#and now he’s mad that the actor isn’t living up to the actual Noir which’s like…no shit dumbass there’s consequences to you actions

[apocalypse-shuffle]

THE BOYS S4 SPOILERS

If Homelander does not forcibly mute New Noir himself before this season is over I’ll be surprised. The man should probably go method for his own good and mute himself on his own before Homelander’s unstable ass does it himself way more violently.

[ladyanput]

Fake Lila Rossi AU

Well, @merry-madness has their False Ladybug and @thegayestasexual had their False Chat Noir, has anyone thought about a False Lila? This was inspired by an episode of Castle.

Lila starts living the high life, she's the center of her class, and let's keep in mind that her class isn't just some group of common people. Alya's mother is a high class chef, Alix's father is the Director at the Louvre, Mylène's father is an actor. Heck, Sabrina's father is on the police force.

The kids no doubt have their own connections, their own money, no doubt. Gabriel Agreste nor the freaking mayor of Paris tolerate their children being in a subpar school.

Anywho, so Lila is becoming the center of their little world. She goes on and on about the charities she's in, about all of the parties she's been to, all of the famous people she's met. And they lap it up, begin to help her live that life.

I'm going to say that they're in high school now, and Lila has begun to live a bit more dangerously. She has money, her mother is an ambassador, and we know nothing about her father, but we'll just say he's a doctor. So she has money.

Lila is partying it up with her classmates (sans Marinette, of course). She's managed to manipulate Gabriel to force Adrien to date her. Maybe drugs are involved, maybe not. She's become brattier, her lies growing and growing, but life seems perfect. That is, until Rose, lovely, reliable, sweet Rose, says that she volunteered Lila to help her at a soup kitchen next month, after Lila comes back from this big, fantastic trip of hers.

And Lila freaks, because she doesn't want to volunteer at a soup kitchen, she had been planning on going to a party, a party that Alya, who had helped Lila become basically an internet celebrity, had gotten her into.

So Lila goes away on this 'fabulous trip' of hers. But in truth, she just went to the other side of Paris, to a penthouse she bought (without her parents even knowing about it), where she hangs out with people with more clout. Social media influencers, people with lots of clout. People that believe Lila because of all the dedication Alya put into Lila's accounts.

And they go someplace a bit seedy, perhaps for drugs, or something, and Lila is stressed about having to do charity work, thanks to Rose, yet she knows that that stuff could be really good for her image.

Until she meets this girl at the bar. A girl that looks almost like Lila. Same hair colour, same eyes in shape and colour, though there are differences, but not too many.

So it was that night that Lila approached this girl, befriended her, and later offered her a deal;

Lila would pay her handsomely for her services. To act as her double. Lila promises to pay for the plastic surgery, anything she needs to look exactly like Lila. Besides, who wouldn't want to be one of the biggest influencers in Paris? The girl does the charity work, get down and dirty, get Lila a good image, while Lila enjoys the high life. But they plan in carefully so that the two are never seem at the same time, even if they were in different places.

So, they put this plan in motion. The fake Lila goes to these charity events; building houses, feeding the homeless, even spend time with the elderly. Meanwhile, Lila is living the high life at parties, at movie premieres, at high society events with her beau Adrien. She's living the dream and taking the good deeds that the fake is doing and making herself look better.

One day, the two girls are on a train, heading off to Italy or something, and Lila plans on having the fake spend time with her grandparents, while she goes around Italy and live it up with the influencers and celebrities there, but the plane, train or boat has an accident. An accident where the fake is said to have died.

So Lila seems different after the accident. She goes to Italy and spends the entire time with her grandparents. She returns home and everyone sees a changed woman. She is going to charity events, she stops hanging around the bad crowd she's been with. She seems nicer, not asking for favours, not asking for money to her personal charities (which was actually her bank account), no more drugs or drinking.

She breaks up with Adrien, saying that their relationship isn't healthy and he deserves love. She apologizes to Marinette, saying that she was a horrible person and that she's seen the light and is determined to be a better person. She distances herself from Alya, she helps Rose promote charoties, she promotes Kitty Section on her social media accounts, she has the Agreste brand make Juleka a model. She doesn't attend the parties, the raves. High class events, yes. She even seems to be determined to spend more time with her parents.

Lila Rossi had died in that accident. The fake had taken her identity, had switched their identifications. No one looked twice at the small time girl, who had no family. She had been angry with Lila, a little, for taking every wonderful thing she had for granted, for using everyone, for being so.. Evil. So the fake decides to take that life and uses it to its full potential, to live a life she had never even been given a chance to have.

And no one ever finds out, not that anyone cares.

[smallerinfinities]

mad woman: iii (nessian)

a/n: *taps mic* does this thing still work? OH hey! hello! yes, this fic is properly old now and probably everyone thought I abandoned it but joke is on everyone including myself lmao...turns out I love these two..and after acosf well I would 10/10 die for them. so here we go! a ride to be sure! people do be getting naked!

warnings: 4.8k of smut (like woah). language. guilt. 

Nesta wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing.

It had seemed like a good idea. Everyone in certain social circles knew the truth about Hewn City. Knew the dance club for the front it was for the shadowy bowels beneath. Here, she had thought yesterday morning, here she could be on even ground with him.

Him.

Cassian's hand was still in hers as she led them both down the long hallway toward room 3B. His words before hadn’t completely hidden his reactions to her clothes, her face, her body. She smiled to herself remembering the slight widening of his eyes. He probably thought he hadn’t reacted, but she knew. All men are weak. Just put on a dress and show some thigh and she knew she’d get his attention. Even if it was probably all for show. Cassian was a fine actor.

She thought back to four days ago. Or was it five, she thought. They had started to bleed together after the bender she’d gone on after wishing Cassian death on the phone with Amren.

Feyre was in her apartment for the second time in a week. An unprecedented occurrence. If the judgment in her eyes was any indication, she had come to check on things. Baby sister coming to her rescue. How rich. She stood on the carpet again, with her perfect heeled sandals and her tidy camel trench coat. Thankfully, she’d left the hat at home this time. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest as she surveyed the room.

“I see you’ve already made yourself at home again,” she observed, picking up a half-empty bottle of gin, “I’ll send Alis this afternoon.”

“I don’t want anyone else in my fucking apartment, Feyre,” Nesta cringed at the lingering slur in her voice.

“So you can drown yourself in this shit alone?” She held up an empty bottle of vodka in her other hand. “Nesta, it’s only been a few days since I was here the last time. Can you even stand right now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nesta sneered, settling back into the couch cushions. She couldn’t, but Feyre was a bitch for even asking, so she spat back, “At least I cope with my problems legally, High Lady.” In a fantasy world, smoke would have curled from her lips when she exhaled those last words.

Feyre stilled, breathing evenly. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was containing her rage or accepting the shame she had to be feeling.

“I see you gave Amren a call.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Nesta was surprised. Amren had seemed like one of Feyre’s inner circle, no matter how much money the High Lord and Lady may have given her.

“No, I told Amren that what you did with her number was your business,” she wrung her hands. She was….nervous. How odd. Feyre Archeron was a lot of things, but nervous was rarely one of them.

“Well,” Nesta exhaled, the anger fleeting like wind taken out of her sails, “yes, I called. Everything was very cryptic until someone showed up here who was not a therapist and started taking his clothes off. Honestly, what were you thinking, Feyre?!”

“I…” she hesitated, sinking down on the other end of the couch with Nesta, bracing her elbows on her knees, “I don’t know. I was desperate. I just want you to feel something again, Nes.” She hadn’t called her that since they were children. Nesta felt a little pang in her chest. I need another drink. “I know it’s...unconventional, but it really does help. Rhys and I...well, you know there’s a lot of stress involved in our lives.”

“So you fuck it out with strangers that you pay to keep silent??” Nesta asked incredulously.

“When you put it like that it sounds a lot seedier than it actually is, but,” she huffed, swallowing back some kind of emotion, “yes. There’s a lot of….relief, if you just give into it. Amren knows what she’s doing.”

“Are you and Rhys having problems?” It was the only explanation Nesta could understand for this. I mean it was one thing to hire a hooker if you weren’t getting any, but from the forced lunches and “sister dates” that Elain made the three of them go on, Feyre had always seemed to have a very active sex life.

“Oh, God, no,” Feyre visibly relaxed, caught off guard by even the implication. That made Nesta’s stomach relax. She hadn’t even realized she cared. “Rhys and I are fine, stronger even. There is power in giving up power, especially when you grapple with it on a daily basis. But this isn’t about me or Rhys.” Feyre leaned over and reached out to take Nesta’s hands, but stopped when Nesta visibly tensed at the mere idea of contact. “I’m really not lying when I say I think a little relief would help you.”

“Why do you insist I need help?” Nesta ground out through her teeth.

Feyre sighed and stood. There was something settling over her face, deep in her eyes. Sadness. “Suit yourself, sister.” She stood and, to Nesta’s surprise, took a swig from the half-empty gin bottle she’d pushed in Nesta’s face earlier. Her face screwed up in a grimace, “Jesus, how do you drink that shit?”

“I don’t even taste it anymore.” Nesta looked off, toward the window. Toward the empty corner where the wedding dress had hung for months. She’d taken it down that night after he had left.

That bone-deep sadness returned to Feyre’s eyes, “Alis will be here this afternoon.”

She left without another word.

Nesta sighed, catching Cassian’s attention, but she said nothing. She kept a steady flow of booze in her veins after Feyre left for three more days, sometimes just laying in bed for hours while the world spun. She saw Tomas, saw Elain, but most often she saw hazel eyes and bold, dark lines inked across a broad, tanned chest. Those were the torturous hours, when the desire would rise in her, when she would feel something just like Feyre said. Even if it made her soul burn. He was haunting her. He’d left her alone, angry and wet, for what? Because she refused to accept his “help”? Wasn’t this all just fucking anyway? What difference did it make how she responded?

The frustration had overwhelmed her until she finally realized that it didn’t matter how much she drank, he wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t chase him into a whiskey-soaked oblivion like she could the memories of her fiancé and her sister. He was real. He was still breathing. He was making her life a living hell.

He was going to pay for it.

So, she’d called Amren back. Had made him meet her here of all places. Had put on a dress and a pair of heels and more makeup than she’d been planning to wear at her own wedding. A costume. A mask. If he was going to “help” her, at least it wouldn’t seem like her that he was helping. She’d fuck him out of her life on her terms. Just once wouldn’t damn her to hell, right?

Nesta had never been to Hewn City before. Clubbing had never been her style. She was more of a library, bookworm kind of girl. But now that she was here, she kind of liked the secrecy of it all, the discretion everyone had whispered about. It made her feel like a character in one of her books, a different kind of escape than booze offered, with the rouge-tinted lights and shadowy, padded hallways. She could be anyone here. She would be anyone here. Anyone but herself.

“I think this is it,” Cassian’s deep rumble sounded behind her. They stopped in front of a painted black door, the marker flickering “3B” in the light of the candle sconce behind them. Nesta fit the key into the lock and turned it.

The room was cooler than the hall, but she wasn’t sure the temperature was what made her break out in gooseflesh. There was a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room covered in black satin sheets drawn back against a deep crimson comforter. Only a handful of hanging exposed bulbs lit the space, giving the boudoir decoration some industrial finishes. It was like a scene out of some vampire film noir. The light reflecting off heavy restraint cuffs at each corner of the bed only heightened the effect. A dark armoire loomed in the corner. Nesta was sure that if she opened it, she would find any number of instruments with which to tease and taunt Cassian with. This place was a sex dungeon and she had paid to be a mistress tonight.

Cassian’s mistress.

Nesta took a deep breath and settled into this new character, some confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how to take it from a willing participant. She sauntered over to the foot of the bed and leaned back against it to look at him. He was so quiet tonight, looking around the room like she had, taking it all in.

“Cat got your tongue?” Nesta proded.

“No,” he hesitated, stuffing his hands into his front pockets like an embarrassed school boy rocking forward on his toes. It only lasted for a second before he hid it behind a smirk, “no, just a little….confused?”

“About what?” She crossed her feet at the ankle and let the deep slit on her dress fall open, revealing almost every inch of her long legs. His eyes widened momentarily before he cleared his throat. Was he….nervous?

“Well, uhh,” he was stammering now, the false bravado unable to keep up with the situation unfolding in front of him, “if I’m being honest, I’m not sure what to do.”

“You mean, Cassian, self-proclaimed sex therapist, doesn’t know what to do?” The teasing in her voice blushed his cheeks pink, “well, color me surprised. I thought it would have been clear by now.”

“It’s not that it’s...you’re…” he cocked his head, “different.” His eyes followed every inch of bare skin from her painted toe to the top of the slit an inch below her hip. “Something changed.”

Why does he make this so damn difficult?

“Yes, well,” she replied, biting her bottom lip for effect, “I decided that I want you to help me.” His head straightened.

“Do you?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, emphasizing the size of his biceps. His nervous energy cooled in seconds, giving way to something else, something that had been simmering beneath the ice.

“I do,” she slipped back a little farther onto her palms, tilting her head back. She was a predator, setting a pretty, needy trap for him. If he got off on a savior complex, she’d play the part until she got what she wanted. “I just want to feel normal again.” She smiled internally as she watched her words wash over him. Watched him take a few deep breaths, watched him move for the first time since they walked in the room.

He kept his body closed, his arms a barrier between the two of them, as he stalked forward. Nesta stopped breathing, feeling his gaze shift from confusion and questions to calculated assessment. He paused in front of her and bent down, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of her slim waist. The space between them was thinner than the air atop the mountains in Illyria.

“I think…” he looked her in the eye, no blinking, no touching, just a wisp of mint from his mouth, “that’s a load of bullshit.”

A rush of fury, so white hot it blinded her, licked down her arm. She raised her open hand and ripped it through the air.

Only to be caught in an iron grip.

“Ah, ah, dear Nesta,” his lips curled up on one side, “I like a little pain with my pleasure, but not without my consent.”

All she could do was stare him down as she huffed, imagining the breath leaving her nostrils in puffs of hot smoke. A caged dragon in pretty clothes begging to get out. But hell would freeze over before she moved first. She could feel the tension between them, feel the electricity pulsing through him where his fist gripped her wrist. Maybe it was her pheromone-laced delusion but she thought he might want this as much as she did. He wanted her challenge, her adamant wall. He wanted to break her, remake her. Little did he know that you can’t break what’s already broken.

Just a character, just a role to play...

“Oh, come on, Cassian,” she tried to free her hand but he remained hard as stone around her wrist. He hadn’t pinned her legs though. She slid one bare leg up the inside seam of his jeans. The muscles flexed and contracted underneath the well-fit fabric, higher and higher, until she reached the apex. He hissed. A feline smile spread across her face when she felt it, felt him, hard and begging for her. “I think you want this a little more than you’re willing to admit, more than you’re allowed to admit.”

His nostrils flared, barely imperceptible, but even the smallest changes in him drew her notice. Why? It was a question she didn’t want to even ask herself, but it kept coming, night and day. Why did this night feel like the edge of a dangerous cliff? Why did his agreement to come tonight feel like more than just a business arrangement? Why did the tension between them feel like her only anchor to this life? She pressed harder into him, needing to move, to get this over with, to fuck him right out of her head.

“Nesta.” His voice brought her back from those questions that haunted her like the inked lines hidden underneath his t-shirt. So close now, so close to her fingers, her mouth. She looked up at him, aware of her knee still cradled between his legs.

“Cassian.” Her voice practically sang. The song of his own personal siren.  

He was so still. If he hadn’t said her name she wouldn’t have been sure he was even breathing. He placed his hand between his groin and her knee and stepped backward. His pupils were wide, endless pools, black as tar and eating at the hazel surrounding them. He was drunk on the lust, drowning in it just like she was.

“Take off that dress before I rip it off.”

A bone-deep shiver ran from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes at the command, reaching back up to settle between her thighs. She flushed from the heat of his gaze on her skin as she stood, reaching behind her neck to loose the three pearl buttons between her pride and her desire. Fuck it. The dress pooled at her feet.

The corner of her lip tugged upward when she heard his breath catch. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. Lingerie had felt like too much and her regular cotton cheekies would have been too conspicuous beneath her close-fitting dress, so nothing had been the only choice. The right choice if Cassian’s jeans had anything to say about it, clearly growing tighter by the second.

Nesta backed herself onto the bed again, digging in with her heels to push herself toward the headboard as gracefully as she could while burning alive. And she was burning under his gaze. Every flick of his dilated pupils, from her bare legs, to her full breasts, to her smooth stomach, to her glistening cunt, she burned. When her head thudded against the carved cherry wood headboard, his eyes finally met hers. A low growl sounded in the back of his throat.

“See something you want, Cassian?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone innocent, indifferent.

“Depends, Nes.” She ignored the heat that pooled at the nickname, especially when he said, “what are you offering?”

She bit her lip at his words. And spread her knees open for him. Now, come and take it.

He went wholly still as pink creeped into his tan cheeks. He was fucking blushing at her cunt on display for him. A filthy thought entered her head and before she could shut it down, she reached between her legs and traced a finger over her slit. The low lights flickered in the reflection off the wetness laced there before her finger disappeared….

Right between Nesta’s wine-colored lips.

His eyes tracked that finger in and out of her mouth as she sucked and swirled her tongue around it, moaning at the taste of her arousal, the eroticism of the gesture. She released her finger with a pop and smiled wickedly at him.

“Want to taste?”

