choicescreen

[choicescreen]

"damn!" she exclaims, acting like the wind was struck from her. "you're strict. yes, nicky's beautiful, yes, he's the most beautiful man we've ehhhh-ver seen—" she then does her best impression of charlie brown's teacher (a muffled "wah, wah, wah, wah...") as her eyes lazily roll into the back of her head. "but, like. he doesn't have a single! grey hair. he doesn't have any wrinkles, or age spots, or old man hands. that's what makes dilfs hot."

she's shameless. "and milfs."

she needn't insinuate. by now, it's likely she's heard whether she considers it her business or not -- yusuf's hardly known to be stingy, nor particularly private, in expressing his affections. works to everyone's benefit, he'd argue.

                   of course she makes him laugh, but that's easy. the real challenge lies in getting yusuf to drop the subject now. ❝ but why? nicky's beautiful. ❞ he strikes a strange balance between child-like curiosity and not-quite-faux offended. ❝ you're not explaining this properly. ❞

[choicescreen]

AYO EDEBIRI as ariel ecton in opus (2025)

[choicescreen]

why did father mulcahy kill him like that

[choicescreen]

he pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, rubbing inward towards his eyes. "yes, isn't it?" it being the thought of an invisible wonka.

—redmon startles, sitting up so fast his head spins. "what?" hushed, yet strained. kindergartener whisper. "you can—" hm. he needs to feign ignorance. he clears his throat, throwing his head back and holding his chin high and tight.

"i haven't the slightest idea," his eyes briefly dart over to the doorway, willing his haughty, busybody lawyer away, "what you're talking about."

(dutch grabs pomeroy by the collar, tugging him back. their squabble echoes down the corridor.)

"all writers talk to themselves. it's no cause for concern. would you, uh, like to go down to the bar?" get out get out get out get out.

Obviously sarcastic but sounding nothing like it: "Lovely. Lovely."

"Next, you'll ask me to be invisible."

Despite Redmon's nicely dressed impoliteness, this entire scenario is wonderfully thrilling.

Wonka's pupils knock around the white rings of his eyes like two hockey pucks in freshly zamboni-ed ice rinks; as though trying to look for someone he cannot see. "Is that what happened to whatever mysterious, shadowy, silent presence it is you're talking to?"

[choicescreen]

@goldticket said: "i can tell by the look in your eyes."

tampopo.

redmon scrubs at his face long enough for it to hurt, then rests it there. his ring—still glittering with his daily reminder of slyvia—and index fingers seperate from around his mouth like two nosy neighbor window shades.

politely, though only just, "i want you to be quiet now. or make yourself useful. be my guest."

[choicescreen]

@goldticket said: "you're behind the times."

tampopo.

harry's fingers splay across his chest, clutching some imaginery pearls. "i'm be-hind the times?" scoff... double take, scoff, loud ha! "see, that's where you're wrong." he wags his finger at his anachronistically tailored companion.

"i once read that fashion trends have fifty year cycles. ergo, i'm ahead of the times by—guess how many years? take a look-see at my tie. you guess right, i might have a surprise for ya'."

[choicescreen]

tampopo from the 1985 film. alter as needed.

make that noise after the film starts and i might kill you.

they say that at the moment of death, you see a sort of short film, your whole life kaleidoscoped before your eyes. i'm really looking forward to that.

none of that, you hear?

first contemplate the ramen. the stars of the show: three slices of roast pork.

until we meet again.

we'll be there in two hours. we can chow down afterwards.

does that have some special meaning?

i've got a bad feeling about this.

hey, you'll catch cold over there.

got beat up again? who was it this time?

you're soaked. hurry up and change.

come with me to paris. i'll buy you jewelry and furs!

don't be so damn stubborn.

you're behind the times.

itching for a fight, pal? just ask.

i'll be okay. go on ahead.

you're tough.

there were five of them. it wasn't fair.

is the numerator on top or bottom?

i tried to learn by watching others, but i really have no idea what i'm doing.

it lacks pizzazz. basically it sucks.

thicker isn't better.

lukewarm ramen isn't ramen!

please teach me! i'm begging you.

we'll do this til you get it right.

this place is famous for its seafood.

the most important thing is not to make any noise.

i can tell by the look in your eyes.

come back late tonight with the money.

don't give me that shit!

i couldn't finish it because it's inedible.

we had an agreement.

come share our meal.

burning is always a risk with french cuisine.

ah, the good old days!

very light, yet full-bodied.

you're not eating much, sonny. can i make you something? what would you like?

you can eat it out of my hand.

