#( he answers with operatic enthusiasm ! )

[biskael]

Quincy-san 🎶~!

" OH , HERR SHINIGAMI ~ ! are you ready for another bout of target practice with me ? "

" i wouldn't want my aim to be off . A LITTLE TO THE LEFT , NOW , IF YOU PLEASE ! "

@adsevel

[reincarnated70sbaby]

maritime madness

led zeppelin x reader

warnings: swearing, drug use

an: so I was sailing yesterday and I was thinking about this the entire time I might have nearly capsized the boat

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this” I spoke, staring out at the large blue yacht that rested on the waters of Normandy. It all started the day before, when we were all throwing around tripped out ideas in our hotel room.

“What are we gonna do tomorrow?” Jimmy asked. I sat by his side, my head resting on his bony shoulder. My dose of LSD had just kicked it, and as it was my first time it probably hit me quicker than the others. I tried to speak, but it felt like every time I moved my mouth, it felt like I would stretch my mouth out of shape, like putty.

“Let’s go explore that cathedral, the big massive one, y’know? The one with the hunchback. Maybe we could bump into him or something”

As soon as the words left Robert’s lips, our entire entourage burst out in giggles. I myself, was having hard time controlling my breathing. I had to rest my head in Jimmy’s lap, Jimmy being doubled down over me clutching his stomach.

“Percy, you dumb fucker, y-you know that’s not a real story” Jonesy informed, all his words all broken up by loud chuckles.

Roberts jaw immediately dropped open in shock, along with his eyes widening and brown trashing in confusion.

“Nah, yeah it was, the uh, the hunchman did the um, bells. Yeah, the bells”

“No he didn’t, because he never existed you nonce. It’s a fairytale from the 19th century” Jimmy piped in, adding his extensive knowledge of mythology and folklore into the conversation.

“But me ma said he existed, you’re gonna say my mum lied to me all those years?”

“Well obviously Perce, it’s just a bedtime story” Jonesy added, still chuckling to himself at Robert’s gullible nature.

“Fine then, someone else give an idea since all of mine always get ridiculed” Robert stated, crossing his arms and craning his head back against the footboard of the bed and staring at the ceiling in a huff.

“How about Père Lachaise?”

“What the actual fuck is pear la chair Pagey?” Bonzo asked, pronouncing the words all wrong in his thick Englishman accent.

“It’s Père Lachaise” Jimmy corrected in a perfect French accent, “and it’s a graveyard in Paris, loads of famous people are buried there - Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf”

“Jimmy you must be as mad as Morrison to think we would waste our day off in a fucking dead person museum. Jesus Christ how did we pick you up” Bonzo sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, what about Mont Saint-Michel? It’s this cool island off of the coast. There’s a bridge but once the tide comes in you can’t get in or out. Wouldn’t that be good craic eh?” Jonesy suggested

“No” Bonzo, Jimmy and Robert all said at the same time.

“Ah! You’ve been outnumbered Mr Jones haha. Maybe you and I could go out another time Jonny boy, we could go exploring and see the spirits trapped on the island” I said with a chuckle, the psychedelic in my system making this whole situation very funny.

“Jesus Christ what the fuck did she even say. That her first time on acid?” Robert asked to Jimmy.

“Must’ve been, it hit her pretty quickly” Jimmy replied, staring into my largely dilated pupils. He swore he could’ve seen something dancing in my pupils, but maybe that was just the drug in him.

We all sat in silence for a couple minutes, all of us enjoying our high.

“Innnnnnnnnnnnnnn fourteen hundred ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blueeee” I sang, the lyrics being the only words of a song I could think of to fill the silence. A beat of silence passed and I wondered if everybody suddenly passed out, either into sleep or another dimension.

As I started the next line, everyone else joined in with me. We eventually finished the entire song, even an encore requested by the boys. I sung the encore in a horrendous, deep operatic voice while prancing round the hotel room. A round of applause sounded, and I took my theatrical bows in front of my supportive crowd.

“That’s It! I know what we can do tomorrow. God that is a good idea!” Bonzo declared, jumping up to his feet, not before nearly tumbling backwards.

“Go on then Bonz, don’t leave us guessing mate” Jonesy suggested, breaking the dramatic silence that had ensued.

“Rent a yacht! We can go out early in the morning and stay overnight since our flight back home is in the evening anyway! All we need to do is hire a skipper or something”

We all were stoked at idea of having a private boat to ourselves. Sure, none of the boys were experienced sailors, but that’s what a professional skipper was for, driving rich people around in yachts right?

“Do we really have to do this” I said, making our way through the marina to our yacht.

“The skipper will probably dive off the boat when we get started tonight” Jonesy commented, sharing my lack of enthusiasm for the maritime adventure. “We should have ditched them and gone to Mont Saint-Michel”. I only hummed in response, dragging my overnight suitcase over the gaps in the planks of wood on the dock.

“Um yeah, about that skipper. We couldn’t exactly book one on such short notice” Cole confessed.

“What the actual fuck Cole? Are we just supposed to sail ourselves and drown? I can’t tie a knot to save my bloody life” Robert shrieked. We all stopped in our tracks and turned to the tour manager, glaring at him through our sunglasses.

“Of course not Percy, why would we do that to our cash cows hm? And this is a motorboat, no ropes involved. It’s basically like driving a car. In water. In fact, all you need to drive it is a drivers license, which I’m positive you all have judging by your expansive car choices. Forgot to mention that myself and Peter have opted out” With that note, Cole dropped the yacht keys into Bonzo’s hand and scuttled away.

We all stood there, bags in hand, confusion over our faces as we watched Cole’s figure disappear behind the hundred of other boats.

“Well shit” Jonesy said, the sourness in his voice barely hidden.

“Let’s just go check it out, we don’t even have to leave the marina if we can drive it, we’ll just park out all night” Bonzo affirmed, being unusually optimistic.

We all found the boat and as the boys started embarking aboard, I thought out loud.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this”

“Cmon darling, let’s just see what it’s like. If you hate it we’ll do something else” Jimmy compromised, outstretching his hand to me.

The boat bobbed a bit on the water as I stepped on.

“It’s not hating it I’m worried about, I was practically raised on a boat Jim, I’m just not sure 4 rockstars and a boat is a great combination”

“It’s okay we won’t go too hard, at least one of us won’t, I guess. Anyway, you were raised on a boat? Like a houseboat or something?”

“No, my dad was a skipper. Whenever he was home from trips, he would teach my and my siblings to sail. Y’know the whole nine yards, all the different knots, pulling in the ropes, steering, navigating charts. It’s just been a while since I’ve been on one and I hope I can remember everything”

“Gosh you are fabulous, my dear, I learn something new about you everyday” Jimmy said, pulling me in for a kiss. There was a loud bang of the engine, which we both jumped apart at.

“What the fuck are they at now, Christ” Jimmy sighed.

“Here, go set down our stuff in the biggest room, I’ll go see what they’re messing with”

We both parted, Jimmy heading downstairs, myself climbing onto the helm.

“Oi, Bonz, Percy, step away from the wheel until I get us out of this parking lot” I commanded. Both Robert and Bonzo looked at me funny, before slowly raising their arms and stepping away.

“And you know better?” Bonzo asked, still not sure where my bossiness came from.

“I think I do, unless you have your skipper license on hand?”

“Wait, you have a sailing license?” Robert interjected.

“I actually don’t, but I know everything you need to not drown. My father was a sailor and he taught me how to run a boat. Thank god we have a motorboat, as we might’ve been a little trouble if we have a proper sailing yacht. If we were, it wouldn’t have been as relaxing as simply steering a wheel” I answered, switching the engine on.

We warmed up the engine for a couple minutes, then casted off and finally escaped the madness of the marina. Soon were out on the French coastline. We continued sailing perpendicular to the coast, not wanting to stray too far. All the boys took turns steering, with Jonesy being the best skipper in-training out of all of them. Only once had we had anchored the boat again was the real party going to start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

if only sailing was this easy in reality 😒

anyway I’m gonna do a spicier part 2 riiight now😎

leave any comments/ideas down below!!!!

navigation

tag list : @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @princesspagey @dreamersdrowse

[sardinesandhumbugs]

30 "when you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart" with Ratty and Mole?