Cassian moved swift as a thunderclap, as if her words were paddles jumpstarting his heart into quick, heavy beats. He pulled off his shirt. Those thick, black lines of ink that haunted her dreams were on full display, curling around his biceps and across his broad shoulders. She wanted to trace them with her tongue, taste the salt on his skin. He didn’t bother with some cliché striptease. His fingers fumbled with his belt, fumbled with the top button and zipper of those tight jeans. He tripped out of them, splaying his hands across the rumpled comforter as he kicked his pants somewhere across the room, losing his shoes and socks at some point between.

She would have smirked at the clumsiness, questioned his self-proclaimed prowess as a sex therapist, if her throat hadn’t gone completely dry at the size of him. Even through his underwear there was no mistaking it—massive, just like every inch of the rest of his body. Of course, he had a cock to match.

He grinned, following her eyes, guessing her train of thought. The bed dipped as he crawled toward her, full prince of cats on display again. A man who knew what people saw when they looked at him and enjoyed that power, that raw sexual energy dripping from his every pore. With that glint in his eye, she was happy to play along—for now.

Every thread in the expensive duvet cover beneath her set a thousand sparks rocketing across her skin. His movements were measured, purposefully kept from touching her skin. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of him with every inch forward, every inch toward where she wanted him. All of him. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. Nesta started to fidget with anticipation, ready for him to spread her open and take, take, take, but she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t reach or claw or whimper, no matter how much she wanted to.

Feyre might be paying, but she would own him before the end. Even if she had to sacrifice her soul to do it.

When his mouth finally made contact with her skin, a whisper of a kiss along the inside of her thigh, it was a struggle not to moan. Loud. She was strung tighter than a bowstring and he knew. Her traitor body was going to beg for him with or without words, so she opened her mouth instead.

“Gonna fuck me senseless, Cassian?”

His head jerked up from between her thighs, that feline smile turning her molten. “You know, Nesta. I think I’ll shut you up instead.”

Someone as big as he was shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. Shouldn’t have been able to cover her entire body with his and claim her mouth between one second and the next. His hands curled behind her neck to pull her firmly to him and devoured her. Their tongues clashed, dancing together, as she moaned into his mouth. Whether it was surprise or pleasure or both that pulled it from her, she wasn’t sure. The mint and adrenaline still laced his tongue, this time with a natural smokiness that she hadn’t noticed before. He licked at her, sucked at her lower lip. She nipped at him, teeth as much a weapon as her words, her hands. She dragged her nails down his naked back and drew a hiss from him, maybe some blood too if the tang of iron was any indication.

It only spurred him.

“You know these lips taste better when they’re not liquor-stained,” he panted. He studied her face, she knew it must be flushed from his kiss, and slowly ground his hips into hers, with the same bruising intensity he claimed her mouth, drenching himself in her through the thin fabric of his underwear. Those really need to disappear. Her fingers continued their violent path down his back to the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only barrier left between everything she wanted. Wanted, never needed. They danced around to the front of him and sought purchase.

Another moan, loud and throaty filled the space between them.

My God.

“Off, off, off, off,” she was chanting when he finally released her mouth to move down to her neck, surely to mark her like she’d marked his back. It was going to be tit for tat with him. “OFF,” she clawed at his hips. He raised up and smirked at her.

“You just have to ask, Nes.” His lips curled to the side, “maybe say please.”

She held his gaze. Please. It was a chant in her head but she couldn’t say it. He saw it there, the challenge, the struggle, but this was a battle of wills. And Cassian was a seasoned general.

He ducked his head and nosed at her jaw, along her throat, peppering her skin with close-mouthed kisses. “Just say the word,” he ground into her again, not nearly the friction she wanted. His hands found her peaked breasts and traced her nipples, slow circles at first, then quick pinches accented by his teeth at her throat. There was no pattern, no guessing, no preparation. Every nerve ending was a live wire, screaming for his touch.

Nesta Archeron was going to die here. The flames in her belly were going to consume her and she was going to die at a high-priced sex club. And maybe she should. It might be worth it. Rhysand would never live it down. She wouldn’t sacrifice her pride for an orgasm. But, as his hips did another slow roll against hers and he scraped at her neck with his teeth, her resolve imploded.

“Please,” she croaked. She felt his smile against her skin.

“What was that?”

“Please,” she said a little louder, still barely a whisper.

“That’s awfully quiet, Nesta,” he licked at her collarbone and made her eyes roll back into her head. “Makes me think you don’t really want it.”

“Please,” she repeated, her head thrashing, “please, PLEASE.”

“Okay, okay,” he pushed up to lean back on his heels above her. “No need to shout.” The tease in his voice forced an impatient growl from her. He cocked an eyebrow as he toyed with the elastic waistband on his underwear, slowly pulling it down below the defined V set low on his abdomen, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin, until finally they were gone and there was nothing left between them but sexual tension and a promise of release.

Her eyes raked down his muscled body, unable to keep her hand from reaching to touch the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, reaching lower. His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, uh, princess,” her cheeks flamed as he lifted her hand to his lips and left a tender kiss on her palm, “it’s my turn.”

She blinked and his mouth was on her. His hair, tufted at the back of his head, bobbed between her legs as he lapped up the wetness that had been pooling since they started their games tonight. Since he first leaned against her door frame, if she was being honest with herself. His lips wrapped around her clit and when he moaned around her, she saw stars. Her toes curled. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. Her knees bent to capture his head forever between her thighs but he caught them before she could crush him with the force of her pleasure.

It might have been hours, days. He held her spread open and licked and suckled and fucked her entrance with his tongue. Careful, slow strokes to stoke the fire ripping through her veins but not enough to send her to her peak. Her thighs began shaking; her fingers knotted into his hair and held his mouth against her. His name was a holy chant in this unholy place.

“Cassian,” she sobbed as a tear rolled down her temple and into her sweat-soaked hair.

He groaned and release ripped through her. Waves of pleasure locked her body in a silent scream, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. He kept stroking her through it, his tongue undulating against her clit over and over as her body jerked involuntarily once, twice before relaxing completely, melting into a warm, soft puddle of flesh.

There were no words. No thoughts. Nothing inside her head except for the truth of it. No one has ever made her feel like that, forced that kind of pleasure from her. Her harsh breaths were the only sound in the room as Cassian traced patterns on her inner thigh. She blinked furiously, clearing her eyes of any emotions that might betray her. Looking down, she caught his eye and his answering smile made her forget her own name.

He was looking up at her, his cheeks pink from the heat and pressure between her thighs. His hair was a fucked out mess. He looked...content. As if her orgasm was all he wanted, like he could do it again and again and not care if she ever touched his cock even though she’d never wanted anything more in her life.

But...what if he doesn't want that?

She tensed suddenly. He was an escort after all. This wasn’t his choice. What if all of this is just an act? She knew she shouldn’t care. She was a paying customer and shouldn’t care what he wanted. What his desires were. She should just take her pleasure, satiate her own desire, and leave. That had been the plan when she came here. Hell, she had just been acting when this all started.

Until he gave her the best orgasm of her entire fucking life. Until he called her on her bullshit, got naked, and got on his knees for her. Until he made her gasp his name and fucking cry for the privilege.

This was wrong. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—

I don’t deserve this.

Her breath caught in her throat. I need to get out of here.

She sat up so quickly her head spun. Her fingers caught on the restraints attached to the headboard and she recoiled. What am I doing? Why did I think this was a good idea? Cassian jerked up from between her legs at the motion, the perfect window for her to rip her legs from his vicinity and swing them to the floor.

“Nesta, what’s wrong?”

She heard him, confused, still panting, but she couldn’t find the words to answer him. The panic was bitter, the taste in stark relief to Cassian’s tongue. Stop! Where is my fucking dress? Her head swiveled frantically. A slip of navy stuck out from under the armoire in the corner. She lurched forward, grabbing and pulling on the dress that barely covered her ass, left nothing to the imagination. What have I done?

“Nesta, what is happening?” Cassian was louder this time. Loud enough to draw her eyes. He was leaning on one elbow, wide-eyed and still painfully hard. At this angle, she could see the angry red marks across his shoulder, darkening with dried blood in some places. A damning souvenir for what she had done. A claiming.

She couldn’t ignore the voice in her head. A betrayal.

“Was—” he sat up and leaned on his knees, “was it not good?” Some unfamiliar emotion danced across his eyes as he waited. She stared and stared and stared. “Did I—“ he kept hesitating, “did I not make you feel good?”

It was the doubt, thick and traitorous, in his voice that made her silently turn around and walk out the door.

------ *runs away*

tags: @sleeping-and-books @greerlunna @sjmships @cupcakey00 @queenestarcheron @awesomelena555 @mysticalunicole​ @lordof-bloodshed​ @courtofjurdan​

[kitty0boy]

So it’s like 2 am rn and I’m tired but can’t sleep so I wrote this down quickly. It’s a little Marichat fic that probably won’t be very good because I’m running on like 5 hours of sleep. I’ll probably fix spelling mistakes tomorrow or even just delete this but for now, enjoy.

—————————

The class decided to have a picnic to celebrate their last year at Francois DuPont high school. They were about 17 now, some were 18. Everyone lounged around, eating pastries, talking about their first day back from summer and just genuinely having a good time. Unfortunately Adrien’s father had instructed him to go home so while he packed his belongings, he listened to his friends conversations. That was when he saw a younger girl run up to Lila.

Now Adrien knew he had a lot of fans, as Chat and as himself. The older and more, how you say, well defined he became, the more fans he acquired. Though when it came to Chat, being a fangirl was much more dangerous. At one point it got so bad that Ladybug had to schedule an interview with the Ladyblog telling them to stay away during akuma attacks. They would quite literally, chase after Chat while he was being chased after by an akuma. He even saw one of them pretend to be hurt so he would swoop in and save them. Yeah very dangerous stuff. Which is why it was quite a scared to hear that Lila was a fan.

“Of course I’m a fan of his, in fact, I’m quite close with one of Paris’s superheroes.” She spoke, hiding the lying tone to her voice. As irritating as she was, he had to admit she was good. “Really?” The girl squealed. She was on the younger side, maybe 13 or 14, about his age when he first got his Miraculous. “Oh leaving so soon Adrien?” She said in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Yeah, my father again.” He replied, trying to sound friendly. “I can walk you home if you like! I wanted to speak with Mr. Agreste anyways. About our up coming photo shoot.” Damn it, he’d almost forgotten about that. He hated shoots with Lila. Adrien had always liked physical affection, but with her it was almost unbearable. “No that’s ok, I can walk him.” Marinette offered, stepping in to shield him from the object of his discomfort. And what a beautiful shield she was.

Her days of pigtails were over, instead she would wear her hair in different styles everyday. Today was a half up half down style with space buns, very reminiscent of her fight as Multimouse. She has also settled for a mint green t-shirt and a black skirt which clearly paid homage to his superhero self. It was nearly impossible to wipe the Cheshire grin off his face as she strode over, picnic basket in hand. He was visiting her while she finished the little paw prints along the hem of the skirt, but of course she wouldn’t know that. “Wow miss, I really like your outfit! Where’d you get it?” The girl squeaked rushing over. Her eyes shining with pure joy. “Oh why thank you, I actually made it myself.” She curtsied, very adorably in his opinion. “Wow that’s so cool! Could you make me one?” If she got anymore excited she would float into space. “You know, I can get Chat to stop by if you wanted.” Lila chimed in, drawing the girls attention back to her. “Really?” She turned and ran towards her new favourite person. “Of course I can, my boyfriend always seems to find me.” She faked a gasp and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “Whoops.” She exhaled. The class gasped. That was what she was looking for.

“You’re dating Chat Noir Lila?” Marinette snickered, silencing them. It was clear that Lila had more influence over the class now. As much as they all loved Marinette, Lila had successfully made herself more interesting. “Yes I am, but I wasn’t supposed to say that. Oh no, I’m going to get into so much trouble.” She delicately placed her fists over her chest for added effect. Marinette burst out laughing and that’s when Adrien slowly started to back away unnoticed by his friends.

He ran and ducked into an alley way making sure he wasn’t followed. “Oh come on kid, I didn’t even get anything from the picnic. You should have at least slipped me something.” Plagg groaned. “I will after I go sort this mess out, it’s dangerous if people think Lila is dating me, she could be targeted by Hawkmoth.” He rationalized. “Big deal, if she gets akumatized we can just purify her no problem.” “Uh yeah Plagg it is a big deal. What if Hawkmoth kidnaps her instead, as much as I don’t like her I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me.” “Well kid if she gets kidnapped because she lied about dating you it’s not your fault is it? Now can I at least finished eating?” He sighed, Plagg was right. If she got kidnapped now she only had herself to blame. An idea did pop into his head. Maybe if she was proven wrong, she might stop saying things like that, and he knew the purrfect purrincess to help him achieve his goal. “Later, Plagg Claws Out!” A flash of green later and there’s stood Chat Noir, in all his leather-clad glory. Hopping onto the roof, he made to move towards them when the sound of shouting caught his attention.

“Do you realized how dangerous it is to even say things like that!” Marinette squeaked, really living up to her super identity and the mysterious multimouse. “You can’t just tell people you’re dating superheroes for attention Lila, you’re safety could be at risk.” She pointed, Lila seemed to be unphased but there was something about her posture that showed she was guilty and ticked off. “I already told you I didn’t mean to let it slip, I have a rare condition c-“ “called Liars Luny or something like that right?” Marinette interrupted. He had to hold back a laugh at her clever remark. “Marinette that was incredibly rude.” Rose intervened, and one by one everyone turned their faces to Marinette, a glared placed on almost all of them. All but Nino and Alya, who had long discovered Lila’s manipulative ways. Though they were still afraid to say anything about it, they didn’t want her to get akumatized after all.

“Look Marinette, if you’re jealous just say so, I won’t be mad. I’m sure a lot of other women would love to get their hands on my sweet kitten. I mean, considering your outfit it’s pretty obvious you have a crush on him.” You know, for a compulsive liar, Lila seemed to be good at getting the truth out of others. Marinette’s face turned pink and her fists began to clench. Her back stiffened up too, was she really jealous? Or was it just his imagination. Maybe he hoped she was, he had fancied her for a while now but he never made a move. Suddenly his classmates were surrounding her and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

His anger from earlier started to rise to his chest as he let out a low growl and leapt off the roof. Thankfully, his years as a model made him a fairly decent actor as well.

“Fancy seeing you here my purrincess.” He purred walking over to the group. “You look radiant as always.” Lila stiffened but quickly tried to look relaxed as she confidently strode towards him. “It’s nice to see you here too kitten, couldn’t stay away from me I see.” She smiled, it almost looked genuine. It didn’t take long for her possi of classmates to follow behind, leaving Marinette standing there clearly distraught, he growled again as a tear slid down her cheek. Keeping it cool, he cooked up a response. “Umm, I’m sorry but do I know you?” He said in mock confusion. The class gasped slightly, “Of course you know me, didn’t you just call me your princess?” Lila chimed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “No. I have no idea who you are, I was talking to the lovely lady in green and black. She is radiant isn’t she, and she looks fantastic in my colours.” He replied cooly. Before anyone had time to react he ran through the crowd and picked up Marinette, twirling her in a circle. She giggled slightly, her throat a little strained. She placed her forearms on his shoulders, intertwining her fingers behind his head as he slowly lowered her to the ground. “What’s wrong love?” He reached up, gently brushing a tear from her cheek. She got the hint to play along. “Nothing I’m all good kitty.” She smiled genuinely and he smiled back. Ignoring the eyes of everyone around them. He held up his arm and gestures to her skirt. “Do you see all of these little paw prints? She sewed them all herself! It took her 4 hours too, I almost couldn’t draw her attention away from the stitching.” She blushed and buried her face in his shoulder, oh mon dieu she was so cute. “And these shoes,” he scooped her up bridal style and she laughed. “See the little toe beans, how adorable.” The girls squealed and ran over to admire her craftsman ship while the boys kept glaring daggers at Ms. Lie-la. “Ok now stand back everyone! We have to show you how it spins.” Marinette cocked and eyebrow at him. “How it spins? Excuse me sir but my pronouns are she/her.” He chuckled before pinching the black fabric of her skirt. “No I mean this, you did wear shorts today did you not?” “I did.” She confirmed. “Good,” he subtly winked at her before continuing, a little louder than necessary, “Wouldn’t want everyone else seeing what’s mine now would we.” Before she could register his words he held a hand above her head and gave her a little twirl, her skirt flowing beautifully in the wind. “See what’d I tell you? Absolutely beautiful.” He turned and smiled down at her, she blushed back up at him. Dieu, he could happily die drowning in her eyes. The two of them seemed to be in a world of their own, just looking at each other.

Until a voice snapped them back to reality. “I can’t believe you! You filthy cheater!” As well as a liar, Lila was a good actor. Tears streaming down her cheeks, arms straighten and hands curled into fists. He rolled his eyes before forcing them to look at a more revolting sight. “Like I said miss, I have no idea who-“ he paused “Oh wait I remember you! You were the liar that nearly got Marinette expelled weren’t you! The one who tried to intervene when Onii-chan was akumatized just because you disliked Ladybug.” He didn’t mean to get so angry but he couldn’t hide it anymore. His hand gripped Marinette’s shoulder a little more tightly than he would have liked but she wasn’t hurt by it. Everyone gasped on cue and turned to Lila who stood there pale. Karma is a bitch isn’t it? In his fury he barely registered Marinette’s hand on his arms. “Come on Chat, let’s get out of here.” She whispered. Coaxing him back to the present. “Yeah ok, I’m sure your friends will deal with her.” She smiled at her classmates who had turned towards Lila with furious looks on their faces. “Did you have a place in mind mousinette.” She giggled at that. “Well there’s always that spot you took me to the first time you came to visit, remember where it is?” She smiled. “I don’t think I would forget that.” He turned towards the crowd. “Welp, me and the princess will be taking our leave now, though I did enjoy seeing you all again.” Then he stooped down to pick her up bridal style as she giggled. For good measure he placed a light kiss to her temple before racing off towards that lovely spot they had just discussed.