i thought i'd die from the smell.

be a good boy.

please allow this old man to help.

can't hurt to try.

maybe the dough didn't sit long enough.

it's none of your business where i hang out.

you're good for being self-taught.

leave this to the young folks.

it's just... now you look hard to talk to.

why are you doing all this for me?

everyone has their own ladder. some do their best to climb to the top, while others don't even realize they have a ladder. you came along and helped me find my ladder.

i grew up in a miserable family, so i wanted to make my own home the warmest there was.

i don't know how to act in a happy home.

maybe i'm just a cold-hearted guy.

i couldn't be happier.

give me your other hand.

don't fall asleep or you'll die!

how can you be so heartless?

the flavor lacks depth, or maybe breadth.

don't look so sad.

you're scaring me.

darling, what is it?

you'll get better soon.

you're a superstar!

so long, partner.

[choicescreen]

tony shalhoub as abraham "abe" weissman in season one of the marvelous mrs. maisel

primetime emmy award nominee for outstanding supporting actor in a comedy series

[choicescreen]

unconvinced, and not quite under his breath: "you were in school so long ago, you've probably forgotten everything that happened to you back then."

mizushima tenses and shrinks back at the hand on his back, expecting it to turn into another clip around his ears. he's relieved when akitsu changes the subject so quick. he brightens, then, as many young folks do when food and alcohol is brought up.

"that's the spirit. i'm starving. and thirsty." is he done? no—"and my feet hurt. and my neck. ahh—" he winces, dramatic, leaning his ear into his left shoulder, "my neck."

"And? You're a grown man. What happened in school don't matter."

Akitsu finished mooring the boat, and exhaled loudly. "There she is. All done. Now," he straightened up, and patted Mizushima on the back, "What do you say we get something to eat and some sake, yeah? That'll cheer you up, Kid."

[choicescreen]

nile snorts—actually, properly snorts. she dug this hole herself.

"i mean, i," e-ye, "wouldn't. he might be old as dirt, but he doesn't have the physical qualities. then again," she knocks their shoulders together, jockish. "what you call nicky is none of my business."

if she insinuates any thicker, it'd suffocate them.

there's context, and then there's expert knowledge. even booker's youth speak expertise has now been outdated by a two-century margin. yusuf approaches her as the prevailing modern-to-intelligible interpreter of the group.

                   ❝ so it's a compliment ❞, is what he surmises, his expression now leaning towards smug. adult or not, it never hurts to be called handsome, not even at a thousand years old. doesn't matter that the specifics escape him. what's dad got to do with it? he leans into her with his curiosity doubled, if only to expand his own ever-growing vocabulary. where might he put this newly discovered term to use? ❝ if it's independent from having kids or not, is it solely about the age then? could i say nicky's a dilf? ❞

[choicescreen]

if i were your father, i’d hold you round the shoulders and say, “it’s not your fault. you did nothing wrong.” but i can’t say that. you killed your mother, and i killed my wife.

drive my car (2021) dir. ryusuke hamaguchi

[choicescreen]

[choicescreen]

jo could nearly burst with happiness, of course. she'd smiled so much today, her face almost felt sore. but a blue mood swept over her intermittently throughout the wedding day. meg would be moving away—forever. everyone makes that out to be a good thing, but she does not see a thimble of goodness in the separation of siblings.

when she looks at laurie, at her side, as always, her eyes are a mite softer than the thoughts in her head. it might have something to do with the question he poses to her. "oh, teddy, i'd be honored to be your best man. imagine me in a suit!" she poses: chin up and proud, fists on her hips. "i think i'd strike a dashing figure."

she feels compelled to clear the air before he asks her about her own dreams. those are always something she'll talk about without being asked. "but i'm never going to marry. not ever. i hold my freedom in too high of an esteem to be in such a hurry to give it over."

"it's all so lovely, isn't it? our dearest meg and john, don't they look just like a painting together? or perhaps they are characters in a play. either way, it's terribly romantic." laurie is only a man in theory, still a youthful boy in his head, prone to romanticizing every aspect of life. there's nothing that could possibly be more wonderful to him than seeing two of his favourite people in love.

"i hope my wedding will be just as grand. but nothing too ostentatious, i don't like fuss and feathers. a grand display of adoration, i mean. you'd be my best man, wouldn't you? there's no one better suited for it, unless john cares to indulge me."

STARTER CALL. @choicescreen featuring jo.

[choicescreen]

jo's hands settle on her hips. she watches amy flutter in and out of the room like a colorful butterfly who emerged from her cocoon seconds earlier. compared to her little sister, she must look drawn and grey.

