Parasite at number one in our round-up of the top ten Cannes premieres. By September, when we met up with Director Bong on the TIFF red carpet, Parasite was not only the highest-rated film of 2019, but of the decade. (“I’m very happy with that!” he told us.)

Look, art isn’t a competition—and this may be short-lived—but it’s as good a time as any to take stock of why Bong’s wild tale of the Kim and Park families is hitting so hard with film lovers worldwide. To do so, we’ve waded through your Parasite reviews (warning: mild spoilers below; further spoilers if you click the review links). And further below, member Ella Kemp recalls the very beginnings of the #BongHive.

Bong Joon-ho on set with actors Choi Woo-shik and Cho Yeo-jeong.

The Letterboxd community on Parasite

On the filmmaking technique: “Parasite is structured like a hill: the first act is an incredible trek upward toward the light, toward riches, toward reclaiming a sense of humanity as defined by financial stability and self-reliance. There is joy, there is quirk, there is enough air to breathe to allow for laughter and mischief.

“But every hill must go down, and Parasite is an incredibly balanced, plotted, and paced descent downward into darkness. The horror doesn’t rely on shock value, but rather is built upon a slow-burning dread that is rooted in the tainted soil of class, society, and duty… Bong Joon-ho dresses this disease up in beautiful sets and empathetic framing (the camera doesn’t gawk, but perceives invisible connections and overt inequalities)—only to unravel it with deft hands.” —Tay

“Bong’s use of landscape, architecture, and space is simply arresting.” —Taylor Baker

“There is a clear and forceful guiding purpose behind the camera, and it shows. The dialogue is incredibly smart and the entire ensemble is brilliant, but the most beautiful work is perhaps done through visual language. Every single frame tells you exactly what you need to know while pulling you in to look for more—the stunning production design behind the sleek, clinical nature of one home and the cramped, gritty nature of the other sets up a playpen of contrasts for the actors and the script.” —Kevin Yang

On how to classify Parasite: “Masterfully constructed and thoroughly compelling genre piece (effortlessly transitioning between familial drama, heist movie, satirical farce, subterranean horror) about the perverse and mutating symbiotic relationship of increasingly unequal, transactional class relationships, and who can and can’t afford to be oblivious about the severe, violent material/psychic toll of capitalist accumulation.” —Josh Lewis

“This is an excellent argument for the inherent weakness of genre categories. Seriously, what genre is this movie? It’s all of them and none of them. It’s just Parasite.” —Nick Wibert

“The director refers to his furious and fiendishly well-crafted new film as a ‘family tragicomedy’, but the best thing about Parasite is that it gives us permission to stop trying to sort his movies into any sort of pre-existing taxonomy—with Parasite, Bong finally becomes a genre unto himself.” —David Ehrlich

On the duality of the plot: “There are houses on hills, and houses underground. There is plenty of sun, but it isn't for everybody. There are people grateful to be slaves, and people unhappy to be served. There are systems that we are born into, and they create these lines that cannot be crossed. And we all dream of something better, but we’ve been living with these lines for so long that we've convinced ourselves that there really isn’t anything to be done.” —Philbert Dy

“The Parks are bafflingly naive and blissfully ignorant of the fact that their success and wealth is built off the backs of the invisible working class. This obliviousness and bewilderment to social and class inequities somehow make the Parks even more despicable than if they were to be pompous and arrogant about their privilege.

“This is not to say the Kims are made to be saints by virtue of the Parks’ ignorance. The Kims are relentless and conniving as they assimilate into the Park family, leeching off their wealth and privilege. But even as the Kims become increasingly convincing in their respective roles, the film questions whether they can truly fit within this higher class.” —Ethan

On how the film leaps geographical barriers: “As a satire on social climbing and the aloofness of the upper class, it’s dead-on and has parallels to the American Dream that American viewers are unlikely to miss; as a dark comedy, it’s often laugh-aloud hilarious in its audacity; as a thriller, it has brilliantly executed moments of tension and surprises that genuinely caught me off guard; and as a drama about family dynamics, it has tender moments that stand out all the more because of how they’re juxtaposed with so much cynicism elsewhere in the film. Handling so many different tones is an immensely difficult balancing act, yet Bong handles all of it so skilfully that he makes it feel effortless.” —C. Roll

“One of the best things about it, I think, is the fact that I could honestly recommend it to anyone, even though I can't even try to describe it to someone. One may think, due to the picture’s academic praise and the general public’s misconceptions about foreign cinema, that this is some slow, artsy film for snobby cinephiles, but it’s quite the contrary: it’s entertaining, engaging and accessible from start to finish.” —Pedro Machado

On the performative nature of image: “A família pobre que se infiltra no espaço da família rica trata a encenação—a dissimulação, os novos papéis que cada um desempenha—como uma espécie de luta de classes travada no palco das aparências. Uma luta de classes que usa a potência da imagem e do drama (os personagens escrevem os seus textos e mudam a sua aparência para passar por outras pessoas) como uma forma de reapropriação da propriedade e dos valores alheios.

