#i try to draw him happy but it still feels so bittersweet the dark era really broke me

[viscerism]

the kiddo!! ☆

[pass-the-bechdel]

Marvel Cinematic Universe: Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

Does it pass the Bechdel Test?

Yes, once.

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Five (29.41% of cast).

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Twelve.

Positive Content Rating:

Three.

General Film Quality:

No matter how many times I watch this, I’m always surprised by how excellent it is. If any other future Marvel film wants to be ‘the best’, this is the movie it has to beat for the title. 

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) UNDER THE CUT:

Passing the Bechdel:

Natasha asks about the ballistics on the weapon used against Fury, and Maria responds. I’ve heard people argue that Natasha was not asking Maria specifically and therefore this does not count, but since Natasha clarifies a detail of Maria’s response (to which Maria responds again in order to confirm), I definitely think it qualifies. I have allowed a pass for far, far less in the past. 

Female characters:

Natasha Romanov.

Peggy Carter.

Maria Hill.

Sharon Carter.

Renata.

Male characters:

Steven Rogers.

Sam Wilson.

Brock Rumlow.

Georges Batroc.

Jerome.

Jasper Sitwell.

Nick Fury.

Alexander Pierce.

Aaron.

Arnim Zola.

Senator Stern.

Bucky Barnes.

OTHER NOTES:

They start this movie by having Steve go for a jog and make a new friend, with a conversation ensuing that is by touches casual, light, humorous, insightful, serious, and sobering. It’s a pretty weird way to launch a much-anticipated superhero comic-adaptation action movie sequel, to be honest, but it’s also rock-solid character establishment - for the never-before-seen Sam Wilson, and for Steve Rogers whose mental state and coping skills in the modern era are kinda an open question at this point - and by getting us on level with Steve’s day-to-day (rather than Captain America’s, which comes after) they’ve immediately prepped us for a story in which this character confronts and reassesses who he is and what he stands for at a core level, and not just in a symbolic/legacy kind of fashion (a la Tony Stark). It may say ‘Captain America’ on the tin, but this is Steven Rogers’ story. This is a fantastic and well-condensed first three minutes of this film, before they fly off to deliver the action sequence we may well have expected to have received up-front. 

Oh yeah, also this opening scene involves jogging around the Washington Monument, which is not a subtle detail, but I can dig it. If they’d had Steve draw attention to some Major American Landmark at some point in the movie and make a patriotic declaration of some kind, then I’d cry foul, but as-is the use of Washington DC as a setting is the hardest they bother to hammer the AMERICA button. The absence of self-fellating patriotism which I appreciated so much in the first film continues to be a virtue in this one. I do dig.

Remember how I really love it when people get hit and fly off the screen? Steve just kicked a dude off a boat and I made the dorkiest ‘hee hee!’ noise ever. Sure am glad the only reason anyone knows about that is that I just told y’all, and not because anyone actually heard me.

One day, we’ll stop getting these kinds of gratuitous butt shots of female characters in tight clothes. But it sure ain’t this day.

In a world of equal-opportunity sexualisation, this Cap-butt would be forgiveness enough for the aforementioned offense. But it still sure ain’t that day, friends.

Other reasons to love that opening scene: they low-balled Sam’s counseling skills to us by having him quickly identify the best way to speak to Steve and to engage with him (as Steve, again, not as Captain America; that’s the key), and that’s what allows Steve to bond with him enough that, put in a tight spot and not sure who to trust, he shows up on Sam’s doorstep later in the film. Really tight characterisation and dynamic-building.

ALSO, Steve’s adventure to the Captain America museum exhibit reminds us all of what he’s lost - specifically, Bucky Barnes - and contextualises his encounters with Sam Wilson within the emotional landscape of Steve’s desire for close male companionship, highlighting the need which compels the formation of that bond while also accentuating the sense of Steve’s present isolation and uncertainty, robbed of any understanding confidante (the bittersweet reality of having Peggy Carter still alive, but losing herself to Alzheimer's, really hits that one home). Again, Steve’s emotional landscape is actually a vital part of the story of the film on both character and plot levels, so there’s a LOT of great show-don’t-tell demonstration in the interconnections of all these scenes, PLUS they’re doing the good work for all the other characters involved AND reminding the audience of the score so that the film can continue to draw from the past as the movie continues, without losing any viewers for whom this might be the first foray into the Captain America story. This movie is just...really well put together, guys. It’s a little shocking, how good it is.

Winter Soldier intro is too cool. Not a pun.

Steve takes a chance and asks his neighbour out for coffee; she declines with a soft no; he accepts even-tempered and assures her he won’t trouble her any further, and she lets him know that he’s no trouble and there’s no hard feelings. It’s all a very painless and respectful navigation of boundaries, and taken on face value (ignoring the part where she turns out to be an undercover SHIELD agent, and everything which unfolds from there), it’s a welcome example of how easy it is to take rejection graciously. Guys, be the Steve Rogers that women want to see in the world.

I want a metal arm. I don’t want to not have my current arms, they’re fine, but in an abstract version of the world where you have things purely for cool points, I want a metal arm.

The fight choreography in this film is great. It’s good watchin’. 

Also the soundtrack is top-end. 

“...Specimen.”

The movie didn’t need a hetero kiss thrown in there, though. I sure wish there wasn’t a random kiss in there.

“The answer to your question is fascinating. Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it.” 

Urgh, why Senator Stern gotta show up, be a pig about women, make his little Nazi declaration, and leave? The answer is, he really doesn’t gotta. You know what’s good shit? Not using misogyny and objectification of women to demonstrate that a bad guy is a bad guy, unless it’s actually a relevant part of the story. One day...

I can’t deal with how cool the Winter Soldier is. I’m almost embarrassed by how much the whole Silent Sauntering Assassin thing works for me.

Sam Wilson brings a tiny knife to a gunfight and still gets the upper hand because he’s perfect.

