#and starburster is kind of corny like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miseryff · 5 years ago

Text

19. Sit Down

Paris

My weekend spent in Houston,TX was nothing short of litty! Besides the no having sex due to my period, I spent a wonderful three days with Derrick. Now I was back in Long Island and I can not say that I missed the towns that much. It was minutes to noon on Sunday and the only thing on my mind was getting some sleep because I had to go back to work tomorrow.

Damn, this adulting shit had no pause button.

“Where’s your lil boyfriend at, London Paris?” I rolled my eyes at my dad, and only sipped on my bottled water as we awaited Derrick’s arrival. My dad orchestrated the whole gathering with my mother. The plan was to have Derrick and I have a Sunday brunch so that they could get more acquainted with him. I honestly do not know why they want to be familiar with Derrick so badly. I mean its not like he would be coming around them that often anyways. I was still in the hot seat for flying to Houston against my parent’s wishes though, so I had to play nice and agree to this sit down.

“Chris, leave her alone.” That was my mom coming to my rescue, for once. I side eyed her just as the door bell rang. She must have got some dick last night because she’s been extra kind to me since I pulled up to the crib earlier this morning. I motioned to get the door but my big ass, dinosaur ass pops was already sprinting down the hall. I fake chuckled before looking over at my mom. She was already staring at me, being all weird. “Ma, you gucci?”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I mean you being fake nice for some reason. Dad dropped some dick off last--”

“Paris, stop. I am not one of your lil ho friends. Don’t talk to me like that.” I could not hold in my laughter as I looked into her guilty eyes. She was trying so hard to keep her face neutral but shawty was blushing OD. “Ewww, yall need to get back together already--”

“The man of the hour is here!” My sentence was cut short by my father’s extra boisterous voice. I looked over into the doorway and there stood Derrick, looking even more sexy than he did a couple hours ago when he dropped me off at home. He went to his aunt’s house to fake nap and freshen up, since he had about two hours before he needed to be back at my house. This man looked like an advertisement for raw sex and I wanted him. Damn, I wonder I could suck him--

“Paris, hello? You not gonn introduce ya man to my fine ass baby moms? Fine, I’ll do it myself. Lil rude ass.” I blinked a few times before leveling my eyes from the front of Derrick’s grey dress pants, and meeting my father’s eyes. I heard Derrick chuckle as he and my father walked more into the kitchen. “Clean ya mind, ma” Derrick mumbled as he brushed past me lightly.

I could hear Derrick and my mom getting acquainted, so I used this time to pull my dad to the side to set some shit straight. “Yo...”

“Who you yo-ing, lil girl? Run that shit back.” I made the stank face as I watched him undo the wrapper from a yellow Starburst. But I’m the lil girl? “What, Paris? Speak up.”

“Can you not embarrass me today in front of my nigga? You do that a lot and I’m not with it the shits. I don’t even wanna be here for this bullshit mixer brunch, so--”

“When do I ever embarrass you, Paris? You do that job perfectly well by yourself’ like when you lied about entering a rehab program for the weekend, only to have ya smart ass daddy pop up on ya baecation.” He showed me the yellow Starburst in his mouth before pulling me into a hug when I turned to walk away. “Dadddd...”

“Hush up and hug me back. I ain’t gonn embarrass you, aight?. I can tell you like this kid and he aight so far, so ima be on my best behavior.” Those words placed a tiny smile on my lips so I wrapped him back tightly, snickering when he started whining. “Old ass nigga! I heard a couple bones crack.”

“Fuck outta here, bum!” He pushed me away from him a little too roughly and I caught my balance before punching him in the chest. “Yeaa, talk yo shit now gramps.” I went to punch his bird chest again but my mom saved his slow, tired ass.

“Can yall beasts stop playing in my kitchen? Lets sit and eat before the food gets cold. Waiting on Derrick’s turtle ass all morning and shit.” The loudest laugh left my lips and I walked over to Derrick who was wearing the ‘I ate ass’ face. “Ma, don’t shade my baby. Do you see how he looks? His fine ass had--”

“Yuck.” That was my hating ass pops. “Cmon man, lemme save you from this thirst bucket I call a daughter.” He rudely pushed me out the way and dropped his arm over Derrick’s shoulder as they walked out the kitchen. My jaw hit the floor once I heard the two roar in laughter. It was then my mom’s laughing that forced me to tear my eyes from the two. “Ya dad has a man crush Mondaaayy” she sang as she walked around my frozen body.