“A grande proposta de Parasite é reconhecer que a ideia do conhecimento, consequentemente a natureza financeira e moral desse conhecimento, não passa de uma questão de performance. No capitalismo imediatista de hoje fingir saber é mais importante do que de fato saber.” —Arthur Tuoto

(Translation: “The poor family that infiltrates the rich family space treats the performance—the concealment, the new roles each plays—as a kind of class struggle waged on the stage of appearances. A class struggle that uses the power of image and drama (characters write their stories and change their appearance to pass for other people) as a form of reappropriation of the property and values ​​of others.

“Parasite’s great proposal is to recognize that the idea of ​​knowledge, therefore the financial and moral nature of that knowledge, is a matter of performance. In today’s immediate capitalism, pretending to know is more important than actually knowing.”)

Things you’re noticing on re-watches: “Min and Mr. Park are both seen as powerful figures deserving of respect, and the way they dismissively respond to an earnest question about whether they truly care for the people they’re supposed to tells us a lot about how powerful people think about not just the people below them, but everyone in their lives.” —Demi Adejuyigbe

“When I first saw the trailer and saw Song Kang-ho in a Native American headdress I was a little taken aback. But the execution of the ideas, that these rich people will siphon off of everything, whether it’s poor people or disenfranchised cultures all the way across the world just to make their son happy, without properly taking the time to understand that culture, is pretty brilliant. I noticed a lot more subtlety with that specific example this time around.” —London

“I only noticed it on the second viewing, but the film opens and closes on the same shot. Socks are drying on a rack hanging in the semi-basement by the window. The camera pans down to a hopeful Ki-Woo sitting on his bed… if the film shows anything, it might be that the ways we usually approach ‘solving’ poverty and ‘fixing’ the class struggle often just reinforce how things have been since the beginning.” —Houston

The birth of the #BongHive

London-based writer and Letterboxd member Ella Kemp attended Cannes for Culture Whisper, and was waiting in the Parasite queue with fellow writers Karen Han and Iana Murray when the hashtag #BongHive was born. Letterboxd editor Gemma Gracewood asked her to recall that day.

Take us back to the day that #BongHive sprang into life. Ella Kemp: I’m so glad you asked. Picture the scene: we were in the queue to watch the world premiere of Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite at Cannes. It was toward the end of the festival; Once Upon a Time in Hollywood had already screened…

Can you describe for our members what those film festival queues are like? The queues in Cannes are very precise, and very strict and categorized. When you’re attending the festival as press, there are a number of different tiers that you can be assigned—white tier, pink tier, blue tier or yellow tier—and that’s the queue you have to stay in. And depending on which tier you’re in, a certain number of tiers will get into the film before you, no matter how late they arrive. Now, yellow is the lowest tier and it is the tier I was in this year. But, you know, I didn’t get shut out of any films I tried to go into, so I don’t want to speak ill of being yellow!

So, spirits are still high in the yellow queue before going to see Parasite. I was with friends and colleagues Iana Murray [writer for GQ, i-D, Much Ado About Cinema, Little White Lies], Karen Han [New York Times, Vanity Fair, Vulture, The Atlantic] and Jake Cunningham [of the Curzon and Ghibliotheque podcasts] who were also very excited for the film. We queued quite early, because obviously if you’re at the start of a queue and only two yellow tier people get in, you want that to be you.

So we had some time to spare, and we’re all very ‘online’ people and the 45 minutes in that queue was no different. So we just started tweeting, as you do. We thought, ‘Oh we’re just gonna tweet some stuff and see if it catches on.’ It might not, but at least we could kill some time.

So we just started tweeting #BongHive. And not explaining it too much.

