#the way we found out was how we all reacted to a ball razor ad on tv

[ppossumist]

just met two other people in real life that also use tumblr. this is a first for me.

i am at archeology field school. of course there’s tumblr enjoyers here

[rpd-rookie]

A Past With Her, A Future With You - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Author’s note: This is a sequel to “Scared of Love, Scared of Time” I decided to write after being reminded of the events of RE6 and a certain Ada Wong. Again I made the reader as generic as possible. I hope you’ll like it. PS: Even if I said it before, I have no hate whatsoever towards Ada or Aeon. 

Warning: Angst of course, maybe language. 

               It was a weird cold night for a summer month, nothing the capital had experienced in a while. The storm was raging outside, flooding the green terrace, and huge droplets of rain were pouring loudly against the large patio door.       Legs hanging from the armrest of the confortable leather armchair, you were casually sitting in the living room, half-listening to the awful weather and to the burning wood softly crackling in the modern fireplace, the dying flames gently warming your skin.           You had been reading the same page from your book over and over again for the last twenty minutes or so. The reason behind this sudden monopolizing distraction? Leon sitting on the couch opposite to you, staring at the amber whisky stirring in his crystal glass in silence. Nothing you would have found truly unusual if it hadn’t been for the ice cubes slowly melting in the beverage.             Leon always had been a sucker for a nice glass of old Glenfiddich - though he preferred the term “connoisseur”- always having one glass after dinner. He was not the kind of man to let the fancy liquor be wasted. Ice cubes melted in a thousand dollar whisky, definitely a waste. “Are you okay?” You finally dared ask him.     “Sure.” He surprisingly emptied the glass in a single mouthful. You weren’t used to seeing him do that. You observed him in silence as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed almost soundlessly. You could tell that the events of Lanshiang were still haunting him, probably filling his mind with bloody atrocities he would tell you about only in a few weeks.         But there was something else, something you couldn’t pinpoint in spite of your many tries. And it was worrying you. The last thing you wanted was for Leon to fall in another vicious depression. The last one had already been awful enough.

You closed your book and put it on the black Asian coffee table placed between you and Leon. Soon you approached him and went to stand before him. Your hand cupped his cheek and he looked up at you. He seemed terribly tired and almost sad, guilty even. “What is it? Talk to me.”           “Nothing.” Leon grabbed your hand and kissed it delicately. His dry lips lingered on your fingers for a while before he pulled you closer to him, forcing you to straddle his laps. “Did something happen in China? Something you wanna tell me about?” Leon froze and stared at you with an unmissable confusion. “What do you mean?” In addition to the small panic, his tone was almost harsh and angry but you chose not to react to it. “I don’t know. I… You’ve seemed… different since you came back.” You weighed your words to be sure to find the correct ones; ones that would not vex him and make him push you away. Leon was always thin-skinned and hypersensitive after gruelling missions and you had seen enough of the Lanshiang viral outbreak on national television to know that what happened there must have been very afflicting for him.       “Different?” He repeated, curious to know what you truly meant.       “Distant.” Yes, distant was the word. Since his return from China, Leon had been rejecting your affection on many occasions and had been constantly isolating himself, if not physically then in a bubble you couldn’t manage to penetrate. “I’m not distant.” He shook his head, pretending he did not know what you meant. “I’m just tired. That’s it.”

You stared at him. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But the truth was that even if Leon had been back for over two weeks, it was almost as if he was still absent, as if his mind was still in China somehow. He barely smiled at you and when he did, it was nothing like the way he used to smile at you. His kisses were different also, more rare, less tender. And sex … well, sex was non-existent. It was as if everything about Leon was almost deprived of all the affection and the love he used to give you, as if everything that made his feelings for you so beautiful and so pure had been stripped away and replaced by… you didn’t know what exactly but something that felt like your boyfriend was slipping through your fingers like running water.           Shouldn’t it have been the contrary after the beautiful confession you had finally told him before leaving? Shouldn’t Leon be even more in love with you? Shouldn’t your couple be more solid now more than ever? Shouldn’t you be both happy to be reunited again? But more importantly, should you doubt his feelings for you right now?

“Have I done something wrong?” Leon’s eyes widened as he saw the worry slowly setting in your eyes. “No.” He quickly said, wrapping his arms around you. “No, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything.” “Then what is it? Why are you almost avoiding me? What’s going on?” You begged and he gulped, his blue eyes looking down but especially away from you. “Nothing you should worry about.”     “But I am worried. And I want to know.” He sighed, annoyed, before slightly shifting in his seat to grab the bottle of whisky and pour himself another drink that you took from his hand before he could even bring it to his lips. “I want to know.” You repeated as you slammed the glass on the table. “I want to know why you’re like this. I want to know why you barely acknowledge my presence, why you barely touch me, why you refuse to have sex with me.”       “So it’s about sex?” He stared at you right in the eye and you scanned his features, not even able to tell if he was annoyed, weary or just indifferent. Truth was, he looked atrociously blank and it was scaring you. He never looked at you like that. “We can have sex if that’s what you want.” His sudden casualness left you dumbstruck. Speechless, you barely realised Leon’s hands venturing on your naked thighs until they reached the elastic of your underwear and you slapped them away. “What is wrong with you?!” You couldn’t understand him.         “Are you shitting me? You’re the one who just mentioned sex.” He replied with a tone similar to yours. Guess you couldn’t read him the same way he couldn’t read you – or was it ‘refused to’? “You don’t want to get it, do you?” He didn’t answer, staring back at you with the same emptiness as before. You shook your head, exhausted. “Fine. When you want to talk, I’ll be in our room.” You stood up and escaped in the helical stairs without adding another word.

           Leon didn’t join you that night. He even left the apartment, slamming the door loudly on his way out only to return early in the rainy morning, drenched, stumbling and more especially wasted. Curled up in your bed, you chose to ignore him in spite of the many times he almost tripped in the room, telling yourself how miraculous it was that he had been able to find his way back home safely. After he took his wet clothes off, Leon clumsily lied down on the bed and you felt his grave blue eyes upon your figure. “Please forgive me” You did not know if it was the pain in his voice or simply his words that tied your stomach in a knot. But what you knew was that Leon was not asking forgiveness for what happened earlier tonight. He was asking forgiveness for something else, something he was still hiding from you. And yet, you didn’t dare ask him what it was this time, too terrified that the truth would make you lose Leon for real.     Eyes closed, tears forming under your eyelids, you curled yourself into a ball to look for comfort and protection. “Y/N?” You shivered and soon you felt Leon’s cold body spooning you, holding you tight in his strong arms, his nose buried in your hair, his wet hair dripping on you. “Don’t you love me anymore?” The question was like razor blades on your tongue and the short silence that followed it was like a knife in the heart. “Of course I love you.” Leon finally said but despite his sincerity you could tell one thing was missing: warmth. “But …” You continued, persuaded the word was on Leon’s lips and that he was trying to keep it from you. “There’s someone else, isn’t it? Is that what you can’t tell me? That you cheated on me?” He sit up, alarmed. “I didn’t.” His response had been quick and shivering. But there was no anger in it. Leon was not even vexed. “I never will.” He could not see his future without you but he could not see his past without Ada either.      

Ada. Her name had been burning his tongue and his heart like a hot poker since China. He had wanted to tell you about her, about what happened with her, ever since his return. But telling you about Ada was admitting his feelings to himself, feelings he knew would break you and your relationship in millions of pieces. Telling you about Ada was admitting he had failed you, that he had failed your love. And he couldn’t do that you as much as he could not let her go.             The hold she had on him, in spite of all those years of manipulation and games, was scary yet intoxicating. She had him wrapped around her little finger and he couldn’t seem – or want - to escape her. Ada was a part of his past he couldn’t let go, forever sewed to the thread of his life. And he didn’t know how - or if - he could cut her from it.         A long time ago, he thought you would be the one to help him forget about Ada, the one to unstitch her from his heart. You did for a while. You breathed hope and a new love in him, something pure and sincere. In your arms, he dared imagine a bright happy future. He dared imagine the two of you building a home together, growing old together and dying together. He dared imagine you carrying his name and his child – a desire he had never thought he would have. He dared imagine a life with you and without Ada.       But now she was back and with her his feelings for her he thought he had buried deep down his chest years ago. And he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to feel… and for who.     He was lost.    

“Who is she?” Your voice was broken and exhausted as if asking this question had swallowed all your energy. Leon shivered and his silence made turned around to face him. He was looking down at his trembling hands, bracing himself to tell you the truth. “Ada.” He almost chocked on her name and you blocked a sob in your throat that Leon noticed nevertheless. Of course, it was Ada. Who else could it be if not Ada Wong?           A tear formed in Leon’s eyes. He never wanted to hurt you and god knew how much he hated seeing you miserable. But you were miserable and you were miserable because of him. And when he saw you quickly blinking to prevent your tears from falling he grabbed your hand with a firmness that meant ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me.’ But his hand was freezing, such as the flame of your dying love. “But you’re more important. To me, you mean the world, Y/N”

Once upon a time hearing that would have made you cry of happiness and thank the world for giving you a person like Leon. But tonight, nothing he could say could mattered to you. Tonight, you couldn’t believe him. Ada. Your mind had paused on her name the second Leon had said it. And your heart had broken along with it. Ada. How stupid had you been to believe that you could be the one to replace her in Leon’s heart? How naïve had you been to think there was a possibility for Leon to forget her?   And at that very moment, you told yourself you should have never opened up to Leon. You should not have trusted him with your heart because here it was, shattered and unfixable. Loving Leon Scott Kennedy was a mistake.

