#so we decided to draw Andrew’s inner emotions

[emry-stars-art]

Doodles from Sunday

Find the royal au masterpost here 💕

[midnxghtsunwrites]

“ IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT ”

PAIRING —

andy barber x black! pregnant! reader

SUMMARY —

y/n knew something was wrong the moment she woke up with blood soaked sheets and a tightness in her chest.

WARNINGS —

this imagine will contain possibly extremely triggering content such as mentions of infertility, pregnancy irregularities, loss of pregnancy ( stillborn pregnancy ) , explicit language, sadness, and possible anxiety & depression under the cut

proceed with caution, viewer discretion is advised.

IT wasn't the cool draft of breeze flowing from the vent or the soft hum of the AC that woke you up from your sleep. It wasn't Andy shifting on his side of the bed or the loftiness of your two pillows or the fact that your bonnet slid off during the night.

What made you stir was the long forgotten sensation of something running down your inner thigh — the sinking feeling in your belly. Of course, you've felt it before when you were far from pregnant and set to start your period. Usually, however, you would have a gut feeling the night before which often prompted you to wear a pad to bed.

Tonight was different.

You stuck to just panties as pajamas since pregnancy made you hot when you're supposed to be cold and cold when you're supposed to be hot.

When you switch on the lamp on your side of the bed, Andy is spurred awake by the snap of the switch and the sudden influx of light. Since he was laying flat on his back, he just turns his head to look at you with squinted eyes, still adjusting to the brightness.

He furrows his eyebrows as he takes in the look of worry on your face. He knows you well enough to see that you're freaking out internally.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" He begins to sit up, "Is it the baby?"

You don't want to look. You don't want to give yourself less faith than you already have. You can't look.

You've already endured years and years of being told that you would never have a child — and the one moment of happiness you got when you found out you were pregnant with your husband's baby is being stripped away. Just like that.

"I think I'm bleeding." Your voice shakes as you speak.

Andy was always the level-headed one in the relationship. Five years of being together and three years of marriage taught you that. You've seen him through his highest highs and lowest lows — lost cases and cases that kept him up at nights. But you have never seen him so panicked at something you said.

Even though his body language screams alarm, his voice is level and calm. "Okay, let's go to the hospital. I'll call ahead."

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration, "Okay." You whisper.

THE gel is cold against your stomach, shocking you into reality. You listen for the sound of your baby's heartbeat — the one that will let you know that everything is okay.

Everyone seems to be frozen as your gynecologist shifts the wand along your smooth bump. When the room is deathly silent, the only sound to be heard is your heavy exhale, Andy shakes his head, distress on his face.

"What does this..." He can't even finish his sentence. You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why can't we hear a heartbeat?"

Dr. Moore gives her patients sympathetic glances — this is the last thing she would ever wish on any woman. "I'm sorry, Andy, Y/N. It seems... Your baby doesn't have a heartbeat."

It felt like you were struck by an entire planet. Your thought maybe you didn't hear her properly. "What?"

The doctor bows her head in shame, "I am very sorry. Your baby died in utero a couple of hours ago."

Her words seem to be blocked out as you shake you head profusely. You can't breathe, you can't see, you can't even function. You felt it.

"This cannot be happening." You mumble under your breath. This doesn't feel real. Your cheeks are stained with tears at the news.

Andy is by your side, running a hand over your hair that you barely managed to pull back before you entered the hospital. He's holding back tears, but watching you break was enough for him to allow a tear to roll down his red face.

"I'm going to give you guys some time. A nurse will be in soon to discuss your options with you. I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Barber." Dr. Moore reiterates one final time before leaving you to grieve.

When she closes the door behind her, you take no time to grab on to Andy's hand and curl into him. He rests his hand on the back of your head as you sob into his shoulder.

"I know, baby. I know. I'm right here."

ANDREW was right there when the doctors induced your labor. He was right there when you had to endure a painful delivery to your baby girl. Your beautiful baby girl. He was there when you held her for the first and last time. He was there for the next week when you'd decided to stay in the hospital, needing time to come to terms with how quickly everything happened.

With just a picture of her captivating face as a memento, you guys went home. Without your baby.

You felt frozen — stuck in your mind, thinking of what it would've been like had things gone differently. You would be walking in your house with a car seat and a sleeping or babbling baby, a wide smile on your face. Andy would've been absolutely amazed at what you two had made.