THE FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHYYYYY

The Winter Soldier is barely in the film in the first hour, and Bucky is referenced in the museum but not discussed by any of the characters, so there’s no lantern hanging on either the mystery of the Winter Soldier’s identity or the conspicuous reminder of a supposedly dead character (another reason why tying the memory of Bucky in so tightly with Steve’s present state of comfortless seclusion is important and clever). If you somehow managed not to be spoiled for it already, the Bucky reveal is a real kicker of a twist.

The degree to which I adore Sebastian Stan’s attention to detail in his performance has increased tenfold since The First Avenger. Dude has got nuances on his nuances.

The part of me that is emotionally susceptible to heroism is very moved by all the nameless SHIELD agents who stand up to HYDRA and die for it. 

I join the rest of the world in being really disappointed that what appeared to be Jenny Agutter’s councilwoman kicking Strike Team ass was actually just Black Widow. Sorry Natasha.

The Winter Soldier shows up and murderises a heap of pilots, and the part of me that is susceptible to heroism finds itself in conflict with the part that is susceptible to the Winter Soldier’s ineffable coolness (which is itself at odds with the part of me that wants Bucky Barnes to be safe and happy). This movie got me good.

Rumlow talkin’ some shit about pain and Sam’s just like “Man, shut the Hell up,” and it’s perfect. I love him.

I love this film. I mean I really, really love it. Like, I mean this is one of my favourite movies in the world. Like, if we were playing that ol’ game of ‘if you had to pick ten movies, and those were the only movies you were allowed to watch for the rest of your life’, this would be one of my ten movies. That’s how much I love this film. There’s so much to get into here, so much to enjoy: it’s light and easily-digestible enough for when you just want to be entertained by something that doesn’t demand too much from you, but it also has serious depths for when you’re in the mood to dig in. It has well-crafted action scenes, but also a strong plot with powerful emotional currents. It has wonderful, charismatic actors playing intriguing characters, and most of them are good eye candy, but none of them are just eye candy - there’s a lot of complexity to unravel in the motivations and personal narratives of the leads. It’s a superhero movie, sure, but it’s also a political spy thriller. And, to top it off, it’s not only an excellent stand-alone film, it’s also a fantastic example of how to do a sequel right.

Sequel-making can be a fraught business; you’ve got sequels that are basically just pointless retreads of the original, sequels that are so different they hardly count as sequels at all, sequels that are so busy trying to be ‘bigger and better’ than the original they become ridiculous, sequels so busy attempting to capitalise on the spectacle of the original that they forget to have any of the same heart that gave the original meaningful impact, sequels that ignore that the original had a plot and themes and that maybe that stuff was relevant to its success, etc, etc...there are lots of great sequels in the world, certainly, but as Iron Man 2 and Thor: The Dark World already attested for the MCU, it is very, very easy for sequels to go wrong. For this film, I think it goes without saying that I feel they passed all of the above sequel-killing quality tests with flying (low-key red-white-and-blue) colours, hence my adoration. But, just for kicks, lets talk about how they did it.

For starters, you can pretty much guarantee that this isn’t gonna be a pointless retread of Captain America: The First Avenger, since this movie takes place seventy years later and there are certain essential world elements that have fundamentally changed, such as technology, characters, and the fact that WWII ended a good while previous. But, that’s exactly how they make this story work as a sequel: they use the nature of change to give the film its shape, thematically, politically, emotionally, and in doing so they assure that everything which is different in the present builds directly from the past. Steve Rogers has not fundamentally changed, and that’s a critical anchor, considering he’s the titular character and all, but he is in a state of flux due to everything else that has changed, and his doubts inform the narrative landscape. This is not the world he remembers, and yet, as the plot unfolds and he digs into the conspiracy at his feet, there’s plenty there that is hauntingly familiar, because this is a story about how the past is still alive and kicking in the present, it has just updated to keep with the times.

It’s worth noting that despite Captain America making the jump from the forties to the modern age without any stop-offs in between, the film doesn’t linger on or wallow in the differences in his world in any strict sense - even Steve himself (in that EXTREMELY well-crafted opening scene with Sam) is somewhat dismissive of the specifics, because he’s not dwelling on the oh-woe-things-have-changed, he’s just trying to get his head around it, adapt, and move forward (and the practical realities are easy enough, but the emotional facets? Yeah). The thing is of course, no one else shares this problem with Steve; they’ve all been around, variously, for the parts in between, and the story is still concerned with the context of the world which made all of its characters what they are, and particularly with the war that came after WWII, the war within which HYDRA reseeded and began to grow anew: the Cold War. In particular, it’s the ‘70s/’80s era Cold War, built into the political-thriller superstructure of the film itself and driven home most overtly by the Winter Soldier, heavily Russian-coded and steeped in the potent psychological horror of brainwashing, but there are other signifiers littered across the story as well. There’s former-KGB agent Black Widow, and the reference she makes to WarGames, and there’s Arnim Zola frozen in time by the ancient computer system which now acts as his ‘brain’, and then there’s the stroke of subversive genius in the casting of Robert Redford - the positively Captain America-esque blue-eyed-blond hero of many a seventies Cold War political thriller - as our primary villain, working within the United States government for the benefit of his secret European-originating agenda in true foreign-infiltration style. Of course, we can adapt all of this to fit the radicalised terrorism and technological paranoia of modern times (and those elements are alive and well in the text with the surveillance-state fears represented by the helicarriers), but the historical timestamping is important to the trajectory of the film; times change and things grow increasingly subtle and complicated, but the core dilemmas that call people out to fight are instantly familiar. In that sense, Steve Rogers hasn’t missed much at all.

The war that calls Cap to arms this time around may be more subtle than the openly-fought battlefields of WWII, but it is no less global or insidious; the new ‘improved’ HYDRA may not be led by a literal Nazi who peels off his own face, but the cold political calculations of Alexander Pierce are much more frightening for their realism (an aspect of the film which has become increasingly prescient for the modern era since the movie was released), and the fascist supremacist dogma that compels these villains to attempt to reshape the world with the blood of millions is drawn from the same poisoned well; this is an escalation of the same enemy that Captain America faced before, only much closer to home. And while the passage of time has benefited the old evils in allowing them to entrench and fester and craft re-branded, more socially-accepted versions of themselves, it has not been so favourable to the positive familiar things from Steve’s past: it has claimed Peggy’s memory, and rotted SHIELD beyond recovery. And then, there’s what it’s done to Bucky Barnes.