(Also, I haven't actually watched any starkid musicals those were suggested by @residentofskinnymandria but I will be looking into them this weekend :D)

A/N: Thank you for the prompt and for your patience! I procrastinated somewhat on this because for my other OTPs, I would usually go straight for the romance with a starter like this, but by now y'all know that when it comes to Ratty & Mole, the line between romantic and platonic tends to be up to reader interpretation :)

Also a shout-out to @wolfiethewriter for unwittingly providing inspiration for this ficlet, by getting hilariously drunk a few nights back during our Midnight Sun readthrough. I only hope you fared better the next morning than Rat :D

x

Categorically, Rat knew there were worse ways to wake.

But, as Toad started on his fifth verse of 'What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?' Rat found he could think of no such examples.

He muttered something unsavoury and buried himself deeper into the recesses of the caravan, far from the prying, headache-inducing light of day, and far, far away from Toad's over-exuberant singing – for what little good it would do him. For Toad had inherited his mother's operatic lungs, if quantifiably not her pitch-perfect tone, and both were on full display that morning.

(It could not be said that Toad was a bad singer. It was simply the case that enthusiasm preceded vocal form, and he cared little for meddling things such as keys or sharps and flats when the mood took him. Regardless, even if Toad's voice had been flawless, Rat wouldn't have had the patience for it. Not today. The careening key changes were just the icing on the cake.)

The song briefly rose as the caravan door opened, and Rat recoiled as much from the intrusion of light as he did from Toad's blasted singing. Then the aroma of eggs and bacon hit him, and he begrudgingly shuffled his snout out of the cool, dark safety of the bedcovers.

Mole stood before him, fried offering in paw, and looking significantly less the worse for wear after their previous night's inebriations than Rat. He grinned, and set the breakfast down on the table beside the bed. "Well," he said, "I've never seen you sleep in this late."

"This isn't sleeping in," Rat muttered. "It's suffering."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before drinking so much yesterday," Mole said, the faint admonishment in his tone outweighed by the amusement.

"I'm not a lightweight," Rat grumbled. "It's just whatever Toad puts in his damn drinks to make them green always knocks me out."

"And makes you very drunk, apparently."

Rat hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to know the answer to his next question. "How drunk?"

Mole grinned again. "Nothing too embarrassing. You mostly just gabbled and then got distressed when you couldn't pronounce a word properly."

"What word?"

"I believe it was library."

"...Library?" Rat echoed. "How–"

"You kept saying 'liblary' instead."

"Libla...?"

"Liblary, hm-mm. The second 'l' kept creeping in, however hard you tried otherwise." The humour in Mole's voice betrayed that Rat's efforts, while in vain, had been quite the show.

Rat considered this as best he could while the sensation of galloping horses gallivanted between his ears. Eventually he located what he hoped would be a safe question. "Why were we talking about libraries?"

"Oh, we weren't – just you. Goodness knows why, and we thought it best not to ask."

"DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"

With a wince, Rat turned a reluctant ear to Toad's questionable shanty rendition, trying to figure out if the words were indeed what he was hearing, or whether it was simply the effects of the hangover. "What verse is Toad on now?"

Mole chuckled. "Ones of his own creation. I think he ran out of official verses he could recall a while back."

As if to compound that fact, Toad skipped the refrain entirely and overshot to the next verse, of which the origin was undoubtedly a Toad Special.

"PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"

Rat winced again. "I'm not living this one down, am I?"

"Oh, Toad will forget in time," Mole said, with surprisingly surety for someone who had spent only a day and a half in Toad's presence. But, then again, Toad was not the most complicated of creatures. However, Rat noted that Mole didn't make any mention of himself forgetting any time soon.

Mole nudged the plate closer to Rat. "Eat up. You'll feel better for it."

Rat had half a mind to make a comment about food being Mole's solution to everything, but then he caught another whiff of breakfast and his stomach gave an audible rumble. He pushed himself up and made a start on the meal.

"Just out of curiosity," Mole said, "why did you drink so much of Toad's cocktails if you know you always suffer the next day?"

"Honest answer?" Rat asked. "I forgot."

"You... forgot?"

"I had..." and Rat paused as Toad butchered another verse, "more pressing issues on my mind."

Both animals waited out Toad's latest crescendo, enduring the new volumes before he petered out to more acceptable levels.

"Would those issues be green and singing?" Mole asked.

"Usually."

Rat had worked his way through a rash and a half of bacon before Mole spoke again, and the distance between the words belayed an uneasy deliberation. "You didn't have to come along," Mole said. He sat on the bench that ran along the inner of the caravan, which served as table space and seating as the need arose, and the ledge was set just a smidgen too high so that his paws only brushed the floor. "You know, out on the open road. Not if you didn't want to."

"Ah, well," Rat said, "then who would keep you and Toad out of trouble?"

"I think we would have managed."

Rat squinted. "No offence, Moley, but I know you, and I know Toad–" he gestured to the window from which Toad's performance was still going strong, and then immediately regretted it as the alcohol residing in his system sent his head spinning "–and you are both many things, but 'out of trouble' is not one of them."

"We survived this morning without mishap."

There was a crash from outside, followed by a cry of, "It's alright! Everything's good! No need to check!" from Toad.

"Mostly," Mole amended.

"Definitely sounds like you have everything under control here," Rat deadpanned.

"I'm sure everything's fine."

There was another thump, this time accompanied by the unimpressed whinny of the horse.

Mole and Rat exchanged glances.

Mole closed the window. "Look, Ratty, all I'm saying is that you needn't have felt obliged to come along if you'd rather have stayed on your river." He glanced to the wicker luncheon basket that was still half-full from yesterday, and which had seemingly swayed Rat in his decision to accompany the caravan. "We could have had our picnics on the riverbank instead."

"We?" Rat echoed.

"Well, of course. Do you really think I would have gone off on the Life Adventurous without you?"

Rat didn't immediately respond. The horses in his head had calmed, but the outcome was simply that he had more space to think properly through the last couple of days. Truth be told, he hadn't quite been sure which Mole would have chosen – him or the open road – and he hadn't been interested in putting it to the test. His mind played back the eagerness with which Mole had rootled through the caravan, exploring the compact living wagon and settling in with an ease that made Rat wonder whether the caravan's claustrophobic space reminded Mole of his own beneath-ground home. It certainly was a far cry from Rat's riverbank abode, where the house had the space to sprawl along the shoreline and the freshwater breeze meant the air was never still. Not like being underground, he was sure.

"Ratty?"

He had been lost in his thoughts for too long, and now Mole leant into his line of vision. Rat had to think quickly to recall what exactly Mole had asked.

"No, of course not," he said. "Only – well, I would have hated for you to have stayed on the riverbank only on my behalf."

"Like you came along here on mine?"

“And for the picnics,” Rat added. “Don’t forget the picnics.”

“Right,” Mole said with a laugh that said he wasn’t buying Rat’s offhanded dismissal any more than Rat believed it. “How could I forget the picnics?” He patted Rat’s paw and swung off the seat. “Well, you can put all thoughts of picnics from your mind until you’ve recovered — and maybe in future we stick to drinks we’re familiar with, hm?”

“Maybe,” Rat conceded.

It was as Mole threw him one last grin and disappeared out of the caravan that Rat came to the reluctant conclusion that, whether or not his housemate was aware of it, Mole had him wrapped around his little claw. He set the emptied plate to one side and collapsed back into the bunk, thankful for the small mercy that at least Toad had stopped singing—

“Feeling better finally?”

Rat jolted back up, and had to steady himself against the table as his head swam. He located Toad at the window. “Toad! How long have you been there?”

“I don’t know; I wasn’t keeping track.” Toad leant in against the windowsill conspiringly. “If I had known all it’d take for you to join me would be the smile off an undergrounder, I’d have dug him out ages ago.”

Rat grumbled but decided he was still too hungover to bicker over it.

Besides, it was somewhat difficult to argue with when it was true.

[theliterateape]

I Like to Watch | Zack Snyder’s Justice League

by Don Hall

Mythology is fun.

As a kid I loved reading Edith Hamilton’s book on the Greek gods and the myths. Hercules, Perseus, Apollo, and Hera—this fell completely in line with my love for superhero comics. The strangely petty human traits of envy, greed, and lust combined with the power to level cities make for some great storytelling.