Now? You don't even know how you walked out of the hospital or into the house without breaking down and getting yourself admitted into psych.

You're fixed to the threshold of the door — you couldn't move even if you wanted to, struck by a sudden wave of melancholy. All you can think of is the talks you and Andy had about your shared excitement.

"Honey." Andy's voice draws you back to earth. He's stood behind you, going through his own tide of emotions.

He couldn't even imagine the toll this is having on you.

You close your eyes and lean forward, the palms of your hands pressing against the door jamb. "I just need a minute."

"Okay." Andy nods in understanding, resorting to rubbing your back, gingerly.

Moments pass before you finally step into the house, your breathing shallow with anticipation. Andrew is close behind you, eyeing you cautiously and lovingly. He just wants to hold you, but he knows you need some time to yourself.

That's why he simply nods when you suggest that you should go take a shower and lay down.

"I'll make you some food." He tells you.

Your footsteps seem to echo against the walls seeing as you kept your shoes on. You weren't sure you had the energy to care about tracking dirt inside.

Entering the bedroom, you're overwhelmed with a surge of anger and disappointment.

The bed hadn't been touched since the night you went to the hospital and now you can see the sheet is strewn in the center of the mattress, a pool of long-since dried blood staring at you — "Fuck," You run a hand through your matted hair.

Part of you gets to scrubbing because how else would you take the nap you told Andy about? The other part wants to scrub away the reminder of that night. The panic and pure fear in your veins — in Andy's.

On your knees, sleeves rolled up, and fatigue ramming through you like a train, you attempt to wash away the painful memory. No matter how much elbow grease you put into it, the stain doesn't budge.

Thoughts flood your mind — is this a punishment? Am I getting punished for all the harmless things I've done in my life?

You press down further, sinking the springs in the mattress. The frustration is clear in your gaze — exasperated sighs escaping you. You're so caught up in your action that you don't even realize when a loud and defeated wail renders you a sobbing mess.

You don't hear Andy run up the stairs at the sound and stand at the door, eyebrows furrowed in worry and tenderness. He watches you for a second as you hunch forward and hit your hands against the bed in anger.

"I'm so sorry," You cry to no one in particular, "I should've known something or done something — I should've taken more care of you."

Tears gather in your husband's eyes as he hears your words. He wastes no time in stepping towards you and resting a hand on your shoulder. You flinch slightly, not expecting Andy to have heard you.

You can't even look at him, so disappointed and ashamed of yourself that you can't gather the courage to look your husband in the eye.

"Y/N, come here." He gently goads you to stand, his hand warm on your shoulder. When you rise to your feet, Andy pulls you into him, not caring about the snot or tears that transfer from your face to his t-shirt. He rubs a hand down your back and another over your hair and sniffles, "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault."

In that moment, his words meant nothing to you. They just drowned under the grief you were experiencing. It was only during the silent night when you two were laying on the couch of the living room after dumping your mattress that you realized how much his words meant to you.

With your head resting on his chest, you crane your neck up and gaze at him, watching as he stares up at the ceiling in thought.

"Andrew?" You whisper, voice cracking after hours of weeping.

He shifts his gaze to you, giving you his full attention. "Hmm?"

You take in his blue eyes which have seemed to lose its sparkle. "I love you."

He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, layered in salty tears, "I love you too."

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[fearsmagazine]

MOSQUITO STATE - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: Shudder

SYNOPSIS: August 2007. Isolated in his austere penthouse overlooking Central Park, obsessive Wall Street data analyst Richard Boca sees ominous patterns through his computer models that are behaving erratically. On Wall Street, they’re called “quants”—the intense data analysts whose mathematical prowess can make the difference between a fortune and a flop. Consumed with his work, Richard doesn’t often stray from his office or apartment. Richard decides to attend a company function where he makes two acquaintances: the mysterious, sylphlike Lena and one pesky mosquito, both of which take root in his mind. The mosquito spawns swarms of mosquitoes breeding in his apartment, an infestation that fosters his psychological meltdown.

REVIEW: Filip Jan Rymsza presents a tale of the unraveling of a stressed mind and how it attempts to validate patterns and connections in his logarithms and the parasite that he allows to overtake his vast apartment. It is part “Willard,” 1973’s “Bug” and part “American Psycho.”

