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mask131 · 2 months

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The myth of Medea (2)

Next article, following a chronological order, is “Medea, from the 16th to the 18th centuries”, written by Patrick Werly.

During the Middle-Ages, Medea is depicted in several tales. Benoît de Sainte-Maure’s Roman de Troie, in the middle of the 12th century; Guillaume de Loris and Jean de Meng’s Roman de la Rose, in the 13th century; the anonymous Moralized Ovid of the 14th century ; the Jugement du Roy de Navarre by Guillaume de Machaut in the 14th century, etc…

Between the 16th and 18th centuries, Medea was mostly encountered on theater stages and within operas, in works that are more inspired by the tragedies of Seneca and Euripides, rather than by the Metamorphoses of Ovid. However, there was an effort of appropriation to be made: indeed, the myth of Medea the Scythian, of Medea the Barbarian, part of the classical works of Antiquity, was at risk of ruining the moral values and the aesthetic system that Europe had imposed upon itself. As such, a “displacement” of the figure was required. Three main authors have to be considered: Calderon de la Barca, Pierre Corneille, and Thomas Corneille as the librettist of Marc Antoine Charpentier.

I/ The allegorical reading

The authors of the 17th century mostly found their sources in a mythology manual that had been published in 1552 by Noël Conti (or Noël le Comte, in Latin Natalis Comes, 1520-1582), and which was titled: “Mythology, or the explanation of fables, containing the genealogies of the gods, the ceremonies of their sacrifices, their deeds, their adventures, their loves, and almost all of the principles of the natural and moral philosophy”. Corneille used it to write his Conquête de la Toison d’Or, Caderon also probably used it for his El divino Jason. The seventh chapter of the sixth book is dedicated to Medea: after retelling the myth, Noël Conti presents the “physical mythology”, then the “moral mythology”. In both cases, the process it to try to use the myth for the moral edification of the reader, through mean of the allegory. As such, the reason behind the “dissection and death of Medea’s brothers and children” is because she wanted to put behind her appetite and concupiscence: “if someone let themselves we trapped by the slimy nets of unreasonable pleasures of the flesh, of greed, of cruelty; then it is to no surprise that good advice and counsel climbs on its chariot and flies away in the sky with winged dragon”. According to the etymology offered by Noël Conti, and that Calderon will reuse, Medea is “the advice”, “the counsel”, that is to say, the scholastic tradition, the wise decision, the choice made after a deliberation. The mythographer is aware of the negative image of Medea: but it does not matter if she is good or evil for, in the tradition of the Moralized Ovid, Medea needs to have a usefulness for the moral and religious domains. “Whether we take Medea to be advice and prudence, or to be a very wicked and malevolent woman, the Ancients, through this Fable, intended to shape us and lead us to probity, and to the integrity of the mores”. This is the moral lesson we must keep: the violence of the myth is transposed for the benefit of virtue.

This allegory can be found in the self-sacramental El divino Jason, composed in 1634 by Calderon de la Barca (1600-1681). In this play, the allegory is explicitly Christian since Jason is the Christ, Hercules saint Peter, Orpheus saint John the Baptist, etc… The fleece represents the soul, the one of a lost sheep which fled from the herd of the Christ and that Jason is thus looking for. But the quest of Jason is a dual one, because the soul is also depicted by Medea, which is also the allegory for Gentilism. Jason says of her: “Medea, who means / Advisor and Knowledgeable in all / was once the Gentilism / which offered itself to the superstitious rites / of magic / and to its idols which are but air / smoke, dust and nothingness”. The task of Jason is to bring Medea with him on the Argo ship to take her away from the land of Colchis, but also to free her from the influence of Idolatry, an actual character of the play, which embodies the religion and the pagan wisdom of the Antiquity.

When Medea encounters Jason for the first time, on the shores of Colchis, she decides to simulate her love (“Amor le pienso fingir”), but Jason tells her he only came here to love her (“Vengo a amarte”), and then Medea is caught by her own trap, and falls in love truly (“Pensaba fingir amores / y va verdaderos son”). When she offers herself to Jason, she also offers at the same time the Fleece that he came here to seek (“Digo que de amores muero ; / tuyo sera el vellocino / que buscas, Jason divino”).

Follows a strange scene in which Theseus (here, saint Andre) pronounces a long, poetic speech filled with proper names (those of the Argonauts, of Medea, of Idolatry), with names of flowers, of colors, of virtues. Each, when they hear their name, or the name of their flower, color, virtue, answers Theseus. Medea chose the clover (a leaf without a flower, which makes a beautiful border for others’ bouquets), the color green, and the virtue of Hope. In this long passage, a baroque chorus presents the union of Medea to Jason as her union to Christianity, as well as her rejection of Idolatry (“No quiero / seguirte mas, fero monstruo / Oh, como y ate aborezeo!”)

Jason, to redeem the mistakes of Medea, will undergo the trial of taking the Golden Fleece away from its tree (which is also the Tree of Adam). At the top, he replaces the Fleece with a Lamb which bleeds, and whose light blinds and strikes down Idolatry, while Hell opens up below her. Calderon did not stage in any way the magical powers of Medea: here, she is only a sorceress by reputation. Magic is only due to the characters of the Idolatry, and of the King (which represents the World), but it is powerless against the Argonauts led by Jason. What replaces magic in terms of supernatural effects, is the miracle, the one that Jason accomplishes. In the dramaturgy of the play, the actions that go beyond the power of man are not those of magic, but those of religion, the one to which Medea converts herself. In this allegory, the barbarian, the wizardess, abandons all of her attributes to follow the pastor-Jason. The sheep found back its flock, the soul now belongs to the Church.

II/Medea as a victim

Médée is the first tragedy of Pierre Corneille, which was played during the season of 1634-1635. The play is already a work part of the classical canon (the author tries to respect the unicity of location, time and action), but it does not respect the rule of “bienséance”, since we see dying on stage the king and the princess. Corneille, in his letter-preface to his play, explains that poetry often makes “beautiful imitations of actions we should not imitate”, and he plays on the two meanings of the verb “imitate”. But it is also a trick of Corneille to keep the moral safe. Indeed, the actions of Medea can be explained by the fact that she is victim of a political conspiracy; it is an explanation that allows to rationalize her actions, and thus judge them by the light of “common reason”. Jason, the man that she loves, presents himself as such: “Thus I am not one of those vulgar lovers / I adjust my flame to the good of my businesses / And under whichever climate fate would throw me / I will be in love by State maxim” (I,1). And Creon, the king, talks about Egeus, who originally had to marry Creusa before she was promised to Jason: “Whichever reasons of State might satisfy him” (II,3). Marriage is thus placed under the sign of the “reason of the State”, of which Medea is the victim. She pleads her cause by herself in these words: “Anyone who condemns a criminal without hearing them / Even if they deserved a thousand times their punishment / Turns a just sentence into an injustice” (II,2).

Corneille thus introduced a judiciary dimension to his play: Medea was condemned to exile for the murder of Pelias, but she was not properly put on trial. She becomes the victim of Creon’s tyranny. But beyond her, it is all of her family, an entire dynastic branch that is victim of a tyrannical power. Indeed, Medea is the grand-daughter of the Sun, and if Jason marries Creusa, their children will dishonor the dynasty: “You will mingle, impious one, and put on the same rank / The nephews of Sisyphus and those of the Sun! / […] / I will gladly prevent this odious mixing, / Which dishonors together my family and my gods” (III,3). As such, the series of crimes is explained: Creusa’s death prevents the misalliance, while the death of the children both suppresses radically the cause of the dynastic troubles while also hurting Jason. Medea answers to the conspiracy created “by reason of State” by what was called in the 17th century a “coup d’Etat”, a premeditated act conceived in secret and that goes beyond common law. This coup d’Etat is here placed on the mythological terrain of magic, as Louis Marin analyzed. Pierre Corneille seems to be so far the only author to have turned the murder of Medea into a political act – the 20th century also made the myth politic, but in a different context.

Corneille wrote another play which features Medea: La Conquête de la Toison d’or (1660). Medea the sorceress is here also a garden architect: the setting of the first act is a French-style garden, seen in perspective, and the character of Absyrte reveals that it was conceived by Medea’s art, the only one able to create such a beauty in a savage and hostile nature. Magic is here linked to the laws of geometry ; but it can be vanquished by the laws of love, such as in the twelfth Héroïde of Ovid, or to be more precise by the superior power of love. Medea says to Jason that she cannot help but love him despite his treachery: “Are you in my art a greater master than me?” (II,2). This art, she later says to her brother Absyrte, “if it has on all else an absolute power / Far from charming hearts, it doesn’t see anything in them” (IV, 1). Thus, the tragedy exposes the limits of the power of Medea: we are far away from the supreme power of the 1635 tragedy.