Zeus was basically Harvey Weinstein in the retroactive revision we’re mired in today. If Harvey could’ve changed into a golden animal and boned unsuspecting ladies looking for careers in Hollywood I’m pretty certain he would. The gods and demi-gods of the Greeks dealt with daddy issues, mommy issues, bad relationships, and fighting. Lots of fighting. Sometimes for the good of humanity but more often for the glory of winning.

Zach Snyder is in the business of tackling myths and reframing them with a style all his own. His career has become its own myth.

From Dawn of the Dead (not so much a reboot of Romero's zombie mythology but a philosophical reimagining of the genre that arguably jumpstarted The Hollywood fascination with it), 300 (a borderline homoerotic take on the myth of the Greek underdog), and Watchmen (a ridiculously ambitious attempt to put one of the most iconic takedowns on the potential fascism of the superhero legend machine ever written) to his nearly single-handed hack at answering the Marvel juggernaut with Man of Steel and Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice, Snyder is in the artistic business of subverting and re-envisioning the mythologies we embrace without even seeing them as such.

Snyder's style is operatic. It is on a grand scale even in the most mundane moments. The guy loves slow motion like Scorcese loves mobsters and Italian food. When you're tackling big themes with larger than life stories, the epic nature of his vision makes sense and has alienated a good number of audience members. With such excess, there are bound to be missteps but I'd argue that his massive take on these characters he molds from common understanding and popular nomenclature elevates them to god-like stature.

Fans of Moore's Watchmen have much to complain about Snyder's adaptation. The titular graphic novel is almost impossible to put in any other form than the one Moore intended and yet, Snyder jumped in feet-first and created a living, breathing representation of most, if not all, of the source material's intent. Whether you dig on it or not, it's hard to avoid acknowledging that the first five minutes of Watchmen is a mini-masterpiece of style, storytelling, and epic tragedy wrapped up in a music video.

Despite a host of critical backlash for his one fully original take, Sucker Punch is an amazing thing to see. More a commentary on video game enthusiasm with its lust for hot animated chicks and over-the-top violence that a celebration of cleavage and guns, the film is crazily entertaining. For those who hated the ending, he told you in the title what his plan was all along.

The first movie I saw in the theaters that tried to take a superhero mythology and treat it seriously (for the most part) was Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie. Never as big a fan of the DC characters as I have been of Marvel, it was still extraordinary to see a character I had only really known in pages to be so fully realized. Then came Burton's Batman movies. The superhero film was still an anomaly but steam was gaining. Things changed with Bryan Singer's X-Men in 2000, then Raimi's Spiderman, and those of us who grew up with our pulpy versions of Athena, Hermes, and Hades were rewarded with Nolan's Batman Begins. A far cry from the tongue-in-cheek camp of the 1966 TV Batman, Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne was a serious character and his tale over three films is a tragic commentary filled with the kind of death and betrayal and triumph befitting the grand narrative he deserved.

I loved Singer's Superman Returns in 2006 because it was such a love letter to the 1978 film (down to the opening credits) but by then, the MCU was taking over the world.

Snyder's first of what turns out to be an epic storyline involving perhaps seven or eight movies was Man of Steel. It was fun and, while I had my issues with the broodiness of Kal El, the odd take on Jonathan Kent, and a redheaded Lois Lane, I had no issue with Superman snapping Zod's neck. Darker and more tragic than any other version of the Kryptonian, it was still super entertaining.

Then came Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. By 2016, Marvel had codified their formula of serious characters wrestling with serious issues of power and responsibility peppered with lots of good humor and bright colors. Snyder's desaturated pallete and angst-filled demi-gods was not the obvious road to financial competition.

I'll confess, I hated it. BvS felt half-rendered. Lex Luthor was kind of superficial and played as a kind of Joker. The whole Bruce Wayne wants to kill Superman thing felt undeveloped and the "Martha" moment was just stupid.

When Joss Whedon's version of Snyder's Justice League came out in 2017, I was primed for it to be a turd and I wasn't surprised. So much of it didn't work on any level. I dismissed it as DC trying and failing miserably and was comforted by the coming of Thanos.

Following Thanos and the time heist was COVID. Suddenly, we were internationally sidelined and the movie theater industry caved in. Streaming services started popping up like knock-off smartphones and Hollywood was reeling, doing anything and everything to find a way back. Since Whedon's disastrous helming of Snyder's third act, fans online had been demanding to #ReleasetheSnyderCut but no one was ever really taking them seriously until all movie production was shut down for a year.

The stage was set to remedy a mistake (or at least make some bucks on a do-over of a huge box office failure). Snyder had left the production in part because of the suicide of his daughter and in part due to the constant artistic fights over executives looking for the quippy fun of the MCU but he still had all the original footage. Add to that the broiling accusations that Joss Whedon was "abusive" during the reshoots, the path seemed destined. For an additional $70 million and complete control, Snyder delivered a four hour mega-movie streamed on HBOMax.

Of course, I was going to watch the thing as soon as I could.

The Whedon version opens with an homage to the now dead Superman (including the much maligned digitally erased mustache on Henry Cavill). The SynderCut opens with the death of Superman and the agony of his death scream as it travels across the planet. It's a simple change but exemplifies the very different visions of how this thing is gonna play out.

Snyder doesn't want us to be OK with the power of these beings unleashed. He wants us to feel the damage and pain of death. He wants the results of violence to be as real as he can. When Marvel's Steve Rogers kicks a thug across the room and the thug hits a wall, he crumples and it is effectively over. When Batman does the same thing, we see the broken bones (often in slow motion) and the blood smear on the wall as the thug slides to the ground.

The longer SnyderCut is bloated in some places (like the extended Celtic choir singing Aquaman off to sea or the extended narrations by Wonder Woman which sound slightly like someone trying to explain the plot to Siri). On the other hand, the scene with Barry Allen saving Iris West is both endearing and extraordinary, giving insight to the power of the Flash as well as some essential character-building in contrast to Whedon's comic foil version.

One thing I noticed in this variant is that Zach wants the audience to experience the sequence of every moment as the characters do. An example comes when Diana Prince goes to the crypt to see the very plot she belabors over later. The sequence is simple. She gets a torch and goes down. Most directors which jump cut to the torch. Snyder gives us five beats as she grabs the timber, wraps cloth around the end, soaks it with kerosene, pulls out a box of matches, and lights the torch. Then she goes down the dark passageway.

The gigantic, lush diversity of Snyder’s vision of the DC superhero universe—from the long shots of the sea life in the world of Atlantis to the ancient structures and equipment of Themyscira— is almost painterly. Snyder isn't taking our time; he's taking his time. We are rewarded our patience with a far better backstory for the villain, a beautifully rendered historic battle thwarting Darkseid's initial invasion (including a fucking Green Lantern), and answers to a score of questions set up in both previous films.

Whedon's Bruce Wayne was more Ben Affleck; Snyder's is full-on Frank Miller Batman, the smartest, most brutal fucker in the room. Cyborg, instead of Whedon's sidelined non-character, is now a Frankenstein's monster, grappling with the trade-off between acceptance and enormous power. Wonder Woman is now more in line with the Patty Jenkins version and instead of being told about the loss of Superman, we are forced to live with the anguish of both his mother and Lois Lane in quiet moments of incredible grief.

To be fair to Whedon (something few are willing to do as he is now being castigated not for racism or sexism but for being mean to people) having him come in to throw in some levity and Marvel-esque color to Snyder's Wagnerian pomposity is like hiring Huey Lewis to lighten up Pink Floyd's The Wall or getting Douglas Adams to rewrite Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

I loved Snyder's self-indulgent, mythologic DC universe.

So much so that I then re-watched Man of Steel and then watched the director's version of BvS (which Snyder added approximately 32 minutes). The second film is far better at three hours and Eisenberg's Lex Luthor now makes sense. Then I watched Zach Snyder's Justice League a second time.

After nineteen hours of Snyder's re-imagining of these DC heroes and villains, I saw details that, upon first viewing, are ignored or dismissed, but after seeing them in order and complete, are suddenly consistent and relevant. Like Nolan or Fincher, Snyder defies anyone to eliminate even one piece of his narrative no matter how long. With all the pieces, this is an epic story and the pieces left at the extended epilogue play into a grander narrative we will never see.

Or maybe we will. Who knows these days?

[brianandthemays]

Love is a Polaroid (Roger Taylor x reader) Chapter 4

A/N Just to let y’all know I”m starting a spotify playlist so if you have any song ideas let me know!!!