The plot is a captivating tale of a brilliant introvert who begins to crack under the pressures of his job and his isolation. The mosquito acts as a catalyst that begins the process of his demise, or possibly his salvation. The bites have a physical effect and Richard begins to exhibit these growths/welts on his face that deform his looks. While others around him notice, he is blind to his transformation. His mousey disposition becomes more aggressive, yet his co-workers never see him as a threat. Rymsza crafts several interesting monologues, as well as some powerful dialogue between Richard and his boss, and Lena. It’s compelling how Rymsza lays out the plot in relation to the life cycle of the mosquito. As the swarm grows it seems that Richard is having an effect on them as well. It's an engaging plot that draws the viewer in and secures the viewer's interest to see how he resolves the tale.

Filip Jan Rymsza does an excellent job of capturing the period while instilling minimalistic production designs with art pieces that hint at the relationship between certain characters as the colors pop and add a subliminal emotional intensity. The filmmakers great amazing sets that feel like what could be a contemporary castle, with a Dracula like feel. Th film captures some amazing shots of the mosquito and its lifecycle that look like somethin from a nature shot against the backdrop of the apartment. The visual effects for the swarm feel organic and natural as they become a more sentient entity. It's very compelling how the interplay between light and shadow give way to splashes of color that ultimately give way to this bloody hue as the swarm roosts on the apartment’s massive windows. All that is supported by an excellent score by composer Cezary Skubiszewski that creates another level to the mood and atmosphere. Overall, impressive production designs and visuals that are absolutely awards nomination worthy.

MOSQUITO STATE rests on the shoulders of actor Beau Knapp. He creates this complex character that goes from an introverted computer genius, who feels like he is on the spectrum, to this creepy, menacing psychotic that has this Reinfiled aspect to the performance. It’s interesting how he maintains an aspect of innocence and a level of sympathy. He brings this element of a fairy tale to the character as the tale progresses in the relationship between his boss and Lena. It’s an amazing and powerful performance. The rest of the cast present as obstacles to be overcome or conquered. Charlotte Vega plays Lena. It is a genuine performance that also possesses a bit of mystery to it. She has an inner strength, but also there is a bot of the enchanted princes to it. SHe comes across as in need of an awakening more than rescuing. It’s an excellent ensemble cast that draws the viewer in for the ride.

MOSQUITO STATE is a complex film that has numerous visionary aspects that make for a haunting viewing experience. It does offer a bit of an allegory, but it truly is a fascinating thought provoking story. There is so much talent behind and in front of the camera that, again, I would be shocked if it didn’t receive a few award nominations. Filmmaker Filip Jan Rymsza is a master storyteller whose forthcoming projects I will absolutely be on the lookout for. This, as well as several other upcoming releases, make the Shudder subscription fee well worth it.

CAST: Beau Knapp, Charlotte Vega, Jack Kesy, Audrey Wasilewski and Olivier Martinez. CREW: Director/Screenplay/Producer - Filip Jan Rymsza; Screenplay - Mario Zermeno; Producers - Wlodzimierz Niderhaus and Alyssa Swanzey; Cinematographer - Eric Koretz; Score - Cezary Skubiszewski; Editors - Andrew Hafitz, Wojciech Janas and Bob Murawski; Costume Designer - Katarzyna Lewinska; Production Designer - Marek Warszewski; VFX Supervisors - Maks Naporowski and Karapetyan Vardan. OFFICIAL: N.A. FACEBOOK: N.A. TWITTER: N.A. TRAILER: https://youtu.be/hM-ngBshq_Y RELEASE DATE: Exclusively on Shudder on August 26th, 2021

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay),  or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

[mcarfield]

another mcarfield fic

Ahahaha um

please beg me for prompts lol

Secret relationship is a GREAT trope and i am just gonna say right now i’m not going to do it justice because in this context i think it would be like 30 times more of an angsty mindfuck of a proposition than it usually is, but with that warning, here we go:

At first it’s a secret because neither of them are sure it’s real.

Their onstage relationship has bled so thoroughly into their real-life relationship that when the dam finally breaks and they find themselves making out in Andrew’s dressing room one night before the show starts, gasping and clinging and desperate for one another, there’s a moment where they lock eyes and decide by tacit mutual agreement not to talk about it, and James emerges — 10 minutes and an entire millennium later — completely unsure whether he actually just had Andrew Garfield’s cock in his mouth or whether it was all an elaborate roleplay.

