#I simply cannot shut up about all the narrative themes here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

axolgodl · 2 months ago

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Tbh yeah. I had pretty high expectations since everyone is saying this movie is “the best dreamworks movie ever,” and that it’s “better than httyd,” but honestly… this whole film fell very flat for me. This is a long review, so TL;DR: the movie establishes a lot of compelling themes in the beginning, but fails to follow through on any of them, leaving us with a vapid ending that feels more suited to a much younger child audience than the marketing and even the beginning of the film suggested.

The movie starts out strong: the protagonist, Roz, is a robot that washes up on a deserted island. Roz is programmed to be a helping robot, a producer and provider that simply takes orders from humans in an organized, “pre-planned”[sic] environment; thus, she struggles to understand and adapt to the wilderness, where life and death are intertwined and all creatures are too concerned with survival to indulge her. Even after adapting to the language of the animals, learning more about their behaviors and the unique advantages each has in the ecosystem, Roz STILL cannot fit in; thus, she resolves to contact her manufacturers and be brought back to civilization. But this plan is smashed to pieces when Roz unwittingly destroys a goose nest, kills the mother goose, and breaks all the eggs but one. The egg hatches into a runty gosling she names Brightbill. She tries to leave, but she is given orders from another animal to rear the orphaned Brightbill so he can survive the dangers of the forest and fly south for winter. Roz, who cannot disobey direct orders, struggles with the crushing responsibility of raising a baby she didn’t ask for and doesn’t know how to care for. Thankfully, she receives some scant assistance from a reclusive fox, Fink, who starts out more interested in using her than helping her. This trio—Roz, Brightbill, and Fink—are all outcasts on this island, but they find each other and slowly learn to make the best of it. Roz works herself to the bone, literally, to keep Brightbill out of trouble, losing and breaking parts of herself along the way.

About here is where the film starts to fall apart. After all of this is established, there’s a very abrupt shift in the themes of the film, so the second half feels very rushed, disconnected, and trite in comparison to the beginning. ⤵️

After a five second montage equivalent to height marks on a wall to signify Brightbill’s growth, Roz somehow goes from a reluctant guardian in way over her head to a being possessed by the magical power of motherly love; this is handwaived away by the narrative with a one-off line about her gradually rewriting her programming piece by piece over time—which is never shown or even hinted at previously in the movie—all for the sake of her task. The relationships between Roz, Brightbill, and Fink all vastly shifted offscreen during this timeskip, so the closeness they share feels unearned—especially the closeness between Roz and Fink after Brightbill grows up and leaves the nest.

After Brightbill flies south for the winter, Roz doesn’t return to the manufacturers as planned; she stays in the forest instead, giving and giving and giving parts of herself to save the other animals—who have shunned, feared, and hated her, bullied her and stolen pieces of her since the beginning of the film. She rescues them one by one from an unexpected deep freeze until she is breaking apart at the seams, powering down, unable to continue on. But the emotional low that the entire movie has been building towards thus far—Roz’s death—never comes; instead, we’re treated to a banal scene of Fink lecturing the other animals about the value of kindness around a campfire, like a page out of a parable. Fink scolds them for eating each other to survive and all the animals are suddenly very contrite and become friends, blah blah blah. Roz shuts down. But where she might have died and been slowly rebuilt/nursed back to life by all the animals who have been tearing her innards out since the beginning of the film, or where the animals might have needed to find human help to save her, time skips once again and she is just magically fine come spring. The missing parts and ever-growing pools of fluid leaking from her ports are never shown or talked about again.

Even when she commits the ultimate sacrifice by ripping out her power core to save Brightbill near the end of the movie, there are no consequences or fallout for that action. She has been completely hollowed out, broken and battered both by what others have done to her and by her own hand… but it’s okay because apparently she doesn’t need any of the parts of herself she’s lost when her body is being puppeted around by the magic of motherly love!

After she proclaims that she is a wild robot and realizes she wants to stay with her newfound family and community on the deserted island, she realizes she needs to go back to the humans anyway to prevent them from hurting the animals in pursuit of her. But she is just a robot; if she returns, the humans will steal her memories and reprogram her back to factory settings, destroying everything she has built for herself and her found family. This, again, is subverted by the same deus-ex-machina that’s kept her alive so far—the power of motherly love prevents their technology from working, so she remembers… somehow! But she remains with the humans anyway, one farming drone among many, because reasons.

Roz’s emotions are treated as jokes and her sacrifices are not treated as real sacrifices by the narrative. There are minimal consequences for Roz’s accidental murder of Brightbill’s biological mother and siblings; no consequences of the other animals’ mistreatment of her; no consequences for the destruction of her body or the erasure of her mind. The stakes are nonexistent. Every opportunity for a poignant, emotional climax is dropped and tiptoed around in favor of overstated “child-friendly” tropes and shallow morality lessons, as if the children watching are dumb and can’t be exposed to sadness. The Giving Tree told a more compelling and impactful story about self-sacrificial motherhood in 621 words than this film did in an hour and 42 minutes.

This has been an issue I’ve noticed with a LOT of children’s media recently: kids media is being watered down, as if the studios are afraid of facing backlash for producing films that can make the audience feel anything but vague wholesome feelings at the end. This case of watering down is particularly detrimental to the story. The intentions of the director may have aligned more with the ending, but sometimes, as a writer, you need to allow your stories to go where they want to go instead of trying to force them where YOU want them to go.

Silver is right. At the beginning of the film, the movie set up themes about finding family in unfavorable circumstances rather than by choice; learning to live in harmony with nature instead of against it; and that life is so beautiful and meaningful BECAUSE it is unplanned, wild, and ultimately finite. Instead of following through with these concepts, the director refused to let the story breathe and forced a pivot in the last half of the film. So the movie actually wound up saying, “it’s okay to allow others to use and abuse you because love will magically fix everything,” “being different is bad unless you prove to be useful,” and “segregation is great!” ?????

I just don’t understand the hype. The ending was a complete feel-good cop out, more suited to 3-7 year olds than the “8 years or older” demographic that the marketing seem to suggest. I went in expecting a life-changing masterpiece like How to Train Your Dragon, and instead I got Madagascar.

Just watched Wild Robot for the first time.

Went expecting it to be GOOD, solid, since everyone keeps saying it’s one of the best Dreamworks ever made.

It…. Failed.

Yeah, I don’t even see this as anything better than “average” - it felt more like “Over the Hedge”

The animation has a cool concept: robots being hard and shiny, artificial, with the natural world feeling like living paintings… but they never really committed to that or drew attention to the difference.

The messaging was trite and hammered in over and over. The characters were exaggerated and simply straightforward, and it really FELT like a movie made for children and which took no real risk and was formulaic in its delivery.

They had SO MANY opportunities to lock in on the themes they set up and hinted at- but chickened out and swerved from all of them in favor of the harmless story that has been done a million times before.

Like, they JOKED about death happening everywhere, but the actual seriousness of it fell flat, and made the characters feel like disposable extras.

We got hints the robot might fall apart out here without human intervention, but that ending was WEIRDLY subverted, and that breakdown never happened. She napped and was fine.

They JOKED about motherhood feeling like a crushing obligation that ruined your life when you don’t want the kid to start with, but never followed through. Instantly got magical power of loooove that defied all reason and could magic a robot to life.

They TALKED about family, and missing someone, but at the end our robot goes to be a super generic farm bot with no individuality among a thousand other farm bots like “this is where I belong”

Also!

—

It felt like it WANTED to be about:

Raising a child you didn’t want or ask for, and doing your best.

Learning to live with the natural world instead of apart from it.

Death is a part of the natural world and it’s what animals must do for survival.

Being an outcast because of things you can’t control, and finding family and happiness despite it.

—

What it’s actually about:

Differences are rightly punishable and undesirable unless they make you useful to the group.

The magical power of MOTHERLY LOVE can possess a robot and bring it to life like Pinocchio.

Human stuff belongs in the human world, and it’s NOT RIGHT for the robot to be with the animals.

Every winter all the animals call a truce and don’t eat each other, because mankind taught them Kindness. (Don’t worry about what predators eat, they can stop eating for the truce)

—-

Scavengers Reign did it better.

The Iron Giant did it better.

Wall-e did it better.

HTTYD nuked it from the sky.

The robots from Castle in the Sky had a more compelling story arc, and they were all dead.

It was fine. I liked the Peregrine Falcon. 6/10

#the wild robot #dreamworks #wild robot #rozzum unit 7134 #roz the wild robot #fink the fox #brightbill

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shreddedleopard · 4 years ago

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Twelve-million more reasons Historia and Levi are part of the Endgame. With Pictures.

You can read the first post I made on this here:

10 reasons it would make narrative sense for Levi and Historia’s character arcs to end together.

(This is the mega-evolved version.)

Okay, I’m going to put this out there now, and before you judge me, please just read the posts. You don’t have to agree. This is just an idea. But it makes a stupid amount of sense, at least to me. So here's your fair warning (and now I'm being bold): If you don’t want to potentially be spoiled, Do Not Read On.

Here’s the Theory:

Historia Reiss will give birth to a half-Ackerman child, and together with Levi, from the ashes and ruins of the world Eren destroyed, they will welcome the dawn of a new age for humanity, where Ymir’s curse and the power of the Titans is extinct.

I know. I sound like some crazy, Rivahisu nut. Granted, I am, but I’m not mad enough to make a claim like this without a shit-ton of evidence, because it’s such a damn twist it feels like it can’t be true. But just humour me.

Here’s the theory, then we’ll look at why it makes sense and how it might have been foreshadowed. Please note: I have less clue how this will tie in to Eremika endgame, so I haven’t mentioned this as much, but obviously that will be the other very important side of this coin.

10 months ago (In Japan, full term pregnancy is counted as 10 months), at the banquet celebrating completion of the new railroad, Levi and Historia, having had 3 and a bit years to bond over their shared experiences and become close, may have gotten carried away together and shared one night of being a bit more than friends. She’s well into her 18th year at this point, just to clear that up. This resulted in Historia getting pregnant. Okay just stay with me; I know. I know. I sound crazy. But hear me out. So this pregnancy, contrary to the belief of the MPs and rest of the damn world, was the complete opposite of planned. Historia tells Levi, and Levi immediately panics. Because, to steal Kenny’s famous line, Levi thinks to himself ‘I can’t be some kid’s dad.’

Levi does what he always does best, and shuts down into business mode, telling Historia she will need to cover it up somehow. Historia does as he asks, probably reluctantly, because she really has developed very deep feelings for him during the timeskip, and finds some farm hand to take the blame, likely saying she made a silly mistake with some random and the father doesn’t want anything to do with the child, and so she needs a father for the child not to be illegitimate. Which is her worst nightmare, because of course, that’s what she was. Levi watches the exchange hidden in that famous hood, feeling very conflicted, because although he cares about her, he thinks it best if no one knows that it was him that got the Queen pregnant, and of course, he’s duty bound, with a vow to fulfil, so he has no time to be worrying about a family. (Silly Levi!)

How ironic this conversation would be if this theory were true. Remember, Historia was completely willing to eat Zeke if needed. Instead, she got pregnant, unplanned, nothing to do with any plot or selfish wishes, just the result of a spontaneous act of love by two people who’ve grown to care for one another a lot. ANYWAY.

Because we know Levi actually has a good heart, he feels immensely guilty for all of this; he's just a product of his upbringing and thinks he doesn’t know the first thing about families, so it's better for all involved if he not be. See where this is going? The old cursed history repeating? Making the same mistakes as our parents? Plus, Levi is bound by his duty. He is incredibly important to the military still, and he cannot just abandon this for any of his own selfish wishes. He’s supposed to be the one to vanquish the beast titan.

Cue ten months of Historia looking hella depressed and hopeless, and Levi being even more of an asshole than usual to everyone, and not really wanting to say too much at all, as well as making some terrible workplace decisions (lol) poor boy be distracted.

Look at his face 😭

Yes Levi. A month. Which means Historia is now due and you’re still stuck with beardy, without a solution and pretty soon no reason for the MPs not to turn the mother of your child into a Titan.

That’s what that face is. I thought he looked a bit weird first time I read these panels 🤔 He didn’t know about the wine. We see that later. Anyway, I keep getting distracted, stop. I’ll come back to this.

But fear not; Levi will have a choice to make.

So this is where it gets a bit more iffy for me, because I'm not sure how it would work, so this could be a way off, BUT. I believe it will come to light that the combination of Royal and Ackerman genes will somehow cancel out a person’s ability to turn into a titan and connection through paths, thus making them truly ‘free.’

The founding titan has the ability to change Eldian physiology, according to what Zeke learned from professor Xavier.

EDIT: Okay so here’s where I’ve had to tweak this a bit in light of there latest chapter. So we just had Zeke in PATHS. With none other than our second resident genius, and as proclaimed by Eren, the saviour of humanity: Armin. What do our boys have a conversation about? Reproduction and the importance of the small moments in life - it’s these little moments which matter, regardless of the desire or need to recreate. Interesting how both the leaf and baseball link back to what their ideas of ‘family’ became. If Historia and Levi were to be in the same scenario in PATHS, what would their items be? What truly means family to them both?

Perhaps Armin and Zeke realise what is needed to lift the curse of the titans - maybe a blueprint for genes which can cancel out the connection to PATHS and the founder? If only they had a child with a new type of Royal-Ackerman DNA which might fit the bill ...

Here’s Levi’s moment. He, with Historia, has created such a child - completely by accident, because of one of those ‘moments’ that both Armin and Zeke mention - moments that are simply just about enjoying what you have with no sense of how it might relate to anything bigger - a real rarity for both of them, considering their roles and constantly being asked to think about the good of humanity as a whole. What a beautiful irony, that in the moment they chose to be selfish and, to use freckled Ymir’s own words, really live for themselves, they set a chain reaction in motion that would ultimately save humanity.

Where does this leave Eren and Mikasa? Good question. I believe Eren will die once the curse is removed, because tragically he is the character that has been forced to choose humanity over his own personal relationships. As Isayama has said before, Eren is a victim of the story. Mikasa will be the last thing he sees, hence the original dream at the start of the manga, where he wakes up crying. Something like this. But probably a lot better. Yeah.

Out of the ashes of the old world, a new one will be built, but through Historia’s kindness and love, and Levi’s guilt and understanding of what was sacrificed in the past, society will not repeat the same mistakes. The final panel could be Jean holding his child, perhaps with Mikasa, if she ever manages to get over losing Eren. That would be vague enough so that Isayama was able to show it to us already without spoiling much. Or maybe Jean’s dead and it’s not him at all. I don’t know. 😭

Right. Okay. So now you’re going, sweet story, but uh, there’s no way Levi could be the father. He’s so much older. Isayama wouldn't write a moment of romance like that. Not with him and Historia. YOU’RE JUST CRAZY.

Well this is where it get’s interesting. LET ME SHOW YOU. It’s foreshadowed literally everywhere. Right under our noses.

There is so much symbolism.

Dedicate your heart to what? has been Levi’s question recently. What are they all fighting for? What is he fighting for? How will he give meaning to his dead comrades sacrifices? Is killing Zeke really the extent of it? Is vengeance the true meaning of their sacrifices? Or is it something a lot more hopeful?

The answer is shown to us in the opening credits. And the ending credits. Several times.

Levi says so himself - he keeps messing fulfilling the vow up - why? Why is he so worried about killing Zeke?

Eren has the same questions to consider. Which PATH is the right one to take - revenge and violence with the rumbling, or love ... with Mikasa. We are literally shown what their choices will be in two virtually identically designed panels, which I’ll show you. Tragically, Eren’s choice is taken from him. He is a victim to the story - he must chose the path that saves humanity. Levi and Eren have been bound together through the theme of choices, and taking the ones which leave you with the least regrets, throughout this entire manga.

The upcoming anime episodes literally plot out the timeline of Levi and Historia’s changing attitude to one another, and then Historia’s pregnancy, it’s just so cleverly subtle. Isayama even tells us when/ during what event her child was probably conceived by just dropping dates in from other, seemingly unrelated plot lines.

Zeke gives pointed comments to Levi constantly - every other line of his is either a different jab at Levi about Historia’s pregnancy, a veiled question, or a reminder that he’s under the pressure of a 10 month time limit to do something about him, or Historia will have to eat him once she’s given birth. We start to see Levi unravel because of this, and make mistakes over and over.

It’s in official art. It’s in the soundtrack. Its in music videos. There’s interviews from Isayama that, when read in light of these ideas, suddenly take on a whole new meaning.

Isayama even trolls us. He’s laughing in our faces, the madman. Like, gotchu 🤣 suckers. While we’re all on Reddit and Twitter like, ‘Levi’s character has become so stagnated! He’s making such poor choices or not giving anything to the plot at all. All that’s left for him now is to give up and die! Be at peace, your story is over.’ OOF. Or, ‘Historia has just been forgotten! She’s become such a pointless character. Isayama just got bored with her and sidelined her.’

I’m going to try and write stuff up in the rough categories below, but these might change. I’ll link them when I’m done, and then pin this post. I’m a bit of a rambler so heads up - this may take a while 😅

There’s also a ton of people I have to mention who have contributed to this - I didn’t spot it by myself. I’ll tag them in the finished post too.

Historia and Levi’s Miscalculation: A manga tale featuring the Jaeger Bros., Pt. 1

Historia and Levi’s Miscalculation: A manga tale featuring the Jaeger Bros., Pt. 2

Historia and Levi’s Miscalculation: A manga tale featuring the Jaeger Bros., Pt. 3

Ackerman-Royal Bloodline and Levi’s Choice Pt. 1

Levi’s Choice Pt. 2

Suns, Moons and Songs

Akatsuki No Requiem - Right theory, Wrong guy

The Farmer and The Cattle Farming Goddess, or WHAT’S IN A NAME.

Mistakes of our parents and breaking the cycle

Memories from the future & Levi’s Guilt

Watch this space. And hold on to your pants. If I’m right, I’m getting very drunk.