You managed to wriggle your hand out of his grip and got up from the bed, wiping your tears away. You wanted to be alone but you knew it was not in Leon’s intention to abandon you in the darkness of the room. You could tell by the way his guilty blue eyes were observing you in silence, waiting for you to say something, anything. Maybe was he even thinking about jumping from the bed to pull you back in his arms as well.     “I want you to leave, please.” You whispered and a tear rolled along Leon’s cheek. That’s not what he hoped to hear. However, he complied and slowly got up from the bed. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” “No. I want you. to leave” You declared, insisting on each segments of the sentence with a firm yet broken tone that stopped Leon in his tracks. You couldn’t be serious? You didn’t mean it? “Y/N” He begged but you ignored him. You couldn’t look at him right now. “You can’t…” He tried to approach you but you brutally stretched out your arm to keep him away from you. “Don’t!” You raised your voice. “Don’t come any closer.” Leon froze, astonished and scared.     “I trusted you.” You cried out, refusing to believe that this was happening to you again, refusing to believe that someone was crushing your heart again.         “I know, sweetheart. I know … I” But you were not listening. You weren’t even hearing him. You didn't want to. Lost in your thoughts. Drowning in your regrets. Seeing the future you had dared imagined slipping away. All that because of a woman you thought was part of Leon’s past.     “I told you I loved you … despite all my fears, despite all my insecurities. I opened up to you because I thought you loved me too and would never ever hurt me.” You cried out, hoping screaming would would make Leon realize he had screwed up, how much he was making you suffer. You hoped screaming would ease the pain. A silly hope. There was no escape from a broken heart, no relief. “And I do! I do love you!” He shouted as loud as you for you to pay attention to him. In vain. But you somehow managed to stop yelling to glare at him with contempt “I was wrong. Trusting you… no loving you was naïve and foolish. Gosh, I wish I had never met you.”

You took an awful delight seeing Leon crumple after hearing those words. But your delight was not enough to fix your heart. You knew that would take months, if not years.     But a question was still burning your lips. “Why wasn’t my love enough? Why wasn’t I enough?”

You got no answer. You only had a pair of miserable blue eyes staring at you with pain, begging you to stay. But you couldn’t stay. You deserved better than a half a heart, than a man. “It’s Ada or it’s me, Leon. It can’t be both.”

You can’t let go of your past. Your past made you. It built you. You can’t forget it, despite all your tries. Your past means that you have lived. But can you let go of your future? Can you let go of a life you never lived? A life you desired? Apparently you can. But not without pain. Not without one heart or two shattered on the floor among of the pieces of hope you had gathered through the years.

[unremarkable-house]

Polaris by unremarkable_house

The X-Files, MSR, Rain King

Mulder and Scully attend Holman and Sheila's wedding in Kroner, Kansas.

Tagging @today-in-fic

Part One: Mulder and Holman

“Platonic intimacy is the foundation of my relationship with Agent Scully, Holman, and risking physical intimacy affects both parties. I don’t want to take that risk unless we are both willing.” There is a condensation of intent that settles around the patio of the Kroner Prairie View Ballroom and Suites where Fox Mulder and Holman Hardt - weatherman, meteorologic anomaly, crack relationship analyst, and now very newlywed - share their conversation during a small break in the matrimonial festivities.

It is also something Mulder has never admitted out loud, his desire for something more, and he feels the uncomfortable humidity of it fill the blissfully mild Kansas air. Holman has made it vexingly clear that he expects him to dish on the so-called Mulder-and-Scully-relationship while the blushing bride and redheaded FBI agent were otherwise occupied. Apparently, he and his buddy the weather wizard had a special affinity for these kinds of chats.

“Are you really worried that you wouldn’t be compatible in bed with someone who looks like your partner?” Holman is projecting a bit of his newfound sexual confidence with Sheila, but he doubts he’d have any trouble if Agent Scully came to bed instead. Or both. Holman’s eyebrow quirks appreciatively.

Mulder is not worried about his level of attraction to his long-suffering and comely partner, he does get to look at her every day after all, but he is worried that the weight of their traumas could make the next level of intimacy challenging. He didn’t need a degree in psychology from Oxford to figure that out, he need look no further than his own baffling sexual history. Plus, he knows how much energy she puts into maintaining their professional distance, especially since Antarctica. And Diana. As always, part of how he shows her he cares is by respecting that.

“There is something to be said about the fact that it’s been six years and no one has even mentioned sex. With each other or otherwise. Maybe she’s just not that into me.” He shrugs, also thinking that really isn’t the case. Although it had been not-so-helpfully suggested by a Gunman or two before. As if any of them had any real experience with women outside of chat rooms and computer labs.

Because Scully hasn’t left him either. Hasn’t ever expressed an interest in a life outside the X-Files. Hasn’t ever, ever let him down. She stands entirely too close to him on elevators and drinks from his coffee cup when she’s in a rush. She waits up for him in the middle of the night, she lets him watch her sleep. She rises like the Phoenix time and time again. She touches the stars and toils in the basement. And she kissed him on Tuesday.

Though she would be seriously perturbed if she heard him acknowledge any of that out loud. Especially that last part.

But he was allowed to acknowledge it, right? He had to, or else they were never going to get past this bizarre phase where their relationship was even a secret to themselves. Will they or won’t they? Are they or aren’t they? Damned if he knew.

They didn’t even have the X-Files anymore. The entire pretext for their relationship hovered over the razor’s edge, completely unprepared for Salt Lake Cities and Diana Fowleys and meaningless days spent tracking down literal piles of shit. He made it clear he wasn’t ready to handle anything personal and then they RSVP’d to a wedding together.

Polaris or utter chaos. Scully had once called him unfathomably capricious.

“Yea, but don’t you want to just take her in your arms and kiss her?”

Holman’s aggressively simple advice is reflective of a man who got everything he wanted. Easy words from someone who finally found safe harbor.

Three months ago, he was offering Holman dating advice. Now Holman was freshly married and all Mulder’s gotten were a few chaste kisses he wasn’t supposed to think about. Cosmic justice or just complete fucking irony?

Sighing, Mulder looks back through the windows where Holman and Sheila’s wedding reception is just getting into full swing. Dazzling lights, disco balls, even a few novelty lasers spin dizzily over the guests as they start feeling the liquor and therefore, the groove. Scully is in there somewhere and his eyes scan for her instinctively, but he doesn’t see her red hair in the crowd. She must still be in the bathroom or surely she would come to find him out here, right? Mulder couldn’t believe the amount of insecurity he had been feeling since she came out in that dress and asked him to help her zip up the back. He needed a drink, big time.

“It’s not just about kissing her -” Above them, the full moon is in dazzling brilliance. Not a cloud in the sky, not a hint of chill in the breeze, downright perfect humidity. On Holman Hardt’s wedding day at the end of April. Figures. “I don’t sit around and pine for Scully the way you did for Sheila. We are in a relationship, have been for years, I guess. We are not just partners, I know that. And not just friends. But it’s about being with her all the time - forever - I think. I want to keep that possibility alive.”

At whatever the cost, he doesn’t add, an onslaught of near-misses hurtling past them like a vengeful comet wrought by some dissatisfied god. The weight of the knowledge that he would follow her anywhere - and she, him - whether they liked it or not. Something that was beyond what a ring or social status could ever symbolize, objectively speaking.

It was as simple as wanting Scully like air to breathe, simple as obeying the laws of gravity. A purely biological necessity. No need to complicate things. And no need to scare her off by being as lousy a lover as he was a friend. If all she ever needed from him were chaste yet unforgettable kisses, he would be honored to provide. Ad infinitum, if that’s what it took to keep her in orbit. No need to define the bonds that connect them. Just the need to stay connected.

A light in the sky from which he could chart his course.

Mulder looked hungrily back into the pulsating throng behind him, seeking his personal universal invariant. As much as he wanted her to return so he could end this candid and hyper-intimate conversation, he especially did not want her to overhear how pathetically punch-drunk he was after just the smallest morsels of her affection. He was supposed to remain coolly and Mulder-ish-ly aloof. It was part of their unspoken agreement for partaking on this exclusive jaunt they had both surreptitiously cashed in their vacation days for.

“I’ve kissed her a couple of times, though.” Except for that, of course. Holman gives him a high five. Then he says in the wistful way he’s been saying everything tonight:

“You know, I’ve been in love with Sheila since I was in high school; I was completely infatuated.” Mulder knows, but not really. Who could be in love with someone with a voice like that? Who consistently kicked you under the rug to date the people you detested the most? To him, the sexiest thing about Scully was that she willingly spent time with him. That and she smelled like a secret garden and her skin was as soft as a petal. His own luscious Atropa belladonna; look but don’t touch. It was a fitting match considering his life was rotely defined by his personal, unattainable longings.

“I think it's different, Holman. I love Agent Scully--” more of that condensation settles. “I have for a long time. As a friend first. But I'm not lovesick. I'm not…” he trails off because to say he’s not also in love with Scully isn't the whole truth. But it’s not the same. “I'm still working on being in love with her in a way that is most fair for her. For us.” He looks up into the starry night and grips the edge of the stone wall that he is perched on. “I tend to be a bit overbearing and unpredictable.”

And incomprehensible and dog-headed and nebulous and borderline unreliable - but he’s not really interested in listing all the ways he’s failed Scully or why he knows he’s badbadbad for her. The reasons why she shouldn’t be wearing a short navy blue dress at a private and completely voluntary event with him tonight. Why he should have done the gentlemanly thing years ago and convinced her to get out and save her reputation, to save herself from a lifetime of pain. Should have resisted the tender, irresistible way she always pulled him back to her. Should not have RSVP'd to this damn wedding, at least.

Instead, he spirited her away from the world living into the world of the half-dead and always searching.

Then again he’d probably be dead ten times over, considering the numerous occasions she’d saved his ass over the years. But life without Scully would be a fate worse than death.