“WHAT THE F***.” The fangirl screamed after all the confusion.

———————————

So it’s been a month or two since I first posted this and I decided to clean it up a bit and add a few more details to it. Not that this is suddenly going to blow up but I do like the impurrovement (hehe I have puns for days). So yes, if by some miracle you are reading this, I hope you enjoyed!

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #497

Top Ten PC Games No One Talks About Anymore

Blimey, Quake is rather good, isn’t it? Have you heard about it? I really hope so, because it’s only twenty-five years old. I mean, Jesus. What’s up with that? Quake is meant to be the future. It’s full of true-3D polygonal texture-mapping and real-time dynamic light-sourcing. Fancy it being a quarter of a century old. That’s ridiculous. “Old” is for things like, I dunno, Space Invaders or The Godfather or I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Stuff that our parents heard about before we were born. It’s not – it’s absolutely not – used to describe something that people bought 3D accelerator cards for. It’s not used to describe a game that popularised online gaming.

But old it is, getting silver anniversary cards and everything. No longer the angry, hungry young tiger, devouring its ancestors and growling at upstart rivals like Duke Nukem 3D – sure, you’ve got non-linear levels, interactive scenery, and toilet humour, but we’ve got grenades that bounce with real physics – Quake is now an aged beast of the forest, resplendent, battle-scarred, weary with gravitas. Quake is the game that shaped the now, but it does not represent the future anymore. In fact, arguably its greatest rival – Unreal – is the game with the lasting, living legacy, its progeny building the next generation of gaming with one of the most popular and impressive engines around, the framework underpinning everything from Gears to Jedi to Fortnite. Quake blew us all away, but arguably it ceded the conflict, secure in its status as one of the most important and influential games of all time. Quake II got plaudits for actually having a proper story and an engrossing single-player campaign (and coloured lighting!), and its immediate descendants such as Half-Life changed the nature of what FPS games could do, but in a funny way it feels like Quake has long since retired. A sleeping titan. It got old.

So it’s great that they rereleased it on modern systems! The version of Quake released last month is basically the game I remember, but tarted up a little around the edges, with texture filtering and dynamic shadows and other stuff that I couldn’t manage on my Pentium 75 back in the day. It plays great – it’s slick as anything, and you go tearing round the levels like a Ferrari with a nail gun, blasting dudes and ducking back around a corner before you get hit with a pineapple in the face. It’s the first game I’ve played in a long, long time that evokes the feel of classic PC first-person shooters of that era – which, y’know, kinda makes sense as it is a first-person shooter of that era. But that style of fast-paced run-and-gun, circle-strafing gameplay has gone out of fashion now, with FPS games usually favouring slow, methodical, tactical combat, or larger-scale open-world warfare usually involving vehicles. Whether it’s a straight-up no-frills blaster like Quake, or a game that takes you on more of a linear, narrative journey, like Quake II, or even just a multiplayer-focused arena shooter, like Quake III Arena, it does feel like a dying artform, like a style of gameplay that could do with a resurgence (and, to be fair, there are games on the horizon that look like they’re harking back to the era, so that’s cool).

But it’s not just first-person shooters like Quake that I feel have slipped from gaming’s shared consciousness. Maybe it’s my age (it’s definitely my age) but there seems to be quite a lot of games that were a big deal twenty or so years ago that are utterly forgotten now, whereas some – Doom, Duke Nukem, Command & Conquer, Age of Empires – are often namechecked or rebooted (even before the full-on 2016 reboot, Doom must have been one of the most re-released games of the last thirty years). But there are lots of others where sometimes I feel like I’m the only one that remembers it. And that’s where this list comes in: inspired by the excellent re-release of the Quake franchise, here are some other great PC games of that general era that I feel still need shouting about, even if I’m the only one doing the shouting. Maybe they don’t all need a full-on remaster or whatever, but it’d still be nice if they got a bit of modern gaming love.

No One Lives Forever (2000): coming at a time when most FPS games were still Doom-style blasters with little in the way of real plot, NOLF was different: stylish and funny, genuinely well-written (as in the dialogue), with interesting objective-based missions and a cool female protagonist. It skirted similar ground to Bond and the then-white-hot Austin Powers franchise. Two games were made and then, as far as I’m aware, it evaporated into a mess of tangled rights, hence no sequels or remakes. A shame, because it was great.

MDK (1997): the next game from the people who made the multimedia phenomenon that was Earthworm Jim, MDK was a really cool slice of sci-fi style, all sleek level design and intriguing features. It had a supremely bonkers plot which bled through into a game with a sense of humour, but mostly it was the run-and-gun gameplay and innovative use of a scoped weapon – possibly (don’t quote me on this) the first sniper rifle in a videogame. An even wackier sequel followed, but despite its cult status, that was it.

Star Trek: The Next Generation – Klingon Honor Guard (1998): it’s probably fair to say that Star Trek has not had as many great videogames as Star Wars, perhaps because Trek’s historically straightlaced earnestness just didn’t translate as well as bashing someone up the chops with a laser sword. Honor Guard shook things up by casting you as a Klingon, showering levels with pink blood and going Full Worf. It was the first game to licence the Unreal engine, and had a cool level where you walked along the outside of a ship like in First Contact. Also: shout out to the Voyager game, Elite Force (2000), which was another really good FPS set in the world of Trek, with intriguing gameplay wrinkles as you fought the Borg. It also let you wander round the titular starship between levels. Trek deserves more quality action games like these.

Earth 2150 (2000): the nineties on PC really saw RTS games come down to those who liked Command & Conquer or those who liked Warcraft, but as the decade drew to a close other titles chased the wargame crown (including Total Annihilation, which would have made this list, except I feel like the Supreme Commander franchise is a sequel in all but name). 2150 was notable for its Starcraft-like mix of three factions with contrasting play styles, and its use of 3D graphics and the ability to design and build weapons of war that could lay waste to armies and bases with spectacular results. I think the genre has ossified into something more hardcore, and this was probably an inflex point where idiots like me could still get a handle on things.

Midtown Madness (1999): Microsoft has a history of building up great racing franchises and then abandoning them, but their “Madness” line of games in the late nineties/early noughties was terrific and much-missed. Back when tooling round actual 3D cities was still new and exciting, this was a no-holds-barred arcade racer, with some gorgeous shiny chrome effects on the cars, and very nippy handling. It was great fun smashing up VW Beetles and the like. It was surpassed, I guess, by Project Gotham on the Xbox, and sadly the whole franchise was then forgotten, despite the ascendent Forza franchise mostly shunning city driving.

Commandos: Behind Enemy Lines (1998): part tactical war game, part puzzler, Commandos was famous for its gorgeously intricate graphics and its difficulty – I mean, it was way too hard for me. But its beautiful top-down design and its slow, methodical gameplay was compelling, as you evaded Nazis and solved missions with a team of unique units with special skills. Sequels followed, and western spin-off Desperados, but there’s not been a true follow-up for quite some time, despite promises; and few games have echoed its style or look.

The Pandora Directive (1996): okay, so really this is just a placeholder for an entire subgenre of game that appears to have been forgotten: interactive movies. I know, there are flirtations with this from time to time; and many of these games featured obtuse puzzles and relatively little gameplay strung between FMV scenes. Pandora was great though; a first-person 3D game with loads of old-school adventure aspects, as well as FMV, it was a noir-tinged detective story but set in the future. The Tex Murphy series (of which this was the fourth instalment) has had sequels – the most recent one was sadly cancelled only this year – but many other games of a similar ilk, such as Phantasmagoria and even Wing Commander – have fallen by the wayside. With in-engine graphics now allowing the fluidity and expression of cinematic renders of old, shooting movie inserts doesn’t seem like it’s worthwhile; but I still always loved a point-and-click game that featured digitised actors milling about. Toonstruck, anyone?

Marathon (1994): before Halo there was… Marathon! Back when I used to lug my Pentium round my mate’s house so we could play different games on different machines side-by-side, he’d bang on about this Mac-first series of games, like Doom but better, with an intricate plot and complex levels. And y’know what? He was actually onto something. There’s a style and an earnestness to the Marathon franchise, along with many concepts that would be refined in Halo years later. With Bungie now seemingly committed to Destiny, and Halo in Microsoft’s hands, I’m not sure what could possibly become of this, their forgotten FPS forebear, especially as it shares so much DNA with its offspring.  

Outlaws (1997): LucasArts are famous for two things, really: their Star Wars games and their adventures. But they made loads of other stuff too – including this intriguing Western shoot-em-up. Back when Western games were rarer than Western movies (which were rare at the time), this quirky and difficult cowboy-em-up saw you rounding up outlaws in typical oater locations such as saloons, trains, and mines. It had great music and a really intriguing set of weapons, including (don’t quote me on this) the first sniper rifle in a game. Sadly Outlaws’ success could be described as “cult” and it never got a proper sequel. and, weirdly, despite the success of Red Dead Redemption, we’ve never had a bit Western-themed FPS again. Which is really odd.

Soldier of Fortune (2000): I pondered whether to include this one, as if I’m honest I’m not sure I want this licence brought back. But I can’t deny the game was a huge deal and has seemingly been forgotten. A relatively gritty and realistic combat game with a huge variety of excellent real-world weaponry, its big hook was its incredibly detailed damage modelling, that could see you blowing limbs off enemies, or splitting open heads, or disembowelling them. Whilst its OTT violence made headlines, the granularity of its systems meant you could be more tactical, shooting weapons out of hands. But really its biggest controversy should be its association with a big old gun magazine.

There are many, many other games that nearly made the list - I almost had a Top Ten of just FPS games, for instance. Little Big Adventure was here, till a sequel was announced the other day. Hexen and Heretic I think still have a place in FPS history. Toonstruck, although without a sequel, was only really a cult hit at the time, and I feel the people who’d love it already know about it. I do tend to overthink these things, y’know.

So maybe not all of these could make a comeback, but all the same I don’t think they should be forgotten, and it does make we wonder what games will fall by the wayside twenty or more years from now. That game about the big green space marine dude in a mask – what was that called again…?

[mikauzoran]

Adrienette Drabble Twenty-One: Price

Nino’s ears were a little sore where he’d gotten his cartilage pierced earlier that day. He’d been wanting to do it for a while, and the events of the previous week had given him more than enough reason to finally put a set of holes in his ears.

He sighed as he gripped Marinette’s earrings tightly in his palm for a third time that week, on the lookout for black butterflies as Marinette lay curled up on the couch beside him, trembling and choking on sobs, her head resting on Nino’s thigh.

When Nino’s phone rang for the second time in five minutes, he sighed and pulled it out, expecting his mother or Alya.

He had two missed calls and one text from Adrien.

Internally, Nino cursed.

Adrien’s text seemed innocuous enough…but then why the second call?

“Sorry,” Nino muttered to Marinette. “It’s Alya. Let me just text her to tell her I’m busy. Hopefully it’s not important.”

Marinette made a little noise of acknowledgement through her hiccups.

Nino texted Adrien back, asking if he needed anything. Nino prayed that he didn’t because Nino could NOT deal with both of them at the same time.

Fortunately, Adrien did not seem to be in crisis. Unfortunately, Adrien was the best actor that Nino had ever seen, and text was not a good medium through which to determine emotional state.

Nino posted a mental sticky-note on the fridge in his mind palace reminding him to call Adrien back as soon as Marinette was stable.

It was several minutes later that Marinette began to sniffle as she rode out the worst of her meltdown.

“Starting to feel better?” Nino inquired softly.

Marinette nodded, rubbing away the remnants of tears.

“Do you think you’re okay to take your earrings back?” he wondered.

Marinette shook her head. Her voice trembled as she confessed, “I don’t really want to deal with her right now. Keep her a little longer for me? Please?”

Nino nodded, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “You two still not talking?”

Marinette closed her eyes and sighed. “Not a lot. She’s unapologetic, and I’m mad at her. I mean, I get that she’s thousands of years old and that my one, measly human love life isn’t much in the grand scheme of things. I get that she’s looking at the bigger picture and trying to do what’s best for all of humanity…but would it really have killed her three years ago to say, ‘You know, Marinette, you really need to cool your jets with Adrien and maybe think about giving Chat Noir a chance. Wink. Wink.’? Would it really have been the end of the world if she had taken me aside after I talked with you about dating Chat Noir and told me why I couldn’t date Chat Noir? Did she have to let things get so screwed up? Did she have to let me emotionally torture Adrien for four and a half years?”

Nino didn’t respond, letting Marinette vent without passing judgment one way or the other.

Marinette groaned, rolling over onto her back. “I know I’m being unfair. I know I’m just passing the buck and not taking responsibility for my own actions, but…maybe things would have ended better if I’d had a little better guidance…or maybe not. Maybe I would have screwed things up on my own just as bad…. I just…I suck.”

Nino pulled out Marinette’s ponytail holder and began running his fingers through her hair. “No, you don’t.”

“I feel like I suck,” Marinette muttered. “This whole time…” She choked on an unexpected sob and burst back into tears.

Nino kept petting her hair soothingly.

She got ahold of herself once more a minute or two later and coughed, “S-Sorry. Nino, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you have to do this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you being there for me lately. I swear I’m going to find some way to make this up to you.”

“Hey, no,” he insisted. “Shh. Like, don’t even. It’s…” He shook his head as he stared resolutely down at her. “Cupcakes, you have been there for Paris unfailingly for almost five years now. You’ve earned the right to ask someone to step up for you, and I am honored that you trust me to have your back. Am I exhausted and mega stressed? Yes. Of course I am, but let me assure you that there is nowhere I would rather be right now than sitting on this sofa having your back. Okay?”

She grinned up at him broadly, wiping away her tears once more. “You rock, Nino. You know that? I’m making you an MVP ribbon or something because you seriously rock.”

“I could live with that,” Nino chuckled until a thought hit him. “…Though…we probably shouldn’t let the cat see it. He might get his feelings hurt.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Nino winced at his mistake.

Marinette curled back up on her side, and Nino could feel fresh tears seeping into his jeans.

“Sorry,” Nino whispered.

“It’s okay. You’re right.” Her voice was shaking and barely audible.

“Wanna talk about something else for a bit?” Nino suggested. “How was your day? …Or is that a bad question to ask? I mean…I guess something upset you or pushed you over the edge, and that’s why I’m here, right? Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Today was…I don’t know. I was at work most of the day.”

“How’s that going?” Nino prompted.

“I don’t know,” Marinette chuckled bitterly. “There are times when I think I’m doing a really good job and times when I’m worried that I’m making a mess of everything…. I think Gabriel Agreste is punishing me for what I did to Adrien. He gave the other interns one or two tasks apiece today ranging from simple to moderately difficult, but he gave me four really involved assignments…but then…when we all checked in at the end of the day, I reported to him and he smiled. He smiled and told me what a good job I’d done…like he was happy that I had succeeded or something. Like I keep saying, I don’t know. I was super stressed today, and then Adrien showed up at the shoot, and—”

“—What?!” Nino choked. “What the hell was he doing there?”

Marinette shrugged. “Apparently, Adrien and Elise are friends now, and they were meeting up for coffee after the shoot…only Elise told him the wrong time, so he ended up there early, and she dragged him over to say hi to me, not knowing that we’re currently on the outs.”

Nino swore under his breath. “What happened?”

“Nothing, actually,” Marinette responded with a touch of residual surprise. “She dragged him over, and we said hi to each other, and…he did mention that his father was impressed by my work, so that was nice, but…” She rolled over onto her back once more and threw an arm over her face. “He asked me if I wanted to get Chinese and watch anime tonight.”

“And you told him no and he looked crushed and you felt like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” Nino surmised, taking off his hat to tug at his close-cropped hair. He cursed softly.

“Mm,” Marinette confirmed. “And when I said no, he asked if maybe next week we could hang out…. I can’t freaking hang out with him right now, Nino,” she growled in frustration. “I’m in no shape to spend time with him because you know what I’m going to do the minute I’m alone with him? I’m going to kiss him. I’m going to rip his clothes off and have sex with him because the guy I’ve been crazy about for years now is madly in love with me, and I want him. I want him, but I can’t have him because we’re both freaking wrecks, and I have to be the mature one in this relationship because—through no fault of his own—he can’t.”

She smacked her hand down against the sofa with another growl.

“God, the look on his face today, Nino. He’s desperate. Chat has always been desperate, but at least before he had a little more self-respect. He’d get upset or mad at me. Nowadays, Adrien is just so…it’s like I can do no wrong. And that’s scary. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been hurting him senselessly for years; all that is forgiven, and that’s not right, Nino. He can’t just let me get away with it. This isn’t…healthy. This isn’t what a healthy relationship looks like, and I don’t want…I don’t want us to hurt one another, so…I can’t say yes before we’re both ready and have it blow up in our faces and then not even be able to be friends afterwards. So I can’t be with him right now…. I can’t be around him…right?”

She lowered her arm and gazed up searchingly at her friend, as if asking for permission to give in and be with Adrien anyway.