III / Medea in the opera: the embodiment of division

In their 1693 lyrical tragedy Médée, Marc-Antoine Charpentier and Thomas Corneille use, just like Pierre Corneille did before them, Seneca as their main source, but their opera is not concerned with the political dimension of the tragedy. What is rather important here is to gather around the character of the sorceress the most spectacular elements. We see Medea, helped by demons, by Vengeance, and by Jealousy, preparing in a cauldron the poison that will kill her rival (III,7). We see the guards of the king trying to seize Medea, but turning their weapons against each other before seizing Creon, and finally leaving to pursue “ghosts with the shape of pleasant women” (IV, 7). At the end of the fourth act, the earth opens below Creon, and he sees Medea in the waters of the Styx, while the orchestra is divided into two very distinctive groups of instruments. A same motif recurs in those scenes, like a choreography: the idea of division and separation. The guards are divided by fighting against each other, then they turn against the king they receive order froms, then the earth splits open… Medea is the one who separates, she is the creator of strife and discord. In III, 4, she says about herself and Jason “And may the crime separate us / As the crime joined us”. In the final scene, after killing her children, she claims to Jason: “Unfaithful! After your betrayal / Should I have seen my sons in the sons of Jason?”, a sentence in which the “us” disappears for the “you”, and where Medea dissociates herself from her children.

But Medea herself is divided. As the king kills himself, she is herself fractured. In the scenes IV, 5 and V, 1, she deliberates about the murder of her children, and this deliberation (in a typical 17th century fashion) is divided, as much on a semantic level as on a musical one. When the oscillation of the wizardess’ mind makes her regret her decision, we hear a slow, deep, internal music of cord instruments ; but when she is resolved to commit her crime, the tempo becomes faster and the clavecin dominates. The two rhythm finally converge when she takes her decision, because her doubts are only there for a theatrical effct. Medea is still Medea (“When you boast of being king / Remember that I am Medea”, IV, 6), as she was with Seneca (Nunc sum Medea) and as she was with Corneille (“Madam, I am queen / - And I am Medea, Conquête, III, 4).

In the genre of the opera, other pieces of note include Il Giasone (1649) of Pier Francesco Cavalli, and Medea (1797) by Luigi Cherubini, on a French booklet by François Benoît Hoffmann, where Medea switches between supplications and threats, in a role that was made famous in the 20th century by Maria Callas.

IV/ Medea in paintings and drawings

Jean-François de Troy (1679-1752) painted, for an Histoire de Jason in seven pieces by the Gobelin manufacture, a Médée enlevée sur son char après avoir tué ses enfants (1746). This is an episode taken from the seventh book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and Ovid will indeed be the main source of painters, rather than Euripides or Seneca. Medea, on her chariot pulled by two winged dragons, has a cold, hateful stare. In one hand she holds her magic wand, with the other she points towards the body of her two dead children. Jason is trying to pull out his sword while a soldier restrains him. In the background, Corinth and Creon’s palace are burning. Two small Cupids are behind the chariot. One is breaking his bow with his knee, the other is ripping off his blindfold. This detail explains the meaning of the scene, its allegory: the two little gods of love refuse their own power, upon seeing the devastation of love when it turns into a jealousy-fueled hatred. Or maybe should we understand the message as: if such a disaster is to be avoided, love must stop to be blind. All in all, the depiction of the myth of Medea must have a moral purpose: love must be much more aware and conscious, and it should be treated with logic and reason.

To find back the tragedy and the violence of the antique myth, we must look at two drawings of Poussin from around 1645, the second being a cleaner variation of the first. The scene depicts Medea killing her second child: she holds the child naked, by the leg, his head upside-down, and she raises her arm to hit his heart with a dagger. The first child is dead on the floor, and a terrorized woman, crumpled near his body, turns herself towards Medea to stop her. A bit above, separated by a balcony, unable to stop her, Jason points his arms towards Medea while Creusa lifts her hands towards the heavens. On the second drawing, a statue of Minerva also lifts her arms to the sky, using her shield as a protection not to see what is about to happen. All the violence of the scene can be read in the way the hands are organized in this drawing – and this violence, rarely depicted in such a direct way during the 17th century, is the one of Seneca’s tragedy.

#the myth of medea #medea #renaissance #french theater #theater #corneille #greek myths

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

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Guise - a Malevolent fanfic

Meanwhile, John and Arthur were bickering again. It was, Hastur decided, some kind of demented mating dance.

Demented because neither of them seemed to realize what they were doing.

Mating because it was fucking obvious to anybody who listened to them for five minutes.

Delusional, as well, Hastur mentally added, and growled to get their attention.

Part of the Surrogate series.

AO3

————

Arthur had her trail. He’d fucking found her trail, and Hastur had to just watch him do it.

Had to hang back, remaining invisible (horrifying) while Arthur, now looking like an ordinary person of this world, asked questions in the docks, and smiled, and paid a few people money from Hastur’s treasury.

Arthur was fucking good at it. Hastur could at admit that, at least to himself.

And Arthur had been right: if Hastur had blown in there, no one would have answered his questions as easily as they answered Arthur.

But of course, this was Celephaïs. That was why it went so smoothly: Hastur could credit Kuranes, not Arthur.

(Damn it.)

Arthur came back, and his news was not great—but at least it was something.

Confirmation: she’d gone to the docks. No one had noticed her, but they sure as fuck had noticed Nibbles.

At least until the goat went all shadow, and then no one saw anything at all.

There were little people—possibly children, possibly not—fitting Faroe’s description on several ships headed across the Middle Sea. She could have gone to Hlanith, which would mean a lot of walking to Ulthar. She could have taken the long route to Zakarion, which was much closer to her goal, but longer on the water; would she have braved that to throw searches off?

Damn it. She could even have gone to N’kraal, or the farthest reaches of Thran. Maybe she’d been her very bravest and taken a ship all the way around to Dylath-Leen.

There was no way to tell which ship she had taken.

Hastur could try to hunt the ship down, but that would be foolish—any vessel on this water would be protected to hell and back against interference, and while he could push past that with ease, the risks of capsize were too high.

He had no choice: he would have to portal across the sea and canvas the entire fucking shoreline.

If it became known that the King in Yellow was patrolling the place, she would absolutely get wind of it, and hide again. He would have to do this subtly.

He would have to do this Arthur’s way.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

The stupid human was right.

Meanwhile, John and Arthur were bickering again. It was, Hastur decided, some kind of demented mating dance.

Demented because neither of them seemed to realize what they were doing.

Mating because it was fucking obvious to anybody who listened to them for five minutes. Every damn conversation was intimate, and insulting, and rife with inane vows of love even if they didn't use that word.

It would be mildly entertaining if it were all far, far away from him, and if one of the two fools didn’t need to come home and merge with him sooner rather than later.

Delusional, as well, Hastur mentally added, and growled to get their attention.

…said it wanted you specifically, and you’re just being a jackass for—What, Hastur?

“It is time.”

They both stared at him (or in his direction, which was good enough). “For what?” said Arthur.

“The second part of your plan.”

“A disguise,” said Arthur.

“I must contemplate and craft the most effective form for this.”

“Something that’ll blend in,” said Arthur. “That’s the whole point.”

Hastur touched down, crushing some rocks beneath his weight. With a sweep of one tentacle, he cleared away the poisonous weeds and slew the few predatory spiders and insects that would have feasted on Arthur’s flesh and mind. A perfect circle of soft, fine sand awaited them now, aesthetically and tactually lovely, with an indentation for a small fire.

He was pleased. It was pleasing. “I hope this disguise does not involve the necessity of pretending incapability,” he murmured, putting Arthur down.

Arthur groaned and stretched (as Dis had taught him, another way Hastur Was Right, but he didn’t rub it in). “You mean do you have to pretend not to be a fucking god? Yeah, you have to do that. I need to piss. Where?”

Left. Straight. A little further.

“Do not leave the circle.”

Yeah, I see why. Fucking bugs would probably go crazy for him, wouldn’t they?

“If your discussion of the sentient mold wishing to keep him is accurate, possibly.”

“I told you,” Arthur muttered. “It did that to everybody. We found what was left of other people it ate.”

And I’m telling you, it’s a pattern.

Arthur sighed, going about his disgusting biological processes. “Sure, John. Right.”

Hastur created a fire. He also produced little meats and fruits, even going so far as to provide skewers so Arthur could roast it all (with John’s help) as preferred. He doubted he’d be thanked. An ungrateful little worm never thanked anyone.

Arthur knelt, cleaning his hands in the soft sand, then made his way back to the fire by feel.

Whoa. He’s set up a little feast.

“What?”

I mean not what he’s been shoving down your throat.

Ungrateful worms, plural.

Arthur felt for them, finding where Hastur had angled them on a small log to keep them off the ground. “What is this?”

“Skewers, meat, fruit. You may roast them,” Hastur said graciously.

Now you’re making him cook, too? John declared.

Hastur growled. “You disliked my preparation of food for him before.”

