#while the other companions are in various stages of drowning

[suitetarts]

so astarion x durge. amirite

[aion-rsa]

Old: M. Night Shyamalan’s Twist Ending Explained

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Contains spoilers for Old.

Old is the new chiller from director and screenwriter M. Night Shyamalan who is very well known for his twisty plots and rug pull endings. Fans who go to the cinema for that will not be disappointed.  

Inspired by the graphic novel Sandcastle, by Pierre Oscar Lévy and Frederik Peeters, Old sees a family on a dream holiday get taken to a secluded private beach which they discover is causing them to age very rapidly. But how? And why?

Well, that’s not revealed until the end of the movie. Here we break down what happens and what it all means.

Who Dies in Old?

In short: everyone except Trent and Maddox, the now grown children of the family we begin our journey with. But characters die in different ways and that’s significant. Old is thematically MASSIVE. It essentially attempts to sum up the entire human experience in one movie, indicating a variety of ways a life could go – with twists and turns of course.

Rufus Sewell’s Charles is a doctor with racist tendencies and his rapid dementia sees him become violent. He murders rapper Mid-Sized Sedan (Aaron Pierre), tries to kill Guy (Gael García Bernal), and eventually is killed himself by Prisca (Vicky Krieps), who stabs him with a rusty implement giving him super-rapid blood poisoning. His mother has already died of what seems to be a heart condition at the start of the movie.

His wife Crystal’s (Abbey Lee) calcium deficiency causes the most horrific deterioration scene in the whole movie; her bones crunch and become contorted into hideous and unnatural shapes as they crack and then heal too quickly. It’s a medical condition, sure, but there’s an implicit judgement of Crystal in the background. The beautiful, much-younger wife of Charles is positioned as being overly fond of her looks and as she starts to age and her body lets her down, she hides in a cave in the darkness rather than be with other people. 

Crystal’s daughter Kara goes from being a little kid to a teenager, is pregnant, and immediately loses the baby (harrowing). Later she tries to climb her way to freedom but falls to her death.

This is a doomed family: a disjointed group who essentially all die horribly and alone, as opposed to the family we meet at the start. Mum Prisca is thinking of divorcing Dad Guy; she’s been having an affair, but both parents love their children fiercely and ultimately love each other too.

Only Prisca and Guy are given a ‘good death’ – they live out the minutes of their lives together. The couple reunite and solve their differences, row with each other and their children but eventually make peace with themselves. Though she has lost the hearing in one ear and his vision is severely impaired, they sit together on the beach at the end of their all too short lives and agree there is nowhere they would rather be than together.

Third couple Jarin (Ken Leung) and Patricia (Nikki Amuka-Bird) have narratively significant deaths. Jarin attempts to rescue the group by swimming around the coast, but despite being a strong swimmer he doesn’t survive. This death emphasizes that the group has tried everything and can’t escape. Meanwhile Patricia dies of an epileptic episode. This becomes very significant later in the movie when we understand the drugs she’s been given have prevented an episode from happening for 16 years (more on this later).

What’s the deal with the rapper?

The first people at the island are a famous rapper (according to young Maddox) with the stage name Mid-Sized Sedan (real name Kevin) and the woman he is with. She has taken a swim (naked) and later washes up dead, sparking the first wave of conflict on the beach as racist Charles immediately accuses Kevin of murdering the woman. 

As a catalyst this works narratively and comes loosely from the graphic novel Sandcastle though in Sandcastle the man is an Algerian Jeweler rather than a Black rapper. 

Read more

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We do wonder though, why, when his companion swam out into the sea he wouldn’t have been a bit more bothered about that and wouldn’t have asked the others for help as soon as they arrived? Also her body doesn’t appear to be especially decomposed when she washes up (while she decomposes very rapidly once on the beach).

Any thoughts about what’s going on here? Let us know in the comments.

So what is actually going on with the beach?

Electromagnetic material surrounding the beach is causing cells to age incredibly quickly – at the rate of around a year every half an hour. The kids are still growing so their aging is more obvious than the adult characters. The adults don’t get grey hair, according to a throwaway line, because hair and cells are dead and so aren’t affected – the same reasoning why they don’t all suddenly have very long hair and fingernails.

Though the film has a strong existential and allegorical angle there is actually, in theory, a real world solution – as in, the answer is ‘science’ and not ‘magic.’ This is why there are no fish in the water on the beach, and why it’s significant that when Trent and Maddox emerge from the other side of the coral they suddenly see a school of fish. The explanation for why they can’t just leave the way they came is that reversing the rate of aging very quickly causes an enormous shock to the system (like resurfacing too fast from deep sea diving), which causes them to black out before they can get anywhere.

So why on earth has the holiday resort actively decided to send people – and these people specifically – to suffer a horrific fate on the beach?

Turns out the resort is really an incredibly elaborate front for a pharmaceutical company…

What does the pharmaceutical company want and why?

This pharmaceutical agency discovers the beach and sees the potential for whole-of-life medical trials to be carried out in just over a day. In theory these trials mean vital medicines can be tested incredibly rapidly for efficacy and also for side effects. Okay, not terribly reliably – medical trials don’t tend to involve observing patients from a distance with no actual lab tests and checks, and the beach is hardly a real-life adjacent or controlled environment. But this is the logic.

Candidates are selected who are having treatment for various specific conditions already. Prisca has a tumor which she thinks is benign, and it’s through her that her family is selected. Others on the beach with them also turn out to have conditions. 

The facility has arranged all of the families’ travel and accommodation and taken their passports away from them – there (supposedly) is no evidence that they even left home, which is how the pharma is able to carry out its plans without being caught.

The system is flawed (it’s obviously massively morally flawed and also doesn’t hold up to medical scrutiny either since it’s hardly a meaningful test when it’s on individuals whose bodies don’t behave at all like regular people, but we digress…). One of the employees points out how unsound it is to put test subjects with neurological disorders in with those with conditions that do not affect the mind. Charles killing Mid-Sized Sedan and stabbing others rather interferes with the results.

On arrival guests are given specially mixed cocktails supposedly based on their preferences and dietary requirements – these cocktails are drugged with whichever experimental new treatment the lab wants to test. 

Another possible hitch: surely treatments aren’t usually one dose and then you’re done for your entire lifetime? But different rules apply here, hence the children needing to eat lots of food to account for their changes in body mass but the grown ups who stay at roughly the same weight don’t have the same issue. 

When the twist is finally revealed, we learn that the events we have been watching are part of trial number 43, and the team are celebrating a victory – the epilepsy drug given to Patricia (Nikki Amuka-Bird) is a success and stopped her from having a seizure for 16 years. (Just as well Charles didn’t murder her first.)

How do Trent and Maddox finally escape?

For a time it actually looks like they haven’t escaped. M. Night Shyamalan’s nefarious surveiller who has been watching the island the whole time is convinced the two have drowned.

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Thank goodness, though, that they have not. While we know countless families before them have died on the island, it still would have been almost too unpleasant not to spare these two. For a start we’ve been with them the whole movie, they’re our focal characters and all of the different actors who play the two as they grow keep us hooked. But these are all children – 11 and six at the start, who’s lives really are being stolen from them. They are not sick. They are not instrumental in progressing medical research. No fancy drugged cocktails for the kids, they are literally collateral damage – loose ends to be tied up. Kara has plummeted to her death but the now grown up Maddox and Trent (Amon Elliot and Embeth Davidtz) are the last hope.

And it turns out to be another child that is their salvation. Trent remembers that he never translated the note that his young pal Idlib (Kailen Jude) gave him in their special code. With frankly nothing more pressing to do than await his death, adult Trent decides to take a look. The amazing Idlib has given him a clue about his uncle not liking the coral. Turns out the tunnel of coral provides the sort of casing it requires for them to be able to get away from the force of the beach without immediately blacking out.

What about the diary?

The diary left by a previous islander is key to the ending of the movie, avoiding having to waste the audience’s time with police incredulity. 

Back at the resort having escaped the beach, the now grown Trent spots a man he’d met when he was six and playing the (narratively handy) game ‘what’s your name, and what is your occupation?’ This guy, he remembers, is a cop.

The diary documents all the things learned by another victim of the beach and the families that were there during that trial. It documents the names of everyone on the beach, as well as the things this person – who, like Trent and Maddox, was a child when they arrived – learned during their last days. The cop is able to quickly cross reference and find that everyone on the list is a missing person, missing at the same time.

Maddox and Trent get their happy ending (kind of) – they are able to expose the dodgy pharma company, prevent any further victims, and are airlifted away after saying a sad and grateful farewell to Idlib, who is very much still a child. 

We do need this ending. The film as a whole is incredibly bleak, and giving these two a chance to save the day is a tonic. Old is careful not to present this ending as too cheerful though. In the flight away from the resort Trent talks about contacting his aunt and when asked about his reaction he replies:

“How would you feel if a 50-year-old man called and said he was your six-year-old nephew?”

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

They are free and they are alive, but what will happen to Trent and Maddox now is a different story.

Old is out now in cinemas.

The post Old: M. Night Shyamalan’s Twist Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[whatzaoverwatch]

The Reaper of the Opera Chapter 8: Masquerade

Beginning of Act 2! Probably one of my favourite scenes from both the stage play and the film. Masquerades have always been my passion especially since my parents got me a mask straight from New York. I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far.

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Few Months Later

The Opera House was brightened by esteemed guests and party goers as they entered the building with delight. A masquerade was being held to celebrate the end of a triumphant season. People dressed in costumes and masks of various patterns and colours. After the incident that befell the theatre months ago, the Reaper had yet to make his appearance. No notes, no accidents, not even an unsettling presence was felt among the performers. Had the Reaper finally made himself scarce of the lives of the Overwatch Opera House?

That is the hopes between the two very enthused men that greeted every one of their guests with a smile. Reinhardt, with his delighted grin as he held onto a lion’s mask with every bow and handshake he took part of. Torbjorn was less spontaneous than his friend with his more composed greetings with his frowning mask. Both suited up in tuxedos and ready to celebrate the evening away. A roaring laugh came from Reinhardt as he patted Torbjorns back.

“Ah my friend, the night is perfect for this celebration! I cannot wait to show our guests my dance moves. Especially to Madame Amari.” He chimed with delight, eager to get his hands on the beer and alcohol they were serving inside.

“Perish the thought knowing how you move,” Torbjorn muttered to himself, only to pat his friends arm in return, “But I do not see the harm in having a little fun. Things have gotten successful since our ghost friend had disappeared. Maybe the bastard had finally learned his lesson.”

“Come Torbjorn! Enough talk of ghouls and ghosts! Let us make ourselves acquainted with the beer as we have with our guests.” Guiding him inside the theatre, they easily made their way to grab a few drinks.

Everyone had come in attendance to the festivities. Hana, who had since recovered from her vocal disruption, was dressed elegantly in a pink and blue ballgown and a bunny mask in hand. Accompanied by Lucio, who was more suited with a vest and dress shirt combo with a frog mask on the side of his face. Even the dancers were greeted to the ballroom to their delight. All dressed to their own preferences and masks themselves. Lena with her girlfriend Emily, was quick to introduce her to Amelie and her husband Gerard. Fareeha was alongside Ana, as they remained observers with Jesse.

The incident was far too great for Jesse’s left arm to recover. Angela informed him that the shots struck some vital nerve points. He could never use his arm again, leaving it in a rather metallic cast that took time to properly control. It was clear that he was still struggling to use it as he nearly dropped his drink in his hold. Quickly caught by the ever so watchful Ana. She was sure to keep an eye on him and allow him to keep his job at with the company. Since the incident, he was left rather quiet and bitter to what he had witnessed. Knowing he had questions that were left unanswered. Sparing a few glances over to her every once in awhile, as if he wanted to ask her something. But anytime he attempted to bring the subject up, she was quick to make her leave.

Among the crowd was you alongside Genji and Hanzo. The brothers tailored to their own yukatas. Dragon like masks to compliment their own palettes. Since that evening of tragedy and confession, you had been living with the two brothers. While the older brother was a bit reluctant to having you stay, he started to grow accustomed to you overtime. Never getting in his ways and finding time to help him with any cooking or cleaning. Although Genji insisted that you didn’t, it cleared your mind from the times you had returned to the opera house. Hanzo rarely showed his emotions around you, but you felt him lower his guard around you overtime. You had learned about what had happened between the two brothers and what made Genji they way he was today. It was a lot to take in, but you knew that Genji had suffered just as much as you had in the times you were apart. Surprised that Genji had forgiven him, but knowing he had overcome his hatred in his absence.

You found it a miracle that they had chosen to return to rekindle their brotherly bond and mend their troubles. Overtime with your stay with Genji, he had popped the question to you. It was almost a dream as he took you to the cherry blossoms you adored when you were little. Leaving you shocked as he got down to one knee under the sakura tree. With the whispers faded from your mind, you were free to make your own choices. Gently tracing the ring around your necklace, a small smile formed on your lips to the dragon craved ring grasping a tiny diamond within its teeth. It was Hanzos’ suggestion to keep the engagement private. The press was keen on prying into your social life, so the news would cause your privacy to dissipate completely. They were the last things you wanted to have upon you after everything that happened. You wore a black and white halter dress that exposed your backside. A black and white feathered mask rested on your face with little rhinestones that resembled stars.

A gentle tug from your arm was felt by the one who linked his with your own. Looking up to see Genji giving you a sweet smile at your own. Unable to hide the blush growing on your cheeks from his admiration. Giving you a subtle wink, he turns to Hanzo with a smirk.

“Why don’t you go socialize brother? Perhaps you may find someone suited to your type.” Watching the older brother leer at him.

“Are you only saying this to have privacy with [Name]?” He looks over at you, making you sheepishly plant your gaze to the ground. Hearing him sigh, he crosses his arms, “At least be on your best behaviour for once.”

“We are not children, Hanzo.” Genji pouts, letting Hanzo pass you two. He stopped to place a hand on your shoulder with a knowing look.

“Keep an eye on him for me.” You nodded with a smile, patting his gloved hand gently for assurance. Letting him leave as Genji merely snorted.

“Even now, he still thinks I will cause him nothing but trouble.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. You tugged his arm lightly to draw his attention away.

“He only worries about you; it’s what siblings do. I am glad he still cares after all that has happened.” Reminding him, he eyes your ring resting upon your collarbone.

“I only wish that I can tell people of our engagement,” looking discouraged, watching it glimmer in the lights, “Why can’t I show how much I love you? Even for just one night.”

You took his hand, raising it to your lips and placing a gentle kiss upon his knuckle. Knowing that everyone was distracted in their own chatter to see the display of affection. Letting the tension in his body ease at your peck. Squeezing his hand softly, you comforted him with your smile.

“I already know how much you love me Genji. I promise after tonight, we can finally tell people,” You whispered, “But let us not talk about it now. I want us to enjoy ourselves.”

He looked uncertain at the thought of waiting just a little bit longer. Although he didn’t wish to force it, he just wanted to assure that the rest of your life with him would be filled with love and devotion. He shared his upmost affection in privacy, so waiting a few more hours wouldn’t hurt.

“Of course, my blossom.” Keeping his hold on you, he guided you to where some of the guests began to dance around the main area.

