#escape me never 1935

[thelakesuite]

The Rusty Lake Story in Bitchass Baby Terms

this is ALL off the top of my head (and i haven't experienced like 10% of it maybe?) so i might be wrong but i don't care right now

the lake itself isn't, like, that well established 'cause it's a mystery game or something so we don't need full exposition. it's some deity-like thing as old as the mammoths (not canon) that eats time. or rather memories that are stored in lil cubes. and it gives its zookeepers immortality so they can keep feeding it. they call themselves the Rulers of the Lake but we all know the truth. 'immortality', or rather enlightenment, is represented by you becoming your fursona and living maybe an extra century. mr. owl's looking for a new heir pretty quick in the process but we'll get to that.

corrupted souls are kinda a byproduct of all this. truly the lake's farts. when a person dies horribly, when their memories get extracted wrong, or when the plot demands it, they become corrupted. corrupted souls still talk, and some of them are even sensible (like your mom oooooh), but generally they're jumpscare beasts or wet little puppies. sometimes both. yes you can get corrupted when you're enlightened, and right now it's the more likely outcome actually. there's a whole 'elixir of immortality' that gets harped on, where one drinker gets corrupted and the other gets enlightened, but that is literally only a thing for roots and a little bit of cave so don't worry about it too much. unless you're making dramatic fanart in which case leverage that shit.

cubes come up a lot in cube escape, believe it or not! black ones are bad memories, white ones are good memories, blue ones are connected to the past in a way that's somehow not a memory, gold ones are connected to the future, red ones only exist in my fangame that ellesian recently unearthed, and green ones are jello yum. also suck it anyone who told me pre-tpw the gold cube thing was unestablished. anyway. it was a big thing mr.'s owl and crow were working on, creating a golden cube (presumably to extend their own lives) as seen in cave, but then one just kinda appears in the past within when albert does electric jujitsu. jury is still out on that.

onto the actual narrative i think.

in paradise, you're mr. owl pre-owling (1790-something). the lake's current suckass servants are your family who tried to sacrifice you to it way back, but your mom took your place for mom reasons. now mom's corrupted and guiding you to... well, to get sacrificed for real this time. but with your powers combined (yes mr. owl was two people, no it is never addressed) you get enlightened and tell your family to fuck off 'cause you're building a hotel on that island now. you also get a tease in the secret ending that dale and laura will do a similar fusion dance to be the lake's next suckass. we've been waiting 6 years for that to happen.

in roots, two alchemist brothers get that elixir shit going (1860-1935). one of them becomes mr. crow, while the other becomes a playable character for a game. and corrupted. you rope your whole bloodline into this, harvesting their body parts (usually after they die from other means, but you totally caused most of their deaths) for a reincarnation ritual involving a magic seed (that also only exists for this game). this is where the best characters come from because rusty lake actually wanted to tell a story with this game. you reincarnate into a woman! don't think about the implications.

in samsara room, the inside scoop of reincarnation is fuckin' weird, dude (1935). the original was made before rusty lake began, so it's not truly part of the narrative, but it got folded in for the fifth anniversary.

in hotel, you do not get the backstory of the third bird man (1890ish). instead, you get to kill mr. owl's family again, but one-on-one as animal people. how did they become animal people? fuck you that's how! mr. owl probably did it on purpose to spite them with shit sandwiches and bullets to the brain. oh, also, there might be an evil twin of mr. rabbit that shows up later.

in arles, you're vincent van gogh. that's it. he's not relevant. but it is funny seing the death date of paul gauguin in the timeline docs.

we're talking about the past within later but the 'past' segment takes place around here. 1926 iirc?

in birthday, your parents get shot (1939). you're going to be an important detective, dale, but like right now you're getting traumatized. or rather you're experiencing that memory, then doing blue cube magic to fix it and have your grandpa shoot evil mr. rabbit instead. is your grandpa actually mr. crow? no. shut up about it now.

in underground blossom, your mom gets abducted (1935-1972 maybe). okay, well, not you. this is the laura backstory metaphor game but you're actually playing as the third bird man who is both her stepdad and her pet. and her grandpa albert takes her mom rose for his own nefarious reincarnation schemes maybe probably. rose is surprisingly okay with it but characters rarely put up a fight with the plot anyway. laura's a lonely kid, starts dating robert, picks up art to soothe her nightmares, gets murked, then reaches some kind of epiphany that we just train ride away from before finding out what actually happens. she's your daughter, damnit, you should support her transcendence. not enlightenment importantly. also, no, laura's life didn't literally happen at train stops, it's just a vehicle. not even a pun don't fucking laugh i see you snickering.

in seasons, you set up a really interesting plotline that gets utterly countered by everything that came after (1960's-80's). it's just laura time in there, and she uncorrupts herself, thank you very much. the series has been struggling with how laura gets her corrupted self to 1980-whatever, and so far only one other game's even taken place after 1972. and that game's the past within which also counters every other plotline. sigh. maybe we're not smart enough for these puzzle games. at least harvey's cute and bird-shaped. key point that's impossible to fuck up is that laura dies in 1972, and it's unclear whether it was a murder or suicide. that's why we get a detective.

in harvey's box and the lake, uh i don't know really (1969). these are early games that are basically spinoffs of seasons. they help with the overarching stuff but aren't much for the narrative at this point. also they suck

in case 23, dale starts investigating laura's death and gets wrapped up in the lake stuff (1972). it was supposed to be just another murder case, but he got too into it and it got too into him, so he gets teleported to the lake chapel and ferried off to. somewhere idk. he goes into an elevator that takes him down memory lane to the lake floor.

in the mill, mr. crow is really trying to clean house before dale gets here (1972). this is where laura gets her ass corrupted by mr. crow, and we find out how the lake eats memories or whatever. it's supposed to overlap with case 23 and it almost succeeds. whatever skrunk is still there is forgiveable, this was the flash era after all.

in theatre, dale learns about ripoff hinduism, goads a man into suicide, and abandons his darling toilet fetus son (1971). it's like birthday again, where this is a memory we're seeing, but that is a light distinction. robert kills himself at the bar, and we take his memories for legal reasons. there's some sixfold wheel we learn about that doesn't matter much.

in the cave, mr. crow still cleans house before dale gets to the Magic Memory Machine (1972). mr. owl's kinda sorta dying, and dale's been elected his son or something. gotta get his mindmeats. you read a textbook about cubes, pilot a submarine to the lakefloor, put dale and laura in a surrogate fusion dance machine, then give dale the golden cube it makes before sending him up the elevator again. hotel did imply something serious was gonna happen when he gets to the top, but that was eight years ago. the devs probably forgot and fell too in love with albert vanderboom in the meantime.

in the white door, robert unkills himself and gets wrong psychiatry (1972). as it turns out, mr. owl has a front business running a for-profit psych ward to extract totally good and healthy memories from people. this one is an actual factual spinoff but is kinda relevant for the greater rusty lake metropolitan area.