First it was fucking raw, and then it was fucking burnt.

“It was neither. It was rare, and then medium well!”

“Hey, this is neat,” said Arthur, already roasting. Juice from fruit and meat dripped into the fire, sizzling and sending a lovely aroma into the air that Hastur hadn’t experienced in a while: the scent of burnt sacrifices, offered by those who worshiped him.

He hadn’t really bothered with cultists and ceremonies for more than a decade. There was all this nonsense with John, and then Faroe took up so much spare time, and…

“This is really good,” said Arthur around a mouthful of meat like some barbarian, and then he made no sense. “Want some?”

Hastur stared. “Some what?”

Arthur held out one of the skewers. “The fruit juice runs over the meat and sort of caramelizes it. Try some.”

“You think I have any interest in something this base?”

“Pretend it’s practice for a disguise, then,” said Arthur, still holding it out like the stubborn fool he was.

“No,” said Hastur.

Yeah, fuck off, said John. It’s all for Arthur. You don’t get any.

Hastur snatched the skewer.

Hey!

“John, it’s fine.”

Stupid mating dance.

The whole skewer disappeared somewhere in his tentacles, into a mouth he created for the occasion, because he was no ridiculous human to breathe around hot food and reveal teeth and saliva and mess.

It was good. Damn. “You may have a point,” he allowed, expecting no gracious response.

“Yeah? I thought so.” Arthur had worked his way through half of them. “Could I have some water?”

‘“Please.’”

He rolled his eyes. “Could I have some water, please?”

“Yes, you may,” said Hastur, producing three blue glass bottles. They gleamed in the fading light, absolutely lovely in the sunset and against the fire. Pity Arthur couldn’t see them. Pity John was too banal to notice.

I wish you could see this, John said, low, entering the smooth phase of their stupid mating dance. The suns are setting and turning the sky soft purple; the fire rages gold, licking the air; the bottles he just produced are a dark and royal blue, and the light dances through the glass. It’s beautiful, Arthur.

“Wow,” said Arthur, softly.

That was moderately satisfying. Hastur preened a little, then settled by the fire to keep his stupid human safe and to consider his disguise.

It would need to be effective. He wasn’t going to be just some ugly zoog, or something; it was one thing to be able to overhear things as Arthur suggested—but when he was revealed, Hastur still wanted witnesses to be moved.

A woman? No; too many beings, even in the Dreamlands, would dismiss him right away, and while it was fun to correct foolish assumptions with blood and violence, he couldn’t risk Faroe hearing rumors of his actions and location.

“I miss it,” Arthur said. “Sometimes, I’m afraid I’m forgetting what colors looked like.”

Well, that was unexpected.

Arthur… no, it’s all there. You haven’t forgotten.

Arthur sighed. “Sometimes, I don’t think I’m ever going to see again.”

We’ll find a way. Hastur just hasn’t focused on it because he’s got his head up his ass.

Hastur growled.

“I don’t think he can help,” said Arthur. “Kayne said… back when he stuck Yellow in my head. He said, ‘I’ll even give you your arm and leg back—but not your eyes. You only have eyes for him.’ I think he did something.”

That’s stupid.

“No, I remember. ‘John comes back, owns your eyes, as he always did…” I’m telling you, Kayne did something.”

Hastur stirred. “Stop using that name, fool.”

Arthur snorted. “What, you think he isn’t watching? You think using his name makes a damn bit of difference?”

He might be right, Arthur.

Arthur sighed. “I’m right, too. He’s watching.”

Hastur said nothing. He was busy considering Arthur’s eyes.

The moment he’d realized Arthur could play the piano blind, he’d abandoned any idea of repairing his eyesight. Why would he have wanted to? At the time, it was just another way to hurt him, to limit him, to scare him.

Now, Hastur found himself thinking that Arthur had no idea what eight-year-old Faroe looked like.

And that…

That felt…

Hastur did not like how that felt, somewhere deep between his many hearts. So, he studied those eyes.

John being connected to Arthur’s eyes had happened naturally when John entered him from the book, since it was literally Arthur’s vision that was the gateway for that possession.

But why had it not gone farther? It should have. From Arthur’s eyes directly into his brain, John should have taken completely over. (And apparently, briefly had, if their small mutterings about Parker’s death were accurate.)

Then something Arthurian had gone wrong, and Arthur had popped back up again, refilling his body, and limiting John to the eyes.

Which couldn’t happen. Which was a puzzle.

At any rate, there was something else going on here. The connection wasn’t… right.

There was a denseness to it, like a dark and hardened glue, that he could not quite make out. This was not the normal way a being of Hastur’s caliber possessed someone.

It was as if whatever that connection was existed on a level of power beyond his own.

Old, sour fear shivered through him, familiar from that first time nearly six years ago when Kayne had appeared. Hastur tried to peel back warding to see the dark binding clearly, but it did not work. He couldn’t see it; he could only see its shadow.

Kayne had done something to keep Arthur’s eyes attached to John, and Hastur had not even known.

If they merged, Hastur might own Arthur’s eyes.

Hastur did not want Arthur’s eyes. What was this? What the hell could this mean?

There was nothing to be done about it; nothing good could come of poking this mess, and besides—if he were going to risk Kayne’s wrath about anything, it would be for Faroe.

So. Hastur stored the data for later, and returned to thoughts of disguise.

John was trying to help Arthur remember colors. It’s a warm blue, not a cold one. It makes me think of summer nights in the south, when the sun stays out so late and the sky seems endless.

“Late summer skies. I remember that,” said Arthur.

The vibrance matches the flame. It’s not an ordinary fire; he’s fed it with will, somehow, and it’s the warm gold of honey in the sun.

“That dark?”

Huh. I guess that depends on the kind of honey. Scratch that, try… the color of sunlight on brass.

“Bright.”

Very. It feels like a sizzling color, looks like it would burn.

Did Arthur even know he was caressing John’s hand? That his thumb slid over the back, bumping over knuckles, tracing the strange pinky? Impossible to say. Or no, it wasn’t. Hastur was sure Arthur had no idea.

Hm. The colors they put you in, this outfit… it’s very much nature colors. It’s light diffused by evergreens.

“I know that color! That dusty green. I saw it when I was a boy, in that scouting program I told you about.”

Hastur was letting himself be distracted. Back on topic.

It would be wise to look humanoid. For one thing, that would ease suspicion as to why he was traveling with an actual human. Arthur was not a Dreamer, as anyone with the ability to see would know—but a humanoid form for Hastur would let people come to their own conclusions about this partnership, and prevent anyone questioning Arthur’s role.

Of course, he still had to be intimidating. The balance between harmless and don’t fuck with me was one he’d never had to consider before. Hm.

The idiots were entering the combative stage of their mating dance.

It was gold, and it was form-fitting. It was like paint on you.

“So everybody saw everything.” Arthur rubbed his face.

Look, we don’t think about nudity the way humans do. Relax. It wasn’t weird or inappropriate or anything—it just showed off how hard you’ve worked.

“Well, I am human, and I’m not thrilled thousands of monsters saw my ass.”

It’s a fine ass.

“You wouldn’t know.”

I would. Mirrors.

Arthur’s face did some stuff. “You’ve been looking at my ass?”

I’ve been looking at all of you, idiot. How the hell else am I supposed to make sure you’re okay?

“I don’t fucking know! This is awkward!”

You’re awkward!

“At least I’m not some weird… deviant!”

You wouldn’t know a deviant if they bit you on the ass!

Hastur sighed and tuned them out.

There were things he could do to incorporate himself into this disguise without completely hiding who he was—but it would have to be subtle. Delicate. Easily ignored… until it wasn’t.

You don’t know anything!

“Prick!”

Jerk!

Hastur changed.

Shrank down, spreading his power like a cape. Altered his form so he would be taller than Arthur still (and broader, and distinctly more physically imposing), and definitely not completely human.

He retained his glorious ebony black, the color between stars; he liked that about himself, and saw no reason to abandon it. He reduced his visible eyes to two (again wondering how any species managed to survive with such a limitation). He formed pointed ears, and full lips, and a strong jaw.

Yes. He would be beautiful, but strong, and when he pulled his hood back, everyone would want to please him.

His robe, he faded—his yellow, but paled as if by sun so that it seemed quite neutral on the outside. Inside, the lining retained his color, which would only show in glimpses—either intentionally revealed, or when he had to fight something and it flared open with his thrusts.

Last, he combined his many, many limbs and sheathed them in the appearance of two legs, closing to a vee where other parts—normally tucked away where any sane being would want them—now had to sit out on display.

Disgusting. He added more clothes.

The idiots were, of course, still going.

You’d still be a scarecrow if I hadn’t!

“Maybe I don’t care if I was!”

Shocked silence. Arthur, you were dying. Don’t you get that? Why don’t you get that?

More silence. “I didn’t care, then. I…”

Arthur—

“I do now. And it’s as surprising to me as it is to you, okay? Though it shouldn’t be.”