#BongHive

— karen han (@karenyhan)

May 21, 2019

Within the realms of stan culture, I would argue that hashtags are more applicable to actors and musicians. Ariana Grande has her army of fans and they have their own hashtag. Justin Bieber has his, One Direction, all of them. But we thought, ‘You know who needs one and doesn’t have one right now? Bong Joon-ho.’

And so, you know, we tweeted it a couple of times, but I think what mattered the most was that there was no context, there was no logic, but there was consistency and insistence. So we tweeted it two or three times, and then the film started and we thought right, let’s see if this pays off. Because it could have been disappointing and we could have not wanted to be part of, you know, any kind of hype.

SMILE PRESIDENT @karenyhan #BongHive pic.twitter.com/Dk7T8bFYtv

— Ella Kemp (@ella_kemp)

May 21, 2019

But, Parasite was Parasite. So we walked out of it and thought, ‘Oh yes, the #BongHive is alive and kicking.’

I think what was interesting was that it came at that point in the festival when enthusiasm dipped. Everyone was very tired, and we were really tired, which is why we were tweeting illogical things. It was late at night by the time we came out of that film. It was close to midnight and we should have gone to bed, probably.

Because, first world problems, it is exhausting watching five, six, seven films a day at a film festival, trying to find sustenance that’s not popcorn, and form logical thoughts around these works of art. Yes! It was nice to have fun with something. But what happened next was [Parasite distributor] Neon clocked it and went, ‘Oh wait, there’s something we can do there’. And then they took it, and it flew into the world, and now the #BongHive is worldwide.

I love the formality of Korean language and the way that South Koreans speak of their elders with such respect. I enjoyed being on the red carpet at TIFF hearing the Korean media refer to Bong Joon-ho as ‘Director Bong’. It’s what he deserves!

I like to imagine a world where it’s ‘Director Gerwig’, ‘Director Campion’, ‘Director Sciamma’… Exactly.

Related content:

Ella Kemp’s review of Parasite for Culture Whisper.

Letterboxd list: The directors Bong Joon-ho would like you to watch next.

Our interview with Director Bong, in which he reveals just how many times he’s watched Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

“I’m very awkward.” Bong Joon-ho’s first words following the standing ovation at Cannes for Parasite’s world premiere.

Karen Han interviews Director Bong for Polygon, with a particular interest in how he translated the film for non-Korean audiences. (Here’s Han’s original Parasite review out of Cannes; and here’s what happened when a translator asked her “Are you bong hive?” in front of the director.)

Haven’t seen Parasite yet? Here are the films recommended by Bong Joon-ho for you to watch in preparation.

With thanks to Matt Singer for the headline.

[toxicityrp]

   MORPHINE ● OWNER OF THE ST. VINCENT ● CLOSED

      ❝ If I knew a word that could embody who Morphine is,             I’d be fuckin’ using it right now.        I can’t even have a straight conversation with     the guy without him shitting on me. He’s got style             but I really fuckin’ dislike him. ❞

THE SINNER.

“I don’t know what goes on in a child’s early life that ends up producing people like Felix and Fiona Duval. One would hope that it would be some dreadful horror story, death, abuse, or rampant mental illness at the very least. But in reality, such things are rare, and some are just born bad. I know it is an unpleasant thing to say, but Felix and his sister are bad apples, rotten to the core, and no amount of education, positive influence or opportunities will change that. I hated using the word ‘evil’ especially when talking about children, but if there was a single redeeming quality in either of those two I was never able to see it. They were the sort of infants who would pull the wings off butterflies simply to watch them die.  Irredeemable. Often with children like this, you blame the parents. But with the Duval siblings it runs deeper then that. They were born nasty, life just got in the way.

                                                                            - John G. Norris - School Teacher

It was hard to believe it was real, but there was a time when Felix actually remembered when his mother would hum, not around the house or in the kitchen like a sugar-coated fairy tale, but while playing cards. She’d shuffle the cards in her hand, shifting them to her pleasure, perhaps throwing in a lyric under her breath; an old standard from the time of her parents. At one point she would glance over to Felix, knowing he was watching her, giving him a quick wink and a sly smile. Felix was five. The game of choice was gin. No child’s games for Felix, never go fish or old maid. Not for Gertrude’s boy. Gertrude talked to Felix and treated Felix like the adult he already was, for the two of them had practically grown up together. Married at twenty, pregnant by twenty one, life wasn’t at all what Gertrude had thought it would be. But, being a smart girl, Gertrude learned fast, she adapted fast. She’d gone from a naive school girl to learning the lessons of life in a blink of an eye. Life wasn’t to be seen through rose-colored glasses, secrets had to be kept for the protection of others; and love wasn’t a living, breathing thing, but an idea. The world isn’t put together in picture perfect boxes with nice bows. The only people who love you back are your children. Life is hell and the world can’t be saved with pleases and thank yous.