Fake-out character deaths are a major staple of the superhero/comic genre, and not one I love, since it tends to take the power out of apparent-death scenes and leaves the drama feeling contrived, and while the Bucky reveal is not entirely free from that cynicism, it sells itself well on delivery. For starters, it packs a wallop in additional drama instead of just neatly undoing that which already existed (Nick Fury’s ‘death’ and reveal, on the other hand, is more in the classic line of cheap and inconsequential), and it ups the personal stakes for Steve in exactly the same way as Bucky’s ‘death’ did in The First Avenger. Crucially, the fact that Bucky is the Winter Soldier doesn’t alter the wider narrative in any convenient way, such as providing Captain America with the key to stopping him or resolving the other conflicts of the plot through his connection; the Bucky reveal reconnects the story to Steve’s emotional journey, which is exactly where it started before Shit Got Crazy - there’s a good reason they spent the first half hour of the movie on charting Steve’s mental state. There’s a sharp division between Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, despite them both inhabiting the same form, and it’s a mirror of the division between Steve Rogers and Captain America: regardless of all assumptions to the contrary, the two are mutually exclusive entities. ‘Captain America’ is not a person, he’s a symbol, and he’s manipulable in that way, he can be propagandised, his image and actions are a tool turned to the purposes of others at the expense of the human underneath; Steve recognises this (and has since the first film), and he holds this secondary persona at a remove and does not define himself through it. This is what Sam’s keen social instincts pick up so quickly in the beginning: treating Steve as Captain America is the wrong approach, it fails to connect, because Steve is not the uniform, Steve has doubts, Steve could give up the shield; Steve is a person. Bucky doesn’t have the same luxuries, in opportunities, in company, or in the cognizant ability to define his own identity, but even without the personal attachment of their history, Steve is uniquely positioned to understand the difference between the Winter Soldier and the person buried beneath the title. If it was not Bucky, specifically, the visceral emotion of the mirrored experience wouldn’t land quite as strong, but either way the Winter Soldier is the realisation of Steve’s deep-seated fear of being made a puppet, an unthinking enforcer too heavily indoctrinated into patriotic subservience to recognise the despotism that has replaced his idealism. 

I said at the top that this is, ultimately, a Steven Rogers story to which ‘Captain America’ is an accessory, and not the other way around, and that’s a fact at the heart of what makes this film work - on its own, and as a sequel. The fore-fronting of Steve as a character in his own right and not just ‘Captain America’s real name’ was key to avoiding any cloying patriotism overriding the narrative of the first film, and it’s doubly important now as both Steve and the Captain America brand re-situate outside of their original context. It’s easy to strip back the specific trappings of Captain America and still have this movie function just right, because for all the action and intrigue, it is essentially a character piece about Steve Rogers figuring out his place in the world and reclaiming the moral compunctions which have been presumptuously attributed to the lofty symbol of his alter ego, and not the struggling reality of everyday life. Captain America is what he is and how he is not because it sounds good or because it makes for positive PR or because it’s nice to have legends from the good ol’ days; Captain America is the embodiment of scrappy little Steve Rogers’ grit and determination to live up to what he believes in, come Hell or high water or the gravest of consequences. Steve begins the film at odds with himself, unsure if there’s a place for his shameless idealism within the mess of modern life; he’s going through the motions of being Captain America, but he’s uncertain of what it means to him at this point, or where it’s headed. He finishes the film having gained something vital: a mission, but it’s not a professional job for Captain America, it’s a personal mission for Steve Rogers, and that’s much more important. Captain America is just an idea; Steve Rogers is the reason it matters, no matter what war, what time, what place, or what flag.

[goodoldfashiondemon]

Meow Meow, Angel

This silly thing came thanks to this prompt. Thank you for the inspiration @niceandaccurateprompts​ !!

I’m open to ANY KIND of criticism, as long as is with respect :) Sorry for any grammar horrors errors, english is not my first language.

Enjoy !

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“What on Somebody’s sake have this mothefuckers done to me!?” the demon screams on his bedroom, but the only thing any other being could hear from that was a really high pitch meow. Crowley felt something strange when he woke up. Something seems… hairier than yesterday. And when that sounds came to his hears, he knew he was in some sort of a feline form.

Trying to understand how his new cat body works (being a snake does not help when you have to use a human vase, and makes it even worse when you have to use four fucking limbs to move around), he stumbled and fell off the bed. In the middle of the falling pun intended, an automatic reflex came to his spine and he took the ground on his four paws. “hum, who would’ve thought that was truth” he said to himself, feeling relieved that the nature and instinct of his new body came within the use of it, even though there was a demon inside of the animal.

Crowley didn’t have a lot of mirrors on his flat, but one of them was slightly off his bed’s feet, just in front of his night table. And that’s why he couldn’t see himself before, but now he would. 

The vision was simultaneously delightful and terrifying. His ebony furriness with ginger points was long and soft to the touch, or so he presumed at the image the crystal gave him back. His eyes, as yellow as always, now not so odd to the vessel they were attached to, had their pupils wide out of astonishment and anger. He was quite an adorable yet fierce specimen if he can does said himself, and he couldn’t put up his mind whether he liked it or not, even though he knew he should’ve been fuming in rage by now.

“Enjoying the view, you treacherous bastard?”. The voice of Hastur echoed from the living room, coming from the TV, scaring the ever living meow out of Crowley.  

Slowly but with the decision only a furious demon could have, he short the space between where he was and the source of the sound, meowing and hissing all the way down there. That was something snakes shared with cats: they became very much vocal when angry.

“Yeah, yeah, you are so full of anger” Dagon cried, almost falling for how much they were laughing at the scene Crowley was giving them. On the TV the show they were using was, of fucking course, some National Geographic’s bullshit. The demon kept meowing and hissing to the screen and thank Go-Sat-Somebody he can only do just that, because the blasphemies he was trying to express were far from allowed to be heard, even for demons such as them. 