Nino looked at her pityingly. “Yeah. I honestly think you two are bad for each other right now. If he’s making you feel this unstable, you need a break. I can say for certain that you are toxic to him at the moment, so it’s probably a good idea to leave him alone and let him heal.”

Marinette studied Nino for a minute before closing her eyes with a sigh. “I miss him.”

“I know,” Nino muttered.

“I miss him so much,” Marinette laughed. “We’re supposed to be cuddling and finishing up Ouran High School Host Club right now. I’m supposed to be with him.”

She lowered her arm just enough to peek up at Nino. “Can I change my mind? Can I say I’m sorry and take it all back and tell him I want to be together?”

“No,” Nino snapped with all the severity of a wolf protecting her cubs. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you leave him the eff alone. Don’t you dare keep jerking him around. You’ve made your decision, and now you’re stuck with it, okay? No waffling. Now, I love you, Cupcakes, and I’m not mad at you. I’m not blaming you, but the truth is that you’ve wrecked him—whether you meant to do that or not. He is a wreck, and he needs you to stay the heck away from him while he picks himself back up, okay?”

She slipped her arm back up over her eyes and nodded soundlessly.

“What he needs is to learn to be okay without you—without anyone. What he doesn’t need is you to come back in and coddle him so that he thinks it’s okay to stop working on his mental health since he got what he wanted. The last thing we need is him using you as a crutch instead of actually getting emotionally healthy. We’re done with that, so you stay on your side of the line and work on coming to terms with all the Chat-Adrien-Marinette-Ladybug stuff, and I’ll try to keep him on his side of the line so he can work on…” Nino blew out a slow stream of air. “…all his crap.”

“…I wish I could be there for him,” Marinette muttered. “Some partner I am.”

“You are there for him,” Nino insisted. “From a distance because that’s where you have to be right now, just one week after the apocalypse, for your own mental health—which, may I remind you, is not that great. He knows you care about him, Marinette.”

“Does he? I told him I was disappointed that he was Chat.” Marinette winced. “He’s probably got ‘I can’t love you’ drilled into his head just like I have ‘She’s just a friend’ stuck in mine. We’re both real pieces of work.”

Nino gave Marinette’s hair a tussle. “Stop thinking about it. Time to think happy thoughts.”

Marinette snorted. “…Wanna watch Code Lyoko?”

“Sure thing, ma pote,” Nino chuckled.

“…And can we maybe order Chinese?” she asked in a small, embarrassed voice.

Nino decided to be indulgent. “Yeah. We can do that.”

“And can you order shrimp lo mein and let me pick the shrimp out in exchange for my bamboo shoots?” Marinette pressed her luck.

Nino raised an eyebrow. “You two are weird. Why…?” Nino cut himself off, pursing his lips.

Marinette shrugged. “Well, you know how Adrien doesn’t really care for meat or seafood or poultry much? He actually doesn’t mind shrimp, but he only eats, like, half the shrimp they give him, so I pick out the other half. I don’t dislike bamboo shoots, but I don’t really like them that much either. Adrien really likes them, though, so…it just kind of works out.” She smiled sheepishly.

Nino nodded.

“And for fortune cookies, I get the cookie; he gets the fortune. He has a collection,” Marinette chuckled, a real smile finally coming to her face.

Nino smiled softly. His heart really went out to his friends.

“Don’t worry,” he wanted to assure them. “We’ll get you two back together soon.”

[jeonsolar]

Miraculous Ladybug 2x16 Troublemaker *Commentary*

I’ve done this five? times. And some people like it. But I’m doing this simply because I find myself funny. And I need to empty my brain. So, I hope you guys enjoy my brain dump.

Ok. To start off, Thanks so much to @wild-mare-of-prosecution for giving me a link to this episode. Second, The Incredibles was awesome. 😊

Disney in Spanish? FB page is Russian? Episode in English? Wow, so multicultural.

21 minutes and two of those will be intro and credits? Sigh.

Who’s the villain again? Cuz this white dude seems like every villain in every movie ever.

Why is the mayor supervising the hotel? See? This is why the city is crumbling!

I don’t pity her because she signed up for that job. EVERYONE knows that’s how shity it is.

How French with all the kissing and lack of personal space.

Yo. Those posters make Jagged look more Jagged. That black shirt thing makes him look hot. Stop it with the 80’s clothes. Go simple and awesome.

I wish I had subtitles.

This show is about finding wives, right?

Fill my shoes?! What? That’s an entirely different show, and a bad name.

Only because he likes his adopted niece, Marinette. Also, those lace gloves are. . .  (doesn’t want to say but can’t help it) delicately feminine.

I agree Sabine. I agree.

Every homemade show like this that has real like people, they always look and sound completely out of their element. That’s how you know they’re not actors. Also, Marinette, stop being such a fangirl.

She uses the same stress reliever I do. It’s pretty annoying during exams. It annoys even me. But it also calms me down.

When. . . when did he make … the guitar? And … how? He . . . sucks … at … baking….

There’s signal.

Also, I know Asian people can be smaller than average, but this is a joke.

Holy FUCK! I thought they were going to put on Careless Whisper for a second there!!!!

Sabine knows, Penny does the same shit as Marinette.

Who is Adrien excited to see? Jagged, or the croissants?

MARINETTE? NOOO. No way. Adrien -Just a friend- Agreste, did not just say that…

*sings* Juuuustt aaaa . . . . friiiiiieeeeeeennnnddddd!

TOM HAS GREEN EYES? Girls really do go for their fathers.

I paused, and fucking shit, that hair on Tom looks so real -the beard-.

Marinette’s clumsiness deserves an award. That was impressive. Minimal effort too. 9/10

Upstairs and vague? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

… What’s with her screen saver? Did she have her computer recording Adrien while they were playing video games? That background is her room. I know someone else said it, but these are badly recycled screencaps. That could have at least made plain backdrops and they would have been believable.

If Marinette spent as much time finding where HawkMoth is as she does with collecting Adrien, Paris would be safe.

Play “Spot Random Pictures of Nino”, is fun. Which brings the question, they made random pics of Nino and they couldn’t do that with Adrien?

Adrien is dabbing in one of them.

After a throughout analysis of the pictures in Mari’s room I’m making the theory that Snapchat exists in their world and Mari just screenshots and prints Adrien’s feed.

Penny is so uncomfortable …. So am I. I don’t want to press play.

Plagg, you little shit.

Wait, how big is that house?

HOW BIG IS THAT HOUSE, THAT THEY HAVE TO REUSE THE STAIR ANIMATION?

ANOTHER FLOOR?

It would have been hilarious if Jagged had been dressed in the dress he’s holding. “Here I am modeling a Marinette original. Am I better than this model boy? I am a better model, aren’t I?”

R E S P E C T. ‘You heard the lady.” Well done Penny.

At least no one made a comment about her period. Also, is completely fair and about time she fucking put them in their place.

HOW DOES GABRIEL RUN A COMPANY IF HE SPENDS MOST OF HIS TIME WAITING IN THAT ROOM FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN, SO HE CAN DRAMATICALLY OPEN HIS WINDOW AND BE BAD?

Anime background again. Attack on titan?

I hate to admit, but I would have had the same panic attack. Social media is a bitch.

From that angle her hairstyle looked completely different and Mari looked more Asian.

What a strange lighting, it changes her eye color drastically.

“Plus, its too late already. The show’s live.” *marinette panics and looks at the camera* SOMEONE MAKE A GIF OF THAT AND SEND IT TO ME, ASAP! THIS WILL BE ALL I TEXT FROM NOW ON.

Sabine is a tiger mom and I L O V E IT! Also, Tom appears to be slightly intimidated by the tiny tiger mom.

Sabine is the best mom in the world. Tiger mom, kung fu mom. Caring mom. What else? Ultimately the most B A D A S S MOM IN THE WORLD.

Does… all of Paris have that same security system from Gabriel’s mansion? If so, why was Gabriel so confused by Chat knowing that that mansion had a security system?

What are you talking about? It’s perfect. You are already at the scene of the crime.

Adrien… that was lame.

What if Plagg only likes croissants because it reminds him of Tikki cuz she lives there… I’ll leave that one there for you guys.

Chat… You’re lucky you’re cute.

NO WAY HE LANDED LIKE THAT.

Sometimes I forget he does call her Bugaboo, and that’s not a head cannon.

No. I love Bugabo-

…. What if that was Astruc asking the fans to stop calling her Bugaboo?

Huh? My cat senses are tingling!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Why is Ladybug offering Chat Noir a tour of Marinette’s room? Why is Ladybug so uncomfortable of anyone seeing the pictures? Shouldn’t that arouse Adrien’s suspicion?

When teens hide pictures under their bed is because they do a solo bow-chick-a-bow-wow with them. Marinette has hit puberty. I don’t judge.

*Double checks Mari’s ‘porn’ stash* Adrien boxes?

JESUS CHRIST! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PICTURES? AND WHY ARE THEY HIDDEN?

Nope. Concussion.

No way she’s that fast. Is ladybug frozen?

*Careless whispers plays in the background as LB and CN hold hands*Fun fact, I actually sang it as it was happening. I don’t kid when I say these are things I say outloud as I watch them.

This is a cool shot. I like it. The focus thing? I like it.

How does he dream it? Does Adrien also write fanfiction about how it will happen? Is Adrien hidden amongst our fanfiction writers?

Are you kitten me, Chat? You are gonna judge her?

Hahahaha, Like a gun. That’s funny.

What detective movies do they watch?

So they glued her to Ladybug…. And they earrings too? Does that mean Marinette can never take them off now? Wouldn’t it be smart to also do that to Chat?

Penny: “What… what happened? Where’s Jagged?”

Ladybug: “What happened? You fucked up my room, my life, and almost my secret identity! That’s what happened?”

Chat and Penny: O.O

Ladybug: “…. I mean…. You’re always so helpful…~”

How… she… she’s gotta stay. A…. and he gotta go….

Chat: “You’re the girl of my dreams.”

Ladybug: . . . . fuck off *pushes him off the balcony*

Smooth LB, smooth.

He’s British right?

Now that! That sounds like real Paris. I like that background sound.

NILYA!

…. This . . .. this looks a lot like that little joke I wrote a few months back…..

Also, Adrien, your sneaky chat is showing.

Adrien looked mad at Mari interrupting him. Adrien, your chat is showing.

Ok. The animation of their eyebrows was soooo exaggerated that they looked angry when they are supposed to be like …. Concentrated, or confused. Make those eyebrows smaller.

THIS IS INTENSE! ADRIEN IS GETTING SMART . . . AND SASSY!!

JUST A FRIEND MY ASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHA 8D I AM SO NOT PANICKING AT ALL!!! HAHAHAHAH -Marinette

Adrien your douche is showing.

Also, Adrien, shut up Chat noir. Adrien doesn’t know she hides them under her bed and sofa.

J U S T    A    F R I E N D

Mari’s boobs got bigger. Yes. I did notice. And if there is continuation to that I’ll accept it. She is in puberty.

Isn’t… isn’t that a parallel to another scene? It feels similar to the umbrella scene. The angles.

Tikki did us a favor of reminding us that Marinette is getting better at talking to Adrien. Thanks Tikki.

I just now realized the page I’m in is not facebook. But it looks like it.

----

I.... really like this episode. Ok , so here’s the deal. My brother got a microphone. If you guys want I can record these. Truth is, a lot of my commentary gets lost because of typing. I’m fast, but not THAT fast. I could try and do it like cinema sins.  And it could help bring back the timestamps. Your call. :)

 Thanks for reading.

[justinmoviereviews]

The Class of 2019

As always, just trying to catalog what I saw this year. Let’s do this shit.

1917 - Sam Mendes

I’ve never seen a war movie like this. I’ve never seen something that was so empty, so decayed and lifeless. Usually these things are about honor or brotherhood or whatever. This one was a horror movie. Gothic. Disturbing. And credit Dunkirk for helping everyone else realize that war movies should be told in the present tense.

Uncut Gems - Bennie and Josh Safdie

Good Time was better because it’s rawness was more painful. Because it’s kineticism was more sociological. Because it physically hurt to watch it. And because Robert Pattinson is a better actor than Adam Sandler (my sincere apologies). But these guys have figured out to a science how to film desperation and visceral consumption and need; they chronicle the ugliest parts of the mind and shoot them in the ugliest parts of New York. 

Little Women - Greta Gerwig

Oh no, I’ve lost interest in writing these. Greta Gerwig is sharper than the average writer, and is going to get a lot of mileage writing interesting female characters, which will keep me occupied way longer than, for instance, JJ Abrams writing Strong Female characters so he gets to keep his third house. But look for this refrain whenever I see good movies that aren’t really made for me, my favorite character here was Timothee Chalamet, popping up sporadically to mack (suavely!) on all three sisters.

Bombshell - Jay Roach

Structurally it’s a little bit of a mess, but Megyn Kelly playing detective to an internal corporate scandal works surprisingly well.

The Two Popes - Fernando Meirelles

Some nitpicks: this movie engages with the child abuse a little bit, but it doesn’t offer any resolution--how could it? The scandal is ongoing, and has mired the legacy of Francis, the good Pope, just like it mired his predecessor’s, the bad one. And some of the dialogue is a little trite; was Benedict this much of a close-minded conservative? Was he really this bad at selling his own vision of the church? I also wonder if movies seem smaller now that we’re watching them all on our TVs. But mostly I thought this was fantastic. I love movies about ideas centered around conversation, and this one does it with so much humanism. The Pope as a role is one of the most complex, elite and fascinating people on the planet. This movie comes so much closer to showing that than I thought it would.

Marriage Story - Noah Baumbach

A cursory search of images from this movie for this post makes me realize how well it’s shot--maybe this really was meant to be his Scenes From a Marriage. It isn’t--he’s not a good enough director to ever be Bergman, he’s too burdened by the things he likes and thinks about, like hipster references and witty repartee--but this is the best movie of his I’ve ever seen. Funny, sharp, and if it isn’t a universal depiction of the disillusion of love, it’s empathetic and compassionate about two characters he likes and cares about. Adam Driver is the best actor working right now. Scarlett Johansson can’t quite keep up, but who could?

Ford v Ferrari - James Mangold

Fast cars and the manly men who build them. This could have been better--the writing is a little too beholden to a generic structure that’s beneath the A+ power of Matt Damon and Christian Bale, who are, straight up, two of our finest actors. Ideally this flick just lets these two dudes dick around for 150 minutes. But fuck man, this shit rocks.

The irishman - Martin Scorsese

This is the calm gangster movie made by a bunch of men who haven’t had to hustle in 30 years. Scorsese is a smart guy, so he probably knows that a de-aged Robert De Niro isn’t going to be as resonant as some young hotshot trying like hell to make a name for himself. It makes the movie weirdly low-stakes, and it only truly comes alive at the end, when De Niro is looking back on his life and facing his regrets, like a man in his 80s ought to be. But look, Scorsese is one of the best to ever do it, and gangster movies are where he lives. If this is mostly a retrospective on four of the best careers to ever track through Hollywood, and I sort of think it is, it’s still got ten scenes that will stand up against any of our man’s best.

The Laundromat - Steven Soderbergh

Steven Soderbergh does The Big Short. Turns out he’s also pretty good at it.

The Lighthouse - Robert Eggers

Robert Eggers is a formalist who understands that movies can be about whatever they want as long as they look good and sound good. This is a movie about, I think, madness. Just madness, just the idea of being isolated and going mad. If you’re wondering, like I was, if that’s enough of a theme to hang a whole movie on (I mean, these things are expensive), well, I think the point of this one is that it’s weird as fuck, it looks real good and it sounds real good. 

Parasite - Bong Joon Ho

This movie is at it’s best when it’s at it’s weirdest. I like Bong most when he’s using a heightened absurdity to point out the ways in which our political systems are unforgivable. 

Motherless Brooklyn - Edward Norton

I know it was in the book, but the Tourette’s syndrome of the main character seems to me like a postmodern tic, like making a straight noir in 2019 wasn’t enough for a studio that assumed audiences would need some kind of a 21st Century bent. I don’t think it adds much to the story, so I want it out there that this is just such a good fucking straight noir. I would personally finance it if they made like three of these a year. 

High Flying Bird - Steven Soderbergh

Soderbergh is gonna need to get over his love affair with the iPhone camera--someone needs to remind him that movies can look a lot better than this--but this is the kind of movie that could have been and maybe started as a play. Things happen off camera and all you see is characters talking about them after the fact. But the writing is phenomenal. Snappy and smart. Maybe my favorite script of the year.

Joker - Todd Phillips

Upon further review, I think this movie never should have been made, but I do like it. I’m not a purist, frankly I think comic book movies are for nerds, but what makes the Joker powerful is that he doesn’t have a backstory. This movie isn’t good enough to justify giving him one, but it’s so ambiguous and strange that it doesn’t ruin anything either. I spent a lot of time wondering if the events of the movie actually happened, or if they were all in the protagonist’s head. I guess the answer is that it doesn’t really matter: if it all did happen it would destroy the throughline of the Nolan movies, and if it all didn’t it would make the movie kind of lame. Ultimately it’s a story about a discarded man who learns that evil gives him a control he never had before. That’s a heavy topic to make a movie about, and a better movie would have been heavier. But  it’s still an interesting watch, and Joaquin Phoenix goes to the places the movie itself won’t.