Various fans and masks seen with each twirling companion. Dancing and singing to the music filling the theatre. Drinks and laughter shared among the groups observing. Even people trying to partner up to join the dancing was seen. Reinhardt trying to persuade Ana into dancing, much to the amusement from the people around them. It seemed to be a peaceful evening to behold. But all good things come to an end at some point.

The lights flickered vigorously, the doors opening wide from the powerful wind from the outside. Only to shut them tight and lock everyone inside. The music drowned by a wave of organs. Confusion and tension rose between everyone. A sudden scream was heard from the top staircase as a new face appeared before the crowd.

A man dressed in red, wearing a skull face stood at the top of the staircase. A feathered hat rested upon his had with a red cape upon his backside. Carrying a shotgun in his hand and a book in the other. Fear and terror loomed over the crowd as red death stood before them. You had felt every part of you freeze up at the familiar aura. Everyone's smiles and cheers were no longer heard as they knew who this man was. The Reaper of the Opera had returned.

His blackened gaze looking over the audience. Looking over the crowd in sinister amusement. Smoke escaping the teeth of the mask for every breath he took. Although hidden behind the mask, he could see the various looks of horror and disbelief at his presence. Stepping down the staircase slowly, he chuckled at their reactions with open arms.

“Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?” He hummed, his voice carrying around everyone with a deceitful sense of comfort, “Forgive me of my absence, I was preparing you an Opera to perform.”

Tossing the book towards Lucio, he scrambled to grab it as he looked at the contents inside. A score and script written with complete detail of what needed to be done. Planned and constructed every so carefully as if he had worked on this for years. Reaper raised his gun up, a silent threat to what he could do to anyone who opposed. Gently resting the side of it with his other hand.

“I suggest you follow what it says with complete obedience. There are more tragedies that await you than just a broken arm,” Turning his attention to an angry Jesse, who was merely held behind a concerned looking Ana. Continuing his steps, he halted before Hana and Lucio, “I do have more specific instructions before rehearsals start. For starters, Hana will have no part in the upcoming performance. The eager little rabbit has taken her course far too long for my liking.”

Taken back by his words, Lucio kept her steady from his words. Watching the man descend down the stairs, Genji kept close to you knowing the two of you awaited at the bottom steps. He was keen on staying by your side, until his attention was grabbed by Hanzo. Watching his brother beckon to his place quickly, he was hesitant to leave you at this very moment. Looking over at your frozen gaze, he hated the thought of leaving you exposed to this man. Parting away from you, he quickly joined his brother to see where he was heading. Disappearing into the crowd, leaving you on your own for just a moment. Reinhardt and Torbjorn were set to approach Reaper before his gun pointed towards them. Halting them from trying to take him down.

“I also advise my managers to remember who exactly runs this theatre. Know your places before you decide to run your mouths.” He warned, watching Reinhardts face look of terror while Torbjorn remained stubborn as ever. Looking down the staircase, his eyes finally found themselves upon you. You could feel him taking you in as every part of you was tempting you to go to him.

“As for our beloved star, Miss [Name]. No doubt she will do her best. Her voice is good, but it could excel if she lets it,” Praising you while also scolding you, he gestures with his free hand to your presence, “If only she will return to me, her teacher, I can continue to let her voice grow to further heights. To be my Angel of Music once more.”

Everyone’s attention drew to you. The reveal of your teacher finally being exposed. The source of your talent residing just halfway down the stairs. Hushed whispers and looks were drawn upon you. But your focus remained on him. Watching the soulless gaze upon you hardening. Even if you could truly see him, you could feel those dark eyes yearn for you. You approached ever so slowly, watching his gun lower as he moved down the stairs. His form towering over yours as you let your guard down. As if some part of him still lured you to his side.

You could never confess that you had missed his teachings, recalling how he took you away to bring light into his darkness. As much as he was to be feared, he was only ever gentle with you. He only wanted you to sing his songs. But you felt as if there was something more, something else that he wanted from you. To be with him, to be by his side.

It was almost as if you had forgotten everything else until he looked down to the ring. The glimmering reminder of who you devoted yourself to. The dragons glare mocking him of what he couldn’t have. Smoke seen around his form as his vulnerability was sealed back up. A growl escaped him as the grasped the ring and snatched it away. The chain snapping as he held the engagement ring in his hand. Startling you from his change of demeanour.

“Your chains are still mine; you belong to me!” He hissed. Leaving you wide eyed as a shout came from behind you.

“Don’t touch her!” The voice of Genji came up as he had returned with a blade in hand. Hanzo by his side with a bow to aim for Reaper. Very much prepared on their part given their past as they were waiting for this moment.

Not fast enough as he made his way back up the stairs with a laugh. Sending shots into the air to cause the crowd to scatter in fear. Causing a distraction for the two men to hesitate their strike. Shadows forming around him as he escaped into the floor on the steps. Genji running ahead, letting Hanzo stay by your side as he tried to slip into the escape. You were still left there to hold a hand to your collarbone to where he grabbed the ring. Just as Genji was about to reach him, the Reaper had finally disappeared. Jesse approached Genji quickly to see his gaze upon the closing floor below them.

“He’s getting away!” Genji cursed while McCree placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, I know where he might’ve gone,” As he turned to go down the staircase, Ana stopped in front of them both. Keeping them from running, “Get out of our way Ana, I don’t need you to coddle me about my arm.”

“I can’t let you go after him, McCree.” She spoke behind the cat like mask she wore. Genji stepping in with a confused look.

“Why not? We should follow him before he attacks anyone else.” He states, trying to pass Ana before she held out her cane.

“He won’t do that unless you follow his words.” She finally claimed, drawing the attention of everyone around her. Even Fareeha was taken back by her mothers’ words.

“What do you mean by that?” She asked. Jesse cursed lowly with a glare to the older woman.

“Ana, what are you hiding? You know who he is don’t you” He questioned, watching the woman’s gaze falter with guilt. The managers approached in complete shock.

“What?” Reinhardt looked broken with a sense of betrayal appearing on his face. Torbjorn scowled as he approached Ana with a sneer.

“I knew it, he couldn’t have done all of this alone. He had an associate this entire time!” He stated. The look of horror now presented on everyone’s face. Anas attention now towards the shorter man.

“I will not be associated with what he has done,” Seeing the eyes fixated upon her, even as the men lowered their weapons from losing the Reaper. No longer able to hold her facade before everyone. She gripped her cane with resentment, sighing as she lifted her mask slowly, “I’m afraid there is much I have to talk about. Come, I will tell you everything that I know.”

To be continued

[spellnbone]

Edgar writes the Theatre & Arts Column for the Daily Prophet. His philosophy is that if someone has a voice, they have to use it to do good; this means that on the one hand one has to push art to its limits or even further, and on the other hand one has to make those voices heard which don’t have a platform yet.

Edgar’s Introduction to Theatre

Much like most families with comfortably filled wallets, the Bones would take their children to the theatre on the weekends quite often. Most of the children adored it but also took it somewhat for granted -- which made the culture shock of moving to England only worse. There are theatres in Hastings, yes but they are small and not at all as dramatic and colourful as what the Bones had grown to know in Mexico. They lacked imagination! And since there was no theatre club at Hogwarts either, it was only on his first trip to London at the age of thirteen that Edgar rediscovered his love for this art.

After that, he began reading and loving play-scripts more than novels, eventually writing down his thoughts, comparing, analysing, interpreting with fervor and a very new, strange sensation growing within him: passion. For someone who found interest in literally anything he encountered (except Quidditch), it was a surprise to many to see Edgar so into something (though one might not forget that his new love for theatre came around the same time as he was beginning to grow apart from Amelia). His friends from school might still remember that one of the best ways to get Edgar talking in a social situation was by expressing a badly thought-out opinion about theatre. Suddenly the shy boy who so often was accused of boot-licking would throw himself into passionate speeches about love, death and every other grand topic of life inbetween.

(One of his favourite topics, that is, urban legends he loved to ramble about for hours was Mundungus Fletcher. Each and every article covering the fiasco was bought six times and each and every time Fletcher’s photograph was cut out and glued to various surfaces; Edgar’s notebooks, the under-side of the topbunk above him, the walls in his room at home. It was the same grotesque-fascination-turned-unstopple-obsession that the Muggle play Cats had about ten years later).

It was during this time also that Edgar began reading the news. Initially he only ever snatched the arts section (despite its terribly boring focus on mainstream theatre), he’d eventually also begin reading the other articles, finding himself growing more and more educated and opinionated about political topics, too.

His passion ended where the stage began, though. He never tried to direct a play, write one himself, or -- Morgana forbid! -- tried to star in one. He was quite content to be but an observer. However, after graduating and leaving England to finally go back to Mexico, he fell in love with an actress of a small travelling troupe (and shortly after with her brother, the director), and before he knew it, he was travelling around the world with them.

When he came back to England, he wrote for the hebdomadal East Sussexian Wizarding paper, simply because the owner was a good friend of the Bones family and needed someone to fatten up the paper with some think-pieces. Edgar neither saw his calling in that nor ever made a name for himself, he was mostly just passing his time, trying to figure out what he really wanted to do with his life. It was only when he met up with Ainsley Abbott again around his 19th birthday that he began considering journalism as a proper career. She’d told him that the Daily Prophet was looking for a new arts columnist and remembered that he had always had a thing for theatre.

London’s Theatres

Contrary to movies, most other Muggle art isn’t completely disregarded by the Wizarding World. Of course one will always find some bloodpurists who think that all magicless art isn’t worth their time, but the more commonly agreed upon opinion is that when it comes to old-fashioned art, Muggles aren’t all that bad at it. The Daily Prophet has therefore always covered the Wizarding Westend as well as the Muggle Westend productions, giving the former more attention but never discriminating between them all too much. They are, after all, similar in many regards: the leads will most likely be traditionally good-looking, born and raised in this country and culture, and introduced to the director by personal connections. The themes of the plays perpetuate conservative values and ideals and have to please the broadest audience possible, therefore not contain any smut or controversial themes.

They’re usually even located in the same buildings as the Muggle theatres, either in magically hidden back halls or underground:

“Two, reserved on the Daily Prophet.”

The lady behind the counter, despite looking just like the other ticket vendors next to her, gave it a nod and handed them their keys. They were small little copper things, meant for a one time use of a door that was titled: “Staffs Only”.

Muggles had this thing to believe that theatres were haunted. The possibility of that, considering just how few people actually died in such places compared to normal apartment houses, were slim, and the idea absurd once you knew what truly caused the mysterious whispers, the unexplained floor-board creaking, and distant moaning: A second theatre down below. Wizarding. Vibrant, crowded, cheerful.

Not having even yet reached the first floor below, the music already met Edgar and Amelia. The chit chat was lively, and unlike the Muggle theatre above, time had not changed the customs of exhibitions and shows here: Roasted-nut sellers were walking around with their goods on a tray hanging down their neck, a fire-spitter was entertaining a group of kids in a corner, and on the stage stood one of the actors, cheering and shouting blurbs about the play in an attempt to motivate the audience. No seats but on the upper balconies, were ladies sat whose robes were so fluffy and wide that their companions for the night attempting to sit next to them probably needed to shout to have their words heard.

The idea to even pay attention to those independent artists who always seem angry or angsty, who always seemed so desperate to speak up about issues that no respectable Wizard would care about? It was unheard of by the general Wizarding Public who didn’t have a great variety of news outlets.

It was only when Edgar accepted his job as the new arts columnist that the ‘Off Westend’ productions -- that is, the exhibits shown in garages, the plays held on rooftops, the stories told by otherwise drowned voices -- were finally given a platform through and by the Daily Prophet.

Edgar’s Own Private Resistance

For about eight years now, Edgar’s been publishing little articles of about 300 to 500 words a day which are usually reviews and recommendations, as well as longer think-pieces on the Sunday edition. They’re all signed E.V.Bones (or at times solely E.V.B when the space is spare), much like his letters, so it all depends on the wit of a person whether they know who is writing the column or not. It’s earning him 6 to 10 galleons per piece, that is 40 to 70 galleons a week, which (at least in modern equivalent) is 210 to 350 pounds a week, so he’s not poor but also far from becoming rich with this. As of now, he never considered changing his job, though. Partly due to the fact that he gets to see all sorts of plays for free, partly because he usually does all his work at the office only once a week (usually a 12 hour work day) and has the rest of the week to deal with Order business. But most importantly he’s still at the Daily Prophet because it allows him to fight this war in his own, quiet terms.

Upon reviewing a play, Edgar always asks two questions: how does this further the progress of art, and how does this further the progress of society? While the opinions in his writing are always expressed quite subtly (as otherwise, Edgar’s arch nemesis Kenny Mack, his editor and son of the Daily Prophet’s current owner, will simply censor out what might be too controversial for the general readership), they’re never suppressed or gentle, certainly never excuse conservative, problematic productions.

(It was because of one of those harsher reviews of his that he met the then-adored Lydia Avery, who he had equated to a piece of morning toast -- something you thoroughly enjoy in the moment itself but would never crave if hungry or a somewhat interesting person. Most of his review had been about the blatant racism of the play, though, and and yet, while up until this day Lydia might still be upset about it, Edgar never left their conversation with anything other than appreciation for her. He’s well aware that actors are a symptom of an ill society, not the illness itself.)

The idea that he could use his job for something bigger, something good, came the night after Ainsley had suggested he take the job at the Daily Prophet. “Me?” he had asked over a cup of tea, not even 20 years old then, not yet in the Order, not yet jaded and made brave by war, not yet used to the idea that every helping hand counted, “Reviewing art for the whole of Britain? Why would anyone care about what I have to say?” “They don’t,” Dell had replied in this earnest way of his, “but it’s not about you anyway. It’s about them. There’s people out there who have no one who listens to them, even though they have something to say, even though so many others want -- no! need! -- to hear what they have to say. It’s not about you. It’s about them. And you’re the one who’s going to make sure they’re heard.” “But the Daily Prophet? It’s so conservative.” “Not your column, it won’t be. Not if you write it.”

What his brother Dell was saying and what Edgar grew to understand over the years, was that there are so many Muggleborns and Halfbreeds out there who never see themselves represented in a positive, hopeful light in stories, or at least by the actors telling those stories. The mainstream theatre productions simply do not care to show such representation, to tell such diverse stories. It’s the back-alley theatres that dare to break the rules of what is acceptable, to break the norm, to help society and art evolve. And Edgar hopes that by writing about this, more people will be able to realise that they’re not alone. That there’s others like them, out there, everywhere. That despite the way the (relatively neutral) Daily Prophet reports it, Voldemort doesn’t have that many people on his side, at least not compared to just how many people are against him. By drawing attention to those smaller plays and their values, he helps to grow and foster a community where like-minded people can meet and share their opinions and realise that they’re not alone at all.

And thus, Edgar had accepted the job, his agenda of political nature, safely tucked between 8 and 11pm, and sometimes also during matinées.