Except the next night it’s Andrew who’s on his knees for James, blissed-out and perfect, and James is habitually late to call time, but now they’re suddenly both arriving earlier and earlier, and soon they don’t even bother with pretense; the moment Andrew’s door locks, James has him pressed up against it, his mouth hot against Andrew’s throat, Andrew murmuring his name in broken, bitten-off moans that turn into whispered pleas for more.

He’s so fucking eager for it, and christ, James just had no idea — he could have never imagined this, he could have never conceived of straight-but-burdened-by-the-task-before-him Andrew Garfield dragging his tongue over James’ nipples and shuddering when he makes James gasp.

He could never have imagined Andrew fucking Spider-Man Garfield casually, possessively palming his ass like it’s an item on display at Bergdorf; like he’s fucked and been fucked by other men a million times and now he just wants to skip the freakout and get down to the business of getting James hard and slicked and ready for him to play with.

He just, it’s so much so fast at first that he doesn’t know what to do with it except keep it a secret, because he’s still in shock and still not sure how far this goes for either of them.

Except then Andrew texts him on a Monday morning: come here.

And James obeys, and Andrew spends the rest of the day slowly undoing him and exploring him and filling him and fucking him and it’s so intense and emotional that James almost doesn’t process what Andrew means at first when he kisses James’s shoulder and slides his hands around James’s waist and says softly, “We can’t talk about this.”

James blinks up at him, still muzzy-headed and blissed-out and post-coital. “You mean to anyone, or just to each other?” It comes out a bit rougher than he’d intended, but Andrew just grins at him and then leans down to bite James’s chin.

“No, we should definitely talk about it,” he says. “Just don’t tell anyone else.”

“I don’t do closets,” James tells him, and Andrew just fixes him with a calm, clear-eyed look that says, plain as day: But you’ll do this.

“Jesus,” James breathes, “come here,” and he drags Andrew down into his pristine white bedsheets.

And so begins one of the headiest, most frustrating periods of James’s life.

Something James never fully understood up til now is that every single interaction he and Andrew have ever had was foreplay. All of it, every moment from December 2016 until now, was one giant precursor to sex.

Because now, now that they’ve started routinely putting parts of themselves inside one another, absolutely nothing about the way they interact changes at all. Andrew’s eyes are still hooded and intent on his face, he still shoots James the same coy looks and feeds him the same dorky not-quite come-on lines and still finds ways to gratuitously touch him at every opportunity.

Except that now James is aware that every look Andrew sends him, every laugh, every touch, every non-stop gratuitous moment of physical intimacy, is all one giant code for how completely Andrew would like to be sliding his tongue over James’s skin right now, or biting all the secret places on James’ body that he knows makes James gasp and cry out, or fitting himself into James’s arms and holding him wordlessly until they both reach for each other’s mouths at once.

He knows, now, that none of this is just Andrew being giddy and flirty and ambiguously metrosexual; that in fact all of this is about Andrew wanting him, wanting him the way no one’s ever wanted James before, because no one else has ever been in an intense two-year onstage relationship with James that has apparently left them both symbiotically attached at the loins.

Andrew wants James like James is his main source of daily nutrition; he wants James like James is the candy store and he’s the kid; he wants James in ways that leave James wrung out and exhausted and confused and so, so happy about all of it that half the time he thinks he’s in love and half the time he thinks he’s just lost his mind.

But Andrew also is kind of erratic and eccentric and bizarre, in ways that James has always found lovely and sweet, but has never fully appreciated the extent of until they started having a direct role in how often James gets sucked off in semi-public places by his secret boyfriend.

Andrew knows ways of fucking in secret that James has never even conceived of. He summons James to high-class lounges and then subtly shepherds him into posh, private back rooms that James is sure didn’t exist before Andrew whispered a few words to the bartender. He’s got more secret entrances and exits out of hotels and theatres and restaurants than John Wick. And he’s shameless. They’re at some banquet at the Marquis when Andrew drapes the tablecloth over their knees and slides his hand straight up the inner curve of James’ thigh. When he pulls James aside at Jo Allen’s and heads up a set of backstairs James swears he’s never seen before, James blurts, “Are you actually a magician? Are you actually Harry Potter?” and Andrew just winks at him and drags him into the back and into the shadows.