“You are going to be in that pitiful form for azzzz long azzzzz we wanted, you brat” Beelzebub’s growl was more of a challenge that a sentence “Now, be careful not to be li-“ but with a lower hiss, Crowley managed to shut down the device.

“So, I still have my demonic powers then” he thought. This eased him out just the right amount to figured out an idea. “Aziraphale! He could help me change out if this fluffy misery” he meowed and glanced at his plants, which had been observing the whole interaction and were rather amused at this new creature, wondering how any mobile being other than their intimidating owner would willingly come inside. He showed his canine to them, hissing a “what you fuckers looking at”, and they trembled in new-yet-known fear, kind of sensing their owners in that ball of fur.

Since the Bentley was out of his possible transportations and he wasn’t having none of this, with other low hiss he materialised himself in one of his favourite spot on Azira’s bookshop, and one he felt he may enjoy in this new form: a rather antique armchair, just in front of the angel’s work desk. In there, he could meow himself until Aziraphale understood what the ever-hating fuck were happening and, at the same time, look cute and have a lot of sunlight in him.

What he didn’t expected was his beans feeling the soft sensation of a human lap under them. Of course, he couldn’t notice this if it wasn’t for the quite gasp the owner of said lap let slide from his mouth. 

Aziraphale was half sleep when he felt a weight on his thighs. Fixing his reading glasses, he glanced at quite a lovely feline, looking up to him where the load had been felt, with golden eyes, far too familiar. The stupor from waking up so fast made the angel don’t realise that eyes where, in fact, way too familiar.

“Why hello there, little one!” he murmured, combing Crowley’s back, making him purr without the demon even noticing or intended to. He turned around Azira’s lap a couple of time as he kneaded on that horrendous trousers he likes to wear so much, suddenly forgetting about everything but that gentle touch inside his fur. “Such a delightful creature, you are!” 

The angel felt his legs vibrating under his new friend, and a strange warm ran throw his spine upwards, landing on the top of his head and he swore he felt his halo went brighter because of it. He didn’t know how this little being could found its way inside his bookshop, but he encountered himself petting his new friend with such care and love, that he couldn’t help it but think about Crowley.  

“Ah~ my demon dearest” he sighed, and the cat softly meow at him, as if he knew the person he was talking about or, rather, he was the person the angel was talking about. “Oh? Isn’t your name by any chance Demon, now is it?” he asked, looking down with pure affection on his celestial eyes, making the demon both melted and scoffed. 

Crowley meowed a little bit harder, trying to communicate with the angel, but failing miserably on this, letting himself go under the petting that hadn’t stop. He curled up on again on his own being, tighter than a normal cat (because once a serpent always a serpent) and start purring again, almost hissing.

“If it wasn’t, may as well now is” whispered the angel, and a collar miraculously appeared around the cat’s neck, as black as Crowley’s feathers (that, funny enough, were the same black as the cat’s fur),  a nice silver plate attached to it, reading “Demon” in Aziraphale’s pristine gold calligraphy, very similar to Crowley’s (and Demon’s, funny enough) eyes color. “You remember me of quite a delightful being, you know?” Azira said to his (not so) new friend, who was oblivious under his soft and careful hands. “Delightful and magnificent, that is” he continued, with a bittersweet tone. “So full of himself and mischievous, yet so sweet and soft”.

Crowley lifted his tail, as a signal of protest. “I’m not soft, and you know that angel!” he meowed between the purring, making the angel awed out of pure tenderness. “Don’t ‘awe’ me, angel! Help me get back my body, so I can-” but Aziraphale just heard oddly offended meows, tickled him fancier than he could imaging. The only other creature that made him this happy was a not only sarcastically named demon.

“Oh Crowley~” he cried to the heavens “Why on Earth do you have to be so damn beautiful for a foul fiend such as yourself?” his words full of sorrow. “6000 holy years we’ve been knowing each other, and through out the whole thing, you always found a way, in ever single era, to made me fall for you”. 

The sole image of that sent an electric spam on both of their spines. The cat purred at him, just for the scare of it all, going even closer to Aziraphale’s stomach. The cat closeness made the angel realise that he was (or so he thought) talking to nobody. A chuckle escaped from his throat, because of both how ashamed he felt and how the vibrating sound the kitty was doing near his belly. He felt pity for himself, being a poor excuse of a holy creature, wanting Crowley in such hedonistic ways, not just once or twice, but though out entire centuries. His eyes met the cat’s, who was purring and kneading on his lap, anxiously trying to comfort him. After Armagedon’t, he could’ve swore he felt a rush of, for lack of better words, second changes running between the two of them.

“And yet, here I am, talking to this creature, so majestic yet so soft, such as you are,” Aziraphale murmured, looking up and thinking about the demon, “about how much you mean to me, because this is the closest I could ever fathom to say this kind of words”. 

Crowley suddenly grow silent, his glazed eyes looking directly at the angel. He sat on his posterior paws and let go a wimp growl as he posed one paw on Aziraphale’s belly, as an act of both purely curiosity and encouragement. 

“Well yes, my little Demon, that’s precisely what I said, you majestic little devil” he answered to the meow, softly, petting him between his fluffy ears, which made the demonic feline purr out of pure instinct, rubbing his head harder to that touch, elevating him a little bit “Oh, you would love to meet him, I assure you,” the angel continued, with a soft soothing tone “He is such a perfect creature, you see”. this word went out like one of Crowley’s purrs, his chest full of love. “He has always been there for me” the angel chuckled “Saving me from the guillotine, from nazis” a long sigh escaped from his mouth, one that can only a being in love could exhaled “from myself most of the time”. 

The demon was so flustered, he was rather glad about being a cat because, you see, cats don’t get all red in the face because of an adorable dork such as his angel. Now, with both his front paws on Azira’s belly, he was trying to touch the angel’s face with his head, failing miserably, but drawing the attention of the angel’s eyes back to his.

“And he would love to meet you too!” Aziraphale said, a little bit louder than before. “I know he loves all furry dark creatures of the Creation, and would never hurt you” An idea crossed the angel’s mind which made him giggled “I must warn you, he have the tendency of hissing at things he don’t understand or knows at first, but he wouldn’t hurt you in any capacity. Even if he doesn’t want to recognise it, he is, at heart, a good person”.