He’s seeding the rain cloud, he knows. These are the kinds of words phrased in such a way that he’s been avoiding admitting - let alone thinking - for years. It’s admissions like these to people like Holman that will force him to pay the piper. He envisions Holman and Sheila forcing them to slow dance beneath the dizzy lights to Fools Rush In. He’d prefer a Whiter Shade of Pale, himself. Something a bit more subtle.

“Loving someone isn’t about being fair, Agent Mulder. My life has basically been at a standstill until I finally got my chance to be with Sheila. I wasn’t willing to move forward with any decision in my life if it meant missing a chance I might have with her. I accepted a job in the same town I grew up in, for Chrissake, because she was here! And yes, there were times when I resented the fact that she refused to see me as more than a friend and instead chased after the people I liked the least.

I have a few buddies from high school who got pretty sick of my laments for a woman - who you will probably agree - is completely out of my league.” Mulder resists reacting, different strokes and all. “The fairest route would have been to save myself the drama of Sheila’s many romantic interludes and settle down with someone else - you might not know it but I’m quite the catch in a small town like this - but I was determined to wait until it was my turn. Now those same guys from high school are here dancing at our wedding!

Look at me! I’m married to the most beautiful woman in Kroner! In all of Kansas, probably! And we are already talking about starting our family right away!”

Holman, glowing with pride like the light of the moon with his arms outstretched, has a nostalgic, faraway look on his face, back to his days as the awkward teen in love with the prom queen. Indeed, Holman had received his just rewards for patience, diligence, and the honor of a respectable life.

Scully is his reward too, Mulder knows. Has always known, since the day she walked back into his basement office after spending thirty-six hours hiding in the rain forests of Puerto Rico with no food or water and scared to death that the kill squads were going to find them and use extreme force. He was constantly falling in love with the versions of herself that she shed with each tragedy - always a moment too late. Always under her sharp and disapproving eye. She wore her newfound vulnerabilities with a sign that read: “Danger, Stay Back”. That she refused to be worshipped just made her easier to love. He’d had no clue dignity was such a turn on.

Mulder was just worried he hadn't paid his dues with such noble qualities as Holman’s. His many wrongdoings play with a sad soundtrack in his head, as sad as the desperate way she always looks at him when they’ve cheated death yet again. She had been particularly unzipped by his recent near-drowning and nick-of-time rescue in the Plantagenet Bay. The Gunmen published it in their quarterly and referred to Scully as the Babe of the Bermuda Triangle. He still felt kinda bad about that one.

Was it just Mulder or was the moon shining a little more brightly right now?

“One of the best days of my life was when Sheila started working at the station.” Holman gets another dreamy look upon his face as he recalls the day. Mulder remembers too, it was chronicled in the local paper. That and a portfolio of other newsworthy weather events Holman was responsible for sat neatly collated within his X-Files. And now including their invitation to the blessed Hardt-Fontaine nuptials. It wasn’t every day he got to hang out with one of the curiosities from his wonder cabinet.

Unless he counted Scully which he explicitly and vociferously did not.

“May 11, 1992: residents of Kroner, Kansas, report witnessing a rare quadruple rainbow,” He recites.

Mulder has a similar best day of his life, but he doesn’t recall any meteorological event that marked the moment. It wasn’t even a full moon. Just a regular March afternoon that he had been antipathetic about.

Holman grins. “Some reported seeing a fifth arc as well, but it was never substantiated.” Then his face grows cloudy. “That same day, while we were catching up, was when she told me she was moving in with Darryl Moody and that they were ‘engaged to be engaged.’” He spits the last words out like venom. And that would explain the subsequent supercell lightning storm that knocked Kroner off the grid for three days (also in his files).

“She just wanted to be friends,” he bemoans before becoming annoyingly cheerful again, “but being her friend was the next best thing because here we are! Sheila recently told me that the best relationships are rooted in friendship so if that’s what it took to get here, I wouldn’t change a day.”

Mulder, dipping his chin to his chest, was appalled he found that so pathetically endearing. And a little bit wounding. Were he and Scully not rooted in friendship? For someone who was so quick to believe, he knew he was certainly wanting for a little more faith in the matter. Because here we are, he thinks, together, in other lifetimes, always.

In this particular lifetime in Kansas, there might be drinks and dancing and more than one excuse to touch her companionably and then maybe a little more familiarly, as soon as she finished up inside and he could end this awkward conversation with the groom.

“Don’t let some bad luck cramp your style, Agent Mulder,” Holman says, reaching the end of his proselytizing. “The future will be as bright as you make it.”

Following Holman’s gaze up into the night sky, Mulder finds that the heavens are now alight with the ethereal trails of meteors, dainty and otherworldly, glittering their way across the universe.

Mulder sighs again, equally entranced by and indifferent to Holman’s bizarre skills. “Easy for you to say, Holman.” But Holman just laughs the contented and mirthful laugh of a man in love. To him, everything is limitless: life, love, the weather, and now the entire galaxy.

And though there was once a time where Mulder would have imprudently coveted the ability to touch the unthinkable like Holman Hardt, tonight he is content to reach only one star.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564760

Notes:

WIP, I hope. There should be a chapter for Scully + Sheila and another for Mulder + Scully. Fingers crossed! Mad love to my favorite fanfiction of all time, Parabiosis by Penumbra. This story includes some loving references to that masterpiece. Made with the utmost respect. Thanks for reading.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: Deepest Dive

Thalassophobia is the fear of the ocean. I have that sh*t in spades. It’s deep, dark, and unknown. As a grown man in his mid thirties who can’t swim a stroke, i respectfully refrain from entering the sea. That said, i marvel at what has been found there. What little we have found there. We know more about the goddamn moon, than we do about what’s under our own waves, here at home and that’s staggering to me. How can something be so abundant, so dominate, and simultaneously, so unknown? That’s craziness to me. When i heard about Underwater, i immediately knew i had to see this movie. I’m entranced by these types of films because the possibility of some, undiscovered, gigantic, predatory, deep sea creature is very real. Exploring that reality, letting your imagination play in that sandbox,always kicks out something unique, and often, profound. Does Underwater pull this off? Did i finish this film feeling the way i did after Leviathan? Deep Star Six? The Abyss?

The Good

Underwater has a tremendous atmosphere. this thing nails that claustrophobic panic that you rarely see executed correctly in one of these types of films. I felt that rush of sheer panic throughout this movie, especially in that opening scene.

Speaking of atmosphere, this thing leans real heavy into that Alien aesthetic. There’s a visual language which these films share, that echoes through Underwater. It’s not a bad thing, mind you. Alien is one of my all-time favorite films so i adore seeing that type of production whenever it crops up in cinema. However, it’s hard to homage without embarrassment. Alien was lightning captured in a bottle. It excels at so many things and it does it while looking effortless. Underwater is not that. Underwater is very laborious. It feels like it’s trying too hard to be a Ridley Scott film which is hilarious because i don’t think Ridley Scott even knows how to make an Alien film anymore. Even so, Underwater is the closest to that razor-edged, disgustingly gritty, manic desperation,you feel on the Nostromo so high marks for that.

There is a look to this film, when you can see it, that is incredibly unique. It’s Deep Star Six meets Abyss meets Alien but so much more than that. You can tell that there was a strong vision propelling this world as it began to unfold over the course of the plot.

I cannot praise this opening sequence enough. That sh*t sent me into a straight fervor. I love the way it’s shot. I love the realism in the survival effort. I love the utter futility in Stewart’s face. Excellent. I would have changed one thing but, aside from that, outstanding.

Speaking of Stewart, she gives an excellent performance. I’ve like her, mostly, throughout her career, with the exception of the Twilight films. Those things were the worst but that’s mostly because the source material is sh*t. Given an opportunity, Kristen Stewart can be incredibly compelling in a role. Panic Room, Adventureland, Zathura, American Ultra, The Runaways; All great performances. Personal Shopper is my favorite post-Bella infamy but her role as Norah Price is pretty legit. She’s the most convincing Ellen Ripley i’ve seen onscreen since Sigourney Weaver Cargo Loaded that b*tch out of an airlock.

That creature reveal was pretty legit. Very chestburster in implementation but still worthwhile. Everything hearkens back to Alien with this movie. It’s a little heavy handed cribbing from it’s very blatant inspiration, especially as you continue through the plot and realize there’s a hive, drones, and even a goddamn queen; All with their own independent vision, of course.

The pacing in this flick is mad sprightly. It’s like a power-walk from one scene to the next, clocking in at a surprisingly tight hour and a half, roughly. You get through this entire movie in no time.

The Meh

All that voice over. Ugh. I hate when films do this, especially at he beginning. Sh*t’s the most effective way to completely deplete tension, especially when your film is trying to build up to a sudden, pronounced, event. It works when your main character is in solitude or when there is a principal protagonist but this film does neither of those things. There’s a reason they do things this, way which leads me to my next point, but take away this inner monologue or whatever and certain scenes become far more effective.

TJ Miller is in this movie. He plays TJ Miller. I’m getting tied of TJ Miller.

The rest of the cast did their part. The material most of them had to work with was pretty mundane so their characters are inconsequential, which is a shame because i really like some of these actors. Jessica Henwick is adorable and Mamoudou Athie has proven he has the skill to be big, all the more distressing about that lack of material. Imagine these characters having that initial bonding scene. A little lunch or something, together, before the initial collapse. there’s comradery, you build a sense of endearment to characters while establishing traits, gives your actors room to act so when sh*t hits the fan, you feel it. Hell, having Kristen Stewart go to bed early, only to wake up and go directly into that epic opening sequence would have been brilliant.