“His gay ass!”

Brunch went... well?

We actually ate and there was no shit that popped off. My dad was on his best behavior, as promised, minus the corny attempts to make Derrick laugh. I never thought I would agree with my mom’s opinion ever but she was right, Dad had a MCM... and it was my nigga.

“I fake wish Cae and Carter was here. I gave them money for the mall because I thought it would be a shit show.” I joked as I watched my mom gather up the plates from the table. I would get up and help her but that’s what my lazy ass pops was for. “Really? I was wondering why they was dressed and speeding out the door. They bout to spend off ya money in that mall.” My mom chucked lightly as she continued to stack the plates.

“Dad, go help mom bring the dishes to the kitchen and leave my nigga alone. He can not and will not hook you up on the Js dropping next week. Fuck outta here.”

“Paris, shut ya ass up. Now like I was saying--”

“Chris, I need help for real. Fuck dem shoes.” Derrick and I shared a laugh as we watched my mom staredown my pops. “Really, Alana? You think that glaring shit still work on me?”

No more words came from my moms mouth. The room would have been silent but Derrick and I were being goofy as shit and laughing like a bunch of school girls. Maybe another minute of my mom staring down my pops passed, before we heard his chair scrape against the wooden floors. “Simp ass nigga” I coughed loudly. “Damn, some shit was stuck in my throat.”

Can yall believe my grown ass pops sent me the middle finger? “And one for you too, Derrick. To think I had an ally in this bitch. That’s when they smile in my face...” He sand off key as he followed my mom out of the dining room. More laughter filled the living room and I had to wipe underneath my eye with my tank top because my dad was really a dickhead. Wow.

“Ya pops funny as shit.” Derrick chuckled some more, and then made a face when I pulled him out his seat by his arm. “Where we--”

“Shut up, and hurry up.” I whispered as I ushered him out of the dining room and down the hallway. I could hear my parents conversing in the kitchen and loud laughter as I started up the staircase. “Where we going, Paris?”

“To my room, Derrick. Now shut up.” The slap that was sent to my ass did nothing but make me more wet than I already was. Do yall know how hard it was to sit across from this sexy ass nigga and not be able to feel his dick down my throat? Shiiiidddd.

Once we entered my bedroom I turned the lock and pushed him up against the door. “I’m bout to suck fire out ya dick, just in case you was about to ask me what I’m doing.” I winked at him before dropping to my knees and working on his dress pants. His dick print was pressed up against his pants and I knew his dick wanted nothing more than to find refuge in my mouth.

He said nothing, only took a grip of my jet black hair and guided my head to his already hard dick. Opening my mouth slowly, I deep throat his shit in one try, and felt a feeling of accomplishment once I heard his low grunts.

Oh yea, he’s mine.

Derrick

Paris is crazy.

I don’t remember the last time I did this high school shit; where a shawty snuck me up to her bedroom to get the work. Then again, she just left high school last year so it made sense. My bottom lip sunk into my mouth as I watched her get busy on my dick. I can’t lie, Paris gave the best head I have ever had in my life. Its like she was a pro at this shit and she was tryna suck the brown off my dick. I loved it.

“You like how my dick taste?” I spoke lowly as I tightened my grip on her straight black hair. Paris as a blondie was fire, no debate, But Paris with the jet black hair? Lets just say my dick was never on soft around her. She got it. “I love how your shit tastes. This my shit.” That was another thing I loved about Paris. The raw, NYC lingo. She spoke like a crip nigga but looked like a Hampton socialite. That was a fire ass mix.

Before I knew it both of my hands were are the back on her head and I was face fucking the shit out of her. And best believe mama kept up. No hands, on some Waka Flocka shit. “Yea, this yo shit.” Pulling her back by her hair, I watched as my dick slid out her mouth. “Open up,” a smile touched my lips as I watched her follow my every direction. It did something to me watching her welcome my spit into her mouth. After she licked her lips, she took my dick back into her mouth and finished me off. Pulling her up to stand, I pressed my lips to hers before switching places.