Ad Astra - James Gray

I have nothing against pretentious movies. Some of my best friends are pretentious movies! But if you’re going to be as solemn and portentous as this one is, I think your thesis needs to be a little more insightful than that love is important. This movie looks fantastic. It’s got killer monkeys in it, and an Apocalypse Now meets 2001 pedigree. It should have been a lot better.

It Chapter Two - Andy Muschietti

Ugh, this one was not good. The writing is pretty bad, storylines open up and fizzle out without going anywhere, the structure is simple to the point of being lazy. The first one was so good, and this is just a crappy cash-in. Oh well. 

Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood - Quentin Tarantino

Look, Tarantino is probably my favorite director. Pulp Fiction is the movie that first taught me to love movies, and he’s never in his life made an artistic choice that I didn’t intuitively understand. I don’t think anyone else has justified their otherworldly self-confidence more than he has. If other directors are more artistically or technically accomplished, I’d struggle to find anyone who better put the thoughts and images in their brain onto celluloid better than him. If this had been made by some new hotshot named Chris Anderson or something, I’m buying a poster of it and telling everyone who will listen about the breakout auteur of the decade. But for the first time in my entire life, I wondered what Tarantino’s point was. Why did he make this movie? The highlight, for me, is Leonardo DiCaprio, who since Django Unchained has apparently realized that he’s at his best when he’s hamming it up and having a blast.

Midsommar - Ari Aster

Two movies in, Ari Aster has mastered tone. My man is in control of his movie from frame one, and the result is that his stuff feels smart. This one wasn’t as wild or unexpected as Hereditary--in fact the most surprising thing about it is that it really isn’t surprising at all; it’s about a sinister cult in northern Sweden, and it hits all the beats that tagline would suggest. But that’s not the same as saying it’s predictable--he still has a gift for ultraviolence, and he hovers in a space that forces you to prepare yourself for anything. My only complaint is that I wish it had been more of a mindfuck. It’s ultimately a simpler movie than you might hope for. But this guy isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be on the prestige list for as long as he wants.

The Perfection - Richard Shepard

If Allison Williams is going to make a career out of deconstructing overachieving white girls, I don’t want it to get lost that she is also insanely hot. Like, just so hot. Anyway, this is one hell of a grindhouse flick, all the way down to being a little less pleasant than you’d expect or even really want. Watch it on a Saturday afternoon and feel a little queasy afterwards.

Avengers: Endgame - Anthony and Joe Russo 

Look, I don’t know what to say to you if you take these movies seriously. You probably wouldn’t like my blog anyway. I thought this was a really good ride. If you have problems with the plot holes or the character inconsistencies, I might recommend catching something other than the final installments of global franchises that are obligated to gross two billion dollars.

Us - Jordan Peele

If Jordan Peele were a quarterback he’d be Deshaun Watson--a top level talent who’s going to be relevant for at least the next ten years. Get Out was a statement, a cheap little movie from one half of a decent sketch comedy show that blew the doors off the tavern and walked in so much smarter and better than anyone was prepared for. But right now, sitting on my couch, Us is the movie I want to watch. It was never going to be as surprising as Get Out because this time out our expectations were so much higher. But this is the kind of movie I ultimately want him to make his fortune with--funny, scary, worth talking about afterwards. A horror movie from a guy with interesting ideas who’s been given the keys to do whatever he wants.

Glass - M. Night Shyamalan

I caught this bad boy in January. At the time I figured there was no way I’d remember anything about it by the end of the year. I don’t. 

[nitrateglow]

Movies watched in 2017 (35-45)

My 2017 movie journey continues! On this installment, I come across some foreign silent gems, mediocre superhero movies that make my sister angry, and the colorful madness of a certain Baz Luhrmann.

The Informer (dir. John Ford, 1935)

May just be my second favorite John Ford film after Young Mr. Lincoln. The Informer is a sound picture, but its storytelling and heavy, thorough use of incidental music make it very much like a silent movie. The use of music is a great example of what is now derisively referred to as “Mickey Mousing,” yet it never feels corny or silly because the music underscores the action and emotions of every scene so well.

While the plot is simple (former IRA member betrays a fellow rebel for money), it explores sophisticated moral and political territory. The ending is deeply moving, even if the religious symbolism is laid on a little thick. Then again, the film is heavy with expressionism, so perhaps that is warranted. Such a shame this movie is so underrated. (10/10)

Macbeth (dir. Justin Kurzel, 2015)

Words alone cannot convey my disappointment. Stills and clips made this film look like it was going to be the most stunning version of the Scottish play to date, but alas, it’s a mostly uninspiring affair. Sure, the extreme long shots of the fog-ridden and rocky landscapes are breathtaking. Sure, those fight scenes look cool. But no one seems to have much passion here—all the actors mumble and murmur the lines, every scene feels like it was shot with the trailer in mind and not because the content suited such a style. (5/10)

The Haunting (dir. Robert Wise, 1963)

The original Haunting is both a horror movie and the tragedy of a lonely, trapped woman. Eleanor may or may not be experiencing the supernatural, but there is no doubt she brought many of her own personal demons to that haunted house with her, mainly her craving to belong and be loved. While I found the voice over a little awkward at times, it eventually grew on me. Julie Harris is brilliant in the lead, one of the best horror movie performances ever.

The Haunting reminded me a lot of another gothic 1960s horror, The Innocents. I preferred The Innocents, but both are great movies about lonely women and their ghosts (literal and/or metaphoric).

And no, I do not ever plan on watching that 1990s remake. EVER. (9/10)

Danton (dir. Andrezj Wajda, 1983)

This was a wonderful movie, which makes me embarrassed since I have very little to say about it. It’s about the extremism of the French Revolution and the ideological conflict between the idealistic Robespierre and the less extreme Danton, who feels he is partially responsible for the Reign of Terror and wants to make things right. Their discourse on the nature of revolution and holding to one’s ideals is riveting from beginning to end. Even though Wajda’s sympathies lie with Danton, the film avoids painting Robespierre as a villain, showing him as a man of high ideals that were not born of power lust or evil. Both men become tragic figures in the midst of a troubled age.

The historical atmosphere is great too. Not since Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon have I seen a movie capture the look and feel of the eighteenth century to the point where it feels as though I have actually stepped back in time and am not merely witnessing a recreation. (9/10)

Japanese Girls at the Harbor (dir. Hiroshi Shimizu, 1933)

One of the things the best silent films excelled at was packing the simplest of narratives with beauty and emotion. Japanese Girls at the Harbor is one such film. At little over an hour, it tells the story of a young woman who commits a crime of passion and falls into geisha-dom as a result. At first, the movie’s story resembles a Mizoguchi film like Osaka Elegy or Sisters of the Gion, where women are forced into compromising situations through poverty or the failings of the men in their lives, but as the notes on the Criterion release say, Shimizu is much more optimistic about the potential to overcome society’s prejudice and find some little piece of redemption once you put your mind to it. The ending has a muted sense of optimism; Shimizu makes no guarantees that everything will turn out okay, but he does have hope.

There are some striking cinematic flourishes, such as the progressive close-up which precedes and antecedes a violent act. It made me think of the scene where we see the monster for the first time in James Whale’s Frankenstein. (9/10)

Moulin Rouge! (dir. Baz Luhrmann, 2001)

Part of me finds Moulin Rouge! brilliant; part of me finds it stupid and totally understands the hate it gets—regardless, I really liked it and am itching to watch it again. I first heard about it when Doug Walker claimed it was one of the movies he found most annoying and overrated, and from his description of the fast edits and some of the annoying tropes used in the picture, I expected to dislike it too. Nope. I admire its audacity, its willingness to be nothing less than bat-shit insane and unashamedly naïve in its fairy tale love story. It’s pretty much a live-action cartoon, complete with freaky close-ups, wild gesticulations accompanied by Looney Tunes sound effects, and general campiness all around. The aesthetic is like George Melies meets the 1950s MGM musical meets the 1990s music video.

That said, it isn’t perfect and I did get annoyed once the stakes started rising. I think the part of the movie which does not work for me is the second half. It’s not that the tragic stuff couldn’t work alongside all the goofy scenes (just look at Bollywood movies, which were apparently an inspiration for this movie), but sometimes the characters act way too stupid in order to move the plot along. I understand this isn’t meant to be a psychological study of jealousy or romantic love, but some of the things they do in the latter part of the movie strain credibility, even for a film in which the leads fall in love after one song.

I also feel the film’s themes aren’t explored in a compelling manner—which would not be a problem if the film was content with being mere romantic escapism, but I don’t feel that was the case. The film seems like it wants to be more than an exercise in style or an escapist melodrama with its protestations of the importance of love and artistic fulfillment. Roger Ebert claimed the movie was about the way we deceive ourselves as to our true nature (ex. Satine acts like she’s a heartless gold-digger, but she’s truly a romantic who favors the heart over her wallet; the Duke tricks himself into believing Satine truly loves him; Christian views himself as the quintessential suffering artist), but I felt that was never really developed all the way through the movie. Also the themes of love and jealousy are given the shallowest treatment. You can tell that despite its insane style and embracing of old-fashioned romanticism, it does want to discuss these things on a higher level, one it just does not reach. When your bad guy is like a parody of an entitled aristocrat who says lines like “OOH, DARLING LOOK A FROG!!”, you cannot take this movie seriously as drama.

Nevertheless, I did think the movie was a stylistic delight; we’re still feeling its influence now. Out of the Luhrmann movies I’ve seen, this one is certainly his most memorable, even if not everything works. (8/10)

A Woman’s Face (dir. George Cukor, 1941)

How this is one of Joan Crawford’s least remembered roles, I’ll never know. While on the technical side this movie is not terribly interesting, it is an entertaining noir drama and a commentary on how a woman’s worth is often linked closely to her physical beauty. And then there’s Conrad Veidt—oh swoon, oh man, I love his sensual, selfish villain! His line, “the world belongs to the devil” just personifies the amoral philosophy of so many noir villains throughout the classic cycle. (7/10)

Teen Titans: The Judas Contract (dir. Sam Liu, 2017)

I watched this movie with my sister @zany-the-nerd, who is a big Deathstroke fan. If you too are a big Deathstroke fan, I can only tell you that the likelihood of your hating this movie is high, judging by my sister’s reaction to his new characterization. As someone with only secondhand knowledge of the comic this is adapted from, I would say this movie is okay on its own. The animation is good, the fight scenes are entertaining, Nightwing and Starfire are adorable. On the whole, I think it needed a runtime longer than 80 minutes. Tara’s relationships with both the other Titans and Deathstroke could have used more development to make the emotional conclusion more effective. (7/10)

David Copperfield (dir. George Cukor, 1935)

David Copperfield is one of Charles Dickens’ best-loved novels; in 1935, MGM adapted it into this wildly successful film version and populated it with tons of great character actors. One of the delights of this version is how much it resembles the original Victorian illustrations of the novel (even the opening titles are designed to evoke the original cover design of the novel’s first printing).

There are some expressionistic flourishes in the childhood segment, illustrating the innocent David’s clashes with the much harsher adult world and how lost he feels as a disadvantaged orphan within it, and these bits look forward to post-WWII Dickens adaptation such as David Lean’s Oliver Twist and Great Expectations, and the wonderful Brian Desmond Hurst version of A Christmas Carol, all of which had shadowy cinematography that bordered on noir aesthetics. Of course, the film is not wanting in humor, which often appears in the form of several great stars and character actors: WC Fields as an offbeat yet charming Mr. Micawber, Roland Young as a very icky Uriah Heap, Basil Rathbone as the sadistic Mr. Murdstone, Lionel Barrymore as Mr. Peggotty, good God the 1930s had such great performers for this kind of material! My favorite of the bunch has to be Edna May Oliver as Aunt Betsy—I cannot imagine anyone more perfect to play that eccentric, strong-willed woman.

One of the big shocks for me was Freddie Bartholomew as the child David. Child actors in classic-era talkies usually make me cringe, but I was surprised at how much I enjoyed Bartholomew’s performance. He comes off as sensitive and charming without being cloying, and when he was replaced by the blander Frank Lawton in the latter part of the film, I found myself missing him. About the only scenes where Lawton musters any charisma are the ones with David’s love interest Dora Spenlow (a character I found annoying in the book, but rather liked as played by Maureen O’Sullivan here—maybe I need to revisit the book and re-assess the character). There you’re able to see some of that sensitivity return, but otherwise, he just comes across as callow and passive.

To be honest, the book is much too long and complicated to cram into two hours and ten minutes—a three hour runtime would have served the filmmakers better (that or cutting more out, which they seemed unwilling to do). Apparently producer David O. Selznick wanted to make this book into two movies, which would have been an even better idea, allowing both halves of the story to breathe and develop. While David’s childhood in the first half of the movie is paced well, the second half with his adult counterpart feels more like a greatest hits reel, a quick summary. Agnes and Steerforth in particular are barely developed. As a result, the movie feels kind of rushed toward the end, leaving you less than satisfied. But no matter, this is still a charming, well-made movie, and a treat if you are a fan of Dickens in general. (8/10)

Twilight of a Woman’s Soul (dir. Yevgeni Bauer, 1913)

I was first turned onto 1910s filmmaker Yevgeni Bauer when I saw his 1917 picture Dying Swan last year (FYI, that movie is awesome and you should all watch it). Twilight of a Woman’s Soul is an earlier and slightly less sophisticated work, but by the end of its 48 minute running time, I was impressed nevertheless. It tells the story of a rich young woman named Vera whose life is altered after a vagabond rapes her. She murders him in self-defense afterward and runs off shaken and ill (an event which seems to have next to no effect on what happens next, but still satisfying). Time passes and though she is still affected by what happened, Vera does find romance. Engaged to an upright and tender nobleman, she wonders if she should tell him about her past trauma, only to learn that her allegedly loving spouse sees her as only damaged goods after that.

What ensues is not at all what one would expect from a 1910s melodrama and just in case you watch this film, I dare not spoil it for you too much, as I was incredibly surprised by how progressive it was in terms of gender politics and in terms of how it portrayed rape from the victim’s perspective. Needless to say, the woman is able to find healing and peace without the aid of a love interest to avenge her honor. Heck, she avenges her own honor and doesn’t have to pay for it morally or legally!

Like many films made before WWI, much of the story is depicted in a series of tableaux; a medium shot is the closest the camera ever comes to any human subject. Nevertheless, this is hardly a filmed stage play. For one thing, the static scenes are saved from dullness by lovely composition, each set decorated  and lit with a sensitive eye for detail. The editing is also adventurous for 1913. In an early scene, the filmmakers employ a slow-moving forward dolly shot to create a sense of depth in the space of the heroine’s boudoir. The film suddenly, almost violently, cuts away from the rape and the murder that follows it the split second before each event occurs. The acting is also very subdued, not at all the wild gesticulations 21st century audiences expect from a silent film of this vintage.

And that seems to be the running theme of this journal entry: this movie is not what people would expect from a 1913 picture. Progressive artistically and socially, it has me wanting to watch even more of Mr. Bauer. (8/10)

[tadasvinokurblog]

‘Box Man’

Tadas Vinokur

‘Box Man’

N.B. This play is without scenes or acts.

The spectators will find the curtain closed. After the play commences and the curtain is raised, spectators will see a bourgeois study - a room that contains a desk (directed at spectators), a carpet, couple of drawers and a clothing rack with a women’s dress hanging on it.  Most importantly, there is a box on the stage. The box is sufficiently big enough to comfortably fit a grown woman.

On the wall, across the stage, there is a poster which says in neon letters: ‘Georg is full of shit!’.

The male actor sits at his desk. He is very well dressed. His looks should be immaculate, polished to the degree of male queerness within film noir. The model for the male actor’s overall looks should be Johnny from the movie ‘Gilda’. One of male actor’s shoes is untied.

The female actor is in the box. There’s a door at the back of the box - which audience can’t see - that will ultimately allow Laura to escape.

Throughout the play, the male actor is supposed to be working; I.e., he reads a newspaper, he scribbles something, he contemplates, he listens. Georg’s overall demeanor/attitude is a little manic. He suffers from bipolar disorder. He is often agitated/anxious. Mood swings are a frequent occurrence with respect to Georg’s character.

Curtain is raised.

Georg is reading a newspaper. Couple of moments pass. He puts the newspaper aside. Looks at the Box.

Georg (apathetically) This feels Kafkaesque.

Laura You’re mad! This circumstance is surely Machiavellian.

Georg It feels like I’m in a box..

It’s a little damp in here and my shoes are undone.

(Pauses) Ennui..

I was reading the news today, it turns out capitalism is a fickle creature.

It used to be in favor of boxed welfare, now - apparently - capitalism is reproaching that issue. (Pauses) It’s not really an issue though - it’s just that it smells weird here.

Anyhow, I need to act, I need to resist..

Either that, or neoliberalism will put boxes in the hands of the few.

Disparity with respect to boxes is very obvious already.

They will try to deinstitutionalize my asylum. Next thing you know, they will put boxed men - like me - in prison.

I shall therefore read about civil disobedience.

Where should I start?

Henry Thorough?

Ghandi?

Rawls?

No, I know!

I should tie my shoelaces first - After all, I ought to be able to stand up to injustice.

Georg ties his shoelaces.  

Laura (casually) My day was good.

Georg Good, I want you to be happy.

What is this thing behind my back? It’s slimy and hard.

Finds a chalice behind his back.

Right!

It’s the chalice I used during yesterday’s Mass. I was coming back to Jerusalem.

Oh, you should have seen it!

(with admiration) It was GRAND! Pious crowds cheered! People exalted me! Jubilations commenced!