The editing in this is hit and miss. Alien was so effective because they didn’t have any goddamn money. They had to be clever with edits and sh*t because they couldn’t afford more film for reshoots. Underwater was shot digitally. There is no film. This is all computers, man, so no restraint of takes. That means no restraint on cuts and there are some absolutely atrocious jump cuts in scenes you do not want them. This is more a critique on modern film making than a knock of this film, specifically, even if it has some of the more aggressive examples i’ve seen of this sh*t in a while.

The actual underwater sequences are dark ad f*ck. It’s hard to see what’s going on most of the time. That’s forgivable, to an extent. The monster you see in your head is always far more terrifying than the one you see with your eyes. I get it. But you can’t see sh*t; Not the monster, not the crew, not the surroundings, nothing. That’s a function of being at the bottom of the goddamn ocean but damn, dude, really? Can a motherf*cker get a more powerful flashlight or something? It’s hard to react when i don’t know what i’m reacting to.

The Bad

The way this thing ends is real bad. Not so much the climax but the resolution. It feels like the production ran out of money. It kind of mirrors the opening credits in a way but, after spending all that time in this world, learning about these characters, ending the film how they did is wildly unsatisfying if a little frustrating. I imagine this was because of budget reasons but, come on? A little extra cash and you could have had a real gem.

The Verdict

For all the praise and indifference i have about this film, the biggest thing that both irks and compels my mild adoration is the fact that it unabashedly wears it’s love for the original Alien on its sleeve. This is Alien, if it were made today, but underwater. That “if it were made today bit” is what kills it. You could get away with something like this back in the day because cats knew how to stretch a dollar. There was minimum studio interference and creators could create, especially with smaller budget fare like this flick. Not so much anymore. Margins are razor thin and every dollar counts so none of the major studios take chances. If this were an A24 film, it’d be be much better but it’s not. It’s a Fox leftover so Disney really wasn’t trying to actually spend more money than they already had. Missed opportunity.

Ultimately, Underwater is a good time. It’s competently made, technically sound, and has a compelling premise that does a decent job of building tension. It does, however, drop the ball on characterization. you never feel part of this crew. it doesn’t have that comradely scene like Alien does and you need that in this type of flick so when the horror starts, you feel the loss. You don’t feel anything for these people. They’re characters not a crew. Outside of that, the performances are decent and the effects were much better than you’d expect for how much this thing cost to make. They flub the landing, for sure, but the ride to that point is pretty entertaining. Underwater feels like there was more they wanted to say, more they wanted to do, but the rug was pulled out from under the creators at the last minute and they had to run with what they had to the box office. I’d say give it a shot but don’t judge it against it’s very obvious inspiration. Alien is forty years unassailable but Underwater does pulls off a decent homage. If this thing was cared for a little more by the studio, this could have been a contender for that crown. As it stands, it’s the best Alien film since Aliens. Underwater is thrilling at times, groan-worthy at others, a little disappointing toward the end, but entertaining throughout. It’s definitely worth a watch.

[harringrovehouse]

I know the Coke Cola ad was well an ad but Max and Lucas are clearly hanging out without ANYONE else, in publicly so what if Neil sees them, or someone Neil knows (because we all know people like Neil find each other) and tells him about Max and Lucas. That’s this basically. TW for abuse and homophobic language.

It happened so fast, too fast for Billy to react. He and Max had walked through the door, bickering quietly about being the first one inside, Max wins but barely, her blue eyes glaring at him as she shoves past him into the living. She’s standing therec hand on her hip and a smug look on her face when Neil’s voice cuts through their small, nonsensical argument. He’s standing in front of the home phone, it’s sitting next to the cradle and he looks livid. Billy freezes, eyes wide and he watched Niel advance towards Max. Neil is screaming, shouting about ‘those people’ and Billy knows. He knows Neil finally found out about Lucas Sinclair.

Billy’s been dreading this all Summer, since before Summer, since before the Snow Ball where he knows Max and Sinclair locked lips, since before Max almost took a baseball bat to his groin. Billy’s been dreading this since the second he saw Max talking to Lucas Sinclair in the Hawkins Middle school parking lot. Billy’s been waiting for this to happen, and he’s terrified.

Neil moves then, arm out stretched for Max, who is shivering she’s trying so hard not to cry. Her small frame shaking as she takes in huge glups of air, trying to steady herself. She’s trying to be strong but Billy know’s the second Neil touches her, Max will break. Emotionally. Physically.

So he does something he’s hasn’t done in 11 years. He steps between his father and someone else. A vivid image of a bright blue summer dress flashes before his eyes and Billy pulls into himself, mimicking the same behavior he once saw, makes him small and extends his hand out to his father.

“Dad. Please.” Billy hasn’t begged in a long time. He’s learned. Learned that begging is a sign of weakness, and weakness leads to softness, which leads to queerness, which leads to your stepsister finding you with a boy in your lap in the basement of your old apartment building which leads to a beating so bad you move across the country to a town no one from California has even heard about. Billy has learned what happens but Max doesn’t need to. So he begs.

Neil pauses, much to Billy’s surprise, he pauses and then a light flicks on behind his father’s eyes. Billy fights the urge to run. “You knew!” Neil doesn’t yell, and that sends a shiver down Billy’s spine. “You knew, and you let it continue!” And then Billy’s being dragged from the livingroom into the kitchen, Max’s screaming voice the only sound he hears. “I gave you one job! You couldn’t even do that.” Billy tears up as his father rips a chunk of his hair from his head, before slamming him face first into the dinning room table. The world spins and Billy fails trying to write himself, Neil grips his hair harder and forces him down onto his hands and knees. “You just can’t do anything right, can you.” A drawer opens and Neil begins searching through it for something.

Billy doesn’t bother fighting, he knows what will happen if he does. In the doorway he can see Max, frozen to the spot in the living room, blue eyes wide with fear as she watches Neil take a pair of meat sheers from the drawer. Her mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Billy closes his eyes as a fistful of his hair is pulled up and then CHOP. Billy swallows around the lump in his throat and wills himself not to cry as piece after piece of his hair falls to the kitchen floor. Max is screaming again, yelling at Neil to stop.

“We have rules in this house Maxine!” Neil yells now, chopping a huge chunk from the back of Billy’s head. It hurts and Billy feels the chill of the steel against his skin, he doesn’t dare move a muscle. “You follow them. Or face the consequences.” Chop, chop, chop.

Max is sobbing by the time Billy is allowed to stand. She’s on her knees in the living room, hands over her face as she watches him straighten up.

Neil smacks Billy across the face once he’s up, angry to see the tears that Billy wasn’t able to hold back. Max squeaks. “You do your job as her older brother! You keep her away from those-those,” Billy looks away as his father spits out the slur. “She’s a Hargrove now. You don’t let that boy near her. Am I understood?”

“Yes. Sir.” Billy looks him in the eye and nods. Neil slams the sheers down on the table and marches into the living room, where he wrenches Max up off the floor.

“Don’t you ever let that,” A second slur that, Max’s crys harder. “Lay his hands on you again Maxine! Those people, we don’t associate with their kind.” Neil stands Max on her feet, gives her a hard shake and then lets go. “Your mother and I will be having a talk about you after I pick her up from work. We will decide your punishment then.”

Max opens her mouth but Billy beats her to it.

“Max.” She looks at him, all red eyes and flushed skin and Billy shakes his head. It’s better to leave it how it is, or risk ending up like he is now.

“I’m going to pick your mother up,” Neil glares at both of them. “Clean the kitchen, and wash your faces. Both of you.” And then he’s gone. Gone like he hadn’t just ripped piece of his son’s scalp from his head, or bruised his stepdaughter’s arms.

Robotically Billy grabs the broom from the pantry and sweeps up the remains of his beloved curls. In the living room Max rubs her arm and cries, sinking back to her knees and sobbing into her hands. Billy ignores her as he clean the spatter of blood from the table, and then soaks the dish towel in bleach and cold water.

The kitchen shines when Billy is done with it. He even wipes down the chairs, just in case any loose hairs made their way onto the cushioned surface. Max is still inconsolable when he steps back into the livingroom. He doesn’t ask permission as he lifts her off the hardwood and into his arms. She fights him but only for a second before hiding her face in his shoulder. Billy carries her into the bathroom, a second vivid flashback to being set on the edge of the bathtub while his mother cried, her lip split and his wrist twisted. He eases Max onto the vanity, before making her a cool towel to clean her face with.

“H-how can he d-do that?!” She forces out, still taking wild gasping breaths. “H-he hurt you!” Billy ignores her, looking for the electric razor Susan bought Neil for their anniversary. He finds the bag tucked behind a set of towels they’re not allowed to use.

“There’s a lot you don’t understand Max.” Billy tells her as he plus the razor in. The side of his head is stil bleeding slightly, tiny pinpricks of blood bubbling up from under his scalp. Billy presses a second hand towel to the spot, hoping it won’t bruise.

“Your hair.” Max is shaking as she talks, the adrenaline rush for seeing her stepbrother being attacked by his own father starting to wear off. Billy gives her a look.

“It’ll,” Billy pauses, trying to keep his voice even. “It’ll grown back.” He turns away from her, and lets a few tears go. “Wipe your face.”

“Your bleeding.”

“Yeah, it’s not the first time. Clean your face Maxine!” Billy snaps and Max flinches, and for the first time in a very long time Billy feels bad. Hissing he pulls the towel away from his head, and leans in closer to her. “Clean your face Max, he’ll be back soon, okay.” Billy whispers the last words to her, taking the cloth and gently cleaning her red cheeks. Max doesn’t flinch away but she does start crying again.

“He hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Does he hurt you a lot?”

“Only when I deserve it.”

“B-but you don’t!”

“I broke a rule Max.” They lock eyes and Max shakes her head. “I tried to stop you from being friends with Sinclair and I failed. I deserve this.” Max shakes her head and Billy ignores her, pushing a little harder on her cheek than he meant too. “We have rules for a reason.”