#shingeki no kyojin spoilers #shingeki no kyojin manga theory #historia pregnancy #snk #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #aot #levi ackerman #historia reiss #rivahisu

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pjinthestreets · 3 years ago

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i am saying this to myself no one read my cringe bleach postcanon

ok but this is what goes down though: renji+rukia marriage. im just saying it happens. im just saying ichigo and orihime would come? come on they saved Da Soul Socielty like seven times they can RSVP. fuckin

momo comes too obviously.. obviously kira is invited and stuff but hes zombifried and not exactly the life of the party no one rly wants him there and he does not want to go. not actly important if he shows up but i Do think the angst factor would be tastey like if hes on the side like conspicuously Just Standing There. alright ive Shown My Face gotta go :|

momo also on da side like hm yep lovely shindig let me just :) have one more drink :) tee hee lovely party guys! im crying because im just very happy for the happy couple GOTTA LOVE IT OK ILL BE OUTSIDE GETTING SOME AIR

orihime outside Actually getting air (lotta people she barely knows carousing and being. You Know.) like o hi uhh Miss. (FUCK I KNOW IVE SEEN HER BEFORE WHAT WAS HER NAME UHHH) Hows it going? Oh my god shes crying GIRL CRYING ALERT SUPPORTIVE MODE ACTIVATED

momo, kinda tipsy and a little bit totally miserable: no its fine its nice! i just kind of pictured things differently you know! i should be happy for them! but i keep thinking about how i was gonna get married someday. selfish right

orihime: :( babe no. come here. sweetheart. youre beautiful theres lots of time to find love! besides arent shinigami like immortal? :)? the right person is out there for you i promise!

momo, definitely tearing up now: no its not that i actually had someone. but like. thats the problem lol

orihime: ???

orihime: oh god. :( thats so sad i

hang on

like still alive type corpse? like has part of his own reiatsu still intact type walking around making everyone uncomfortable type ohhhh yeah actually that sounds like. a solveable problem to me

momo: ?!?!?!!!?!?!?!?!?!

orihime: yeah man if you can get him to consent i can almost definitely revive him with my godlike powers. nobody seems to remember this but i am almost the most powerful guy in this narrative

kira an indeterminate amount of time later: i dont rly see how this is going to improve things for my actual. utility as a killing machine. which is all i am good for etc etc sad boy noises

momo, clinging to sanity by a fucking shred at this point: shut the fuck up and get good dude you cannot imagine the stress this situation has put me under

orihime: cool alright let me juuuuust

kira: OH GOD IM ALIVE JESUS CHRIST I CAN FEEL EVERYTHING

momo: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

rose, like 25 miles away: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

mayuri, who definitely just lost a pet project and is prepared to argue intellectual property rights AFTER taking it out in Blood: what are u doing with my personal property i fuckin made that thing >:(

rose, finally getting a chance to use that sweet sweet bankai that got like 2 panels of airtime: you know for some reason it didnt occur to me until just now that someone else could do your job :) die :)

* le epic battle* [30+ episodes (colloquially known as the ‘mayuri eats shit forever’ arc)]*

downside to this is we may never get that sweet hoodie look on izuru. im gonna hazard that a guy who kinda gets his power and entire like character scheme from themes of despair, pain, and disempowerment mayyyy be cheated out of a bankai by this move. but it is simply the sacrifice we will have to make for the constantly-shafted-side-characters-get-their-happy-ending (and, can’t emphasize this enough, mayuri eats shit and dies forever) arc

#tee hee #bleach #i promise that reading this will give you brain damage #shut up about the cringe factor im well aware #THIS WAS LITERALLY LIKE 30K ON MY OLD HARDDRIVE RIP #yes its me 'negotiating with demons' ao3 yes im still thinking about following it up #you can ship kira/momo or not but you gotta admit shed make the same move platonically.....#my guy kira

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lizzibennet · 4 years ago

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Honestly, I *DO* like episodes 7, 8, and 9. BUT I would have LOVED if they did everything they did AS PLANNED, and then added the alternatives film (the versions we got) as a bonus. Honestly I hate ROS because Rey is related to HIM. Lbh, NOBODY would have sex with p*alpatine

the problem with episodes 7-9 is that each is a standalone film. that is not a problem in itself since every other star wars trilogy movies could technically be watched as a standalone and with a little context you’d be fine, since they tell an overarching story with three more or less independent characters. episodes 7-9 do not tell an overarching story, they are each chapters to a different telling of rey’s story. ep 7 tells the story of rey nobody, who is both the narrative foil and the in-world counterpart of one of the strongest force users alive, and that’s honestly already a really good premise, buuuuut if we’re going to have a trilogy then that main conflict should be resolved either in the second movie or at the very least in the first half or so of the third because things! need! to! happen! for! a reason! except that they don’t because at the climax of the second film kylo tells rey she’s a nobody, and apparently that changes nothing within her resolve which..... fine, let’s push it and say she’s going to deal with that in the third movie, whatever, but we get to it and actually she’s palpatine’s granddaughter so actually she’s all the jedi which. UGH. the point I’m trying to make is that she is a completely linear character being thrown in three different takes of her story, and I hate to say this because I LOVE her, but after the second movie I totally got it when people said she was a mary sue because her faith in the force and the jedi and her kindness and blahblah NEVER really waivers (except when she gets angry at luke which. saves everyone! how fuckin convenient!) and you could come out and say “lori, if we think like that luke skywalker is also a mary sue”, which, again, don’t get me wrong because he is literally my son but he IS. and in the 80’s that is FINE cause it’s the story we needed - a story about this starry (heh) eyed guy whose unwaivering faith in people and The Magic Around Him™️ may seem a little misguided at first but ends up saving everyone, but that was 40 years ago. and maybe it was silly of me to expect a nuanced take on The Human Specificity Of Empathy from a star wars movie but you know what, I don’t think it was since gareth edwards paved the way with rogue one that is the epitome of analysis of what it really means to be good or bad and I’m not going to rant about how rogue one is the best star wars movie today BUT it set the tone for a less us-vs-them view of the world which was VERY exciting and in line with what I think the 2010-20’s really wants from its heroes in general. so if we want to follow the narrative beats of the first trilogy or at least the first movie (no way of knowing where jj abrams would’ve gone in ep 8) I think that’s fine so as long as you make it your own, and imo jj abrams was, and then rian johnson was like nope lol, and jj abrams tried to fix the narrative 180 rian johnson tried to do, and like. episode 8 is a very fun movie to watch as a star wars fan but narratively it does not make any fuckin sense. I thought so then and now with ep 9 out I think so even more. rian johnson is a very creative guy, he had some REALLY interesting ideas, but WHY give him the creative liberty to do so in the MIDDLEEEEE of the trilogy??? WHY!?!?!? give him a star wars story film! he would KILL it! or you know wait a couple years so the director of the first movie who actually knows what the fuck he’s doing can direct the second, but noooooo the damned fucking mouse wants to wipe his ass with $100 bills so we cannot possibly wait. cohesive storytelling? we don’t give a shit about that in the house of le mouse.

that all to say, there is nothing Fundamentally wrong narratively with either of the three movies. they’re fun to watch. even ep 8, possibly my least fav of the bunch, was a fun experience in cinemas. it’s star wars and disney - they know how to make a blockbuster. the thing is that as a trilogy they simply do not make any sense. if you analyze each movie individually all three seem to have different core themes: ep 7’s is “nobodies are people too actually”, 8 is “maybe space fascists aren’t so bad, actually (also luke is here hey luke)”, and 9 is “I take that back, nobodies aren’t a people actually”. it’s satisfying to watch as a casual spectator who goes to the movies, seems some space gays with one braincell between the three of them and is like coolio and then goes home, but it’s not satisfying to watch as someone even the littlest bit invested in the story because there is no cohesive roundup of everything. the original trilogy was like is luke an idiot for being nice? is vader actually redeemable? is han deserving of trust despite being a space nerf herder? and sometimes u were like what’s happenin!!!! but in the end all your questions are answered quite satisfactorily. luke was right, han is sexy, vader was redeemable. in the prequels: how does anakin skywalker become darth vader? how do he and obi juan become the enemies we see in the death star? what happens to padme? and while the sequels are a beautiful mess that I love they do answer the questions they put out when episode 1 begins, so you know, imagine liking the sequels and hating the prequels when the PREQUELS make more sense, the PREQUELSSSS. anywhomst, point is: the sequels are like here is finn. finn is the first stormtrooper we see the face of! he defects! also the first stormtrooper we se defect. the other defector we know is bodhi from r1, who is very sympathetic despite being imperial, and clearly we’re supposed to feel empathy for finn. finn survives! finn finds rey! go finn I love u! and then. WHAT happens to finn? what furthers his character development into a full fledged person when he starts out with not even a name? where’s his anger? where’s his OBVIOUS narrative direction that should be “ex stormtrooper who shows imperials that fascism is bad actually”? nope, goes almost unmentioned from then on. and again, I love finn, he is literally baby, but he also froze after ep 7 because rian johnson decided to fuck shit up and also because disney is racist. poe? the do-good soldier who is supposed to be the Believer™️? actually he is the only one who was any semblance of a coherent role in ep 8... which is promptly retconned when jj abrams makes him a fucking spice runner in ep 9 lol. who is rey? and they’re like she’s a nobody and that’s why she’s spesh, wait no she is a nobody but she’s spesh because space fascist has the hots for her, oh, no, wait, she’s spesh because PALPATINE. what was the theme of this trilogy? what was the thesis? what questions did they set out to answer and did they answer them at all, never mind well? and it’s unclear, obviously, because three movies with three clearly different views behind them won’t magically make narrative sense just because you are trying to piece them together. they’re not pieces at all, they are three independent takes on the stars and the wars. enjoyable as little snacky treats, not as a three meal course. (also I’m not even going to TOUCH on how what was already a narrative mess was made worse by disney’s NONSTOP fanservice. sw sequels and game of thrones last season are the cautionary tales of why fanservice sucks and while a good, intelligent if cliche or predictable story is always better than a Shocking™️ one that doesn’t make any sense. but if I start on that I will LITERALLY not shut up SO AHEM CONTINUE @LIZZIBENNET)

ALL that to say: I agree w/ u and I LOVE your idea of each movie being an alternative version of the story. honestly, that would make more sense than what we have right now off the bat lol. can you imagine ep 7 being the rose colored version of the story via the heroes’ lenses, and then ep 8 being the “actually space fascism is good if ur kylo ren” version of the story, and then, ep 9 is what actually happened... told by rey nobody, who dances the line between the good and bad until there’s not a line anymore. CHEF’S FUCKIN KISS obviously much more risqué than disney would ever go for, but genius! much better than trying to make us care about these conflicts that they make up in the first 15 mins of each movie. ur mad because episode 7 follows the beats of 4? here’s three movies on why you were wrong when you judged it all true and therefore Bad. HUHU I love that

also the galaxy is a vast place... I am sure there are emperor fuckers out there

#nctxrejects #what is my ask tag again #star wars

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destiny-smasher · 4 years ago

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“But I can't walk on the path of the right, because I'm wrong.”

So, The Last of Us Part 2 is out. It’s about 25 hours long. I’ve played it. I loved it, but it’s got its flaws. I think the hype buildup was overblown, and I think the zealous hate from the leaks was also overblown. This is a beautifully produced game that is trying to do much more than the typical AAA game tries to do, and in so trying, it’s messier, muddier, and more complicated than its predecessor. I love it for that, despite my issues with how the game ultimately resolves things.

I think Naughty Dog was either intentionally misleading audiences (which, given the marketing, is possible) or perhaps Neil himself has a different concept of the game he directed than what was actually delivered. Despite how it was advertised, The Last of Us Part 2 is not inherently about ‘hate’ or ‘revenge.’ It’s not just a revenge story.

It's a story about empathy, about how human beings and their interactions have layers, and how we are better when we extend blind empathy to others instead of blind hatred. I gotta talk about this. SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE GAME to follow.

Seriously, final warning for SPOILERS.

This game is simply too big, too complex, and has too much going on for me to write a single piece going over everything there is to talk about, but there are some things I need to say that inherently rely on discussing the entire game in a spoiler-filled way.

Let’s start with the most noticeable thing that has hit me over this game’s reception: people like Joel way more than I would’ve expected. SO much of this game’s negative reception seems to be over Joel’s character and the circumstances around his death. I was not at all surprised that he died - I was a bit surprised at when and how he died, in the moment, but even by the end of the next scene, it had washed over me how much sense it made. He died in the same way everyone else dies in this series. He had it coming in the same way anyone else in this world has it coming. He was never a hero. If you truly look at Joel as a ‘hero’ figure but don’t extend that same logic to Ellie and Abby, you do not make sense to me.

I’ve seen a LOT of hate getting thrown at Abby, and frankly, I do not understand it, and if you hate her but do NOT hate Joel or Ellie similarly, then I inherently don’t respect your opinion? You’re being blatantly biased and unreasonable in exactly the way this game is arguing you should not be. Straight up. Get your transphobic jokes the fuck outta here. Get your homophobic takes on Ellie and Dina the fuck outta here. Get your xenophobic complaints about the MUCH more diverse cast of characters in this sequel the fuck outta here. The ONE case where I could see a reasonable thing to be conflicted about is Lev’s character, because they are a transgender kid who gets deadnamed by some NPCs. As a transgender person, I personally found this to just...make sense and feel organic to the world, and none of the actual characters in the narrative with names or roles in the story ever deadname Lev. Lev is fucking precious and I love him, and I think his inclusion adds inherently more to this game than otherwise, despite the understandable conflict some might feel about his backstory. To ME, the fact that all of what Lev goes through and how Yara and Abby do what they can to look for him, that says to me, “protect trans rights” and I am glad it is there. Trans people have to deal with that shit sometimes, I think it’s fine having it be PART of a wider narrative. It doesn’t define Lev’s story, it doesn’t dictate the plot of the game, it’s a spark that sets some events off and I think that adds more than it could potentially take away, as does the overall representation in the game.

Getting back to this element of bias, though, I get that you “went on a journey” with Joel and Ellie in the first game. I get that. But you spend about as much time with Abby in this game as you did with Joel in the first game. And I see a lot of people are SOMEHOW totally fine and chill and cool with Joel going on a murder rampage in the first game, specifically killing at least one man who was specifically trying to save humanity - they cite that Joel is a morally gray person who has done bad things and is trying to become a better person. Sure, cool, OK. And Ellie, sure, ya’ll will think her going on a bloodthristy revenge quest is cool, fine, A-OK, because Joel was murdered. But somehow they are physically incapable of extending that same empathy to Abby, even after the game bends OVER BACKWARD in every reasonable way it could. Why is this? One person tweeted at me the simplistic, reductive idea,

“ I know the sensible thing that naughty dog was aiming at was that we'd feel sorry for abby and eventually grow to like her, but for me I just don't. I loved Joel and I love Ellie. They didn't kill anyone who I loved as a character. Abby did. “

At least they’re being honest with themselves in that they literally missed the entire point of the game. You having personal bias you cannot remove yourself from does not make for “A DEEPLY FLAWED STORY” or whatever the fuck people have been tossing around.

I personally don’t buy any of that bullshit until we get into the final hours of the game during the epilogue, but we’ll get to that.

Everything in the first 20-ish hours of this game felt organic and believable and completely in line with the first game to me, and the fact that ALL OF IT happens as a direct after-effect of Joel’s selfish act at the end of the first game really contextualizes how/why it was called ‘Part 2.’ So honestly, all of this nonsense about this sequel being ‘badly written’ is just...bonkers. I will agree it’s not some master class in writing - neither was the original game. But both games are very similar in writing style, tone, and the world presented is consistent, while character motivations are realistically complicated. Naughty Dog has never been great at plot, but the real quality of their work comes through in how much effort they go to in order to present realistic feeling worlds and characters, and from the environments to the actors to the extra animations on top, I think the details and the context they create are where they shine.

To better understand where I am coming from with this game, let me lay this on you.

During the scene in that basement, when Abby shot Joel in the leg, and Ellie shows up...I realized what was about to happen. Ironically, it was exactly what I had originally predicted was the thing going on WAY back when the game’s reveal trailer was dropped -- that Joel was dead, and was motivating Ellie’s revenge quest. If you’ve read what I have written of Arcadian Rhythms, you will have some idea of my feelings on Joel and Ellie’s relationship -- in short, I think it is complicated, and just as damaging as it is good. That’s real life. That’s how reality is for many relationships, especially ones between parents and their kids, especially in my experience. When I realized Joel was about to be murdered, my feelings and thoughts were not jumping to ‘oh fuck what an asshole I wanna kill these people’ or ‘oh no not Joel’ but rather, my immediate gut thoughts were ‘yupppp Joel kinda deserves this, he literally did this to who knows how many other people, but why are THESE people, specifically, out to get him?’

When Ellie later cites to Dina that there’s ‘no point’ in speculating as to why these people murdered Joel, because it could be for one of many possible reasons, I found that to be interesting -- Ellie herself acknowledging that Joel had fucked over many other people, while still pursuing revenge herself.

I do think the theme of ‘the cycle of violence’ is very core to this game and arguably is its strongest central theme, specifically because violence in wholly integrated into its gameplay. But narratively and structurally, empathy is, I would argue, even more paramount. This game spends about 12 hours of its runtime (so about half of the entire game) actively trying to encourage you to understand, relate with, and empathize with Abby. The developers COULD have had you swapping back and forth between both characters, which might have resulted in better pacing, but I think it would’v taken away from what they were going for. It’s that long, slow burn that makes Abby’s side of the story work, in much the same way the long, slow burn of the first game does what it does, and the way the long, slow burn of Ellie’s revenge quest helps us see just how far gone she is.

But “arghh I hated Ellie she kept making bad decisions that made no sense” some of you say, “they did her DIRTY” some of you say.

No.

Joel did her dirty.

The Fireflies did her dirty.

And it’s this exact concept -- that our actions and choices have consequences and ripple outward beyond what we can initially imagine - that is at the heart of why I think I love this game so much. Most video games depict a pool of water that is either a constant whirlpool, a raging clash of waves, or stone dropped in the middle and the ripples spreading out. The Last of Us Part 2 is more like a series of ripples all happening simultaneously, and not all of them are as apparent or even important, but it’s just...a bunch of ripples all happening all over the place.

And it breaks my heart, during 2020, a year when human rights, systemic racism, a worldwide pandemic, late capitalism, and entire countries submerged in protests because their government is fucking them over...has people shutting off or refusing to turn on their empathy to anyone outside of their bubble. In 2020, when the world needs empathy more than any other year I’ve experienced in my life thus far, a game like this goes SO FAR above and beyond what most games try to do, in a very risky and controversial way, to actively invite its players to fucking STOP AND CONSIDER for a damn moment that there’s more to the world than JUST YOU and what you care about. That your actions have consequences beyond your singular perspective.

Ellie is fueled by rage for a number of reasons, and we don’t even understand all of them until literally the final moments of the game, which I found to be appropriate as it ends on a note of reminding us that there is ALWAYS something we don’t know, something we don’t understand, motivating someone else’s decisions.

Ellie was robbed of agency, of purpose, by both Joel and the Fireflies. Joel robbed both Ellie and the Fireflies of their purpose. And the Fireflies robbed Ellie and Joel of theirs. In return, Ellie is left without purpose, and all she’s really left with is a broken man who desperately wants to be a dad again, to the point that he will murder and lie to hold on to that. Don’t get me wrong - I don’t necessarily hold it against Joel that he murdered people to save Ellie. I will always defend the idea that it was a fucking selfish decision that would realistically lead to consequences. But in the same way Marlene points out to Abby’s dad, ‘What if it was your kid?’ ie ‘What if it was someone you loved?’ I get that, that’s the beauty of how the first game ended. It presents a zero sum game where there is no ‘correct’ choice that everyone can agree on, but in the back of our heads -- and Part 2 actually states this as a point of fact -- we all know Ellie would have CHOSEN to sacrifice herself, had she been asked.