Once again HUGE shoutout to @sweet-ladyy for reading and editing my stuff. I have THE WORST grammar and she suffers through it so thank you so much!

Word Count: 1551

Warnings: LOTS OF FLIRTING 

1, 2, 3

____________________________________________________

 The next day, you sat in your flat surrounded by papers and textbooks as you study for an upcoming biology exam. A Beatles record played softly in the background as the afternoon light lit a warm temperature around the room. You weren’t majoring in biology. You were a Public Relationship major but you had your core classes you had to take. Why you chose biology was beyond you at the moment as you studied the act of mitosis and how it operats in the human body. You could feel the headache building already as you chewed on the end of your pencil in concentration.

 You jumped as the phone rang, breaking the stream of consciousness that you had worked for so long to build. You sigh as you reach over to grab the phone off the hook from the side table closest to you. You hooked it between your ear and your shoulder as you scribbled another note down in your textbook.

                 “Hello,” your voice was short, not really interested in who was on the other side.

                 “Hello, love,” your pencil stilled as you realized who it was. It had been less than 24 hours and Roger was already calling you. You felt your heart flutter at his voice and you set your pencil down to grab the phone with your hand.

                 “A little desperate, are we,” you joke, hoping to sound more confident than your felt.

 You heard his deep chuckle over the phone, again sending a flutter through your heart and chills down your arms.  “I just couldn’t wait any longer”

 You could practically hear the smirk on his lips as you sat back against the side of the couch, pulling your legs to your chest to get more comfortable.

                 “I suppose you’re calling to ask me on a date, then,”  you reply, raising your eyebrows.

                 “Hey! Maybe I just wanted to call and ask about your day,” he defends himself quickly. You  pause for a second before answering.

                 “Well unfortunately, my day hasn’t been very exciting,” you tell him looking over at the mess you’ve made on your floor. “I’ve got a biology test coming up that I have to study for.”

                 “Biology? I thought you were at an art school.”

               “I still have core classes I need to take, “ you explain, rolling your eyes. “Unfortunately the process of Mitosis doesn’t seem to compute in my brain.”

                 “Oh Mitosis is easy, what’s your issue?”

                 “I’m serious, Roger, I don’t have time for this.”  

                 “I’ll have you know that I’m studying biology. I’m quite good at it actually.” He sounds hurt and whether it was mocking or not you couldn’t tell.

                 “Okay, well, I just don’t understand the phases, I guess, and how they work,”  you say, scrunching nose as you drag one of your textbooks towards you.

                 “So you have Prophase, Prometaphase, Metaphase, Anaphase, and Telophase which is followed by Cytokinesis. Those are-”

                 “Woah, woah, woah! Slow down,” you scramble to grab your pencil. You hear him chuckle over the line and you can’t help but blush, even though he can’t see you. “I wasn’t actually expecting you to answer that quickly,”

                 “And why’s that?”

You curl your finger around the line, sheepishly, not wanting to admit the truth.

                 “It’s because you didn’t think I actually knew isn’t it?” His tone was clear this time.

                 “Well, that’s not exactly it.”

                 “You think just because I’m a drummer in a band and happen to have a lot of sex that that means I’m not intelligent.”

 You open your mouth to fight back but found no words coming. You felt ashamed in the fact that he was mostly right.

                 “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, hoping he heard the genuine tone in your voice.

  You waited for him to tease you for being pretentious, but his voice was soft. “It’s quite alright, love.”

 He sounded slightly dejected, like he was used to hearing that. The sound was something you hadn’t heard from him before. He was always so confident and cool and it wasn’t a tone you had expected. You bit your lip trying to think of something to say.

                 “Tell me more…” you say finally.

                 “What?”

               “Tell me more about Biology, stupid.” You giggle.

 He scoffed. “Love, you don’t need to-”

                 “Roger if you don’t start telling me about Biology, right now.”

                 “Are you sure?” He sounded so genuine. As if no one had ever asked him about anything of than his drums or getting in his pants.

                 “Please.”

                 “Well, you asked for it.”

 He proceeded to tell you all about the process of mitosis and how it worked with in the human body system. He answered questions and made jokes along the way but he was completely knowledgeable. You had never expected him to be so intelligent and well-spoken. But you had learned more about him in this one phone call than you had ever thought possible. When you finally looked over at the clock, two hours had passed and it was 6:30.

                 “Wow Roger, that was really helpful.” You admit, massaging your temple.

                 “I’m sorry I kinda talked your ear off there.”

                 “No I enjoyed it. Who knew Mr. Bad Boy was such a scientist,” you joke. He laughed loudly over the phone.

                 “I wouldn’t call myself a scientist but interested in the subject yes.” He spoke over the phone. “It’s not really something I broadcast to the world.”

                 “You should. Smart is the new sexy.” You smirk.

                 “Oh, so you think I’m sexy.” His voice lowering to a more sultry tone. You gape and stutter.

                 “Psh,  I never said that.”

                 “I think you did, love.”  You didn’t say anything in return, you just blushed. “So how about that dinner you were talking about?” he asks finally.

 The question you had been waiting for all night. You shift from your spot on the floor and lifted yourself up onto the couch behind you. “What about it?” you feigned ignorance, hoping to get a reaction; And you did.

               “I guess you’re going to make me ask fully aren’t you.” He scoffs.

                 “Ask what?” you reply, biting your lip. You hear him sign in annoyance before answering.

                 “Would you like to get dinner with me this week?” His voice was strong, not a single shake or stutter and it made your heart soar.

                 “I think I might like that.”

                 “Yeah?” The enthusiasm and slight surprise in his voice took you aback.

                 “Yeah.” you reply firmly.

 He let out a  long breath into the phone, causing you to chuckle.

                 “You don’t know how nervous I was to ask you that.”

                 “I did tell you to call me, didn’t I?” You point out.

                 “Well, yeah but you could have been pulling my leg.  I’m surprised you even gave me a real number,” he admits. You laugh at that. “How about  I pick you up at 8:00 this Friday,” he continues.

                 “Where are you gonna take me?”

                 “Now it’s time for you to wonder.” He said referring to the still untold mystery of your name.

                 “Oh, so it’s a surprise then,” you shot back.

                 “Yep! And hopefully by the end of the night I’ll be able to call you by your name.” His voice became rough and the sultry tone was back. You understood the sexual nature behind the comment and it sent a shiver down to your toes.

                 “We’ll see about that,” you murmur back. You heard the intake of his breath to say something back but he’s interrupted by a faint voice in the background. You vaguely recognized the voice as the tall, fluffy haired man from the bar.

               “Oh bugger off, Brian!” Roger’s voice was slightly muffled and you could tell he’d covered the phone with his hand. When he spoke again, you could tell he’d removed his hand. “Sorry, love, I have to go.  Bri and I are trying out a new singer for the band,” he explains.

                 “A new singer?” You question “What happened to, what’s his name?”

                 “Quit the band, same night I saw you actually. But some bloke came up to Bri and I and offered to take his place,” he told you.

                 “Well, that’s unfortunate, I hope this new guy works out.”

                 “Yeah, me too- OH ALRIGHT BRIAN.” His volume rose again at the last part, causing you to flinch away from the phone quickly. “I really do have to go, love.”

                 “Alright, well… I’ll see you on Friday.” You didn’t want to go, you wanted to stay in this spot talking to him forever.  His voice was rough and coarse yet it’s tone was somehow soothing to you. After listening to him talk for a few hours, you didn’t want to let go of it.

                 “Yeah… Friday.” He echos.

                 “Bye.”

                 “Goodbye.”

  Then you hung up, and he was gone. You stared at the phone, trying to will it to ring again, but it didn’t. You looked back over your notes and textbooks and felt a small smile come over your lips. You were going to dinner with Roger Taylor this Friday. You stood up from the couch and twirl around before bending over to start cleaning up your notes. Just then the phone rang and you scrambled back over to the couch to pick it up.

                 “Sorry, love, real quick, what’s your address?”  

_____________________________________________

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!!!