Shouldn’t be?

“You’re the reason. You’re the one who did it. Who… got me to care again. So.” Arthur’s swallow was loud. “Thank you.”

Arthur, I…

Would John say it? Would he finally say the words he’d only confessed when drunk?

I… had to. We share a body.

So that was nope.

Hastur sighed. Why the hell Kayne enjoyed this was beyond him. It was frustrating. If they were properly his and not all entangled in complications, he’d lock them in a room or something until they figured it out.

“Liar,” said Arthur.

Oh? Unexpected defiance?

What?

“You have another body to go to right now. You have since we got here. That’s not why you saved me.”

Ha! thought Hastur.

Maybe not. Maybe… it was just for your ass.

Arthur laughed.

John laughed.

Hastur sighed, then decided enough was enough, and bellowed: “BEHOLD!”

They both jumped.

John stared. What the everloving fuck?

“I am disguised,” said Hastur, who had gone to some lengths to make his voice sound less… just less. Still a booming bass, of course, but less.

“You are?” said Arthur. “What does he look like?”

You have got to be kidding. We’re supposed to be under the radar!

“And we will be, fool. Like this.” Hastur pulled his hood up.

“Like what? John, come on.”

He’s all… fancy!

“I am not fancy. I am humanoid; I should blend in just fine on the road, and seem a fitting companion for you.”

Bullshit!

“Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” Arthur complained.

“You have been told. Finish your skewers. You have not taken in enough calories for your day.”

Ridiculous. Fucking peacock.

“What did he do? John! What did he do?”

It’s a stunning face, John muttered. Because he couldn’t be normal.

“Is that all?” Arthur sounded relieved. “No wings, or iridescent scales, or fifty dicks, or something?”

Fifty dicks?

“It’s Hastur. Look. He’s got just one head on his shoulders? Already better than I expected.”

John huffed.

“Think you so little of me?” said Hastur, who was still floating in John’s disgruntled compliment.

“Yes.”

Hastur couldn’t growl. That organ was restrained, made temporarily vestigial and tucked away. He made a low sound anyway, rumbling.

“Right, so that’s obscene,” Arthur said. “Maybe don’t do that in front of people.”

“And your next piece of advice, oh wise one?” Hastur snapped.

“We follow her trail. It’ll lead on like it did before—but this time we walk into places, instead of exploding them like a bomb.”

Hastur made a dismissive sound. “Cart and mule. Walking is ridiculous.”

Arthur rubbed his face. “Sure. Plain cart. Nothing fancy.”

“Done.”

Vain piece of nonsense.

“Let him have it. It’s more cooperative than I thought he’d be.”

“This isn’t a game,” Hastur snapped. “This isn’t some… lesson she can take or leave without consequences. Of course I’m cooperating!”

“Right,” said Arthur around the last mouthful of food. “No consequences. Sure. She had nightmares about some of the shit you taught her.”

Easy, Arthur, said John in an even tone. That’s not all she had nightmares about.

Arthur went still.

Hastur stirred the fire. “Did you truly believe I didn’t know she occasionally visited you at night?”

“You knew about those?” Arthur said, voice high with sudden fear.

Rolling one’s eyes felt quite satisfying, Hastur discovered, when one only had two. “How could I not know she left her room at night and went to yours?”

“But… you didn’t stop her.”

Hastur sighed. “The process of it hurt you and comforted her. Had it not helped her, I would have intervened, but she benefited. Why would I stop them?”

“Weren’t you worried we’d bond, or something?”

Hastur wasn’t sure why he answered. He’d been doing that for a couple of days now. It felt natural to do. Maybe he should question the urge—but not now, with so much at stake. “Kayne ensured you’d be in her life no matter what I did. And when I heard you sing together, I… back at the beginning. The night it all happened. When she sang the lullaby to comfort you, and you sang with her… I felt something between you. I hated you for it, for a time.”

John inhaled.

“I don’t really remember that night,” said Arthur quietly. “I don’t really remember anything other than walking into the room, and then… John’s warning she’d die if I gave up. The next clear memory is being told it was her birthday celebration, which was what, days later? Weeks? I wish I remembered singing with her.”

Hastur poked the fire, shifting magical embers because he had no tentacles to wave, and felt strangely fidgety. “A bond was inevitable. I merely concentrated on ensuring she understood you were lesser. Less than she. To be pitied.”

“Gee, thanks,” Arthur muttered, then frowned. “But… thanks. For letting that happen.”

That was utterly unexpected. “I did it for her. Not for you.”

“I know.” Arthur hung his head. “But I love her. I’d do anything for her. And it makes me happy to be able to spend time with her. To be… cared for by her.”

John gripped his hand.

Hastur had so many options here. You can say you love her, but not him, was one. Loved her so much you let her drown, was another.

Those didn’t feel good.

She benefits from seeing even a broken human make things of beauty—that felt better, but still not right. Closer, but…

How did one stay still with only four limbs? Hastur would figure it out. He would conquer this. He would also shift subjects. “Do you recall her kittens?”

“Of course I do.” Arthur sat back, frowning. “She talked about that pregnant cat for weeks. Then the birth.”

“Which she assisted.” Hastur sounded proud because he was proud. She’d been all of six years old, and had handled things very well.

Arthur remembered. Oh, Arthur remembered. “You let two kittens die.”

“I did.”

She was fucked up about that for days, you ass.

“Yes, two of the kittens were stillborn, as happens in a litter. She had never seen death up close before.” Hastur sat back. “Not in a personal way. ”

We heard about it forever.

Arthur sighed. “My parents did the same thing with me, actually. Only it was our dog, and she had a litter of four, but one didn’t make it.”

Shit, said John, low.

“I planned for it,” said Hastur. “She wept, of course; but it was important for her to know how permanent death could be. And, truly, that sometimes it simply… happens.”

“You didn’t kill the kittens, right?” said Arthur.

“No,” said Hastur.

“So you were… trying to teach her.”

“I was. The same as I taught her spells, and the cost of magic, and the languages of the Dreamlands. The same way I taught her to kill, when she was barely older than that. You may disagree with how I have done things—in fact, you obviously do—but I have always had her long-term survival in mind.” (And why the fuck was he still talking? He blamed it on the limbs, which would not stay still.) “This was hardly my first attempt at parenting.”

Oh, said John very softly, as though remembering something.

“It… what?” said Arthur. “You’ve got actual children?”

“Quite a few.”

“Wh… where are they?”

“Scattered. Many are dead. Most know better than to approach me.”

“Oh, so you were a shitty father,” said Arthur.

Arthur!

Hastur laughed, low. “I told you before—you don’t understand us. We are not communal. We are not human. It is natural for our offspring to attempt to usurp us, if they have the power—and wise of them, if they do not, to stay away.”

“So none of yours have that power.”

“None. Though there was one who…” What the hell was he doing? What the actual hell was he doing? He shook himself. “Never mind,” Hastur said, sharply. “Are you fed enough?”

“Uh. Sure? I—”

“You will sleep now,” Hastur informed him. “For precisely four hours. Then we will resume our search. Your foolish human needs are in the way.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Or—hear me out—you drive the cart, and I sleep in the back.”

Haha! His human face—the expression on it! You should see it! Haha! You blew his mind!

“John, you aren’t helping,” Arthur muttered.

Instead of answering, Hastur doused the fire. He waved his arm, conjuring with stupid human limbs but his own godly power, and a few crunching, wood-creaking moments later, they had a cart—just a flatbed with a lip of wood around, which should be enough to keep Arthur from tumbling out.

Transporting one of his mules here was easy. The animal knew him already, and submitted at once to being petted.

“What happened?” said Arthur.

If you stand and move to your left, the cart is there. Take one of the water bottles, though. You didn’t drink enough.

“I swear, you people,” Arthur said, but obeyed. The small rucksack Lori had given him made a perfect pillow.

We’re under incredible stars; it’s like the sky is endless. I wish you could see this.

“I wish I could, too,” said Arthur.

“Sleep,” Hastur commanded, and then he made it happen. It took very little power through the mark; Arthur was already exhausted.

Fucker, said John. We weren’t done talking.

“You’ve been talking all day. He needs the rest—and I need his mind, rested.”

Ha! So you do see the benefits. You do see we need him!

Hastur sighed. “I see he has experience which might help here—and if it does not, and his plan fails, he will suffer so much that he will no longer remember his own name, John. My daughter is at stake. I won’t kill him. But I can and will hurt him.”

The mule pulled forward, trotting along.

John audibly swallowed. No, you won’t.

“I will.”

You won’t. Not if you want me.

“I don’t have you—and you keep saying you’ll never rejoin me, John, so—what’s the loss?”

I…

The mule trotted. The cart’s wheels crunched on gravel. Far off, something awful screamed, followed by a higher scream, wetly cut off.

I’ve been… thinking. I…

“Out with it.”