On the day Gertrude Duval turns twenty, she opens her eyes and decides her life is over. She behaved like a dizzy idiot and married for love, without even knowing the man she fell in love with very well, and got pregnant before realising she didn’t have the first idea of how to be a mother. Now her husband has left her for a younger woman, which makes her seem like a widow though she isn’t, with everyone looking at her either pityingly or telling her she must be so very proud. She tries not to remember loving him at all, because that will make it easier once she gets the inevitable announcement. There is the child, living proof that she went through it all, the handholding, the gazing into each other’s eyes, the memorising of stupid song lyrics because the song played at some point in their ridiculously brief romance, the unprotected sex because she wanted him so much. All of this happened. If it hadn’t, Gertrude would have finished college. She has a first class mind, and she would have defied gender expectations and gone to Washington, first as someone’s aide, but then rising to the top in her own right, she’s sure of it. And then, only then, when she was ready, she would have married, and he would have been quietly supportive. None of this will ever happen, she thinks, and stares at the baby the nanny places in her arms. The baby’s eyes have a trace of blue or green, depending on the light, like his father’s. The hair is auburn, like Gertrude’s own. It feels very soft under her finger tips.

“Knock, Knock…” The nanny not only knocked on the door but spoke the words at the same time. She was trying to be cheery, she was just irritating as hell, Gertrude thought. From her bed, Gertrude glanced over at the nanny in her doorway. But only for a moment, before rolling herself back toward the window, looking out with a glazed over look in her eyes. She felt like a hard rock, heavy and filled with nothing of note or purpose. Gertrude felt like everything she had known to be true didn’t exist – nothing felt right. It was like she didn’t know her left from her right. She had nothing to believe in anymore. The nanny had Felix in one of those little hospital cribs with clear plastic sides to it. “I brought the baby …” The nanny wheeled Felix toward the other side of the bed, but Gertrude wouldn’t look at him. “Lucky” The nanny said with her saccharin smile. “What?” Gertrude asked in her groggy voice. “Felix – it means Lucky. I assumed you knew. Why you named him…?”

“Does it…” Gertrude’s voice trailed off. “Maybe that’s why…” She didn’t seem interested, or maybe it just reminded her of her dreams and how they weren’t anything at all, they were just dreams. Then Felix cried and it hit something in Gertrude’s soul. She cocked her head toward the baby and the emotion hit her. Here was her child. Here was her son. The nanny saw it. “Do you want to hold him?” She smiles, and holds the baby for her to take. “Yes…” Gertrude pulled herself up in bed, she was still sore and it was hard for her to move. “I.. I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. The nanny instructed Gertrude on how to hold him before she placed young Felix in her arms. “You shouldn’t have happened,“ Gertrude says. The nanny is shocked. “Now, now, Mrs. D, you mustn’t say things like that.” she tuts, with the mixture of disapproval, pity and condescension a woman of forty has for one of twenty, especially if the younger woman can be seen as a spoiled brat. “It was a statement of fact,” Gertrude says coldly. “You’re fired. This is also a statement of fact.” The nanny babbles on, but Gertrude ceases to listen. Instead, she looks at the baby. Her son. Arthur’s son. Her future, all the future she’s going to have now. The injustice of it makes her rage. And yet, and yet. He doesn’t feel like a burden at all. The nanny probably hasn’t fed him enough; yet another mark against that woman. “You shouldn’t have happened,” Gertrude repeats, “but now that you have, you’re going to be worth it.”