Tag List (Open): @dove-turned-destroyer @16wiishes @angiefangirlworld-2 @queenismyrealdad @blondecarfucker @chlobo6 @wolverinesbeer @onevisionliz @catnissprior-blog @thewinchesterchronicles @Xienax  (If I missed you please let me know, my tag list deleted itself soooooo rip)

[king-brian-may]

Queen Fans Share Their Stories

Queen in Landover, MD, USA on 29.11.1977 (written by Tracy Chevalier)

In a new book, writers recall the best gigs they have seen. Here the novelist Tracy Chevalier describes her memorable night with Queen.

It started with a champagne toast and ended with a limo pulling away into the night. In between these two gestures symbolising glamour and sophistication, I lost my virginity. Not in the technical sense (that would take another few years), but in other ways. At my first ever rock concert — going with four friends to see Queen at the Capital Centre in November 1977 — I got an eye-opening peek at elements of the adult world, with its power and its limitations, its glittering artifice and dirty reality, and it demonstrated how little I knew and how much I had yet to learn about life.

I was ripe for it; overdue, really. I had turned 15 the month before the concert, and though people thought I looked older than I was, I was remarkably naive and unworldly at that age. Despite a few character-building events in my childhood — the death of my mother when I was almost 8, the experience of being a minority in DC public schools — I was so unsophisticated, so unaware of the world, that I didn't even realise Queen was an English band until the lead singer Freddie Mercury appeared in a tight white catsuit on stage at the Capital Centre, raised a glass of champagne at 18,000 screaming fans, and toasted us with "Good evening, Washington" in a fruity English accent. I was stunned. Then I started screaming.

I had been a Queen fan for a couple of years by then. A Night at the Opera was the first LP I bought, and I could sing every word of every song. I don't remember how I was introduced to Queen — though I do remember hearing their biggest hit, Bohemian Rhapsody, on the radio and being impressed by its audacity. It sure beat the hell out of the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Neil Young, which had been my older sister's staple music diet. By 14, I was writing Queen lyrics on the desk where I sat for algebra class, swapping them back and forth with a boy I had a crush on, and daydreaming of guitarist Brian May kissing me.

The concert was part of Queen's News of the World tour. While not a great album, especially after the double whammy of A Night at the Opera and its follow-up, A Day at the Races, it did produce two of their best-known songs, We Will Rock You and We are the Champions, which drop-kicked them firmly into stadium anthem territory. Appropriately, the concert began with the lights going down and the primitive, effective, impossible-not-to-join-in-with BOOM-BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI intro to We Will Rock You rolling over the audience. Everyone immediately jumped up out of their seats and began to stomp and clap along. I, too, stood and stomped and clapped, watching in awe as people began flicking their Bic lighters, a gesture I had never seen before. What, were they going to set light to something? I had tried not to act surprised earlier when people nearby started smoking grass in public, but now was there going to be a riot? What other illegal things would go on that night? Then a spotlight picked out Freddie Mercury, who began to sing, "Buddy you're a boy, make a big noise, playin' in the street, gonna be a big man someday..." and I thought, "Jesus H. Christ, that is the loudest noise I've ever heard! Is that legal?" The wall of sound terrified me, and I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn't dare, as it would have been a very uncool thing to do. I think I looked around for the exit, wondering how many people I would have to climb over to escape the sound. It was just so goddamned loud — exhilarating, yes, but painful, too, dangerous and overwhelming. I wavered between loving it and hating it, but knew it would be uncool to hate it, so I'd better try to love it.

Towards the end of the song the single note of an electric guitar began to hum louder and louder under the chorus we were all singing and shouting, and Brian May stepped into the light to add his distinctive sound, ending We Will Rock You with low, long-sustain, three-part harmony chords, overlaid with a high melody he made fuzzy and metallic by using a coin as a guitar pick. I adored Brian May. He was the reserved, straight guy (literally) to Freddie Mercury's camp high jinks — tall, dark, good-looking, with long curly hair and a melancholy pensiveness that made every teenage girl want to comfort him. At this concert he was wearing a silvery white jacket with long, pleated wing sleeves; that combined with his mop of curls should have made him look effeminate, but instead he was deeply sexy.

I loved Freddie, too, for his outrageous antics, his riskiness, his joy at performing and glorious indifference to how ridiculous he looked wearing glittery leotard jumpsuits, eyeliner and a mullet, prancing and strutting and posing, twitching his hips, smacking his lips and otherwise hamming it up. But even without being conscious of Freddie's sexual preference — I hadn't yet met anyone who was openly gay — I instinctively sensed he was not to be lusted after. For all his extrovert, welcoming stage presence, he was clearly playing a part, which served to hold us at arm's length; whereas Brian May's taciturn moodiness was clearly himself served up raw.

Thank God for Freddie, though. Without him, no one would have moved on stage: Brian May was not a dancer, John Deacon, in time-honoured bassist tradition, stood solidly in one place throughout, and Roger Taylor was trapped by his drum kit.

To set us at our ease, after We Will Rock You Freddie toasted us with a glass of champagne — "Moet et Chandon, of course," after the reference in the hit Killer Queen. My friends and I heard this and screamed and clutched one another. He mentioned Moet et Chandon! That was our champagne! He was acknowledging us! I swear he made eye contact with me, 200 yards away and over the heads of thousands.

For we had done what we thought was the most original and extravagant gesture (for 15-year-olds) a fan could make: we had sent a bottle of champagne backstage. We'd pooled our money and gotten an older sister to buy it for us — the same sister who had been obliged to drive us all the way to the Capital Centre, smirking at our overexcited fandom. We'd even made our way to the stage door down a loading dock at the back of the arena and reluctantly handed over the precious bottle to a bored roadie, who said he would take it to the band. We'd had our doubts about his reliability, and his jadedness had dampened our enthusiasm a bit: had we really blown all that money — $20, which in those days meant 20 hours of babysitting — to have some unshaven jerk with a beer belly swill the precious liquid? But clearly the roadie had pulled through for us, for there was our champagne in Freddie Mercury's hand, and he was referring to Moet et Chandon in his pretty cabinet, the lyrics we had so cleverly quoted in the note we sent along with the bottle. We were sure we — among the many thousands — had managed to get through to the band.

If we had bothered to look around rather than feast our eyes on Brian and Freddie (I'm afraid John Deacon and Roger Taylor never got a look-in from me), we probably would have seen other clusters of fans also screaming and clutching one another during Freddie's toast. But we didn't look around or harbour doubts, or we ignored them. It was only much later that I allowed myself to consider the veritable champagne lake that must have existed backstage at every Queen concert. Tip to rock stars: want a free truckload of champagne wherever you go? Sing a song that mentions some — preferably name-checking a more expensive brand to ensure better quality — and watch it pour in backstage every night from adoring fans. There must have been a hundred bottles from fans back there, not counting the stash the band may well have brought with them in case Portland or Houston or Detroit weren't so generous. No wonder that roadie looked so bored — he'd probably been put on champagne duty that night.

Freddie's toast worked its magic, though, giving me the connection I needed to negotiate a place within the strangeness of the concertgoing experience itself: the weird, scary power of a crowd; the mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment at collective participation; the physical discomfort of standing for two hours when there's a perfectly comfortable seat behind you. It is one of those tricky, unresolved tensions at concerts: are we there to listen to the music or actively respond to it, participate as a group or answer our needs as individuals? It's an issue I've never entirely resolved — from Queen onwards I have spent concerts going in and out of myself, losing myself to the music and spectacle one minute, the next minute overly conscious of myself clapping or singing or screaming, and wondering why concerts have to be such an uncomfortable physical ordeal.

I was taken aback by the sound of Queen's music live: not just the volume, but the familiarity and also the strange rawness of the songs. Studio albums have all the mistakes airbrushed out, the layers added in, the balance between players carefully calibrated, like clever dialogue in a play without the awkward pauses and unfinished conversations you get in real life. Queen albums were highly produced, multi-layered affairs. Live, the music was necessarily stripped of a lot of the choral mixing, more raucous, simpler and much messier.

The band wisely didn't dare attempt to reproduce in its entirety the long, baroque confection that is Bohemian Rhapsody. For the infamous operatic middle section, the band members left the stage as the studio recording played. Freddie and Brian then changed costume, and, at the word "Beelzebub", all four men popped out of a door in the stage floor and joined live again for the heavy metal section, fireworks going off, dry ice pouring out, everyone going berserk, me in tears of excitement. It was one of the best live moments I've ever witnessed. Indeed, I was spoiled by seeing Queen play live before anyone else; for sheer exuberant theatricality, no one else has come close.