And were those words, the exact same ones that he said to him almost a week ago in a table at the Ritz, that made Crowley snapped out of his feline prison, leaving a much-flustered demon sitting on the laps of certain red-as-a-sunset angel. 

“Hum-… hey angel” he whispered, both ashamed and expectant. Because he was trying to comfort the celestial being earlier, his arms were on a tight grip around Aziraphale’s waist, and when he noticed it, he tried to back up. “I-ah… I didn’t know you would use this chai-…”

But Aziraphale, growing even more red on the face that he was before, didn’t give him any space to go anywhere but closer. He was hugging Crowley ever so tightly one could ‘ve thought the demon was about to break, yet soft enough just so Crowley could understand how very much appreciated he was about all these sudden circumstances. With a quick move, he closed the distance between the both of them in a tender kiss, and he swore he could felt his halo grow even brighter than before.

[iphoenixrising]

No Home for Dead Birds Drabble

He really doesn't think about it. There's no need to, choices have already been made.

Explaining to Ma Kent why he's moving out was really heartbreaking; she had nothing to do with any of the events that lead to him giving up the name, taking the final step in ending whatever this fucked-up relationship he has with Clark. Really, he should have done it a long time ago, should have sat Clark down in the Watchtower and had "the talk" with him. You know, the I'm-your-clone-but-you-don't-owe-me-anything-anymore with a little I've-got-my-own-way-now-so-you're-free-of-responsibility. Kara probably would have thrown a fucking party or some shit.

Well, once she heard he gave up the pseud as well as the Kryptonian name, essentially removing himself from the House of El's final records, she probably did anyway.

So by the time he's back to Kent Farm to pick up the very last box, he doesn't expect anyone to be there. Ma won't want to see him, not now that he's done what he has to do.

And it's fine. Really. They gave him what he needed when he needed it, no matter what kind of abomination they thought he was (will always be, right Kara?), so he can at least be a bro and take his name out of their records, to move forward as someone new so they wouldn't have to be ashamed their house was tainted with bad blood.

He'd come to terms with it all a long time ago (but it had never stopped him from trying to reach out-giving up the uniform was the last ditch…and well, he'd been right all along, hadn't he?). The Bat had tried telling him once that Clark would come around, but Conner didn't think even Bruce believed it totally.

None of the JLA did.

It's okay, he's got a team to have his back. He knows where home is now.

So he isn't surprised the truck isn't by the barn as normal, doesn't bother breaking out the super senses when he just strolls across the porch and opens the front door. The last box is all he's here for.

The bittersweet memories-good and bad times (like when Pa thought his 'hawk was a disaster)-hit him harder while he stands in the entry way and just breathes.

It's funny how, even though he knew, has always known, staying with the Kents was only temporary (and only because Clark asked them to put him up probably because he didn't know what else to do at the time), had known they were doing it out of obligation- this is still the closest thing to a family home he'd ever had. Even knowing it wasn't real, it was still…

His fists clench in the unexpected pain in his chest, the blurry, wet quality to his eyes.

But if anything, the meta-human known as Conner Kent is versatile, adaptable. He's one that can keep moving regardless of the fallout.

He takes the steps slowly, quietly, hand skimming over the banister. In the attic loft, the bed has been stripped, the walls bare, only the threadbare carpet and rickety chest of drawers are all that's left. Well, that and his memories (dude, time to go).

He snags the box, stupid things in it, really. The set of gloves Cassie gave him one year (even though his hands couldn't physically get frostbite), his own set of Monopoly BB got him when he figured out how much Conner enjoyed the hell out of it, the set of marbles Guardian had given him from way back in the day, two broken down fishing poles (and Bart is going to be stoked because they're new place is prime fishing territory). But…

He pulls out the black t-shirt Ma must have laid on top.

The shield faces him when he unfolds it, holds it open. And that wave of pain hits him again, like a speeding train when he's still kind of hungover after kryptonite poisoning (it never should have been yours anyway-fuck that shit). Gently, carefully, he folds it back the way Ma always does and puts it down on the bare-bones bed.

Final box in his hands, he could have gone out the window and flown away, but no, something in him wants the last walk down the staircase, pretending he's just going to school or out to do chores with Pa and-

"Kon-El," is said gently, but the meta-human still jerks with it, spins on his heel, almost drops the box.

In the hallway moving down to the kitchen, Clark and Kara are right there, civvies instead of suits-which makes his brow arch.

And it's a terrible thing that he goes tight all over, the instinct to fight kicking in more than usual.

"It's just Conner, remember?" Comes from him, oddly enough, and he feels slightly numb, slightly nauseous. He'd never expected them to try fighting him here of all places, or finish whatever final ritual they needed to take him out of the El family or whatever this could possibly be about.

"Conner," Clark corrects almost gently, and Kara…flinches?

He sighs unconsciously, wondering what the fuck he's done now.

"This is the last of it," he rushes out harshly, "then I'm gone, okay? I'll stay away if that's why you're here."

And he would. It would suck so hard if he could never see Ma again, but he'd do it to keep the peace with her real family.

"What?" Clark's eyes go wide behind his glasses, and Kara blinks, still looking like she ate something extremely bitter. "That is not-" and there's both hands, palm up in the totally not dangerous kind of way- "why we came here. Can we just talk? Just for a few minutes?"

"We left the Tower. You've got the name. I won't use it again," he replies immediately, "what else is there to talk about?" He does an eye slide to the front door, making it a pointed look.

But that-

That's Clark and Kara coming down the hallway and Conner's eyes just get bigger (because Ma is going to seriously get mad if they super fight in the house), drawing himself up to his full height unconsciously.

Clark just comes right up to him, almost touching the box he's holding and looking down with something…different. Something that might even look a little like remorse?

That…would have been nice once-upon-a-time.

Nowadays, he has better things to do with his time than placate these two.