“Felix and Fiona were lovely when they were little. I know, that sounds a little unbelievable now, but they were really beautiful. Blonde hair and bright little eyes. And they hardly ever cried. They just looked around them and stared up as if they were trying to absorb everything around them. Intelligent, too. They walked very early, and were always trying out new things. They used to repeat whatever they heard their parents say, though some of it wasn’t very nice, they were only small and didn’t realize it. Certainly, they had their flaws.  Felix didn’t seem to like his sister at first. I think he was jealous of all the attention she got. He grew out of it. In fact, afterwards he used to do whatever his sister told him to, no matter how trivial. If she asked him to fetch her something, he would do it without question. It was rather sweet really. I always thought he would grow up to be a gentleman. The two of them were constantly whispering together, about what I really don’t know. Making plans I suppose. But they grew up far too quickly, and the things Felix used to say…It is just too awful to repeat. I have to admit, as much as I loved those children in their infancy, I was glad when it was my time to leave. They didn’t need a nanny any longer, and I hated watching what was happening to those kids. I’m not sure if their parents were oblivious to this behavior, or even, god forbid, encouraged it but it would lead to nothing but pain. It was just a matter of seeing whether it would be their pain, or somebody else’s.”

                                  - Elizabeth Warner - Nanny

His father doesn’t see him the day he is born. After so many failed attempts at conceiving, and fights over miscarriages, affairs and pointing fingers, Arthur Duval leaves his very pregnant wife and his unborn son to their own mercy. It’s not because he is afraid of the responsibility of becoming a new dad, since he has long been preparing for it. But his relationship with Gertrude is starting to make him feel inadequate as a husband. And he knows deep down, that even though he will make a good father, he was not sure if the baby that was about to be born will make a good son. If he will rise to his expectations or just be a disappointment. His absence lasts two years, and when he meets Felix for the first time, he wishes to feel something. Anything that would let him know that this was his own flesh and blood. Sadly, he feels no connection to the boy standing a few feet above the ground, and who was now looking up at him with wonder in his eyes. “I’m your father”. He said the words in order to reassure himself that in fact he was his father, but the words were empty … meaningless. It takes him a few years to find affection for Felix, because everything that he does is not good enough. Arthur believes that his son is a weak link, and he tries to push him harder. He needs to be faster, smarter, and most of all, he needs to be stronger. The first time Felix cries, his father slaps him and tells him that his tears are not welcome, and that nothing will ever be gained by weeping.

Felix’s earliest memory is of his father, which in itself is strange because he can count the number of private interviews with his father on one hand, and he certainly couldn’t remember anyone pushing for intimacy between the two of them. Not that he’s complaining, Felix never wanted anything to do with him either. But this memory is of a man on man interview in his library. He remembers the sunlight filtering through a gap in the heavy velvet curtain, the spines of leather bound books lit up like holy tomes on the high wooden shelves. He was five, maybe six years old, and his ability to read was limited at best, so all of the business jargon felt like words of another world, and Felix could do nothing more then simply admire the lettering as his father asked him questions. Was he looking after his sister? Yes. If by ‘looking after’ he meant putting worms from the garden in her bed and/or pulling her hair till she cried like a girl. Did he listen to his nanny, do what he was told? Yes. Or at least, he did after she’d asked him the fifth or sixth time and boxed his ears to get his attention. He’s getting tall, he’ll be a grown man soon. Yes. Not soon enough though. When he gets older, he’ll be going off to school, is he looking forward to that? Yes. Why not, it can’t be any different then here. Felix was looking forward to that. His father asked him if his hands were clean. Obligingly Felix held them out for inspection, and his father eyed the dirty nails for a moment before proclaiming them ‘good enough’ and handing one of the books down from the top shelf. It was so heavy that he could barely open the front cover. Never mind that, turn the page. Words on paper. Family secrets. And though his young mind couldn’t quite find the words to voice it, he felt a thrill of anticipation for the future. His future. This was broader then politics, he had seen that deep place in the human psyche which told what people were really capable of. No morals, no feelings. Just power and control. He looked down at his pale, pudgy hand, and suddenly clenched it into a tight fist, nails digging into his palm and knuckles turning white.

“I went to high school at the same time as the Felix Duval. I can’t say I wanted much to do with him, even then. He looked nasty…I mean, nastier then usual. He had this dark heavy look about him, and when he smiled it was more like a smirk. He was always leaning over, chatting to his sister, and then she’d let out this mean, hard sounding laugh and point at someone different. It was obvious he didn’t care about anyone apart from their own sick little sense of fun. Felix showed his true colours pretty early. He bumped into this kid once and made him drop his bags, and Felix slapped it straight across the face as hard as he could. I couldn’t see his parents there, but even if they were, from the way he acted the probably wouldn’t be told off for it. He carried himself like he could do whatever he wanted. And all he wanted to do was be as miserable as possible.”