I’m hurting him. Aren’t I?

Hastur was silent for a long moment. “When you are angry, yes. I don’t yet know why, but it causes him pain. Perhaps mental, perhaps physical; perhaps one, then the other. I don’t yet know.”

Fuck. John’s voice dropped. I don’t want to hurt him.

“I know.”

I…

“You, what?”

Swear to me you’re not doing this. You haven’t hijacked something, or neglected something, or… in any way made this happen.

“John, I have done nothing at all except begged you to come home. I don’t know why your anger hurts him, but that suffering is on you.”

Fuck.

The moons slid across the sky. Someone had been creative; there were six of them in a row, increasingly smaller, ranging from dark red to light blue. Lovely. He wondered who’d imagined them there.

If I have to leave him to protect him, you’d have to swear to me… a lot of things. A lot of things.

“Regarding his safety, I take it?”

You think I’m stupid enough to phrase it as safety? No. If I had to do this—had to—by the time I worded just how things will be for him, you’d practically be worshiping him.

“What an appealing concept,” said Hastur, absolutely dry.

Shut up.

“To get you back, John, there is… much… I’d be willing to do.” Though setting Arthur free wouldn’t be one of those things. (Naturally, Arthur wouldn’t leave, anyway. He’d choose to stay with Faroe, so the point was moot.)

John fell silent.

Well. At least the topic had been breached—and all with Arthur unaware and unable to pipe up and share his stupid opinions.

All the better.

Hastur hummed to himself, recalling traveling songs he’d heard from long-ago worshipers, and let John twist in the wind.

————

#malevolent fic #malevolent podcast #malevolent #arthur lester #john malevolent #kiy malevolent #hastur malevolent #malevolentpod #surrogate series

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cyanide-latte · 1 year

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Ask Game: 1, 4, and 50 asdfghjkl

1: who is/are your comfort character(s)?

HOO BOY THERE'S A LOT OF THEM but I'll try to keep it condensed down to the important/current ones rn

Daughter Dooley and the Walker Sisters from Old Gods of Appalachia

Cecil Palmer from Welcome to Night Vale

Oliver Banks from The Magnus Archives

John Doe from Malevolent

Sabriel from Garth Nix's The Old Kingdom series (a mainstay comfort character I've loved for a very long time)

throw darts at a board of well-known Final Girls from horror movies, you're sure to hit a comfort character of mine (yes I count Quentin from the Nightmare on Elm Street remake as an honorary Final Girl, he's chilling there with OG Nancy)

you could probably count the entire Legion from Dead By Daylight but Frank Morrison especially is a comfort character

Power Girl from DC comics

also throw darts at a board of characters from all of MXTX's danmei series and you're probably gonna hit one for sure (bonus points if it's Wen Ning or Jiang Cheng)

and listed last but definitely at the top of the pile right now above all else is Shuichi Iguchi/Spinner from My Hero Academia (no, I don't accept criticism.) Look at him. Look at him.

(I was doomed from the start the first time I watched s3 because he instantly appealed to my inner TMNT-loving 8-y.o. self, like my past child self fuckin reached through time, grabbed my shoulder and went "that design pleases me aesthetically, good job", then we get the moment GIF'd here and I was like "oh he's a fuckin' dork okay", and then when I actually researched the character later it was like HOLY FUCK THIS BACKSTORY KNEECAPPED ME, I HURT IN MY HEART, OH NO, THIS ONE IS MY FAVE.")

*proceeds to stuff the feral side of myself back into their cage*

Ahem. Anyway, moving on...

4: which cryptyd being do you believe in?

The Thunderbird, if you want to classify it as a cryptid?There are several cryptids I find cool, but the Thunderbird I've known about since early childhood (lived on the res as a little kid, what up.) So it's special to me, and yeah, I'd say I believe in it and have for a very long time.

50: can i tag you in random stuff?

ALWAYS.

#answered asks #changeling-selfship #please excuse me while i now go find a rock to hide under #Cyanide speaks

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watching-pictures-move · 2 years

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Movie Review | Pathaan (Anand, 2023)

At the end of this movie, sometime after the end credits supposedly start and we've gotten one last musical number under our belt, our superspy heroes Shahrukh Khan and Salman Khan (the latter in a cameo appearance) discuss that they've been at this for thirty years and ponder who could follow in their footsteps. No names are spoken, but they reach the conclusion that they must continue, because nobody can replace them. This movie is in some ways a throwback, not unlike Top Gun: Maverick from the previous year, making a case for the importance of genuine star power. There are a few differences. One is that movie stars are still prevalent in Bollywood to a much greater extent than in Hollywood. When Tom Cruise positions himself as the last of his kind, it's a bit more convincing given the competition is in the form of ouroborotic IP-propagating vehicles. (If that isn't already a word, it is now. Let me just scribble it into the dictionary.) The Khans have their origins in an earlier era, but they're competing with the star vehicles of their arguable successors. The other thing is that Cruise in Maverick, after many years, is finally allowing himself to age, even if it seems like he's resisted the process for years through sheer willpower. Shahrukh Khan here sports a haircut that no man in his fifties should ever be seen in (and is called out for it at one point by another character), and in any given scene has his shirt open, his intimidatingly sculpted abs glistening from all the right angles. I'm not even being a hater, I'm a little in awe that he pulls it off. Genuine charisma goes a long way.

So there's an out of time quality to this, which also manifests somewhat in the movie's politics. The plot here has an obvious nationalistic streak, but one which seems tied more to Bush-era hysteria about terrorism than (my very rudimentary knowledge of) modern Indian right wing politics. And that kind of framing is also complicated by some of the hedging of bets that the film does. Torture is a prevalent theme, deployed both against at one point by the heroes. Pakistan is initially framed as an enemy, but then sympathized with. The hero's religion is inquired about, but deemed to be beside the point. (SRK is Muslim in real life.) The terrorist villain is given a sympathetic origin story, and the hero in a flashback foils an overzealous counterterrorism operation to save an Afghan village. The movie is likely covering its ass to an extent, but these gestures make it less noxious than it could have been, as the movie clearly does not take place in the same world we live in.

That unreality extends to the action, of which there is a lot and which managed to entertain me quite reliably. The movie, with its shared universe context, ugly yellow lighting and unconvincing and heavy use of CGI, is not immune from modern blockbuster conventions, and I should say that I have a personal distaste for all three of those things. Furthermore, I have a strong distaste for the 2000s-style sense of cool that colours this movie, an aesthetic seemingly zapped in from the Mission: Impossible 2 (a movie I do like, but only because John Woo knows how to do great set pieces like the back of his hand). But when the action is this over the top, one digitally-exaggerated bombastic set piece after another, it's hard to hold any of those things against it. When characters are zipping around on jetpacks, complaining about the physics seems like a moot point.

And the shared universe framing is less about paying off five second bits of throwaway dialogue from twenty movies ago than providing an excuse to get the stars together. SRK, Deepika Padukone, Salman, John Abraham (who at one point provides what can be describes as a malevolent Cameo message). Even if you don't have the same history with them (and there are references to their earlier films; I cackled when a character named "Karen" set up an endearingly lame Darr joke), the combined charisma is off the charts. When the movie isn't pulverizing you with its action scenes, it turns the lusty gaze of its camera on its unreasonably attractive stars, constantly swerving to ogle them from optimal angles. Listen, I said I'd be less thirsty in writing these reviews, but while Deepika Padukone has always been really hot, in this movie, her hotness reaches distressing levels, particularly as her loyalties appear to shift over the course of the story. I should also note that the movie refers to as a doctor, but I missed what she did her Ph.D in. Infectious diseases? Art history? Who knows.

#film #movie review #pathaan #siddharth anand

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forkingandcunt · 2 years

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Hello this idea came to me while doing laundry and i would love to share it with others who have had their brain, heart, and soul rotted by the locked tomb series.

Soooo originally i was thjnking the setting high school but further ruminations leade to believe this could be completed as like college freshman/sophomore and would make somr shenanigans significantly easier to construct.

Here is what I got so far:

John Gaius - corporate bastard is the bosses bosses boss idfk

MercyMom and Augustine are also corporate

Teacher - manager and over worked under paid adjuct in philosophy and english literature.

Pelleamena amd Priamhark - regional managers and own laundry mat

Ortus - theater major

Crux

Aiglamene

Gideon - Butch lesbian. Pronouns: She/He line cook and prep cook. Rugby player (pro or amateur). Kinesiology major wants to do Physical Therapist. Bad Catholic girl

Harrow - bi/lesbian. Pronouns: she/her. Assistant manager. Server. Host. Banned from the kitchen. Anthropologist. Goth. Wears alot of makeup. Also Bade Catholic girl, the original.

Judith - bi. Pronouns She/Her. JROTC. Takes herself very seriously. Has good grades. She is nice and very rules oriented. She will hit you with the malevolent compliance if she thinks ur being a shit.