His eyes narrow, one hand comes up in a hold it right there gesture, stopping the two Kryptonians in mid-step. "Look," and it's a done deal, Clark, "I'm not heading to the dark side or anything. I'm staying with the good guys. I've gotten everything out of the Kent's house, and I won't come back. You've got the name now, and Jon is going to rock the fuck out of it. Not like either of you were very happy when I took it on anyway, right? Like abomination and shit," and maybe his eyes slide to Kara with that because, you know, he got it the first time she said it, "so there, you've got it back. No harm, no foul."

And even though he's a guy with super strength, the box transferred to one arm starts to get heavy, feeling like his life up to now is right there balanced on one hip. But, at least his tone is level, so he gets a thousand points for it. A few thousand actually because why the fuck are they here?

Even though they didn't like him, didn't really want him in their family, he didn't think they'd feel the need to watch him fucking leave.

"It'll break Ma's heart if you don't come back," Clark chokes out.

"I think," Kara just jumps right in, taking a halting step closer, "I think we've just expected things to happen, Conner. We just…took it for granted you'd see where we all are now. I mean, we’ve fighting on the same side for years and those thing I’ve said to you were cruel and—and wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” And yes, maybe she’s getting a little teary thinking about the young man that gave his life in the fight against Prime, that made the ultimate sacrifice because that’s what heroes did. She licks her lips, blinking rapidly, and breathing out. Clark lays a comforting hand on her back, thinking about doing something very similar for a certain vigilante when choices basically ended an era of young superheroes working with them as a team.

Conner, however, is staring and at a complete loss for how to handle this.

At all.

Can he just go now? Please?

Clark seems to sense the awkward and interjects, smiling weakly, “we came here to ask if you would mind just…keeping in touch. Just let Ma or one of us know you’re…that you’re okay. Nothing about the team or the life, but just you, Conner.”

Kara seems to have collected herself, “and we wanted you to know, with or without the shirt or the name, we’re still going to stand beside you if or when you need us. You don’t ever have to fight alone, okay? That’s all.”

Now he’s concerned. Is this like that movie Tim showed him one time? The one with the Pod People or whatever? The change-up is messing with (not that he’d ever admit it) his emotional equilibrium. Sure, they’d worked together enough in the last few years to be called the “Super Family” by the media, but he hadn’t really believed in it (hoped, imagined, yes, but really believed?).

“And if,” Clark gets serious just that fast, Superman behind Clark Kent’s glasses, “you need somewhere to go, you can always come to us. If something happens, whatever it is, there will always be a place for you.”

But the words, the sentiments, behind it all make Conner Kent flinch. During the ‘hawk days, he would have sat in a room full of kryptonite for hours to hear all of this, any of this—he would have given a limb just be told he was part of something, not a mistake of science, a crime against nature itself. The him of those days would have dropped the box and gone to them, maybe tried to hug it out, maybe would have thanked them for including him, for caring.

The him of today is older, wiser, and learned from a certain former Robin about being a realist.

So instead, he shifts his box under the crook of his arm and half turns toward the door, looking out into the fields across the road from the house—field he ran in, fields he helped till, fields he’s leaving behind for more important things.

“I appreciate it, really. I’ll keep it mind if something ever happens. The team is off-limits though. I’m not going to spy on anyone or anything, so that’s out. But…I mean—” he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, feeling like a dumb ass to say it, “ditto. If you need something, just send out a call.”

With that, he throws a wave over one shoulder and goes out the screen door, lifting off gently from the top step of the porch without looking back.

**

Sailing calmly over the city, however, he can’t help but make one more detour.

On the wrought iron balcony of the nice hotel on Bourbon Street, a pretty lady is sipping dark coffee and daintily eating a scone while the mid-afternoon bustle and music swell under her feet.

She’s just as beautiful as ever.

Conner sets his box on the lip of the roof and slowly sinks down, a small smile already on his face, one that’s wholly for her.

And he catches it before she can turn her face, let her hair cover her profile—she smiles too, already knows he’s there.

“Hi Pretty Lady,” he rumbles affectionately as he lands right in the seat across from her.

Cass’s smile gets wider, her eyes scrunched slightly (and he knows she only does it when she’s content with things, as close to happy as she can get), and the fondness is still there.

Brief, powerful, beautiful had been their time together—a meeting of similar souls that found comfort in one another’s presence. Conner could talk for hours and she would listen to ever word, give him her full attention automatically, make sure he knew how important he was. In return, he could give her the silence she needed, hold on to her gently, rub a palm in circles over her back until her body unlocked and she could breathe again. They didn’t make demands of one another, didn’t need to hide their weaknesses in obvious strengths (like some speedsters had a knack for doing) to deflect away, to hide.

He and Cass could just be.

“Conner,” her soft voice still purrs, still sends shivers down his spine. “Okay?”

He nods a little, still smiling, trying to remember the last time they’d met to catch up. “Yeah, it’s better now. I mean, I like it here so far. Everyone made a good call.”

“Good. Deserve good things.”

He leans an elbow on the delicate looking little table, eyes bright, “back atcha, babe. How’s Hong Kong? Heard it got rough there for a while. Black Bat trying to take down a major section of the Triad.”

And when she smiles that sharp little moue, he laughs, losing some of the tension from the scene at the farmhouse. “Well, I’m glad you had fun taking apart bad guys.”

“Always do.” And with a comfortable move, she slides her fingers against his palm, “but, needed here.”

He hums a little, absently rubbing a thumb on the back of her hand. “Aw, you came to check up on us, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” and there’s that smile again.

“Tim,” he guesses shrewdly, “you came back for Tim.”

One finger of her free hand taps her nose, and he laughs a little, “good. I hope you talked some sense into him.”

“Direction,” she counters gently, “not going to, but going away. Wrong direction. Now, maybe better.”

He gets it, squeezes her hand in thanks, “Please tell me you at least convinced him to put armor back in his suit.”

She tilts her head, and arches a brow. “Not my job, your job. Make him take better care of mind…and body.”

Conner’s face goes immediately pink, “hey. Bart and I—”

She just hums, her smile turning sly. “Good for him, the two of you.”