“They’re stupid rules!” She shouts and pushes at Billy’s shoulders, he doesn’t budge.

“You should have listened to me. Now-now he knows you’re different.” Billy tells her as he wet the towel and dabs at the corner of her eyes. “You’re different, in this family different isn’t good.”

“I-I’m not like you.” Max whispers it but Billy hears.

“It’s not the same but to dad it doesn’t matter. I’m a fag Max, and you, you’re in love with a black boy.” It’s painful to even say those words out loud. To confirm to Max that he is in fact every bit the little queer she thinks he is. “They’re both unnatural, wrong. In dad’s head you broke a rule, the cardinal rule. Be lucky he didn’t give you a make over too.”

“It’s not right!” Max start but Billy shakes his head at her.

“In this house it is.” Billy drys her face with the bottom half of the towel and steps back, he sets the towel down and grabs the razor. It’s loud and clunky, and hurts as Billy pushes it against his skin but if he isn’t presentable by the time Neil and Susan come back, it might be Max standing here trying to make a buzzcut work.

Max sits on the counter and watches her brother shave off what’s left of his beautiful mane, the curls Neil missed with the sheers are gone in seconds as Billy smooths his new hairdo out.

Billy doesn’t look at himself once he’s done. He cleans the razor off, uses a wad of toilet paper to clean the hair off the sink before disposiving of the remains in the trash. He washes the sink out and then sets the razor back into the bag, returning it to it’s place behind the towels.

Max stares at him as he straightens everything, dries the counter and uses a small broom and dust pan she didn’t know was hidden in the bathroom cabinet to clean the floor. Max watches Billy do these things and she finally understands. Billy has the right to be mad, but he has to fight back.

She isn’t brave enough to tell him to do that that night when Susan comes home in tears, crying about Max’s befriending the town thug and Neil yells at Billy for being a bad influence but months later, as she and Eleven stand frozen in fear watching through sealed lab doors as Billy, veins pure black, struggles to fight a new monters. Max finds the bravery she needs and she screams.

“BILLY!”

[just-beer-yourself-blog]

Dance with Me Under the Moonlight

A tale of two wolves, Kaarina and @galenscylis‘ Thorindor, and their dance on a full moon night.

-----

The nighttime air of Frostfall, as always, was cold. It was a piercing, discomforting cold. Though it did not freeze through bone like a Skyrim winter, it was far more intolerable. It made each step heavy and loud, blaring against the silence of the woods. What should have been a short jaunt home for Thorindor became arduous in the cold, within his eyesight yet still so far away.

The long walk allowed his mind to race. There was no cause for concern, he repeated to himself once more, almost believing it this time. He looked to the moons, seeing only that they were obscured by treetops. He didn’t need to see either to know that tonight was a full moon. His gaze returned to the ground, more uneasy than before, reminded that his own control of his wolf blood meant nothing anymore.

Yes, it was a cruel twist of fate that he found himself with another depending on him. Even more cruel that she would come to share his curse and endure the bloodlust that arrives with every full moon. And shared it was, that his own mastery of the blood aided her none, for even though he tried the entire winter, it seemed that attunement with one’s wolf spirit cannot be taught. Despite his best efforts, Kaarina was defenseless against herself on nights like this, and would remain so for a long time.

And so he finally arrived at his humble lodging and resigned himself to his post, sitting on a stump outside for the night. As the minutes ticked by, he eased into the routine. It wasn’t their first full moon together, they made it this far without incident, hadn’t they? On his walk to the road and back to warn away travelers, he saw no one. No hunters would find them, no passersby would be killed. Even then that was only a precaution, with Kaarina locked inside the cabin, bestial senses dulled by the indoors, no prey, her feral rage rendered impotent.

Yet it was not the worst that he dreaded. He knew very well that the night would pass without incident. However, he would be forced once more to hear her agony fighting the transformation, the gnashing and the pounding as her rage manifests and her bestial blood beginning to boil, her ensuing battle against walls and a chained door that would never give way, until she falls exhausted with defeat and awaits the friendly sunrise. He never grew accustomed to the guilt of keeping a loved one caged like an animal, nor the bitterness that all those years ago, he had no one to do the same for him before it was too late.

Thorindor remained like this for what seemed like eons, and did not notice the silence until the moons had crawled their way above the treetops and struck his eye. The night was half over, and he still hadn’t heard a single sound in the night. Were all his fears for nothing? Perhaps she made strides in controlling her powers after all, in under a year no less. He focused his hearing once more, his lycan blood heightening his reception some even in human form. Still silence. As he was flooded with pride, he had to resist the urge to call out to her. Perhaps she was in intense focus, fending off the call of the moons throughout the whole night. A disturbance could be fatal.

He needed only to hear her breathing to tell for sure, so he silently hopped up near the door, and as he pressed his ear against the wood, he heard it. More silence. A rush of confusion hit him. He should have been able to hear the faintest sigh from here, so he pushed his ear closer, and fell inward. The door gave way and swung on its hinges, dropping him to the wooden floor below. As Thorindor crashed into the ground and saw the broken link in the chain, the sudden realization sent his heart into a spiral of despair. His pity was short lived as he heard the howl, clearly a response to the clamor he just made. She was still near, and she was coming.

As he prepared himself, he quickly banished the thought of transforming to defend himself. Despite his prowess, succumbing to the beast blood on a night like this was just asking for a catastrophe. Weighing his only other option, drawing the sword from his back did not inspire much confidence in him. He tried to recall his knowledge of fighting against swordsmen as a beast, but it revealed nothing to him. He had never lost to one before. He could hear his partner sprinting towards him, each footstep signifying one less moment to think of a strategy. Should he aim to sever a tendon? Concuss her head and hope she sleeps? Simply lock himself inside the cabin and pray she doesn’t stray too far? He had no time to dwell on how bad these ideas were as the rabid, snarling beast, his girlfriend, was now one leap from sinking her claws into his face.

All human strategy left his mind and his own bestial instinct took over. He gracefully spun to his left, feeling the wind from her outstretched claw buffet his hanging locks of hair back across his head. He turned to face her, now hearing her howl from feet away, no doubt infuriated by his elusive maneuver. Thorindor circled his predator as if she was his prey, it was the only thing that felt right to his lupine instinct. As expected, she circled him too, the pair forming a halo in the undergrowth of the forest clearing. Hesitant to press the attack, he waited, and waited, and waited too long. He was caught off-guard as three razor claws dug cleanly through his right pectoral. His bestial mind reacted in time, but his elven body could not, the two still not in tune. Wincing with every step, he narrowly escaped the next flurry, bounding further and further backwards, graciously escaping further injury. Kaarina stopped to howl in frustration once more, allowing a hobbled Thorindor to resume circling his predator from a further distance than before.

A wry smile flashed across his face as he understood what he had to do. He had her full, unwavering attention, something he always delighted in, so why should it be any different now? She came all this way to be alone with him in the woods, it was the least he could do. She wasn’t going anywhere and they had nothing but time before the night was out. He would simply have to dance with his beloved until morning.

As their circle broke once more and Kaarina lunged forward, Thorindor feather-stepped past her and spun around on his heel, the two crossing each other gracefully to continue their dosado about the perimeter. Indeed, it was a waltz for the ages. The lovers twirled and twisted for hours, host to some expertly performed moves only seen at Imperial balls, and some closer encounters, dirty dancing that shed as much blood as it did sweat. The dance continued as the moons climbed directly above, shining down upon their frolicking, and on and on until they disappeared below the horizon.

And even as the sun returned, as Thorindor reclined upon the earth, his bleeding already stopped, he was repeating the steps in his mind, reminiscing the sweet movements and technical steps, almost sorry that it was over so soon. The dance was not meant to last forever, as he was so tenderly reminded by his exhausted partner who lay unconscious against his chest. He shifted his attention back to Kaarina, inspecting her body. Not a scratch, same as last time he checked. His chest swelled with satisfaction so strongly that Kaarina stirred, and sleepily fluttered her eyes open after a restless sleep. She became aware of her head resting against her man’s chest, although how she found herself awake many a time before, was unexpected in this moment. She should have woken alone in the cabin. She noticed her nakedness, that they were outside, and as she jumped up, she noticed the dried blood coating Thorindor’s torso. His smile didn’t falter a bit as he then got to his feet, only adding to her confusion.

“What on earth happened?”

“We had the time of our lives.”

[calleo-bricriu]

Unwinding.

((Follow up to this post. This was Discord RP done between me and @braxfordthebeater. Worth noting at the end, we did a roll to see how it would go with 11+ being Calleo wins and 9 or lower meaning Braxford wins. ))

Calleo knew exactly how long it would take Braxford to receive his letter and that, because it was a Saturday, that he'd more than likely be available.

With that in mind, in the second it took to apparate to the empty field, he had already put up a decent wall of defensive magic.

If he had to be hit first, and that was likely, he could at least be somewhat certain that whatever hit would just blast away a couple of layers of protective magic.

At first.

There was a split second when he reappeared that Calleo checked to make sure Braxford--who had likely arrived first--had put up the appropriate amount of, "Make sure nobody notices what's going on, despite the fact there's nobody living within several kilometres of this place" magic and opened with something that was more meant to cause distraction and difficulty seeing through the cloud of dirt, grass and dust it kicked up.

It had been a long couple of weeks and, in Calleo's life, there was still no one quite as good (or willing, for that matter) as Braxford to burn that sort of energy off.

Braxford was eager. In the circumstances involving duels with Calleo he felt absolutely no need to suppress his nature under his usual dour and slightly exasperated regard. The vast fellow stood waiting and ready, brandishing his absolute cane of a wand.