[shan282-ao3]

The Devil Has Come Ch1

Originally posted on Archive of Our Own [x]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Far Cry 5 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed Characters: Original Female Character(s), John Seed, Jacob Seed, Joseph Seed, Faith Seed, Staci Pratt, Nick Rye, Sharky Boshaw, Female Deputy | Judge (Far Cry), Original Male Character(s), Kim Rye, Boomer (Far Cry), Joey Hudson, Earl Whitehorse Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Fluff, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Character Death, Slow Burn Series: Part 1 of Bottom of The River

Summary: They should never have been there. Whitehorse and Pratt were right when they spoke against going to Eden's Gate. They should have left The Project alone. They'd started something and there was no going back now. The lamb had broken the first seal and the deputy had been helpless to stop her. Read Below:

Sarah looked over at the new deputy who sat beside her in the helicopter, her eyes glued to her phone screen. She leaned across the seat between them to see what she was watching, frowning slightly when she saw it was about The Project. She’d been a deputy in Hope County for nearly two years and she didn’t care much for The Project. She had no major issues with them, they were mostly nonviolent unless provoked and didn’t cause too many problems, but the department was constantly getting calls about them. She was getting really fucking tired of having to drive all over the place to break up fights that people were starting with its members.

She hadn’t met The Father personally, only seen him in the same video her partner was watching and heard about him from various people in the county. No one had much nice to say about him, but there wasn’t a lot of evidence to prove he’d been doing anything seriously illegal. The department had unanimously agreed to leave him and his flock alone, they didn’t have enough people to go against them and, again, there really wasn’t a lot of evidence to build a solid case. They’d all agreed that if they wanted to stay alive, they wouldn’t fuck with Joseph Seed.

Apparently, however, the US Marshal had a different idea about how to deal with the cult, fucking prick. He’d marched into the station that afternoon and immediately launched into some kind of tirade, calling them all complacent idiots. He’d even suggested that they were in bed with the cult which was fucking absurd. Not that Sarah wouldn’t love to be in bed with any of the Seed brothers, but that was different.

Sarah scoffed at Burke’s dismissive attitude towards Whitehorse’s warnings and focused her attention on the ground below. Nancy’s voice crackled over the dispatch and she glanced up, her eyes on Whitehorse across from her. A smirk pulled at her lips at Pratt’s teasing of the rookie and she turned to her. “Staci’s a bit of a cunt, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.” Her smirked widened into a full on grin at the offended sound she got out of Pratt.

A chill ran up her spine as they landed at the compound, the atmosphere inside the helicopter was filled with nerves. She waited for the order before climbing out of the aircraft.

“Lamb, stick close to the rookie,” Whitehorse ordered before they all climbed out and Sarah nodded, matching her strides with the smaller woman.

She didn’t say anything to the rookie, there wasn’t anything she could say to make the situation less terrifying. They followed wordlessly behind the Marshall, Whitehorse, and Hudson, only stopping once they’d gotten to the church. Sarah looked around slightly wide-eyed at the Peggies moving around them, angry shouts and worried conversations reaching her ears. But above all the noise of the cult’s indignation at their being there, there was singing and it was entrancing. She caught herself humming quietly along while Whitehorse and the Marshall argued about how to approach the situation.

“Rookie, Lamb on me,” Whitehorse ordered before turning back to the Marshal.

Sarah took a shaking breath as the doors opened and turned to the rookie. “We’ll be fine.” She told her, though it was mostly to calm her own nerves.

The church was warm, disgustingly warm from so many bodies being in a small space together. Despite this, she felt her blood run cold as Joseph’s voice drifted down the pews to her. She’d heard him speaking before in broadcasts but in the flesh it was different. She could see why people joined, his voice, while it terrified her, also left her with a sense of calm, like he and he alone knew all the answers to every question she could even think of. She wanted to shout at Burke to stand down, to leave Joseph and his flock in peace, but she stayed frozen, just watching.

Her eyes, darting to every moving figure, met John’s to the left of Joseph and she held his gaze for a beat too long before redirecting her attention back to Joseph. John was even prettier up close, fuck Addie for getting all those horrid thoughts about him stuck in her head. As Joseph stepped forward and his brothers moved across the stage she caught John’s eyes again and held his gaze this time as Joseph continued speaking, only looking away once the rest of the Peggies had left the church. Her hand stayed resting on her holstered 1911.

Joseph’s voice, raised and slightly manic-sounding, set her hair on end. “I saw when the Lamb opened the First Seal, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts say, come and see…” A chill fell over the room, Burke’s voice interrupting the crushing stillness that Joseph had left. “And I saw, and behold it was a white horse… and Hell followed with him.” His eyes were fixed on the rookie now.

“Rookie— cuff this son of a bitch.” Sarah almost flinched at Burke’s harsh tone.

“God will not let you take me,” Joseph said, his voice menacing and concrete and his hands outstretched. She looked over at the rookie, uncertain if the other woman would follow through with the arrest. She honestly wasn’t sure if she would if she had the cuffs. He looked between the two of them and something about him screamed safety. A part of Sarah desperately wanted to grab his outstretched hands and hide behind his siblings where no one could ever hurt her, where she’d be safe until the end of her days.

A minute passed before the rookie cuffed him, Sarah was certain Whitehorse was going to tell them to turn back but instead the next thing she knew they were walking him out for the church. Sarah cast one last look behind her at the brothers before she followed behind Joseph and the rookie, her nerves building at the downright murderous look on Jacob’s face. They walked quickly towards the helicopter and she felt an overwhelming sense of dread and she was sure it showed.

Peggies swarmed the chopper once they were in and she fought to get them off as one grabbed at her leg. She kicked and kicked until a blow finally landed on the woman’s face and she fell back towards the ground below them. Through all the panicked shouting Joseph’s voice reached her and she froze, staring at him as he sang Amazing Grace, his face pointed towards the sky. As they plummeted towards the ground, his overwhelming calmness as he kept singing was an anchor and she felt a bit of her panic drain. They would be fine, they would all be fine.

The first thing Sarah felt was a thundering pain in her head and it nearly drowned out Joseph’s singing. She blinked and bit back a groan as she turned to look across from her. Joseph’s attention was focused solely on the rookie, his voice terrifyingly calm as he spoke to her. She gasped in shock at Nancy’s voice over the dispatch, it explained a lot actually but her head was too fogged to process much more than that.

She reached up, groping for the clasp on her seatbelt while he was speaking to his flock. She knew they had to get out, she had to run. That overwhelming panic was back and her breathing came short and fast as she struggled to unlock the belt, her head jerking between Joseph and the rookie.

Panic spread like a wildfire and soon everyone in the helicopter was struggling to escape. Sarah gasped as her clasp released and she fell to the ground, Hudson’s screams filling the air as they dragged her from the chopper. She managed to right herself and climbed out past the rookie and Burke, stopping once she was out.

“Burke!” Sarah shouted after him, furious that he would just leave them like that. “Come on rookie we gotta go.” Her voice was shrill as she watched the rookie struggle with the clasp. Finally, it released and she dropped to the ground, clumsily climbing out. She yanked the rookie to her feet and then looked across the helicopter in fear when the Peggies noticed they’d escaped. “We need to run. Now!” She violently pulled the rookie forward, fear driving her as she sprinted through the woods. She let go of the other as they ran, her breath coming hard and fast as she jumped over logs and dodged low branches. Angry shouting chased her as she ran and drowned out everything else around her.

She spotted a place for cover and slid into it, cowering behind the log and trying to make herself a small as possible. Heavy footfalls passed and she held her breath as she waited for them to disappear. Finally, once it had gotten quieter she turned to look at her companion and froze, whatever she’d been about to say dying on her tongue. The rookie was gone. How could she have lost her, she’d been right there the whole time Sarah had been certain.

The crackled of Burke over her radio snapped her out of her panic and she immediately slammed her hand over the speaker and violently twisted the dial off, praying to a god she barely believed in that no one had heard it. She stayed in her spot, arms wrapped around her knees, and looked at the ground below for a few minutes before tears started streaming down her face. God she was fucked, so fucking fucked.

Sarah clutched her knees harder when she heard distant gunfire and hid her face between them as silent sobs wracked her body. She looked like a deranged mess. She should have just stayed home today. She missed her bed and her cat. She wanted her blankets back and her scented candles and reruns of Friends. She just wanted to go home.

She stayed there until well after her tears had stopped and her ragged breathing returned to something somewhat normal. The sky that she could see through the trees was starting to get lighter, she knew she should find somewhere safer before the sun rose. Moving was an effort, she grunted in pain and her bones cracked back into place, her joints popped at the sudden change in position. Pratt would have laughed and made a Rice Krispies joke if he were there.

Pratt! God, she’d forgotten about Pratt. She’d been so focused on getting out she didn’t see what happened to him. She really hoped he’d gotten away but something in her brain told her he hadn’t. Even if he had he was as dead as she was.

Finally, she stood from her spot and began moving slowly through the underbrush, staying crouched and stopping every so often to catch her breath or stop her head from spinning. Her entire body ached but her head was practically screaming in pain. Everything was foggy and she could feel her blood pulsing through her body. If she were to hazard a guess, she most likely had a concussion and based on the pain in her left ribcage at least a few bruised ribs.

A cabin finally into view and she let out a shaking sigh of relief. Safety. At least for now, somewhere she could lay low until she’d had time to lick her wounds and get back out there. Sarah felt hope flare in her chest and let herself get reckless, leaving her cover and moving as quickly as she could manage towards the cabin.

She was nearly at the door when an arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her back. She tried to scream but she was thrown to the ground, the air leaving her lungs. She sputtered and coughed as a Peggie came into view above her, his features were violent and twisted. “Fucking sinner.” He spat and surged forward, his hands clamped around her throat and squeezed.

Sarah struggled in his grip, her lungs screaming as she clawed at his hands to try to get him to let up. She kicked at him, kneeing his stomach over and over but all she got was pained grunts and his hands tightening. In a last-ditch effort, she flung her arms around her, grabbing for something, anything. Her hands grasped at a rock, small but heavy, and using what strength she had left she smashed it into the side of the Peggie’s head. He flinched away, his grip loosening enough for her to breath a bit.

There was blood streaming down from his temple and dripping onto her as she gasped for air and rammed the rock into his head again. This time he was off of her, topping away to the ground beside her. Panic and adrenaline coursing through her veins, Sarah followed him over, lifting her arm up and slamming the rock down again between his eyes. Over and over she hit him, his skull cracking and shattering under the continuous blows and still, she hit him. She hit him until he was unrecognizable and still she hit him, tearless sobs wracking her body as she did.

When she came back to her senses and stopped, looking at what she’d done she reared back and vomited, the majority of it landing on her jeans and the Peggie. She flew back away from him and dropped the rock with a silent scream. Her hands were covered in blood, brains and bone fragments as she scrambled towards the house.

Inside, Sarah ran for the bathroom, turning the sink on and washing her hands in the scalding water until they were red and raw. She looked up and saw herself in the mirror, face covered in sweat and more blood and brains, and leaned over the sink and vomited again until nothing came out anymore. There was a tiny shower behind her and she turned it on, not bothering to get undressed she stepped into the ice-cold spray, uncaring of the temperature as she sat down and let the slowly warming water beat down on as she stared at her hands with hollow eyes. What had she done?

It had been almost three days since Sarah has gotten to the cabin. In that time she’d somehow gotten up the nerve to move the Peggie’s body, dragging it out into the woodshed behind the cabin. She’d managed to cover most of the bloodstain by kicking dirt over it and she just hoped no one came here looking because she knew she’d done a piss poor job at hiding the crime scene.

She was still inside the compound’s borders and every hour she stayed was riskier than the last. No one had found her yet meaning they were probably still looking for her or they’d assumed she’d escaped somehow. She’d found a backpack her first night in the cabin and had spent all of yesterday packing it. She had found clothing in the bedroom after her shower and changed into them, letting her uniform dry mostly before stuffing it in her pack as well. The clothes didn’t fit well, but they worked just fine and she couldn’t exactly afford to be picky.

When the sun had finally dipped below the horizon and the sky was glowing with stars, Sarah stepped out into the crisp Montana air. She pulled the baggy jacket she’d found tighter around her frame and started to walk. She wasn’t sure which way the compound was but she hoped she was walking in the opposite direction.

As she walked in silence, her thoughts ran around her head like a caged bird searching in a panic for an exit. What was she going to do? What if she got caught? Who was going to feed Finny if she died? Who was feeding Finny now? It’d been three days and while he had full access to the outside, he still liked to come in at night for cat food. Oh God, what if Finny got eaten by a wolf or a cougar? She always locked him in at night. He was probably angry at her for being gone for so long. She hoped Kim had noticed her absence and sent Nick down to her house to fill the food bowls and check on him.

It was easier to worry about her cat than the reality of her situation.

Still, her thoughts drifted from Finny and the Ryes and moved to the rookie. She was probably dead or captured and Sarah felt like the shittiest person in the world. She didn’t even know the woman’s name. She hadn’t bothered much with small talk, it’d been a busy few weeks with tensions between the Peggies and civilians rising and she’d been running in and out of the station building. How could she not know her own partner’s name? Whitehorse had trusted her to watch out for their newest member and she’d ditched her in the forest just like Burke. She’d decided in her panic to save her own skin.

A fence finally came into view and broke Sarah from her spiraling. It wasn’t too high and she was pretty sure she could scale it if it wasn’t for the barbed wire at the top. She let out another hopeless sigh for the fiftieth time the week and started walking along it hoping to find a gap. As if by the grace of God, she soon found a break in the fence where something has smashed through it. She stood there in slight shock at her sudden luck and looked towards the sky with a suspicious look. It seemed too good to be true.

She was slightly hesitant as she stepped past the fence, peering down the road before moving, sticking to the fence line just in case someone came by but miraculously no one did. She eventually found a bridge, an abandoned ATV sitting near it with the keys still in the ignition. Sarah smiled slightly at her luck, the first smile in what felt like years since the events at the compound. It sputtered to life and she braced herself as it jerked forward and she was off, speeding down the road and hopefully towards safety.

She hadn’t been driving for long when a figure stepped out onto the road, gun raised, and she slammed on the brakes. The ATV skidded to a stop a foot away from the person, the headlights flicking off as she turned the engine off and shrouding them in darkness. Sarah raised her hands and climbed off, hands itching to grab her gun.

“Leave the keys.” The figure, a woman, commanded. Her voice was familiar, eerily familiar. Sarah sputtered slightly and frowned, trying to match a face to the voice before it clicked.

“Rookie?” She asked, astonishment clear in her tone.

“Lamb?”

[levi-ish]

Crimson & Navy [P.P] | Prologue

Summary: It was just one rule, just one, and you happened to break it.

Pairing: Peter Parker X Reader

Genre: Romance, a little angsty, mentions of abuse

A/N: This is a 40′s, aged up, cabaret fic and it’ll be only 3 parts, just for fun because I wrote that a long time ago in portuguese and never posted, so I decided to put Peter bc why not and turn it into another project. I hope you guys like it!

Masterlist

[Prologue] [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

The soft music that came from the piano played around the room being only audible enough because of the acoustic that came with the walls and the great stage. You pulled the edges from your fur coat to keep the coldness away from your warm body while the sound of your short heels clicked on the dirty sidewalk, earning lots of curious looks from people that didn’t want to mind their own business that night.