“We…we were, for the old Tim, but Grayson broke his fucking heart, Cass. I don’t know how long it’s going to take for him to be even remotely okay again.” And Conner has to look away from the Bat suddenly in her eyes, an assessing expression, calculating the weight of his words and everything behind it. Well, family of detectives, that is.

But in her own way, Cass has a talent for her occasional bits of wisdom, but more so telling people what they need to hear versus what they want.

“Was very okay…with you two.” She bats her eyes at him, laughing softly right in his face because busted. Of course those feelings were still there, of course she knew he and Bart would be after Tim like idiots because he was theirs first and there would always, always be room—

“You suck,” he finally goes with, propping his chin on his hand.

“Effective,” she corrects and he laughs again.

Eventually, Cass gives him the other scone and shares her coffee, listening to the details of the last few months she’d been deep undercover in the Hong Kong underworld.

And it’s close to dark before he finally lifts off her balcony, making sure to wrap her up in tight hug before he picked up his box and headed for (home) HQ.

**

The sight when he gets back is better than he really could have hoped for.

The box from Smallville gets dropped out of the way and he joins the rest of the team at the island where the smell of something home cooked wafts from the center, and it’s sweats and t-shirt time for everyone. BB is telling a story, all waving hands and full body dives while Rave secretly smiles and gingerly dabs ointment on Tim’s raw knuckles while he eats with the one she’s already treated. Cassie has her bunny slippers on the low rung of her stool, laughing at the usual antics and wrestling with Bart over the last dumpling.

He gets a round of welcome when he takes the empty seat and starts accepting sides to fill his plate, and everyone gives a status on how far along they are to start building their own dynamic as a new team.

“HQ is 68% operational,” Tim fills in, waving a hand over his shoulder.  “We need at least 85% to run all necessary security protocols and be running enough to realistically take on more than the run-of-the-mill bad guys.”

And just like in his old Perch, the hologram screens pop up in the center of the island, turning just slightly. The schematics of the building are outlined in accomplished and naw, not there yet.

Bart however, is the one to push the envelope just enough not to get him in too much trouble (usually…okay mostly), “mmhm, ‘we,’ huh, Tim?”

And yes, Tim, that eyebrow is for you.

Their former leader slurps his noodles and finally glances at everyone assembled in this achingly familiar way. He clears his throat just enough, “I understand… there might be a position open for a team vigilante. Totally forgot a copy of my resume on the printer at home though, so sad about it.”

And no, Conner doesn’t snort Zesti out of his nose, but it’s a close thing.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Cassie just smirks back (and probably a little smug too because, well, gotcha Tim), “I mean, you come with some pretty impressive references.”

“Actually, I think I really do want to read that,” Bart shrugs, “I mean a vigilante’s resume. Like, Job Skills: kicking ass. Hobbies: kicking ass. Special awards: various molars and bone fragments.”

“Dude! Stop reading my stuff, seriously. How did you even know?”

More food is consumed, more banter thrown across the counter, and the ease of a good night with good friends slows time. Cleaning up is familiar, moving around one another as Conner and Bart put leftovers in little Rubbermaid containers, BB washes and Tim dries, Raven wipes up the counters, and Cassie makes popcorn for the inevitable movie night.

Tomorrow and the following days—well, that will time for the team to move. Tonight is to celebrate coming home.

[justintimereviews]

Top 10 Films of 2016

10. Everybody Wants Some!! (Richard Linklater)

With Linklater behind the camera I was not surprised when Everybody Wants Some!! demonstrated just as much comedy, nostalgia, and Texan Buddhism and its spiritual predecessor, Dazed and Confused. Tracing the exploits of a 1980’s college baseball team during the first few days on campus, the film delights in a carefree place and time where youth is finally unsupervised and everything is possible: sex, drugs, sports glory, the future. Importantly, Linklater is careful not to endorse all of his characters’ behavior or philosophies, but rather at times point out their vulnerabilities and masculine mini-crises (in some ways this could make for an intriguing companion film to my pick at #4). While Everybody Wants Some!! was one of the funniest, biggest-hearted movies of the year, the tagline on the movie poster lets us in on Linklater’s true aim: “Here for a good time. Not a long time,” as if to slyly spell out the thing that these manchildren—like all of us—really want so much more of.

9. La La Land (Damien Chazelle)

It may not feel like the right moment, politically, to indulge in a whimsical Hollywood musical about beautiful Hollywood people. But at face value La La Land is well-scored, well-acted, funny, and more introspective than its “follow your dreams” conceit implies. I like watching Chazelle examine the trade-off between ambition and joy, both in Whiplash and his latest film about conflicted artists. In the former, Miles Teller’s obsessive jazz drummer got served what I’d consider far from a happy ending (his father’s appalled face in the final scene is the perfect audience proxy). On the other hand, Teller’s character did manage to achieve his dream, which was always the point. With La La Land, Chazelle’s screenplay and Justin Hurwitz’s composition take another bite at the apple: is your dream really worth achieving if you have to do it alone?  

8. Manchester by the Sea (Kenneth Lonergan)

With one of the year’s strongest scripts and two sublime performances from Casey Affleck and Michelle Williams, Lonergan’s meditation on guilt and grief lived up to its Sundance hype. Without any voiceover and a dearth of bells and whistles, Manchester felt like watching a stageplay in that it left its ensemble no room for error. The actors’ faces and a deftly employed flashback mechanism did most of the legwork, telling a familiar story but on its own heartbreakingly beautiful terms. Most surprising was the film’s humor, particularly from newcomer Lucas Hedges’ poignant and complex portrayal of a grieving teenager.    

