#Commentary will follow on a reblog later stay tuned

[thatscarletflycatcher]

TIEMPO DE VALIENTES (ON PROBATION) - 2005 Dir. Damián Szifrón

[metalsongoftheday]

Thursday, March 7: Impellitteri, "Goodnight and Goodbye" [ENCORE]

The Today’s Metal Tune tumblr posted its first song March 5, 2014.  Amazingly, 10 YEARS LATER we are still here and going strong.  A huge THANK YOU to everyone that has followed, liked, reblogged and commented over the past 10 years, this tumblr has been a passion project that took on a life of its own and far exceeded humble expectations, and that is all because so many have listened and gotten in on the fun.  To celebrate the past decade, we are revisiting some favorites from the early years.  Stay Metal everyone, there’s much more still to come…

Stand in Line saw Graham Bonnet team up with his fifth guitar hero and mixed late ‘80s LA hair metal with ridiculous shredding and Bonnet’s incomparable vocals and unique POV.  “Goodnight and Goodbye” fit in well with the scene at the time, while also offering commentary on the emptiness of that same scene.  Bonnet was an interesting lyricist, offering a specificity that made his words feel lived-in, and the words here read as celebratory at first, but by the end felt rather lonely, especially when paired with Bonnet’s delivery.  Meanwhile, Chris Impellitteri claimed he tried to play like Ritchie Blackmore on this album in order to give it a more Rainbow-like feel and fit Bonnet’s voice better, but he really sounded like an even more coked-out Yngwie Malmsteen.  Still, “Goodnight and Goodbye” and much of Stand in Line rocked out convincingly, even if Chris Impellitteri’s shredding frequently crossed over into absurdity.  It was the sound of a time and place long gone, and a scene that’s looked back on with both derision and fondness.

[kaasknot]

a follower who shall remain nameless reblogged a post from me with these tags, and after i stopped laughing (i'm not sure they realized who they were reblogging from), i had to dig up the mortifying ordeal of being known article. buster keaton has officially become my herd of goats, complete with an "oof" shared accidentally (which makes it even funnier that one of his short films is named The Goat.) i keep thinking of one line in particular from that article: "we don't give other people credit for the same interior complexity we take for granted in ourselves." obviously buster's swoon-worthy, it's plain to see. and just as obviously, he's not.

honestly that's as deep as i'll get in this post. i'm making it for self-interested reasons: partly to swoon, partly to explain myself to the tagger in case this crosses their dash, and partly to laugh at the universe's sense of humor. Why Is Buster Keaton, Cute Twink, Driving User kaasknot Bananas? stay tuned!

(under a readmore to spare the ppl who just don't fucking care)

he was quiet and shy. he had his circle of friends, and he was often surrounded by people. but unless you were part of that inner circle, he kept to himself—as marion mack can attest, having broken through his reserve over the course of filming of The General. he was, by all accounts, terrible at being a movie star. he hated crowds, hated attention, hated pressing the flesh (all of which hurt his box office returns; he was popular, but he didn't have the staying power of chaplin or lloyd because he didn't have it in him to face his fans). his tastes were too plain to be a trendsetter; he lived the hollywood lifestyle mostly because his first wife, natalie talmadge, set the stage. he just wanted to make movies and play cards with his friends. and that is so relatable it hurts.

he was humble. buster almost never took full credit for his movies, often putting a co-director as full director on the title card. eddie cline, a frequent colleague in the early days, said that he hardly earned a cent of his director credit, that it was all buster. moreover, during interviews in his later years, buster almost always said "we did," or "we filmed"—not "i did," or "i filmed." he was a true collaborator, who valued the input of others and wasn't too proud to accept help or take advice. (not to say he wasn't ever proud—but he never let it reach the point of arrogance. insert snarky commentary here about chaplin's control issues on set.)

on a related note, his coworkers loved the absolute shit out of him. clyde bruckman, one of his writers, said "keaton was a man you worked with, not for." he further went on to comment that working with buster was the best time he'd had in all of his hollywood career. that comes up constantly; most people who got the chance to work with him said their time on the keaton studios backlot was a high point in their career. kevin brownlow, film historian, went so far as to say his interview with buster was the highlight of his life. it's easier to say who didn't like working with or speaking to buster, because that list is much, much smaller (mostly co-directors who didn't grok the keaton style. and louis b. mayer).

animals loved him, too. it's sort of trite to say someone is a friend to animals, but according to his sister, louise, and his third wife, eleanor, animals flocked to him wherever he went. i tend to trust the instincts of animals over those of humans when it comes to determining character. if josephine the monkey thought buster keaton was a disney princess, then i'm going to believe her.