"amy," she begins, rather diplomatically, "if i meant to complain about you, i can assure you i would have done it long before now." they've both grown since their days in their little home, when any look or step perceived to be wrong was enough for a knock-down, drag-out, but the spirits of those two girls still reside within them, in some way.

then, she smiles, and looks like that old jo again. her hand reaches out and gently squeezes amy's bicep. "come. sit here by me. we can decide where we want to spend the night while i open these gifts you've given me."

amy has been so very clingy since arriving in new york, following her sister into every room and talking her ear off. fully ignoring any complaints about it, as she often does. she interrupts herself, halfway through a tangent: "— we should go somewhere exciting! like the theater or a proper dinner. on aunt march's dime, she gave us pocket money to spend, bless her. speaking of which, i forgot to give you all your gifts." amy, with her exceptional eye for finding treasures, made sure to acquire many things for jo during her time abroad. nothing fit for a lady, she made sure of that, but perhaps suited for a proper gentleman.

now, before jo can comment further, amy is in and out the room, returning with a neatly wrapped box. (its contents include: some ornate pens and ink, a well-tailored gentleman's smoking jacket, and a fine looking french translation of a midsummer night's dream.) she's very proud of herself. "you may now voice your complaints, if you must. i promise i won't cry or let you hurt my feelings."

STARTER CALL. @choicescreen featuring jo.

[choicescreen]

@pul1tzer

the booth upholstery is sticky. christ, do they ever clean these places. the bridge of her nose wrinkles, but she's certainly seen her fair share of worse dive bars.

when her almost-not-quite-maybe friend throws himself into the other side, bronca smirks around the bottleneck of her beer. "do you ever not look like absolute dogshit, molloy?"

[choicescreen]

@fifthdimensicn

"hm." it's not a filler word. not stalling, but rather considering, trying to pick the right words out of the available, to string them together the right way.

a single brow ticks upward, ruining the near-perpetual mask of indifference. "you better not be messing with me, shikishima." it is meant to be convivial, though her delivery—aloof and quiet as she so often is—could suggest otherwise.

[choicescreen]

harry brought dan along. (it is rare, nowadays, for one to be without the other.) dan tried to leave after being subjected to the corny musical act for a record-breaking fifteen and a half seconds, but harry stopped him. caught him tight around the wrist and tugged him back down in a perfect comic-straight man bit, totally unrehearsed. dan sneered the rest of the program.

he is now out chasing some tail, or gearing up to. dan, it must be said, never misses an opportunity for sex. it is, regrettably, dan fielding and his sex life that occupies harry's mind when he sees connie and connie sees him. thank god! his long arm lifts and waves above the heads still milling around, most of them stage hands and camera crew.

"con-man! how the hell are ya'—what? hey, c'mon, look at me, would'ja? geez, you'd think i'd just popped your balloon animal." his arm extends and he playfully smacks his hand against conrad's arm. "course i came. i brought a friend with me, dan, you know him. the prosecutor. we don't get too many nights off. it was great show. —but, listen," and he moves closer, like this is a dark, rain-soaked alleyway and he's james cagney, "i could get you a better music guest, next time. seriously, pee-yew!"

@choicescreen for harry 👬

i take oaths every day against that sorta crap.

i take oaths every day against that sorta crap.

i take oaths every day against that sorta crap.

it echoes in his head, the score to accompany the endless replays of his discovery, as he crosses the backstage floor with diminished swagger. not that what he was doing up on that stage moments ago could really be considered authentically confident... that's not conrad's style. that's not why millions tune in to watch him (and thousands kind-of-almost like what they see and stick around), and it's not why the producers of this year's emmys had him in their sights.

but certainly, now that he's no longer being widely televised, there is less pep in his step. everything that is shy and worrisome in his nature has been magnified so that even the most unobservant could detect it, particularly when the bearer of such traits tends to tower over everyone else within a twenty mile radius.

except harry. here, he quite literally meets his match.

if it wasn't bad enough that the man had to witness him slobbering over mounds of mystery meat in a dark cellar the evening before, his invitation to the award's show came with the bonus of having to sit through a musical act that made milli vanilli look like sinatra. as if he doesn't have enough nightmare fodder to last a lifetime.

he slows as he nears, and upon setting sights on harry's characteristically cheerful countenance, a smile instinctively desires to bloom. even with the retainer protecting him and the rest of the world, he suppresses it -- resulting in an unusually formal greeting. only his eyes could convey his gratitude, but they're too clouded with guilt.

"i wasn't sure you'd be here."