You tried not to glance around because you already knew that they must’ve seen you already, so hiding felt more comfortable. Stopping in front of those big doors, your eyes glowed with those lights and the smell of cigarette and leather filled your nostrils. With deep breaths, you pushed them slightly, trying not to get any more attention that you already had.

The crimson color captured your eyes, being the most exuberant light in the whole place. The big wooden counter filled with baristas and drunk men sat by the corner, filled with empty glasses and probably cries from heartbreaks; you saw the tables placed on the floor, leaving space to the dance area that was now empty, just like you.

“Do you want me to take your coat, ma'am?” Asked a man wearing a fitted black suit behind you. Feeling your heartbeats growing quicker from the scare, you smiled sweetly with your red stained lips, showing pearly whites just like the ones that hung around your neck, gracefully. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Of course, you thought to yourself. They would never let a woman alone.

“Oh, yes. He’s just a little behind, but he’ll soon get here” you lied, but your eyes showed him honesty, so the man just quirked his brow from curiosity. Women shouldn’t be alone. They’re women.

You slowly took off your coat, slipping down your shoulders while you turned around, leaving the well placed curls to hang loosely on your back, shaking them just slightly so the perfume could make an appearance. The man placed the coat on a hanger and smiled at you, and you reciprocated.

His eyes followed you for a bit, as if he was waiting for a companion to show up, so you just shrugged your shoulders and hoped that the dress could distract, even if it was for a second, only.

And it did. The man seemed to like your peplum dress that matched your lips and the decoration, emphasizing your presence there. You held tighter to your little purse, playing with the little jewelry glued to the lock while walked confidently to the centre of the counter, glancing at those big curtains that hid the whole stage.

You leaned into the wooden surface, hoping that it wasn’t wet and showed your pearly whites to the barista, a trick you learned since your birth and had been doing since then. He soon came closer with a napkin, wiping another clean glass dry and putting it aside.

“I need to speak to the owner” you said, clicking your lips slowly, so he could be hypnotized by the red lipstick, just like every other man in that room.

He then pointed at the man sitting on a table full of people surrounding with loud laughs and fake smiles that seemed to be there just by interest. The interest of getting something from him.

You then decided to walk there, trying to dodge every table with drunk men just trying to talk to you, but you weren’t interested. The music only got louder and you were hoping that you could take a peak of what would happen on the stage, but you were pretty sure you would have plenty of time to see that later. When you got to the crowd, you cleaned your throat and waited for those people to give you space, and soon, the people that surrounded the man seemed to stare at you, turning attentions to other than the owner.

“Are you Mr. Stark?” You asked, a serious expression framing your face.

“The one and only.” He said, drowning the rest of the liquor that was inside his glass, letting out a loud sigh right after. The man looked polished, dressed in a nice grey suit and black shoes, his hair was pulled back with some gel and a cloud of cologne irradiated from him, almost making your nose twitch. “To whom do I own the pleasure?”

“Names later” you dig your fingers deeper into your purse, your teeth grasping the insides of your cheeks while the slight taste of blood filled your mouth. “Let’s talk business. Is there somewhere more private?”

“You are a bit young to me, darling” he said, a sarcastic laugh showing up.

“But not too young for your business, Mr.” You quirked your eyebrow and he pointed at a little door beside the stage, standing up right away.

“Shall we?”

You nodded and followed the man to the little room. He opened the door like a gentleman and the lights of those various lamps and a little brown couch sat on the corner, inviting you to sit and take off your heels that hurt like hell, but you needed to keep posture. Mr. Stark went to the little bar and opened a whiskey bottle that sent the delicious wooden alcohol smell to your direction, capturing you while you walked around, keeping your back as straight as you could.

“So…” He put the liquid into a glass and closed it, sipping slightly and twitching his face. “What about business?”

“I want a job” you said without thinking twice. You practiced that scene the whole trip to New York and you couldn’t just skip your lines.

The man gagged on the whiskey and put his glass aside, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand and turned into your direction.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I want to work here” you said again, now sitting down and crossing your legs, showing the power that you never had before. “I’m sure you’re not deaf, sir.”

“I’m not deaf, and I’m definitely blind. A girl like you doesn’t belong here.” Mr. Stark kept going, now pushing a chair in front of you and sitting so you two could be on the same level. “Are you running away or something like that?”

“Something like that.” You teased, smiling from the corner and resting your hands on your lap. “I saw on the newspaper that you were looking for new dancers. It was pretty surprising, since the newspaper doesn’t support places like that, so I wonder who you had to pay for that advertising to show up on third page.”

“You know how to dance?” He quirked his brow again, daring you.

“I’ve been practicing ballet since I was five and I learned how to dance flamenco a few years ago. I’m more than what you’re looking for and you would be a fool to not accept me.”

“You’re pretty bossy for a desperate person.” He said, smiling teasingly.

“I’m not desperate, Mr.” Lies. “I’m just looking for a job. Is that so wrong?”

Mr. Stark seemed thoughtful, leaning back into the chair and sipping on the whiskey once more, licking the rest of the fluids that rested on his lips after that. You played with your purse’s jewels and waited for an answer, pretty anxious about what would happen next.

“Okay. I’ll give you a shot because I see potential in you.” Said the man and you cheered on the inside, smiling quickly so he couldn’t see any vulnerability. “But, there are rules.”

“Alright” you said and crossed your arms with delicacy, placing your manicured hands on your bare arms.

“First one, you have to use a name other than yours” he said and you nodded.

“Second one, you can’t drink while working. It’s a big no-no.” Easy.

“And third one, you can’t interact with clients.” You smiled again, teasingly and feeling relaxed. “This is the most important one, so don’t forget or you’re out.”

This is the most simple thing I had to do my whole life, and my whole life I did simple things. You uncrossed your arms and left the couch, standing right in front of him and offering your hand to him, witch he shook.

“Deal.”

But you didn’t know what was coming for you; or whom.

[arkiven]

Recension av A Hunger Artist and Other Stories av Franz Kafka

Study of Hands by Egon Schiele, 1913, detail

I've written before about the difficulties of rating short story collections, and it is especially hard to rate those that aren't put together by the author themselves. This one doesn't make me think otherwise. As a matter of fact, it would even be hard trying to rate each of the stories by itself, even without interference from all the rest. The texts come from different time periods of Kafka's writing, are in various stages of being finished, and span a variety of themes, but they often return to the idea of the Artist, especially in stories such as A Hunger Artist and Josefine, the Singer of the Mouse-People. Kafka works with the relationship between Artist and Audience, between creator, consumer, and bystander. It’s interesting, but not as engaging as it could’ve been. There is also a great deal of thought about the nature of living creatures, and about going against it, or succumbing to it. As a matter of fact, a share of the protagonists in these stories are animals; dogs, mice, apes, horses. The surreal is entwined with the mundane, where animals are given human roles and experiences, and inanimate objects seem to have goals, reasons, and a will of their own. Still, the stories are firmly planted in our everyday world. Kafka's writing style is sometimes a blessing, sometimes a downfall. Reflective of his day job, it's often stiff and bleak, and this fits him well. He has this way of being both simple and complex at the same time, wordy, but without being purple. At his best this is absolutely amazing, amplifying the atmosphere in his stories in the way that a blanket of grey haze amplifies the impression and ambience of a rainy day. Oppressive, but in a good way, the prose is definitely present in the text, active, contributing to it just as much as the story does. At his less shining moments, however, the mist turns into a fog and becomes too thick and unyielding, obscuring the text itself, making it very hard to get through. 

Franz Kafka

Unfortunately, there is a lot of fog in this collection. Many of the stories drag on far more than they'd need to, and I sometimes get the feeling that Kafka gets a bit lost in his own thoughts and loses track of where the text is going. At their worst, the stories lack focus. And no wonder: many of them are fragments of a narrative fused together after Kafka's death, some are writing exercises. A great many were never supposed to be published, but then again, going from that we would've never had many of his best works. But this collection does feel a bit forced in places, a sort of Frankenstein's monster of unfinished short stories and loose scraps. It is definitely geared more towards those reading Kafka for academic reasons, rather than for... well, fun, even though that might not be the first word that comes to mind when reading Kafka. Going through this collection just for the sake of reading left me a bit unsatisfied (even though the brilliant introduction and notes by Ritchie Robertson caught my interest, and worked very well as a companion to the book). While the cover says 'stories' this is, in many ways, a book of fragments. Many of them are very well written as well as interesting, but they seem to be hidden in the fog, and it takes some patience to leaf through the rougher parts to look for those that stand out. Still, there are some amazing stories in there, and when Kafka is at his best, he’s a five star writer. I found myself spending a lot of time writing down sentences, and sometimes entire paragraphs that I just couldn’t get out of my head. The Burrow is fantastic, and so is At the Building of the Great Wall of China, and Blumfeld, an Elderly Bachelor. And it is no surprise that when Kafka gets to play around with the themes of authority, paranoia, and repetition, he shines. I just wish that some of these stories would've been allowed to hold their own, and not be drowned out by all the other ones.

Utgåvan jag läste var översatt till engelska av Joyce Crick och släpptes 2012 av Oxford University Press. Recensionen ligger sedan 2015 ute på mitt Goodreadskonto.

[naruto-ninja-imagines-blog]

Hello! First of all I want to say, that I really like yours blog - great work, keep it up! >w

Ah these prompts are always really sad and…fun to write honestly. I hope you enjoy a little angst because you certainly get it. 

And your english is just fine, darling! 

~Mod Whipski 

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Kiba, alone and bandaged to the nines, had only just been released from the confines of his hospital room. It had been a solid four months since that damn war had come to its conclusion, Konoha and he’s wager the rest of the continent still bearing heavy scars from the battle. He’d be one of the lucky ones. A few broken bones, some lost blood, a mild concussion. All thing considered he could have come out a lot worse. Or…not have come out at all.

The man, weary and sore, had taken umbrage at the fact that the medical nin stationed at the temporary hospital set up to ease overcrowding  refuse to tell him anything about the other ninja brought back from the carnage. He’d had friends and family to worry about. Cooped up in an overstuffed room full of PTSD patients and civilians alike for so long had done nothing to aid his concern. He’d decided his first visit would be to the Hokage’s office. Where they kept the death leger.

He’d had felt much better, as he hovered outside of the shattered glass doors, if he’d had Akamaru by his side when he confronted whatever news lay waiting for him. But his companion was with his clan under the care of their own veterinarians. They’d been separated for so long and Kiba was figuratively itching to get back to his dogs side. Or maybe he was literally itching, the rough bandages made it hard to tell. Either way, Kiba was alone in facing the dread growing in his gut.

With a hard swallow the man steeled himself and marched through the shattered threshold. The inside seemed to have faired far better then he would have imagined, though it would obviously take time to fully repair a number of quick fixes had been installed to keep the walls from crumbling. A young woman, obviously just promoted if her new poorly fitting uniform was anything to go by, smiled at him from behind what remained of the front desk.

“Good Afternoon, sir. Can I assist you with anything in particular?”

She kindly didn’t comment on his dishevelled appearance  

“Yeah, um, who do I see about, um, the casualties? I…I just want to know if my friends are alive.”

Her expression morphing into sympathy, the woman ducked down to check the large regulation list she had open next to her. “I-I’m not sure if a finalized list has been made yet, sir. B-But because you are obviously not a civilian I could…probably give you access to the most recent records. Though I believe they’re only identities of those who have been administered into our hospitals.”

“That would be great, if you could.” He shuffles, uncomfortable, as she nods and scurries off into the archives.

It gives him a moment to let the situation really sink in. His hands shaking in his pockets. He’d seen his sister before the end of the final charge. Seen a number of his team mates either being carried from the field or assisting others in escaping. But there was one person he had not seen hide or hair of. Y/n’s whereabouts had remained a mystery after the first charge. Her squad assigned to ambushing any incoming reinforcements.

The woman comes back into the foyer, a few bundle of papers in her arms which she places down into the front desk. She points to individual piles; “These ones are names of those administered to Konoha Hospital, while this one is for the temporary unit.” She then points to hallway he recognises as the old administration section. “There’ll be an empty room down there if you’d like some privacy. ”

He thanks her, scoops up the bundles and hurries off in the pointed direction. They feel light in his arms as if there were less pages then he was expecting. He’s not sure why. Casualties had been numerous, he’d seen so herself.

It was far easier now to find a vacant room then it was before. What looked to once be a break room had been converted into a storage space. Spare lumber, boxes and various tools strewn about in a haphazard fashion. Kiba pushed out a wooden crate from a small cluster and took a seat, his legs already protesting the strain he’d put on them so suddenly. The stacks of names fell into his lap as he took another deep breath, hands balling into nervous fists, before leafing through the first few pages.

Maybe names he didn’t recognise. But that was to be expected. He couldn’t possibly remember each and every name of the villagers. Sometimes he’d spot a last name he’d know but was unable to match it to a face. With each few pages he’d note a friend. Shino had been administered to the main hospital a day after him. Hinata a few days before that. With each page and name he recognised another weight was lifted from his chest. So many had survived. But the more names he filed through the more nervous he became. Y/n’s name was yet to pop up.

The late stages of dusk had begun to paint the sky red and purple by the time the man had filed through the last document. His hands quaking, a painful lump growing in his throat. He punches the wall in frustration. It moans in response and he cant help but sob.

His walk home is slow. Numb. He can feel his legs screaming for a rest but he ignores them.

Y/n. The most important person in the world to him, was officially MIA. Most likely dead. Her body left to the elements the light in her eyes gone. How was he supposed to feel anything after that.

His sister greats him at the door looking just as worse for wear as him but cheerier. He can’t even smile for her as she pressed the palm of her hand to his cheek, wet and clammy from tears he didn’t know he was shedding. She doesn’t ask questions. Not now. Just ushers him in and lets him know which room Akamaru is resting in.

The giant dog had lifted his head as his master stumbled in, his ears drooping. The man found solace in Akamaru, curling up next to the beast and burying his face in his fur. Only then did he allow himself to cry proper.

The life of a shinobi was laden with hardships. Injuries to overcome, secrets to keep, deaths to accept. All these things he’d understood the very first day he’d stepped foot in the academy but only now did it feel so real. Y/n had been an ever present entity in his life. He could not remember a time before her smile. And now she was just…gone.

Konoha was not blessed with a sound sleep that night, the heartbroken wails  and the sympathetic hounds not easily drowned out

They say time heals all wounds. Kiba was not so sure. Seven months had crawled by, each day seeming more difficult then the last. The village had still barely begun to recover but he’d been expected to return to duty. Patrolling the damaged boarders and assisting the townsfolk. His heart remained heavy.

On this particular day the memories were much worse. A smell would remind him of her, a landmark would conjure a thought, even his own friends faces seemed to morph into her own. It was unbearable. So he had ran. Ran as far as his legs would allow. As far away from his unconsciousness as he could. That’s how he finds himself now, curled up high in a tree overlooking the way in and out of town.

How easily he could leave everything behind. Just run off into the distance and never look back. Never have to relive those memories that filled him with both joy and sorrow. But his loyalty to his kin was too strong and he was stuck in limbo.