he was trusting and loyal to a fault (and really terrible at business). this one touches on the tragic parts of his story. but buster regarded his producer during his solo years, joe schenck, as something of a father figure—a sentiment that schenck clearly didn't reciprocate when he sold buster up the creek to MGM in 1927. and likewise, buster's first marriage fell apart acrimoniously in 1932—but while his ex-wife hated him to her grave, buster never stopped loving her. he wouldn't hear a word against schenck or natalie in his later years, no matter justified that word might have been. (and dear god, his father. somehow, buster forgave him, too.)

he was kind. i need you to read all of the above and understand that this was a kind, gentle man, who avoided conflict, who had no use for anger, and whose greatest ambition was to make people laugh. don't get me started on the ending of Battling Butler, i might not recover.

he was a fucking nerd, too. the man loved trains beyond reason, to the point of hilarity, to the point it's endearing. he used them constantly in his films, as set pieces, props, and characters in their own right. when he got old and crusty, he had a train set running through his house that carried snacks from the kitchen. even in movies where trains don't feature, such as The Cameraman, they still make their presence felt—see: the well-timed camera bomb during the pantomime in yankee stadium. i'm no train aficionado, but i've come to love trains secondhand, through buster. (he also loved baseball, but he was a yankees fan and i can't forgive that.)

his comedy was smart. that's tough to believe, given it's the same genre as the three stooges—i still haven't convinced my grandmother that keaton movies are worth watching—but it's true. his gags were intricately constructed, expertly timed, and relied more on intellectual humor than potty humor. he was a master of cinematography; several film historians have commented on his uncanny ability to place the camera exactly where it needed to be for the perfect shot. and his sense of timing was impeccable. unlike most feature-length comedies of the era, buster kept the first couple reels (i.e. the first 20min or so) of his films light on humor, to set the stage for later laughs. then he'd use dramatic tension to heighten the audience's investment, so that when he finally set off the punchline, you're laughing in relief as much as due to the joke itself. (and he knew when the fuck to end a joke, too. neither his mentor, roscoe arbuckle, nor the MGM writers had that touch. but buster, on his own films? he never let a gag get stale.) finally, he never threw a pie in a film where he had creative control. not one. that was his main ideological difference with arbuckle: arbuckle aimed his comedies at children, while buster wanted to tailor them for adults. when he got creative control, the gags he produced were never flat: they had layers of emotion and plot constructed into them. he didn't tug on your heartstrings the way chaplin did (some of that aforementioned pride), but he made jokes that tickled your brain, not just your funny bone—through optical illusions, irony, absurdity, or just plain old "how did he survive that stunt?!"

by far the most subjective (and significant) reason i'm obsessed with buster keaton, though, is that his brainweasels have an alarming amount of crossover with my own. the closer i get to buster, the more i understand myself. recognition of the self through the blorbo, as the shitpost states.

now i don't want to gloss over his dark side, in all this adoration. his films are a hundred years old; he grew up in a cultural stew of racism, antisemitism, sexism, and homophobia, and that's reflected in his movies. he thought blackface routines were funny, he was apathetic toward politics, and cheated flagrantly on his first wife (although bizarrely, that's almost justifiable, given the circumstances). every moment on film where he respects a woman's boundaries or listens to a soft no, there's another moment in a different film where he treats his co-star like baggage or as a prop. he was not, and will never be, woke. but by all extant accounts from people who knew him, worked with him, and/or loved him, buster keaton was a good man, a good friend, and once he met the right woman, a good husband. (and an absolutely driven worker, like goddamn.)

and that's why i'm still frothing over buster keaton. if it was just about looks, i'd have gotten bored months ago.

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 2

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Everything (for the series in general). This chapter contains pining, mention of illness, talk of danger and plotting, physical attack. A/N: This got a lot of attention very quickly and I am beyond grateful for the reblogs (I’ve not even gotten through to thank each of you individually yet). Thank you! Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever - I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.​

2. Beautiful together

...   Reader   ...

With the men in the only two beds, you had resorted to curling up in the old rocking chair – the one your father had gotten made for his grandmother before your time. It is not the most comfortable of sleeping spots (except for a quick nap) so you wake at the slightest sound throughout the night and in the morning when the floorboards creek as Jaskier staggers off to do what no one can do for him. Your neck hurts, in fact your entire body is stiff delaying your movements as you unfurl and head for the kitchen to splash cold water in the face. Brrrrrr! Finally awake, the morning routine is merely tweaked to accommodate the extra mouths in need of food.