in paradox, fuuuuuuuck who knows maaaan, isn't it all just a metaphor? (1972). there's a consensus that none of the stuff that happens in paradox actually happens, and that it's all in dale's head while he's in the Magic Memory Machine from cave. even though there's five different endings, he kinda walks away at the end, which might be the worst ending of the lot. the information's solid though; mr. owl spells out the whole heir thing, there's bits of backstory for dale and laura everywhere. also the movie's sick.

in the past within, albert becomes a mechanical engineer for the sole purpose of making plot armor (1926/1984). yeah, remember that guy from roots? the voodoo murderer who got third-hand alchemy information to make up for his lack of pussy? yeah, he invented a time machine decades ago. and he enlisted his daughter to talk to her past/future self to grow him back to life in 1984. with a gold cube that he somehow got. and somehow his scar is genetically coded in him. and we don't see his wiggly lineart dick. what does he do in 1984? trap his daughter in a time loop then who the fuck knows. he's stuck in his jumpscare beast ways from being corrupted for so long. how did he get corrupted when he was literally buried in the ground and salvaged bones from? next game!

there's an ARG that i never saw a thing of because i hated it, best kept memory. from what i gathered, it was another front scheme for memory harvesting, except in the 2000's. does that mean it's enlightened dale/laura doing this one, since mr. owl presumably passed on the title then turned into a fish? i'd like to know too!

also, a chapter of underground blossom i haven't completed, and a paper-based game coming out within the next two years or whatever. i don't know how much they'll clear up.

toodles!

[fuckmeyer]

timewarp!twilight: a time travel au

[throughout the series, Bella Swan has prophetic dreams that reveal her future (or present predicament) in cryptic ways. but tho Bella can peek forward in time, her true power lies in the past.]

time first unzips when James sinks his teeth into Bella at the ballet studio.

the burning in her veins overwhelms her. for a delirious moment she seizes from venom & bleeds out on a hospital room's tile floor where her mother is giving birth. to her.

the Cullens barge into the studio. Bella's writhing on the ground. they never see the warp. a stunned James is defeated.

Bella says nothing, chalking it up to a near-death experience. ofc she can't unravel the fabric of time lol like what?? who does that???

over summer, night terrors haunt her when Edward is away.

the "good" dreams give her flashes of the future. wolves. light. cliffs. a stone antechamber. red hair. a casket.

it's the nightmares she fears the most.

her PTSD-fueled flashbacks feel so real, she unzips time to escape James's attack & wakes up in random places as if sleepwalking.

at first they're tiny jumps. a few minutes back. then several months before she meets Edward. then the day Renee leaves Charlie with Bella in tow.

the night after her disastrous birthday party, her nightmare dumps her in the back alley of a neon-lit diner.

this isn't home. not 2006, not 1996, not 1986, even...

disoriented, she stumbles in and sits at the counter. the folded newspaper by the napkin dispenser, the Philadelphia Herald, reads March 3rd, 1950.

oh god.

when she looks up, a familiar pixie-haired vampire stares back at her with moony gold eyes.

"you've kept me waiting a long time," says Alice, pushing a plate of pancakes toward her.

time zips. back in bed. morning. 2006. Bella scrambles to school to tell Edward about the time skips.

ofc, it's hard to speak when you're being sucker-punched in the gut by your first love's painful breakup monologue.

instead of confessing, Bella says goodbye.

October. November. December. January.

as the wolves shift and Laurent stops in for a visit snack, Forks gets all gunked up with paranormal vibes. Bella warps further back for longer periods. 1935. 1933. 1911. 1863.

luckily, she often crosses paths with the Cullens. as humans, she knows, they won't remember her. it's cathartic to see them, if only for a few moments...but it's never enough.

she pulls increasingly dangerous stunts to keep traveling. motorcycling. chasing wolves. stalking vampires. on & on.

Bella dives off a cliff to chase the visions.

she smacks the water & warps to 1918.

human Edward Masen immediately falls in love with a drenched & shivering Bella Swan. over the evening, she falls in love with him. again. ugh.

but was it a time skip, or a near-death experience? she wakes up coughing water, Jake breathing life into her on the beach.

Alice returns. with a renewed love for Edward (ugh), Bella jets off to Italy to save him & meet the Volturi.

back in forks, the vote ignites a fiery rage she'd buried for months.

how could they do this to her? how could they break her heart & leave her behind when she needed them?? did they even stop to think about Laurent??? the wolves?! VICTORIA?!!

just as she lunges for Edward to rip his stupid face off, time unzips in front of them & she vanishes.

further back than she's ever gone.

London. 1640s.

human Carlisle tries using a silver cross to defend himself against a starving vampire while Bella looks on.

when the vampire's eyes find hers, the horror of what Bella has been doing settles in like a dense fog.

with each time skip, Bella seals their fate.

not only is Bella the thread that ties the Cullens together in time, but Bella aligns the stars for every member to become a vampire.

in the 1640s, she is the scent that pulls the starving vampire away from Carlisle.

in 1863, María sees Bella's warp & pursues her until she finds confederate Jasper Hale on his way to Galveston.

in 1911, her time skip startles 16 y.o. Esme out of a tree, breaking the girl's leg. she is treated by Dr. Cullen.

in 1918, a cold & wet Bella gives Edward the flu.

in 1933, Carlisle spots Bella on his way home from the hospital & finds her so eerily familiar he calls out & rushes to catch up. frightened by the commotion, Royce et al leave a dying Rosalie in the street.

in 1935, warping into a forest pisses off a huge black bear. Emmett saves her & subsequently gets mauled.

in 1950, she listens to Alice tell the story of her only human memory: prophesizing as a little girl about the "lady in the blue jeans" who comes to visit, to the horror & disgust of her superstitious parents. they throw her in an insane asylum.

now, in 2006, she reappears & falls at the Cullens' feet. her face reflects their looks of shock.

it was her. it was always her.

& all because she ditched Alice & Jasper to confront James at the ballet studio.

"oh god," she whispers from the floor in a broken voice. tears blur her vision. Bella looks up at the family of vampires. "i think i've made a terrible mistake."

[schumi-nadal]

Today marks the 112th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic.

Some of you know that I’m passionate about the RMS Titanic’s history but did you know that I really got into tennis because of one her passengers?

His name was Richard “Dick” Norris Williams, he was a tennis player and here his story:

Richard was born on January 29, 1891, in Geneva, Switzerland in a wealthy family from Philadelphia. He started playing tennis at a young age, and at only 12, he was Swiss junior champion. In 1911, at the age of 20, he won the Swiss Championship.

In 1912, he entered Harvard University as he wanted to continue playing tennis at a higher level. His life took a drastical turn when his father and him departed from Europe on the RMS TItanic. When the ship strucked an iceberg during her maiden voyage, Richard and his father escaped the sinking ship by jumping in the icy water of the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, his father died that night - it is said that he was crushed by a funnel when it fell - but Richard survived by swimming to a partially submerged lifeboat, where he spent several hours knee-deep in the cold water. The passengers of the boat were later saved and brought on the RMS Carpathia. His legs suffered such severe frostbite during the ordeal that the doctor on the Carpathia considered amputation but Richard refused.