Calleo's screen was his cue; the plume of dust instantly doubled with the sheer force of the blast that detonated from his wand. It was enough indication that he'd prepared the usual obfuscation work -- otherwise his move would have been quite the attention getter.

Swift, savage strokes of the wand conjured one of his favourite manners of offense; a gargantuan serpent composed of bits of swirling debris. A simple flick sent the thing on the hunt, roiling through the haze in its search for his friend -- or prey.

At the moment, there was little difference.

Snakes. It was always snakes. Not only with Braxford, and not even only with people who came through Slytherin. They just seemed to be a thing with people who poked around with dark magic.

Calleo let the conjured serpent chase him for a moment, allowing it to gather up more debris for no other purpose than to have more to light up when he re-took control of the spell from Braxford. When it changed course, winding itself back toward its original target, what started out as standard magical fire escalated as its fuel was spent into the cursed sort of magical fire. That required nothing physical to burn, after all.

On the tail of it, obscured somewhat by the fire itself, a common opener that Calleo fully expected Braxford to counter or turn around on him: Sagitta Debilitatem

At the same time, he reinforced his own defences while quickly following the last round of offensive magic with several more distractions. Instead of dirt this time, it was, what appeared to almost be birds or, they would have appeared to be birds if they didn't look fundamentally wrong.

At quick glance, birds.

On closer inspection, very part of the, feathers, beaks, and feet glinted, hinting at a razor edge to everything.

They did not move in a swarm or pattern. That would be too easy to counter or to dodge. Instead, they went every which way, and some seemed to be capable of rudimentary dodging.

And then?

Then, it was dark.

A spell Braxford would probably recall, considering he was the one who'd invented it. Calleo knew it wouldn't stay dark for long; Braxford knew the counter, after all. Still, in the instant he had to make use of it, he shifted and joined the other 'birds' in an effort to temporarily close distance between himself and his friend.

There was a bit of a concerned frown on Braxford's face -- as opposed to his own brutish strategies, Calleo's were always more layered -- they took a bit of sorting out...which in itself was a window to vulnerability. The moment it became dark, however, opportunistic triumph crossed his face -- obscured as it was.

It may have been a bit of a giveaway to his location, but the inky black did not last long. In fact, it pulled toward Braxford like a curtain had been snagged, only to reveal the somewhat comical sight of him whipping his wand overhead in a series of harsh circles.

The incantation he spoke was -- harsh, and not quite audible in the din of it all. Whatever it was though -- it took absolute control of the blackness and went as far as to divide it into thirteen cricket-ball sized orbs that rapidly revolved around him at waist level. It looked to be a silly thing -- until some of those sharp birds came his way. Two of those shadowy balls came to Braxford's defense, bludgeoning them out of the way. The process seemed rather automatic.

When the firey snake returned to him -- Braxford had to brandish his wand to take a measure of manual control. It took seven of the balls to congeal into a mass that was able to both stop and smother the flame -- and another four to facilitate a counter for the attached surprise. Braxford knew his friend well, it seemed. At his direction his group of thirteen returned to revolve at his very large core -- something he seemed rather proud of. No offense came -- for the time being.

That in itself was a strange and suspicious thing.

That was a strange and suspicious thing, so much so that even Calleo noticed, though he wasn't stupid enough to be caught flat footed over it. He also made a mental note to ask Braxford what he'd done with that spell to turn it into defensive, magic absorbing orbs--but that would have to come later.

For the moment, being still did not seem to be the best idea.

The fact that Braxford seemed to be simply standing there was cause enough for alarm. There were things around him now that did appear to be defensive in nature and Calleo had seen that they could, at the very least, absorb magic like a proper shield.

So, he simply didn't aim for Braxford.

His aim, for the moment, targeted the air above Braxford's head and the ground beneath his feet. Very far beneath, as a matter of fact. The spell Calleo cast disappeared underground and out of sight; no surface movement gave any indication as to where it had gone or where it was going.

Over Braxford's head, a play on certain prison wards that Braxford may have had some mild familiarity with by now, only these very obviously and very specifically turned themselves toward Braxford once they'd gone up and when they dove to snap down on him they curiously avoided Braxford's body, aiming instead to either consume or negate those defensive orbs.

And, of course, for good measure: Lightning. Lightning that missed, of course, and only hit the ground near Braxford's feet, leaving the sharp tang of ozone and burning grass and the unsettling electric feel the air always contained just prior to and after a strike.

Calleo was not about to wait and see what Braxford would do and, in tandem with the 'wards' he'd just conjured to snap around his friend, what he'd sent underground made itself obvious a few seconds later. He had attached several blasting curses to trail along with Conterebro. The main spell itself surfaced to set off a curse, some of them detonating further off the ground than others, and tunneled back again without effort but, then, it was a spell meant to bore through stone; dirt might as well have been air.

A quick, almost panicked slash of his wand sent nine of the thirteen balls pelting out in haphazard directions -- while the rest found themselves dispersed and otherwise made useless by the warding spellwork. Even through the vigorous motions that directed his wand Braxford did not react to the lightning...something that only added to the suspicious nature of what he had arranged.

From within his fetters he aimed his wand at the scattered black orbs -- to no effect. They remained on the ground. It was only when Braxford had become obscured in the debris of the explosions that they lifted, all nine of them, and zoomed toward Calleo.

One burst into bright flame and elongated; the very same cursed fire from earlier directed toward Calleo this time.

Another one shot toward the wizard, then suddenly eclipsed his field of view -- not with shadow, but with a man. Braxford .

The old bastard moved much faster than he should have, his wand held forward as the force of a train attempted to slam into what protections Calleo had put in place. The remaining six flew immediately in a bid to situate themselves in revolution about his waist.

Back at the location of the explosions, the solidified darkness that had taken the form of Braxford was easily torn apart and dispatched.

Well, that was certainly an interesting tactic! More to ask about later.

Braxford did manage to knock Calleo back, though given the size difference between the two of them, he probably could have managed that without magic as well.

As Calleo fell, he both re-ignited the protective magic that Braxford had so unceremoniously just barged through and, figuring he would not have time to physically move out of the way of anything else, elected to disapparate and reappear directly behind Braxford long enough to take aim at the few remaining orbs before disapparating again and not immediately reappearing.

He had reappeared, the crack of apparation made that evident and certainly gave away at least the location he'd been at when the sound went off. Whether he was there again or not was an entirely different matter.

Not disillusionment charms, Calleo knew Braxford wouldn't be thick enough to not immediately try and dispel those. He also knew that keeping defensive spells around him would likely give away exactly where he was if left up too long so he removed them.

Calleo was certain, at some point, Braxford would figure out exactly which 'forget I'm here' type of charm Calleo had cloaked himself in and decided to use the short amount of time he knew he had to use one of the nastier tricks Grindelwald had shown him some months ago.

There were no words with it, only--sensations. Nothing alarming at first, only a bit of pressure. It would escalate though, over the span of a few minutes, from pressure, to grasping, to the unsettling feeling of being held forcibly still by invisible hands originating from inside the body.

Still, it wouldn't cause any lasting damage.

Moving now would be risky. Not moving would be even riskier. Calleo quickly re-conjured another 'shadow' Braxford, grabbing it and setting a few of the more cold burning curses he knew inside of it prior to sending Braxford's own shadow charging at him.

Braxford was a split second too late in following Calleo's apparition; perhaps for the best. No duel was worth the risk of splinching, no matter how small. Instead, he spun and lashed a bright purple whip of light in a mild radius about him.

Three of the orbs had been taken out by Calleo's wandwork, and two remained. The large man made a noise between his teeth that contrasted the somewhat wild smile on his face. "Alright then."

He raised his casting arm -- then stopped. Calleo's spellwork had been stealthy and effective. It was a struggle for him to move; a struggle he was losing. Momentary astonishment marked his face, then intrigue. Even that gave way to urgency. Being held still was not good with another wizard at large in the 'arena'. It was so that he resorted to drastic tactics.

A loud roar left him; it apparently beckoned one of the three remaining orbs to slam directly into his chest. It hurt -- it most definitely hurt by the look of it. Still, it was enough to free him from his fetters. Though he went to a knee, he still had the faculties to direct the second orb toward the shadow of himself that approached -- it wasn't enough.

With a dissatisfied grunt, he was forced to spend the last. This time he provided it with explosive flair that obliterated all spellwork within the blast -- itself included. It left him with no more shadows left to his name.

Braxford always had a way of combining brutish offense with defense. So it was that he made another wild, wide circle around himself with his wand. "Gravitas Maxima!" The results were immediately evident -- everything within a three metre radius of him was immediately crushed under a heavy, continuous pressure. Within it, only the spot where he stood seemed safe.

At the first part of Braxford's cast, Calleo knew what was imminent; they'd both used  that spell before and, knowing he wouldn't have time to get out of the wide radius Braxford was prone to casting, made several sharp, slashing motions with his own wand before being pinned.

The dull red light from the cast, of course, gave his position away, not that it mattered much; if he managed to get at least even one slash past what remained of Braxford's curious defences it ought to be distracting enough that the spell he'd just cast wouldn't hold for more than a couple of seconds.

Most people, after all, would have a break in concentration if they were suddenly struck with deep gashes. That did rely both on the possibility of at least one not being blocked and on Braxford reacting like a mostly normal person.

Calleo was much less certain of the latter thing.

"You're going to have to do a hell of a lot more than pin me, you know!" Evidently, strengthened gravity had little effect on Calleo's mouth.

In truth, he'd already done more than just pin him; it wasn't as though Calleo dodged or had shielding absorb everything. Still, nothing serious enough to call a duel over just yet.

The first slash along his arm did nothing to his concentration. There was blood, yes, but it only doubled Braxford's efforts. He began to concentrate the force of the spell on the location of the flashes -- but the second slash ripped through both his coat and shirt -- and the flesh beneath it. The pressure evaporated and returned in several quick intermissions, then vanished entirely.