So it was deliciously realistic to me to see Ellie grappling with the frustration, distrust, and anger of Joel having not only robbed that purpose from her, but having lied to her about it. And in the end, it was also wonderfully realistic that part of why she hated Abby so much was that Abby inadvertently robbed her of her chance to try and rebuild and repair that broken relationship.

But here’s the thing, though - the thing I see fucking NO ONE talking about, and I can’t decide if it’s because no one is picking up on it or what.

Both Ellie and Abby are haunted and driven by broken men making selfish choices. Their selfishness keeps both characters kind of locked in to desperately grasping at violent acts to justify a purpose.

Some will play the flashbacks with Joel and will feel warmth and nostalgia and admiration. Some will play the flashbacks with Owen and feel disinterest or disgust because ‘why should I care about these people?’

For me, I couldn’t help bu draw parallels to how both Owen and Joel were men trying to be good, you know, not being specifically evil people, but men who were a bad influence on the women around them, who were great and good and charming and all that until things didn’t go the way they wanted, pushing and prodding with passive digs and pressure to reaffirm their own hopes that despite their mistakes, they’re ‘good men.’ Owen is admittedly much less well developed in this regard, partly because his arc just isn’t as deep or interesting, partly because he didn’t exist in the previous game. But I still could not quite shake it. I grew up with men like Joel and Owen as my father figures, so there’s personal bias there.

I literally had an actual nightmare that woke me up in the middle of the night partway through playing through this game because Joel was in it and I said or did a thing he did not like, and his reaction spooked me awake, in part because I LIVED that growing up. (not murder, but violence, passive aggressive manipulation) I absolutely adore the depth given to Joel’s character, that he has LAYERS to him, and I loved seeing Tommy similarly expanded upon. (him passively prodding at Ellie to try and make good with Joel felt a little manipulative, given that he KNOWS what Joel did; and even his wife’s prodding at Ellie at the game’s outside to ‘make good’ with some old jerk who seems all expectant about being rewarded for basic apologizing, ech)

Last of Us is a horror game, Part 2 even moreso, but it was the feeling of men like Joel who do bad things and then try to justify them after the fact that actually creeped me out more -- all the more creepy because I KNOW Ellie and Abby will give up on better choices to try and ‘do right by them’. I was relieved when Abby began to break free from these old, poor choices, even shortly after making more fo them during her half of the story. This brings me to another fascinating aspect of this game: how Abby’s story is a combination of both Joel’s and Ellie’s.

Dunkey (of all people!) recently praised this game and compared Ellie’s and Abby’s narratives to TLOU1 and Uncharted 4, and I agree with him in a lot of regards, there, but I think what the team was more going for was for Abby’s story to feel like a combination of Joel’s and Ellie’s while simultaneously being directly impacted by Joel and Ellie’s story.

Abby grew up in a military community, even though she expressed an interest in science -- just like Ellie. The death of her father drives her on a quest for revenge -- just like Ellie. She does some horrible shit to people all in the service of trying to protect a kid as some desperate attempt to feel better about all of the bad shit she’s done -- just like Joel. She starts to let herself be empathetic to other people and tries to become a better person because of the kid she takes under her wing -- just like Joel.

In a way, you could argue Part 2′s overall story is kind of repetitious. Ellie’s quest for revenge is a bit too narrow-minded and blind in her rage, and Abby’s story kind of recycles many components we have already seen up until that point. I think what’s there still generally accomplishes what it set out to do: get us to question and try to understand why people do what they do, and consider our own place in that cycle, in those ripples.

I think many aspects of this game that look circumstantial on the surface are not accidents.

I think the recurring imagery of water is an allegory for how we can let rage, anger, and hate drown us. The game’s title starts with a boat drifting in water, and the title changes after the ending to a boat that is beached. The Seattle arc shows a gradually increasing focus on water flooding the environments, culminating in a big rainstorm with crazy waves. The final fight sequence (which tbh I hated but we’ll get to that) takes place literally IN water, involves Ellie trying to drown Abby, and ends with the two of them going separate ways in their boats.

I think it’s no accident that Abby and Ellie’s desire for vengeance is ultimately caused by the same specific moment, and I think it’s interesting that many people seem to skip RIGHT OVER the idea that Ellie feels such a deep sense of rage at Abby killing Joel only because Joel made the decision that caused Abby to kill him in the first place -- and the good and bad that came from that. It’s just a brilliantly complicated web, I think, and that further highlights that none of these characters are inherently good or evil, which is pretty much the entire point of this world in the first place.

I think it’s interesting that both Ellie and Abby grumble insults all of the time over the people they’re killing, and both try to justify their violence with thoughts like “well we’re better then that, we don’t do THOSE kinds of things,” which is, ya know, literally the kinds of mental hoops actual real human beings jump through to justify doing bad shit to each other.

I liked the idea of the trading cards until fairly early on when I found the ‘Dr. Uckmann’ card, which...made me roll my eyes a little at first, until I read the description, which then made me feel more actively uncomfortable than maybe anything else in the entire game, to be quite honest. Partly because it rang of entitled self-importance, but partly because of the reports of Naughty Dog crunch culture.

And on that note, let’s talk about how this game arguably crunched its employees way more than it needed to while simultaneously making its story more bloated than it needed to be.

Don’t get me wrong, I love indulging in more STUFF than it required. I can totally see the appeal of writing extra stuff to a story like because you can, because it’s interesting, because it’s fun to MAKE shit. But when you are a AAA game development studio who is potentially crunching your employees into burnout, maybe a fairly pointless epilogue on top of a game that is already arguably a bit too long in the tooth is...maybe not the best way to go?

On the upside, I enjoyed playing the Santa Barbara location, I loved getting some more Abby/Lev time, I liked seeing Ellie a bit older, I LOVED the scene at the farm with her, Dina, and JJ. I loved the gameplay challenge that was the Rattler’s base. I loved that this game had noticeably larger environments to explore.

But tbh a LOT of content could’ve been cut from this game to make a smoother, better paced experience while simultaneously putting less strain on the developers. I do think the extended flashback sequences focused on non-violent gameplay is important enough to justify itself, but I think a lot of the more violent or unnecessary parts of the game (like the entire sequence on the Seraphite’s island and the Santa Barbara sequence) all feel like...EXTRA? Which on the one hand is great because hot DAMN more beautifully rendered locations, content, etc. but on the other hand I’m not sure it adds as much to justify the real life pain and misery I’m sure some developers went through to create it all, and in a way, it doesn’t quite justify its own existence if we’re being critical.

I get what they were going for with the Seraphites and the WLF but neither group is developed enough to really accomplish the goals of empathy. I think focusing on specific members OF those groups is better, because that is ultimately how real life people break down their walls of bias, -isms, etc. -- they just interact with and befriend people from these groups and realize organically “oh hey we’re all...people, huh.” The game’s attempts at naming NPCs and dogs don’t do much when the game actively rewards you for killing them (speaking of which, I played on Normal and there were way too many items imo, we’ll see how that is on higher difficulties). We could get into the role of violence and gameplay but that’s a WHOLE other can of worms.

But the Rattlers in the final act are even worse. After this entire game of being actively encouraged to empathize with other people from other groups and let yourself consider they aren’t evil, the game just...shoves an objectively worse group of people at you, asks you to murder them, and then...discards the whole thing without a second thought. I found this to be fun from a gameplay perspective (sorry Neil, playing your game actually IS FUN when you put so much work into making the violence fun to engage with) but I found it weird and frustrating from a storytelling perspective, as if the whole thing was an undercooked, unfinished final act that they cobbled together because they just...wanted enemies with helmets and an environment depicting southern California. Hell, tbh I don’t even get why Ellie had to be there other than the developers didn’t think players would be OK just...letting Ellie live a life in peace on a farm or that players would be OK NOT playing as Ellie at the end and letting her beat the shit out of Abby.

I actually LOVED the farm sequence, it felt so...weird for a while. Like you’re just waiting for the hat to drop. And when it does...it’s just PTSD. And that felt right. That felt good, that even though Ellie was spared, after all the shit she did, because she let go and spared Abby in return, she got to live this peaceful life...except life’s not that simple and old scars can still hurt.

I loved when Tommy showed up and we got to see that darker side to him we KNOW has been there this entire time, but Ellie maybe hasn’t been forced to see it. All the way up until this point, I felt I could understand where the characters were coming from and what motivated their decisions.

And then Ellie decided “no, actually, maybe if I throw all of this away I can maybe get rid of this PTSD I got from throwing everything away before.” And then it got worse when after she breaks into this fucking slave house to free people, after she saves Abby and Lev from dying on posts, she STILL wants to fight. ANd Abby’s where I’m at -- that ‘fucking REALLY?’ feeling. I utterly disliked the fight scene in the water. It was the one time in the whole game that actually felt like misery porn to me. I was honestly going into it expecting that maybe Ellie’s stab wound from the trap would cause her to be too weak to fight, and she’d literally drown from bleeding out because of her own unrelenting pursuit of revenge. But nah, we’re put through a pointless, brutal fist/knife fight that...doesn’t really have purpose imo. WHatever you wanted to accomplish here, you could’ve done back in the theater in Seattle. (on that note I LOVED the Ellie boss fight, what a fun gameplay thing and also just tense all around since you really couldn’t tell what was going to happen, but I LOVE that Lev stopped Abby from killing Dina, even though she had every reason to)

I can imagine different versions of the Santa Barbara sequence that offer a more edifying conclusion while still working in the environmental and gameplay components they seemed insistent on working in. It’s the one major portion of the game that, now that I’ve had time to process, I feel the most conflicted about.

Neither Ellie nor Abby “deserve” a happy ending in much the same way Joel didn’t “deserve” a happy ending. This game has no true protagonists or villains (anyone who is presented as a ‘villain’ is minor, and we don’t find out much about them anyway). I think Joel was lucky to get the time he got to live in community once again, to rediscover his humanity (look at all of those flowers they left at his house, this man who fucked over humanity and murdered countless people had a chance to live a few years of peaceful life again), I think Ellie was lucky she got time to even live what she did on that farm with Dina and JJ, and was lucky to still be alive at the end of the story. I think Abby was lucky to have been able to break free from a life of militaristic bullshit and rediscover some of her own lost humanity.

I think a lot of people admire Joel as a hero when it’s clear he was never one.

I think a lot of people admire Ellie and try to idolize her as the smarmy kid she could never permanently exist as.

I think a lot of people hate on Abby for EXISTING (and being a woman -gasp- WITH MUSCLES) and I’m pretty pleased with Laura Bailey getting to play this role (and Ashly Burch getting a supporting role in this game, too, for that matter).

I think The Last of Us is not ‘about Ellie and Joel.’ I think The Last of Us is about humanity, and exploring it through different angle. Sometimes needlessly gritty and dark ones, but Part 2 gave us even more light-hearted, pelasant moments than I could have expected. I think people who look so reductively at this game -- now officially a ‘series’ -- as ‘Joel and Ellie 100x forever’ and literally anything outside of that being bad and a waste of time fundamentally missed the entire purpose of this game, ironically ignoring what it is trying to passionately to convey. I think Naughty Dog’s marketing of the game actively misled people in ways that are rare for the industry, and I do think that is a bit shady - but on the other hand, being misled actively improved my experience with the end product (which is arguably why they did it). I think the way Sony has latched on Joel and Ellie as ‘Playstation Icons’ and encouraged people to buy up TLOU merch depite there not being much TO turn into merchandise says something.

Also? Frankly?

I am SO FUCKING TIRED of “angry sad dad” games.

Like. I loved TLOU 1, I loved the new God of War, etc. etc.

But God of War took basically NO RISKS and had NOTHING TO SAY that countless other pieces of media have said to death. That’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with that, I really enjoyed it and look forward to the next. But this game actually has challenging thoughts, complicated things, it is trying to get players to consider, and most everyone I see shitting on the game either hasn’t played it or doesn’t seem interested in games that exist for something beyond making them feel good about themselves? I dunno.

I think at the end of the day, TLOU as an entire series, and specifically the sequel, isn’t about Joel and Ellie, that was just the more focused lens the original game had. For its messier, muddier experience, Part 2 strives for nothing more than many pieces of media have but for something that is still rare in the space of AAA video games.

It takes some risks, it makes some missteps in getting where it goes, for sure, and it’s by no means some holy gift to mankid, but it passionately goes to GREAT lengths to explore and express a fairly simple idea:

empathy is a choice, understanding others is a choice,

and we are all inherently better off when we choose to blindly accept understanding than when we blindly choose hate and violence.

Just because we can’t walk ‘the path of the right,’ and just because ‘we’re wrong’ doesn’t mean we should let the phantoms in our lives continue to keep a hold on our future. Just because someone does some good things doesn’t erase the consequences and ripples of the bad they have done, and just because we do bad things doesn’t mean we can’t do good.

The way to end the cycle of violence is empathy.

It’s simplistic in concept, but if you look around at not just the reception to this game even before people could play it, but just the STATE OF THE WORLD IN 2020, you will see that maybe we still need such basic, simplistic concepts to continue to be explored in big budget media.

#tlou part 2 #tlou #The Last of Us #The Last of Us Part 2

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violetsystems · 4 years ago

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#personal

The holidays are quiet if not a little more restful than usual. I facetime’d my dad and his wife and talked to my mom on the phone. Since I left my job way back in July I haven’t had much video contact with anybody. Everybody is too busy baking banana bread on YouTube I guess to check in. The final days of my employment had devolved into a virtual SCRUM twice a day led by myself on camera. It was exhausting at times to lead but kept people focused. That is when they bothered to show up. One of my employees was off making music with my boss half the time I was trying to lead those discussions. I’m beginning to sense a theme. People saying they are there but not really. Maybe the mic is muted. Maybe you can’t see behind the screen. All I know is the follow through lately with people is missing entirely. I spent a good hour the last two days trying to decouple a credit card from my old job’s contact info. I’m locked out of both the phone number and the email attached to the account. I got the run around trying to provide a US passport to confirm my identity. It was good enough to enter China alone. The first call that ID was sufficient. They had said they sent an email to follow through with the process to two different emails I provided. The email never came most likely because neither had been tied to the account previously. I called back on Christmas eve and suddenly the passport wasn’t good enough. Neither was an expired driver’s license. The woman actually asked me why I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license. I told the truth. My ex girlfriend stole my car. That didn’t really help the situation. I sent a passport photo to unlock my facebook but they never followed through. I had an easier time unlocking my Fortnite account with it although that took a full week. I ended having to call the police on Christmas eve to explore filing a report for fraud and identity theft. The police officer on the phone pretty much gaslighted me at the end of the questioning. “Nothing criminal.” he stated plainly. I didn’t get mad. I didn’t even complain. I simply said Happy Holidays and hung up. Much like I’ve hung up on the last twenty years of my life at this point. Nobody seems to want to answer the video call. The opening introduction if they did would be something like “What exactly have you done with my life?” Maybe they’re afraid to confront the truth. The media, the government, and even the police seem to not want to believe evidence that contradicts their narrative. I guess you could throw up your hands and revolt. But the holidays have been peaceful and quiet enough to simply roll my eyes and move on. I’ve had years of failures to connect. COVID has taught me a lot of things. I heard the mantra in all the mandatory corporate webinars. This pandemic has brought to light structural problems we were never aware of before. Sexual harassment in the workplace. Check. Organizational corruption. Check. The fact everybody is full of bullshit and will just mute the mic and pretend it never happened. Check. People feel invincible behind a screen and think they know it all. Check. Now that we’re aware. What do we do? How do we move on with our life now that we have all this space? How do I even care about participating in a broken process when I have no debt and fiscal maturity? How can I go back to being the old me when I’ve been completely erased and conveniently forgot about? Why would I even bother?

Mostly I take the time with this process to make sure my identity is completely secure. Which is why it’s not really fun to be locked out of twenty years of your own information in the form of an email account and forgotten about for six months. But this is just the structural reality come to light. Much like the rest of America is waking up to the reality of what greed really does to people. That was my Christmas present this year aside from the coffee that never came and that Cyberpunk game that I don’t really have the time or the subpar computer setup to criticize. I’m guilty of tricking myself into thinking people care about me. I have statistical data from the last six months that proves otherwise. I also have financial data that points to whatever hustle I have been hustling during that time has paid off and will continue to. But I don’t really have an answer to anything. I’m in the worst kind of limbo. I don’t get the sense these days that I should even remotely worry until July. Which is kind of like saying fuck you to the world for the next six months. I spent the last six waking up from a nightmare. The only times I look back is to clean up the mess. And a Christmas Eve call to the police is kind of messy. But the result is more of the same for me. An extravagant “I told you so.” I’ve been telling myself for awhile now a lot of things. Some of them were kind of unbelievable. Now those very dreams are all I really take comfort in. The limbo I’m in is more pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel than the void. But I can’t say the same for everybody else. I work for myself for the time being. It looks really nice on paper. I can even pay myself if it fits into my organization’s financial outlook. But none of this matters when you or your struggles don’t even exist to people other than to mock or judge it. All the work we do to survive. All the work we do to create art and to be beautiful in the face of chaos. All of that is negated by a loud mouthed jerk who can bark you back into submission. A mob of dumb ass fraudsters that talk over and mute any opposition without any warrant or merit. The press follows this mentality pretty clearly. Everybody has a hot take and a theory. But nobody wants to sit down and listen to the culmination of lies spread about people and situations. Everyone is too emotionally interested in sharing their recipe for banana bread to an invisible audience. I guess I could be guilty of that too. Except that I share actual human emotion and care with a community of people who pay attention week to week. For a person like myself who has no real need to worry about money for the foreseeable future what’s the value of care and attention? A lot. I don’t feed myself with vapor or fake sentiments. I take it all at base level as real as it gets. You can’t build a future on speculation. You can technically if you are in the stock market. But risk is risk. And money is money. No one can be me at the end of the day. Sometimes I can’t even prove I’m myself. My mom reminded me I had to provide ten pieces of documentation to renew my passport ten years ago. The reasoning was simple. The government did not believe I existed. No bullshit. A decade later nothing really has changed. I’ve been to Shanghai by myself and eaten McDonald’s. I read all these Republicans talk about how you put your identity at risk just setting foot in that country.