This choice was definitely the good one because after months of persistence and determination, he started playing tennis again and later that year, he won his first US Tennis Championship (now known as US Open) in mixed doubles, but also the US Men's Clay Court Championship (which takes place in Houston now). It was his first success but not the last ones. Between 1912 and 1914, he was ranked in the world's top 10 (even became top 2) and reached the US Tennis Championship final twice times in singles, managing to win one of them. After winning the US Tennis Championship a third time, his tennis career was stopped because of WWI. As a decorated soldier, he started playing tennis again in 1920 but as a doubles player. From there to 1927, he reached 7 more major finals, winning three of them, including Wimbledon and the US Tennis Championship twice. In the 1924 Olympics in Paris, he even won the golden medal in mixed doubles with a sprained ankle! He also was part of the US team at the David Cup during that time, was also very successful in there and even became captain. Finally, he retired at the age of 44, in 1935.

After a long career, he died on June 2, 1968, aged 77 from emphysema.

His story really touched me when I first read about him. I was maybe 12 or 13 years old, obsessed with the ship liner's history, I used to watch some Roland Garros matchs on TV at that time and I like to think that he's the one who really got me into that sport: i watched more matchs when I could, read about the sport in general, etc. Also, he was a true fighter on and off the court, he never gave up even when things seem impossible!

Anyway, for those who read that, I hope this small history in the big History pleased you.

And thank you, Dick! 🤍

[southelroydrive]

breathe with me.

pairing: Robin Buckley x F!Reader summary: Robin helps her girlfriend when she has a sensory overload. word count: 1.8k warnings: self harm (hair pulling, lip chewing), sensory overload, reader talking bad about themselves, non-sexual undressing?? a/n: this is purely self-indulgent comfort, my first fic so any constructive criticisms are appreciated!

Everything was just too much.

You knew you shouldn't have gone to one of these stupid parties. The pounding music, flashing lights and stench of beer was enough to send you spiralling. You asked yourself what the hell you were doing here if you knew this would happen, but you knew you wanted to do it for her.

Robin Buckley. You two had been dating for six months now. You met in the Summer of 1935 when your parents demanded you actually get a job. That's when you found yourself in a stupid sailor costume at Scoops Ahoy and where your hopeless pining for the girl began. After the chaos of the Upside Down, Vecna and evil Russians, Robin decided it was better late than never to confess her feelings. Since then, your relationship had been a dream come true. You had never loved anyone more than you loved Robin and you never thought you'd be loved the way she loved you.

Of course, being two lesbians in the 80s had its downsides. The only person who knew of your relationship was Robin's best friend, Steve Harrington. You obviously knew Steve from your time at Scoops. You'd call yourself friends, considering he and your girlfriend came as a package deal. Inevitably, you warmed up to the fluffy-haired boy. You often wished that you could openly express your love for Robin. You wanted to hold her hand down the street or greet her every morning with a kiss on the cheek, but in Hawkins, that dream was just that, a dream.

So, when your girlfriend looked at you with those pleading ocean-blue eyes, begging you to come with her to some jock from school's party, you couldn't refuse. You pushed away all the anxiety that gnawed at your stomach; you just wanted to make her happy and if that meant going to one of those goddamn parties, you would. You'd already followed her to hell and back (literally), this party was nothing you couldn't handle... right?

The first hour was great. You danced with Robin to one of your favourite songs, her hands lazily placed on your waist and yours slung around her neck as you swayed. At that moment, you felt like you were the only people in the room and after everything you had been through, it was all worth it for that moment in time.

Now, you were standing in one of the bathrooms in this stupidly big house. You clutched your hair with your hands tightly, pulling at the roots as your elbows rested against the cold edge of the sink. Sob after sob escaped you. The music was too loud, the sound of electricity crackling through the walls pierced through you and the low mumble of people talking downstairs made a frustrated cry spew from your lips. The jeans you wore sat uncomfortably on your body and you were unbearably hot. Your skin felt like it was on fire. The necklace hung around your neck was too constricting, choking you, and the rings that adorned your fingers rubbed uncomfortably against your hands.

The frustration bubbled aggressively inside you as you pulled at your hair. You sunk to your knees, holding them to your chest as you rocked back and forth in a desperate attempt to soothe yourself. You wanted it to stop, you needed it to stop. You could barely think, mind muddled and thoughts racing too fast for you to comprehend; you needed Robin. She had gone to speak to one of her friends from band, leaving you alone in the corner. That's when it all started to get too much and you fled to find some privacy.

Almost as if she knew you were thinking of her, a soft knock made you snap your head towards the door. Through your panic and frustration, a small sigh of relief left you when you heard her voice through the door.

"Y/N? Angel, are you in there?"

You feel your heart skip a beat, this time from her words instead of the panic clawing at your lungs. 'Angel'. It was a nickname that she refused to let go after you smacked away a demobat that came dangerously close to biting her. She insisted that you were her 'guardian angel sent from the heavens' to save her life and since then, she rarely refers to you by any other name.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn't respond to her. You didn't feel in control of your body and couldn't bring yourself to open the door. You bury your face into your knees, sobbing quietly.

You didn't even hear the door open, or her footsteps as she crouched down in front of your quivering form. It isn't until she gently places a hand on your shoulder that you lift your head abruptly, body freezing at her touch. She takes note of your reaction, dropping her hand from your shoulder with a quick apology muttered under her breath. Her face was full of concern, you could see her trying to hide her panic to not stress you out further.

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to breathe with me, angel." She looks at you pleadingly. Her voice cracked as she spoke, making your chest swell with guilt. You hesitantly nod, focusing your attention on her and her solely as best you could, vision obscured by your tears.

You copy her breathing. In and out. In and out. Slowly, you feel the panic begin to subside, shaking breaths becoming more and more stable. That is until you hear a burst of laughter from downstairs. The sound pierces through your skull, making you cry out in frustration once more. You cover your ears with your hands, fresh tears dripping down your cheeks.

"Hey, it's okay. You can do it, just focus on me." Her voice is calm and soothing and you can't help but listen to her. She holds eye contact with you, making gestures with her hands to help your breathing slow. Your hands still covered your ears tightly, knees pressed against your chest and rocking yourself back and forth as you breathe with your girlfriend.

You weren't sure how much time had passed when your hands finally fell from your ears. Your sobs had stopped, leaving only shallow breaths.

"I-I'm sorry..." You mumble, chewing on the skin of your bottom lip. You felt horrible. Robin wanted to spend one night with you, pretending you were normal teenagers and now you had ruined it. You feel your eyes prick with tears again, turning your head to face anywhere but the girl in front of you.

Her hand cupped your cheek, turning your head gently to look at her. Her eyes scanned your face, making sure that you were okay with her touching you. When she didn't find any discomfort, she smiled softly. In one swift motion, she enveloped you in her arms. Face pressed against her chest, breathing in the familiar scent of cherry that made you relax into her hold.