Below him, rooting around in the grass and chewing on roughage was Akamaru. Still refusing to leave his masters side.  He’d keep watch over the man, his own heart saddened by his masters mates disappearance. As if the thought awoke his own senses, the beast could have sworn he could smell her still. Earthy and sweet and distinctly like both herself and his master. It carried on the wind, falling across his nose in waves. This couldn’t be a simple memory.

The beast rose to his paws and sniffed before charging off into the horizon catching the man still up in the tree by surprise. He jumped to his feet on instinct and chased after him, determined not to loose anyone else. His apathy had made the recovery from his injuries slow, even now he couldn’t keep pace with the hound who seemed a white blur in the distance. A white blur which had stopped and started barking, tail thumping so haphazardly Kiba thought he might tear something.

He’d skidded to a stop besides Akamaru, arms latched around his neck and scolding him for his behaviour, but the house payed him little mind. Scrabbling to charge ahead beyond excited.

And then, as if a dream, an airy laugher floated through the air. Familiar and sweet, Kiba almost didn’t dare to look. But there, framed by the endless fields beyond Konoha’s walls stood y/n. Leaning heavily on a crutch and head still bandaged. And she was smiling, Tears slipping down her cheeks and falling as fat drops to the dirt below.

Kiba’s arms loosened from their hold and Akamaru was free, pouncing the woman with such uncontained exuberance it had knocked her to the ground. His big tongue lapping up any tears she spilled as she buried her own face in her fur. The man, on the other hand, barely found the strength to move. Dropping to his knees and shivering from head to toe. Y/n, struggling beneath the hounds overbearing love had managed to squirm out and look towards him. Her still bruised body crawling towards him until she was practically in his lap, arms curled around his stunned body, sobbing and quivering and happy.

“I’m home, Kiba. I’m home. I made you wait didn’t I? I’m so sorry.”

And he had taken her in his arms.

And he would never let go.

[hillbillyhippiemusicreview]

POST #19 - Tyler Childers - Builds His Country Squire One Song at a Time

How do you follow up the break out record, Purgatory?

You release what visual artist, Jimbo Valentine (more on him in a minute) called “Dark Side of the Holler”.

Tyler Childers released his sophomore album, Country Squire on August 2nd. A collection of 9 songs that seamlessly transition from one to the next with the help of Miles Miller (Sturgill Simpson) on drums, Stuart Duncan (various artists) on banjo, fiddle, and mandolin, and Russ Pahl (various artists) on acoustic guitar, electric guitar, pedal steel, jaw harp, and baritone. With Childers raw writing talent and distinctive voice, the album takes the basis of Purgatory to another level. Childers returns with producers Sturgill Simpson and David Ferguson.

The album opens with the title track, “Country Squire”. Childers has honed this tune over the past few tours and it is pure country gold. The verses go back and forth between Childers’ plans for his wife and their future home and the road dog life he knows so well. The chorus hits hard, “Spendin’ my nights in a bar room Lord, turnin’ them songs into two by fours”. The song harkens back to Merle Haggard’s, “Working Mans Blues” and the nights drowning beers in a tavern and working to buy his kids shoes. Where Haggard sings the blues, Childers’ song envisions his future kids playing around the family cabin. Coming full circle, the song starts with a road-dogging lifestyle to buy things for his wife and by the end he’s road dogging in the Country Squire he built for his wife

The second track is another story of a long gone time, this one about riding a school bus up and down a holler. Gone are the days of a bus driver being able to “blister punk kids alive” with a “paddle that he carved from pine”. Many readers may never have had that experience, but I can guarantee you this was everyday life in the not so distant past. Listeners will notice a slower paced version than has been featured on YouTube. The slower tempo and yearning fiddle highlight Childers pining for the “prettiest little girl the same age as me”. The jaw harp is also a nice addition to the track. One thing is for sure, Ray Dixon is not a man to be messed with.

“Bus Route” flows seamlessly into “Creeker”. Last school year my wife decorated her classroom door with words her Senior Home Room students use to describe themselves. Among the normal adjectives sits the word, creekers. While my wife was raised on Turkey Creek, these guys were actually referring to the next creek over, Stinking Creek. They lovingly describe themselves as “Creekers”. I can’t help but think there are a handful of former students out there who are proud as peacocks of having a song about them. “Creeker” features some of my favorite lyrics on Country Squire. I also feel that Creeker is the best representation of Childers’ voice on the record. The live version absolutely slays.

I like to think Gemini is a companion piece to the title track. While “Country Squire” describes life on the road as a means to an end, Gemini describes the author’s love of the road as what his significant other loved about him in the first place. I had to look up the traits of a Gemini as I am not what you call an expert in astrology. I would try to quote some definitions and articles but there is definitely not enough space in this review to include the intricacies. It’s safe to say that the actions written about in this song are a pretty accurate view. When I woke up early on Friday, August 2nd to begin listening to the album I remember posting the lyrics, “Now I’m lit up like a Christmas tree, Check one-two can ya’ll hear me”. As they accurately describe the jubilation I felt when I heard this song for the first time.

I’m glad I decided to review this album after hearing “House Fire” in the early stages of its inception, then polished on Jimmy Fallon, and ultimately a jam session at “Kickin’ It On The Creek”. Childers has his whole Bob Dylan going electric at Newport Folk Festival moment when he broke out a shiny new Telecaster for the tune on The Tonight Show. You can definitely tell the band has been tinkering with the jam since the album was released as there is now an extended jam highlighting Childers electric guitar playing before launching into “House Fire”. What the song lacks in storytelling, it makes up for in musicianship. It seems that every instrument is highlighted, but most notably is the addition of the Hammond B3 organ.

“House Fire” bleeds into the most honky tonk song about masturbation you will ever hear. “Ever Lovin’ Hand” is another song that has been tested out on the road the past few months. Although it seems out of place on a record filled with love letters to Appalachian life. “Ever Lovin’ Hand” is a love letter to Childers’ wife and reaffirms his dedication to her while on the road. One day, not so long ago, my wife was listening to the album on the way home from work when my 11 year old son (both of our youngest love Tyler) asked what the song was about. Most parents would move on to the next tune as quick as possible, not in our house. She asked him to listen again and really pay attention to the lyrics. Needless to say, he figured it out.

“Peace of Mind” is the one song that has drawn the most ire of listeners. A short dive in the YouTube universe will dig up a solo version that is really the inception the song. The solo version is uptempo and seemingly more happy. As I write and listen to the song right now, I can’t help but think that it was slowed down on the album for a purpose. A song about the laments of “what could have been” cannot be an uptempo, happy song. The tempo is perfect for the subject matter. “The days are dark, down in the holler, waiting for the sun to shine” hang up there as another set of lyrical favorites.

“All Your’n” started as another song featuring Childers playing solo acoustic. The album version is another rollicking love letter to his wife. In the vein of “Lady May” that closed the 2017 album “Purgatory”, Childers playful songwriting describes his courtship of his significant other and their love of fried morels. For those that don’t know, a morel is a mushroom (better known as a hickory chicken or dry land fish) that takes a keen eye and perfect conditions to find during a small window in the spring months. The video for “All Your’n is a perfect match to the song featuring Buffalo Wabs and the Price Hill Hustle drummer, singer, and Childers buddy, Casey Campbell stumbling through and Alice in Wonderland style landscape. It is also the introduction to Childers cheetah print wearing alter ego, “Tammy Chiggers”. All Your’n will definitely make its way to weddings and wedding receptions everywhere.

The album closes with a rendition of “Matthew” that introduces Childers brother-in law and father in law. “Matthew” describes a veteran who spends his time “guarding missiles and counting white tail” at the Bluegrass Army Depot between Irvine in Estill County and Richmond, Kentucky. The song is an observation of the lives of two men in Eastern Kentucky. “And he worked them hands to splinters, and he raised them young’uns right, on a little bit of scripture, and an acreage of paradise” is one of the most vivid descriptions of fatherhood I’ve seen put on record. Childers has a way of bringing real life to a song like no one else in music today.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the album artwork done by Kentucky native, Colonel Tony Moore of Walking Dead fame and frequent Childers collaborator, West Virginia artist Jimbo Valentine. The cover art for Country Squire is departure from the hillbilly psychedelic artwork of records past. It is there, though, inside the gatefold with Valentine’s depiction of the original Country Squire. The yin yang-esque artwork would make an amazing framed poster (wink-wink). The album cover designed by Moore is a comic book rendition of a zen hillbilly Childers. It is the most unique album art I’ve seen in quite some time. I am a huge fan of album artwork and this is one of the best. No wording on the cover, simple, powerful.

Give Country Squire a listen. It isn’t Purgatory. It isn’t Bottles and Bibles. It’s the story of a Lawrence County native going to the big city, moving to the country, courting and marrying the love of his life, and a look to a future life pulling behind that 53 year old camper.

You can find Country Squire on all major streaming services or do what I did and order the LP from www.tylerchildersmusic.com

The artwork of Tony Moore can be found at www.coloneltonymoore.com

The artwork of Jimbo Valentine can be found at www.amalgamunlimited.com

-Josh Trosper, Hillbilly Hippie Music Review Contributing Writer

*This is an independent review. The Hillbilly Hippie Music Review was not compensated for this review.

*The opinions expressed are solely that of the author(s).

* This artwork and the quoted lyrics are not ours, nor do we claim the min any way. They are under copyright by Hickman Holler Records, under exclusive license to RCA Records, a division of Sony Music Entertainment.

[hoziersgaymetapho-blog]

Fictitious movies are best known to bring out a directors creative thoughts in movie manufacturing. It is outstanding exactly how an individual can visualize an in some way dangerous stunt and still portray it so strongly you would certainly think it took place in real life. Contrasted to fictional movies, real stories are not thought-of events; these are real cases with real-life experiences. Tollywood, with its rising popularity in a few of the Indian states, has actually also produced a collection of these stories with Rakhta Charita, topping the listing of ideal Telugu films based on real-life events. These true tales bring a chronological simulation of a period in time when actual people, though not the main actors in the film, needed to go through. By using delights for real occurrences that took place in the past, today generation is brought to speed up with the background of occasions and exactly how they began. True stories, unlike the various other genres, have minimal room for disturbance. Nonetheless, they supply the production crew liberty of imagination. With an expanding target market for these real-life circumstances compiled in storyboards, the past can be well comprehended and translated. Here are some of Tollywood's true story-based films that Telugu citizens have actually concerned love: many more movies streaming in aha.

Gulabi The plot of this 1995 action-filled romance film was motivated by the substantial trafficking of young girls that had struck the Indian media by that time. It was so rampant that it ceased being information any type of longer. The girls would be trafficked to Dubai by the agent that would certainly not supply their targets with any information on where they were being taken and also why. The Indian authorities laid out to fish the Dubai- based business people that had improved the act of smuggling these innocent women from Hyderabad and also wound up apprehending several of them.

RX 100 The story focuses on a young man from a modest history who incidentally falls in love with the stunning child of a neighborhood politician. When the time for an intro to their respective family members came, the love birds were surprised by their moms and dads' lack of support. Shiva drowns in his heartbreak as well as everything worsens when he is informed that his better half was not into him. While Shiva remained in the partnership 'for far better for even worse,' his companion was an egocentric, self-centered lady who was only using him to acquire her lustful needs. The grief-stricken Shiva fails to move on after his love is declined and also even though he co-owned a theater with his father, he could not see the acts performed on stage.

Killing Veerappan Killing Veerappan is a drama-filled docudrama that brought about Procedure Cocoon, a procedure developed by the special task force to catch and eliminate Veerappan and his gang for their prestige killings. He (Veerappan) defies orders from government policemans. He creates a little army that is held responsible for a number of criminal activities, consisting of eliminating 184 people, half of which were believed to be law enforcement agents. The warm pursuit is likewise since the victim poached 200 elephants, smuggled ivory and also sandalwood. After several efforts of failed arrests, a team of undercover cops is set to bring Veerappan as well as his gang out as well as the authorities lastly kill the whole troop in gunfire.

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[kylewritesaboutthings]

Riot Fest 2016 - Day 3

Let me take a moment to tell you about the Law of Standard Deviation. In short, it states that 99.7% of all occurrences of an event or action will take place within 3 deviations of the mean (or 0 deviations). This is the principal behind that bell curve that your teachers always talked about. Everyone pretty much does the same except for the burnout who tanked the exam because they spent 7 hours geeked up on adderall looking up conspiracy theories over the “real Paul McCartney” and the kid who had the Casio watch with all the buttons on it that you could totally use to cheat but you know he never did. The extreme highs and lows are rare, but a possibility. 

Why did I just give you a math lesson on basic averages? Because sometimes you wake up from a three day bender of punk rock, malort, pizza, Old Style, more malort, various other illegal substances, and more malort and feel absolutely incredible. Sometimes you wake up on the .3% of mornings where no matter what you did to yourself the night before, your body has rallied like an Olympic athlete and repaired itself in the four hours you’ve slept since your last drink. Aided by a stomach full of tacos from the night before, I woke up on Sunday morning feeling like a golden fucking god. 

I could not say the same for my Riot Fest companions Rachel and Steph. As both were hurting, I took the Uber ride of triumph, the opposite of the walk of shame, to move my car from its post of abandonment outside of Quenchers Saloon from the previous night (where I guess I loaded out hot sauce gear while blacked out, came to trying to sing Fall Out Boy karaoke, and flashed back into consciousness as I woke up at the bar counter of an all-night taco spot). My driver was as surprised as I was about how chipper I was at such an ungodly early time of morning, asking me if I’ve been to “The Riot Fests” over the weekend. An interesting and often unnoticed trend about the baby boomer generation; they will add ‘The’ and ‘s’ to anything of youth culture. I first noticed this when, despite how much I talked about it, my dad always referred to Tony Hawk Pro Skater as “The Tony Hawks”. As in “you’re always on The Tony Hawks, have you even studying?” The answer to that was no, because I never studied due to the fact that I am a smartass-know-it-all. But I digress…

My partners in crime aka two legs of the traveling tripod were hurting and this needed to be rectified. They’ve put in so much work helping Soothsayer Hot Sauce get where it is today and the best thank you I can think of is delivery coffee and breakfast sandwiches when hungover.  A quick stop through to Dunkin Donuts later and we were in business. The brace-faced teenager burned our everything bagels, but that’s alright. The previous evening we had smoked cigarettes like we were sponsored by Philip Morris so it’s not like our taste buds were working at 100% anyway. What really matters is eggs and friendship…eggs being the most versatile and delicious food stuff to ever happen. When people say “oh, I could totally go vegan if it wasn’t for (insert non-meat animal product here)” it is usually cheese. But I’ve tried some amazing vegan cheeses thanks to my pals in Typesetter and I could live with that reality. But I could never live without eggs. 