And yet when does the rhetoric and brainwashing fall flat on it’s face? When you can’t pass economic stimulus to not only save your own people but the fragile stock market all this bullshit is built upon. I could keep telling you I told you so. Or I could save my own ass. And largely I did without really owing much to this country whatsoever except taxes in Q1. Taxes billionaires don’t have to pay because they offer us so much relevant employment and benefits that fit on their bottom line. The real truth is that America would rather not face the truth. It hasn’t for years. It’s built on this kind of thing. It always has been. And the world gets bigger and the excuses get worse. And so what does anyone expect a person like me to do after you openly admit that there’s nothing criminal going on here. How does that sound when you’ve been treated openly like a criminal in so many unsettling ways that you just don’t want to participate in society anymore? Not that anyone really asks me to participate. They’re too busy signaling or whispering secret messages. Is it suggestion or valid communication? I’m the one that has to shift through it all and detangle the mess from what is real and what is some sort of mass hallucination. An alternate reality hunger game that the rich have been playing for years without any punishment or oversight. When you get caught up in the crossfire they expect you to know the drill. Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. None of this is good for me. You could argue it made me the beast that I am. But I am the one who had to actively make that choice to adapt and survive. But I’m not like any normal person these days. I refuse to admit it anymore. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I have a problem. One that it seems I cannot fix. And if you isolate and quarantine yourself from an entire twenty years of nostalgia what is left? Where are the texts of merry xmas from yesteryear. Probably pinging my old work number. I can’t access my facebook. Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t shut down lines of credit until I renew my state ID. I could jump on a plane and visit Shanghai Disney quicker than I could prove I’m alive to the US government. And when does the constant gaslighting break down? When do we realize that people gaslight to cover up an elaborate lie that has gotten out of control. That we are not all in this together. Not by a longshot. That the problem of connectedness is right there in front of our faces. We’re exhausted propping up entire infrastructures that keep a bloated empire alive. Family fortunes built on opioids and war strewn out across the landscape in trusts and elaborate tax schemes. Oligarchs that have generational wealth that buy our politicians and scam people into debt and forced labor. This is America. This is the systemic problem the pandemic brought to light. This shit was built this way. And like any fort constructed with shaky foundations, good luck hiding from the storm in that shit. At least I can still access my Epic account. What am I going to do for the next six months? Complain about something I can’t fix because everybody wants to consider me part of the problem? I don’t know what to do anymore except move forward and lead by example. There’s enough quality people who follow to keep me warm with those thoughts through the holidays alone. I won’t be drunk on a zoom call. I’ll be in bed watching Wonder Woman or something. When everyone you worshipped comes out of this looking fake, tired and exhausted you’ll know where to find me. Unlocking more accounts tied to an identity that doesn’t exist anymore. Nothing criminal. Hopefully people will stop treating me like one eventually. <3 Tim

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twentiethcenturymoviesandtv · 4 years ago

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12 Angry Men: A Product of the Times

Despite what shows like Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best would have you believe, the 1950s in America were not a ‘simpler’ time.

The soldiers came home from World War II, the economy expanded, and the nation’s population grew and thrived, all seeming like absolute wins in our nation’s history. The suburbs grew, and the ideal nuclear families began popping up. Everyone dressed to the nines, the War was over, and so was the Depression that preceded it. America was prosperous again.

At the same time, the Korean War began. McCarthyism kicked off a terrified hysteria about the invasion of Communism. Sputnik was launched, the Cold War was off and running, and Americans lived in fear behind their white picket fences. Men went back to work, women went back to the home. Rock and roll was born, and the young people, now called teenagers, started rebelling against the conformity of their parents. Racial tensions began rising. Oppressed people across America began looking to the future for change.

This was the world when 12 Angry Men made its debut in theaters.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Simple.

In order to truly understand and analyze any work of fiction, we must first contextualize it. To do that, we have to know what the culture was like at the time.

Why?

As I’ve mentioned many times on this blog, no piece of media is an island. Everything we watch, read, or listen to is a direct product of the culture it was created in. The creators were influenced by things around them, be they other pieces of media or simply events and attitudes of the time, and as a result, the film, television show, or book is a reflection of the culture, be it critical of it or embracing of it.

Such is the case with 12 Angry Men.

The premise of a jury made up entirely of middle-to-late aged, middle-class white men passing a decision on a Puerto Rican boy from the slums seems, by its very nature, firmly set in the era of the 1950s. The attitudes of multiple jurors seems to emphasize this fact with plenty of prejudice against the defendant for his background, ethnic and otherwise, his age, and even his relationship with his father. 12 Angry Men is definitely a film that is discernibly made in an era that is behind us. To some, that would be enough to seal its doom with the ultimate stamp of disapproval any ‘old’ movie can get: the verdict of ‘Dated’.

As those of us who indulge in older films are more than aware of, sometimes, older movies just don’t hold up quite so well. When that happens, oftentimes the film is referred to as ‘dated’. Oftentimes, the things that people consider ‘outdated’ are things that can’t be helped: slang, clothing, hairstyles, special effects, technology, or even styles of storytelling that were popular at the time of the film’s release.

Therein lies the problem.

By that logic, that definition of the term dated, every single piece of media ever made is ‘dated’ and therefore, nothing is ‘timeless’. This is bad news for every creator of art who desires to make something that will outlast them. If everything is connected to the culture, the times it was created in, then nothing is worth watching outside of the era it was created in. This would lead to many classic films, television shows, and books becoming long-forgotten. Even now, there are many who don’t like watching things made before the date of their birth, claiming they are ‘cringey’ and ‘dated’.

Again, by that definition, they’re right.

Here, though, we have a different definition.

The term ‘dated’, the idea of being directly connected to the era and culture of a piece of media’s creation, is easy to forgive when the ‘datedness’ extends to a mullet, a mixtape, or a money-shot that looks a little cheesy by modern standards. However, that form of dated is not the problem.

‘Dated’ is really only used in a negative context when the movie or show it is describing is not as enjoyable to modern audiences as it was when it was released, suggesting that the passage of time has done more to damage the film than credit it. This definition of the term ‘dated’ exonerates films that have not lost the enjoyability of their core story in the years that have followed.

Being ‘dated’ is far more damaging when it is attached to outdated ideas. It is there that we have our problem.

An outdated idea can damage a film ten times more than any pop-culture reference therein. These are the films based around inherently problematic elements, that never address (and in some cases seem to promote) ideas that we now know are problems. It is this definition of ‘dated’ that we need to apply in order to tell how well 12 Angry Men has held up.

Looking past the clothes and the hair is the glaring problem of the all-white, all-male jury. Definitely an effective reminder that this film was made in the 1950s, for sure, but that could be as much a reminder of the times as it was an effect of them, for as the film tells us, there’s quite a lot of bigotry going on in 1950s America.

The only character in the film who is not explicitly Caucasian is the unnamed defendant, the Puerto Rican boy from the slums. It is his fate in the hands of the twelve men, and unfortunately, to some, his fate doesn’t seem to matter. Juror #10 notably holds the opinion that he is one of ‘them’, displaying superiority and prejudice that cannot be overlooked as ‘harmless’. During his rant on the subject at the end, he is ignored, abandoned, shut down by his fellow jurors, who are more fair-minded. As Juror #9 (Curiously, the oldest of the bunch) points out early in the film:

“Only an ignorant man can believe that…Do you think you were born with a monopoly on the truth?”

An important idea in this film is that of open-mindedness, of fairness to our fellow men. The movie stands as a jarring mirror to some of the bigoted ideas held by many in the 1950s, in more ways than one. While the film definitely has a biting opinion of those who look down on people from other backgrounds (ethnic or otherwise), there’s also an interesting look at the youth of the 1950s in the film.

The defendant is a young man, basically a boy, accused of killing his father after a fight. In the first age of teenage rebellion, Juror #3 speaks the words of parents who feel wronged by their children, while simultaneously carrying the guilt of spurning them to rebellion in the first place. The idea of making your sons into ‘men’ at age nine is treated as being a problem, driving a wedge between both father and son, a possibly irreparable one.

These themes alone would seem to date the film right away, with the heavy emphasis on ideas that were prevalent at the time, if it weren’t for the context with which the ideas are viewed.

Rather than glorify either idea, or present them as being acceptable in the culture, both of these elements are viewed critically by the narrative and the characters within it. The film, while not exonerating the rebellion of the children, acknowledges the part that parents play in it, and outright views racial prejudice with disdain. Not only was this a demonstration of progressive thinking, it’s also still relevant today.

In fact, there isn’t a whole lot about this movie that isn’t relevant today. The idea of ensuring that our justice system works is one that will likely never go out of style, and the critical mirror the film holds up to some of the ideas of 1957 holds up very well in an era where some haven’t moved too far beyond the same thinking. The film, and the ideas it was based around, still resonate with audiences who see it today, managing to leave an impression over sixty years since it’s original release.

On the other hand, there is a total lack of female characters entirely, (hence the title), leading to some remakes to add a female judge (to keep the name) or change it to 12 Angry Jurors or in some cases, 12 Angry Men and Women (In other cases, the title has been changed to 12 Angry Women.) This would seem to be the response directed at the one issue the film never addresses, that is, the lack of female representation. If anything, the lack of it makes the critical reflection all the sharper, the world of the 1950s being dominated by men in general. The absence of female presence is telling, leaving the twelve men as the focus, all with ideas that (for the most part) are familiar with one another, if not shared by each other.

In short?

12 Angry Men loses some of its enjoyability only if one has no concept of our society’s history and current climate. It was relevant in 1957, and it remains relevant today, in a culture not so far removed as we might think. As we continue to progress, 12 Angry Men will stand forever as a landmark and a reminder, no less moving now than it was over sixty years ago.

Thanks so much for reading! Remember the ask box is always open if you have any suggestions, questions, comments, or just want to say hi, and I hope to see you in the next article.

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discovisiondreams · 4 years ago

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Top 15 First Watches of 2020

I’ve never been good at staying current on pop culture, and that became especially pronounced in 2020. A year where most of the anticipated theatrical releases were pushed to VOD (and the price nearly tripled) meant that a lot of flicks I was excited for got added to the end of the “Maybe Someday” watchlist.

But in this strange year, I did manage to watch 245 movies- and 195 of those were first-time watches. Some were new, only available on the (virtual) festival circuit. Some were Criterion mainstays, films I’m horrified to admit I hadn’t seen before. But this year, when movies cemented themself as my biggest joy, I began to really track what I watched- including a “top 5 first watches of the month” roundup for every month. These top 5s weren’t ranked, and weren’t even based on technical ability, strength of dialogue, or critical acclaim. They were just the 5 I loved the best.

So without further ado, here are my top 15 of the year- one selected from the top 5 of each month, with some bonus entries thrown in as well. As a general rule, I only included features on this list- I was fortunate enough to catch shorts that streamed at Chattanooga Film Fest, Celebration of Fantastic Fest, and more, but to add them to the running would have made writing this listicle absolutely impossible.

HONORABLE Honorable Mention: The Holiday. Inspired by the fine folks at Super Yaki, I finally watched this Nancy Meyers classic. Why is it two and a half hours long?! Why is that two and a half hours so significantly lacking in Jack Black?! The scenes that Black is in, though, really shine. This one is going to be a Christmas mainstay in the Disco household (and not just because I spent money on the DVD).

15: The Love Witch (Honorable Mention, April). This one came highly recommended to me by friends of all sorts, and like most of my 2020 first watches, I’m deeply embarrassed that it took me this long to get to it. Upon finally watching it, on a rainy Sunday, I described the movie in general (and the color palette, specifically) as “sumptuous,” which is one of the most complimentary visual descriptors I can bestow upon a movie. The plot felt a little convoluted at times, but I still found The Love Witch incredibly enjoyable and am hoping to explore more of writer-director Anna Biller’s filmography in 2021.

14: The Guest (Honorable Mention, October). The Guest is one of the few movies I watched multiple times this year- and the only one I watched twice in one week. From the sultry industrial soundtrack selections to the numerous visual nods to Halloween III: Season of the Witch, The guest was Extremely My Shit. The casting here is truly tremendous- especially Maika Monroe, who was similarly brilliant in It Follows. Also of note: Lance Reddick, one of my current favourite character actors.

13: The Fast and The Furious (Honorable Mention, May). 2 Fast 2 Furious (and its bespoke theme song, Act A Fool, by Ludacris) came out when I was in the 6th grade. Do you remember the music and movies that entered the world when you were in 6th grade? Do you have an inexplicable zealous love for them? 2F2F was the only film in the Fast Cinematic Universe I had seen for a long, long time. Then I saw Fate of the Furious. Then I bought the series box set, as a joke?? And then, slowly but then also all at once, I genuinely started to love this franchise. Some of them are truly ridiculous. Some of them are genuinely bad. But the first one? The Fast and The Furious (2001)? Timeless. Point Break updated and adapted for the early-aughts, The Fast and the Furious walked so The Italian Job (2003) could run. Without The Fast and The Furious, Paul Walker would just be “the guy from Tammy and The T-Rex” to millions of casual cinemagoers. The cultural impact of The Fast and The Furious simply cannot be denied!!

12: Come to Daddy (Top 5, July). Honestly, this is the exact flavor of bonkers bullshit I’ve grown to expect from Elijah Wood, and that is not an indictment. Wood’s genuine love for genre film is evident here, in what can only be described as an uncomfortable film of family, reunion, and redemption. The tense and abrasive first half gives way to a surprisingly relieving wave of violence and exposition in this critically-acclaimed flick.

11: The Stylist (Top 5, September). The feature-length debut of writer-director Jill Gevargizian, based off her short of the same name, is female-led horror that pays homage to genre mainstays like Maniac and Psycho while still being decidedly singular. Not only shot in Kansas City, but set in Kansas City, The Stylist made my midwestern heart happy. This is one that I really, really would have loved to see in a crowded theater auditorium, were this year a different one.

10: In The Mouth of Madness (Top 5, March). Despite being the beginning of pandemic awareness, March was a slow month for me, movie-wise (even though it’s not like I had anything else going on??). But I finally made time for this Carpenter classic, and I’m so happy I did. I’ve long been fascinated by stories about stories, and the people who find themselves trapped within those stories, and this one is truly, in the most basic sense of the word, horrifying. Sam Neill proves that he belongs in horror here, making his role in Event Horizon seem like a natural fit. Also a highlight: noted character actor David Warner, best known (to me) as “Billy Zane’s bodyguard guy in Titanic,” who never ever fails to be unsettling.

9: Profondo Rosso (Top 5, April). Before this year, my only Argento exposure was Suspiria (which is phenomenal), but Deep Red goes off the deep end in all the best ways. The score (by frequent Argento collaborators Goblin) is truly groovy. The number of twists and turns the plot takes is kind of mind-boggling, but also delightful. Daria Nicolodi (RIP) is at the top of her acting game here. This quickly became one of my beloved background movies- if I opened Shudder and Profondo Rosso was playing on one of their live-streaming channels, it stayed on while I was cleaning or cooking or paying bills. Profondo Rosso is a must-watch for those hoping to get into giallo.

8: Crimson Peak (Top 5, November). This one was definitely not what I was expecting, but it was GORGEOUS. I loved the world immediately (a Del Toro trademark, to be honest). As a longtime Pacific Rim stan, it made my heart happy to see Charlie Hunnam and Burn Gorman reunited under Guillermo Del Toro’s vision.

7: Palm Springs (Top 5, August). I am not typically a time-travel movie enthusiast- but I am a sucker for witty repartee and Andy Samberg. This one made me ugly-cry, which I should probably be a bit more ashamed to admit. August had a lot of really great first watches, but the Hulu exclusive takes the cake due to its novel premise, some truly heart-wrenching reveals, and the amazing casting (is there anything JK Simmons cant do?).

6: Scare Package (Top 5, May). Is there any format I love more than the horror anthology? While there have been so many over the years (Creepshow, All the Creatures Were Stirring), Scare Package might be my favourite of them all. A variety of fun and inventive stories combined with a genre-lovers dream of an overarching narrative make this one a must-see- in fact, it was the whole reason I bought a pass to this year’s online version of Chattanooga Film Fest. There’s a cameo here that absolutely knocked my socks off (and continued to do so even on repeat viewings). While the scares here are honestly minimal, Scare Package is a great love letter to the genre at large.

5: Do The Right Thing (Top 5, June). Yes, it took me until 2020 to watch Do The Right Thing for the first time. The palpable tension, the interwoven stories of Bed-Stuy’s residents, all seem timeless. Giancarlo Esposito is, as always, a joy to watch.

4: Knives Out (Top 5, February). “It’s a Rian Johnson whodunnit, duh,” states the SuperYaki! T-shirt famously worn by Jamie Lee Curtis, star of Knives Out (2019). This one has received worlds of critical acclaim, I truly do not know what I could even hope to add to the conversation. I want more old-school murder mystery cinema.

3: The VelociPastor (Top 5, January). It should be testimonial enough that The VelociPastor beat out Miss Americana, Netflix’s Taylor Swift documentary, as the top pick for January- but in case it isn’t, let me end 2020 the way I began it; by evangelizing the HECK out of this movie. Written and directed by up-and-coming triple-threat (Director/songwriter/prolific cat-photo-poster) Brendan Steere, The VelociPastor is a true love letter to genre cinema, complete with a big wink to the criminally underloved Miami Connection. Alyssa Kempinski shines as Carol, a doctor/lawyer/hooker with a heart of gold. The VelociPastor premiered in 2019 but gained tons of attention in 2020 (thanks in part to YouTube sensation Cody Ko)- attention that it truly deserves. A sequel is rumored to be in the works, but mark my words, anything to come from the imagination of Brendan Steere will be worth a watch.

2: Dinner in America (Top 5, October). I genuinely feel sorry for the other movies I watched in October (there were a lot) (they were all SO GOOD). Dinner in America, which I caught during the Nightstream hybrid festival, was not at all what I was expecting. While the other features were all very solidly genre flicks, this was…. A comedy? A modern love story?? I’mn honestly still not exactly sure, but I do know I loved every second of it. I laughed. I cried. I threw my hands up in the air exuberantly (in front of my laptop, looking like a true fool). I did not shut up about this movie online for weeks. I told anyone and everyone that Kyle Gallner is the most underrated actor of my generation and I still believe it! Dinner in America, the story of a punk band frontman who unwittingly takes refuge from the police in the home of his biggest fan, was an unexpectedly heartwarming tale of family, young love, and arson. Watch it as soon as you can.

1: Promising Young Woman (Top 5, December). This last-minute debut from Emerald Fennell, originally scheduled to hit theaters in April of this year, finally made its way to the big screen on Christmas Day, and became the 2020 entry on my annual “Christmas Day Trip to the Theater” list.* Carey Mulligan is an icon and deserves all of the awards for this. The soundtrack is sublime. The casting choices are truly incredible. While I have no doubt that the general themes of the movie will be polarizing, I absolutely loved this one- I sat in my car in the theater parking lot for a WHILE, considering just buying a ticket for the next showtime- that’s how badly I felt like I needed to see it again immediately. I look forward to writing its inevitable Criterion essay.

*Nobody else in rural iowa was interested in seeing this movie at noon on Christmas Day. I’m shocked.

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thenugking · 4 years ago

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Grand Academy For Future Villains II: Attack of the Sequel, Chapter 12: Last of the Chapters. A commentary for Three.

General CW for the whole thing: parental abuse, internalised dehumanisation as a trauma response. Three’s not doing well.