Andrew’s shameless in other ways, too. The theatre is the best cover, because inside the theatre no one really bats an eye if they get caught looking too cuddly offstage, because, hey, they’re method acting. And Andrew loves living under that shield of plausible deniability; he cuddles, he flirts, he banters, he touches, he corners James in dressing rooms and on catwalks and surreptitiously makes out with him, hot and fierce and needy, and he drives James crazy.

He touches James constantly outside the theatre, too, where he can get away with it: he’s performative at the stage door, he kisses James, and trails his fingers over the back of James’s neck, and winds his arms around James’s waist for no good reason; he jokes about the two of them moving in together after the show ends, as though it’s all just a general air of gay frivolity and not something that makes James’s heart constrict to actually think about — something they probably should actually talk about.

And James is discomfited by it, a little, but mostly he’s just insanely turned on.

“For someone who doesn’t want us to talk about this, you spend an awful lot of time giving people the impression you really want to fuck me,” he growls against Andrew’s skin one night after Andrew has spent half their time at the stage door flirting with James and trying to draw obscene images on his arm in sharpie instead of signing Playbills.

“It’s 2018, baby,” Andrew snaps back, smug and sweetly insufferable. “That’s how we do it, now — we hide the truth in plain sight.”

Lee comes out — or gets outed, depending on your viewpoint — and it’s a whole thing, and everybody is tense for a day or two over it. And even though James swears he and Andrew have been so, so careful, he feels as though Lee, in his shaken state, is silently accusatory of them both.

And it’s not like James hasn’t borne the weight of all this night after night, on top of all the other weight of doing Angels in America in Trump’s city. But he’s told himself, so far, that it’s best if they stay secret, because god knows the last thing this show needs right now is another gay controversy over its actors.

He’s even, a weak part of him admits, relieved, because while half the general populace probably thinks Andrew is gay already, no one really knows who James is, and he’s not ready to have the fight where his agent stops giving him top-level auditions because producers don’t want to cast an out queer actor.

But if he can’t have that fight after spending two years playing Louis Ironson, then when can he?

They’re at one of an untold number of Tonys afterparties when everything finally breaks. Andrew is drunk, James is drunk, everyone is drunk, and it’s almost light out, and he’s pretty sure anyone left standing at this point is probably out of brain cells or fucks left to give; but he’s still surprised when Andrew asks the DJ to play “Moon River” and then pulls James into his arms and starts swaying with him right there where they stand.

“Hey,” James whispers, momentarily entranced by the sight of Andrew: his beloved, beautiful, over-earnest Tony-winning boyfriend; the best, most generous acting partner of his life, his, his best person. “I know it’s late, but we’re still in public, you sure you want to—”

“Yes,” says Andrew, sliding his arms around James’s neck and pressing a kiss against James’ cheek. “I always want to, with you.”

“People are watching,” James murmurs, even though he’s drunk and everything’s fuzzy and he’s not really sure how true that is.

“Don’t care,” Andrew says. “Kiss me.” He leans in and kisses James gently on the mouth, and James’s heart flip-flops several times and he pulls back enough to lean his head against Andrew’s forehead instead of letting the kiss deepen.

“I don’t want this,” he says, fumbling for words, “If this is just you being, being Prior right now.”

Andrew frowns at him, but doesn’t pull away. Moon River is a short song, but it suddenly still feels so much longer than the part they play in the show.

“What are you really trying to tell me?” Andrew asks him in a small voice.

James sighs and pulls Andrew closer and cards his hand through Andrew’s hair in spite of himself, because he’s drunk and it’s Tony night and, and fuck it.

“I’m trying to say that if this, right now, if this is just you being showy and affectionate for your co-star on Tony night,” he says, “Then don’t. I don’t want to do this.”

“Oh,” Andrew says, and his face clears. He cups James’ face in both his hands. “Well, no worries here,” he says. “Because I just want to make out with my incredibly hot, incredibly talented boyfriend, James McArdle, in front of the entire world, because he’s wonderful and I’m in love with him and he should have won a Tony.”

And he leans in and kisses James again, deep and open-mouthed and sweet.

James’s stomach flutters and he wraps Andrew in his arms and kisses back for all he’s worth, and Andy Williams is informing them that they’re two drifters, off to see the world, and he’s vaguely aware that a few people around them are cat-calling and applauding them, and everything is somehow exactly how it should be — exactly what this moment should be.