"You have nothing to apologise for, angel." She runs her hands through your hair gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You sniffled, wiping your face and nose with your hands in a feeble attempt to be more presentable. "Come on, let me take you home"

You left the party quickly. Robin didn't even stop to say goodbye to her friends from band, she was just focused on making sure you were somewhere safe. You had never been so grateful for the open air, a shiver running down your spine as the autumn wind nipped at your exposed skin. Luckily, your house was only a short walk away, yet your girlfriend still insisted on wrapping you in her jacket after noticing your slight shivers. With a hand placed snuggly on your waist, you walked in comfortable silence until you reached your front door.

After fumbling with your keys, you unlocked the door. Your parents were out of town for the week for a reason you didn't care for, meaning that Robin had taken the opportunity to sleep over for the last few nights and tonight would be no different. You step inside, sighing contentedly as the warmth of your home engulfs you in its embrace. She's not far behind you, shutting the door gently. Her hand slid from your waist to your hand, the comforting weight of her hand in yours causing a smile to grace your lips. She tugged at your hand, leading you up the stairs into your bedroom.

You slumped onto your bed with a huff. The exhaustion of your meltdown finally catches up to you. Your legs dangled off the bed and your arms stretched wide above you, making your t-shirt rise up and uncover your stomach. Your head tilted to watch your girlfriend as she tugged her converse off her feet. She offered you a small smile that made your cheeks twinge a light pink. Sometimes you couldn't believe how lucky you were to be with someone as gorgeous as Robin. She walked over to where your legs dangled off the bed, kneeling down to untie the laces on your shoes and slip them off your feet. You hummed as a 'thank you', making her smile grow.

Once your shoes were off, you hurriedly unbuttoned your jeans and slid them off your legs. You sighed heavily, eyes closing as the itching feeling that drowned your leg in unpleasant tingles disappeared. You heard a light chuckle from her and the sound of rustling through your drawers. With one eye cracked open, you gaze returns to Robin as she shuffles through your clothes. Eventually, she pulls out one of her t-shirts that you had 'accidentally' stolen a few weeks prior. She meets your gaze, eyebrow raising accusingly. You only smile sheepishly in return.

As she walks towards you with the item of clothing in hand, you sit up. Your admiring gaze turning into one of curiosity. Your questions are answered when she tugs at the hem of your shirt, silently asking for permission. Your arms instinctively raise, allowing her to pull the shirt off you. Her fingers graze your stomach, making your breath hitch. She gently pulls her shirt over your head. You hum in contentment. A soft peck is pressed to your lips before she pulls away, taking her own clothes off.

Soon, you were both cuddled into your bed, only in t-shirts and your underwear. The smooth skin of her legs tangled with yours and your hands clutched her shirt, breathing in the calming scent of her perfume. Her hands find their place in your hair, making your heart turn to putty as she massages your scalp.

"Are you okay now?" She asks, sincerity dripping from her raspy voice, the voice that always made you weak in the knees.

"Yeah.. thank you." Head buried into her chest, she's barely able to pick up on your words.

Your breathing begins to slow, the grip on her shirt loosening. One hand remained in your hair, the other rubbing circles on your back as you slowly drifted off to sleep. You were exhausted, the night's earlier events having drained every ounce of energy in your body.

Before your eyes finally shut, you feel her lips against the crown of your head. "Goodnight, angel. I love you."

A/N: I really hope my description of a sensory overload is okay, I tried to base it off my own experiences so I hope it translated how I wanted to :]]

[for-the-love-of-javert]

Les Miserables 1935: My Review

First of all I'd like to say, while this film is very different from the book in a number of ways (I'll get to that in due course) I really enjoyed watching it. not sure I would watch it again, though I wouldn't rule it out.

Frederic March was wonderful as Jean Valjean. He is also very handsome. I niggled me slightly in one or two scenes (I can't remeber exactly how many it was but it was only a couple at the most) where post prison he is shown to a bit too much on the violent side whereas canonically he threatens violence, certainly towards Javert but doesn't actually knock him down/out or hit him.

Charles Laughton, that big chunky hunk of a Javert. So I think most of you have gathered by now from my previous reviews that I like Javert to at least look the part even if they can't find an actor thats canonically so ugly. So I'm always delighted to see a dark haired, wel built Javert with a pair of good old fahsioned bushy sideburns (like my little sweetheart Javert in the 1925 film). Charles Laughton did not look the part imo but he acted it supremely well, from the stioc, no nonsense attitude, the rigid and stalwart sense of duty to the law, the law being his whole life, to his vulnerabilities i.e. asking to be fired when he drops a bit of a bollock even though he didn't really drop a bollock and he was just doing his job. There is a nice little scene very early in the film (I won't describe it in too much detail because I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen this film yet) where he almost looks like he's going to cry. Laughton has very sad eyes too, that's just a little observation btw.

Now the parts that got to me and not in a good way

(In no particular order)

Thenardiers only appear briefly

The film starts differently to other adaptations and Valjeans original prison sentence is longer than in the canon story and other film adaptations. Also in this film he only tries to escape once, it isn't shown but it is mentioned.

Eponine is not mentioned as being a Thenardier, she is also no a down and out but but she is still in love with Marius. She does come across as being a bit unhinged at one point in the film.

No Les Amis only Marius and a whole bunch of random characters I've never heard of before. Also Marius is the leader of the Studen't revolt.

Valjean and Cosette's relationship was a little bit too intimate at times especially teenage Cosette during the Marius era. There were times when they looked more like a young lady and her sugar daddy as opposed to a father and daughter.

There are some slight differences in the storyline itself. As in things happening in this film that don't happen canonically or in any of the films I've seen so far.

Part of Fantines story is left out though is alluded to when Javert is trying to send her to prison due to how she is dressed.

As well as Les Amis not being featured, there is no mention of the Patron Minette or Gavroche. I really missed Gavroche in this movie. I love that little imp.

It was funny imo seeing Javert/Laughton waddling through the sewers.

This whole film makes it about the cat and mouse chase between Valjean and Javert with side story of Cosette and Marius with most other side plots are either left out or only given a very brief mention.

The film ends at the weird point of Javert's suicide. Where really this whole story, canonically is about Jean Valjeans redemption. Javert's suicide was a bit lack lustre too and it's different to other adaptations and 'The Brick' where when he jumps it is late at night and the streets are empty and there are no people around.

I think that's pretty much all I have to say at the moment (I need to get some sleep), I enjoyed the film as I stated at the beginning of this post. But if I were to watch it again my only reasons would be to watch Charles Laughton's portrayal of Javert and have a good ogling sessions over Frederic March. There was no bad acting in this film btw and any of the things I mentioned that narked me were not the fault of the actors but the writers, producers and directors. It's not the worst adaptation I've seen though.

I'm going to leave you with the loaf of bread that Valjean stole.

[acertainmoshke]

I don’t have any sort of plot in mind, but my mind gifted me a new setting idea as I was fixing up my house.

There is a house. It was built in 1917, in the same manner as any other house, but they wouldn’t know this for a long time. They’re very first memory is waking up in this house, in a soft bed in the attic, in 1920. They didn’t know the year. The house was in a small town that didn’t get a newspaper until 1935, so until then all they knew was the house. There were books to read—though nothing about their situation—and a fireplace and all the food they needed. Milk appeared daily inside the side door, just as fresh ice appeared in the icebox and food in the cupboards. It didn’t clean itself, but everything replenished.