After dropping off food to Steph, I made my way home to my very hungover girlfriend for budget breakfast in bed. It is at this point I wish I could tell you that we all instantly rallied and started the final trek to Douglas Park, but that would be a lie. The reality is that we basked in the air conditioning and watched Netflix until the very last possible second needed to leave in time to catch Thursday shake off the cobwebs and remind everyone how fucking depressing it is to grow up in New Jersey. Yeah, I know. We missed The Bronx, The Falcon, and Andrew WK. Sometimes you just want to start the day lying in bed with the only person you really want to be around while you laugh at cheesy cop shows, ya know? But I had a literary responsibility and some back assed semblance of journalistic integrity that would make Joseph Pulitzer vomit in his mouth just a little bit, so we dragged ourselves off of the memory foam mattress and got our shit in gear. 

Making it just in time to see Thursday take the stage, I thanked our dark lord and master for my uncanny sense of timing that allows me to be late, but not too late, to everything I do. That and the fact that once again the security guard didn’t find the chillum in my shoe. Before I got too much time to reminisce on that (or pack a bowl), they kicked right into “For the Workforce, Drowning”, the lead track on 2003’s “War All the Time”. I know that many argue that “Full Collapse” is Thursday’s crowning achievement, but I would argue that they are fucking wrong. Of the emotionally driven music to come out of the early aughts, War All the Time is one of the most powerful. They portray the pain, confusion, and anxiety of that place and time in such a way to make it beautiful. Their four year hiatus hasn’t hindered them one bit, Thursday is still an impressively powerful live band. Driven by the gap-toothed smile of Geoff Rickly, they tore through a hits-only 40 minute setlist that made all of our former scene kid hearts smile. Wishing that I still had at least one of my white, Hot Topic pyramid belts, they barreled through “Jet Black New Year” while trailing into the chorus of Prince’s “1999”. To close their set Rickly bid the crowd adieu, saying “you might recognize this next song from your local bar’s emo night” as the opening notes to “Understanding in a Car Crash”. The irony being that Mr. Rickly would be hosting the emo night at local standby Beauty Bar later that evening. 

One of the best things about festivals like Riot Fest, is the opportunity for back to back sets from some genre heavyweights that otherwise wouldn’t be sharing the stage together (or the opposite, where you get “WHAT IN THE ACTUALLY FUCK” moments like Me First and the Gimme Gimmies playing a set on the Rise Stage just before Death Grips).  If you would have told me two years ago that I would be hanging around waiting for Underoath to play after seeing a set from Thursday I would have said you were crazy. Both bands, defunct for the last number of years, have recently gotten back together for some high profile reunion events. Thursday giving it another go at this year’s Wrecking Ball fest in Atlanta, while Underoath  spent the winter/spring touring a dual album anniversary set for 2004’s “They’re Only Chasing Safety” and 2006’s “Define the Great Line”.

As a former Myspace era scene kid (see: black swoop, white pyramid belt, Norma Jean shirt) this was a dream come true. I had already driven up to Grand Rapids earlier in the year to see the reunion/album tour and was excited to see what they had to offer for a non-linear set. Kicking off with “Breathing in a New Mentality”, the opening track from 2008’s “Lost in the Sound of Separation”, Underoath showed both the fans and the curious alike that they still have it. One of the central aspects of their reunion was the return of drummer/singer Aaron Gillespie, who hadn’t played with the band since 2010. If you are unfamiliar with Underoath, you’d recognize them as the band that really started the ‘clean/whiney singer trading vocals with a second, screaming vocalist’. Love it or hate it, they made it popular and arguably did it the best (and god damn if keyboardist Chris Dudley doesn’t look fucking adorable while he’s trying to look like he’s really contributing to the song). 

My lovely girlfriend, who indulged me through two albums worth of scream goodness earlier in the year, wanted to check out English songwriter/pipsqueak Jake Bugg…so I hung up my low v-neck and retired my neon Supra’s a little early and left Underoath to wrap up as we went to find a nice, shady hill spot at the Rock Stage. Only having heard Bugg a few days prior, I was intrigued to see what this 22 year old had to offer. Playing a garage rocky, folky, blues forward style this kid has somehow amassed almost 100 million listens on his top 5 Spotify songs…most of which came on an album he released when he was 22. As the theme today was ‘general chill’, it seemed like a good way to close out the last of the daylight, and that it certainly was. Surrounded by a backing band, Bugg played a solid 45 minute set while mixing his faster/slower songs. I was impressed, at 22 I would be lucky if I could be on a stage that size for 5 minutes without throwing up…let alone entertain a couple thousand people for the better part of an hour.

At this point in the evening, the things I had to give a shit about were pretty much over. Ever curious about large scale spectacles/general bullshit, we wandered over to see the first part of Death Grips set. Admittedly, I haven’t spent much time on what is one of the more polarizing bands around. I know they leaked their own album ahead of the release date to piss of their label, I know they have an album cover that is just a big ole boner with the title written on it, and I know they notoriously just don’t show up for performances. But those I know who love them, LOVE THEM…so I wanted to see what it was all about. We made it all of about 2 minutes before trading looks of “what the fuck is this shit?” and fleeing as far away as possible. Death Grips have been added to the list of things that I just don’t get. They were by far the loudest set all weekend, abrasively so. And with the stage lights set so dim that you couldn’t really see anyone on stage, so the only thing one had to focus on was the pooling of blood in your ear canal. 

As I could give a fuck about Rob Zombie playing just about anything that isn’t “Dragula” repeated for 60 straight minutes, this seems like as good of time as any to circle back and talk about what Riot Fest did right and wrong this year. The biggest check in the plus column for the crew responsible for punk rocks biggest carnival would be their adjustments to the layout at this year’s installment. While last year’s location details were filled with stress and uncertainty, having to move from Humboldt to Douglas Park and then facing last second threats from St. Anthony Hospital, they were able to work on solid ground this year and damn if they didn’t do it right. 

Issues with sound bleeding from stage to stage were all of non-existent from what I could tell and in terms of maneuverability; it was incredibly easy to get from one act to the next. Having one main gate made finding your way in very easy, with all will call/VIP/press check in’s occurring right in one spot. You would think that shuffling thousands of people through one gate would cause a huge backup and bottleneck? Not the case, entry was quick and easy on all three days. Compared to what I experienced at Shaky Knees in Atlanta, Riot Fest has set a standard for urban music festivals. They did a fantastic job providing a wide variety of vendors, both food and otherwise, while placing them in three central locations (food stand, food truck, retail vendors) for easy access. Unlike the rambling views of near blackout drunk Kyle, I would say that there were plenty of available port-a-potties and I never had to wait very long to relieve myself in the stuffy blue box we all know and love. 

I’m really happy to see this year go so well for the Riot crew, as they’ve worked really hard to make this festival what it is. As someone who has seen all the phases of the fest, from the mutli-venue city hopping weekend, to the Congress Theater takeover, to the Humboldt Park introduction…they have come a long way. The rains held out, for the first time in three years, and they didn’t have to stare down a $100,000 repair bill. They booked the biggest/most surprising reunion in punk history (more on that shortly) while filling out the rest of a very solid lineup with new and old favorites. In the era of major festivals, I’m glad they’ve done what they can to give punk rock their say. My only complaint: more water stations. While September in Chicago is not known to be a sweltering month, having one water station (and a small one at that) for thousands of attendees is a poor showing, if not a dangerous one given the amount of alcohol consumed onsite…both legally purchased and snuck in like some kind of boozy joey for alcoholic kangaroos. 

Now that that’s out of the way, a brief review of the reunited Misfits: they played well. Seriously, that’s about all I have to say. They had a rad set for a band who hasn’t been a band for the entire time I’ve been on this planet. Danzig only freaked out once, calling out his stage tech for microphone placement, and sounded out of breath in between every song…the kind of out of breath that you get from eating too many McDouble’s, not the kind you get from running a marathon. But they did well, everyone had a great time, and I got to hear “Where Eagles Dare” from the comfort of the back of the crowd before we made our traffic beating, early exit home.

All in all: 10/10, would do again, thx fr th mmrs, tip your bartender, ect.

The end.

[visionnepal3-blog]

Between Parturition and Manufacture

NOVEMBER 5, 2018

STEFANI GERMANOTTA is a hero of inauthenticity — a star of both invention, giving herself a stage name, Lady Gaga, that would never pass for a birth name, and reinvention, working her way through pop music genres and a succession of outlandish looks that refuse a fixed point of identity. She seems in line of succession to Cindy Sherman, David Bowie, and Madonna, with no doubt Joan Riviere and Judith Butler already mobilized in her name in many an academic quarter. Yet A Star Is Born is a property that wants to affirm authenticity.

There are more versions of it than the four films called A Star Is Born (from 1937, 1954, 1976, and 2018) and a radio version of the same name. The main elements are already in play in What Price Hollywood? (1932): the older alcoholic man whose career is on the skids, the younger female star, the fall of one against the rise of the other, ending in the man’s suicide. The only major change in the transition from What Price Hollywood? to A Star Is Born is the addition of sexual relationship or marriage between the two. What Price Hollywood? is itself a reworking of elements from the novel The Skyrocket (1925), made into a (now lost) film the following year: the rise and fall motif, the ingénue, the enabling man of power, the conflict (for the woman) between career and marriage. Between the 1976 and 2018 Hollywood versions, there were two Indian films to hit each of these plot points: 2013’s Aashiqui 2 (Romance 2) in Hindi and 2014’s Nee Jathaga Nenundali (I Want To Be Your Companion) in Telugu. The gay porn film The Light from the Second Story Window (1973) is sometimes referred to as a version, and there are very many films called things like A Porn Star is Born.

All versions in various ways worry away at the ambiguity in the most familiar title. What does it mean to say a star is “born”? The only time any of the films use the phrase is in the 1937 version, when Norman, the man who has discovered and championed Esther, says it to her after the premiere of her first film (where she now has her star name, Vicki). This is a straightforward colloquial usage, suggesting the way something may seem to suddenly appear. However, it leaves open the question of whether a star is someone indeed born with an innate star quality or whether stardom is something manufactured, a manipulation, an illusion. All versions want to hold on to some sense of the former, but they differ in the degree to which they see it as something that breaks through industrial cultural production uncontaminated and authentic. The Skyrocket unequivocally acknowledges that Sharon, a nothing special young woman outside the spotlight, comes to fascinating life before the camera, but it also emphasizes the role of the man, the director William Dvorak, in molding this creation: she may have no talent as an actress but “he could always trick her before the camera for the things he needed.” In the following versions, the idea of manipulation is played down. While there are scenes of the man Max (again a director) coaching the woman Mary in What Price Hollywood?, there is also a sequence in which, after a disastrous first shoot, she practices by herself all night so that the next day she delivers a mesmerizing performance in a tiny role. Certainly, when it comes to the rushes, it is clear that Mary is aided by editing and lighting, but still, it is she who glows.

Mary’s overnight labor on her performance suggests that her stardom is not (like Sharon’s) just a happy accident of presence before the camera. However, like Sharon and Esther in the 1937 Star, there is also a sense that all she wants to be is “a star.” None of them talk about acting. What Price Hollywood? has Mary dressing herself from the fan magazines and putting her own face in place of Garbo’s in a double spread with Clark Gable, and 1937 Star opens with Esther coming home dreamily after seeing a Norman Maine movie and avidly reading the fan magazines; they all just want to be “in pictures.” There’s none of this in the 1954 and subsequent versions. Of course Esther (1954, 1976), Aarohi (Aashiqui 2), and Lady Gaga’s Ally (2018) want success, but there is also a sense of their sheer love of performing — they’re longtime professionals who have finally gotten noticed. In each case, a sequence shows them singing in an unprestigious locale, establishing their exceptional, but as yet undiscovered, talent and quality. The starmakers are now actors or singers, who can open doors for their discovery but are not in a position to shape them. The film and music industry are seen as obstructive to varying degrees, but this is just what the star has to break through: authenticity will out.

The move away from an awareness of the manipulation, or at the least the role of others and technology, in the production of stars toward a wholehearted embrace of a notion of transparent star quality is aided by the role of men and black people. One of the things that most struck me about the new A Star Is Born was how very male it is. There are fleeting glimpses of comedienne Luenell, singers Brandi Carlile and Halsey, an engaging but brief appearance by Rebecca Field as Gail, an aide to the man here, Jackson Maine, and his childhood friend Noodles has a wife (Drena De Niro), but the only sustained representations of the female, apart from Ally, are the drag queens in the bar where Jackson first sees Ally. With these, the film plays on the paradox of a swaggering, often muscly masculinity being adorned with sequins, lip gloss, and baroque hand gestures, the male beneath the feminine accoutrements emphasized by having Ally perform there, an assertion of a non-paradoxical alignment of body and adornment. She sings “La Vie en Rose,” a song made famous by the ne plus ultra of raw expressivity, Édith Piaf, but covered more recently by another pop performance artist, Grace Jones. The song positions Ally between the performativity that has made Gaga famous and the expressive self that the film wants us to credit her with. It also completes the salute to the queer culture that Gaga has allied herself with — a tribute that began in the film with Ally singing a snatch of the verse to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”; now the film, Ally, and perhaps Gaga can move on. When Ally makes forays into the kind of glam femme artifice that made Gaga famous, Jackson is contemptuous and the film shoots from behind television cameras and cuts away as soon as it decently can. By the end of the film, she has left queerdom behind.

Ally (Stefani Germanotta) is positioned between the performativity that has made Gaga famous and the expressive self that the film wants us to credit her with.

Not only does this A Star Is Born sideline women (despite its central star and protagonist), it is also bursting with masculine maleness. The film opens with Jackson Maine in concert, his country rock among the most virile of authenticity musical genres (and the band used in the film is named Promise of the Real). Neither he nor Ally has mothers anymore. She has a father who hangs out with his taxi driver chums (all men), plays opera, and venerates Frank Sinatra. It’s a cheerful background and we learn no more, and she seems to have no women friends or colleagues. Jackson, who has the fuller backstory and attendant occasions for melodrama, with a brother-manager old enough to be his father, anguishes over the destruction of his drunken father’s grave and hard-drinking, hard-driving habits. The screen treatment of Ally’s performances cuts back to him — his pleasure, his drunkenness — and her final affirmative performance, for the first time giving herself a surname, his, with a song he wrote that declares she’ll never love again.

Earlier versions of the story have also had few women in them other than the star who is born. It is the incandescence of the star who played each one that distracted attention away from the lack of other women. There is even something of a progression through the various versions, as men gradually eclipse women. This may have something to do with the decreasing involvement of women in their making. Adela Rogers St. Johns, a successful journalist well connected to Hollywood, wrote The Skyrocket and the original story for What Price Hollywood? Dorothy Parker contributed to the script of the 1937 Star and Joan Didion to the 1976. Judy Garland was the driving force behind the radio version, although she had to wait until she left MGM and married Sid Luft to get the 1954 film made. Barbra Streisand was an even more decisive driving force behind the 1976 version.

The Skyrocket has a best friend, helpful wardrobe and make-up artist, rival and supportive stars and ex-stars, all women. While Max in What Price Hollywood? is a magnetic male figure (whose lack of apparent sexual interest in Mary, together with prissy mannerisms, might suggest him as queer), the film keeps Mary center screen. And though much of the drama focuses on both her gratitude toward and need to get away from Max, there is also a well- (some say too well-) developed plot concerning her marriage to a playboy. In the 1937 Star, Esther’s parents and brother make fun of her fandom, but it is her grandmother, a pioneer woman who compares Hollywood to the frontier, who understands Esther’s aspirations, lends her the money to go to Hollywood, and then, at the end of the film, after Norman’s suicide, persuades her to go back to work.