She was now laying with her chest against the door and I quickly pulled her black leggings down her legs. “Im still on my period, babe.”

“I know...” I mumbled as I searched for the condom in my wallet, As soon as I was wrapped up, I hiked her leg up and slid into her wetness with ease. “Fuckk,” we cursed at the same time.

“You better fuck the shit out of me. And make me cum.”

Oh yea, she mine.

1 note · View note

abdifarah · 6 years ago

Text

Hotel Pennsylvania

Central Pennsylvania is weird. Homeowners string confederates flags as nonchalantly as Christmas lights. My mom, who moved to Central Pennsylvania against my protests, lives about ten miles from Spring Grove, PA, which we have to drive through whenever we visit my Aunt Darlene and Uncle Kenny right below the Pennsylvania–Maryland line. Spring Grove is a cruel joke of a name as the town perpetually smells of rancid cabbage. The smell emanates from the Glatfelter Paper Mill at the heart of the town. All the shops and services in the town either bear the Glatfelter name or use some corny paper pun in their signage. The old brick row homes that line Main Street have porches but no one sits on them. If you do see someone on the street they have an exhausted expression well beyond their years, perhaps from too many cigarettes, or possibly from years of hopelessly working at the paper mill. A cloud – both literal and spiritual – hangs over Spring Grove.

But there is another kind of small town in Central Pennsylvania. All the companies in this town are higher tech with little pollution to diffuse the sun. Power washed brick houses with immaculately manicured lawns line the small streets of Lititz, Pennsylvania. Voted the Best Small Town in America by AARP, every block has either an ice cream stand, or a guitar shop, or a quaint bed and breakfast. On any summer afternoon the sidewalks and streets are filled with happy people. Kids in their bathing suits weave through older pedestrians on Razor scooters. Fit and fresh faced adults in Tevas and Birkenstocks walk dogs, and still active older couples in Brooks Brothers hold hands while taking an evening stroll. It's the kind of town that takes the Fourth of July very seriously. Year round every house has the same 4 x 6 foot American flag fixed at the same 45 degree angle from a post of the white painted porches that wrap each facade, so as to clear up any confusion with one’s neighbor. “Oh, you’re American? I’m American too! What are the chances?” But around the Fourth somehow more American flags appear. They break out those pleated half-circle numbers with the concentric red, white, and blue ring with the star in the middle, and drape them over their porch railings. Little old ladies plant entire fields of miniature flags in public green spaces, in memory of fallen soldiers. (When exactly did the 4th of July merge with Memorial Day? Let there be no question, Lititz, Pennsylvania loves the troops. In Lititz the 4th alone cannot contain the fireworks, but anytime for about a week before and after you can expect to hear a random boom and see a starburst of red white or blue sparks in the sky.

Unlike Spring Grove, Lititz is thriving, bolstered by a constellation of steady companies offering both good paying blue collar work as well as more tech driven white collar jobs. There is a Rolex factory here. Lititz is what I assume Trump supporters envision when they pray Make America Great Again. Surprisingly, despite the overt patriotism and trappings of Americana, Lititz is not Trump Country. The cute coffee shops and overpriced bistros are populated by salt and pepper haired businessmen pissed that Trump’s steel tariffs are cutting into the bottom line, as well as woke college kids home for summer break shedding genuine tears over the separation of immigrant families at the border. Turns out a lot of white folks despise Trump as much if not more than us various minorities.

Despite the friendly faces and preponderance of liberal allies, my skin still crawls in this still uber-white small town. I am usually the only brown person in sight and while the eyes are kind I do feel all eyes on me wherever I go. I imagine walking into a dark divey bar in depressed Spring Grove and the proverbial record screeches and some grisled bartender asks acerbically, “What are you doing here!?” In Lititz the look on peoples’ faces asks the same “What are you doing here?” without the coldness, but rather with concern or surprise, as if to ask “Are you lost?” “How did you stumble upon our white oasis?” I come to Lititz regularly for work as a subcontractor for one of the big companies fueling the prosperity of Lititz, a company called Tait Towers. Most people will never hear about Tait Towers but they are ubiquitous. If you have gone to a big arena concert in the last 30 years you have seen their work, as they are the foremost supplier of decking and stage equipment for rock and pop concert tours. Anything sleek and shiny and automated that adorned the stage of that last concert you attended was probably Tait. I get called in when they are working on something a little weirder, handmade, idiosyncratic. Over the years assisting Tait’s in-house Scenic Department, we have built a gold vinyl wrapped tiger and lion for Katy Perry, sculpted a 30 foot jungle Tree for Britney Spears, and created an ice crystal themed stage for Lady Gaga. Turns out the ladies of pop like hand made props to counteract their synthesized sound, for which me and my bank account are grateful. It's not the most avantgarde work, but the pay is decent. They put me up in hotel while I am there. For a while I had Hilton Diamond Status after a particularly long five month stay designing and building an inflatable tree for Cirque du Soleil’s Avatar themed show, Toruk. Strangely, I get asked to make a lot of trees.