“Good morning, fair maiden!” Jaskier smiles, a soft tune already on his lips.

Ugh. “Morn'...stir this, please.”

He does as asked without commenting on your lack of morning cheer, quickly adapting the melody to fit the rhythm of the spoon through the porridge-to-be.

Free to tend to the other chores, your top priority becomes Geralt. The trembling hand you place on his forehead is proof of the concern for the man. Blessed be. Although still feverish from the effect of the venom, the skin is no longer scalding and only the lightest sheen of sweat adorns his brow.

Hoisting yourself up on the edge of the alcove it is impossible not to admire the features of the rugged Witcher, and you allow golden memories to soothe your nerves. A few strands of white have fallen into his face and brushing them away, your palm lingers to cup the handsome head. His lips part to release a sigh, barely audible over the distant crackling from the fireplace and Jaskier's humming.

Biting the desire back, you tap the stubbled cheek. “Geralt...it's time to wake up...” Nothing happens, and you figure you might have been too gentle and grab his shoulder. “Come on. You can have a nap later.”

But he sleeps on. How safe is it to shake a Witcher? While considering the conundrum, you lower your forehead to his and inhale the (thanks to your efforts the previous night) clean scent of the man. Next instant, he has got you in a rib-creaking grip, his teeth bared, and fiery eyes locked on you without truly seeing anything.

“Geralt!” What should have been a shout comes out as a croak.

A second passes. Two. Then the muscular vice unclenches slightly, enough for you to breathe as he takes in your form.

“[Y/N]?” Finally, he lets go.

“What's left of me...” You are still winded yet smile at the recognition. “Jask showed up wi’ you last night – both more dead than alive.”

Amber eyes flicker around the cottage eventually aided by listening. “He's alright.”

“I'm gonna have a scar!” the bard hollers from the kitchen through the fireplace, “the competition is on...if you decide to chase skirts ever again.”

You barely catch the last muttering, making it hard to be sure what the young man actually did say...but Geralt's gruff “hrm” does lend some credibility to your suspicion, though.

...   Jaskier  ...

Breakfast is a cozy affair until the gracious, albeit involuntary, host finally demands to know what has happened. The inquiry brings back the harsh reality once more and reminds Jaskier of the bite from the wound as well as the circumstances under which he got it. He has to swallow back something.

Eyes hard like diamond, she watches the men steadily. “Well?”

“T’was a coincidence,” Jaskier blurts out, “we, that’s to say...Geralt, on the hunt for some bloodsucker so we got -”

“Hrmm.” The tired growl shuts up the bard yet it takes a moment before Geralt begins in his usual brief manner. “Y’know there’ wyverns up there?”

“Of course. In harsh winters they seek into the valleys for prey. The herders hate and fear them equally.”

“Right. Some army or tribe’s...domesticating them.”

Even Jaskier’s attention is fully on the Witcher as past events begin to make sense. There had (according to expert commentary) been too many monsters close together at the pass, for one...though one creature already seems excessive to the less aggressive of the duo. Domest- but who would? Or COULD? For a mind mostly occupied with the comfortable indulgences in life, there are too many harrowing implications and they serve to block coherent thinking for the moment.

[Y/N], however, is asking the relevant questions. “Who?”

I’m sitting with my mouth open. Jaskier realizes.

“Dunno yet. Too little light ‘nd then th’idiot got in trouble.”

Idiot? Is he talking ‘bout me? I should close my mouth or object! A few croaking sounds escape the bard before he gives up and snaps the mouth shut.

“Any chance it’s an opportunistic group that will stay up there?”

That’s not how luck works.

“Too many. Too alike.” Geralt leans back, bowl empty and fatigue plaguing his features again. “And y’know there’s nothing up there or eastwards.”

No. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying. Nope. Nuh-uh. Still, even Jaskier knows what the Witcher is getting at.

Allowing his gaze to follow the soft slopes of the valley, the bard’s heart aches at the idea of this peaceful place becoming the passage for a raiding force of wyvern riders. Would the little village be razed to the ground? The glade, vineyards, and fields burned as the herds of sheep and cattle killed to stiffle the hunger of the monsters? He does not even dare imagine the fate of the inhabitants.

“We’ve gotta warn them...get them outta here while there’s time, but -” [Y/N] bites her lip in hesitation, and Jaskier cannot help but notice how a pair of yellowed eyes zero in on the gesture, “- I doubt many will leave.”

It takes a second longer than normal before Geralt finds his voice. “They must or they’ll die.”

��Hah.” Humourless. Wry. “If they flee, where will they go? Y’think there’s help to get?! No.”

“Their choice, their funeral.”