It was a lovely, comfortable house. It even updated to match newer technology and availability, most notably in 1935 when a daily paper began to appear by the front door, in the 80’s when a computer appeared on the desk in place of the typewriter they never used, and then around 2010 when a smartphone was suddenly charging by their bed. They themself a name and they sang sometimes, to themself or with music, but never had cause just to speak.

It was a lovely house with everything one needed. But the doors didn’t open. The front, side, and garage doors were all permanently sealed. The back door might open, sometimes, but the yard gate was locked and the fence unclimbable. The windows opened, but only to a 45 degree angle. They wouldn’t shatter or break. No one passing in the street seemed to notice if they called out.

So it just follows this line person who appeared trapped in a house for 100 years, but the house updates. The TVs get more modern, then the computers, and finally their phone. Nothing ever goes bad, just gets replaced. But they have no answers, no company, and no means of escape.

[studiob487]

SYLVIA SCARLETT (1935)

Director: George Cukor

Cast: Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Brian Aherne, Edmund Gwenn, Dennie Moore, Natalie Paley

A young girl disguises as a boy in order to escape the police.

This is one of my favorite movies. Which is pretty hilarious because this movie was completely panned when it came out and it actually lost $363,000. Katharine Hepburn, asked producers to destroy the film and offered to do another movie for free. Cukor would never be hired at RKO again. Wild!!

This movie is credited as the start of Katharine becoming "box office poison". Hepburn would later say you'd have to have something wrong with you to love this movie. I don't disagree, haha. There's something seriously wrong with me.

Didn't learn this until recently but blew my mind - this movie is adapted from a novel published in 1918. Imagine how ahead of its time this story was then, when it was still considered so in 1935! This makes it all the more important to remember that many of the terms we would use to describe today, didn't exist then. Even concepts of sex, gender, sexuality where not distinctly defined from one another. Which all affects how you might code a character who prefers the same sex and/or does not conform to gender.

According to a TCM article, the movie's "sexual politics were ahead of its time". For example, Hepburn's character continues to dress in men's clothes even after the character didn't have to any longer completely. That utterly confused audiences at the time. Audiences would also walk out when it showed that both male and female characters were attracted to Hepburn's character.

I re-watched this with someone unfamiliar with older movies and they saw Michael Fane (played by Brian Aherne) as "negging" Scarlett's character. However, Fane's whining about Scarlett was not intended to get her interested in him (like toxic goofy-ass dating "experts" would advise). If intentions didn't matter and it's just about slinging insults - any enemy to lovers trope would fall under negging. But, yanno, context...

With added context, Fane was actually interested in Sylvester and initially loses interest in them as Sylvia. It was almost night and day on first meeting "Sylvester" versus "Sylvia". His spiel on women was to indicate his past experience with Lily which he is unjustifiably attributing to all women. Beyond that, it also characterizes his disinterest in women, which is in opposition to what he is supposed to feel as a man. Thus he reluctantly chases Lily (the one who embodies the feminine ideal), yet never Sylvia despite Fane having been real keen when they were Sylvester. Note that he also starts to warm back up to Sylvia in men's clothes, hm? And both characters on their escapade begin to realize they are more compatible with each other (versus the conman Monkley or the manipulative Lily). Imagine the audience reaction at the time - though you don't have to try so hard as there were plenty of written feedback (featured in the last link).

This is only half-baked in my mind at the moment but I think Monkley and Lily may both loosely represent what their respective sexes should be to a toxic extreme. While Fane is stuck in jail with Sylv he realizes their kindness and gushes over Sylv (yup, in men’s wear). “Clumsy, impetuous, generous, warm-hearted fool...” And Monkley realizes Lily is perfect for him because they are both terrible and lets Fane and Sylv run off. The message, to me, becomes about finding someone who shares the same values you do rather than the ideal "man" or "woman"!

This gets pretty dark for a comedy, specifically the side story about Scarlett's father. So general warning for that!

The "French" makes me wheeze every time I hear it. hahaha.

This movie would later inspire the musical comedy Victor/Victoria (1982) starring Julie Andrews.

TCM Comments on Sylvia Scarlett (1935)

"The Men Who Made the Movies" portion with George Cukor on 'Sylvia Scarlett'

"A Woman's Lot" portion with Katharine Heburn talking about 'Sylvia Scarlett'

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“MORRISON GIVEN TWELVE YEARS FOR AXE ATTACK,” Toronto Star. January 31, 1933. Page 1 & 2.  --- Sentence for Attempted Murder Concurrent With 10 Years for Thefts ---- SCORED BY JUDGE ---- Only a Miracle Saved Him From Murder Charge, Accused Is Told ---- Mr. Justice Jeffrey in assizes today sentenced Walter G. Morrison, 37, to 12 years in Portsmouth penitentiary for the attempted murder last Aug. 19 of Mrs. Dorothy Bradbury, East York. 

His lordship made the term concurrent with one of 12 years already imposed for more than 50 charges of housebreaking and theft. 

The prisoner heard a scathing denunciation and the added term unflinchingly.

"It is only a miracle," said Mr. Justice Jeffrey, "that you were not before this court on the charge of murder. I can find no excuse whatever for your conduct." 

His lordship noted that Morrison's wielding of the axe and maiming of Mrs. Bradbury was just one of a I series of acts. "It appalls me," he went on. "You have pleaded guilty before this present case and received a term in the penitentiary for more than 50 robberies which you carried out systematically." Holds Insanity Feigned Mr. Justice Jeffrey said he was quite satisfied Morrison was sane at the time of the act, though there was no doubt he had deteriorated mentally through drink. His lordship agreed with alienists that accused was malingering and "feigning insanity" for the purpose of escaping. 

"It is a miracle the woman ever recovered. You left a mark on her for life. She will never be the same again. She is just a wreck of what you described once was a good-looking woman." His lordship thought the prisoner could never forget what he had done that night in striking a sleeping woman over the head with an axe. 

Stole To Buy Liquor Justice Jeffrey told Morrison he had been working by day and stealing by night for the purpose of obtaining money for liquor. While accused had suffered mentally through his habits, it was no justification for holding he was not responsible for his attack upon Mrs. Bradbury. 

The ten years imposed for housebreaking was not, his lordship said, too severe under the circumstances. Under the twelve-year term added to-day it meant Morrison would spend an additional two years in prison. 

Morrison is a war veteran and father of five children.

[AL: Morrison was convict #2947 at Kingston Penitentiary, but was transferred to Collin’s Bay Penitentiary August 1935 and released from there in 1940 by parole.]

[harpoonataventure]

"You Don't Know How Proud I Was of That Heart." (from Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

In 1935, Guillamet, a pilot, crashes his plane in the Andes in winter during a cyclone. Frost-bitten, bleeding, quasi-delirious and covered head to toe in horrific burns, he miraculously undertakes the five days' mountainous trek back to civilisation- a remote airmail outpost- where he recounts his survival to a stupefied Antoine de Saint Exupery, beginning with the moment he extricated his blackened body from the plane's wreckage.