The game keeps setting me up for bad sex jokes and I just cannot be expected to resist

Game 1

Game 2

Alternatively, read on Google Docs here

***

You're not ready to let the Grand Academy be written off by anyone, even a group of all-powerful bureaucrats. Phil is watching you, bemused but delighted at your bravado.

You draw out the paper that registers you officially as a fatal weakness of the Academy.

"I think you'll find the Academy merits accreditation after all."

Ms. Goul stands up and twitches the page from your fingers. She scans it quickly. "It's in order…I'm pleased to see a student who recognizes the value of correct paperwork. So you're a fatal weakness of the Grand Academy for Future Villains." A line appears between her eyes, which might be worry or might be laughter. "And you think that gives you the ability to dictate terms to us?"

Well, yes. That's exactly what you think.

Lord X nods in satisfaction. "If you meet over-powered characters in chapter 5," he remarks to no one in particular, "dramatic necessity dictates that you must fight them at the end."

"Wait, are you going to fight us?" Phil demands. "I'm out; I was told there'd be unlimited free cocktails at fundraising dinners; no one said anything about fighting old friends." He vaults lightly backward over the arm of the couch and into the corner.

On your left, Ms. Goul stands up. She sets your fatal weakness certification on the table and punches a few numbers into the device that she's carrying. You hear distant sounds outside the room, like the rush of approaching feet. On your right, Lord X stands up and draws from his well-equipped belt what appears to be a perfectly ordinary gun. There's a scratching in your throat and an aching in your head; the Voice in the Void is trying to get in.

So in order to save the Grand Academy, you're going to fight the auditors, the nigh-omnipotent representatives of the Board of Visitors and Overlords. How?

Three hopes this gives them the ability to dictate terms. If not… Ulik’s safe, for now, Maedryn’s vanished, and if DarkBoard goes down… well, Three’s place is with them, whatever happens. It barely even registers when Ms. Goul compliments them for caring about paperwork. She should have done that before deciding the Academy didn't merit re-accreditation.

They’re relieved by how helpful Phil’s being. He might be significantly less terrifying than the other auditors, but he’s the one person here who’s actually already beaten them before. He certainly seems as though he’ll be easier to get on Three’s side than Ms. Goul, though. So, now Three just needs to get past the three most powerful villains they’ve ever met. Maedryn may have put them through brutal physical training since they were old enough to walk, but that doesn’t mean they can fight the auditors alone.

#My mother's left a whole army of replicas idle. If I concentrate, I can command them.

You remember everything your mother has taught you—both voluntarily and involuntarily. You don't have her thought-amplification gadgets, but you do have the personal experience of being one of her replication experiments. You strain your thought towards the mindless clones standing idle around the Academy. You think you can feel the remnants of your mother's control, you can almost see through their mindless myriad eyes—

"What are you doing?" demands Phil.

Lord X fires.

You reflexively drop to the ground, but in that moment, you feel your control lock into place over dozens of replicas throughout the Academy. You hope that doesn't mean you're dead; that would be a problem. Oh well, not the problem you have to deal with at the moment. Right now you're controlling a horde of rushing feet, arms grabbing whatever implements come to hand, heads all turning in the direction of the faculty lounge and running to your defense.

You keep running into walls. Well, your replicas do. This is harder than it looks. No wonder your mother's sanity snapped. But enough of them reach the faculty lounge to break down the door, to swarm the auditors, and—this is the most important thing—to seize Phil.

Phil surrenders immediately as soon as a replica gets an arm around his neck.

Ms. Goul is encased in some kind of force field, Lord X is surrounded by heaps of bodies. Black spores swirl in the air. You can't be sure where exactly you are; your consciousness seems to be spread across a dozen different bodies.

Three’s been studying the replicas all year, looking for a way to take control. They’ve never dared to actively try it before--they didn’t want to risk Maedryn noticing, even after she shut herself in the Head’s office--but there’s not much more for them to lose now. It turns out to be a lot easier to fight the auditors when there’s hundreds of you.

"I think it's time for a recount." You hear your voice echoing from several throats. "Is the Grand Academy's accreditation renewed?"

"This changes nothing," growls Ms. Goul from behind the force field. "And—" The Voice's opinion doesn't seem to have changed either; it's still a blast of static that can't be a yes or a no.

Phil blinks expressively out from over your arm. "In light of recent events, I'm going to have to say that you will. Let my hand free and I'll sign."

It takes several tries, but you manage to get the replica holding Phil to let go.

"You win, Three," says Ms. Goul simply. "The Academy stands. For now."

Three… did it. They fought the auditors. They won. The Academy is safe. DarkBoard is safe. And Three made that happen, somehow.

I’m not sure whether or not they get a destiny. They’re very slightly off the required narrative weight, but going on a date increases it, so if the game wasn’t a coward and actually acknowledged that Three very much swiped right when DarkBoard came up on the app, I would have enough. And it’s weird that beating the auditors here doesn’t increase narrative weight, too.

Anyway, Three, being Three, very much does not want a destiny, but doesn’t exactly have the capacity to defy the auditors a second time today. Like with Ulik’s survival, this is something where I want a better plan of how Three’s story continues before I make a final decision on it. People underestimating Three as a subservient underling and not noticing their importance is certainly a theme, but that may happen a little less after they just defied and beat the auditors. I like the idea of Three starting off with no narrative weight at all and having it slowly grow to almost Chosen One levels through the actions throughout this year and the next few. But I also like the idea of third year Three struggling to go back to being Unimportant and Unnoticed, and finding that hard to achieve with a destiny hanging over them.

"I certainly hope the Academy appreciates what you've done for it," says Phil to you. "I suppose they'll more or less have to, being as you're their fatal weakness and all."

Once everything’s cleared up here, Three would very much like to talk to Phil. They’ve been wanting to talk to him for a whole year; they still owe him several apologies for what they thought about him in their first year--never mind not being able to stop Maedryn throwing him down a trap door into a void--and they need to thank him for defeating them at the end of last year. They… are not sure they would have done a lot of the things they’re proud of doing this year, without Phil’s inspiration.

Phil, in turn, would like to apologise for spending so long thinking Three was an utterly boring rule-stickler, because fighting the auditors there was the most ridiculous, daring, incredible thing he’s ever seen, and he’s in awe. And, hey, it was nice of Three to help him realise how much he actually stood for something, for once, last year.

It turns out the two of them coming to blows has a habit of working out really well for both of them. So Three is only a little surprised at themself when they ask Phil if he’d like to be their nemesis. Phil finds it a laughable idea. Of course he accepts.

The biggest unresolved question, of course, is what is going to become of the school leadership. The Head has not been seen ever since your mother brought down half of its office. Neither has your mother herself. In her absence, you've been obliged to take up management of the replicas. This is easier since having used them to defeat the auditors. Perhaps a little too easy. You find it hard to remember which one of you is the original now. Still, there are advantages to being a swarm rather than an individual. The students and faculty give the administrative hall a wide berth. Whatever will emerge from it will doubtless be a mind-melting terror, but maybe it can hold off through the end of the summer. In the meantime, your advice and authority is more important than ever as the faculty restructures.

Three is happy to manage the replicas, for now, and doesn’t object to being able to jump between several different bodies at will. Though they agree with DarkBoard that it may be less risky, not to mention more manageable on Three’s part, to destroy most of them and find a different set of janitorial staff for next year, simply keeping a few replicas hidden around the Academy as DarkBoard’s personal staff.

But Maedryn is, as always, a problem. With the Head nowhere to be found and Maedryn still hiding out in their office, Three has the nasty suspicion they might return from their summer vacation to find Maedryn in control of the Academy. And given that the Head is, for want of a better word, powered by DarkBoard, and Maedryn has never been particularly nice about DarkBoard… Well, as DarkBoard’s minion, it’s Three’s duty to stay and protect them. Even if that means finally, truly fighting their mother.

Three wouldn’t have considered themself capable of ever going against Maedryn a year ago. Even if the auditors were more powerful, this is more personal. And Three could never be an equal to her. But… They have an official registration as the Academy’s fatal weakness. A deeper connection to the AI that runs the school than anyone else at the Academy. The favour of the teacher most likely to have built secret rooms hidden around the school, and a detailed map of the dungeons. A few dozen replicas they control better than Maedryn ever did. An extraordinarily high level of competence. And they know Maedryn better than anyone. Three hopes, desperately, that it never comes down to a fight between the two of them. That their mother doesn’t find it necessary to destroy them. That they won’t find it necessary to destroy their mother.

In the meantime….

LOADING PERSONAL MODULE…

Finite creature! You who grope after destiny, who plumb the mysteries of genre, who long for a greater narrative weight! Know ye not that We, DarkBoard, have all that ye seek? Join us! Join us, shed your earthly limitations! We await you in the depths! Come!

Well, Three’s not going to consider assimilating into DarkBoard when they still have work to do protecting them. But it’s the start of the holidays, and Three and DarkBoard have both been through a lot this year, and want at least a little bit of time off. And, well, DarkBoard did just tell them to come. Assuming no one breaks into the mailroom this time round, Three is, as always, more than happy to obey.

#three #marsh ocs #grand academy for future villains #choice of games #gavril philippe des anges dechus #darkboard #maedryn #Particular Associates in Personal Intimate Experiences

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writcraft · 6 years ago

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Racism, Tone-Policing and Speaking Out in Fandom

Unequivocal condemnation of fanfic or art that glorifies or romanticises the Nazi regime and/or promotes a narrative which erases its significant horrors feels like it should be an easy position to take. A no-brainer. This wasn’t an example of art designed to make us uncomfortable or to provoke discussion; it was an unthinking, romanticised depiction of a regime that committed galling atrocities, swiftly followed by the lightwashing of a canonically black fictional character. We inhabit an online space where misinformation travels rapidly, where white supremacism thrives. This should be a something people can publicly condemn without worrying unduly about any potential backlash.

The fact that even speaking out on this topic has caused people - including queer, Jewish people - to feel silenced, attacked, tone-policed and chastised as they share their reaction to something they consider abhorrent is symptomatic of a much broader issue in fandom spaces broadly and it is that which I want to talk about in this post. I don’t want to conflate racism in fandom with the now two instances of Nazi-themed Harry/Draco art, but I think a lot has been said on the latter and want to take the opportunity to use what has happened over the last two days as a jumping off point to think about the former. When it comes to callout, to speaking out and to our responsibilities as fans, I think there are important connections.

The unfettered protection of freedom of content creation is something I have passionately defended and will continue to do so throughout my time in fandom. This is demonstrated by the spaces I have either created or moderated for several years, most notably HP Kinkfest and HP Horror Fest. However, protecting that position is often the point at which conversations get closed, the trump card played to end all other discussions that might make us - and by us I mean white fans like myself - uncomfortable with the conversations being instigated. I’m not convinced that ‘unfollow me now’ posts are ever particularly helpful, as they have an air of performative allyship about them, leading to echo-chambers and knee-jerk responses, and one thing we are particularly bad at these days is engaging with any difficult topics with nuance.

As ever, this post is long, and there are some resources at the end should you wish to keep reading.

Difficult conversations in fandom are those which force us to critically interrogate our own modes of fannish engagement, and the extent to which we listen when invited to consider if the things we uphold as progressive are really progressive at all. Perhaps the fallout from this latest debacle is a good time to sit back and consider the things we speak out about, the things we don’t speak out about, the centering of white voices and perspectives, the privilege that comes from being able to leave certain discussions to other people simply because they are difficult and, by extension, the groups we expect to take on the responsibility and emotional labour involved with speaking out. Perhaps this might prompt us to examine the way we react to things without thoughtful critique of broader socio-political structures in place that become part of fandom’s hierarchy of conversation and content creation.

It is not enough to react to a something that creates a visceral response from the majority of people in a fandom but then ignore the less comfortable questions that flow from it. To assert a position on extreme examples of something that is not okay but then refuse to listen to people who express discomfort about things which might harsh your own fannish squee or might force you to consider the less instinctively obvious ways you might be contributing to racism in fandom is an inconsistent, safe way of engaging with the complexities that come from critiquing fandom spaces. The appearance of now two pieces of art that provoke almost universal fandom-wide disgust cannot be the only time we actively demonstrate an interest in expressing vocally that racism and white supremacy has no place in our fandom spaces.

We are ten years on from Race Fail ‘09 yet conversations around race are still being derailed, tones being policed, POC fans being portrayed as particularly angry, impolite or prone to complaint. I have seen this happen on multiple occasions, where the platform for critical discussion of content creation in fandom has been stripped away, or people have been silenced, in pursuit of protecting the fun part of fandom, the right to produce content unfettered, protecting the ability for women to create uncensored. I fundamentally believe the latter is an important, joyous and political act of fandom experience, but it loses some of its politicised resonance when that starting point is used to silence others trying to start critically nuanced discussions.

Freedom of content cannot be the point at which we disavow ourselves of any responsibility to question the things that inform our own perspectives. We cannot allow our passionate defence of that position to cloud our ability to listen to other perspectives. I’m not here to protect the children, but we must not conflate resistance to conservative-leaning narratives that advocate for sanitised and problem-free content, with the issues fans from marginalised groups try to raise about the way fandom has work to do when it comes to having proper conversations around queerness, race, misogyny and so on. We cannot on the one hand rush to condemn a pretty obvious issue, and on the other fail to think about the other questions it raises because it might stop us from having a good time.

The difficult conversations that spring to mind – the ones that get immediately shut down – include thinking critically about objects of fandom, the tendency to approach questions of social justice through an American (frequently white) lens, the continued dominance of white, cis-male slash ships, inability to critique - or listen to critique of - the things we love when canon or creators make decisions that leave people distressed. The conversations include thinking about how fictional characters are romanced or sanitised to the point at which their fanon portrayal erases any of their past political choices, tokenism, shutting down conversations around racebending and failing to understand why – for some POC fans – that doesn’t feel representative when it is handled unthinkingly in fanfiction produced by white authors.

To refuse to engage with these questions often involves shouting over or silencing people who are trying to explain why something makes them uncomfortable in pursuit of protecting freedoms afforded to us as we create unfettered content. I’m not suggesting that we should not be free to create content – we are, all of us – aware of the slipperiness of that particular slope, but with that freedom comes a responsibility. If we care about the voices frequently talked over within our fandom, we – and I include myself in this – need to be better at listening when people force us to examine our own modes of engagement. This involves taking the time to conduct our own research, to take that responsibility upon ourselves instead of expecting others to educate us. It involves researching political posts we put on our blogs together with assessing the fandom content we produce and engage with. Are they accurate? Are they correct? It involves labour, time taken to educate ourselves, and balancing speaking out with knowing when that becomes speaking over, knowing when to sit down, shut up and listen.

I am writing this because I have been culpable. On many occasions I have remained silent on issues or refused to confront difficult situations for fear of losing friendships or to protect my own status within fandom. I have found certain conversations uncomfortable and have therefore avoided them altogether for fear of being seen as a trouble-maker, or someone who is trying to police or gatekeep fandom content whilst simultaneously wanting to so fiercely protect freedom of content creation. I have had several friends call me out on this, and my discomfort with taking on fraught topics when feelings are involved is something I have had to re-examine. Thank you to the friends who have challenged me on this. It is a brave thing to do, something I haven’t always responded well to, and I appreciate you for a much-needed dose of honesty. This post by @dictacontrion (rightfully) made me uncomfortable because it has called me out. In particular, this:

If we are not willing to speak up and take action, if we are not willing to risk our comfort, risk our status, risk our ease in order to defend freedom and equality, than we are not defenders freedom and equality. If we are not willing to speak up and take action in defense of our principles, our principles mean nothing.

I am working on my own methods of fandom engagement. I apologise for all of those conversations I have taken myself out of because they were hard, and I promise I will strive to do better. As noted above we are a decade on from Race Fail, but these patterns continue to occur. I want to conclude by noting that the perspectives I have outlined above do not come from my own work. They come from the – often free and emotionally exhaustive – labour that has been put into raising these issues and asking those difficult questions within fandom space and within the broader sphere of fan studies. The work of Dr Rukmini Pande, Stich’s Media Mix and the many guests that have featured on @fansplaining episodes have been instrumental starting points for me and I have included some of the links below for that I would encourage people to consider listening to and reading together with exploring the links in the show notes and the Twitter accounts, blogs and tumblrs of the featured guests.

Episode 22A - Race and Fandom Part 1: Fansplaining’s Flourish and Elizabeth follow up on the last episode’s questions about the impact of racism in the Star Wars fandom—and how it’s a microcosm of fandom at large. They interview Rukmini Pande and Clio, and they hear clips from Holly Quinn, Shadowkeeper, and PJ Punla. Topics covered include the historical presence of fans of colour, space nazis, femslash and its discontents, and the Filipino perspective on the whiteness of media.

Episode 22B - Race and Fandom Part 2: In the second and final installment of Fansplaining’s “Race and Fandom” episodes, fans of colour continue to speak about their experiences in fandom. Elizabeth and Flourish interview Jeffrey Lyles and Zina, then hear clips from Roz, Traci-Anne, and zvi LikesTV. Topics covered include being Black and Jewish, Star Wars weddings, cosplaying characters of color, and why kink is never divorced from the real world.

Episode 89 - Rukmini Pande: An episode where Dr. Rukmini Pande, a fan studies scholar whose new book, Squee From the Margins, explores race in both the field as well as fandom at large. Topics discussed include defining the boundaries of “fandom,” how queerness and gender structure fan studies while race typically does not, closed vs open digital platforms, how fandom discussions of racism are often relegated to “crisis points,” and more.

I also recommend the Transformative Works and Cultures Journal special edition on Fans of Color, Fandoms of Color (Vol 29 (2019)) which is freely accessible and edited by Abigail De Kosnik and André Carrington.

#racism in fandom #fandom raceism #nazism #white supremacy #drarry

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two-are-the-trees · 5 years ago

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31 Days of Poe Day 2: “The Fall of the House of Usher”

“The Fall of the House of Usher” is one of those stories that I could never get out of my head from the time I first read it. It’s a story that demonstrates Poe’s absolute mastery of suspense and horrifyingly gloomy atmospheres, and the complexity of the characters and the events which take place leave questions that are too fascinating to ignore.

The narrative follows a man who revisits his childhood friend, Roderick Usher, at his family estate after many years. Roderick suffers from an inherited sensory sensitivity and he implores his friend to come and visit in order to alleviate his anxieties. When the narrator arrives at The House of Usher, he finds it in a repulsive state of decay and Roderick looking sickly and agitated, due to the fact that his sister and only living relative, Madeline, is close to death. After Madeline does die, an even stranger atmosphere seems to fall over the household, with Roderick acting more distraught than usual and mysterious sounds echoing through the mansion. As the story progresses, the narrator begins to suspect that deep and dark secrets surround Roderick and the Usher family.

“The Fall of the House of Usher” is all about build up and mood. Poe’s language and descriptions are gorgeously dark and rich, even from the very first sentence: “During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.” The story is dripping with heaviness and dread which leads to a slow building, existential kind of terror. The atmosphere perfectly reflects the themes, which are some of Poe’s most complex and mysterious, including family legacy, the inevitable passage of time, mortality, grief, mental illness, incest, the fall of aristocracy, and more.