It’s amazing what awe-inspiring things can transpire in my box.

I also had this soggy piece of tofu. Where is it? I had some coconut milk and a piece of tofu, blood and body!

(Anxiously) Where is it?

Without it I shall not resist, Without it - I can’t resurrect.

(calmly) I’m stuck in my box, I have to admit.

People will not show up for the eucharist.

Laura How was your day?

Georg You know how it was. I’m baring the box. Don’t ask me that.

Laura (apathetically) Fine.

Silence

Georg (restlessly) Well, if you really want to know..

Logistics with this box is excruciating.

By the time I’m at work I’m already weak, disabled, wrecked.

(sighs) I become a misanthrope at work. I despise those philistines around me. Their paltry existence gets on my nerves. However, I act as Moliere’s Alceste did - I try to be courteous, affable.

(thinks) You know, Laura, at work there is this lady - her name is Celimene. She keeps bossing me around.

But I don’t mind it. I mean, such behaviour is only fitting.

I love Celimene, she’s a lady of good grit.

I hate the others, they’re too courteous - they’re cogs in the system.

(disgusted) They’re slaves.

Scum.

Vermin.

Celimene is a lady that tells me how it is.

Oh, by the way!

I love you Laura.

Laura I love you too.

Georg As far as my love is concerned - it’s no charade.

True, I’m with the box, but I can nonetheless appreciate love. I learned this from Diotima of Mantinea.

(Hyperbollicaly) In the mean of the wise and the ignorant I attain love. In the mean of the box and the open-space I solidify love. In the mean of depression and elation I redefine love again..

Laura (interrupts Georg)  Perhaps it’s a case of bipolar disorder?

Georg Be that as it may, mortal nature is seeking as far as possible to be everlasting and immortal. My love is in the mean of two opposites - mortal and immortal. I mediate those opposites, hence - I love you.

Laura I don’t understand. Sounds like a bunch of platitudes.  

Georg Of course it does. I’m baring the box.

Guilty as charged!

Strike me - if you will - with electro convulsive treatment.

It’s a damn box! Only soundbites can reach you!

It’s a verbal hypomania - I will use ‘pressure of speech’ and ‘flight of ideas’, I will be punning and I will make humorous associations between concepts.

But I can’t prove my love to you, can I?

I can’t make love to you..

I can only talk love to you..

Laura I guess you can’t. Georg I can’t what?

Laura You can’t love me.

Georg (shouts) No! You wicked Celimene!

(calmly) My apologies, I didn’t mean to be scathing.

Listen, Plato said philosophy is love. And that’s absolutely crucial!

Like Diogenes, I sit here baring the box.

All I have is my sun. Well, in this case I only have my chalice. Can’t find the tofu..

(mutters to himself) there should be some tofu left on the altar..

What was I on about? (thinks)

Right.. Love!

(enthusiastically) Well, Rimbaud said we need to reinvent love.

That’s what I do here in this box.  

And you should appreciate, nay - you should be thankful, Laura!

Just, consider this for a second:

there’s disjuncture here, you roam around the world, I sit baring the box.

Our situation involves two people.

Two.

Two perspectives that are very different.

I can’t inflict upon you what Paris inflicted upon Helen - I can’t abduct you, I can’t put you into my box.

We would lose something, wouldn’t we? I wouldn’t dare to undertake such an escapade. Two perspectives would be lost. We would encounter each other - I would be a man with no box to bear.

A man with no box to bear  is no man at all.. Consequently, we are in luck. We are two people, and we construct the perception.

It’s not a perception of one person, but a perception of Two.

You see, through us - both of us - imagination takes power!

(solemnly) L'imagination prend le pouvoir!

Laura What’s wrong with encountering each other?

Georg Why do we have to get bogged down in these quaint, romantic cliches? It’s much better this way - this situation makes us equal.  

This situation is egalitarian, we participate mutually through each other’s perspective.

If you had been a woman with a box, that wouldn’t have made sense - we couldn’t encounter each other at all. We would be blind, deaf, oblivious..  

Now, It’s a perfect match, isn’t it?

I sit here, you wander around over there..

We don’t have to worry about the encounter!

No, love has nothing to do with an encounter.

We are better protected this way - if we were to see each other we would not live up to each other’s expectations.

Imagine us confronting the corporeality of each other?

That would be obscene, grotesque..   

(emphatically) Horrendous!

Now, luckily, we know exactly where we stand - I have a box and you don’t.

Simple as that.

Remember Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde? Well, Laura, you see what happens when two people deprive themselves of boxes?!

Sad!

Tragic - very bitter indeed!  

One ought not to tear the confines between Beatrice and Dante! By the same token, I shouldn’t be deprived of my box.  

(silently) Apparatchiks will take me to prison, soon.

Very soon.

I shall blame R. D. Laing… (pauses)

Indeed, come to think of it - I’m much like the florentine bard.

You will take me to heaven and I will lurk there in a box - I will sing the dithyramb.

You know, if this box is worth a damn, it is because this box forces Dionysius to jubilate.

All my quips aside, really! And I’m not talking about myself. No. With or without me - this box is special.

That’s where the events transpired - I came back to Jerusalem. If it wasn’t a box it would be the holy grail. With some tofu inside.

(mutters quietly, looks around the room) Can’t find it. There was the liturgy and then the rite, a little tefillah.. Where could it be? Perhaps deacon took it.

No, I’m certain he was on secondment to Damascus.

I hope he is able-bodied.

I worry about him, he’s a feeble man - prone to epilepsy.

(Saddened) Ennui, ennui again..

Lack of tofu.

Dreadful privation.

And to top it all of - they might take me. They really can! I communicate authentic, vivid experiences, verisimilitudes.

(thinks)

They’re supposed to contribute to my schizophrenia, they mustn’t affirm my identity, let alone romanticize my trauma. Again, I blame Szasz.

(growls, fidgets)

Going back to the subject of sex-antagonism.. Was that what we talked about? Or was it love?

Doesn't matter - the crux of the matter is that it’s not over.

Laura What’s not over?

Georg Well, as Rebecca West said, it’s not over.

Laura What is?

Georg Sex-antagonism. But don’t be dazed just yet! I love you nonetheless.

Laura Love you too.

Georg That’s how we overcome said antagonism - I sit here, baring the box.

Castrated and - I know, it might be of surprise to you - a little anxious.

Really.

Somebody might damage the most important of my jewels and frankly - I’m experiencing a little bit of restlessness.

I’m afraid one day I will not be able to tend my box anymore.

Somebody might show up and say that the existence of boxes does not entail the identity of a boxed man.

And then they will take it away, I swear.

Once, they actually did try to take it away. (sighs)

I was in between of ages three and five. I played with my favorite tin soldier by the name of Werther. Once, Werther lost the battle of Leipzig. It was just a matter of bad luck.

A trifle, a non-event!

However, the parent of the same sex nonetheless approached me, disciplined me for not appreciating the gravity of the situation and threatened to damage my box.

Then I got expelled to the Elba orphanage. From that point on, I developed an unconscious fear of damage that could be inflicted upon my box.

God forbid!

It could be taken away! (calmly) I swear.

Hence, as long as I still bear the box, you should remember how democratic this situation is: it’s not a monologue of the box, but a dialogue of two. I put forth a thesis, you answer with an antithesis. I sit in the box - you roam out there. Free like the feminine of Goethe's likings. Unfettered.

Don’t forget that, my dear Celime..Laura.

Laura I bought myself new earrings today.

Georg They look great.

Laura You’re no witness to my purchases.

Georg Are you saying I can’t appreciate your accessories because I’m in this box? Nonsense.

Listen, Laura, earrings are great - Shakespeare wore it.

I wouldn’t do that though - I have no penchant for body modification.

For me, committing to a body by altering it means sitting in a box and pretending that I’m galloping in the meadow while the rest of the laymen yearn for my carnal, mutated, fleshy organic mass.

That would entail servitude - scopophiliac schmoozing between master and the slave.

I have no appetite for titillation of master’s gaze.

I’m closed.

I’m baring the box, and hence I’m liberated. Shackled.  

No one can observe, monitor or eyeball me.

There’s no tacticity, voyeurism - mere sound-bites coming out of the black abyss..

(thinks)

Earrings!

How would that look?

Laura Are you asking whether they look good on me?

Georg No, you sweet scoundrel. I know it looks marvelous. I’m asking in what way do they look so dazzling?

Out of mere curiosity I voice the latter interest.

If I’m not galloping in the meadow - surely you are.

Unrestricted soul can readily enlighten the tethered one, oh mistress - set me free.

I therefore want to know: where do those earrings appear in the spur of the moment?

For example, do they hang or do they clasp?

Are they gold or silver?

Are your ears at ease when you wear them?

Are you conscious of wearing the earrings while you do?

If yes. Do you wear the earrings because you endure the stimuli?

If yes. Can one bear an accessory that would be strictly extraneous without the overpoweringly visceral reminder that one is a coquette that accessorizes?

If you’re the lady that accessorizes, do you accessorize for me, for my dreams?

For my affliction and jubilation when I’m situated in a dark, humid box?

If that is the case, can you be my wish-fulfillment then?

Can my dreams relieve me of the pain that I feel when I’m no witness to your earrings?

Will the dream-work soothe my dementia?

Will I displace my grudges by positioning your earrings within the illusionary mise en scene?

Will I condense my fright, anguish, lust, claustrophobia onto the earring?

Surely, that might happen, but first I need to fathom the following:

(slowly) Do they clasp or hang?

Gold or silver?

Are they small or large?

What style are they?

Are they vintage, contemporary?

Can one detect symbolism in them?

Laura is silent.

One has to imagine a mirror,

I see you, Laura, in that mirror,

wearing earrings, tenderly awry,

flesh-and-blood of the picture effortlessly curbed,

Phenomena of your attributes soars through the warped insignia,

Your earrings glide within unruly dream-work,

They fuse, proliferate, like shreds of paper in windswept dusk,

Madonna, in a room of her own - gripping 500 pounds,

Proud and resolute in her monumental deeds,

Like George Eliot, though without phallocentric boxes,

Illustrious in her uncluttered meadow,

Like Shakespeare’s sister, yet without a tainted body,

Eschewing hindrances - trumping obstacles,

Proving suffragists passe,

Creating new instruments,

Inventing, molding, shaping future,

Serving avocado toast for breakfast!

With earrings, tremendously compelling,

Synecdoches of ecriture féminine,

Laura becomes, she becomes a woman,

Accepts masculine values and harnesses history,

Doesn’t cling to the privileges of the Box,

Becomes a full-scale human being,

At the great moment of awe - it knocks me down,

When I gaze at you, out there, autonomous and apathetic,

No interest in me - I recall Rita Mae Brown,

Then I know - you will not make love to me.

You were never meant to encounter me, touch or caress me, Even if you wished for it - we know it’s erroneous!  

I’m the monster, phantom, leppard of the Box. Utterly beneath you!

You wield the history - unboxed.   Laura, paris veut une masse! Relinquish fleshy intimacy and wear your earrings proud!

(pause)

You wield the history, unboxed..

I know this, because I’m in the box,

The box, that deems me Other,

Fixed, like Odysseus’ duty

Stagnant, threatened by the inevitable - prison,

Natural lump at the center of the burgeoning space ,

Box, that renders me mystical, exotic and veiled,

Confused male mystique,

A non-human, that will be brought to justice,

Now, (laughs) I’m denied justice due to social deviance - (screams) THE BOX!

They will separate psychiatry from the state,

Then they will castigate involuntary treatment,

They will give me legal rights,

And I won’t find my tofu.. My flock won’t assemble! No doubt about it!

Don’t abolish insanity defense,

Insane, they require Boxes!

Like junkies need dope, comedians need tyrants,

Mad need their cells!

Hence I demand, I demand coercive box-policy!

While you, Laura, go! Wield the history! Godspeed!

Laura Georg, we should wield our relationship first - tell me, where we going to live from September on?

Georg (emphatically) Laura, isn’t clear that I’m stuck here?

(mutters) unless of course, they will take me..

Laura Oh, I forgot to tell you, I met this person.

I told them about your box.

Silence

Georg What do you mean?

Laura I told them about the box.

I told them about the tofu, chalice, coconut milk, Jerusalem - the whole lot! The person knows that you’re afraid of someone taking your box.

Georg That’s private. I mean, such information is very delicate. You know that, right? Laura?

Laura This person had some good suggestions though, they can help me to help you!

Georg There is nothing you can help me with. Just settle down and be free!

Stay there and live . . . . . stay there and blossom . . . . stay there and thrive! . . . .Stay there and begin to fathom how lucky you are . . . . . . stay and roam, wander - meander gleefully . . . . . Stay bodily, let loose the ethos . . . . .Like the Cartesian that once ruled the dictum . . . . . Bow! . . . . Reshape yourself with intellectual prowess,  

(melancholically) settle down, kind Laura, settle down...

Forget Hans Castorp’s x-ray - disavow your flesh!

Idle, Laura, Idle!

With no box to bear - your agency is immortal!

With no box to bear - you can stay there . . here - at liberty!

With no box to bear - dare to use your own reason!

Idle! Disseminate the erudition!

With no box to bear - you are the Gaia without Chaos,

Without male assistance - open up the skies! Where boxes, like gods and druids, are bereft of life!

Settle down, Laura! Observe me!

. . . . . Look at me! . . . .  a captive of Tartarus.

Me? ‘I am body and soul!’ - I assert this due to the box I bear,  

Like Zarathustra, I perform the box - I perform my body,  

My spirit is the accomplice to the box,

A trifle without it!

Bid farewell to the box - become dumb, become imprisoned!

Bid farewell to the box - abdicate fidelity to ethics. To you, Laura!

Bid farewell to the box - be a slave to the temporality of instance!

No loyalty, no allegiance, no devotedness - no reciprocity!

Unaware of eternal recurrence - I would endure the metonymy without sacrifices of the Jester!   

Laura You wish that everybody had boxes?

Georg For some of them - it’s not a matter of choice.

Some of my parishioners are members of the political society, they wage bloodless war against the naysayers - the boxed men and women, members of the civil stratus.  

They would rather see proletariat imprisoned within the gig economy.

Wherein you constantly reinvent yourself - construct a plethora of masks and spectacles.

To quote Kierkegaard: ‘Do you know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask?’  

Do you know, Laura?

I can love you, because I can reveal myself. To state the obvious - I’m the Box.

No spectacles here, no ploys or charades.

I say mea culpa, but that is the truth of the matter..

Can one say this even more crudely? I’m the hamartia! The serpent! Persona non grata! Seed of the serpent!

(sighs)

Elephant in the room..

Laura I’m actually really intrigued - I want to make you squirm! Oh, dapper, you!

Georg! The forbidden fruit!

You will shriek and howl.. (thinks)

(casually) But that’s just inevitable..

I have to test your capacity to reveal yourself - your buttox,

your penis,

your skin,

your saliva.

Until it fidgets, drips or is rendered stiff - I will not capitulate.

Georg (anxiously) What do you mean? You’re mad! I’m barred from you, Laura. You can’t change me, I’m already a pariah - a Boxed man.

Through my bowels currents of revolution flow.

Laura  Even a boxed man is not impervious to stagnation.

Georg Either kill me or take me as I am, because I’ll be damned if I ever change.

Laura I will call you Juliette. You hear me, Georg? I will call you Juliette!

You’re in the box, does your name even matter?

Don’t be afraid - I will merely set your body free.

Now, Juliette, allow me to see you!

Georg slowly starts undressing, he is confused and petrified. Georg’s hands are shaking.

Georg Stop this interrogation, I demand you, Laura!

This is an infringement of my privacy!

Your words, they penetrate, they mutilate my Box.

I thought we had an understanding - we partake in the relationship between two equals.

We cooperate in the dialog between the free and the fettered.

You roam out there - I sit in the Box.

Simple as that.  

We embrace the experience of the world from the perspective of difference.

Listen, Laura, life is being made - no longer from the perspective of one, but from the perspective of two!

Georg puts on a woman’s dress.

Laura begins kicking, punching the walls of her box.

Georg Stop it!

You can’t see me!

I won’t allow it.

You sweet virago!

You can’t take away my box!

You little scoundrel!

Laura (screams) I’ll show you the world. You said you were orphaned, Juliette?

(brazenly) Would you like to meet Noirceuil and Saint-Fond?

You could be their mistress, Georg!  

Anatomically boxed in a male body,

You could easily be feminized!

Aren’t you goal oriented, Juliette?

‘L’impossible Monsieur Juliette’!

Georg Stop it! Don’t damage my box! You damn Celimene!

Laura You committed a crime, Juliette! A serious one at that! Remember the robbery? When you wore men’s clothing and you robbed me of my box?

Georg You’re delusional.  (starts pacing nervously around the stage, makes grimaces, grotesque hand gestures)

Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Laura keeps on trying to escape - to break through. Some scratching, moaning, gasping can be heard.  