This past Saturday I was leaving the local laundromat. My hotel has a washer and dryer but I still jump at any opportunity show my black face in town and mix it up with the townspeople. However awkward, I am a glutton for punishment. As I was turning the corner out of the laundromat parking lot I almost shocked myself into an accident as I witnessed a Chinese family on their porch within a row of houses. Where had these people been during those homogeneous 4th of July celebrations or during those awkward evenings I spent at the bar of the Bull’s Head, a local tavern? I suspected that there was a whole unseen community of minorities in Lititz. I remembered the handful of other black and brown people that worked at Tait. Why had I not seen this more diverse crowd during my daily coffee runs to the local bakery, Dosie Dough, or out walking their dogs or playing with their children in the evening? It seemed that the other people of color went to work, did their job, and immediately jetted home as soon as the day was done. Also, a lot of them probably chose to forego small town living in favor of the more urban Lancaster, Pennsylvania about seven miles south of Lititz.

After a few weeks in Lititz, I too found myself retreating to my hotel room after the work day. Should I go out for dinner for a little more ambiance or grab a drink at the bar with its potential for conversation. The pessimistic belief that I would be the only black person and the sole vessel to absorb the awkward stares proved exhausting. I would instead microwave an Amy’s Mexican casserole bowl for dinner and catch up on the last season of The Americans. At some point myself and the other people of color of Lititz made an unspoken pact with the white people of this sleepy town that we would do our jobs and go home immediately in order to perpetuate the belief that this was one of those ideal small towns, the kind that could be voted Best Small Town in America. When I imagine the best small town in America sadly I do not see a Chinese family, black welders, or even myself.

After years of coming to work with Tait I can confidently say that I hate classic rock. Tait is all about classic rock. The founder, Michael Tait, an Australian expat, got his start building stages for the band Yes in the 60’s. As an independent artist, my short stints with Tait represent my only times working in a real workplace with set hours. For years the shop was haunted by an omnipresent Muzak system that played classic rock incessantly. Everyday at around 4pm the Eagles’ “Hotel California”, a song written by Satan himself, would torment us. Working 10 to 12 to 14 hour days to meet a deadline, 4 o’ clock was our witching hour; too late in the day to bring any new energy or insights to the project, much too early to begin cleaning up for the day. The lyrics, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave” taunted me, less because of their spot on description of my current predicament but more because they’re just stupid. Hearing the same “classic” songs day after day I realized the utter mediocrity of classic rock as whole. Just competently melodic enough to be easy to listen to, unlike say punk or metal (both far superior). Lyrically the stories ranged from completely meaningless, to embarrassingly infantile, to undeniably problematic. Somehow we decided that this was the American music, over jazz, blues, funk, and r&b. Classic rock will be playing on the space shuttle we board after we successfully destroy earth and it will be playing on whatever outpost we establish on the faraway planet we colonize.

Currently, I am working on a set of nine sculptures of Elton John that will array the proscenium arch above the stage for his upcoming tour. Overall, I enjoy this work. At least it is not another tree. And as far as pop music goes I dig Elton John’s music more than some of the other pop stars for whom I have made art. However, at the end of a long day sculpting his strange bulbous nose and thin lips for the seventh, eighth or ninth time I begin to sour a bit on Sir Elton. Elton John is 73 years old (probably older since, like most performers, I assume he gave a younger age when he started out) and we are building a stage for him for a projected three year tour that will net him millions of dollars. How many black artists or other musicians of color are still relevant and can sell out arenas into their 60’s and 70’s? Maybe Stevie Wonder? I can easily name 20 white (male) musicians. We already mentioned Elton John; how about Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon, The Rolling Stones, The Eagles, The Who, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bon Jovi, Eric Clapton, Rod Stewart, Aerosmith, Sting, Ozzy Osbourne, Jimmy Buffett? I can keep going. Were these giants of rock undeniably better than their female contemporaries or artists of color working at the same time so as to secure an undying career into infinity?