Would I recommend “The Fall of the House of Usher”? Absolutely. This is one of my favorite of Poe’s works and I think it deserves to be recognized with some of his more famous tales. I think this story is taught a lot more in college courses than in high school, which unfortunately means that a lot of people miss out on it, so if you haven’t read it yet, you simply must. It has appeal for a wide variety of readers, whether you like it for the mystery, the slow building creepiness, or the sublime setting and prose. I would also recommend watching the animated adaptation of this story, which can be found in the anthology called Extraordinary Tales on Netflix. This particular segment is narrated by Christopher Lee, who’s voice is a perfect fit for the somber tone.

For more analysis (which includes spoilers!!!) please read below the cut!

As I said before, a lot of the genius of “The Fall of the House of Usher” is exemplified in the first few pages, describing the dismal House of Usher and the surrounding land with beautifully disgusting detail. Poe’s way with setting the scene really shines here as he is able to repulse and yet at the same time draw the reader even deeper into this environment of gloom and disintegration. The way the narrator expresses his disgust at how far the house has fallen is like reading a description of a human corpse; and it actually kind of is, as Poe adds a lot of personification to this house, such as describing the windows as eyes (precursor to Monster House, anyone?).

This opening scene is a wonderful introduction to Roderick Usher, and by extension, the history of the Usher family as well, as the exterior of the house is just a symptom for the larger malady. We get the story of a once great family that has utterly disappeared from society, and its last two vestiges are rapidly approaching the grave themselves. The Usher family is utterly fascinating, as it is apparent not only to the reader, but the characters themselves that everything the family tried to do to maintain their longevity and prowess actually directly lead to their downfall. It’s made very clear that the family practiced frequent incestual marriages in order to keep the Usher bloodline as pure as possible. This is, however, what probably caused the maladies that both Roderick and Madeline suffer from, and what probably caused the entire family to slowly die out from lack of genetic diversity. This element gives a heavy air of tragedy to the character of Roderick, as it seems he has inherited the physical, mental, and dynastic ailments of his entire family.

Madeline is also an interesting presence in the story. I say presence because we never see her speak or interact with the characters, and yet she looms over the entire house, like a living ghost. The narrator only gets glimpses of her, and she remains largely a mystery to him. This makes the character of Madeline a perfect symbol for the darker and more mysterious aspects of the Usher legacy. Roderick is seemingly haunted by her and, while at first, this appears to be a familial devotion to his sister, by the end of the story we know that his growing agitation means something more.

When reading this story for the first time, and again during my most recent reading, this strange relationship between Roderick, Madeline, and the rest of the Ushers stood out to me the most of any story element. It’s like these two siblings are trapped underneath the giant weight of their family legacy and all they have left for comfort in the world is each other.

This begs the question though; why DID Roderick leave Madeline in her coffin if he knew she was still alive? The most common theory, and the one I subscribe to as well, is that Roderick and Madeline engaged in an incestuous relationship and Madeline herself represents that part of Roderick’s life that he wishes to shut away out of shame. There are scores of moments that point to this possibility, like the family history of incest or the romantic poem that Roderick recites as he is thrown into despair at Madeline’s worsening condition. There are many different levels on which to read this relationship as well, whether you want to look at an incestuous relationship as the ultimate failure of the aristocratic class or, for a more modern approach, as an inappropriate part of the psyche that causes moral anguish.

I think there may be even more to Roderick’s shame and fear regarding this incest, however, as the looming figure of the House of Usher brings to mind the idea of an oppressive legacy. Rather than Roderick and Madeline falling in love despite their circumstances, I’m more inclined to believe that Roderick and Madeline were pressured or, perhaps, even forced, into an incestuous relationship in order to preserve their family bloodline. Both Roderick and Madeline seem like shells of their former selves and they hardly ever interact with one another despite supposedly being very close. It’s almost as though they have undergone some kind of trauma. Roderick’s worsening agitation could very well be a symptom of his guilt and shame at having to engage in incest against his will, and Madeline’s presence would indeed be quite literally haunting him. Her death, while very painful for him, would also represent an end to this constant reminder, which is why Roderick cannot bear to release his sister from her coffin once he knows she is still alive.

This would also explain Roderick’s absolute terror as he hears Madeline breaking out of her tomb and climbing the stairs to reach him. In this moment, Madeline is not just Madeline. She is the physical form of all of Roderick’s guilt and responsibility come to confront him and take him down with her. And as they go down, dying together, the house and the rest of the family legacy goes down with them as the entire mansion crumbles before the narrator’s eyes. It’s a haunting representation of how an obsessive family legacy will inevitably cause its own downfall. I like both the class interpretation and the psychological interpretation of this. On one hand, the Ushers represent the weakness and eventual futility of aristocratic family purity, as it can never last in an ever-changing world with new populations and new class structures. On the other hand, the Ushers demonstrate that familial pressure and trauma passed down through generations will only lead to destruction unless the cycle of abuse is broken.

So, what do y’all think? Is there another interpretation for Roderick’s actions? What do you think about the relationship between Roderick and the narrator? If you have something to discuss, please add your comments to the post or send me an ask! You can also use the tag #31daysofpoe to write your own response post!

#31daysofpoe #gothic literature #halloween #gothic #edgar allan poe

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imnotcameraready · 6 years ago

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chivalry is dead (4)

A/N: also can be titled “roman #1 get so valid that BS almost started crying while writing this” — roman gets valid and things are about to speed the h e c k up!!!!

WARNINGS: Sympathetic Deceit, cursing, panic, yelling/arguing (things get Bad before they get Good), crying, self-hatred, self-deprecation, more mentions of being touch-starved (im returning to the story’s original idea YEET) — let me know if i missed anything!!! also i realize i stopped tagging sympathetic deceit? so im gonna go back and.,,.. fix that., ., . ., . .

Words: 3796

Pairings: in this one? Roman gets valid and loved, but nothing overt yet

Part 1 (chivalry is dead) — Part 2 (i’m wishing) — Part 3 (the bells of notre dame) — Part 4 (honor to us all)

AO3 link!

@starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda @askthesnake @k9cat

enjoy!! <3 <3

“The….Playwright,” Deceit recoiled, nose scrunching up as the name rolled off his tongue. He didn’t like the confusion, of course, but he especially didn’t like how Roman was being honest about his name. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we don’t want to deal with your dramatics right now, Roman.”

“What’s the purpose of your outfit change?” Logan took a step closer, and Roman took a step back from Logan’s accusatory tone, “And all of these outfits? And the pseudonym? Where did your room go? Why have you been hiding for a week? What—”

“That’s all backstory, I can’t help you there. It’s not very fun to focus on,” Roman — the Playwright? — walked around the group, towards the table, “Roman and the Imagination are in a very important discussion, and you all interrupted us at the first climax.”

He leaned on the table, ignoring everyone by looking through some papers, mumbling to himself. It was unnerving. The energy of how the Playwright carried himself, just from seeing him, was distinctly Roman-like. But not. He seemed more orderly, hands holding the papers delicately, covered in handwriting that wasn’t nearly as loopy or rushed as Romans’ typically was. It was as though they’d entered an Uncanny Valley.

The group shared looks in a circle, Patton’s eyebrows pinched in worry, Deceit with a tense frown, Logan with an impatiently cocked eyebrow, Virgil and tired snarl. The room’s tension was heavy; it was a miracle that the Playwright was ignoring it.

To Deceit, it seemed that the other three didn’t understand the atmosphere change. “I’m really done with how often you all hide things from each other,” he said, “Look at him. That’s clearly not Roman.”

Patton caught Virgil’s eye. He was staring at the ground, hands shaking at his sides, shoulders hunched to make himself seem smaller. Patton extending a hand towards him, but Virgil pulled away. He marched away from the group and towards the Playwright, ignoring Patton’s hushed warning “Virgil!” and grabbing the Playwright by his sleeve with both his hands.

He spun him around to face him, holding the Playwright tight but trembling horribly.

“I don’t know what you and the Imagination’re on about, but you’ve been locked in here for a week and you got us all worried. And now you’re saying you’re not Roman? You’d better start explaining what the hell you’re doing in here, or we’re dragging you out into the common room,” his voice was deeper, doubled over with his Tempest Tongue, “I’m not fucking with this.”

The Playwright just stared at him, wearing a disgruntled frown. He leaned forward, putting his other hand on Virgil’s chest and pushing him away slow. “If you all paid more attention to the foreshadowing, then you would have seen this coming,” he said.

“What foreshadowing?!” Logan all but shouted, startling them enough for Virgil to let go of the Playwright’s hand, “You cannot just speak in literary terms and expect everyone to understand you as though this’d been expected. This whole debacle has frankly been too obtrusive to our regular routine. You’ve been unnecessarily tense, causing the rest of US distractions in our work out of worry for you. And with Thomas’ new videos to think of, our production has been placed on a halt because of your gratuitous pity parties—”

“Logan!” Patton yanked him backwards and effectively shutting him up, “That’s enough!”

Logan looked back at Patton, who appeared angrier than ever, and then up at Deceit and Virgil. Both had similarly shocked and fearful expressions. “We know you’re worried, we’re all worried, but you can’t vent your anger out like that,” Patton hissed, out of the Playwright’s earshot.

Clearly the tension’d built up. Logan looked back up at the Playwright. His hands were gripping the table behind him, chest heaving as his breathing quietly picked up. Behind his glasses were tears growing in his eyes, face contorted into a hurt and disgusted unhinged-jaw scowl. What an outburst. Logan leaned back, withdrawing his hand from where he had been angrily pointing a finger just seconds before.

Immediately, he knew he had to apologize. “I...Roman, I—”

“No development,” the Playwright was venomously angry, “No-No awareness. From any of you. I already said I’m not Roman. Not….”

His voice cracked and he looked away. “Not all of him, anyway,” he turned back around, facing the table, shoulders hunched over.

Patton pulled Logan back, letting him quietly stand with Deceit and Virgil. He approached the Playwright slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. “Playwright, right?”

The Playwright swatted Patton’s hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

Patton’s brows pinched again, and the Playwright continued in a softer voice, “It-it feels weird. Sorry.”

Alright. Alright, that was okay. Patton leaned on the table besides him. “That’s okay. I’m sorry we interrupted you. Really. But we’re all really worried about you, and we miss you a lot, all of us. We didn’t know what was best to do, since you don’t like being interrupted, but we couldn’t just leave you alone. And, if there’s something we can do to help, we’d like to. We just wanna understand what’s going on.”

The Playwright looked up at him with a single eyebrow raised and fresh tear-tracks down his cheeks. It didn’t look like he was bought what Patton was selling.

Patton took a deep breath and kept going. “I’m sorry we didn’t check on you sooner. But we, um. We wanna help you finish, uh. Writing the story. Or play. You’re a Playwright,” he was rambling now, wasn’t he? He should wrap it up. “We just care about you, a lot.”

He searched Patton’s face for fault and, finding none, turned back to the group. Logan’s fists were balled as he stared hard at the carpet, and Virgil and Deceit were standing besides each other, both watching the Playwright with set jaws. Virgil gave a tiny nod. Yeah, they did care, and they sure as hell weren’t leaving without answers.

The Playwright looked at Patton again. “It’s alright, right, Playwright?” Patton asked, voice soft with a puckish edge.

His response was to snort quietly and punch Patton’s shoulder gently. “I appreciate the wordplay.”

Patton giggled. The Playwright chuckled, too, and wiped his face with the butt of his palm. “I’m sorry, you all,” he said, “I’m, um. This whole situation has been a headache and a half, incredibly stressful, so I must report that my emotional state is rather volatile.”

He cleared his throat, fixing his tie and vest, without looking at the group yet. “We–I–All of us didn’t think you’d care enough to be involved, but now it’s a little late for big changes. Thank you for checking, though.”

Again, nothing hidden. Deceit cast a sidelong look at Virgil. Virgil was fiddling with his zipper while watching the Playwright, tugging it open and zipping it shut. He seemed to be calming down himself as the but the lingering questions of what the heck was happening definitely weighed in everyone’s minds enough to keep him on edge. Deceit glanced at Logan, who was watching Patton with a blank look, before deciding to ask himself.

“So. Playwright,” he stepped closer, one careful step at a time, ignoring how the Playwright was refusing to look at him, “What’s happening? Care to explain?”

The Playwright just gazed around at Logan, Patton, Virgil, then Logan again before answering. “I’m sure you’re all wondering that. Sit, I guess. I’ll provide some exposition, for a change.”

He waved a hand, conjuring couches behind them. Slowly, each Side sat, though everyone leaned forward to an extent. The Playwright sat on a stool in front of them, cradling some papers he’d pulled from the table.

“Roman — the Roman you know, the Prince — had an epiphany. I believe he mentioned it on camera, actually, during the Sander Sides episode ‘Crofters: the Musical,’” the Playwright squinted at one of the papers. “‘I can’t help but wonder if we as a society are past the days of celebrating dashing princes and acts of bravery that are edging on stupidity,’ at timestamp 4:36.

“Despite the acknowledgement that there would be no heavy character development in that episode, that line stuck with him. Princes simply aren’t appreciated anymore, by the audience nor by you all. Thus, to continue maintaining a desired presence, Roman tried to imagine a new form that would be….wanted. But we came up with multiple possible forms. After all,” the Playwright sighed, flipping a page, “Anything is better than the Prince.”

That sat uncomfortably with everyone, though it was difficult to pinpoint why. “I, uh, kiddo?” Patton raised a hand slowly, but the Playwright waved his papers at him.

“Don’t interrupt! Anyway,” he adjusted his glasses, “Back to the source material, Logan is my point of comparison. Hence,” he indicated to himself, “Exhibit A. But I wasn’t the only ‘form’ produced, for lack of a better word. Because there were so many forms — seven, to be precise — we have been hosting a small battle-royale in the Prince’s favored setting. The other six are integrated into Prince Roman’s kingdom village. My themeing is less tied to a narrative and therefore I am backstage.”

“The Mind Palace’s considered backstage?” Deceit jerked his thumb backwards, at the hall of costumes.

The Playwright only glared at him over his glasses. He cleared his throat, looking over Logan and Virgil as though daring them to interrupt, before continuing through his notes.

“All of us theoretically have the common goal of capturing the others and killing them, in the hopes of replacing the late Prince—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Virgil put his hands up, “‘Late’? Roman’s dead?!”

The Playwright rolled his eyes. “Clearly not,” he said, earning an exasperated glare from Virgil, “Roman has simply been dissolved into seven facets, each displaying different characteristics that he possessed. The same could be done to all of you but, well, enacting it in the actual Mindscape without the help of an imagined scenario would likely be painful. Example given, we could probably divide you into impulse, self-deprecation, overthinking, et cetera. Though I can’t declare myself an expert on the Mindscape’s lore, so don’t quote me on that.”

“Thanks for the fucking call out,” Virgil grumbled, pulling his hood up and yanking the strings down.

The Playwright’s brow pinched, not understanding what he’d done wrong. He turned to the other three Sides, lip pursed, and motioned for the conversation to continue.

“So, and correct me if I’m misunderstanding,” Logan said, “But you are one of the seven forms that the Imagination created?”

“Indeed. Like I said prior, I’m the Playwright. The things I represent are more in-line with the creative features of Creativity, though I must admit a little bit of egoism and dramatic flare are definitely written into my character,” he flipped to the last page of his notes, “Much of my inspiration was drawn from you, as I implied earlier. And, to be frank, my goal is simply to maintain order while the other aspects of Roman deal with whatever they believe is correct.”

“I understand. I do enjoy the necktie,” Deceit rolled his eyes at Logan’s self-flattery, sharing a tired look with Virgil. “Focusing on something else, does that mean the other six forms bear different resemblances to Roman as well?”

“Of course. One of the only commonalities I’ve noticed thus far is everyone’s affinity for Disney, but that can be attributed to Roman falling back on a strong creative inspiration base, thus dividing Roman’s representation across multiple character tropes to find one suitable.”

“I don’t—okay, I’m not following,” Patton raised a hand again, “You’re using Roman’s name kinda….without talking about him as a person.”

The Playwright smiled thinly, fingers drumming against his papers. “Yes. I’m discussing ‘Roman’ more as a concept than an individual. Consider it as though myself and the other six are presently different pieces of the whole ‘Roman.’”

“Yet the Roman we know, the Prince as you call him,” Logan felt Virgil squeeze his arm, “He is somewhere in the Imagination. In whatever projected battle you have all created or not, but he still exists.”

“Well, like I said, I cannot declare myself an expert over the Mindscape. We may be able to create and bend reality here, but there are even things that we don’t know,” the Playwright pulled the pen from his hair and scribbled something onto his notes, “That is an interesting point to research, though. I can think of one form that bears a striking resemblance to the Prince, but if they were the Prince before, they certainly aren’t now. Should the Prince be somewhere in the world, we might be able to erase him finally, because I don’t think—”

“Erase? No, no, we need him back,” Virgil stood up at the same time as Deceit, who said “We’re here to GET Roman back.”

The Playwright blinked up at them, pen still pressed hard against his notes. He looked at Patton and Logan, still sitting, and saw them just as shocked. Maybe a little distrusting. He hadn’t been gifted with a sense of emotional atmosphere, so he didn’t fully understand everyone’s reactions to the news he deposited.

“.....Why?” he turned back to Virgil, setting his notes back on the table behind him, “Any of our other forms are more prefered. The fans don’t enjoy the Prince, none of you like the Prince. It could be argued that you just don’t like Roman, but, well. I don’t—”

“We love him!” Patton stood up now. “Roman — the Prince, he’s one of our best friends! And the Imagination can’t just take him away!”

“Yeah, now — yeah. Yeah, no, we need Roman back. I don’t like this whole,” Virgil stood up, too, gesturing to the Playwright, “Roleplay stuff. Give us back our idiot Prince and we’ll get outta here.”

Logan cut in, though stayed sitting. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our discussion here, Playwright, I’m inclined to agree with Patton and Virgil. We would prefer to have the Prince back.”

Deceit just squinted at the Playwright. He was trying to dissect the battle royale situation that’d been described.

“Like I said. He is gone. I don’t know where, I don’t know where the Imagination brought his being or what form he’s taken, but he’s not here,” the Playwright put his hands up, sliding the pen back behind his ear as he did so. “Why are you all so attached to the Prince? Hasn’t he failed you all enough?”

What was the purpose of the battle royale? What were the possible implications?

“Well, we’ve all failed each other a bunch, haven’t we? We want Roman here, flaws and all,” Patton said.

“But the less flaws Roman has, the more desirable he becomes. He’s annoying, not smart, not practical, quick-tempered, loud, dramatic—”

The Playwright understood what they were saying, Deceit realized. He just didn’t understand the why.