Laura - Music (together) Remember. . . what . . . . . Noirceuil. . . . . . asked you to do? . . . . . . . . . . . . Juliette? . . . . . He asked you. . . . . . . . to worship his . . . . . . . erect . . . . penis . . . . . . . . . . . . . You probably . . . . . . are aware . . . . . . . . how dangerous . . . . . . . are men . . . . . . . .when their boxes are erect . . . . . . . . . . . sometimes I think . . . . . they would just love it . . . . . . . . if the whole . . . . . . . . . . universe would . . . . . . .cease to exist . . . . . . . while . . . . . . the box is still erect! . . . . . .Moberti said that! . . . . . . . . . . . Remember, Juliette?. . . . . . . . Georg? . . . . . Who has the box? . . . . . .Can you answer me that? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Your fright . . . . . . Your angst was always belated . . . . . . my lack of box . . . . . . . . . my absence . . . . . . . . . was . . . . always secondarily so . . . . . . through . . . . . . . the specular turn . . . . . . . . . you arrived at my genitals and . . . . . . . . said ‘Lack’! . . . . . . . . . . the anxiety of castration . . . . . . . . . . .became coherent . . . . . . . . when you looked at me . . . . . . . . . .and fathomed . . . . . . my present absence . . . . . . . . my ability to move while staying . . . . . . . . my ability to roam while settling down. . . . . . . my present absence of the box . . . . . . the penis . . . . . . . . Binaristicaly . . . . . . you . . . . . put my clitoris . . . . . . . under . . . . . the narcissistic ideal . . . . . . . . . . . under the . . . . . . atrophied Positivity! . . . . . . . You thought . . . . . . you stage . . . . . your own servitude? . . . . . . . By shackling yourself? . . . . . . How is Dominatrix . . . . . . .  a free agent?  . . . . . .  Juliette?! . . tell me! . . . . . . . . I could not even . . . . . carry out violence! . . . . . . . I was rendered . . . . . . cold and apathetic . . . . . .the moment . . . . . you instigated . . . . a theatrical . . . . . . . . reciprocity . . . . . . . . . . . one based on . . . . . . . . . . suspension of violence . . . . . . . . through the endless . . . . . . repetition of the . . . . . . . interrupted gestures . . . . . . . . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . . . .  Georg! . . . . . . you establish . . . . . .  you decided . . . . . what I am to think about you . . . . . . . . . how should I feel . . . . . .what earrings I should wear . . . . . . . . you assumed the stance . . . . . of the stage . . . . . director . . . . . . . . and kept explaining . . . . . . . the parameters . . . . . . . of our ‘boxed’ situation . . . . . . the most intimate desires . . . . . . became . . . . . . . objects . . . . . . . of contract . . . . . . . . and composed . . . . . . . . . . consultation! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and you have never . . . . . . even seen me! . . . . . . Through point de capiton . . . . . . . you communicated me . . . . . .through . . . . . . signification that is limited . . . . . . .retroactive . . . . . . . .within . . . . . the limited . . . . . . boxed . . . . . . bounded . . . . . . .context . . . . . . . . . . . when the materiality of the boxes . . . . . . unfold . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . you will comprehend the  . . . . . . . excess materiality . . . . . . . which . . . . . . has no boxes . . . . . . No boxes! . . . . . There is no Man in the Box! . . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . . This is about . . . . . . . the search . . . . . . for libertines . . . . . .who . . . . . could . . . . . strike you with . . . . . the thunderbolt-phallus . . . . . . . after which there is no box that would allow to scrutinize . . . . . nature! . . . . . . . There’s only . . . . . . the box . . . . . and the nature . . . . that will devour you . . . . . . . . obliterate you . . . . . . .There is no man in the Box, Julliette!  

Laura finally finds a way to escape the box. Immediately leaves the stage. Doesn’t look at Georg.

Georg stops nervously pacing. Picks up his chalice. Sits down next to the desk, places the chalice in the center of the desk. Takes the piece of tofu out of the drawer - places it on the table. Looks at the cornucopia on the desk and smiles. Georg is happy.

Slowly raises the Tofu above his head.  

Georg The body of Juliette! (screams out triumphantly)

Raises the Chalice up.

Georg The blood of Juliette!

N.B. Curtain drops.

The End

[tadasvinokur]

‘Box Man’

Tadas Vinokur

‘Box Man’

N.B. This play is without scenes or acts.

The spectators will find the curtain closed. After the play commences and the curtain is raised, spectators will see a bourgeois study - a room that contains a desk (directed at spectators), a carpet, couple of drawers and a clothing rack with a women’s dress hanging on it.  Most importantly, there is a box on the stage. The box is sufficiently big enough to comfortably fit a grown woman.

On the wall, across the stage, there is a poster which says in neon letters: ‘Georg is full of shit!’.

The male actor sits at his desk. He is very well dressed. His looks should be immaculate, polished to the degree of male queerness within film noir. The model for the male actor’s overall looks should be Johnny from the movie ‘Gilda’. One of male actor’s shoes is untied.

The female actor is in the box. There’s a door at the back of the box - which audience can’t see - that will ultimately allow Laura to escape.

Throughout the play, the male actor is supposed to be working; I.e., he reads a newspaper, he scribbles something, he contemplates, he listens. Georg’s overall demeanor/attitude is a little manic. He suffers from bipolar disorder. He is often agitated/anxious. Mood swings are a frequent occurrence with respect to Georg’s character.

Curtain is raised.

Georg is reading a newspaper. Couple of moments pass. He puts the newspaper aside. Looks at the Box.

Georg (apathetically) This feels Kafkaesque.

Laura You’re mad! This circumstance is surely Machiavellian.

Georg It feels like I’m in a box..

It’s a little damp in here and my shoes are undone.

(Pauses) Ennui..

I was reading the news today, it turns out capitalism is a fickle creature.

It used to be in favor of boxed welfare, now - apparently - capitalism is reproaching that issue. (Pauses) It’s not really an issue though - it’s just that it smells weird here.

Anyhow, I need to act, I need to resist..

Either that, or neoliberalism will put boxes in the hands of the few.

Disparity with respect to boxes is very obvious already.

They will try to deinstitutionalize my asylum. Next thing you know, they will put boxed men - like me - in prison.

I shall therefore read about civil disobedience.

Where should I start?

Henry Thorough?

Ghandi?

Rawls?

No, I know!

I should tie my shoelaces first - After all, I ought to be able to stand up to injustice.

Georg ties his shoelaces.  

Laura (casually) My day was good.

Georg Good, I want you to be happy.

What is this thing behind my back? It’s slimy and hard.

Finds a chalice behind his back.

Right!

It’s the chalice I used during yesterday’s Mass. I was coming back to Jerusalem.

Oh, you should have seen it!

(with admiration) It was GRAND! Pious crowds cheered! People exalted me! Jubilations commenced!

It’s amazing what awe-inspiring things can transpire in my box.

I also had this soggy piece of tofu. Where is it? I had some coconut milk and a piece of tofu, blood and body!

(Anxiously) Where is it?

Without it I shall not resist, Without it - I can’t resurrect.

(calmly) I’m stuck in my box, I have to admit.

People will not show up for the eucharist.

Laura How was your day?

Georg You know how it was. I’m baring the box. Don’t ask me that.

Laura (apathetically) Fine.

Silence

Georg (restlessly) Well, if you really want to know..

Logistics with this box is excruciating.

By the time I’m at work I’m already weak, disabled, wrecked.

(sighs) I become a misanthrope at work. I despise those philistines around me. Their paltry existence gets on my nerves. However, I act as Moliere’s Alceste did - I try to be courteous, affable.

(thinks) You know, Laura, at work there is this lady - her name is Celimene. She keeps bossing me around.

But I don’t mind it. I mean, such behaviour is only fitting.

I love Celimene, she’s a lady of good grit.

I hate the others, they’re too courteous - they’re cogs in the system.

(disgusted) They’re slaves.

Scum.

Vermin.

Celimene is a lady that tells me how it is.

Oh, by the way!

I love you Laura.

Laura I love you too.

Georg As far as my love is concerned - it’s no charade.

True, I’m with the box, but I can nonetheless appreciate love. I learned this from Diotima of Mantinea.

(Hyperbollicaly) In the mean of the wise and the ignorant I attain love. In the mean of the box and the open-space I solidify love. In the mean of depression and elation I redefine love again..

Laura (interrupts Georg)  Perhaps it’s a case of bipolar disorder?

Georg Be that as it may, mortal nature is seeking as far as possible to be everlasting and immortal. My love is in the mean of two opposites - mortal and immortal. I mediate those opposites, hence - I love you.

Laura I don’t understand. Sounds like a bunch of platitudes.  

Georg Of course it does. I’m baring the box.

Guilty as charged!

Strike me - if you will - with electro convulsive treatment.

It’s a damn box! Only soundbites can reach you!

It’s a verbal hypomania - I will use ‘pressure of speech’ and ‘flight of ideas’, I will be punning and I will make humorous associations between concepts.

But I can’t prove my love to you, can I?

I can’t make love to you..

I can only talk love to you..

Laura I guess you can’t. Georg I can’t what?

Laura You can’t love me.

Georg (shouts) No! You wicked Celimene!

(calmly) My apologies, I didn’t mean to be scathing.

Listen, Plato said philosophy is love. And that’s absolutely crucial!

Like Diogenes, I sit here baring the box.

All I have is my sun. Well, in this case I only have my chalice. Can’t find the tofu..

(mutters to himself) there should be some tofu left on the altar..

What was I on about? (thinks)

Right.. Love!

(enthusiastically) Well, Rimbaud said we need to reinvent love.

That’s what I do here in this box.  

And you should appreciate, nay - you should be thankful, Laura!

Just, consider this for a second:

there’s disjuncture here, you roam around the world, I sit baring the box.

Our situation involves two people.

Two.

Two perspectives that are very different.

I can’t inflict upon you what Paris inflicted upon Helen - I can’t abduct you, I can’t put you into my box.

We would lose something, wouldn’t we? I wouldn’t dare to undertake such an escapade. Two perspectives would be lost. We would encounter each other - I would be a man with no box to bear.

A man with no box to bear  is no man at all.. Consequently, we are in luck. We are two people, and we construct the perception.

It’s not a perception of one person, but a perception of Two.

You see, through us - both of us - imagination takes power!

(solemnly) L'imagination prend le pouvoir!

Laura What’s wrong with encountering each other?

Georg Why do we have to get bogged down in these quaint, romantic cliches? It’s much better this way - this situation makes us equal.  

This situation is egalitarian, we participate mutually through each other’s perspective.

If you had been a woman with a box, that wouldn’t have made sense - we couldn’t encounter each other at all. We would be blind, deaf, oblivious..  

Now, It’s a perfect match, isn’t it?

I sit here, you wander around over there..

We don’t have to worry about the encounter!

No, love has nothing to do with an encounter.

We are better protected this way - if we were to see each other we would not live up to each other’s expectations.

Imagine us confronting the corporeality of each other?

That would be obscene, grotesque..   

(emphatically) Horrendous!

Now, luckily, we know exactly where we stand - I have a box and you don’t.

Simple as that.

Remember Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde? Well, Laura, you see what happens when two people deprive themselves of boxes?!

Sad!

Tragic - very bitter indeed!  

One ought not to tear the confines between Beatrice and Dante! By the same token, I shouldn’t be deprived of my box.  

(silently) Apparatchiks will take me to prison, soon.

Very soon.

I shall blame R. D. Laing… (pauses)

Indeed, come to think of it - I’m much like the florentine bard.

You will take me to heaven and I will lurk there in a box - I will sing the dithyramb.

You know, if this box is worth a damn, it is because this box forces Dionysius to jubilate.

All my quips aside, really! And I’m not talking about myself. No. With or without me - this box is special.

That’s where the events transpired - I came back to Jerusalem. If it wasn’t a box it would be the holy grail. With some tofu inside.

(mutters quietly, looks around the room) Can’t find it. There was the liturgy and then the rite, a little tefillah.. Where could it be? Perhaps deacon took it.

No, I’m certain he was on secondment to Damascus.

I hope he is able-bodied.

I worry about him, he’s a feeble man - prone to epilepsy.

(Saddened) Ennui, ennui again..

Lack of tofu.

Dreadful privation.

And to top it all of - they might take me. They really can! I communicate authentic, vivid experiences, verisimilitudes.

(thinks)

They’re supposed to contribute to my schizophrenia, they mustn’t affirm my identity, let alone romanticize my trauma. Again, I blame Szasz.

(growls, fidgets)

Going back to the subject of sex-antagonism.. Was that what we talked about? Or was it love?

Doesn't matter - the crux of the matter is that it’s not over.

Laura What’s not over?

Georg Well, as Rebecca West said, it’s not over.

Laura What is?

Georg Sex-antagonism. But don’t be dazed just yet! I love you nonetheless.

Laura Love you too.

Georg That’s how we overcome said antagonism - I sit here, baring the box.

Castrated and - I know, it might be of surprise to you - a little anxious.

Really.

Somebody might damage the most important of my jewels and frankly - I’m experiencing a little bit of restlessness.

I’m afraid one day I will not be able to tend my box anymore.

Somebody might show up and say that the existence of boxes does not entail the identity of a boxed man.

And then they will take it away, I swear.

Once, they actually did try to take it away. (sighs)

I was in between of ages three and five. I played with my favorite tin soldier by the name of Werther. Once, Werther lost the battle of Leipzig. It was just a matter of bad luck.

A trifle, a non-event!

However, the parent of the same sex nonetheless approached me, disciplined me for not appreciating the gravity of the situation and threatened to damage my box.

Then I got expelled to the Elba orphanage. From that point on, I developed an unconscious fear of damage that could be inflicted upon my box.

God forbid!

It could be taken away! (calmly) I swear.

Hence, as long as I still bear the box, you should remember how democratic this situation is: it’s not a monologue of the box, but a dialogue of two. I put forth a thesis, you answer with an antithesis. I sit in the box - you roam out there. Free like the feminine of Goethe's likings. Unfettered.

Don’t forget that, my dear Celime..Laura.

Laura I bought myself new earrings today.

Georg They look great.

Laura You’re no witness to my purchases.

Georg Are you saying I can’t appreciate your accessories because I’m in this box? Nonsense.

Listen, Laura, earrings are great - Shakespeare wore it.

I wouldn’t do that though - I have no penchant for body modification.

For me, committing to a body by altering it means sitting in a box and pretending that I’m galloping in the meadow while the rest of the laymen yearn for my carnal, mutated, fleshy organic mass.

That would entail servitude - scopophiliac schmoozing between master and the slave.

I have no appetite for titillation of master’s gaze.

I’m closed.

I’m baring the box, and hence I’m liberated. Shackled.  

No one can observe, monitor or eyeball me.

There’s no tacticity, voyeurism - mere sound-bites coming out of the black abyss..

(thinks)

Earrings!

How would that look?

Laura Are you asking whether they look good on me?

Georg No, you sweet scoundrel. I know it looks marvelous. I’m asking in what way do they look so dazzling?

Out of mere curiosity I voice the latter interest.

If I’m not galloping in the meadow - surely you are.

Unrestricted soul can readily enlighten the tethered one, oh mistress - set me free.

I therefore want to know: where do those earrings appear in the spur of the moment?

For example, do they hang or do they clasp?

Are they gold or silver?

Are your ears at ease when you wear them?

Are you conscious of wearing the earrings while you do?

If yes. Do you wear the earrings because you endure the stimuli?

If yes. Can one bear an accessory that would be strictly extraneous without the overpoweringly visceral reminder that one is a coquette that accessorizes?

If you’re the lady that accessorizes, do you accessorize for me, for my dreams?

For my affliction and jubilation when I’m situated in a dark, humid box?

If that is the case, can you be my wish-fulfillment then?

Can my dreams relieve me of the pain that I feel when I’m no witness to your earrings?

Will the dream-work soothe my dementia?

Will I displace my grudges by positioning your earrings within the illusionary mise en scene?

Will I condense my fright, anguish, lust, claustrophobia onto the earring?

Surely, that might happen, but first I need to fathom the following:

(slowly) Do they clasp or hang?

Gold or silver?

Are they small or large?

What style are they?

Are they vintage, contemporary?

Can one detect symbolism in them?

Laura is silent.

One has to imagine a mirror,

I see you, Laura, in that mirror,

wearing earrings, tenderly awry,

flesh-and-blood of the picture effortlessly curbed,

Phenomena of your attributes soars through the warped insignia,

Your earrings glide within unruly dream-work,

They fuse, proliferate, like shreds of paper in windswept dusk,

Madonna, in a room of her own - gripping 500 pounds,

Proud and resolute in her monumental deeds,

Like George Eliot, though without phallocentric boxes,

Illustrious in her uncluttered meadow,

Like Shakespeare’s sister, yet without a tainted body,

Eschewing hindrances - trumping obstacles,

Proving suffragists passe,

Creating new instruments,

Inventing, molding, shaping future,

Serving avocado toast for breakfast!

With earrings, tremendously compelling,

Synecdoches of ecriture féminine,

Laura becomes, she becomes a woman,

Accepts masculine values and harnesses history,

Doesn’t cling to the privileges of the Box,

Becomes a full-scale human being,

At the great moment of awe - it knocks me down,

When I gaze at you, out there, autonomous and apathetic,

No interest in me - I recall Rita Mae Brown,

Then I know - you will not make love to me.

You were never meant to encounter me, touch or caress me, Even if you wished for it - we know it’s erroneous!  

I’m the monster, phantom, leppard of the Box. Utterly beneath you!

You wield the history - unboxed.   Laura, paris veut une masse! Relinquish fleshy intimacy and wear your earrings proud!

(pause)

You wield the history, unboxed..

I know this, because I’m in the box,

The box, that deems me Other,

Fixed, like Odysseus’ duty

Stagnant, threatened by the inevitable - prison,

Natural lump at the center of the burgeoning space ,

Box, that renders me mystical, exotic and veiled,

Confused male mystique,

A non-human, that will be brought to justice,

Now, (laughs) I’m denied justice due to social deviance - (screams) THE BOX!

