#Caspar Salmon

[silentlondon]

Silent bulletin: news for September 2024

Back to school time! Here’s a roundup of the silent movie news I really want to share with you as summer turns into autumn. Just think how many of these forthcoming delights you could enjoy for less than the cost of a dynamically priced Oasis ticket. Screenings and festivals I missed StummFilmTage Bonn this year again – both in person and online. But Paul Joyce and Paul Cuff both kept us up to…

[sabinahahn]

I am delighted to share that I Am a Dragon! has been named to the Pennsylvania Center for the Book's 2024 Baker's Dozen: Thirteen Best Books for Family Literacy!

Here is the list ( I am in such a good company!): - “10 Dogs” by Emily Gravett - “ABC and You and Me” by Corinna Luyken - “Bear with Me” illustrated by Kerascoët, Sebastien Cosset and Marie Pommepuy, - “The Concrete Garden” by Bob Graham - “How to Count to ONE (And Don't Even THINK About Bigger Numbers!)” by Caspar Salmon and illustrated by Matt Hunt - “I Am a Dragon! A Squabble and a Quibble” by Sabina Hahn, published by HarperCollins. - “If I Was a Horse” by Sophie Blackall - “The Kitten Story” by Emily Jenkins and illustrated by Brittany Cicchese - “Mr. S” by Monica Arnaldo - “Night in the City” by Julie Downing - “Ruffles and the Cozy, Cozy Bed” by David Melling - “Simon and the Better Bone” by Corey R. Tabor - “You Go First” by Ariel Bernstein and illustrated by Marc Rosenthal

#iamadragon #booklist #pennsylvaniacenterforthebook

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[radicalposture]

literally

[leaving-fragments]

reallyy good, short article about how the balance between business and art in film seems to have shifted toward business nowadays

[firesidefantasy]

12!

from these cuddling prompts. feel free to send more !!

12. just waking up.

based on a commission i'm getting done rn :)) i will reblog this with the art when it's done.

---

sebastian had never been so happy to wake up to a mouthful of blond hair and no feeling in his right arm.  he tried to wiggle his fingers but there was no saving it. the big, sleepy head on his bicep had cut off any blood flow. he thought that even if he had to have the arm amputated, it would be worth it.

part of sebastian felt like he was thirty five again. like he was falling in love with this boy for the first time, like he had no idea what the future was going to hold, only that it was full of boundless opportunity. after twenty years of marriage to jonathan, and the culminative five years split depressingly unevenly between loving this boy and pining for him, sebastian hadn't thought that that small tendril of hope and the butterflies in his stomach were a feeling he was ever going to experience again. caspar jones had always had a way of proving him wrong.

sebastian shifted caspar so that his face was smushed into his chest, rather than his arm. he sighed in relief. amputation was not ideal, no matter how worthwhile it currently felt. he shook out the cramp in his arm and held caspar close with the other. the boy smelled like sea salt and sleep and he felt like home. sebastian hadn't realised how badly he had missed him until he had him back in his arms. jonathan would have scoffed at him for that. the endless pining should have been a hint, but sebastian had never been good at emotions until they were hitting him over the head with a baseball bat. relief burnt a hole right through his chest where caspar's head touched and sebastian squeezed him tight. he was never going to let him go again. sebastian could live his life no other way.

the clock struck nine and sebastian slid out from beneath him. he set caspar down on the pillows ever so gently and tucked the blankets over him so that he would stay warm.  caspar was a world class insomniac, so if he was sleeping, sebastian was going to let him sleep. he wanted his angel well rested. he also wanted him well fed.

sebastian padded downstairs and into the kitchen. it was all patio windows and sleek black countertops, books and a record player and a kitchen island to die for. he had gone all out on their new kitchen when they had bought the place in santa monica. to this day, he would deny that he had caspar in mind when he had designed it, but he knew the truth. california was a big place. he hadn't bought a house in the extremely expensive area caspar jones just happened to be living in because he hadn't expected to be cooking for him at some point.

sebastian looked inside the fridge. residing deep within him was still the unfettered need to make sure caspar was eating right. he wasn't the malnourished kid that sebastian known all those years ago, but sebastian couldn't bring himself to pump him full of sugar and complex carbs, even if he knew caspar would prefer it. he spent most of the day running around. he needed proper nutrition.

that settled, sebastian grabbed the eggs, set some mozart spinning on the record player, and begun preparing the hollandaise sauce he would need to make eggs benedict with smoked salmon. the eggs were almost done cooking by the time thudding footsteps landed at the bottom of the stairs. those footsteps grew louder, and then there were a pair of warm arms snaking around his waist, and a familiar mop of blond hair tickling his cheek.

"morning, angel," sebastian smiled. he pressed a hand over caspar's and noted the bright blue sleeves covering his arms. a warm glow burned within him. it had taken caspar less than twenty-four hours to steal his disgustingly ugly UCLA hoodie. sebastian wanted to fuck him in it. maybe after breakfast.

caspar squeezed his waist. he was all yawns and messy hair. "mornin'."