The concert ended with an instrumental version of God Save the Queen and once more the flicking of the Bics, which, no longer the virgin concertgoer, I understood now as a gesture of tribute. My friends and I weren't finished, though. Emboldened by Freddie's toast, we decided to go to the stage entrance again and say hello. I still choke with embarrassment when I think of it. When we got there, a black limousine was pulling away, our heroes and their entourage inside, and we were left with the detritus: older, dolled-up, hard-bitten groupies who had followed the band around and not made this night's cut. I stared at one, at her long, bleach-blond hair, her miniskirt, her bright red lipstick. She glared at me briefly; then her face went slack as she dismissed the idea of me being any sort of competition. In fact, I had not really taken in that there was a competition, that the girls (and I?) were here to spread our wares and catch the attention of one of the men, and then . . . And then? I hadn't thought it through at all. I wouldn't have known what to do with such a man as Brian May if he even so much as looked at me. All I knew was that I was way, way out of my depth, that even if I had eluded the roadie minding the door, there was no way I was ever going to get past a woman like this.

[gdelgiproducer]

DOTV AU: An Exercise in Alternate History (Part VII)

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, and VI offer more detailed context. (To briefly sum up why these posts are happening: alt history – as in sci fi, not “alternative facts” – buff, one day got the idea that DOTV could have turned out hella different if Jim Steinman looked for a star lead in other places, decided to reason out how that might work.) This is still getting a good response, so I’m gonna keep the train rolling.

Parts of the AU timeline established so far:

Instead of stopping at recording two songs from Whistle Down the Wind on a greatest hits compilation, Meat Loaf wound up taking more of an interest in Steinman’s new theater work than he did in our timeline, and through a series of circumstances found himself volunteering to play Krolock in the impending DOTV when Jim poured out his woes to him about needing to find some sort of star to attract investors. At a loss for any better ideas, Jim accepted Meat’s impulsive proposal, but not without resistance from his manager, David Sonenberg, who proposed Michael Crawford as an alternate candidate. Through quick thinking on Meat’s part, and inspiration on Jim’s, Crawford left the room accepting an entirely different role than he walked in hoping to get, leaving Krolock still open for Meat.

There was a brief speed bump, when Meat disliked Jim’s English script for the show, but after meeting with the original German author Michael Kunze and convincing Jim to compromise, things were on the road to being back on track… at least until 9/11 occurred.

Following a brief hiatus, everyone involved met to re-assess their options. The current game-plan was to put the new script on paper, schmooze with potential investors or producers, and put together a new creative team. Preferably not all at the same time, but with the crunch on, they’d do whatever needed to be done.

So far, the schmoozing has gone well, but everybody that Meat, Jim, and the crew would like to be involved is tentative. The newest conclusion is that they need to show them there’s a working show, and a concert of selections from the score seems to be the route they’re taking, possibly financed by an unlikely source.

Continuing the alternate DOTV timeline, a little differently this time! This time we get a feature on the concert from the New York Post’s own Michael Riedel. Take it away!

VAMPIRES: NEW MUSICAL BLOOD by Michael Riedel

If you’ve heard the buzz on the Rialto of late, you’d be forgiven for wondering if you were having a particularly nasty acid flashback. Dance of the Vampires, a new $15 million musical of the macabre based on the 1967 Roman Polanski movie The Fearless Vampire Killers, is already a monster hit in Austria and Germany, and it’s starting to gather steam here in the States as well, with some... we’ll call it unlikely... star power attached. After all, what other musical (even in a preliminary concert presentation) can boast Courtney Love as an emcee slash investor, and such disparate names as Meat Loaf and Michael Crawford as co-headliners?

Admittedly, Meat Loaf’s presence is slightly less surprising, as the driving force behind the show is Jim Steinman, who wrote Mr. Loaf’s classic Bat Out of Hell albums as well as the lyrics for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Whistle Down the Wind.  He has written the score and is co-adapting the book for Vampires with playwright David Ives (All in the Timing), who is also currently at work with Steinman for Warner Bros. on a musical version of Batman, from German dramatist Michael Kunze’s original script. He also co-directed this concert with Starmites composer Barry Keating, though early reports that Steinman would be co-directing the eventual Broadway run with Jane Eyre creator John Caird have ultimately been dismissed.

“Roman directed it in Vienna, but he can’t work here because of his legal problems,” Steinman said, referring to Polanski’s indictment for statutory rape in the 1970′s. “He may be the first director who can’t work over here because of a statutory rape charge.” When queried about who then would be directing the New York run, Steinman was tight-lipped, but among those in attendance at the evening’s proceedings was Urinetown’s Tony-winning helmer, John Rando, who is now rumored to be in talks for the slot. Said Rando of the new show, “It takes the vampire myth and pokes fun at it, but it also embraces it. Its message is about the excesses of appetite. It has wit and an edge to it. I’d love to be involved!”

The presentation (at the 499-seat Little Shubert Theatre, about half a mile west of Broadway; events like this cause us rightfully to wonder why it doesn’t see more use) for a by-invitation-only crowd was kicked off by Ms. Love, Hole rocker and widow of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain, in memorable form. Says a source in attendance, “You could sum it up in two words: too drunk. She was literally falling over. She wasn’t coherent at all.” Managing to gather herself enough to announce that Dance of the Vampires is a musical for people “who think musicals suck,” she didn’t manage to say much else of importance. “It just became a little too sloppy, and she was removed.” Insiders report that Steinman’s manager, David Sonenberg, who is also one of the show’s producers (and a first-timer at that), worried that those involved would be seen as taking advantage of a troubled addict. Ms. Love’s performance did little to dispel this perception. Lucky that representatives from noted L.A.-based promoter Concerts West, major music manager Irving Azoff (who numbers The Eagles, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Christina Aguilera, and Sammy Hagar among his clients), film and music mogul Jerry Weintraub, and Broadway’s own Barry and Fran Weissler were in attendance; a cash infusion from such sources may well be needed to save face if she can’t “live through this,” to twist a phrase from her 1994 album of the same name.

In addition to Sonenberg, already attached to Vampires on the producing side are Andrew Braunsberg (another first-timer, who also produced Polanski’s 1971 film version of Macbeth), Leonard Soloway, Bob Boyett (Sweet Smell of Success, Topdog/Underdog), Lawrence Horowitz (Electra, It Ain’t Nothing But the Blues), and Barry Diller and Bill Haber’s USA Ostar Theatricals. Boyett, a TV producer turned legit entrepreneur, used the phrases “trial by fire” and “going to war,” perhaps because while some novice producers just put up the money, get the credit and run, Boyett says he’s been taking the process very seriously: “I went to all the meetings and learned, like it was grad school.” While some Hollywood types find Broadway “less cutthroat,” Boyett finds it “more restrictive.” He mentions the sheer physical space of the theaters but also all the rules and regulations: "I’ve dealt with unions all my life, but I do find Actors’ Equity is very restrictive to the creative process.” Further, he regrets that Vampires will not have an out-of-town tryout. “I loved the experience of taking Sweet Smell of Success to Chicago,” he says with real enthusiasm, as if the project ended happily. “It was helpful to have the critics say what they did.” Not that Boyett thinks the right message from the critics got to the creative team. 

As for Boyett’s teammates, Bill Haber attended on behalf of USA Ostar, and although he wouldn’t consent to a formal interview, he couldn’t resist answering one question -- and it has nothing to do with Dance of the Vampires. Why is Haber’s other fall production, Imaginary Friends by Nora Ephron, being called a play if it has six songs by Marvin Hamlisch and Craig Carnelia? “It has nothing to do with how many songs there are,” he shot back. “It has to do with the fact that if you took all the songs out, it still works and you still have a play.”