“When I dragged myself clear of her I stood up. The wind knocked me down. I stood up again. Over I went a second time.

"So I crawled under the cockpit and dug me out a shelter in the snow. I pulled a lot of mail sacks round me, and there I lay for two days and two nights. Then the storm blew over and I started to walk my way out. I walked for five days and four nights.”

[Antoine de Saint Exupery, Guillamet's compatriot and ersatz nurse, mentally interrupts]:

But what was there left of you, Guillaumet? We had found you again, true; but burnt to a crisp, but shriveled, but shrunken into an old woman.

That same afternoon I flew you back to Mendoza, and there the cool white sheets flowed like a balm down the length of your body. They were not enough, though. Your own foundered body was an encumbrance: you turned and twisted in your sleep, unable to find lodgment for it.

I stared at your face: it was splotched and swollen, like an over-ripe fruit that has been repeatedly dropped on the ground. You were dreadful to see, and you were in misery, for you had lost the beautiful tools of your work: your hands were numb and useless, and when you sat up on the edge of your bed to draw a free breath, your frozen feet hung down like two dead weights.

You had not even finished your long walk back, you were still panting; and when you turned and stirred on the pillow in search of peace, a procession of images that you could not escape, a procession waiting impatiently in the wings, moved instantly into action under your skull. Across the stage of your skull it moved, and for the twentieth time you fought once more the battle against these enemies that rose up out of their ashes.

I filled you with herb-teas.

“Drink, old fellow.”

[Guillamet continues his story]:

“You know... what amazed me..."

[henceforth, de Saint Exupery's memory of Guillamet's account unfolds]:

Boxer victorious, but punch-drunk and scarred with blows, you were re-living your strange adventure. You could divest yourself of it only in scraps. And as you told your dark tale, I could see you trudging without ice-axe, without ropes, without provisions, scaling cols fifteen thousand feet in the air, crawling on the faces of vertical walls, your hands and feet and knees bleeding in a temperature twenty degrees below zero.

Voided bit by bit of your blood, your strength, your reason, you went forward with the obstinacy of an ant, retracing your steps to go round an obstacle, picking yourself up after each fall to earth, climbing slopes that led to abysses, ceaselessly in motion and never asleep, for had you slept, from that bed of snow you would never have risen.

When your foot slipped and you went down, you were up again in an instant, else had you been turned into stone. The cold was petrifying you by the minute, and the price you paid for taking a moment too much of rest, when you fell, was the agony of re- vivifying dead muscles in your struggle to rise to your feet. You resisted temptation.

“Amid snow,” you told me, “a man loses his instinct of self-preservation. After two or three or four days of tramping, all you think about is sleep. I would long for it; but then I would say to myself, ‘If my wife still believes I am alive, she must believe that I am on my feet. The boys all think l am on my feet. They have faith in me. And I am a skunk if I don’t go on.’”

So you tramped on; and each day you cut out a bit more of the opening of your shoes so that your swelling and freezing feet might have room in them.

You confided to me this strange thing: “As early as the second day, you know, the hardest job I had was to force myself not to think. The pain was too much, and I was really up against it too hard. I had to forget that, or I shouldn’t have had the heart to go on walking. But I didn’t seem able to control my mind. It kept working like a turbine.

"Still, I could more or less choose what I was to think about. I tried to stick to some film I’d seen, or book I’d read. But the film and the book would go through my mind like lightning. And I’d be back where I was, in the snow. It never failed. So I would think about other things."

There was one time, however, when, having slipped, and finding yourself stretched flat on your face in the snow, you threw in your hand. You were like a boxer emptied of all passion by a single blow, lying and listening to the seconds drop one by one into a distant universe, until the tenth second fell and there was no appeal:

“I’ve done my best and I can’t make it. Why go on?”

All that you had to do in the world to find peace was to shut your eyes. So little was needed to blot out that world of crags and ice and snow. Let drop those miraculous eyelids and there was an end of blows, of stumbling falls, of torn muscles and burning ice, of that burden of life you were dragging along like a worn-out ox, a weight heavier than any wain or cart. Already you were beginning to taste the relief of this snow that had now become an insidious poison, this morphia that was filling you with beatitude. Life crept out of your extremities and fled to collect round your heart while something gentle and precious snuggled in close at the centre of your being. Little by little your consciousness deserted the distant regions of your body, and your body, that beast now gorged with suffering, lay ready to participate in the indifference of marble. Your very scruples subsided.

Our cries ceased to reach you, or, more accurately, changed for you into dream-cries.

You were happy now, able to respond by long confident dream-strides that carried you effortlessly towards the enchantment of the plains below.

How smoothly you glided into this suddenly merciful world! Guillaumet, you miser! You had made up your mind to deny us your return, to take your pleasures selfishly without us among your white angels in the snows.

And then remorse floated up from the depths of your consciousness. The dream was spoilt by the irruption of bothersome details.

“I thought of my wife. She would be penniless if she couldn’t collect the insurance. Yes, but the company ...”

When a man vanishes, his legal death is postponed for four years. This awful detail was enough to blot out the other visions. You were lying face downward on a bed of snow that covered a steep mountain slope. With the coming of summer your body would be washed with this slush down into one of the thousand crevasses of the Andes. You knew that. But you also knew that some fifty yards away a rock was jutting up out of the snow.

“I thought, if I get up I may be able to reach it. And if I can prop myself up against the rock, they’ll find me there next summer.”

Once you were on your feet again, you tramped two nights and three days. But you did not then imagine that you would go on much longer.

“I could tell by different signs that the end was coming. For instance, I had to stop every two or three hours to cut my shoes open a bit more and massage my swollen feet. Or maybe my heart would be going too fast. But I was beginning to lose my memory. I had been going on a long time when suddenly I realized that every time I stopped I forgot something. The first time it was a glove. And it was cold! I had put it down in front of me and had forgotten to pick it up. The next time it was my watch. Then my knife. Then my compass. Each time I stopped I stripped myself of something vitally important.

"I was becoming my own enemy! And I can’t tell you how it hurt me when I found that out.

What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it.

“I swear that what I went through, no animal would have gone through.”

This sentence, the noblest ever spoken, this sentence that defines man’s place in the universe, that honors him, that re-establishes the true hierarchy, floated back into my thoughts.

Finally you fell asleep. Your consciousness was abolished; but forth from this dismantled, burnt, and shattered body it was to be born again like a flower put forth gradually by the species which itself is born of the luminous pulp of the stars.

The body, we may say, then, is but an honest tool, the body is but a servant. And it was in these words, Guillaumet, that you expressed your pride in the honest tool:

“With nothing to eat, after three days on my feet... well... my heart wasn’t going too well. I was crawling along the side of a sheer wall, hanging over space, digging and kicking out pockets in the ice so that I could hold on, when all of a sudden my heart conked. It hesitated.

Started up again.

Beat crazily.

I said to myself, ‘If it hesitates a moment too long, I drop.’

I stayed still and listened to myself. Never, never in my life have I listened as carefully to a motor as I listened to my heart, me hanging there. I said to it: ‘Come on old boy. Go to work. Try beating a little.’