Profanity left his lips...and a curious thing happened. Each swear sprang forth what looked like a black centipede from his wand that moved toward Calleo's last known location with a blood red trail behind it.

Braxford had dedicated the time to a momentary withdrawal, during which he'd lashed pain-fueled blasts in a rather wide cone before him.

Another curiously interesting thing that Calleo absolutely did not have time to think or ask about now; it did not escape him that those things were trailing blood and likely were some variant of or modification of a bit of blood magic.

Momentary curiosity, however, meant a momentary lapse in defense and more than one of those blasts hit; the first dead on, knocking Calleo back to the ground and the second a glancing blow to the shoulder as he fell.

Centipedes, though?! Those weren't nice. They weren't nice to look at or have near (or, worse, on), especially not centipedes that came about through a combination of cursing and blood. Not to mention that they were probably the sort of thing that probably just burrowed under your skin and made life thoroughly unpleasant.

Fiendfyre usually took care of all manner of unpleasant things and was the second thing that came to mind the moment Calleo could move again.

The first was to give a quick flick of his wand and draw up some of the trailing blood; that could be used offensively, defensively, or both, after all!

The third thing was Nihilus and, the fourth thing was to wrap the two together and obliterate anything--apart from Braxford and himself, of course--in its path.

If one wouldn't get rid of the creeping little horrors Braxford had just produced, the other certainly would. As the targets were not living, Calleo was not the least bit concerned with the possibility of Nihilus looping back at him. It might also very well guarantee nothing would grow in the blast radius for years to come but, really, nobody would miss a bit of grass and it might give any Muggles some interesting 'crop circle' stories to tell.

Just to be safe, he only let it spread as far as he'd seen the most distant centipede before ending both spells before withdrawing away from Braxford as well partially to regain his bearings and partially to do some quick mending of the more severe injuries. Not severe enough to call it quite yet, but enough that it warranted tending to.

Working with very limited time with magic he wasn't even remotely familiar with, at the very least, only resulted in protections against Braxford that would require he hit slightly harder than usual to do any damage. Offensively? In theory, Calleo probably could have managed something but, in reality, not without essentially having to tell Braxford to wait a minute while he figured out how to make it work and that wasn't going to happen.

Braxford was a man who ran on spite until a fight was done -- though he did take some hasty measures to at least staunch the bleeding. Casting hurt, given the motions required, but he was very much able to perform a recoiling leap away at the very sight of Nihilus at work. He knew that Calleo would not turn such a spell on him, or even cast it anywhere in his direction, but it still riled an almost animal instinct of flight...for all the good it would do if he was actually the target.

The moment the spells ended Braxford was back on the hunt -- he shed his coat and tossed it aside onto the ground. It was ruined for the moment -- nothing he was unable to mend and clean later. His shirt was also bloodied and torn, but that stayed on.

"That was smart of you," He commended. The wand raised in a near perfect circle in front of his face. "Castigata."

The spell was one Calleo was perhaps very familiar with -- one of Braxford's own creations...one of the more sadistic ones to boot. It was a shield, usually in the form of a dome or a sphere -- that served more as a prison for those inside.

Moreover, once cast, it began to shrink at a steady rate, meaning that whatever was inside was bound to be crushed unless it was dispelled -- and dispelling it was tricky; prone to explosions. This time, he had cast a dome about their arena -- massive for the time being, but shrinking by the minute.

Calleo did recognise it and also recognised that it was difficult enough to expel normally let alone under duress but that held true both for himself and likely for Braxford as well.

Now, it seemed more a matter of seeing who would blink first.

"For as much as I dislike blood," Calleo shot back almost seething, "I dislike the idea of awful bugs crawling on me more; combine the two and I'd be willing to bet those damn things were designed to burrow."

Neither of them looked all that decent at the moment; Braxford bleeding through the shirt Calleo had so helpfully torn in corresponding places and Calleo, while bleeding slightly less, postured more like a defensively aggressive cat backed into a corner. He only inched closer to Braxford as the barrier Braxford had put up began to close in and forced movement.

That movement got more than one or two non-magical curses to go along with it as he turned his full attention back to his friend. The spells he sent Braxford's way came with sharp, practised movements, more things designed to slash and burn the way only a good curse can.

If it was a waiting game now, Calleo was smaller than Braxford and could make himself even smaller still by shifting back into a bird.

All he had to do was not end up knocked completely flat before it got to that point.

Braxford's sick little smile was confirmation enough on the burrowing bit -- though the smile was short lived as he was forced to brandish his wand in defense.

Their spellwork had become nothing short of lash-for-lash; curses, hexes and other spells quickly and violently disbursed, only to be just as quickly countered or blocked -- though not always in entirety.

The barrier wobbled over Braxford's discarded coat and left it outside  as Braxford himself was forced to step closer to Calleo.

It was a bit of an uncomfortable thing; to give himself as much time as possible he stood in the middle, where the dome's ceiling was highest. In less than a minute, even that would not matter much.

As Braxford was forced closer to Calleo, Calleo's expression slowly split into an infuriatingly smug grin as he kept countering and casting while Braxford's own barrier became shorter and narrower by the second. By this point, either of them were managing to hit anything as much as they were holding out on countering the other.

When they were nearly face to face, Calleo had tucked his wand away and fell back on spells he knew he could cast wandlessly and, in some cases, wordlessly and then--he wasn't there at all.

Or, at least, he wasn't standing in front of Braxford any longer.

He had shifted back into a magpie, darted between Braxford's legs and settled off to the side, nestling himself down on the ground more like a house proud hen might, and making his significantly smaller form as flat as possible on the ground knowing damn well Braxford likely wouldn't even have room to turn around to see where he went let alone do anything to him.

He knew Braxford would have to focus on removing his own barrier before it ended up so small he couldn't move at all.

The magpie chattered excitedly in a manner that could almost be interpreted as laughter.

Braxford frowned -- then crouched. No room to turn. He went to a knee again quickly enough, there was barely room to do much but wiggle his wrists, and soon it would be rather dangerous for him. The top of the barrier began to press down on his hunched shoulders -- which was as good a cue as any  for him to dispel it. And so, he flicked his wand in what little space he had...

...and then he was a coat. A bloody, slashed coat to be precise. The crouched figure of Braxford sat where the coat had been, with savage, smug relish on his face -- for about ten seconds.

Apparently whatever he had done had not gone off without a hitch. There was a loud blast that sent him rolling across the dirt. The barrier evaporated at once, and Braxford's wand clattered about a foot from his hand. It was a loss for him, plain and simple -- though he had clearly meant for it to at least be a very near thing.

"Ah, damn it."

Calleo hopped right back to his feet once the barrier was gone and gave a very perturbed looking ruffle of every feather he could manage to raise.

As they seemed to reach a mutual understanding that the duel was over, as Braxford didn't immediately dive for or try to pull his wand back to him, Calleo flew over to it and perched on it as though it were the branch it looked like and tilted his head nearly upside down for a moment.

He shifted back after moving off of Braxford's wand and ended up sitting on the ground rather than standing.

Breathing just a bit heavily, and coughing now and then, Calleo first fully countered what he'd slashed Braxford with before turning attention back to patching himself up, "You had to know I was going to do that or at least just duck! You're nearly a foot taller than me!"

A hissed intake of breath went along with a sharp head shake indicated that whatever had been making him breathe oddly had now been repaired, "So, how'd you do that thing with the shadow? Not the one where it took your shape, I obviously know that one; what was the modification?"

Braxford had picked up his wand to support Calleo's casting and move the process of repair along all the faster, given his own hurts had been cleared up for the most part. "I knew -- I didn't count on my switch blowing up on me, though. I'd have had you if not for that. Little bird in a cage." The thought amused him for a moment, "I'd be able to keep you in a little bubble as long as I liked, imagine that. It wasn't meant to be, I suppose. That's something to work on...as for the shadow..."

A careful whirl of the wand conjured a black ball between them, "It's actually stupidly simple. Charm the ball to be hollow..." A turn of the wand opened it into a cross section -- it was indeed hollow, "And embed an extended space charm within. Make the space rotate, and whatever's in there -- spells included - -will just swirl in a circle until it's ready to be let out. Dispelling the space destroys what's in it, of course. It's a gesture based cast, nonverbal, better to surprise that way."

A steady demonstration was enough to show Calleo exactly what needed to be done. The circular motion, the slight whirl, that little jab at the end.

"I did!" Calleo laughed, a less grating sound than the chattering of the magpie, "You let it get too small and it's too complicated to dispel correctly when you can't move mostly freely which, uh, is kind of by your design anyway!"

"I'd make a terrible pet anyway, I'd be all noisy and start mimicking you. You'd get tired of me in a week." He fell silent and watched while Braxford demonstrated the modification of the shadowy spell. For a long while, he sat there seemingly considering it.

"That could be useful both for this sort of thing and just in general. If you can't just blast someone into surrender something like that could make it much easier to wear them down to the point of surrender."

Calleo glanced back over his shoulder, "I think that--" he gestured toward the area where there was nothing left, even the soil almost appeared as though it were an illusion, "--was a weapon used on a much larger scale in the last big war. He called it something once; 'die Zerstörung', I think it was."

"Nobody really documented anything as to how it was done but there are documents of after effects and there are a few eyewitness descriptions from people who managed to get out of its way. It looked like that though," a vague gesture to the dead and scorched area of field behind him.

"Might not be all of it and I'm pretty sure I did it backwards; the history books describe it in a way that makes me think it was Nihilus first, and that triggered a Fiendfyre second," he sighed and turned back to face Braxford, "guess if we check back in a few months and nothing has grown back, we'll know I figured out the combination based on the aftermath and visual description."