Marta - straight? Pronouns she/they. ROTC sergeant person idk but she runs the program at the high school.

Coronabeth - pan. Pronouns she/fae. The queen bee of college itself. College isn't a popularity contest because she is there. Highly charmastic. Captian of the volleyball team or Waterpolo. Double Major Psychology and political science. Old money

Iathe - pan. Pronouns she/ze. Medical student specializing in plastic surgery. Femdom. She is fashion. Always shows up to her sisters games. Too mean to TA. Old money.

Naberius - bi/pan. Pronouns he/him. Captian of the Fencing team. Kinesiology major. Pretty boy. Beats up guys who try to prey on girls at frats parties.

Issac & Jeannemary - could be straight could be bi its whatever. pronouns: he/him & she her respectively. high school juniors or seniors. JROTC. Theater kids.

Abigail - straight and deeply in love with her husband. Pronouns: she/her. History professor. All her students love her. Her class is hard but fair. Does student retention. Is firm and will write you a great letter of rec if yoj have the opportunity to work under her.

Magnus - straight and deeply in love with his wife. Pronouns: he/him. Owns a bookshop. Does alot for the community. Host fundraisers. Helps keep the local library running and engaged with. Host the best dinner parties.

Palamedes - pan. he/they. Medical Students specializing in??. Is a med student because he saw Dulcinea guest lecture at his high school for recruitment and decided then and there what his aim in life would be. Writes fanfiction on smut and runs a discord server for his fan base.

Camilla is his best friend partner in crime they are inlove your honor. Bad muslim boy

Camilla - Ace. She/they. Loves romance music. Her aesthetic is fall. Double Major biology and political science. Martial Artist would have went full international pro but followed pal to school, now she doesnt compete past the national level. Is also deeply platonically in love with Palamedes. Bad muslim girl

Dulcinea - pronouns She/Fae. Loves trashy reality tv and romance novels. PhD student in public medicine, Healthcare for all. Will probably run the CDC in a few years. Uses mobility aids. Hates hospitals. Sex positive. She would probably fist fight you. Jewish mom friend

Protesilaus - pronouns he/him. Registered Nurse and professional Gardner. Has a thumb greener than Gods. Runs a booth at the farmers market selling a variety of plants. Been taking care of Dulcinea since she was 13. They are thick as theives. Jewish dad friend.

Silas & Colum - pronouns: he/him for both. They are missionaries. Colum is a full on priest tho. Wtf do they keep showing up to the diner? They are probably jehovah witnesses.

AU highlights

-Sports!

-Homecoming

-Spring Festival

-Magnus hosting a community BBQ/fundraiser for??

#locked tomb #locked tomb spoilers #gideon the ninth #gideon the ninth spoilers #harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth spoilers #locked tomb AU #waffle house AU #i love this series sm #i hope yall find this inspiring

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jadelotusflower · 3 years

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July 2021 Roundup

Discussed this month: The Once and Future King, The Good People, The Secret of Kells/Wolfwalkers/Song of the Sea (aka "Irish Folklore" Trilogy), The Matrix Trilogy, the John Wick Trilogy, Space Jam: A New Legacy

Reading

The Once and Future King (T.H. White) - I've actually read this before, but it was a long time ago and I remembered very little of it so it seemed time for a revisit. Written between 1936 and 1942, this is a surprisingly meta retelling of Arthur and Camelot, very obviously and heavily influenced by WWII, with much academic pondering on the concept of humanity and war and ongoing conflict against Might=Right - looking to the past to try and understand the present. Some familiarity with the legends is assumed, White occasionally making reference to Malory, and there is a strange anachronistic feel - Merlin lives time backwards and talks of Hitler and other 20th Century references, White frequently refers to Old England and the way things were "back then", but also calls Arthur's country Gramarye, the narrative taking place an a kind of alternate history/mythology where Uther was the Norman conqueror of 1066, and yet reference is also made to the Plantagenet kings.

Comprising five volumes (the first four published separately at the time, and the final posthumously), it struck me on this read how each of the first four are structured around the childhood of a major player -Arthur (The Sword in the Stone), Gawain and his brothers (The Witch in the Wood), Lancelot (The Ill-Made Knight), and Mordred (The Candle in the Wind), and how their upbringing played a part in the inevitable tragedy of Camelot. In the final volume, The Book of Merlyn, it comes full circle as Arthur on the eve of his death is taken to revisit the animals of his childhood for much philosophising (at one point Merlyn argues at length with a badger about Karl Marx and communism.)

The Sword in the Stone is the most engaging, with young Arthur (known as "the Wart") and his tutelage under Merlin, being turned into various animals like an ant, a goose, and a hawk to learn about each of their societies (political allegories), and meeting with Robin Wood (Hood) and Maid Marian to battle Morgan le Fay, and the climactic pulling of the sword from the stone. This was of course the source material for the Disney film, although missing the wizards duel with Madam Mim (appearing in the original publication, but removed for the revised version).

The Ill-Made Knight is the longest volume and was honestly a slog to get through, because honestly Lancelot is pretty dull/terrible, and the Lancelot/Guenever love affair less than compelling. Ultimately it's Lancelot's hubris that dooms them - he is warned that Mordred intends to catch him out in Guenever's room, but he goes anyway, and doesn't leave when he tells her to, because he is stupid.

It’s no surprise that the female characters are given the short shrift, but there’s an uncomfortable vein of misogyny running through the book. To wit:

Elaine had done the ungraceful thing as usual. Guenever, in similar circumstances, would have been sure to grow pale and interesting - but Elaine had only grown plump.

And then later:

Guenever had overdressed for the occasion. She had put on makeup which she did not need, and put it on badly. She was forty-two.

Morgause (the eponymous witch in the wood/queen of air and darkness) is a negligent mother whose sole motivation is revenge, Elaine rapes Lancelot by deception, Guenever is hypocritical and shrill (but achieves a sliver of nuance in Candle), Nimueh is a nonentity, and Morgan le Fey is a monstrous fairy. If only White had turned his academic pondering inward and in order to examine the role of women in his worldview other than as damsels or instigators.

But Arthur also gets the short shrift - after all the focus in his childhood, he becomes almost a peripheral figure in the rest of the story until the very end, and we're not actually given much to show why he is the once and future king, other than that he tries to institute a slightly less brutal system.

Ultimately, White is more interested in philosophy than character, and so Camelot's inevitable tragedy feels more clinical than visceral.

The Good People (Hannah Kent) - If the Irish Folklore Trilogy (discussed below) is the beauty and wonder of Irish myths and legends interacting with the human world, this book is the cold danger of superstition and the devastating affect of folklore used as an explanation for life's ills. Set in 1820's rural Ireland, Nora is widowed and left with the care of her young disabled grandson Michael, believed to be a changeling. The local wise woman Nance, who feels the touch of "the good people" sets about to drive out the fairy from the child, believing that the "real" Michael will return, much to the growing dread of Mary, the teenage girl Nora has hired to care for him.

Here fairies are seen as a malevolent force, "sweeping" away women and children, causing bad harvests, and bringing death to the village - to be respected and feared. And then there's Nance, bartering traditional cures for ailments and troubles - some work, some do not, and some pose great danger. On the other hand, this is a remote village where a doctor must be fetched from Killarney, and only one priest who is less than charitable. Neither provide any help or support to Nora.

SPOILERS It's an upsetting read dealing with dark subject matter - grief trauma, child abuse and accidental infanticide, a kind of slow burn horror. If it takes a village to to raise a child, it also takes one to kill a child, as mounting fear and superstition moves through the population like a contagion, heightening Nora's desperation for the "return" of her grandson, and Nance's to prove her knowledge. It's an impeccably researched novel (based in part on a true event) but very unsettling - poor Michael is never really given humanity, and I feel this book would be hugely triggering in its depiction of disability and neurodivergence.

Watching

The Secret of Kells/Song of the Sea/Wolfwalkers (dir. Tom Moore) - I've been meaning to watch these films for absolutely ages, and I finally got to them this month. I’m pleased to say that the many people who recommended them to me were absolutely correct, because they appear to have been made to specifically cater to my interests. Some mild spoilers ahead.

I watched these in internal chronological order as suggested by @ravenya003, starting with The Secret of Kells, set in 9th Century Ireland where the young monk Brendan helps illuminate the to-be famous manuscript and befriends a forest sprite Aisling, under the threat of a Viking raid. Next was Wolfwalkers, jumping forward to 1650 Kilkenny where the English girl Robyn, daughter of a hunter, is drawn into the world of the forest and Mebh, who turns into a wolf when she sleeps. And finally we go all the way to 1980's in Song of the Sea for the story of Ben, who must help his younger sister Saoirse (a selkie) find her voice and bring back the faeries who have been turned to stone by the owl witch Macha.