"breakfast will be ready in a moment," sebastian needed to start putting the ingredients together, but he hesitated by the stove, unwilling to ask caspar to let him go just yet.

"i'm getting deja vu," caspar laughed, his breath hot against sebastian's neck. he pressed a kiss there, and then another, down the slope of his shoulder. "how many vegetables are in this?"

"more than you want there to be, less than i think there should be," sebastian said.  he turned the heat down on the stove. "compromise."

caspar pressed his smile into sebastian's shoulder. "i missed you fussing over my vegetable intake."

"you won't be saying that in a week," sebastian poked his arm.

caspar giggled.

sebastian smiled.

it was good to be home.

[emilylovesbooks]

How to Count to 1 by Caspar Salmon

Genre: Texas 2x2

Targeted Age Group: elementary school age

Summary: An unnamed narrator guides the reader through several different exercises on counting to 1, with increasing complicated and comical things to could. At the end, the narrator accidentally makes the reader count to 2, and admits that maybe the reader is a more advanced counter who deserves a prize (one trophy, which they are encouraged to count).

Why I chose this book: I chose this book because I saw it on a list of Texas 2x2 winners. I thought the title sounded funny, and I was curious how the author would go about showing how to count to 1. I also liked the picture of the elephant on the cover.

Evaluation:

Since this is a book about counting, the number of something that appears on a page in the illustrations is an important part of the book. For example, there is a page with two whales, one of which is spouting water with a sausage on it. The instructions read to count the sausage, not the whales. The illustrations increase in number how a regular counting book might, even though there is always a single odd one out that the reader is instructed to count.

The mood of this book is lighthearted and fun. The pictures are funny, as well as the narrator, who insists on the reader not thinking or saying numbers higher than 1. I can imagine that reading this book with a little kid there would be a lot of giggling, and possible contradicting the narrator by counting more than one thing on each page.

While I did not think of tension when I read this book, upon reflection I can see how this book might be considered tense. Since many of the pages have more than 1 thing that can be counted, a reader who is truly trying to follow directions might feel some tension while attempting to refrain from counting (or even thinking) numbers bigger than 1.

Citation: Salmon, C. (2022). How to Count to 1. Nosy Crow Ltd.

[qudachuk]

Whether it’s one of the many stars in this summer’s blockbuster, or the bratty bully in Talk to Me, trans stars are showing up on cinema screens. And the big deal is that it’s no big dealThe last few...

[outlawssweetheart]

I was going to agree on the headline, but… "Vacuous, HYPERSEXUALIZED dolls"?? Oh, FUCK OFF! 🙄

[winningthesweepstakes]

How to Count to 1: (And Don't Even THINK about Bigger Numbers!) by Caspar Salmon, illustrated by Matt Hunt

How to Count to 1: (And Don’t Even THINK about Bigger Numbers!) by Caspar Salmon, illustrated by Matt Hunt. Nosy Crow, 2023, c2022. 9798887770246 Rating: 1-5 (5 is an excellent or a Starred review) 5 Format: Hardcover picture book Genre:  Concepts/counting What did you like about the book? This amusing book has a unique concept: readers are asked to only count ONE of each image on the page.…

[sarahbatistapereira]

Imagine you’re looking at a blank page, which is the beginning of your screenplay, the beginning of everybody’s screenplay. You can write anything here, whatever you want. You roll your sleeves up, give a Carrie Bradshaw look into the middle distance, which is where you find all your best ideas, and begin writing. Your film, which is to be staged by a crew, voiced by actors and recorded on film for the purposes of being seen in the world: what will it be? You can write a film that requires the dead bodies of women to be arranged in comical poses, as an arch metaphor for your own tyranny — or you can write something else. You choose.

Caspar Salmon, “This Is Not a Review of Lars Von Trier's Repulsive 'The House That Jack Built'“, Pajiba

I haven’t seen The House That Jack Built. But then, the interesting thing about Von Trier is that I don’t have to have seen The House That Jack Built. The problem is not really in any one Von Trier film. The problem is that Von Trier has been telling the same story since as early as the (incredibly tough, genuinely moving) Breaking the Waves. Since arguably as early as Medea. The problem is that anyone could be surprised why we would ask, at this point, a seemingly very obvious question: 

At what point does a vivid, passionate interest in the abuse of women not really point to an obsession with abusing women?

Especially when, as Salmon aptly puts it here:

“And, incidentally, the abuse of women is a poor metaphor for the abuse of women.”

[ultralaser]

Filmmaking — and indeed all art — involves a contract between the creator and the beholder: the creator makes an offer, which the beholder, by watching, accepts. Harold Pinter and Michael Haneke have written plays and films which hinge on this agreement, far better than Von Trier: works that call into question the moral acquiescence of the audience, the collaboration of the spectator in the barbarity depicted onscreen. Von Trier blithely, or perhaps stupidly, asks us to accept the very terms of his film, and to judge the movie on what he has set out to do — namely, to accept that the violence depicted here, the torture and abuse, can be a parable for Von Trier’s own abusive behaviour towards women, and the way his films have enacted, again and again, the suffering of women. But I do not have to accept those terms; we do not have to collaborate with Von Trier in deeming this a subject. And, incidentally, the abuse of women is a poor metaphor for the abuse of women.