It’s an eternity later when they break apart, just enough for Andrew to kiss James on the nose, and then on the side of his mouth, and then his temple.

“Say that again,” James tells him, savoring the feeling of finally being able to settle his hand possessively at the small of Andrew’s waist — the classic boyfriend move he hadn’t realized he’d missed until now.

Andrew’s eyes are gleaming. “Say what again. That I love you? That I’m in love with you? That I’m completely fucking gone on you? And I’m really hoping you say yes when I ask you to move in with me when all this is over so we can own a bunch of cats and fight tyranny and never break up?”

For an instant James thinks he might actually be too drunk, and then he realizes the rush of dizziness he’s feeling is just sheer happiness.

“Nah, the other thing,” he says, winking.

Andrew laughs and swats him on the arm. “You absolutely know you were robbed of a Tony, you wanker,” he says.

“Looks like I’ll just have to borrow yours, then,” James says, and if anybody is taking photos of them at the moment the social media feed later is going to include the word eyefucking.

“Any time you want, chiquitita,” Andrew replies, kissing him, “until you get your own,” and then he folds himself around James and rests his head on James’s shoulder, and they dance to invisible music until the dawn finally summons them home.

[emilygamble98-framed]

Performance Process

1.     What are your performance’s key themes and issues?

The discussion of which key themes and issues we’d like to focus on began very early in the process. Once we had all read through our source material, ‘Cleansed’ by Sarah Kane (Kane, 1998) we began selecting and adapting themes from the script. Exploitation, guilt and power were three of the main issues that all of the group were interested in exploring further. In addition to this, throughout our individual research we all found a common interest in examining how these themes link to the global issue of professional misconduct, especially relating to male doctors and sexual assault. This was the starting point for our production of Framed.

2.     What was your group’s creative vision for the performance including your dramaturgical decisions?

Initially our vision for the performance was very physical. We wanted to incorporate physical theatre alongside a naturalistic form of acting to support our original storyline. When the university became digital, we decided as a group that we would need to go back to the drawing board and discuss how we were going to move forward. After many conversations we concluded that we’d like to adapt our original script and the ideas from it into a documentary form. Islay suggested that we needed to be more specific on what genre of documentary we wanted to produce, so we went away and carried out further research. Both the idea of creating a docudrama and a poetic documentary were brought to the table. A poetic documentary focuses on ‘experiences, images and showing the audience the world through a different set of eyes’ (The Beat, 2016) whereas a docudrama focus’s on real life events. We decided that it would be beneficial for our group to combine the two genres and create a poetic documentary with elements of a docudrama incorporated. Although we have not based our performance off of one specific story, we were inspired by our research into a variety of professional misconduct cases. When discussing how we were going to create a poetic documentary we decided that incorporating representative and symbolic images for our transitions between each monologue and underlaying them throughout would be visually powerful in displaying the characters emotions and experiences.

3.     Research into the source material, other companies and into rehearsal techniques that have influenced your development of the performance.  

The source material we selected was Sarah Kane’s ‘Cleansed’ which was written in 1998. The script tells the story of a sadistic man named Tinker who physically tortures people in order to test their love for each other. This leads the amputation and impromptu sex changes. We chose not to follow the storyline of the script but to instead use our inspiration from the character of Tinker to build our character of Andrew and adapt a new story from further research. Prior to the Covid-19 situation we decided that the most powerful way to present our performance would be through the incorporation of physical theatre. For inspiration we carried out a lot of research into Frantic Assembly and Pina Bausch. We discussed the idea of using lifts between Andrew and each of the women to show the power imbalance between them and highlight Andrew’s control. We did not get a chance to experiment with these lifts before the university became virtual, but we carried out some research into Frantic Assembly and the importance they place on building blocks and trust. (Graham, 2014). Sadly, due to the situation we were not able to use these skills but are hoping to make use of them for future assessments. I found that the most useful and influential practitioner for the development of my individual character was Stanislavsky. I carried out research into psycho-physical acting which defines your ‘inner feeling and outer expression’ (Merlin, 2013) happening alongside one another. This research helped me when rehearsing my monologue to fully engage with how Poppy would have been feeling when she was talking in court and how those feelings would have been portrayed.