7. Arrival (Denis Villeneuve)

Fresh off the heels of directing 2015’s best thriller, Villeneuve gives us 2016’s best sci-fi with Arrival. More than almost any director working today Villeneuve understands how to use tension in his films, and the deliberate pace of Eric Heisserer’s script plays right into the auteur’s wheelhouse. Villeneuve—as he did with Prisoners and Sicario—uses genre and high-concept storytelling to examine something basic and constitutional about humanity. In this case, he offers up interstellar linguistics and inky tentacle monsters to teach us about the meaning of life. Arrival also boasts the year’s most breathtaking shot, compliments of the uber-talented DP, Bradford Young:

6. Jackie (Pablo Larrain)

Typically biopics are not as artistically provocative as Larrain’s Jackie: it’s a dark, often unsettling portrait of the inscrutable first lady as she tries to do the impossible. On top of consoling her children and managing her own grief, Natalie Portman’s Jackie charges herself with planning her famous husband’s funeral, preserving his (and her own) place in history, and coming to terms with what life will be like once she’s no longer insulated by her beloved Camelot myth. Frequent voiceover and fragments of disparate, interstitial conversations that reveal Jackie’s inner monologue cause the film to play like a dream, not unlike if Terrence Malick were storyboarding. Strangely, I didn’t know if I even liked the film up until the last 30 minutes, but once it was done I was convinced Larrain and Portman’s collaboration was a work of art.  

5. Little Men (Ira Sachs)

I’m fascinated with how the things that happen to us as children influence who we become as adults. Your current career, relationship, hobbies, and emotional disposition could all be the result of some discrete event in your past, say a best friend moving away, or a role model’s fall from grace. Ira Sachs’ Little Men explores this phenomenon through the tale of Jake and Tony (Theo Taplitz and Michael Barbieri, both tortuously charismatic), two childhood friends brought together and torn apart by circumstances out of their control. Their frustration and confusion with the complications of their parents’ lives is so familiar it hurts. But in Sachs’ bittersweet ending he reminds us of what’s important about these formational—if short-lived—friendships: that they left their mark on us, and we on them.

4. 20th Century Women (Mike Mills)

I did not know much about late 1970s America going into this film, let alone the role that punk rock, feminism, and Jimmy Carter played in shaping the American identity. It’s just a period of history I never paid much attention to. I’m somewhat happy this was the case because I really enjoyed learning about it through Mike Mills’ story. Annette Bening, Greta Gerwig, and Elle Fanning play three women of three distinct generations in 1979 Santa Barbara. Bening, a single mother, enlists the two younger women to help raise her adolescent son during a time when men—and the country at large—were undergoing an infamous crisis of confidence. Like Linklater’s film, 20th Century Women is a time capsule flecked with the cultural particulars of a specific, often overlooked era. In spite of this and its excellent soundtrack, what stays with me most is one of Bening’s lines about her son, delivered to Gerwig’s much younger character: “You get to see him out in the world as a person, I never will.” It broke my heart.          

3. Krisha (Trey Edward Shults)

If “family holiday horror” is a genre, Krisha is its Citizen Kane. Hypnotizing camera technique and an unnerving score immerse us in an estranged matriarch’s attempt at reconciliation with the family she abandoned many years before. This film made me very uncomfortable. And seeing it has forever changed how I will look at substance abuse—and Thanksgiving turkey—for the better. The only thing more shocking than the experience of watching Krisha is how the film was made. Shults—in his feature film debut—shot entirely at his parents’ Texas home over the course of 9 days, filled the cast almost exclusively with family members (including his aunt in the titular role), and worked on a paltry budget of about $100,000. I’m excited to see what he can do with 10x that.

2. O.J.: Made in America (Ezra Edelman)

The near eight-hour saga does much more than chronicle the rise and fall of the football star turned actor turned tragic figure: it draws a direct through line connecting the highly publicized Trial of the Century (and the myriad emotions on display following the controversial verdict) to key social events in Los Angeles during the decades prior such as the Watts riots, Latasha Harlins killing, and Rodney King beating. Edelman tantalizes you early on with O.J. as an American mythic hero. His was a Horatio Alger success story for the 20th century, having made it out of the San Francisco housing projects to become a Heisman Trophy winner, NFL rushing leader, precedent-setting corporate spokesman, and beloved TV and film personality. Most importantly, he transcended race, such that Simpson himself liked to explain “I’m not black, I’m O.J.” So when he was accused of murdering Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman, suddenly the entire country looked to his trial as a referendum on American race relations and social justice. It is an ambitious and towering film, intimate enough to engage yet comprehensive enough to say something profound about American society. For maximum effect try to watch it all in one sitting.  

1. Moonlight (Barry Jenkins)

Moonlight is the most affecting, emotional film I’ve seen in the last 5 years. Jenkins and the three actors that play Chiron accomplish something so rarely done on screen: they create a fully formed identity of a person. With concentrated dialogue, purposeful imagery, and—most of all—the actors’ eyes, Moonlight is a cinematic allegory of self-actualization and personal discovery that one can’t help but relate to. But Chiron’s story is anything but universal. The film paints an ultra-specific portrait of a young man from Miami that I for one have almost nothing in common with. Moonlight’s achievement, then, is the way it embraces Chiron’s uniqueness while at the same time tapping into universal truths about humanity, sexuality, and identity; by the end of the film we know this other person named Chiron. How Jenkins does this is something I’m still trying to figure out. There’s very little dialogue, no grand set pieces; it’s a soft, whisper of a film. And yet the last 10 minutes broke me down. There were lots of great movies in 2016, but Moonlight is essential.  

 What else I liked in no particular order: The Lobster, Hell or High Water, Fences, Silence, Eye in the Sky, American Honey, Captain Fantastic, Nocturnal Animals, Florence Foster Jenkins, Sing Street, The Nice Guys, Hidden Figures, Swiss Army Man, Café Society, Knight of Cups, Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping, Kubo and the Two Strings, Midnight Special, Hunt for the Wilderpeople, The Witch

What I haven’t seen (yet): Paterson, Elle, Lion, I Daniel Blake, Loving, A Bigger Splash, Toni Erdmann, Miss Sloane, Your Name, The Fits

Some further reading on these films I really enjoyed:

Last Taboo: Why Pop Culture Just Can't Deal With Black Male Sexuality, by Wesley Morris

High Tide: Kenneth Lonergan on Manchester by the Sea, Filmmaker Magazine

The State That I Am In: Pablo Larrain Interview, Film Comment

How SXSW Winner Trey Edward Shults Shot "Krisha" With His Family in 9 Days, No Film School

The Year's Most Captivating Performances, by Wesley Morris and A.O. Scott