And all this before we even get to the show itself. Vampires is your typical erotic musical about an innocent girl (played this evening by impressive newcomer Mandy Gonzalez, currently standing by for the role of Amneris in Aida and late of Off-Broadway’s Eli’s Comin’) choosing between two lovers, in this case an older, aristocratic vampire (Loaf, whose appearance here marks the first time he has worked with Steinman in theater since the early Seventies) and a hunky young grad student (Max von Essen, who reportedly also appeared in the Steinman/Caird-helmed reading in April 2001) under the tutelage of a rather intensely wacky vampire hunter (Crawford). Given the level of Loaf’s obvious commitment to the piece, it is surprising that his manager (Allen Kovac, of Left Bank Management) was a no-show, and in that light, rumors that Loaf has yet to formally sign on the dotted line for Vampires (in spite of previous announcements to the contrary, no less) prove even more curious. Calls to Kovac’s office were not returned. The rest of the cast, boasting some fine voices indeed, was filled out by assorted Broadway names and members of Meat Loaf’s long-time touring band, The Neverland Express, which also provided accompaniment for the evening under the crisp musical direction of veteran rock bassist Kasim Sulton (best known for his work with Todd Rundgren and Utopia, among others).

Speaking of the music: the score, as per Steinman’s usual style, is appropriately big and Wagnerian, with plenty of luscious, operatic melodies, including one familiar favorite that sticks out like a sore thumb: Steinman’s famous “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” under whose operatic pretensions I swooned as a teenager. “I couldn’t resist using it,” he says of a song that goes, ‘Once upon time there was light in my life / But now there’s only love in the dark.’ “I actually wrote it for another vampire musical that was based on Nosferatu, but never got produced.” Close listening to the CD sampler for interested investors also reveals a rehash of the vigorous “Tonight Is What It Means to Be Young,” his song for the film Streets of Fire, which I saw in Los Angeles in 1984 and sent me racing along Mulholland Drive to keep up with the propulsive beat.

As for the new stuff, maybe 50′s rock ‘n’ roll with a 70′s preen isn’t what the 80-year-olds who constitute Broadway’s audience want to hear (and Jim’s rock-mock-Wagnerian shtick admittedly tends to play better in London and Las Vegas than in Manhattan), but my sources say they knew from the first number --  an angelic trio with a beguiling (what did they used to call it?) melody and some expert (the Andrews Sisters used to do it) harmony -- that this would be my kind of score. Frankly I’m glad; since the prehistoric vinyl days, Steinman has been the guy I keep calling for to rejuvenate, or just plain juvenate, the Broadway musical, in a world where the musical theater establishment pronounces old ABBA records a hip pop sound.

The book, while reportedly in better shape than the April reading, is something else again. From the excerpts on display last night, the mix of bawdy humor and eroticism still needs fine-tuning. Says Sonenberg, “By the time we open, it will be a new version of the show, significantly changed with a view toward a New York audience, but right now it plays very much like the original in several respects.” Adds David Ives, “The German production is probably more faithful to the film, but it’s a fairly humorless show, with people getting hit on the head with salami. And I’ve been brought in to take out the salami and put in the chorus girls, without veering into camp in the process. Now it’s just a question of finding the balance, which, needless to say, isn’t easy. But I like what we’ve accomplished so far: Meat’s character is vastly different, a much more multifaceted, dynamic, complete figure. We’ve also made other changes and cuts and restructured the show into a book musical, with dialogue; the original is all sung. I think we’ve made it a much more interesting story.”

Time, as always, will be the ultimate arbiter of fate.

[storyunrelated]

Tannin Salon

I write a lot of stories about tea...

I don't even drink as much a I used to. Couple months back I was downing several pints a day, which I do not recommend.

And that's not even that unusual...

[Juice of the inscrutable Teabeast]

The rumour was that it had once been human. This was vociferously denied (and actually legitimately untrue) but with rumours being rumours this did nothing to make them go away.

Certainly it didn’t look anything like a human. Not even a little bit. Humans did not bulge so, or at least they weren’t supposed to. Humans did not have so many lumps in so very many places. A human had only two eyes, and only in their head. Humans leaked less, as a rule.

And no human would make such sounds. Their throats would not have allowed for it.

The Teabeast was an odd, uh, beast. Despite the rumours flying around no-one was actually sure of its exact origins or even its exact purpose. That it produced tea wasn’t brought into question -it did, there was no denying it - but was that what it was actually for? The Teabeast wasn’t answering, that’s for sure.

So while everyone waits for the truth to spring up unbidden out of nowhere it seems perfectly justified to enjoy a spot of tea. And not just any tea either. The finest tea known to exist anywhere. Tea beyond the capability of humankind to reproduce. The Platonic ideal of tea, some went so far as to say, but these were a minority. Most agreed it was just super-good tea.

The process for getting it was a little arcane, however.

For one thing the waiting list was enormous, as was to be expected. One Teabeast could only produce so much before needing a rest and the people - hearing how good it all was - were to a man desperate to try some. So they had to wait, of course. Most were patient, some were not. It didn’t help them.

When the time came that tea was actually required the person at the top of the list was sent a letter and a long and over-complicated procedure was initiated. It began with the ringing of bells in sequence, but not the sequence you’d expect. Once this was done the birds were released from their cages and the waters set flowing down the correct channels as incense was lit in strategic locations throughout the Tearium. While all this was going on the acolytes were of course being busily assembled for the summoning itself.

(It goes without saying that if the water was set flowing down the incorrect channels it all had to be started over from the top. That’s just common sense. Anyway, back to the acolytes.)

Clad in robes of the finest faux-silk  the acolytes would file into the Teabeast’s chamber, surrounding it in the ancient and pre-approved circle of awakening (even if it was already awake - it was just a name, really). Only those approved and triple-checked by the acolyte union were allowed so close. It was felt that underqualified and unapproved personnel would startle the Teabeast, though this had never been tested. It just felt right.

The Teabeast luxuriated on a bed of shredded money, basking in the soothing waves of obscure operatic music piped in through golden speakers. It wasn’t recorded either. The finest musicians from around the world had been captured for the express purpose of playing for the Teabeast, under pain of excruciating, ambiguous punishment and their live performance was funneled directly to the Teabeast. It apparently worked better that way, or so it was said at least.

Once the Teabeast was deemed sufficiently roused the heftiest and strongest of the acolytes would split off into teams and begin working the ropes and winches to hoist it upwards. Respectfully of course, and while chanting a chant designed to better accompany the act of working ropes and winches. The other acolytes provided backup chanting, waiting for the next phase with eager anticipation.

(If the Teabeast was deemed sufficiently aroused the whole thing was called off for the sake of modesty. What constituted arousal for something so utterly alien was open to interpretation. Best not to take risks, it was felt.)

Once properly hoisted up into position another set of chosen acolytes would step forward. These acolytes were those had been judged to have the softest hands, for these acolytes were the ones charged with coaxing the tea out, and soft hands were a must for this. Massaging the udders of the lowing, hoisted Teabeast these delicate acolytes used ancient techniques to ensure maximum coaxage. It was all in the fingerwork, apparently.

Elsewhere, outside, preparations would be underway for the arrival of the honoured guest. Today’s person at the top of the waiting list was a man named Mild Effects. Mild Effects fucking loved tea. Given what he was going to be doing this was lucky, really.

He was greeted with enthusiasm and lilting, exotic music played on uncomfortable and unergonomic instruments by smiling, sweating musicians. Being a philistine whose primary interest was boiled leaves Mild Effects failed to appreciate this but applauded all the same, feeling it was the done thing. After being anointed and blessed by a bevy of priests who just happened to be there that day, Mild Effects was ushered towards the tea sanctum, where his now-full cup awaited.

This was what it all led up to. The room was a quiet place of contemplation and enjoyment. A room where every inch and angle and curve and line was designed to maximise appreciation of tea. All the acolytes who’d been involved in filling the cup - winchers and chanters and udder-coaxers and cup-wrangles and more besides - encircled the room, standing in the gloom just beyond sight. They lived for this moment.

The tension in the room became so potent that condensation started to drip down the walls. At least one acolyte fainted, but it was their job to do that so it hardly counted. Mild Effects (utterly oblivious to the majesty of the ceremony) sat on his tea-pouf and lifted the cup to his lips.

Taking a sip he paused, considered and then wrinkled his face in the mildest of mild disappointment.

“This doesn’t really seem worth the effort, if I’m honest.”

END

[njawaidofficial]

'Spider-Man: Homecoming': Why Does Peter Parker Mean So Much to So Many?

http://styleveryday.com/2017/07/07/spider-man-homecoming-why-does-peter-parker-mean-so-much-to-so-many/

'Spider-Man: Homecoming': Why Does Peter Parker Mean So Much to So Many?

Dan Gvozden, a life-long Spider-Man fan, is a Heat Vision contributor and co-host of Amazing Spider-Talk podcast.