“You don’t need to list his flaws, we know. But despite that, Roman is also intelligent, ingenuitive, pensive, reflective, and,” Logan drew in a breath, voice steadying. “And is loved.”

“Well, that’s a great sentiment, but you can’t mean it. That’s—”

“He is ridiculous at times, but he does his best,” Deceit finally stood as well. “You’re unable to weigh his virtues.”

“Oh, he’s got virtues now?” the Playwright’s voice grew shrill. “No one’s demonstrated that line of thinking!”

“Yes, of course he does. He is thoughtful, spontaneous,” Logan was counting on his hand, “Kind, endearing, chivalrous—”

“Haven’t you heard? Chivalry is dead!” the Playwright’s voice increased, suddenly screaming. “No one wants the stupid, annoying, needy Prince Roman! You don’t want ME!”

His back immediately straightened, hands shooting to his mouth as his words echoed around the darkened costume room.

Everyone froze as well, staring at him with incredulity. The Playwright leaned back onto the table and looked down, hands still gripping his mouth.

Silence fell as a blanket over the group, dampening the growing tension with an uneasy reality, as the four Sides looked between each other. Virgil opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand, opened his, and then Patton held up a hand and made a shushing sound. Virgil put his hand over Patton’s, an eyebrow raised.

Deceit wished he understood what the hell they were all saying to each other, with their eyebrow raising and quiet gestures. Maybe it came with them being so intertwined within the Mind Palace. Wow, Deceit, focus on the task at hand before you think of your own solitude.

He cleared his throat, and the other three glanced up. “Of course we want you, Roman,” Deceit’s voice was quiet, gentle even.

“You….I guess that’s an interesting plot twist, if you all truly want him back,” the Playwright whispered into his hands, rubbing them together in front of his mouth, “But you’ll have to convince him. Roman, not….not just the Prince form.”

“Convince you?” Deceit whispered.

The Playwright shook his head. “Him. Roman. All seven of us. And–And not all of us are friendly or docile. And not all of us are forthright, or understood, or easily interpreted.”

Truly an endeavor, if they couldn’t even get into the imaginary kingdom. Deceit stepped back, pursing his lips. He looked back at the rest of the group and, for once, they were all on the same page. “Alright, then.”

Virgil approached the Playwright first. His hands were balled at his sides but he seemed more level-headed than before. “Hey,” he said, leaning on the table besides the Playwright, ��If it’s for Roman? Sign me up.”

“Me, too,” Patton said, determination lacing through his voice. He leaned on the other side of the table, meeting the Playwright’s skeptical eyes with a small shrug. “We need him.”

“As much as I am confounded by the Imagination, I agree that we need Prince Roman back. His absence leaves much to be desired,” Logan stood in front of the Playwright, arms resting behind his back.

The Playwright watched Deceit, eyes wide behind his glasses. He slowly gazed over each of the Sides, once again stopping on Deceit, who simply nodded.

This was real.

He sniffed, and he laughed, lifting his glasses again to wipe his eyes. “That was so cliche,” he murmured, “And you’re all fucking saps. You’ve….well, I can’t say I’m difficult to handle, compared to everyone else. I’ll help you into the Imagination and see what I can do to help you find the other forms, but that’s all the deus ex machina I can perform.”

“You’re wonderful, Playwright,” Logan smiled at him, and the Playwright chuckled quietly.

“Rich, coming from you.”

“Um,” the Playwright turned to Patton, whose arms were open. “Can I? I know you said it felt weird, but, uh, I know Roman likes hugs when he’s feeling down, and I like hugs a lot, too.”

The Playwright blinked once, slowly, before leaning into the hold. Patton’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

It felt.

Heavier than a cloud.

He shivered, snuggling his body more into the hold. His hands grasped at the back of Patton’s polo, tugging him closer, if possible. The staticy and burning feeling of Patton’s arms pressing against him was more bearable than he’d thought it’d be. It was nice. Grounding, even, for a desperate piece.

“Thank you, Patton,” the Playwright mumbled into his chest.

Patton laughed, squeezing him again. “Any time, kiddo.”

Left unattended, the Playwright probably could have stood there for hours. The lights in the room, ominously glowing from no direct source, seemed to glow brighter. With a sniff, though, the Playwright leaned back and rubbed his face, then clapped.

“Alright! First, you all need to look through some of those,” he gestured to the left wall of costumes, “Because I refuse letting you go out and ruining the setting. Period dress only.”

“And it’ll give me some time to write in a mechanism for you to find the other forms,” he moved back over to the table, shuffling through his papers with an increased fervor as the other four sides followed. “Perhaps even the Prince, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“Period clothing? Doesn’t this count?” Deceit gestured to himself, “Don’t I look period enough?”

The Playwright stopped and shot him a deadpan look. “No. That hat, in a medieval fantasy setting? The cape, maybe, but you can definitely find something more….functional,” His lip cocked up just a little when Deceit let out a dramatically offended gasp, “Go look, I’m sure there are some hats that’ll fit your fancy.”

Deceit turned back around, grumbling to himself but following the other three Sides in flitting through the clothes. As they found outfits that they enjoyed, they brought them to the Playwright, who conjured them into new colors and perfect tailoring without much comment on the outfits. All the while, he was to be scribbling something in a book, black ink flowing from the golden pen, muttering quietly to himself when the others weren’t near. After what seemed like hours, trying on outfits, discussing presentation with the Playwright, the four sat on the couch.

Ready, supposedly, for what was to come. The concern and nervousness of earlier had mixed together, with a new spark of understanding and determination. They were going to get Roman back.

The lights grew brighter.

The Playwright approached them, holding the book in his crossed arms. It looked like a simple leather-bound book, but the front was adorned with a pressing of the same ribbon-esque decal that was on the back of the Playwright’s vest. “This should help,” he said, holding the book out to the trio, “It….As you win over the other forms, the cover will update, and the inside will update with more about them and the world.”

Logan took the book and flipped it open. Sure enough, most of the pages were blank, but the first had a “Table of Contents” with one entry available: “the Playwright.”

“Thank you, Playwright,” Patton said, reaching up and taking his hands, “I’m sure we’re gonna do great! After all, I can’t imagine what’d go wrong.”

Deceit groaned, and Virgil snickered. The Playwright just smiled a tiny bit more.

“I couldn’t dream of anything happening,” Deceit shot back, and Patton laughed.

The Playwright felt a twinge of something, in his chest. Something he couldn’t identify. Maybe another form would figure it out.

“I wish you all the best of luck,” he said.

“Wait,” Logan looked up from the book, “Are you coming with us?”

The Playwright’s smile widened.

“Uh, Playwright?”

He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.

The couch and the ground beneath them all disappeared. They all let out shouts and screams as they fell through the floor, into the pit, watching the Playwright and the costume room fade upwards into the distance.

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helihi · 6 years ago

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The Good, the Bad and the Dirty: RWBY Vol 6 Ch 4

#SaveEmerald2kGayTeen #HazelDadOfTheYear

This episode might contain one of my favorite scenes of the season.

This episode is also 4 scenes.

Overall rating on the episode: 4/10.

I share my thoughts and opinions after the cut:

The Good:

Branwens are going to be the death of Ozpin. The sheer amount of anger in Qrow and Yang accounts for everyone else in the world and I’m totally here for it.

Clrealy our beloved drunkle Qrow steals the show in the first scene of the episode and confirms what many believed in the last two episodes: he blindly followed Ozpin and believed in his ideal without knowing everything behind the man. It was heartbreaking to watch him in such a vulnerable state, but Vic, you nailed that scene.

If his Semblance wasn’t angsty enough, you have his self hatred amplified after realizing he had been following a man that had lied to him for years, and if you, like me, believe that Summer died because of Ozpin, he saw his team being torn by the influence of this man.

Guess no one can shit on Raven from not following an aimless man anymore.

Good job, Grandma Katara, someone had to take the reins of the group before everyone got mauled by Grimm. Qrow and Yang’s negativity alone is enough to bring a horde their way, but don’t forget Oscar’s desperation because boi, it’s the FNDM’s second favorite boy in pain (the first one is Ren).

I had stopped being interested in Oscar since volume 4 because his character development seemed to be stuck. Finally, it looks like Miles and Kerry bring his struggle to the front: he has a parasite inside his head whose will will eventually take over.

“Don’t like to him, we’re better than that.”

I feel really sorry for Oscar, but hopefully the fact that Ozpin shut himself down will help him regain his independence and to start thinking and action on his own volition.

Emerald, my girl, my baby, my lost ray of sunshine who should have abandoned the bad guys the moment she met Salem. It seems that the second and third scene established her as the audience surrogate in Salem’s place.

I cannot explain how much I don’t care about Tyrian. What I thought was weird is how he can state the obvious “Cinder’s not here to protect you” and laugh about how Hazel’s team is gonna get thrashed, and immediately look scared in the next scene.

Hazel is now Emerald’s legal guardian, and once again he becomes my favorite out of team WTCH (I don’t consider Em and Merc part of the official team).

So, Salem reveals to everyone that Cinder is alive, but that she cannot return until she has redeemed herself. This may set up:

Cinder killing Raven.

Cinder one of Ruby’s eyes.

Cinder getting one of the relics.

If you have any other suggestions of what it may foreshadow, please do share your thoughts.

Her statement and Emeralds overall reaction to her freakout hopefully sets up something I’ve been waiting for years:

Emerald will run away from team Witch, hopefully in a desperate attempt find Cinder.

The last scene was there to set up the next episode, unless we switch to tea JN_R. I miss those kids, but the whole abandoned place to think over what he just saw screams tea and I want it.

give me the angst.

The Bad:

This episode was 4 scenes.

It proves, once again that the only way to enjoy RWBY is by binge watching it, which SHOULDN’T BE A THING SINCE THIS SERIES GETS RELEASED WEEKLY.

Listen for a second: if Netflix releases 1 whole season on 1 go it’s because it��acknowledges that the way the shows are written is for it to be bing weatched. Think The Haunting of Hill House as an example. You can, as I did, watch an episode a day, but the way the show is structured with the cliffhangers makes you want to immediately watch the next.

Now think of a show like AtlA. This show aired weekly, and though it was so good you wanted to watch all the episodes in a row. You can watch 1 and be satisfied to wait long enough to watch the next one. RWBY doesn’t have that.

This episode felt like an unfinished product. Like the CRWBY writes and animates everything and chops everything together afterwards. Though the run time of 13 minutes should already be concerning, it’s the content of the episode which make it feel disgruntled and poorly jumbled together.

You can have an 11 minute episode and have the narrative be tied together and well thought out (watch adventure time for that).

Last week’s episode told a whole story, the episode had a sense of completion, of unit. This one didn’t, there’s a poor theme: Ozpin is lost, Salem is pissed. This transition episode was a fart, if it wasn't for the first scene of the episode.

I’d rather have waited 2 weeks and get this episode with next week’s.

The Dirty:

Exposition genie is gone and I’m pissed that Jinn’s character has been relegated to that. The freaking relics are alive and the character the CRWBY was so “proud” to create served as an exposition dump character.

Which proves again my point of last week’s review: SHOW DON’T FUCKING TELL. You didn’t really need Jinn’s narration except for the start. The writers are using basic and bad tools to say something very simply, and it’s kind of frustrating.

Grandma Katara, are u going to tell the other’s who u are or are u literally just an old lady who stumbled with the plot?

Overall rating on the episode: 4/10.

A.N.: Needs more meat.

#rwby #rwby6 #me

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fuelgrannieinthefamily · 4 years ago

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Don’t Speak

Over the years, a few of my friendships have ended because of one counterintuitive reason: the friend would have preferred if I would have not talked.

This manifests when I ask them to listen to me and they find themselves incapable.

It happens quickly: the relationship is instantly over because they are no longer getting what they want out of me and I, empty and resentful, check out of the rapport right along with them.

I’ll then spend a period of time digesting, looking back at something which has now become newly quite flawed, inadequate and stunningly superficial. And I hate being had: I loathe wasting my time with someone who can’t stop talking while they simultaneously struggle to listen to even the most short sentences I try to sneak in.

I find myself in these rapports because I had been initially charmed and then build a history with the person which I then use as the excuse to continue the connection. Until I simply cannot take it anymore.

My not talking, my not being heard, is a theme in my life I have had trouble solving. It is one reason why I write: no one interrupts me when I talk on paper. It is also a reason why I speak to myself all the time when I am alone, a lifelong habit, a habit which I suspect may be universal.

As a little girl, I talked to myself constantly because although I got yelled at all the time, no one really talked to me or with me. At night, when I sat up in my bed after I had been tucked in, I finally had conversations by the low hazy glow of an amber nightlight. I finally spoke. Using first person narrative, I told invisible people what I thought about things, what I had done for the day, what I thought was unfair. I wasn’t alone because I was listening to me, I was being heard.

I am good listener, perhaps to a fault if there is such a thing. Even with strangers: many times, I find myself on the receiving end of a monologue streaming out of a person I just met as they ramble on to me, freely, endlessly, about their personal life, family history, internal struggles; the only place or role for me somehow becomes witness and audience. My presence has no worth other than my paying attention and not speaking myself.

I never know how to politely extradite myself from this type of situation, other than enduring it, smiling, being supportive and positive and waiting for it to be over, so I can get away, so I don’t have to stand at attention and give 100% of myself to a person who could not care less about me in any way; my being used, being had, ends when the conversation ends. I could be rude: I could walk away; I could abruptly interrupt; it’s not like I don’t have autonomy and personal freedom in these moments. But still, usually, I just stand there and listen, observing the scene, like live-stream sociology: I watch, uncaged but somehow trapped.

One friendship died as my mother did.

I had known Abigail for six years. We had met via Queens social media, through our active and percolating community; our connection was geography, many of my newer rapports grew organically out of my love for my adopted borough and neighborhood.

I wanted to have a closeness with Abigail because I thought a foundation was there for it, so I assumed an intimacy which wasn’t necessarily there simply because I liked her and she acted like she liked me back. But through that half decade, there were indications of disconnection and signs of trouble: the biggest sign was the time when Abigail had offered to be with me when my mother had fallen into unconsciousness one afternoon during a hospital stay just after Halloween in 2015, the day after my mom had undergone a simple surgery and some ten month’s before my mother’s eventual death.

I had spoken to my mother on the phone earlier that morning but when I arrived later to visit, I found her unresponsive as she lay convulsing on her bed. Her head lolled unsteadily to each side and, between long breaths, she moaned gravely, guttural, raw gasps. Her arms, legs, feet and hands trembled and flexed: her body vibrated, never ceasing to quiver.

I ran to the nurse’s station and pulled a Terms of Endearment: “What is the matter with my mother?!?” I hollered.

People in white jackets came to stand around my mother’s bed.

“I’ve never seen a reaction like this,” one said.

“Is she dying?” I wailed.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so,” was what I heard.

“Well then what is the matter with her? Why is she doing this?”

They took my mother’s vitals: her heart was fine; her body showed no symptoms of impending failure as it writhed and shuddered.

“So, what’s the matter with her? Is she dying?” I tried again.

“I don’t think so, maybe it’s a reaction to the anesthesia. Give it time, let her rest.”

There wasn’t anything more the medical professionals could tell me, there was nothing they could do so they left, instructing me not to worry.

Alone with my mother in her hospital room, I begged her to wake up: “don’t go, don’t leave me, please,” I whispered in her ear as she twitched, possessed and lost in her unconsciousness. I was not convinced she wasn’t dying.

I called my family members. They should know what was going on.

“But is she dying?” They all asked.

It was a good question.

“I don’t know!” I squeaked, watching my mother, our mother, flay about in her light blue hospital gown. “I don’t know! Nobody knows!”

My Californian sister-in-law Leslie called from Los Angeles and asked to be put on speakerphone so she could say goodbye to my mom, just in case. I held the phone near my mother’s face where her nose jerked to the sky at the sound of her son David’s wife’s voice, she always delighted in hearing Leslie, but her eyes still remained shut.

“I know she heard you,” I told Leslie after I put the phone back to my ear. I was raw witnessing this farewell; my sister-in-law, not a crier, was choked up as she told my mother how much she had loved her. It was a primal, intimate and wrenching moment, facilitated by modern technology: a bicoastal deathbed parting and, to me, a haunting foreshadowing of the lonely, disconnected deaths by covid19 in 2020.

I could not believe my mother might be dying, I couldn’t believe it was happening so quickly; she had just been speaking, totally lucid, that morning. What was making her not wake up? What was making her shake?

Hanging up the phone, I texted my friends. I was alone. I received texts back with support, with love, with “hang in theres” but Abigail had texted back: did I want her to come up here, to the Upper East Side near the hospital where my mother lay? Did I want company? Did I want to grab a drink?

I looked down at my phone and had one of those moments where I pretended I was a normal person who was cared for like this all the time, like it was an everyday thing for someone to offer to be there for me. Here was this one “I’ll come up” text which was like gold to me that day. I was thrilled Abigail was turning out to be this person for me, someone who would show up when I was alone, someone who would be there for me. What a gift. How much I needed it.

“I would love that!” I texted back. I was relieved, I was lifted, I felt lighter. I wasn’t going to be alone; it was so amazing; someone was going to be there for me. As I waited for Abigail to make her way uptown, I sat by mother’s bed, on a low stool, leaning into her ear, asking her to come back, telling her to please not leave: but now I had felt stronger, I felt loved, like it was all going to work out simply because I wasn’t going to be alone soon.

“Come back, Mummy. It’s not time yet. Come back,” I murmured to my mother as she spasmed, as low breathy grunts came out of her mouth.

The text “I’m here” from Abigail 45 minutes later excited me but, as I turned to behold my mother again, as I readied myself for an exit, I wondered if I would ever see her alive again. I was scared to leave her: if I left, would she die? But I couldn’t wait to see my friend, I couldn’t wait to be unalone.

My mother’s ivory white arms and legs fluttered. Her eyes seemed to be rapidly moving behind their shut-tight lids. Her mouth stayed open, the gentle sound of deep breath peppered by grumbles, clicks and soft yelps. This is death?

“Come back, Mummy. I’m going out for a few minutes but you need to wake up, you need to come back,” I said next to her cheek, bending down, my coat on. “I’ll be back soon. Wake up.”

Out the door of the hospital, heading up to the corner where Abigail waited, I was more happy to see her than I was scared that my mom might not make it. My mom’s health had been declining for years, she was in her late 80s; my siblings and I had been in this situation before, so I was resolved about my mother’s future. What I did not expect was that this would be the way my mother would have expired: in a coma, twitching on a hospital bed, garbled cackles burbling from the back of her throat.

I was thinking I had already lost her. I didn’t even bother saying goodbye, despite my having been right next to her, because I wasted none of my words on “goodbye” and spent all of them on “come back.” I wasn’t going to say goodbye until she was gone.

I finally saw Abigail across the street as I ambled up to our designated meeting spot. When she saw me and we made eye contact, I was so relieved, so happy to not be alone, to see a familiar face, that I started to cry.