"I suppose I did," Braxford admitted. Once he was finished with his demonstration, he dispelled the little ball of black and looked across to the literal scorched earth. "...it's terrifying," He noted solemnly. "I like it. We definitely ought to come back and see what becomes of it." Large scale destruction was vastly appealing to him, it seemed. It very much lined up with his nature.

"Ah! The centipedes...they were much more robust that I anticipated, though hmm...nothing would have survived that , I suppose." He jerked his chin to the affected area, "Believe it or not, those horrid things are a spell born of my tampering with magic in the Caribbean and South Americas. That particular one may have looked like blood magic, but it lies more in the realm of voodoo . They were designed to burrow, you were right...but all they needed to do was latch on and get a bit of my blood on you. The rest is a deeply unpleasant matter involving blood avatars and remote cursing. Fascinating stuff, really. I'll lend you the reading on it. My own work with it's not done yet. And from the looks of things, I'll be doing some reading on die Zerstörung as well."

Calleo made some sort of non-committal noise in response to Braxford's approval of what likely was something used to great and permanent devastation nearly fifty years ago and looked almost relieved to move on to the centipedes.

"Robust is not the word I'd have used to describe them! They were horrid and massive, are there actual centipedes that big in warmer areas? Because if you're telling me there are, I might be inclined to agree that that last spell combination might be a good one to use over large areas just to make sure they all end up not existing anymore."

He paused, "Oddly, voodoo is one form of magic I'm not at all familiar with probably because I don't travel to that area of the world--um--ever, now that I think of it. I don't think I've ever been to either area."

"That said," the usual, stupid grin returned, "I'll happily take the reading; it never hurts to have a few weapons or defences that most in this area of the world are likely not to have had any experience in. Could be useful in the next several years, I reckon."

"I'd offer you books in return but, really, any book on European magical history written within the last forty years is bound to have at least a mention of it, if not entire chapters devoted to discussing the theory of what combination of magic it might have been. It sounds like Nihilus followed by a Fiendfyre on a trigger but, of course, without the people who actually used it being alive that's just a guess."

"I've never been, myself, most of what I've learned is from reading and meeting rather interesting people from the region. I'll look into finding material on my own." He sighed, then tried to get to his feet.

Mended as he had been, soreness remained. His coat was summoned, repaired, and cleaned with a trio of quick, nonchalant motions. "For now though, something to drink and a good chair to sit and drink it in would be good. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely. I could do with some time to properly unwind before going back."

Calleo tentatively rose to his feet, checking himself over once he was standing, "I'll be interested to see how that dog of yours is doing."

[smokeybrand]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: Deepest Dive

Thalassophobia is the fear of the ocean. I have that sh*t in spades. It’s deep, dark, and unknown. As a grown man in his mid thirties who can’t swim a stroke, i respectfully refrain from entering the sea. That said, i marvel at what has been found there. What little we have found there. We know more about the goddamn moon, than we do about what’s under our own waves, here at home and that’s staggering to me. How can something be so abundant, so dominate, and simultaneously, so unknown? That’s craziness to me. When i heard about Underwater, i immediately knew i had to see this movie. I’m entranced by these types of films because the possibility of some, undiscovered, gigantic, predatory, deep sea creature is very real. Exploring that reality, letting your imagination play in that sandbox,always kicks out something unique, and often, profound. Does Underwater pull this off? Did i finish this film feeling the way i did after Leviathan? Deep Star Six? The Abyss?

The Good

Underwater has a tremendous atmosphere. this thing nails that claustrophobic panic that you rarely see executed correctly in one of these types of films. I felt that rush of sheer panic throughout this movie, especially in that opening scene.

Speaking of atmosphere, this thing leans real heavy into that Alien aesthetic. There’s a visual language which these films share, that echoes through Underwater. It’s not a bad thing, mind you. Alien is one of my all-time favorite films so i adore seeing that type of production whenever it crops up in cinema. However, it’s hard to homage without embarrassment. Alien was lightning captured in a bottle. It excels at so many things and it does it while looking effortless. Underwater is not that. Underwater is very laborious. It feels like it’s trying too hard to be a Ridley Scott film which is hilarious because i don’t think Ridley Scott even knows how to make an Alien film anymore. Even so, Underwater is the closest to that razor-edged, disgustingly gritty, manic desperation,you feel on the Nostromo so high marks for that.

There is a look to this film, when you can see it, that is incredibly unique. It’s Deep Star Six meets Abyss meets Alien but so much more than that. You can tell that there was a strong vision propelling this world as it began to unfold over the course of the plot.

I cannot praise this opening sequence enough. That sh*t sent me into a straight fervor. I love the way it’s shot. I love the realism in the survival effort. I love the utter futility in Stewart’s face. Excellent. I would have changed one thing but, aside from that, outstanding.

Speaking of Stewart, she gives an excellent performance. I’ve like her, mostly, throughout her career, with the exception of the Twilight films. Those things were the worst but that’s mostly because the source material is sh*t. Given an opportunity, Kristen Stewart can be incredibly compelling in a role. Panic Room, Adventureland, Zathura, American Ultra, The Runaways; All great performances. Personal Shopper is my favorite post-Bella infamy but her role as Norah Price is pretty legit. She’s the most convincing Ellen Ripley i’ve seen onscreen since Sigourney Weaver Cargo Loaded that b*tch out of an airlock.

That creature reveal was pretty legit. Very chestburster in implementation but still worthwhile. Everything hearkens back to Alien with this movie. It’s a little heavy handed cribbing from it’s very blatant inspiration, especially as you continue through the plot and realize there’s a hive, drones, and even a goddamn queen; All with their own independent vision, of course.

The pacing in this flick is mad sprightly. It’s like a power-walk from one scene to the next, clocking in at a surprisingly tight hour and a half, roughly. You get through this entire movie in no time.

The Meh

All that voice over. Ugh. I hate when films do this, especially at he beginning. Sh*t’s the most effective way to completely deplete tension, especially when your film is trying to build up to a sudden, pronounced, event. It works when your main character is in solitude or when there is a principal protagonist but this film does neither of those things. There’s a reason they do things this, way which leads me to my next point, but take away this inner monologue or whatever and certain scenes become far more effective.

TJ Miller is in this movie. He plays TJ Miller. I’m getting tied of TJ Miller.

The rest of the cast did their part. The material most of them had to work with was pretty mundane so their characters are inconsequential, which is a shame because i really like some of these actors. Jessica Henwick is adorable and Mamoudou Athie has proven he has the skill to be big, all the more distressing about that lack of material. Imagine these characters having that initial bonding scene. A little lunch or something, together, before the initial collapse. there’s comradery, you build a sense of endearment to characters while establishing traits, gives your actors room to act so when sh*t hits the fan, you feel it. Hell, having Kristen Stewart go to bed early, only to wake up and go directly into that epic opening sequence would have been brilliant.

The editing in this is hit and miss. Alien was so effective because they didn’t have any goddamn money. They had to be clever with edits and sh*t because they couldn’t afford more film for reshoots. Underwater was shot digitally. There is no film. This is all computers, man, so no restraint of takes. That means no restraint on cuts and there are some absolutely atrocious jump cuts in scenes you do not want them. This is more a critique on modern film making than a knock of this film, specifically, even if it has some of the more aggressive examples i’ve seen of this sh*t in a while.

The actual underwater sequences are dark ad f*ck. It’s hard to see what’s going on most of the time. That’s forgivable, to an extent. The monster you see in your head is always far more terrifying than the one you see with your eyes. I get it. But you can’t see sh*t; Not the monster, not the crew, not the surroundings, nothing. That’s a function of being at the bottom of the goddamn ocean but damn, dude, really? Can a motherf*cker get a more powerful flashlight or something? It’s hard to react when i don’t know what i’m reacting to.

The Bad

The way this thing ends is real bad. Not so much the climax but the resolution. It feels like the production ran out of money. It kind of mirrors the opening credits in a way but, after spending all that time in this world, learning about these characters, ending the film how they did is wildly unsatisfying if a little frustrating. I imagine this was because of budget reasons but, come on? A little extra cash and you could have had a real gem.

The Verdict

For all the praise and indifference i have about this film, the biggest thing that both irks and compels my mild adoration is the fact that it unabashedly wears it’s love for the original Alien on its sleeve. This is Alien, if it were made today, but underwater. That “if it were made today bit” is what kills it. You could get away with something like this back in the day because cats knew how to stretch a dollar. There was minimum studio interference and creators could create, especially with smaller budget fare like this flick. Not so much anymore. Margins are razor thin and every dollar counts so none of the major studios take chances. If this were an A24 film, it’d be be much better but it’s not. It’s a Fox leftover so Disney really wasn’t trying to actually spend more money than they already had. Missed opportunity.

Ultimately, Underwater is a good time. It’s competently made, technically sound, and has a compelling premise that does a decent job of building tension. It does, however, drop the ball on characterization. you never feel part of this crew. it doesn’t have that comradely scene like Alien does and you need that in this type of flick so when the horror starts, you feel the loss. You don’t feel anything for these people. They’re characters not a crew. Outside of that, the performances are decent and the effects were much better than you’d expect for how much this thing cost to make. They flub the landing, for sure, but the ride to that point is pretty entertaining. Underwater feels like there was more they wanted to say, more they wanted to do, but the rug was pulled out from under the creators at the last minute and they had to run with what they had to the box office. I’d say give it a shot but don’t judge it against it’s very obvious inspiration. Alien is forty years unassailable but Underwater does pulls off a decent homage. If this thing was cared for a little more by the studio, this could have been a contender for that crown. As it stands, it’s the best Alien film since Aliens. Underwater is thrilling at times, groan-worthy at others, a little disappointing toward the end, but entertaining throughout. It’s definitely worth a watch.