                                               - Jack Miller - Former classmate

When Felix was 20, he got a girl in pregnant, a girl who was unsuitable in every possible way. It didn’t soothe his mother in the least. For one thing, Felix did not know, and so he did even have that much of an excuse. For another, Gertrude could tell that Felix would never be more than mediocre if he married his trashy blonde. Even if he didn’t marry her but had an openly acknowledged illegitimate daughter. While her husband verbalises his anger and indignation, and resorts to silent icy stares instead, Gertrude sat patiently. There he is, her son, going on about accidents and fate and maybe and what if, and she could imagine him, taking the girl dancing, holding hands, forgetting every bit of caution life as a Duval ever taught him. You’re not supposed to be like this. Not you. So she gave the girl enough money to disappear. “Take care of it”, she asked of her. “And trust me child, I will know if you haven’t”

“Felix’s student record is hardly glorious. Average grades in his classes, with moments of below average. He was not a stupid child, he had an aptitude for academics which raised some people’s hopes. But he was stubborn when it came to learning - easily bored and impossible to keep on track. He lived in his own world, where knowledge was something you could pick and choose from. But he was bright. Crafty. Always searching for people’s weak spots, and taking advantage of them whenever they were shown. He was suspended from school twice. The first time was second year, he snuck some alcohol and fed it to the school’s parrot and killed it. Felix was sent him home for a week. You could tell by his bearing that he certainly didn’t get any punishment there. The second time was in sixth year, when a student was seriously injured. At first no one came forward, and then finally some fingers were pointed at the him, amongst other kids and Felix stepped forward. He pleaded an accident, but he could barely constrain that leering smile of his. Even at sixteen he had slipped away from us, and there was nothing definite to pin on him. Even the girl he hurt wouldn’t say for certain who it had been. The poor thing was frightened half to death. So he went home for two weeks, then returned to school, the dread of some of his classmates and the hero of others. It makes me feel ill to think of what he might be up to now.”

                    - Patricia Crowley, High School Principal

Felix smiled on the inside as his father died. He smiled through the funeral. He smiled through the parade of commiserating mourners; those who cared, and those who didn’t care, and those who thought they should but couldn’t. He smiled, because he’d finally learned what his father had tried so long to teach him. Victory. The true goal, the only goal. Not just to best your enemy, but to see him removed from the game forever. To be victorious. He’d struggled for so long, because he hadn’t understood. He’d wanted acknowledgement; he’d wanted his enemy to bow his head and surrender. But there was no room in victory for surrender. Only obliteration. The purpose of winning was not to see your enemy humbled. The purpose of winning was not to prove that you could do it. The purpose of winning was to win. In that moment of clarity, that moment of decision, he’d seen it all. His father had called for his help, and at last, he’d been in the position of strength. He’d been in the position to chose between mercy and victory. There was no room in business for mercy. There was no room in business for altruism. There was no room in business for emotion. Only for cold, logical decision-making.

And in that instant, he’d finally mastered the biggest secret of them all, discovered the key to that Duval detachment. The ability to assess the situation coolly, impassively, scientifically. To see the opportunity for what it was, removed from all the trappings of emotion and sentiment that could cloud his judgement. The key to victory was to destroy your enemy. Nothing less would do. And should the perfect opportunity present itself… Well, business was business. Nothing personal. It had taken him a long time to learn that secret, to find the truth in those two words, to separate himself out from his decisions and see them without emotion. Freed from that weakness, free to see them the logical way. The Duval way. His father’s way. It had taken him a long time… but now he understood. And he smiled. He smiled as he entered his father’s office, smiled as he sat at his father’s desk, smiled as he reached for the hidden compartment that he knew without a doubt had to be there. Smiled as he absorbed the secrets of a man who no longer seemed such an enigma. Yes, at last he understood Arthur Duval - and in understanding him, had finally defeated him. He’d watched his father die, with no expression on his face. And on the inside, at long last, there had been nothing. Nothing, but a secret smile. And still he smiled as he emptied out the remnants of his father’s secrets; absorbed him, consumed him, broke him down and took him over. He read reports of operations with names that had never been spoken aloud. Flicked through diaries of clandestine meetings. Skimmed contracts for underhand dealings. Lifted the last of the papers aside, and saw the photograph.

Hidden away at the bottom of the door, but cracked with age and folding; battered around the corners from twenty years of being handled. Just a photograph. His mother, looking on, her eyes alight with the softness of affection, and his father, looking down. Looking down at the baby in his hands as if it was the most precious thing the world had created.