They will separate psychiatry from the state,

Then they will castigate involuntary treatment,

They will give me legal rights,

And I won’t find my tofu.. My flock won’t assemble! No doubt about it!

Don’t abolish insanity defense,

Insane, they require Boxes!

Like junkies need dope, comedians need tyrants,

Mad need their cells!

Hence I demand, I demand coercive box-policy!

While you, Laura, go! Wield the history! Godspeed!

Laura Georg, we should wield our relationship first - tell me, where we going to live from September on?

Georg (emphatically) Laura, isn’t clear that I’m stuck here?

(mutters) unless of course, they will take me..

Laura Oh, I forgot to tell you, I met this person.

I told them about your box.

Silence

Georg What do you mean?

Laura I told them about the box.

I told them about the tofu, chalice, coconut milk, Jerusalem - the whole lot! The person knows that you’re afraid of someone taking your box.

Georg That’s private. I mean, such information is very delicate. You know that, right? Laura?

Laura This person had some good suggestions though, they can help me to help you!

Georg There is nothing you can help me with. Just settle down and be free!

Stay there and live . . . . . stay there and blossom . . . . stay there and thrive! . . . .Stay there and begin to fathom how lucky you are . . . . . . stay and roam, wander - meander gleefully . . . . . Stay bodily, let loose the ethos . . . . .Like the Cartesian that once ruled the dictum . . . . . Bow! . . . . Reshape yourself with intellectual prowess,  

(melancholically) settle down, kind Laura, settle down...

Forget Hans Castorp’s x-ray - disavow your flesh!

Idle, Laura, Idle!

With no box to bear - your agency is immortal!

With no box to bear - you can stay there . . here - at liberty!

With no box to bear - dare to use your own reason!

Idle! Disseminate the erudition!

With no box to bear - you are the Gaia without Chaos,

Without male assistance - open up the skies! Where boxes, like gods and druids, are bereft of life!

Settle down, Laura! Observe me!

. . . . . Look at me! . . . .  a captive of Tartarus.

Me? ‘I am body and soul!’ - I assert this due to the box I bear,  

Like Zarathustra, I perform the box - I perform my body,  

My spirit is the accomplice to the box,

A trifle without it!

Bid farewell to the box - become dumb, become imprisoned!

Bid farewell to the box - abdicate fidelity to ethics. To you, Laura!

Bid farewell to the box - be a slave to the temporality of instance!

No loyalty, no allegiance, no devotedness - no reciprocity!

Unaware of eternal recurrence - I would endure the metonymy without sacrifices of the Jester!   

Laura You wish that everybody had boxes?

Georg For some of them - it’s not a matter of choice.

Some of my parishioners are members of the political society, they wage bloodless war against the naysayers - the boxed men and women, members of the civil stratus.  

They would rather see proletariat imprisoned within the gig economy.

Wherein you constantly reinvent yourself - construct a plethora of masks and spectacles.

To quote Kierkegaard: ‘Do you know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask?’  

Do you know, Laura?

I can love you, because I can reveal myself. To state the obvious - I’m the Box.

No spectacles here, no ploys or charades.

I say mea culpa, but that is the truth of the matter..

Can one say this even more crudely? I’m the hamartia! The serpent! Persona non grata! Seed of the serpent!

(sighs)

Elephant in the room..

Laura I’m actually really intrigued - I want to make you squirm! Oh, dapper, you!

Georg! The forbidden fruit!

You will shriek and howl.. (thinks)

(casually) But that’s just inevitable..

I have to test your capacity to reveal yourself - your buttox,

your penis,

your skin,

your saliva.

Until it fidgets, drips or is rendered stiff - I will not capitulate.

Georg (anxiously) What do you mean? You’re mad! I’m barred from you, Laura. You can’t change me, I’m already a pariah - a Boxed man.

Through my bowels currents of revolution flow.

Laura  Even a boxed man is not impervious to stagnation.

Georg Either kill me or take me as I am, because I’ll be damned if I ever change.

Laura I will call you Juliette. You hear me, Georg? I will call you Juliette!

You’re in the box, does your name even matter?

Don’t be afraid - I will merely set your body free.

Now, Juliette, allow me to see you!

Georg slowly starts undressing, he is confused and petrified. Georg’s hands are shaking.

Georg Stop this interrogation, I demand you, Laura!

This is an infringement of my privacy!

Your words, they penetrate, they mutilate my Box.

I thought we had an understanding - we partake in the relationship between two equals.

We cooperate in the dialog between the free and the fettered.

You roam out there - I sit in the Box.

Simple as that.  

We embrace the experience of the world from the perspective of difference.

Listen, Laura, life is being made - no longer from the perspective of one, but from the perspective of two!

Georg puts on a woman’s dress.

Laura begins kicking, punching the walls of her box.

Georg Stop it!

You can’t see me!

I won’t allow it.

You sweet virago!

You can’t take away my box!

You little scoundrel!

Laura (screams) I’ll show you the world. You said you were orphaned, Juliette?

(brazenly) Would you like to meet Noirceuil and Saint-Fond?

You could be their mistress, Georg!  

Anatomically boxed in a male body,

You could easily be feminized!

Aren’t you goal oriented, Juliette?

‘L’impossible Monsieur Juliette’!

Georg Stop it! Don’t damage my box! You damn Celimene!

Laura You committed a crime, Juliette! A serious one at that! Remember the robbery? When you wore men’s clothing and you robbed me of my box?

Georg You’re delusional.  (starts pacing nervously around the stage, makes grimaces, grotesque hand gestures)

Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Laura keeps on trying to escape - to break through. Some scratching, moaning, gasping can be heard.  

Laura - Music (together) Remember. . . what . . . . . Noirceuil. . . . . . asked you to do? . . . . . . . . . . . . Juliette? . . . . . He asked you. . . . . . . . to worship his . . . . . . . erect . . . . penis . . . . . . . . . . . . . You probably . . . . . . are aware . . . . . . . . how dangerous . . . . . . . are men . . . . . . . .when their boxes are erect . . . . . . . . . . . sometimes I think . . . . . they would just love it . . . . . . . . if the whole . . . . . . . . . . universe would . . . . . . .cease to exist . . . . . . . while . . . . . . the box is still erect! . . . . . .Moberti said that! . . . . . . . . . . . Remember, Juliette?. . . . . . . . Georg? . . . . . Who has the box? . . . . . .Can you answer me that? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Your fright . . . . . . Your angst was always belated . . . . . . my lack of box . . . . . . . . . my absence . . . . . . . . . was . . . . always secondarily so . . . . . . through . . . . . . . the specular turn . . . . . . . . . you arrived at my genitals and . . . . . . . . said ‘Lack’! . . . . . . . . . . the anxiety of castration . . . . . . . . . . .became coherent . . . . . . . . when you looked at me . . . . . . . . . .and fathomed . . . . . . my present absence . . . . . . . . my ability to move while staying . . . . . . . . my ability to roam while settling down. . . . . . . my present absence of the box . . . . . . the penis . . . . . . . . Binaristicaly . . . . . . you . . . . . put my clitoris . . . . . . . under . . . . . the narcissistic ideal . . . . . . . . . . . under the . . . . . . atrophied Positivity! . . . . . . . You thought . . . . . . you stage . . . . . your own servitude? . . . . . . . By shackling yourself? . . . . . . How is Dominatrix . . . . . . .  a free agent?  . . . . . .  Juliette?! . . tell me! . . . . . . . . I could not even . . . . . carry out violence! . . . . . . . I was rendered . . . . . . cold and apathetic . . . . . .the moment . . . . . you instigated . . . . a theatrical . . . . . . . . reciprocity . . . . . . . . . . . one based on . . . . . . . . . . suspension of violence . . . . . . . . through the endless . . . . . . repetition of the . . . . . . . interrupted gestures . . . . . . . . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . . . .  Georg! . . . . . . you establish . . . . . .  you decided . . . . . what I am to think about you . . . . . . . . . how should I feel . . . . . .what earrings I should wear . . . . . . . . you assumed the stance . . . . . of the stage . . . . . director . . . . . . . . and kept explaining . . . . . . . the parameters . . . . . . . of our ‘boxed’ situation . . . . . . the most intimate desires . . . . . . became . . . . . . . objects . . . . . . . of contract . . . . . . . . and composed . . . . . . . . . . consultation! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and you have never . . . . . . even seen me! . . . . . . Through point de capiton . . . . . . . you communicated me . . . . . .through . . . . . . signification that is limited . . . . . . .retroactive . . . . . . . .within . . . . . the limited . . . . . . boxed . . . . . . bounded . . . . . . .context . . . . . . . . . . . when the materiality of the boxes . . . . . . unfold . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . you will comprehend the  . . . . . . . excess materiality . . . . . . . which . . . . . . has no boxes . . . . . . No boxes! . . . . . There is no Man in the Box! . . . . . . Juliette! . . . . . . . This is about . . . . . . . the search . . . . . . for libertines . . . . . .who . . . . . could . . . . . strike you with . . . . . the thunderbolt-phallus . . . . . . . after which there is no box that would allow to scrutinize . . . . . nature! . . . . . . . There’s only . . . . . . the box . . . . . and the nature . . . . that will devour you . . . . . . . . obliterate you . . . . . . .There is no man in the Box, Julliette!  

Laura finally finds a way to escape the box. Immediately leaves the stage. Doesn’t look at Georg.

Georg stops nervously pacing. Picks up his chalice. Sits down next to the desk, places the chalice in the center of the desk. Takes the piece of tofu out of the drawer - places it on the table. Looks at the cornucopia on the desk and smiles. Georg is happy.

Slowly raises the Tofu above his head.  

Georg The body of Juliette! (screams out triumphantly)

Raises the Chalice up.

Georg The blood of Juliette!

N.B. Curtain drops.

The End

[pcgamingnmore-blog]

This is The Police- Review

Police Principal Jack Boyd has six even more months before he can walk off the job. Will he come through as a tidy police officer with a group of satisfied, trustworthy police officers? Or potentially, leave of the terminal a mafia crony barely able to climb from the back pocket of Freeburg's ruling family, damaged, alone, as well as disgraced. This is the Cops, created by novice developer Weappy Studios, puts you behind the activities-- as well as consequences-- of Jack Boyd on his 180-day journey to retired life. You will: take interview, manage personnel, make investigatory choices and also call the next action when your polices get into sticky circumstances. Regrettably, the bad administration system is a soft back to an otherwise complete bodied story line. What This is the Cops does well are the minimally elegant vignettes of story showcasing a tight but dispassionate, approaching actively unsociable, screenplay. Just what it doesn't do well is story portioning, making even worse by the reality that there's so much of it. It's like an Applebees meal you didn't order.

This is the Police wants to an offer you a fully grown as well as culturally prompt tale of lethargy, where the days continuously tick by and you are just aging behind that desk. You sit asking yourself "Where did the time go?" In a way, it attempts to use that concept, its tone invoking stoner-paranoia of the 5-0 knocking on your door and yelling that they'll bust it open. It additionally leaves you feeling defenseless, like "This is it. This is exactly what being an authorities principal has to do with. I am that I am since that's the nature of the task." The primary character is the embodiment of "as well weary for this spunk." Jack Boyd sees the goal imminent as well as is allowing nothing get in his way, this includes Municipal government, the Mayor, numerous gangs as well as serial killers, and the crime families that are drawing on strings.

Among the things this game does right it is making you believe in the personality of Jack Boyd and also much of the credit report because of the performer, Jon St. John of Duke Nukem popularity. He towers over the remainder of the actors in drawing Jack from the script, breathing life into every tale board. That is significant appreciation as much of the cast does an outstanding task seeming being down-to-earth. They truly do really feel a part of this shabby community, living their very own lives in orbit with Jack's. The video game shines brightest when it is presenting its story and introducing the personalities you'll be engaging with a number of times over in the coming month. There is lots of political intrigue, back-stabbing, stabbing-back, strong arming, as well as head bowing. It's not specifically The Wire, however it is better than just what a lot of games about cops try to give you, specifically because the game isn't really about the activity however the people (or individual) behind the action.

 This is the Authorities plays out in cartoon panels with a blocky minimal style. The imaginative design of the cut scene visuals as well as the visuals of the city you'll be holding reign over are lovely. They have sufficient range where you can be absolutely dazzled ... occasionally. It is an aesthetic option that just benefits the story and also the setting. The video game likewise enables you to lay your option of dozens of smooth jazz documents in the background as you send out patrolmen and conduct investigations. It brings the crime noir tone to a head as well as I valued it although it may seem a bit gaudy sometimes. The initial and also the curated soundtrack are both phenomenal.

While you can look at the screen as well as the art style throughout the day, there would be no video game without the screenplay, It's one of the most interesting and also effective element of the game. It's amusing, thoughtful, coherent, and isn't really bore down with needless exposition. That isn't really to say it's excellent; This is the Cops could feel unequal in just how it intends to present the main character. In one instant you're a police chief aiming to make it with the day, and in an additional you're the new John Wayne-- a hot-headed boss leveraging his power to upend rocks that are best left lying. The tonal shift is jarring just because it appears to ignore the way that you wish to be playing Jack Boyd, even when you're choosing a more "bad" character course. Jack eventually loses various sympathy and simply comes to be a jerk, making the game a lot more of a slog. Think of if Han Solo never ever came back to save Luke from being run into the trench wall by his future father-in-law, he would simply be a morally evildoer.

 Now modifications in state of mind as well as growth makes Jack a difficult personality. He is disillusioned and also burnt out by a profession of continuous loss. He has his own ups as well as downs and also many thanks to the story, we're able to process and comprehend these modifications. However, placing that type of heavy characterization right into the hands of the player in a video game such as this, a monitoring simulator, is a harsh duality. Prestige, wealth, power, a clear aware, can you have all of it in that placement without selling yourself out or obtaining everybody around you hidden?

Weappy Studios positions their game in the category of strategy, yet that's tough to extrapolate from having fun, as there's little technique to be found in its apparently never-ending all the time of police shifts. Every day you are set up with either your Shift A or Change B groups of policeman and also detectives. Every day you will send them out on patrol obligations, busting up drug sales, feasible murders, self-destruction attempts, loiterers, public lewdness and a number of various other criminal tasks. The approach depends on sending out particular policemans to specific circumstances. Should you allow a policeman remove the day? Do you allot sources to exterminate someone or silence those outspoken versus you? Do you shed your SWAT group assistance card on a homicide or send them on a defense flight with investigatives?

 The method is incredibly light and more or less boils down to arbitrary opportunity. A bad guy will leave or will not. A private will certainly die or won't. A police will certainly be killed or will not. It's an exceptionally boring cycle of jobs that takes up far too much of the experience in This is the Authorities. Making this aspect also harder to swallow is having many individual decisions making, yet there's little advantage to either completing task in an ethical light or completing them in any way. By the end, those hundreds of options you'll have made will imply little to the personalities occupying Freeburg as well as to Jack Boyd.

It's harsh. We get it. This is the video game nevertheless. Yet too often do you discover yourself: under the problems of staff members, checked out by town hall, penalizeded for not firing all elderly personnel, having enough Asians on the force, not stopping demonstrations with physical violence, the checklist takes place. In reality, this video game doesn't owe the player anything. It shouldn't shuffle the gamer along right into the best power thrill that most experience video games give. It is totally understandable why this game should beat you down, yet it in no chance makes it an extra enjoyable video game to play. When you do have enough polices on hand to send out, you can merely load up all available ports with cops as well as rinse and repeat up until all criminals are caught. Mercifully, they don't make you play through all 180 days as there are time jumps, however the monitoring portion of the game is either fixed or benign to the point that I thought of it as an actual sideline.

 However there is inadequate porting of controls to the gamepad, which has actually tormented console gaming for several years. Offered at all times you'll be spent looking into the map of Freeburg, you'll most certainly ring them in with method. Getting through 180 day period, there are couple of minutes where brand-new mechanics are presented that will definitely bring a frantically needed shot of vigor to the stress. These are much as well couple of and also much also expanded.

Notoriously, Brian Cox's personality in Adaptation provides writers the trick to win over any type of audience: "You can have imperfections, troubles, but wow them in the long run." If you have actually reviewed anything about the COMPUTER launch from back in August, you have actually noted that ends are sadly unfulfilling. After virtually fifteen hrs of choosing, shedding cops, resolving examinations (or otherwise), the video game ends in similar fashions. You're entrusted the Cormac McCarthy "life is rough" design of sendoff. Jack Boyd is sad in the beginning, mad in the middle, and also sad in the long run, This is the Authorities is a hefty video game but there is only lament, as well as who wishes to be depressing for that long?

 In small portions the laborious administration simulator section of This is the Authorities grabs moments, and also these yummy nibbles are best digested in emergency sized supplies. They serve as a feature in separating the tale parts from cleaning over too quickly. However, those stretches-- the three, 4 weeks of patrolling straight, This is the Authorities sags reduced. The story line has intrigue as well as maturity-- and the performances could suffice to get you to the end of the 6 month term, simply make certain to suppress your expectations when it concerns sending out your daily changes. This is especially true when the video game seems to be out to obtain you around every corner. There is plenty to discover in the game, but if you want an outstandingly written as well as performed crime drama you might intend to experience this in a stream, or if some blessed spirit puts one with each other, a supercut. The game portion of This is the Cops just wears its welcome, leaving the best components of a terrific tale at a woeful distance.