That’s good stuff my heart is made of. It hesitated, but it went on. You don’t know how proud I was of that heart.”

[whitepolaris]

Bandage Man

For many years, Oregon residents have had terrifying encounters with an entity that has come to be known as Bandage Man. Most reports place Bandage Man in hiding in the woods on either side of the overpass at the junction of Highway 101 and 26, between Seaside and Cannon Beach. People driving that stretch at night in pickup trucks or open-top vehicles should beware. Bandage Man jumps from the woods into the back of the truck, pounds on the cab and back windows, and jumps out of the vehicle passes through the woods at the other end of the overpass. He supposedly leaves behind a bloody bandage or the smell of rotting flesh.

There are various stories about the origin of Bandage Man. There is a constant theme in the Bandage Man tale as it goes backward in time. The most recent theory is that Bandage Man is some kind of space alien that landed or crashed along the Oregon Coast. It was injured in the crash, or later by hunters, and it is hiding out, waiting for the mother ship to pick it up. Another similar story holds that it is actually Bigfoot, also injured by hunters, who were transporting it from the woods to Cannon Beach or Seaside. It escaped confinement and is now hanging around the area to take vengeance on those who injured it. People have also suggested it is the phantom of an escaped mental patient, a mummy from a freak show that came to life, and so on. Perhaps the oldest story is true, that Bandage Man is the ghost of an injured logger.

People traveling along the Oregon coast in the past few years have noticed new logging activity along the Coast Mountain Range. Most of this logging is taking in new growth at the site of an old fire known as the Tillamook Burn. In August 1933, logging operations near the Oregon coast started a fire that burned for three weeks, charring more than 260,000 acres (over 400 square miles) of timberland, killing 11 billion board feet of timber trees. The same land burned three more times in 1939, 1945, and 1951, though none of the later fires was as large as the first. In 1948, Oregon began reforesting the land, which grew into the forest that is being cut today.

Amazingly, only one person died fighting the 1935 fire, and Weird Oregon does not know whether any others died in the later fires or harvesting the dead timber, though it seems likely. If Bandage Man exists, he may be the spirit of one of those unfortunate men, killed in a logging accident. His friends would have tried to take him from the woods to the nearest doctor, in Cannon Beach or Seaside, but the man died, perhaps on the overpass.

Weird Oregon contacted the Oregon State Police, who had never heard of him, and when we stopped to take pictures of the road intersection, we spoke with a local property owner who looked old enough to remember the last fire in the Tillamook Burn. He edged away from us after we asked whether he or anyone he knew had encountered a specter leaving behind bloody bandages.

Unwanted Memento

Me and my girlfriend stopped by the side of Highway 101 in Cannon Beach and we were getting "intimate" when all of a sudden a man covered in bandages and smelling like rotten flesh flung open the door of my car, pulling my girlfriend out, and then started attacking me. I was lucky to kick him off. He started running down the road, and I never saw him again. But the next morning I checked the inside of my car and it still smelled like rotting flesh. I bent over my backseat and found a piece of what looked like part of the man's bandages. Can you tell me what I saw? -Aaron D.

[gatutor]

Hugh Sinclair-Elisabeth Bergner "Mi vida para ti" (Escape me never) 1935, de Paul Czinner.

[kenttheatreblog]

A REVIEW: The 39 Steps at The Hazlitt Theatre

My very first review and what a way to start with this clever comedy.

With tongue in cheek, Patrick Barlow has created a very up to date hilarious modern play extremely loosely based on the 1935 Alfred Hitchcock classic movie. Bored bachelor, Richard Hannay’s life becomes rather more eventful when he meets stunning Annabella Schmidt, a counter espionage agent. After taking her home to his flat, she is murdered in front of his very eyes. Accused of her demise, he flees to Scotland in an attempt to expose the spy ring, closely tailed by a mysterious organisation in a nationwide man hunt with twists and turns that climaxes in a death defying finale.

In the programme, the Director (Ian Craddock) tells of his struggle to choose a cast of only four as it was originally intended and I can fully understand his dilemma because the talent on that stage was immense.

As the hero, Hannay, Michael Kurtay, with his suave manner and his tweed suit, not to forget his pencil moustached stiff upper lip, created the perfect pivot point for the mayhem and disorder that circled him and I loved his opening monologue and of course his spontaneous political speech later in the play. Very ably partnered by Clare Corrigan as Annabella Schmidt whose comic timing was impeccable and who played the temptress femme fatale very convincingly. I applaud Clare for lying still for so long across the armchair with a knife in her back whilst Hannay hilariously made his escape.

At Hannay’s side, the prim and proper Pamela, played by Emma Edwards, a very accomplished actress who injected humour and seduction as Hannay’s love interest. Emma never falls out of character and she has such stage presence.

Margaret (Charlie Hilton) played her cameo beautifully with sincerity towards Hannay and Sheila Veitch added a bit of a Hilda Ogden moment whilst waving her feather dusteraround, which made the audience smile.

All the clowns deserve a massive mention (Matt Dallas, Russell Hambelton, David Ruler, Richard Pilborough, and Scott Raffle) with their array of costume changes,characterisations, hats, accents, comedic facial hair and wigs. They were witty and high on energy, nailing the characters at a pace and showcasing their versatility.

What a brilliantly assembled company which includes the crew, lights, sound, scenery, costumes and those holding up prickly bush and muddy puddle signs, not to forget the sheep. The scenery appeared to be simple but incredibly effective. I am a huge fan of less is more when it comes to stage sets and being able to change a car into a train into a bed meets with my approval. Also what a genius idea to dress the scene shifters in coats and flat caps.

Memorable moments for me are of course the biplane scene, which was ingenious and I am still chuckling at the Radio Presenter‘s very funny delivery of his lines.

Mix Hitchcock and a spy story with a pinch of Monty Python and you have an incredible unmissable chaotic comedy which will have you laughing out loud.

I consider myself to be an active theatre goer and I wanted to give a fair and honest opinion, so tonight, without a doubt, I was hugely entertained. I have absolutely no negative comments at all. Well done The Willington Players – A remarkable terrific triumph of theatre.

Julie Argent

The 39 Steps as presented by The Willington Players runs at The Hazlitt Theatre in Maidstone from 25th-29th April 2023. Get your tickets at parkwoodtheatres.co.uk

[mudwerks]

Elisabeth Bergner in Escape Me Never (1935)

Dutch postcard by Loet C. Barnstijn. Photo: United Artists. Publicity still for Escape Me Never (Paul Czinner, 1935).