Although the stories are completely separate, they've been described as Moore's "Irish Folklore" trilogy, and it’s easy to read a through line from Kells to Wolfwalkers in particular - both deal with fae of the forest, and Aisling appears as a white wolf at the end of the film (having lost her ability to appear in human form). I like to think that Aisling is in some way the progenitor of the wolfwalkers - after all, Kells and Kilkenny are less than 200 kms apart.

Song of the Sea is distant from the other two in both time and subject matter, dealing with selkies, creatures of the water. In many ways, Kells and Wolfwalkers feels like a duology, with Song more its own thing. On the other hand, an argument could be made for common fae spirit/s in different forms across all three films - Aisling is a white sprite, Robyn takes the form of a white/grey wolf, and Saoirse a white seal.

The strength of these films other than the folklore is the visual style - I really love 2D animation, and while I appreciate the beauty of cg animation, I often find in the latter’s focus on hyper-realism the artistry can be left by the wayside. These films not just aesthetically beautiful, but the art is used to tell the story - from the sharp angles that represent the darker or harmful elements (Crom, Vikings, the Town), to the circles and rings that represent safety and harmony (the Abbey, the forest, Mebh and her mother/the wolves healing circle, the holy well). The exception is probably the home of Macha, the owl witch, where circles are also prominent and represent magic, and this is often the case in folklore (fairy rings, fairy forts, etc).

Kells is the most stylised, resembling tapestries or pages and triptychs from medieval manuscripts, playing with perspective. I actually saw pages from the real Book of Kells years ago in Dublin, and remember them being very beautiful. We only get glimpses of the Book and the stunning Chi Rho page at the very end of the film, but the style of art is present throughout the film and particularly in the forest where Brendan finds inspiration for his illumination, and on the flipside his encounter in the dark with Crom Cruach, represented as a chalk-drawn primordial serpent.

This style is also present in Wolfwalkers, particularly stark in the way the birds-eye grid of the town often looms over Robyn in the background and in her work at the castle. The depiction of the forest has more of a storybook quality however, as does Song, where almost every frame resembles a painting, particularly the sequences of Saoirse's selkie trip through the sea and Ben's fall through the holy well.

Rav points out in her review that there is the ebbing away of myth and magic in each successive film, contrasted with the rise of Christianity/modernity. But there's circles and rings again, because while the ultimate power of the faerie world is fading away, the interaction between our human protagonists and faerie actually increases with each film. In Kells, we have only Aisling and Crom, in Wolkwalkers, we have Mebh and her mother whose ranks grow to include Robyn and her father, and finally in Song we have Saoirse, Bronagh, Macha, the Na Daoine Sídhe, and the Great Seanachaí.

Watching in the order I did, it does give the impression of the mythological world opening up to the viewer, gaining a deeper understanding and exposure as time progressed. On the other hand, that is also because the human world is gradually encroaching on the world of Faerie, from isolated settlements like the Abbey of Kells, to growing town of Kilkenny and the logging of the surrounding forest, to a modern Ireland of motorways and power lines, and industrialised Dublin where the remaining fairies have moved underground. It makes the climax of Song, with the fairies restored but returning to the land of Tír na nÓg, rather bittersweet.

I also credit the strength of the voice acting - the adult roles are minor but with greats including the dulcet tones of Brendan Gleeson and Sean Bean, and the ethereal Maria Doyle Kennedy (who I wish had gotten to do more). But the child roles are all performed so well, particularly Honor Kneafsey as Robyn, whose growing desperation and distress is just heartbreakingly palpable.

The Matrix Trilogy (dir. The Wachowskis) - I usually don't post rewatches in the Roundup, but I really, really love these movies. I will never forget seeing The Matrix at the cinema as a young teen, knowing nothing other than the tease of the enigmatic trailers, and just being completely blown away by it, and then becoming completely obsessed a few years later in the leadup to Reloaded.

It wasn’t my first fandom, but it was probably the first time I took fandom seriously. I was very invested in Neo/Trinity in particular as well as all the mythological/literary references that fed directly into my interests. I haven’t however gone back and read the fic I wrote, for fear that it is very, very cringe. I know where is is though, so maybe one day before the ff.net is purged.

This is Keanu Reeves at his most handsome, and while he doesn't have the greatest range (as many actors don't, although they don't get as much grief for it), when he's in the zone there's no one else who could do it better. He just has a Presence, you know? A vibe, and it compels me.

This is particularly present in Neo, a character whose conflict is almost entirely internal, burdened by the weight of his responsibility and destiny, both before and after he learns it is a false prophesy. He’s not your typical quippy macho action hero, but much like my other fave Luke Skywalker, is a character who is ultimately driven by love and self-sacrifice. I definitely have a Type of male hero I adore, and Neo fits right in there.

I also really love the sequels, flaws and all, because you know what, the Wachowskis had Ideas and they weren't going to deliver Matrix 2: Electric Boogaloo. Each film goes in an unexpected direction, and not in a subverted expectations ha ha silly rabbits way, but one that does have an internal logic and pulls together a cohesive trilogy as a whole, and how often does that happen these days?

The sequels are so…earnest, with none of the cynical cool detachment perhaps some would have preferred - at its core a trilogy exploring philosophy and the nature of prophesy vs choice, determinism vs free will, and the power of love. Maybe it can be hokey, and some of the dialogue a bit overwritten, but I don't care, there's so much I still enjoy even having seen the trilogy many times over the years.

Not to mention the great female characters - while I'm not sure any of the three strictly passes the Bechdel Test, we have Trinity and Niobe in particular who I love with all my heart. It does kind of annoy me that the Trinity Syndrome is so named, because it only applies in the most reductive reading possible, and Trinity expresses agency (and badassery) every step of the way, saving Neo just as much as he saves her. I mean..."dodge this"/"in five minutes I'll tear that whole goddamn building down"/"believe it"? Niobe piloting the Hammer through the mechanical line in Revolutions? Iconic. There are criticisms that can be made, sure, but the trilogy ultimately loves, respects, and appreciates its female characters (and important to note that the avatars of The System, the Architect and the Agents, are all white men).

Then we have the Oracle, who ultimately holds the most power and is the victor of the human/machine war. There's so much going on with the Oracle I could talk about it all day. It's that fate vs free will question again (“if you already know, how can I make a choice?”), but with the wrinkle of manipulation (“would you still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything?”). Choice is the foundation the Matrix is built on, the unconscious choice for humans to accept the system or reject it - the Architect can't control that, he can only manage it, and the Oracle can't force Neo onto the path she has set out for him, only predict the choices he will make based on her study of the human psyche ("did you always know?"/"No...but I believed"). But she plays with the concept of fate in a complicated web of prophesies for outcome she wants and trusting the nature of Morpheus, Trinity, and Neo to bring it about.

And then there's the visual storytelling - there is so much meaning in almost every frame and line of dialogue. The mirroring and ring cycles not only in the constant presence of reflective surfaces and central metaphor of the Matrix as a simulacrum, but the androgyny of Neo and Trinity, bringing each other back from the dead in successive films (and ultimately both ultimately dying in the third), Neo and Morpheus’ first and last meetings, Smith who is ultimately Neo’s dark mirror, the Oracle/the Architect, just to name a few. I just…really really love these movies? Maybe I’ll do a full post rewatch sometime.

I am however reserving judgement on the Matrix 4 - already there are a few things making me uneasy. Lana is the sole director for this one (Lilly is not involved), and Laurence Fishburne apparently wasn't even asked back, even though Morpheus actually survives the trilogy (as opposed to Neo and Trinity). But I’m interested, and don’t want to go in with any expectations, but rather ready to be surprised again like I was when I watched the first film (and hope I can stay away from spoilers).

John Wick Trilogy (dir. Chad Stahelski) - It was a trilogy kind of month! This genre is generally not my thing, as I don’t have a high tolerance for graphic violence and pure action bores me after a while, but I was in a Keanu kind of mood and I'm always hearing people go on about John Wick so I wanted to know what (if anything) I was missing. While still a bit too violent for my tastes, if nothing else I could appreciate the dance-like fight choreography, even if the worldbuulding is absolutely ridiculous - I mean, literally thousands of assassins across the world chilling in sanctuary hotels, supported by a vast network of weapon suppliers, tailors, surgeons, spy networks, etc? It’s silly, but hey, I was happy to go along with it.

What I do appreciate about Keanu Reeves, and this seems to be a common thread, is that even when in action hero mode (Matrix, Point Break, John Wick, and to a lesser extent Speed), he consistently plays a man who is completely in love with his partner/wife - like, completely, unapologetically devoted to them, and I think that is a big part of the appeal - it's that Keanu energy that is often the antithesis of toxic masculinity, even when in roles that would ordinarily rely on those tropes.