Several weeks ago, at my bachelor party, a friend asked me, “Why Spider-Man?”

Out of context, it must seem like a strange question to be answering at one’s bachelor party, instead of engaging in male-centric merriment and copious amounts of alcohol. But you see, I’m no ordinary fan of the webbed wonder, I’m what you might call a fanatic.

I will never forget the first time I encountered the character, peeling back the pages of the gold-covered Amazing Spider-Man No. 375. Inside the pages of that comic I met Peter Parker, in a costume that was torn to shreds while investigating a man named Eddie Brock, the host of a creature named Venom. Comics!

I had no idea what was going on but I knew I needed more, precisely three-hundred and seventy-four more issues worth. Since that day, I set out to collect every single issue of Amazing Spider-Man ever printed, now totaling nearly eight-hundred issues. Thousands of dollars, quizzical looks, and close-calls later, I’ve completed that collection.

Along the way, I learned the answer to my friend’s question, “Why Spider-Man?” The simple answer is, “Because he’s me.” That’s not to say that I’m a brunette kid from Forest Hills, Queens, who fights tentacled villains with my arachnid-induced superpowers; though I did live in Forest Hills for a couple years, natch. I was, like Peter, a socially awkward kid, unsure of my future, scared of the consequences of my actions, trying to do the best I could… just like everyone else.

That’s the appeal of Spider-Man and his alter-ego Peter Parker, he’s everyone. Whether he’s blasting off into space, lifting tons of steel over his head, running a Fortune 500 company, scraping coins together to pay for laundry, or eating wheatcakes with his Aunt May, his story is our story, his journey our journey. Peter is primed to not only be the “everyman” but to be the stand-in for the audience, no matter the medium.

When, at sixteen years old, I was struggling with the loss of my best friend to reoccurring brain cancer, Peter was there for me. His strength in the face of adversity and emotional defeat reminded me I wasn’t alone, that the mere act of perseverance was enough and that we carry our loved ones with us every day and reflect their love through our choices. That year I carried dozens of Spider-Man comics around in my backpack, seeking solace and comfort in the reliability of Peter’s resolve. The extra weight was never even a thought.

I’ll never forget my reaction to Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man for the first time. Embarrassingly enough, I wept in the car ride home from the theater (they were not tears of joy). Honestly, the experience was probably too much for me to handle at the time. I had spent my childhood describing to people and outright lying, as a form of wish projection, that I had heard about various Spider-Man films headed into production; including a Venom vs. Carnage film, which seems to actually be happening now (I take it back). Whatever that first Spider-Man film would be, it would have to contend with over a decade of fantasizing, and rarely does art live up to a decade of childish imaginings.

Still, many of my initial reactions to the film still hold true for me today. The film works best when it is focused on the origins to the character, specifically in regards to Peter and his relationship to his family and friends. I still feel that Raimi and his team absolutely nailed the most important part of the story, the sequence with the burglar, Peter, and the wrestling coordinator. Raimi somehow manages to get the audience on Peter’s side, cheering for him when he lets the burglar get away with robbing the place. Obviously, this would be undone moments later with Uncle Ben’s death, landing a sweet sucker punch on an unaware audience.

After several years of reading Brian Michael Bendis and Mark Bagley’s Ultimate Spider-Man, a grounded approach to rebooting the Spider-Man character and a smash success, it was hard for my brain to switch back to enjoying a campier Spider-Man representation. As a fan of the character I longed for my favorite characters to be taken absolutely seriously. To this day, I still have trouble watching scenes like the one where the Goblin ties up Spider-Man and talks to him about “owning this town,” like some kind of third-rate mobster. My negative emotional reactions were so bent out of shape, when a friend had a birthday party to see the film, I joined them in the lobby and then ducked out of the film just so I wouldn’t have to relive it.

I was more prepared for 2004’s Spider-Man 2, with my expectations rightly brought down to a more realistic place. The film was everything I could have dreamed of and remains my favorite superhero flick. My friends encouraged me to see the film opening night, but I was hesitant; no one likes to be the spoiler to a group of excited filmgoers. Attending the screening were dozens of people in various Spider-Man costumes and I remember feeling like I had made a mistake in not embracing the enthusiasm of the moment.

I loved the film, and who couldn’t. Spider-Man 2 remains the most enthusiastically faithful representation of any comic book character in film. The film loves Peter Parker, while also beating him up at every single possible moment. I left the theater, went home, bought tickets for the next morning, and this time wore every piece of Spider-Man gear I could assemble from my closet. I read comics while waiting in the line to get in, bought the catchy soundtrack, and cursed at myself for not getting onboard this hype train years earlier.

This would be my undoing for 2007’s Spider-Man 3. Dressed in full Spider-Man regalia underneath a Peter Parker photographer get-up, I was ready to be impressed by the third outing in this trilogy. A large group of excited friends and I camped out in Times Square for the midnight premiere: taking photographs, speculating on how the Harry Osborn plot would resolve, and saying a silent prayer that they would handle Venom (a fan favorite) appropriately.

We were devastated.

I don’t want to relive the disappointment of Spider-Man 3, but its failures were important to my development as a filmgoer and were the base for a growing cynicism that I’ll admit still has a strong hold over me. Even a layperson could quickly put together what likely happened behind the scenes of the film and the deleterious effects to the characters could not have been more devastating. To turn an audience against Peter Parker, Mary Jane, and Harry Osborn, while sloppily introducing Gwen Stacy, was an incredible feat and one that I felt would undermine any future installments in this series. The silent walk back to the subway and subsequent ride to Forest Hills was not how we expected the night to end.

My screenings of 2012’s Amazing Spider-Man and 2014’s Amazing Spider-Man 2 were met with a similar apprehension and excitement. I loved the cast they assembled, was optimistic about director Marc Webb and writer James Vanderbilt, and hopeful that with a relaunch they could veer more towards my beloved Ultimate Spider-Man and avoid the mistakes of the past. I didn’t expect the films to invent a whole new series of problems that underlined what was becoming a crystal-clear misunderstanding of the titular character.

This Peter Parker reflected me and my values in no way. When challenged to live up to his great responsibilities he flaunted his decision to go in the opposite direction. When bullied and bruised by his peers and enemies he decided to hit back stronger, with a vengeance. A young Peter Parker once said in the comics, “Some day I’ll show them! Some day they’ll be sorry! Sorry that they laughed at me!” It’s the ravings of a potential villain and a warning about who Peter may have become without learning a powerful lesson in power and responsibility from his Uncle Ben. This Peter Parker was that villain.

Still, it was exciting to see Spider-Man, with the aid of CGI, move and fight in a way that I could have only dreamed of. I also have to admit to tearing up during Amazing Spider-Man 2 when Spider-Man approaches a bullied child, scaring off his bullies, and asking him to tell him a bit more about himself. When that child returned in the final moments of the film in a Spider-Man costume, it definitely hit me hard. I later learned that Andrew Garfield had advocated for those scenes to be added to the film and it makes sense. As a lifelong fan of the character, Garfield understood the power that superhero comics can have on a bullied child, eventually empowering them to stand up for the values they hold dear.

On Thursday, I attended the first screening of Spider-Man: Homecoming I could find. Dressed in a Scarlet Spider hoodie, to aid in finding fans with as deep a knowledge of the character as myself, my wife and I nervously sat down for the film. Between all the back-and-forths between Sony and Marvel over the future of this character, I was ready to just see what they had to offer, pushing back any of my knowledge of the complicated dealings that made this possible. It was hard to watch Spider-Man: Homecoming without any baggage, but I was determined to do so.

To put it succinctly, I loved the new film and its very unique take on Peter Parker and Spider-Man. This was no longer the Tobey Maguire, mopey Peter Parker that was representative of Spider-Man from the 1960s comics, but a fresh remix of every generation of Spider-Man stories, with some seriously deep continuity digs. My love of the character is very much rooted in the more soap operatic interpretations of the source material, that Sam Raimi also seems to love, but there’s no way not to embrace Tom Holland’s fresh take.

We’ve gotten six Spider-Man films, with three different actors, three different directors, and three different continuities in fifteen years. It’s a lot for anyone to take, especially if you’re a diehard fan like myself. But just as Peter had to learn a few lessons to find himself, the cinematic representation of Spider-Man’s journey has been equally as valuable.

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