[humansofnewyork]

(4/4) “He’d been a successful salesman in Germany, before Hitler tightened the vice. I have a picture of him with a 1935 Mercedes Benz, and a chauffeur. I have pictures of him partying at upscale resorts. But he got caught in the first wave of deportations. He spent two months at Dachau, doing forced labor in the middle of winter. But Dad was one of the lucky ones. Hitler was still allowing Jews to leave the country, if they gave up all their possessions. So he escaped to America, carrying only two trunks. Then he turned right around. He went right back. He joined the American army and fought in the Battle of The Bulge. And afterwards he became a Fuller Brush Man. For the next 25 years he knocked in the snow. He knocked in the rain. And he never complained. There might have been a hint of ‘what might have been.’ But he was happy. He loved this country. He loved his family. And his job did its job. I wish I’d asked him more about his past. He only told one or two stories about it. I remember him saying that he wore rags for a coat. But that was all he told us. I guess he was trying to protect us. A few years ago I took my family on a trip to Germany. I wanted it for my kids. We visited my father’s hometown. And then we went to Dachau. It was one thing to read about it. To see it on the label of a painting. But it was another thing to be there. To retrace his steps. To see the induction room, where they make you strip, shower, shave off all your hair. Where they give you a label: Gypsy, Catholic, Jew. Where they take away your name, and you become unhuman. Not inhuman. Unhuman. It answered a lot of questions for me. I could see why Dad loved this country so much. And why even on his toughest days, knocking on doors, he was happy to be here. He was the happiest of Alice Neel’s paintings. Thirty years ago I had the chance to buy it. I could have owned Fuller Brush Man. But I don’t think about it much. I’m not sure what good it would have done me, anyway. Because I’d never be able to sell it. No matter what it could have fetched. Ten million, one hundred million, I’d never be able to give it up. How could I? It would be like selling a member of my own family.”

[bestiarium]

The Bunyip [Aboriginal mythology]

In the swamps of Australia, there lives a strange and dangerous beast, or at least according to the mythology of the local Aboriginals. Well, I mean, that’s probably true considering it’s Australia, but specifically I’m talking about the Bunyip, a mythical beast.

These creatures were very dangerous and wielded potent magical powers, such as cursing humans to transform into animals and freely changing the water level. It somewhat resembles a seal but its appearance is not set in stone, and what it looks like differs depending on who you ask. This is why modern depictions of the creature are mainly the product of their artists’ imaginations and can range from reptilian monsters to giant monstrous dogs. It also has a terrifying howl and devours any human being who dares to enter its domain.

One myth tells of a group of young Aboriginal men who set out one day to hunt. They were merry and happy as it was a warm sunny day, and they were laughing and talking without a fear in the world. They failed to find game, however, but did come upon a body of water with bulrush growing on the shore. This plant was edible and tasty, so the hunters gathered rushes to weave a basket so they could carry the bulrush roots. One of the men said that he had fishing equipment with him, and that they should try to catch some fish before returning home. Otherwise, the elders would surely laugh at them for doing women’s work if they had woven baskets and gathered plants all day.

The hunting party divided the tasks among themselves: some members gathered bait while others prepared the lines and hooks (which were made from kangaroo bone). When they began to fish, however, none of them could catch a thing. It was already dark, and they had to return back home to the village, when one lad suddenly felt something tug on his line: unbeknownst to the others, he had taken a piece of raw meat with him and used it as bait on his hook. To his surprise, the creature he had hooked was much stronger than him and he had to call his companions for help.

Together, they pulled the strange creature on land: it was a Bunyip. It resembled a cross between a seal and a young cow, but it had a long tail with broad fins for swimming. But the creature, despite its strength, was only a juvenile and soon started howling for its mother. The mother of the Bunyip crawled ashore and the men begged the fisher to release his catch. But the lad – he was the same man who complained about gathering plant roots and weaving baskets – insisted that he would take the young creature back to the village.

The men ran away with the Bunyip, but the mother of the creature didn’t give chase. Instead, they saw the water level rising steadily. When they reached the edge of the valley, they saw the entire forest was flooded. At last they reached the village, and all the people were panicking for they had seen the unnatural sudden flood. The young man who had caught the creature hugged his lover and told her “nobody in the village can climb as well as I can. Join me in that high tree, and we will escape from the water!” but before she could answer, both of them had turned into large black birds. When the lad looked around, he saw that the same fate had fallen on the other villagers: everyone had turned into black swans. Such was the curse of the Bunyip.

When the mother Bunyip reached her young, the two returned to their home in the water, and the water level receded again. But the people of the village never turned back into humans. Sometimes people still hear black swans talking to each other in a strange language that is forgotten by humans.

Source: Dunlop, W. and Holmes, T. V., 1899, Australian Folklore Stories, The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 28: p22-34. (image source 1: Kattang on Deviantart) (image source 2: Gerald Markham Lewis, 1935)

[w-armansky-blog]

Leni Riefenstahl: Jack of all trades and the greatest Propagandist ever

Born in Berlin in 1902, Leni Riefenstahl began her career as a dancer. Then she went into acting in silent movies and, briefly, talkies. She started making films in the early 1930s, as Hitler rose to power; their collaboration began after she wrote him a fan letter in 1932, but she was never a documented member of the Nazi party. During the Nazi leadership she created two famous pieces of Nazi propaganda“Triumph of the Will”, 1935 and “Olympia”, 1938 that earned her both acclaim as a cinematic genius and contempt as a propagandist for Hitler.

Leni Riefenstahl never denied her early conviction that Hitler could "save" Germany. She also said that her idealized image of him fell apart "far too late," near the end of World War II. But, amid widespread skepticism, she insisted that she was never a Nazi and that "Triumph of the Will" and "Olympia" were apolitical, inspired only by her desire to create works of art.

Riefenstahl about Hitler in her autobiography: "I heard his voice. That very same instant I had an almost apocalyptic vision that I was never able to forget. It seemed as if the earth's surface were spreading out before me, like a hemisphere that suddenly splits apart in the middle, spewing out an enormous jet of water, so powerful that it touched the sky and shook the earth. I felt paralyzed."

After the end of World War II, during the process of denazification, she faced four trials, one of which resulted in her being labeled a “fellow traveler,” a designation that didn’t indicate direct cooperation. After finishing her film “Tiefland,” which she filmed under the Third Reich but was prevented from distributing until 1954, she did not release another film until 2002, shortly before her 100th birthday. In the intervening decades, she became a photographer most famous for her pictures of the Nuba tribes of Sudan. She died in 2003 at the age of 101.

When she died, the Guardian’s obituary described her as “The first internationally acclaimed female director, never escaped the shadow of her role in monumental Nazi propaganda films.”

There are several reasons for the German filmmaker lasting success:

the determination with which she went about reshaping the public narrative of her life;

the widespread idea that her films are so technically accomplished that their contents and purpose hardly matter;

the later-20th-century fad for detaching the idea of the artist from their art, which helped foster an environment in which Riefenstahl — propagandist, friend of Hitler and a profiteer from the Nazi regime — could be detached from the shot-for-shot excitement of her films;

the myth she created around herself: an independent and ambitious woman whose apolitical artistic brilliance was used against her when, after the fall of the Reich.

Leni Riefenstahl by Martin Munkacsi, 1934. Shot in the same year as her notorious film of the Nuremberg rallies, Triumph of the Will, this image captures the sporting side of the director, actress and dancer Photograph: Joan Munkacsi/Howard Greenberg Gallery, New York/Image Courtesy Condé Nast Archive

sources:https://www.nytimes.com/, https://forward.com/culture/440207/leni-riefenstahl-legacy-afterlife-nazi-propaganda-or-great-filmmaker/