This Is Not a Review of Lars Von Trier's Repulsive 'The House That Jack Built' by Caspar Salmon

[indigowallbreaker]

may I have manuela consoling fleche for the three sent?

(This came to me all at once at work today. Sorry for the long wait, anon!)

Manuela wasn’t really in the mood for people. After the battle to defend Garreg Mach from the Church’s forces, Manuela felt drained. She believed in Edelgard’s cause, and she believed in Byleth-- but facing Seteth and Flayn directly like that...

With a sigh, Manuela turned her steps towards the dining hall. Perhaps some food would settle her mind and body. At the doors, however, she was waylaid by Caspar von Bergliz. 

“Professor Manuela? I need your help with something,” he began.

Manuela grimaced. “All these years and you kids still call me professor. It’s cute.”

Caspar frowned. “Uh, then how about Miss. Manuela?”

“I... like that less, I think.” She waved a hand as if to bat away the subject. “What do you need, Caspar?  

“It’s my Aunt Fleche. I don’t think she’s doing great. She hasn’t had a meal with all of us since... well, since Uncle Randolph died.” 

Manuela’s chest tightened. They had lost so many in that fight that it all blended together in her head. It was shamefully easy to forget the names and faces, and she had definitely forgotten Fleche this week. 

Caspar went on, “She sticks to the training hall during the day, and I’ve checked on her at night but she’s almost never in her room. I don’t think she’s sleeping well. I’m getting real worried, Professor.”

“I can see why.” Manuela turned the options over in her mind before settling on one. “Take me to her. I’ll see what I can do.”

Caspar brightened. “Thanks!” 

A short walk later, the pair entered the training grounds. On a bench, lance across her lap, sat Fleche. She looked up through dirty bangs as Caspar and Manuela approached. Bags pulled at her eyes, and her clothes were caked with dirt and dust.

“Hey, Fleche,” Caspar said with obvious awkwardness. “Uh, did you wanna grab dinner with us?” 

Fleche shook her head, eyes falling to her lance. “I was just taking a water break. I should get back to training.”

Caspar turned to Manuela and gestured helplessly as if to say See what I mean? Mindful of the lance, Manuela sat beside Fleche. “How are you feeling, dear?” She asked. “Any muscle pain or injuries you want me to take a look at?” Fleche shook her head again. “Would you like us to bring some dinner here? Then you can get right back to training.”

“I’m not hungry,” Fleche said. 

Caspar scoffed. “You can’t get stronger without eating! You have to feed your muscles and get energy and--”

“You heard the lady, she isn’t hungry,” Manuela interrupted. Something like betrayal crossed Caspar’s face before he turned sheepish. To Fleche, Manuela said, “If you don’t need food or healing, then I know what you do need.”

Fleche looked to her, expression flat and disinterested. “What’s that?”

Manuela wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You need a good cry.”

“Cry...?”

“Yes! Believe me, dear, it works wonders. Crying has helped me through many lonely nights.”

Felche tried to push away. “I don’t need to cry. I need to get stronger! I need to be stronger than the people who killed my brother!”

“Yes, yes, you can train all you like. After you cry a bit.” Manuela pulled Fleche back in, reaching up to run her fingers soothingly through Fleche’s unwashed hair. 

“I-I don’t want to cry!” Flech protested again, though she didn’t move. “Crying doesn’t solve anything. It won’t b-bring Randolph back.”

Manuela felt Fleche tremble and enveloped her in a proper hug. “I’m not worried about Randolph,” Manuela murmured. “I’m worried about you.”

A sob finally forced itself out of Fleche, and then the girl was gripping Manuela tight and crying into her shoulder. Manuela didn’t try and shush her-- she simply tucked her chin over Fleche’s head protectively and held her, letting tears and snot soak into her robes. The lance rolled off Fleche’s knees and clattered to the ground, but neither moved to retrieve it.

Caspar sat on Fleche’s other side and began rubbing her back. Catching his eye, Manuela saw a few tears gathering on his cheeks. Caspar wiped them away with his free hand, shaking his head as if to say they weren’t important right now.  

But they were. Caspar was coping better, but his grief couldn’t be ignored. Perhaps tomorrow Manuela would prescribe Caspar his own dose of A Good Cry. For now, the two sat in silence, and listened with broken hearts as Fleche mourned her brother.  

[awed-frog]

Calling these films formulaic is not so much an insult as a statement of fact. Marvel has hit on a formula to make film as product, which all but proofs these movies against failure. The films cleave to a fairly rigid aesthetic and a completely rigid storytelling model. A big battle sequence is followed by downtime, some high jinks, a lot of quipping, some fan-pleasing scenes between beloved figurines – whoops, sorry, I mean characters – and then a final big battle uniting all the fan favourites. Scorsese’s parallel of fairground rides is wholly appropriate for this type of entertainment.

Caspar Salmon, Martin Scorsese is right about Marvel films