In the 1954 Star, attention is more or less equal between the man and the woman, but later versions build on the melodrama of his troubles, providing him with more screen time and backstory. One index of this is the presentation of his death. Norman Maine in 1937 and 1954 wades into the sea and drowns off screen, as if easefully swallowed by the watery element; John in 1976 kills himself in a car crash and Rahul in Aashiqui 2 throws himself of a bridge, both in drawn-out dramatic sequences; in 2018, more discreetly but horribly, Jackson hangs himself.

In 1954’s “A Star Is Born,” Esther Blodgett (Judy Garland) peers around a mirror to observe the men coordinating her transformation into Vicki Lester.

It might be objected that the films do no more than reflect the fact that most of the powerful roles in Hollywood and the music industry have been occupied by men. Occasionally there does seem to be an awareness of this. In the 1937 Star, men discuss what name to give Esther, in front of her but without consulting her, and others worry over the qualities of her face. The latter idea is developed in the 1954 version, where three make-up men stand around Esther on the morning of her screen test, wondering what to do with her unsatisfactory face. The composition features mirrors within mirrors that Esther has, as it were, to peer round as the men discuss the problem, herself unable to get a word in edgeways. The men produce her as a pink amalgamation of a number of other stars, unrecognizable to Norman when he comes to pick her up. Yet such perceptive moments are rare and nowhere to be found in the later versions.

Men change women’s names in more than one way. The studios make Esther Blodgett “Vicki Lester” in 1937 and 1954, while bridegrooms make Mary Evans “Mrs. Lonny Borden” in What Price Hollywood?, Esther/Vicki “Mrs. Albert Henkel” in 1937, and “Mrs. Ernest Gubbins” in 1954 (Norman Maine’s birth name respectively in the two films). The films play on the tensions between these names. Being treated as Mr. Evans or Mr. Lester is wounding. After Norman’s suicide, Esther/Vicki makes her first public appearance proudly announcing she is “Mrs. Norman Maine,” effectively subsuming her identity in both that of her husband and the film industry that gave him his name. In 1976, Esther refuses to have her name, Hoffman, changed, a gesture as much to do with not eclipsing a Jewish identity as female autonomy, but she does, after John’s suicide, announce herself as “Esther Hoffman Howard,” a common gesture that nonetheless parades a woman’s connection to a man in a context where the man rather seldom does the same vice versa. In 2018, Ally has a surname for the first time in the film, when, after Jackson’s suicide, she is announced as “Ally Maine.” Only in Aashiqui 2 does the question of the woman’s name not come up, neither from the studios nor from Rahul, since they do not marry.

Esther (Barbra Streisand) in 1976’s “A Star Is Born” performs in a trio called the Oreos.

In What Price Hollywood? Mary has a black maid, Bonita (Louise Beavers, who had played the black support for a white career woman in the 1934 Imitation of Life), whom she treats casually even as Bonita attends to Mary’s material and cosmetic needs. In 1954, black dancers are briefly seen, leaping with tambourines or performing a crooked walk, in the “Swanee” routine in the “Born in a Trunk” number, a routine celebrating, in time-honored fashion, a Southern white homeland with marginalized and merry blacks. Later, in “Lose That Long Face,” a number cut from the original release, Esther is dressed like a street urchin and dances between two black kids. In 1976, Esther is first encountered as lead singer between two black women in a trio called the Oreos, a naming decision which I won’t even begin to try to unpack; the first word of their number is “black” (sung only by Esther/Streisand, with a near-Afro hairdo alongside her African-American back-ups’ relaxed styling). In 2018, Jackson’s school friend Noodles (yes, well) is black, and it is he and his black wife who encourage Jackson and Ally to marry and in the former’s local black church. This shift from servant to terpsichorean and musical support to emotional, even spiritual validation suggests that in telling this story it is hard quite to let go of, or exactly to acknowledge, the role of African Americans in securing the material, rhythmic, and affective authenticity of white Americans. Perhaps Esther’s grandmother in the 1937 Star is not all wrong when she compares Hollywood to the frontier.

Nearly all versions of the story have the moment in which the man sees the woman in performance for the first time. It’s the moment when the man — and we — must be convinced the woman is the real deal, has “that little something extra,” as Norman says in 1954. From 1954 on, that moment is a song, and in all cases they do not perform their own material and what they sing has nothing to do with what is happening in the story at that point. “The Man that Got Away,” the big torch song hit of the 1954 version, has no relation that we know of with Esther’s past and everything to do with her skill and pleasure in singing, signaled by this emotionally desperate number ending with her smiling and laughing with her fellow musicians. Later, Esther, in deep despair at Norman’s self-destructive drinking, pours out her sorrows to the studio boss, but in between takes of the upbeat “Lose That Long Face” that is the antithesis of what she is feeling.

The following Stars close that gap between self and performance. This is partly signaled extra-textually: it is widely known that Streisand part-composed the songs she sings in 1976 and that Gaga was even more involved in the composition of the 2018 songs. Their characters in each film also write, to varying extents, the songs they sing. This conflates tropes from the musical biopic — where the song expresses the person’s inner self and also what they are feeling at the moment of composing and/or performing — with the mythos of the singer-songwriter. (The cover of Carole King’s LP Tapestry is prominent on Ally’s bedroom wall.) Potentially, then, the Star Is Born template, and the ambiguity of that title, lends itself to exploration of the strange tension between self and performance in cultural production since romanticism, and even more so in conditions of industrial, capital-intensive and now digital production. However, in different ways, both the premeditated quality of Streisand’s performance style, evident in every spontaneous wisecrack and affective grimace, and Gaga’s chameleonic theatricality sit uneasily with this.

In Aashiqui 2, the song at the moment of discovery is by Rahul and he later tells Aarohi that she sang it better than he has and that he “never felt any of my songs like this.” As she sings it she looks at a large portrait on the wall of Lata Mangeshkar, uncontested as the greatest playback singer in Hindi cinema; Rahul notices this and later tells Aarohi it was this that made him realize that she, Aarohi, wanted to be a singer. In fact, Shraddha Kapoor, who plays Aarohi, is sung for by three different singers: within the fiction of the film, the voice belongs to her and makes her special enough to be considered alongside Lata, but, to a culturally incompetent viewer at any rate, there is something giddying when in the film we see Aarohi/Kapoor recording a soundtrack to be dubbed for another actress when the voice we hear is anyway not Kapoor’s. At this moment, Aashiqui 2 seems to register the problematic of self and performance.

In the 1954 Star, we see the end of the screening of Vicki’s first film. “Swanee” comes to a climax and theater curtains close on it; the lead singer steps through the curtains, thanks the audience for the applause, and then, in the “Born in a Trunk” number, tells her life story, illustrated by danced and sung moments culminating in the just seen “Swanee” number, which then, as the curtains close, dissolves back to the singer bringing the song to an end. But who is this and whose story? Vicki, who has only recently been invented by the studio? The character she plays in the film, about whom we know nothing? Esther? Judy Garland? A change of framing near the beginning of the sequence shifts it from being something more evidently a film within a film to something apparently taking place in a theater and addressed to — whom? The theater audience? The audience in the film (including Esther) watching the film? Us? These ambiguities are in part a result of the whole piece being added under a different director after the film had supposedly been completed, but it also catches the shifting ontological levels of stardom — real person, star image, character — that run through both this film and the whole star phenomenon. Lady Gaga would seem to be the perfect performer to play more fully on such complexities, but it is not the road that the film, or she, has chosen to go down. Rather than a celebration of female image-manufacture, we have the fantasy of male parturition and the lure of authenticity. A film for our times.

¤

Richard Dyer is Professor Emeritus at King’s College and Honorary Professor at St Andrews’s, and a Fellow of the British Academy. His books include Stars, Heavenly Bodies, White, The Culture of Queers, Pastiche, In the Space of a Song, Lethal Repetition, and La dolce vita.

Source: https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/between-parturition-and-manufacture/

[r3dz3pp3lin]

The Futurist Cinema

The book, a wholly passéist means of preserving and communicating thought, has for a long time been fated to disappear like cathedrals, towers, crenellated walls, museums, and the pacifist ideal. The book, static companion of the sedentary, the nostalgic, the neutralist, cannot entertain or exalt the new Futurist generations intoxicated with revolutionary and bellicose dynamism.

The conflagration is steadily enlivening the European sensibility. Our great hygienic war, which should satisfy all our national aspirations, centuples the renewing power of the Italian race. The Futurist cinema, which we are preparing, a joyful deformation of the universe, an alogical, fleeting synthesis of life in the world, will become the best school for boys: a school of joy, of speed, of force, of courage, and heroism. The Futurist cinema will sharpen, develop the sensibility, will quicken the creative imagination, will give the intelligence a prodigious sense of simultaneity and omnipresence. The Futurist cinema will thus cooperate in the general renewal, taking the place of the literary review (always pedantic) and the drama (always predictable), and killing the book (always tedious and oppressive). The necessities of propaganda will force us to publish a book once in a while. But we prefer to express ourselves through the cinema, through great tables of words-in-freedom and mobile illuminated signs.

With our manifesto “The Futurist Synthetic Theatre”, with the victorious tours of the theatre companies of Gualtiero Tumiati, Ettore Berti, Annibale Ninchi, Luigi Zoncada, with the two volumes of Futurist Synthetic Theatre containing eighty theatrical syntheses, we have begun the revolution in the Italian prose theatre. An earlier Futurist manifesto had rehabilitated, glorified, and perfected the Variety Theatre. It is logical therefore for us to carry our vivifying energies into a new theatrical zone: the cinema.

At first look the cinema, born only a few years ago, may seem to be Futurist already, lacking a past and free from traditions. Actually, by appearing in the guise of theatre without words, it has inherited all the most traditional sweepings of the literary theatre. Consequently, everything we have said and done about the stage applies to the cinema. Our action is legitimate and necessary in so far as the cinema up to now has been and tends to remain profoundly passéist, whereas we see in it the possibility of an eminently Futurist art and the expressive medium most adapted to the complex sensibility of a Futurist artist.

Except for interesting films of travel, hunting, wars, and so on, the film-makers have done no more than inflict on us the most backward looking dramas, great and small. The same scenario whose brevity and variety may make it seem advanced is, in most cases, nothing but the most trite and pious analysis. Therefore all the immense artistic possibilities of the cinema still rest entirely in the future. The cinema is an autonomous art. The cinema must therefore never copy the stage. The cinema, being essentially visual, must above all fulfill the evolution of painting, detach itself from reality, from photography, from the graceful and solemn. It must become antigraceful, deforming, impressionistic, synthetic, dynamic, free-wording.

One must free the cinema as an expressive medium in order to make it the ideal instrument of a new art, immensely vaster and lighter than all the existing arts. We are convinced that only in this way can one reach that polyexpressiveness towards which all the most modern artistic researches are moving. Today the Futurist cinema creates precisely the polyexpressive symphony that just a year ago we announced in our manifesto “Weights, Measures, and Prices of Artistic Genius”. The most varied elements will enter into the Futurist film as expressive means: from the slice of life to the streak of color, from the conventional line to words-in-freedom, from chromatic and plastic music to the music of objects. In other words it will be painting, architecture, sculpture, words-in-freedom, music of colors, lines, and forms, a jumble of objects and reality thrown together at random. We shall offer new inspirations for the researches of painters, which will tend to break out of the limits of the frame. We shall set in motion the words-in-freedom that smash the boundaries of literature as they march towards painting, music, noise-art, and throw a marvelous bridge between the word and the real object.

Our films will be:

1.    Cinematic analogies that use reality directly as one of the two elements of the analogy. Example: If we should want to express the anguished state of one of our protagonists, instead of describing it in its various phases of suffering, we would give an equivalent impression with the sight of a jagged and cavernous mountain.

The mountains, seas, woods, cities, crowds, armies, squadrons, aeroplanes will often be our formidable expressive words: the universe will be our vocabulary. Example: We want to give a sensation of strange cheerfulness: we show a chair cover flying comically around an enormous coat stand until they decide to join. We want to give the sensation of anger: we fracture the angry man into a whirlwind of little yellow balls. We want to give the anguish of a hero who has lost his faith and lapsed into a dead neutral skepticism: we show the hero in the act of making an inspired speech to a great crowd; suddenly we bring on Giovanni Giolitti who treasonably stuffs a thick forkful of macaroni into the hero’s mouth, drowning his winged words in tomato sauce.

We shall add color to the dialogue by swiftly, simultaneously showing every image that passes through the actors’ brains. Example: representing a man who will say to his woman: “You’re as lovely as a gazelle,” we shall show the gazelle. Example: if a character says, “I contemplate your fresh and luminous smile as a traveler after a long rough trip contemplates the sea from high on a mountain,” we shall show traveler, sea, mountain.

This is how we shall make our characters as understandable as if they talked.

2.    Cinematic poems, speeches, and poetry. We shall make all of their component images pass across the screen.

Example: “Canto dell’amore” [Song of Love] by Giosuè Carducci:

In their German strongholds perched  Like falcons meditating the hunt

We shall show the strongholds, the falcons in ambush.

From the churches that raise long marble  arms to heaven, in prayer to God  Prom the convents between villages and towns  crouching darkly to the sound of bells  like cuckoos among far-spaced trees  singing boredoms and unexpected joys...

We shall show churches that little by little are changed into imploring women, God beaming down from on high, the convents, the cuckoos, and so on.

Example: “Sogno d’Estate” [Summer’s Dream] by Giosuè Carducci:

Among your ever-sounding strains of battle, Homer, I am conquered by  the warm hour: I bow my head in sleep on Scamander’s bank, but my  heart flees to the Tyrrhenian Sea.

We shall show Carducci wandering amid the tumult of the Achaians, deftly avoiding the galloping horses, paying his respects to Homer, going for a drink with Ajax to the inn, The Red Scamander, and at the third glass of wine his heart, whose palpitations we ought to see, Pops out of his jacket like a huge red balloon and flies over the Gulf Of Rapallo. This is how we make films out of the most secret movements of genius.

Thus we shall ridicule the works of the passéist poets, transforming to the great benefit of the public the most nostalgically monotonous weepy poetry into violent, exciting, and highly exhilarating spectacles.

3.    Cinematic simultaneity and interpenetration of different times and places. We shall project two or three different visual episodes at the same time, one next to the other.

4.    Cinematic musical researches (dissonances, harmonies, symphonies of gestures, events, colors, lines, etc.).

5.    Dramatized states of mind on film.

6.    Daily exercises in freeing ourselves from mere photographed logic.

7.    Filmed dramas of objects. (Objects animated, humanized, baffled, dressed up, impassioned, civilized, dancing—objects removed from their normal surroundings and put into an abnormal state that, by contrast, throws into relief their amazing construction and nonhuman life.)

8.    Show windows of filmed ideas, events, types, objects, etc.

9.    Congresses, flirts, fights and marriages of funny faces, mimicry, etc. Example: a big nose that silences a thousand congressional fingers by ringing an ear, while two policemen’s moustaches arrest a tooth.