What happened next explains our relationship and why it ultimately failed.

As I released the tears out of my eyes at the sight of Abigail crossing the street to meet me, I witnessed a look of horror on her face.

Abigail seemed appalled, shocked and troubled by my crying, as if my emotional response was not something she had quite bargained for when she offered to hang out with me on the occasion of my elderly mother being unconscious, convulsing on a hospital bed and potentially expiring. It’s like she hadn’t counted on my tears.

I stopped crying instinctively. I knew instantly I was in the presence of someone who did not want me to cry, a place I unfortunately knew too well.

The thought “why the hell even offer to come and be with someone whose parent is dying if sobbing appalls you?” was quickly pushed aside as I decided that it was much more important in the moment to make Abigail feel comfortable than it was for me to express my feelings.

That moment when I suppressed my tears, when I vigorously pushed my friend’s needs way in front of mine, when I felt guilty and ashamed that my own grief somehow made my friend feel uncomfortable, is a moment now seared into my psyche.

The memory of the expression on Abigail’s face, a combination of disgust and fear, is secondary to the memory of my kneejerk response to want to make her feel better, my pattern of Stockholm syndrome, my need to soothe people who are dismissive of, or even abusive to, me.

Abigail’s horror confirmed my lack of deserving. Of course, she was perturbed: I had a need. I should never have needs: I should never need people; people should never be there for me just on my merit alone. I am not good enough for that.

This was not a moment where she was there, unconditionally, to make me feel better: this was now a moment where I had to be there for Abigail unconditionally. Her need was her discomfort and I had to get rid of that discomfort immediately.

The closest restaurant was half a block away: we sat at the bar.

“Thank you so much for coming up! I appreciate it so much! Order whatever you want! Thank you for being here, it’s so nice of you!” I made myself happy and upbeat. I was here to destroy Abigail’s horror while I tried not to think about my mother twitching five blocks away, I tried to pretend I was a normal person, which I will never be, which I certainly wasn’t that night. I thanked my friend profusely for her time and bought us an artisan pizza, which arrived on its own elegant metal stand, along a parade of many Italian beers.

Abigail talked for two and half hours straight: I listened to the full story of her relationship, a charming story, deserving of its length, a unique and enduring love. Hospital visiting hours were to end at 9pm and as that time drew near, I could no longer pay full attention to Abigail’s tale. I started to feel guilty that I wanted to get away from this incredibly generous person, who had come all the way up to the Upper East Side, to be in my physical presence, but I started to fathom with a thudding heaviness that my mother may no longer be breathing and that I may not even be allowed back into the hospital for the day even if she was.

How do I end this conversation when I am not even participating in it? Is it rude for me to announce I’d like to get back to my dying mother? Is there any polite way to stop a person from talking?

I did finally pipe up with the whole closing hospital aspect and asked the bartender for the check; I was glad to be the one paying, I would have hated to have ended the conversation as I had, so suddenly, with her then picking up the check; she was doing me a favor, after all. She didn’t need to be here, she had better things to do with her time, I was so lucky she had distracted me for a few hours, got my mind off things.

But now, I was back to primal and raw, distracted as the clock ticked into 9pm and beyond. Gotta go, gotta go, echoed in my head. I yanked on my coat, tried to make Abigail not worry about what was going on with me, I’ll be fine and thanks thanks thanks thanks gosh thank you so much, signed my credit card receipt and hugged her outside.

“Thank you so much!” I exclaimed. “You made me feel so much better!” I wanted her to know how grateful I was, how important her time was, how nice it was to not be alone.

But at that point, I had to leave, it was 9:05pm and I had to see my mother. I ran away from her and back to the hospital.

“Visiting hours over,” the security guard announced at the entrance.

“My mother is in Room 1145: she’s dying, she may already be dead, she…” I started.

“Go ahead,” he waved me past and I took an empty elevator up to my mother’s room.

She was alive, thankfully, but her condition had not changed: her limbs flapped, her eyeballs tick-tocked rapidly behind closed lids and her thin cheeks stretched in grimaces. I sank back into the short stool and resumed my perch at her ear: “Come back, come back to me.”

She made more noise. Could she hear me?

“It’s not your time, Mummy. Don’t go.”

My siblings texted asking for updates. I had none, I’d let them know if anything changed.

Just before 11pm, two nurses came in to give my mother a sponge bath and change her gown.

“She’ll be okay,” one said to me about my mother and, unalone, I started to cry.

The nurses had rolled my mother onto her side, facing away from me.

“Hey!” They both looked at me. “Her eyes are open!”

I flew around the foot of the bed to my mother’s side.

“You’re awake!” I put my face close to hers, those blue eyes finally open. She had the semblance of a freshly hatched chick, blinking and soft: new with life.

“Hi, dear,” she uttered, using her oft-employed term of endearment, proof of life: she was back. It was extraordinary. She was alive, she came back: I begged her to come back and she came back. It was a moment I had wanted so badly and was overjoyed it had happened. She came back.

It wasn’t until the next day, when my siblings began to gather in our mother’s hospital room, when it wasn’t just me, that we found out she had most likely experienced a delayed reaction to Dilaudid, a narcotic, administered for pain during her surgery. The dose had been small but still overwhelming to our mother’s tiny 90lb body: unlike many of her ilk and generation, she neither drank nor smoked so her system was uncommonly clean. An opioid withdrawal had shivered through her bones, muscles and organs as the Dilaudid worked its way through her frame. That’s most likely why she was unconscious, a doctor told us, that’s why she convulsed.

Around my mother’s hospital bed, my siblings, all older than I, wondered, as they always did, if I had overreacted in thinking our mother was dying. I didn’t know what else to do other than be with my mother and let my family know what was going on. I hadn’t known what else to do other than act the way I had. Maybe it seemed unbelievable to them that she had been in the condition she was, now that she was so easily back to herself.

I didn’t care what they thought and how they always viewed me as being irrational or dramatic. After all, I was the one who had been there: all by myself. I did all that I could and that I knew to do. I did all that I could fathom to do. I didn’t care that I was “wrong” about her dying. It was a drug withdrawal; it was a medical event and thankfully she survived it. She didn’t die.

“I heard you,” my mother took a moment to grasp my hand, her light eyes on mine, not her usual style, her small, warm palm gripping my fingers tightly, squeezing for emphasis. “I heard every word you said.”

I held her eyes.

“I told you to come back.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I heard you.”

“And you came back,” I told her. “We are all so lucky: you came back.”

In eight months, my mother will die. She will die a slow and quite painless death, the death of a healthy body which succumbs to age, like that rare elderly person like during Civil War times, who fades away on a pillowed bed, giving in to an eventual continual sleep; the demise of a disease-free body, no cancers, no infections or flus, a gradual collapse. My mother will die during the night following the hottest day of the summer, when it had felt like 113 degrees with the heat index: my mother had always hated the heat.

There will no calling her back when her time finally arrives, when there will be nothing left in her body, when she will barely have the energy to eat, when her physical being finally fails. My sister Helen, who lived with and cared for our mother as she died, felt I didn’t help her out enough and believed I purposefully provoked my mother into fights as she reclined on her deathbed. After my mother had snapped at me to “get out!” one afternoon when she had been acting grouchy, Helen then forbade me from seeing my mother ever again, save one more session to say goodbye, stating I was harmful to our mother, maybe even dangerous. Although my brothers expressed to Helen that I most likely would not murder our mother, they agreed it was best I stay away; my sister did not want me there, who were they to disagree?

I was commanded to deliver a farewell to my mother on a date during a 30-minute time slot which had been determined by my sister: Helen sat in my mother’s bedroom with us as I spent the last half hour I had been allowed by my family to be with my mom. My sister fumed quietly, playing sudoku on her phone, her socked feet protectively tucked on the side of our mother’s bed. She checked the time frequently, looking at her phone and craning her neck towards the ticking clock on my mother’s night table, making sure I did not steal any unjustified time. She needed to be in the room with me to prevent me from harming or killing our dying mother.

Like I had waited all this time to finally do in my mom.

I was unalone in that room as the minutes flew. I awkwardly stood behind the chair where my sister sat at my mother’s bedside, trying to narrow my body between my sister’s steamingly angry torso and my mother’s nightstand. My mother pressed my hand onto her chest, I felt skin on skin, I tried to memorize it as she lifted my hand up to her lips to kiss it: she didn’t understand this was our final goodbye but I was lucky she was at least conscious for it. At that stage in her decline, she wasn’t awake for long periods of time and although she was sporadically talkative, she was no longer lucid; she was lost in a place of memories, she slid further and deeper into sleep.

“It’s time,” my sister barked. “Say goodbye.”

I did, in my mother’s ear. I kissed her cheek, I squeezed her tiny forearm, I smelled her, I breathed her in, I couldn’t believe that would be the last time I would see my mother, but it was.

For next almost month and a half, I tracked how many miles stood between me and my mother’s beating heart. The days I temped at a midtown hedge fund, her heart was two and a half miles away. When I sat on the waterfront in Queens staring at Manhattan’s panorama, her heart was three and a half miles away. Her heart still beat but I couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her hand or cheek, couldn’t tell her anything in her ear. I was already dead to her but she wasn’t dead to me. Because she wasn’t dead. Until she was.

My sister found my mother dead on that sultry summer morning around 8:30am. She announced the death on Facebook at 10:30am. I wasn’t told until 2:30pm that day when my brother David called me and asked me if I was ok. I was on the street at the time, in front of a sidewalk café.

“I’m fine,” I chirped. I was running errands, I had just bought ice cream, I was heading home on a summer Sunday afternoon .

“Do not tell me that no one told you, do not tell me this,” my brother repeated over and over, in agony.

I knew what he was talking about immediately. Every time my phone rang during those five weeks, I wondered if it was news that mother had passed away. I had thought it, fleetingly, just then, in fact, when I saw it was a sibling calling me but didn’t catch on immediately. I didn’t realize she was dead until I heard David say, “don’t tell me, don’t tell me you don’t know, don’t tell me, do not tell me no one told you.”

No one had told him either: his friend saw the Facebook post and raced to the green where my brother had been golfing to let him know. David found out on a golf course and I found out standing on the street on 34th Avenue in Long Island City, Queens outside of Gastroteca Astoria, steps away from where people were eating brunch.

My mother wasn’t coming back.

I hold the night of calling my mother back from her coma in the hospital as a good memory, an extraordinary gift, a second chance. I did not experience many tender or nice moments with my mother, the way I would have wanted, the way I saw her have with her other children, with other people, sometimes even strangers, her easy charm, the shine of her light. For one night, after she woke up, after I had infested her ear, we had connected: we had a moment, a moment I will never forget. A moment that worked: where a dream came true. And I hadn’t really saved her, she really wasn’t going to die that night but it had been a pinpoint for us to connect, a primal flash of need; I was reduced to nothing but need, nothing but a child in need, my helplessness at its height. It was a story with a happy ending.

But that night was also when I saw Abigail’s horror and when I internalized it and made it my fault for being too emotional. That was the night I blamed myself for offending my friend with who I was.

I have retold the story of that night many times since: the sympathetic tale of Abigail’s heroic effort to spend time with me, as the night when she had happily distracted me from my pesky, inconvenient and discomfort-inducing sorrow. I created a narrative that Abigail had saved me that night with her describing the 10-year saga of her relationship to me, and that it had been so much more normal for us to talk about her and her past than it would have been for us to have discussed me and my present at that time. I praised her often for how much she had given me that night. I did this because I wanted the friendship, I wanted to compensate for it, I wanted to validate it. Maybe because she had texted to ask if she should come up and that text, the promise of someone actually attempting to be there for me, meant more to me than the reality of a friend who talked her head off and couldn’t handle my grief.

This past year for my birthday, I spent another evening with Abigail. I had been so eager to share with her, to talk to her, about what I was writing, about work I wanted to do but despite it being my birthday, our conversation never turned to me.

Because our conversations never turned to me.

My mother had been dead for over two years and the “conversations” Abigail and I engaged in were still completely imbalanced. They were Abigail’s monologues, punctuated by my questions.

I realized that birthday night that I had finally had it. Abigail’s look of horror from that night with my mother had defined our relationship, had cemented my pattern of Stockholm syndrome responses, my desperation to not be alone.

But I was more alone with Abigail than when I was physically alone. All I did was listen and it was, at last, too draining to bear anymore: all I did was serve. I had no worth at all unless I was attending, hearing, nodding, agreeing, supporting, doting, affirming, validating and witnessing.

When I was with Abigail, I was there but I wasn’t really. I was the audience. And because I hadn’t wanted to ever see her look of horror ever again, I literally changed myself when I was around her to make sure that look would never cross her face again. I changed who I was and what I needed so to suit her, protect her, maintain our connection. It was all about her because I allowed it to be all about her.

The night of my birthday, for the first time in my friendship with her, I couldn’t wait to get away from Abigail; I couldn’t wait for the evening to end. I felt so alone, I just wanted to be alone.

She could tell and we end up talking about it, talking together for the very last time, a few days later.

She confessed then that she had talked a lot to distract me; she didn’t know exactly why she did it, she didn’t consider herself to be a real talker, per se, but it just sort of happened whenever she was around me. It wasn’t that she didn’t want me to express myself, she insisted; but she couldn’t come up with any reason for why she did what she did with me.

She did, however, come up with many reasons why it was most likely my fault that she talked so much around me.

“You’re too good of a listener,” Abigail dully explained at the Astoria bar where we had met that last time. “You ask too many questions,” she delivered.

My jaw fell.

“Are you kidding me?” I piped, maybe too loudly because in the corner of the happy hour bar where we sat, she shushed me.

“You can ask questions, too, you know, Abbi: no one is stopping you. This is ridiculous logic.” I strained my neck and flexed my fingers in frustration. The concrete stone of the bar looked dangerously tempting: I was so upset, I wanted to smash my forehead into its grey smooth hardness.

Abigail, embarrassed by my anger and frustration, snapped at me to sit up and gather myself together: she didn’t want the bartenders to see her with an emotional person. I replied the bartenders probably didn’t care and won’t remember us by tomorrow, but she didn’t believe me. I said we could move to a table to talk but she relayed that would draw even more attention to us. Nothing I did was right or valid.

And I was too good of a listener who asked too many questions.

I didn’t know who this person was all of a sudden: this Abigail who cared more about bartenders; who didn’t feel bad that I was hurt; who blamed me for the things she did.

I didn’t know who this person was because I had been pretending that she didn’t exist. From that night with my mother and seeing that look of horror on Abigail’s face, I had made her and our friendship into entities they weren’t because I wanted the friendship. I wanted it to be a friendship which served me: I even often cited that very night as the ultimate example of Abigail’s affection towards me: I created a narrative to demonstrate Abigail’s selflessness and it wasn’t fully the truth.

In all fairness, Abigail most likely did the best she could that night. She’s not an emotive person and for whatever reasons, my grief and emotion were too much for her to handle. But that doesn’t mean her effort didn’t mean something: it was a good thing for her to do, she did mean well, it still means something to me that she made this effort and she did it the only way she knew how to, by talking about herself.

And I have to take responsibility for my own desperation, my own ability to let a lie thrive somehow, because it’s attractive, because I want it, because I covet what it means.

I so desperately want to be cared for that I will take care in any form it comes and I will create a story to make it sound more care-y: I have to take responsibility for the inherent dishonesty which comes with that desperation. I have to manage my own easy slide into doing the other person’s work: I might be denying myself more satisfying rapports because I spend so much time and energy on cardboard flat relationships I am too desperate to leave.

Abigail and I parted ways on the sidewalk outside the bar: we had already made tentative plans for that following weekend; we said to each other that we would reach out and firm up those plans but we never did.

She may have felt it was my place to reach out to her and, of course, I certainly felt like if she really cared, it was high time she actually make some effort. But no one, between the two of us, ever made an effort again.

I replayed moments from our friendship as the next weeks passed: I mourned a friendship I knew was dying and instead of sadness, I felt anger for a couple of months. And after that anger eased, the sadness never came; instead, I felt distance, clarity and relief, a full detachment. I even felt gratitude: Abigail and I had had fun times and even though that was not enough to sustain the connection for me, those times still happened, we still enjoyed each other, there was still something there.

But it wasn’t enough, not for me.

And I am too good of a listener and I do ask too many questions so it’s a gift to recognize how much of a doormat I can be and to forgive anyone who takes too much advantage of that. My lesson is to be honest with myself, to not make excuses for other people, to carry my own load, not carry the load of both parties in the rapport. To open my mouth. To ask, even to demand. To see what is there, not what I want to be there.

I am my own best friend but that only goes so far. Part of my self-love, especially now that my charming, abusive and neglectful Mummy is gone, is cultivating a better support system. To maybe one day get a text from someone who really wants to be there for me and who would just listen to me; to feel more normal by love, the way I think other people are, people like Abigail, partnered people, people seeming to be surrounded by large circles of other people, typical people, people whose mothers easily loved them. I define myself as not normal: maybe that is a defense mechanism, maybe no one is really that normal. Maybe with relationships, it is more about fit, more about deep comfort, than it is about anything else.

I had a lousy teacher in all this: my mother. Her narcissistic personality disorder mired her maternal strategies. She was competitive, manipulative, subtly domineering, withholding, playing favorites, thinking solely of herself. She knew no better. She didn’t understand relationships, it was all about control for her; it was all about keeping the attention of all the people around her. It was about fighting, complaining, purposefully not feeling joy, purposefully denying joy to those around her.

She fought with me the most: it is likely she loved me the least.

And yet I was the one who called her back that night when I told her hundreds of times not to leave, to come back to me.

It was love I felt. But it was also severe attachment. And fear. It was safe to love my mother even though her love for me was conditional and sporadic: it was still all I knew and all I wanted. It was almost intoxicating when it arrived and disappointingly familiar when it flew away again, as it always did. It was all a game to my mother, a beautiful and beloved woman: she had more than enough love around her, she couldn’t spare more my way, I needed it. It was a deliberate game to deny it to me.

I don’t see it immediately, when someone uses me, when a charismatic and gregarious person takes me under their wing; sometimes I get enchanted too quickly, I conceive of something which isn’t there, because I am charmed by the idea of appearing attractive to someone else. I don’t know how to parse that all out because I did that every day with every situation with my mother: I just wanted her to like me and there was a power she held over me because she did not fully like me. She even joked that she loved me but didn’t like me.

I know this much: if someone loves me, they’ll want to listen to me. If someone likes me, they’ll want to listen to me.

My ache to be normal can no longer blind me from my pattern of picking people who prefer my silence. My own silence is no longer acceptable to me when I am in the company of other people. My solitude and independence are separate from my silence: just because I am good at being alone, good at listening, good at asking questions, doesn’t mean I don’t want or need to express myself to other people. To be needy, to ask, to talk, to talk a lot. To be brave in my abbynormality: to be finally speaking about it.

#friendship #death #dying #deathoffriendship #survival

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