That was when he stopped smiling.

“I’ll never forget that day. Gertrude had taken what was supposed to be a quiet dinner and turned it into another of her social gatherings, with several of my colleagues and their wives, each possessing ample conversation to fill in what my children lacked. business moguls, the lot of them. I can’t say I regretted nor noted his silence till I thought back upon the evening, he had always been quiet in my experience, and I thought it showed a proper respect for authority. But as dinner drew to a close something sparked Felix’s indignation, and he said something very shocking, which made his mother grow pale in embarrassment and would likely harm my standing amongst my colleagues. I took him aside, and if he had been younger I would of distributed justice in the usual way. But he was an adult now, and I was a little more wary of sparking his temper now then I used to be. I told him in clear terms his behavior was unacceptable, but he was still angry, and we argued. It was one of the first times I had ever heard him directly contradict me. As it grew more heated, I was worried about the guests hearing. Before I could do anything else his hand was on him and he pushed me back with such force it knocked several bookcases over and slammed me against the wall. I was winded and in pain, unable to fully realize what was happening. He walked over,  and for a moment I was actually afraid (a rare feeling for me). I thought he would do something worse. But instead he came to me, like some great act of defiance. Don’t ever contradict me again, he said. Then he walked to the doorway where his sister waited, and it was impossible to ignore the slow smile which spread upon both their faces.”

                                 - Dimitri Duval, Uncle

THE FACTS.

A child prodigy of exceptional talents, Felix was dubbed the “climax” of the Duval line, an already prestigious family of skilled business moguls that go back to the 1920′s. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for years then you’ve heard of the name. His father was a tyrant who saw him, not as a son, but as a pupil. Someone he could mold to his own image. He taught him to approach everything with a cold and detached demeanour because that would allow him to become a more rational individual. This is the reason why Felix can seem to be emotionless and almost robotic. He began working on his own at a young age, while still in school, proving that he could have made a successful career by himself even though he was born to wealth and power. He has the drive and the hunger to learn everything in his reach. So of course to him, most individuals are less than extraordinary in the brain department.

Felix can be witty and charming. A stellar actor, able to change his tone at the drop of a hat, to assume the role of a charismatic persona at will. A child prodigy of exceptional talents.  Felix is a profoundly intelligent and highly successful man, and he has an arrogance that comes along with it. Not because of his social status, but because he considers himself as being more capable. His moral stature is based on his commitment to his own mind regarding all issues of his life. He recognizes that human beings must rely on their minds for survival so to him, the worst type of individual, is one without a purpose. his characteristic mockery, his use of irony and biting derision, is always is always directed at the irrational. He laughs openly at people’s conformity and despises individuals who piggyback on the rewards of another man’s efforts. but even though he might come off as a self-absorbed asshole, his trademark mockery always supports his values.

He does not respond well to mediocrity and he can’t stand those who lack ambition and that appetite for success. Felix is not a man people like. Mostly because of his bluntness and the way his intensive use of contempt towards others, even when he is extremely polite about it. He is a very difficult man to impress and keep interested, and he has no problem letting you know about it. Still, he is not someone who hates because that emotion is too time-consuming. He can also be very selfish, because he is of the mentality that if he doesn’t put himself first, then no one else will. So he has to look after his own interests in order to be ahead of the pack.

When it comes to friendship, he likes to be impressed. he likes people not of power, but of substance. They have to have something interesting as a part of their personality, and intelligence is a big part of the package. He admires beauty, but a beautiful face does not go a long way as far as he is concerned. If you are unable to hold a conversation with him, then he is not someone who will be wasting his time trying to get to know you. His mother is eager to see him married, but Felix downright refuses, and won’t consider anything more then brief flings that bring more frustration then happiness to both parties. He is not celibate, he finds that far too difficult, but his relationships are all seedy, squalid affairs that barely deserve the title. It is a meeting of sadists, who do not expect it to result in anything, but like to put themselves in the ill-fitting roles anyway. Infatuation is the most he is ever likely to feel, for anyone who entrances him, no matter how dangerous or pointless it may be. Feelings are something he generally finds foreign, and not knowing them, he prefers to toy with them instead. Like a kitten with a ball of yarn, he feigns affection for a while, but quickly changes his mind. Given a choice between hurting someone and screwing them, Felix would probably choose pain, because at least that’s something he knows well.

 THE MUN.

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