10.Filmed unreal reconstructions of the human body.

11.Filmed dramas of disproportion (a thirsty man who pulls out a tiny drinking straw that lengthens umbilically as far as a lake and dries it up instantly.)

12.Potential dramas and strategic plans of filmed feelings.

13.Linear, plastic, chromatic equivalences, etc., of men, women, events, thoughts, music, feelings, weights, smells, noises (with white lines on black we shall show the inner, physical rhythm of a husband who discovers his wife in adultery and chases the lover - rhythm of soul and rhythm of legs).

14.Filmed words-in-freedom in movement (synoptic tables of Iyric values—dramas of humanized or animated letters—orthographic dramas—typographical dramas—geometric dramas—numeric sensibility, etc.).

Painting + sculpture + plastic dynamism + words-in-freedom + composed noises [intonarumori] + architecture + synthetic theatre = Futurist cinema.

This is how we decompose and recompose the universe according to our marvelous whims, to centuple the powers of the Italian creative genius and its absolute preeminence in the world.

_ F.T. Marinetti, Bruno Corra, Emilio Settimelli, Arnaldo Ginna, Giacomo Balla, Remo Chiti

[how2to18]

ONE OF THE PERENNIAL questions of anyone who meets our dog Alistair is, what is he? He is certainly part- or mostly Labrador Retriever: he has a lab’s face and demeanor, down to the innate love of tennis balls. But he’s half the size of a normal lab, and has other behaviors and features that suggest some other breed, maybe a collie or another herding dog. Mostly, we just conclude, he’s a lab mixed with something small.

The American Kennel Club’s description of the lab stretches four pages and includes a litany of subjective descriptions and other criteria. Five attributes “disqualify” a dog from being a Labrador according to the AKC; Alistair fails at least two of those tests (he’s not tall enough and his tuxedo-white coloring prevents him from being a black-black Labrador). In what sense, though, is he “disqualified”? What does this make him? Less of a Labrador? Less of a dog?

Michael Worboys, Julie-Marie Strange, and Neil Pemberton’s The Invention of the Modern Dog: Breed and Blood in Victorian England offers a history of the birth of breed: that moment when dogs ceased to be dogs and became commodities — things that could be quantified, sorted, shaped, and judged. That this happened during the 19th century, and came largely out of Victorian England, is perhaps not coincidental; Victorians were in many ways obsessed with reimagining domestic spaces and who belonged in them — an obsession that was particularly acute in some of the most beloved literature of the time, from the Brontës to Dickens. Dogs in particular troubled such spaces, since they were seen simultaneously as domestic companions and as wild animals. Ivan Kreilkamp’s Minor Creatures: Persons, Animals, and the Victorian Novel focuses on this gray area inhabited by animals, tracing how Victorian writers tried to make sense of animals both inside and outside the house. Taken together, these two books offer a wide-ranging reassessment of Victorian animals as humans began to radically change how they viewed them.

Breed remains the most fundamental way we have of approaching dogs: it is the beginning and often the end of what a dog is, what defines them. It is almost always a shorthand for their personalities: golden retrievers are good with kids, Labradors energetic and obedient, pit bulls loyal and devoted. But while dogs have been with us for millennia, breeds themselves are fairly new, the very concept the invention of 19th-century England, according to The Invention of the Modern Dog. “The change to dogs being seen principally in terms of breed and as a number of distinct breeds began in the mid-Victorian period and was profound,” the authors argue; while we weren’t traditionally accustomed to think of dogs in terms of breeds, once the concept was introduced, it became the sole determining criteria of a dog’s personality — and its economic value. The concept of breed, they write,

makes dogs modern because it was a new way of thinking about, defining, and increasing the variety of forms within the species Canis lupus familiaris. Dog breeds were thoroughly Victorian inventions, influenced by industrialization, commercialization, class and gender attitudes, the rise of leisure, and evolutionary thinking.

Prior to the mid-19th century, dogs were classified by function, abilities, and health.

John Caius, for example, in his 1576 book Of Englishe Dogges, the diuersities, the names, the natures and the properties, listed five types of dogs: 1) hunting beasts, 2) those good at finding game, 3) gentle comforting companions, 4) farmers’ assistants with livestock, and 5) the “mongrels and rascal sort,” largely used as guard dogs. This focus purely on function would continue intact until the Victorian era; Comte de Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle, générale et particulière (1755) increased the number of kinds of dogs to 30, placing them on more of a sliding scale than in firm categories, and still focused entirely on their abilities. Even when writers did use the term “breed,” as Sydenham Edwards did in his 1800 Cynographia Britannica: Consisting of Coloured Engravings of the Various Breeds of Dogs Existing in Great Britain; Drawn from the Life, the word was interchangeable with “race,” “kind,” and “variety,” and thus the idea of breeds as distinct and identifiable varieties of dog had not yet taken hold. Individual animals were recognized for specific qualities and loaned out among estates for breeding purposes, but there was no specific attempt to correlate those traits with physical appearance.

At the time, the most well-organized dog culture came not from the upper classes, but from the world of dog fights and other lower-class entertainments, known as the Fancy. Bullbaiting, badger baiting, dogfighting, and rat killing: these blood sports, involving as they did sport and betting, had far more emphasis on rating specific dogs in terms of a taxonomy and hierarchy. Competitors were displayed to the crowds before fighting, so bettors could size them up, and while crowds usually favored the most aggressive-looking animal, these early “beauty shows” would set the stage for what would become the first dog shows.

In the early 1860s, the first shows brought the working-class culture of the Fancy together with livestock exhibitions and added to them a bit of the allure of the dime museum freak show. The first modern dog show, T. Dawkins Appleby’s “Monster Dog Show,” was staged in London in June 1862, a month after P. T. Barnum had staged his Great Dog Show in his American Museum in New York City. Borrowing from livestock exhibitions, dog breeders began to see physical appearance as indicative of personality and ability. But this connection wasn’t entirely tenable. With livestock, Worboys, Strange, and Pemberton explain,

physical form was likely to be an accurate guide to the amount of meat or milk they would produce, and fancy poultry and pigeons were bred for exhibition. With sporting breeds, form was taken as a proxy for function in working or sporting abilities. Thus, skull size was linked to intelligence; muzzle length to scenting; coat to warmth, protection, or visibility; and so on.

The crucial innovation of dog shows was to wed aesthetics with function: for the first time, a dog’s abilities were starting to be judged by its appearance, and its conformation to the appearance of dogs with similar abilities. It wasn’t long before appearance and aesthetic considerations began to trump working abilities. “The essence of breed,” the authors write, “was and is the division of a domesticated species by form rather than function.”

The first modern dog was a pointer named Major who belonged to a certain Mr. Smith. In the September 9, 1865, issue of the sporting magazine Field, dog aficionado John Henry Walsh identified Major as an exemplary specimen, proceeding to divide Major’s body into five parts, with a point value for each part: head and neck (30 points), frame and general symmetry (25), feet and legs (20), quality and stern (15), and color and coat (10). What was different about Walsh’s breakdown of Major was its attempt to quantify desirable dog traits and to translate working capabilities into physical appearance.

With this new set of criteria, breeders began to see dog breed as a technology that could be developed through attention to aesthetics. And as breed culture developed, it soon borrowed from phrenology and eugenics, attempting to recreate class values in the world of the dog. In a nod to phrenology, writers and fanciers ranked dogs by their skull shapes, determining intelligence accordingly: “[T]he streamlined shape of the skull [of the greyhound] with its low, sloping brow, meant that the dog was assumed to have limited intellectual faculties, enabling it to be single-minded in sighting and tracking hares.” More overtly, the emphasis on cultivating aesthetic features through breeding and developing “pure” blood lines for the improvement of the breed had all the hallmarks of the burgeoning science of eugenics. And while the authors note that “the application of science to dog breeding in this period was uneven,” it’s clear that the English fascination with breed was a complement to eugenics, and a way of testing theories on an unwilling population. With humans, eugenicists had mainly advanced positive policies: encouraging “desirables” to breed fruitfully, hoping to overwhelm the less desirable. But with dogs, breeders were “hardnosed positive and negative eugenicists: keeping the puppies they wanted, discarding those they did not, and choosing which dogs and bitches to breed.” From a eugenicist’s perspective, after all, nothing was more useful than the ability to take those you did not want and drowning them in a river.

Founded in 1873, the Kennel Club’s first rule was “in every way to promote the general improvement of dogs, dog shows, and dog trials.” But these three imperatives, one could argue (and indeed, many did argue, then and now) are entirely at odds with one another: to what extent does the general improvement of dog shows improve dogs themselves? One doesn’t have to be a card-carrying member of PETA to sense a contradiction. The most obvious example, of course, is the continuing American practice of cropping (mutilating a dog’s ears for show) and docking (cutting off all or part of a dog’s tail).

And while we’re not euthanizing dogs for minor aesthetic blemishes (well, not as often), it’s remarkable that the eugenicist impulse has remained undisturbed in the breeding world — even as it has been thoroughly denounced in other contexts. Why do we continue to believe it acceptable to select for aesthetics among dogs? Is it because they don’t have a voice of their own to protest? Or is it because pet dogs and cats straddle a bizarre divide, half-companion, half-consumer product? We acknowledge their near-human levels of empathy and friendship, while accepting a purebred market that functions almost exactly like the market for cars or phones. The concept of breed may be a shorthand for traits and personality, but its true purpose is to elevate animals into the realm of consumer goods. Lap dogs, like laptops, are infinitely customizable for the right price.

¤

At the same time that Victorian culture was changing dogs, dogs themselves were changing culture, through the Victorian novel. As Ivan Kreilkamp argues in Minor Creatures: Persons, Animals, and the Victorian Novel, the realist novel that came to dominate 19th-century literature cannot be fully appreciated without paying attention to the animals that lurk in the margins. “As England became known as a nation of shopkeepers, it was also preeminently associated with long novels and beloved domesticated animals,” Kreilkamp writes, “two cultural forms that […] developed not just in parallel but in tandem.”

One of the central preoccupations of the Victorian novel was exploring and defining domestic space — who belonged there, who was excluded, and what the roles were. At a time of rapid change, the home became a fraught space, and writers like Dickens and Eliot used the novel form to reexamine what “home” meant. “Victorian literature, especially the genre of the realist novel,” Kreilkamp explains,

was preoccupied with a project of measuring and testing the boundaries and limits of the family, asking: who belongs as an enfranchised occupant of domestic space, who may be represented as domesticated, a friend to man, native to the home and within the genre of the home?

He argues that animals — particularly dogs — were vital to this process, as figures that moved in and out of (literally and symbolically) the domestic space, who could be welcomed in as a family member while still kept at arm’s length. In the Victorian period, Kreilkamp writes, “the three major normative categories of the human, the home, and the novel are all conceptualized in relation to an animal existence that is at once marginal or excluded but symbolically central and always a shaping influence.”

Animals were particularly important as figures of sentimentality in the Victorian novel, which “came to depend importantly, for its repertoire of significations, on pets and pet keeping as demonstrations and proofs of the constitution of the home as a sentimentally charged space.” In the Brontë Sisters’ novels, for example, the role of the governess was often played against that of the pet — both were interlopers in the home, essential and yet marginalized, and in Agnes Grey and Jane Eyre, the novel hinged on under what conditions such a marginalized figure in the home might find a permanent status. The pet, like the governess, occupies the domestic space but is not of the family, and thus must petition for rights and acceptance. Focusing on the animal as sentimental, often-abused creature, to whom ethical stature could be granted, Kreilkamp argues, gave the Brontës and the Victorian novel their signature tropes.

For Dickens, the dog was an even more marginalized figure. In Bleak House, Great Expectations, and others of Dickens’s classics, the question was once again how and under what condition an orphan might find a way into the safe space of the home. While Esther and Pip find ways in through luck, perseverance, and their innate goodness, the dogs remain on the outside, reminders of social oblivion. In Great Expectations, for example, “the possibility or threat of being seen or treated as a dog bears a strong correlation to an anxiety of being forgotten.” Dogs, like orphans, are creatures of the street, without protection beyond what sympathy they can muster through their pathetic state.

From the Brontës and Dickens, Kreilkamp moves to Eliot, Hardy, Arthur Conan Doyle, and finally to South African novelist Olive Schreiner. In the process, he also moves away from dogs. In what is perhaps the most famous passage from Eliot’s Middlemarch, the central figure is a not a dog but a squirrel: “If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.” Eliot’s point, of course, is that ordinary life is made up of so many unremarked and unnoticed details that to focus on them all would kill us, but in searching for a metaphor to capture the depths of human life, she opts for the tiny heart of a tiny squirrel: something ubiquitous but perpetually marginal, flitting about the edges of human culture. Through such analogies, Kreilkamp suggests, Eliot

establishes a pattern of imagery according to which the human relationship to the animal becomes a test case for the care of others and the possibility of autonomy or a companionship that might exist without dependency, as opposed to a parasitic form of relationship in which one being utterly submits to the other.

Horses and sheep, as well, become important in Minor Creatures’s trajectory, as Victorian novelists further pushed the possibility of what does and doesn’t deserve rights. Kreilkamp’s argument falters as it becomes more diffuse, for the simple reason that domesticated pets exist (at least with regards to the human imagination) in a different world from livestock or wild creatures. The squirrel doesn’t evoke the same questions of domesticity, companionship, or sentimentality; the lamb only enters into the space of the home as dinner. Minor Creatures would’ve done well to focus solely on dogs (or dogs and cats, though the latter don’t get much play here) — not only is there ample material to work with already, but it would have been cleaner, and more focused. Even with the multiple valences in which dogs appear in these works, they still constitute a sole category.

Even with a narrower focus, the problem here is that all animals, domestic or wild, resist any kind of totalizing philosophy. Like a good academic, Kreilkamp opts for sweeping and definitive statements:

This chapter argues that this identification of Jane Eyre as an ‘animal’ (she is later compared to, among other images, a bird in a cage and a slaughtered lamb) offers a clue to a much broader discourse and logic and informs all of the novels published by the Brontë sisters in 1847.

The contention that animals would be the key to all the novels presupposes a central, symbolic place for the animal, which is impossible to sustain. What John Berger wrote of zoo animals is true of animals generally: they are perpetually out of focus, and all the concentration we can muster will never quite be enough to centralize them.

But at the same time novelists were reckoning with the fact that dogs were perpetually just out of frame and just outside the threshold of the house, breeders were looking to regularize them, codify them, taxonomize and hierarchize them in new ways. Kreilkamp’s novels stretch the period between the founding of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in 1824 and the passage of the Cruelty to Animals Act in 1876, overlapping the same period that Worboys, Strange, and Pemberton cover. It was a time in which the role of animals (and the dog in particular) was being radically rethought. Minor Creatures and The Invention of the Modern Dog make for a strong complement, for just as dogs were being retooled as eugenics-inspired home commodities, they were being employed as symbolic tropes to help refine what the home could be.

¤

Colin Dickey is the author, most recently, of Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places.

The post Companion and Commodity: The Victorian Dog appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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