Wick is in many ways the spiritual successor to Neo - insular, taciturn, and even as he's dispatching death with clinical precision. Much like Neo, Wick is a character who is somehow Soft (tm) despite all the violence. I once listened to a podcast where they amusingly discussed the Reeves oeuvre as simulations of Neo still trapped in the Matrix, and it’s very easy to make the case here and imagine John Wick as Neo plugged back in after Revolutions, mourning Trinity and set on mission after mission to keep his mind active (and it would certainly explain why the guy hasn’t dropped dead after being stabbed, beaten up, strangled, hit by a car, shot, and falling off a building). It’s a fun little theory.

Stahelski was Reeves' stunt double and a stunt coordinator on The Matrix and there's plenty of homages in the visual style and reuniting Reeves with costars Laurence Fishburne and Randall Duk Kim (who played the Keymaker).

I did also find it amusing that Wick is also often referred to as babayaga (equated in the film to the bogeyman). Well, Wick is in many ways a witch who lives in the woods, just wanting to be left alone with his dog, and there is a supernatural energy to the character, so...I guess?

Space Jam: A New Legacy (dir. Malcolm D Lee) - I took my niece to see this at the cinema and it was…pretty much what you would expect. I thought it was fine for what it was, even if a bit slow in parts (it takes a looong time for the looneys to show up) and I wonder if they have the same cultural pull they had in the nineties (the age of Tweety Bird supremacy). But the kids seemed into it (my niece liked porky pig) and that's what counts I guess.

This time, the toon battle royale takes place on the WB servers, where evil A.I. Don Cheadle (having the time of his life chewing the cg scenery) wants to capture Lebron James for...reasons, idk. James and Bugs have to find the rest of the looneys scattered across the server-verse, a chance for WB to desperately remind people that they too, have media properties and a multiverse including DC comics world, Harry Potter world, Matrix world, Mad Max world, Casablanca world etc. Some of it feels very dated - there is I kid you not an Austin Powers reference, although it did make me smile that Trinity was on James’ list of most wanted players (skill: agility).

Unfortunately, nothing it really done with this multiverse concept except “hey, remember this movie? Now with looneys” six times, and the crowd for the game populated by WB denizens including the Iron Giant, Pennywise, the monkeys from the Wizard of Oz, Scooby Doo and the gang, etc. But still, it's fun, and hardly the tarnishing of a legacy or whatever nonsense is driving youtube clicks these days.

Writing

The Lady of the Lake - 2335 words.

Against the Dying of the Light - 2927 words, Chapter 13 posted.

Total: 5272 this month, 38,488 this year.

#roundup #reading watching writing #long post

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derangedfujoshi · 3 months

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"But I don't have to let it win"

#season 2 my BELOVED #malevolent #malevolent podcast #arthur lester #john doe #john doe malevolent #jarthur #private eyes #this is a romantic jarthur blog btw #aesthetic #my edits

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oneweekoneband · 4 years

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a hugely inexpert, absolutely correct examination of The Planets and their role in taylor swift turning out to be such a freak

Astrology is real. Astrology is made-up nonsense. Made-up nonsense is real. One person’s chosen organizing principle for living is no more or less stupid than anyone elses. All of this is true or maybe it isn’t. Don’t roll your eyes too hard, but Joan Didion wasn’t lying—we do tell ourselves stories in order to live. It’s about all we do. I don’t understand the stars and planets because I don’t believe it’s my business what happens up there, plus I’m a little dumb, but I, like any blubbering narcissist, enjoy being told something about myself, and what is a horoscope but an opaque little love note designed to be interpreted by the reader in whatever way suits them best. There are astrologers who write beautiful, empathetic horoscopes that are a balm whether you believe them or not, and in this way astrology has a cultural value which makes any dubious scientific purity irrelevant. I don’t understand the stars and planets, but I have friends that do, and I like hearing whatever they sort out. Certainly, I’m not immune to believing in spurious little rituals; I was raised Catholic. Thinking that your star sign is responsible for certain aspects of your personality is no more impractical than keeping a Saint Christopher medal in your car to protect you from danger while traveling. These days I do both. Astrology is possibly real or possibly is not and maybe it matters what “real” means or else it might not, yeah, but the philosophical questions recede in the face of one fact upon which we can all agree: Taylor Swift has a profoundly upsetting birth chart.

Right off the bat, just from an aesthetic standpoint, this image (above) is not inviting. I don’t like to see it. When I wrote about Taylor Swift on this site in 2013 I didn’t know my moon or rising signs. This knowledge was not yet mandatory for trying to date girls and/or understanding jokes online. I was, at that time, far from even the semi-astrologically-literate state I am in now, yet even then if you’d have shown me this image, I know I’d shudder. It doesn’t take a scholar of any kind to see this and feel a chill down your spine, the itch of cold, spectral fingers closing around your wrist. Look at it again. The painful bisection by those angry blue lines. If you found this painted on a cave wall you’d turn and run back towards the fresh air of the opening, blinking back tears, certain some undead beast was following in your wake. This is a birth chart that says I am capable of writing songs like “All Too Well” but sometimes what I like better is to name a cat after the worst David Fincher movie and do a anti-homophobia music video that actually is so bad it felt somehow like it itself was homophobia. This is a birth chart that says I am going to release my new album, Red (2012), with a promo wherein Papa John’s will bring you a copy of it along with your pizza. This is a birth chart that says yeah, I used to do a fake twang as a teenager, and then I dropped the fake twang, but I can bring it back with no notice sometimes so all the girls (mentally ill adult women who have a Pavlovian response to anything that kinda sounds like “Hey Stephen”) go wild.

Taylor Swift is a Sagittarius. That’s the one with the arrow. It’s one of the good signs, theoretically, because it’s one that I have a lot of in my own chart, and because it’s in November and December, which are months where you can wear all your coats. Some other Sagittarians include Brad Pitt, Britney Spears, Janelle Monae, 8th US President Martin Van Buren, Jane Fonda, my friend C., who, in fact, happens to share all three major placements, sun, moon, and rising, with Ms. Swift, but I still don’t think she’s murdered anyone, and, of course, Jake “Twin fire signs / Four Blue Eyes” Gyllenhaal. So we have basically a lot of hot people and one guy who died of asthma, but who did manage to get the highest ranking job in the country first, though the country was a lot smaller then, and didn’t even have McDonalds yet to serve to teams that win college football tournaments. All in all, seems okay. Her moon is in Cancer. I think this connotes something about the watery depths of her emotional self, and it’s the only astrological placement which gets a shout out in the Joni Mitchell song “Little Green”. Her rising sign is Scorpio which is, like... Well, Scorpio to me is Halloween and Blair Waldorf from Gossip Girl. Medically speaking, I think that influence is how the stylings for the reputation era turned out so very Hot Topic. My moon is in Scorpio so this is a self-own as much as anything else.

Now look at this. What does it mean? Impossible to say, but that will not stop me from concluding that whatever it does mean is definitely bad. It will not stop me from extrapolating that probably a “multiple planet opposition” is the kind of thing that makes a person go to Stonewall during Pride for a surprise appearance but perform “Shake It Off” instead of any of the actual really good and sexy songs. But then, I bet it probably also factored into her developing into the kind of creative mind who would write something as weird and funny and vital as “And I’ve been meaning to tell you / I think your house is haunted / your dad is always mad and that must be why,” so possibly bad is good and good is bad and the various astrological signs just signify the different ways we relate to death. I don’t know. I’m scared.

In the documentary Folkore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions, released on Disney+ last month to accompany the record, because this daughter of three generations of bank presidents is nothing if not a money-maker, Taylor wears a terrifying outfit that I started to like rather than recoil from by about halfway through, and while wearing it espouses a belief that we are all monsters, which I happen to figure is correct. In Madame Clairevoyant’s Guide to the Stars, essential book on astrology and, importantly, the vagaries of the human heart, the incomparable Claire Comstock-Gay writes, “For Sagittarius, the desire is shifting and undefined. This is a drive, above all else, to see, to learn, to experience, to continually seek knowledge. It’s a drive to live a life that never asks or requires that you cede your freedom and never requires you to stop searching.” Certainly, this is the kind of internal compass which would lead to making the unusual, dramatic, and frankly very cool decision to entirely re-record your first six albums when ownership of the original masters has fallen into the hands of a little creep named “””Scooter””” who refuses to relinquish this morally, if not actually legally, false claim. For years I have speculated that actual murder of a human would not be outside of Taylor Swift’s capabilities. This is a statement made with neither praise or criticism attached. It’s a clinical observation from a sterling mind. What I feel with equal conviction, but admit more grudgingly, is that, if it happened, she’d have a perfectly logical reason. (Note: Taylor, if you’re reading this, I am not the type who’d rat anyway. It’s fine. Please don’t sue me.) I’m positive the astrological facts support my findings on this, and if I’m wrong, fortunately I will never find out. Anyway, the next full moon is in 22 days. I always want to look at it and then I forget. There’s a lot going on in space, and while I do feel that any cosmic forces which would put me and Taylor Swift on Earth at the same time are sort of inherently malevolent, I guess it’s been pretty fun, too.

#taylor swift #folklore

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