I read in an article years ago detailing some of the financial troubles of T-Boz and Chilli of TLC, that they did not have much money coming in outside of the $1200 royalty check they received monthly. TLC was a group notoriously mistreated and shortchanged by their management and record labels yet they still had $1200 a month in royalties arriving like clockwork. I can barely begin to fathom what a group like the Rolling Stones receives in regular royalties. At any moment a Rolling Stones song plays somewhere on this blue planet. I hypothesize that the proliferation of classic rock around the world may be the biggest form of white welfare. According to the website, Inside Philanthropy, Jimmy Buffett is worth $550 million. He has one terrible song that he has somehow parlayed into a fortune! He is then free to spread that money among various causes or toward organizations like the NRA. Or take rock and roll’s running joke that the Rolling Stones, despite their hard living are somehow, immortal. While humorous and perplexing we all know the reason for these artist’s longevity. Being wanted, having work to do, being asked to perform, and the monetary and emotional support they afford sustains one’s life. I cannot help but feel that the melancholy that we collectively share when a giant of black music dies – Prince a few years back and Aretha Franklin most recently – stems from the understanding that despite their great fame and success their talent deserved more. They deserved Rolling Stones level treatment. Is there a better rock and roll song that Franklin’s “Respect” or “Chain of Fools?” I should have been in Lititz making nine life-size sculptures of Aretha Franklin and not Elton John.

The last time I arrived at Tait to work on a project I noticed the absence of the Muzak system. Every department now controlled their own music. Sometimes someone plays from their Spotify or Apple Music or we just put on the radio. Much to my chagrin and confusion, somehow the Freddy Kruger of classic rock continues to haunt me even with my mostly young coworkers choosing the music. Someone will mindlessly put on the “Beatles Radio” on Pandora, or WXPN, a Philly radio station, will have a “Throwback Thursday” traversing the entire discography of the Rolling Stones. One day during WXPN’s regular offerings (usually a mix of new rock with a few eclectic curve balls thrown every now and then) Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover’s “This is America” came on (I too am surprised by the ubiquity of this song as I viewed it less as something to casually listen to and more as the multi-level artwork that I was initially presented with through its graphic video. But alas, the song bumps). Almost instinctively, without prompt, fanfare, or commotion one of my coworkers changed the channel. After hours of absorbing banal rock something mysterious sparked a station change. I tried to put this incident out of my mind. Soon after someone put on an Itunes 80’s playlist. Somehow 80’s music has come to mean “White 80’s”; Culture Club, Billy Idol, and all that other Breakfast Club, Top Gun, Say Anything music, completely omitting black acts, save titans like Michael Jackson and Prince. Surprisingly, a Janet Jackson song slipped onto this mostly vanilla playlist, but almost as soon as I started bouncing my shoulders and popping my neck along with Jackson’s “Pleasure Principle” someone calmly put down their tools, walked to the computer and skipped to the next song!

I work with genuinely good people. The same liberal minded white people that I would overhear furiously denouncing Trump in the coffee shop. But there was something unconsciously disturbing about a black voice coming out of the office speakers, and conversely something calming and reassuring about A-Ha’s “Take On Me,” which restored the stasis after Janet’s interruption. Was the promulgation of classic rock and other culturally white genres part of some conspiracy to entrench whiteness as the default and everything else an aberration? The truth was probably less insidious and more banal, but no less effective. Sometimes I’ll muster the courage to take over DJ duties and I will attempt to put on a more colorful station or playlist, but even I find myself squirming with embarrassment if a particular black song plays. I am conscious that, unlike those classic rock songs that we all know to the point of no longer hearing them, every word of an unfamiliar song from an unfamiliar voice conspicuously grabs the attention and appears in bold text before ones eyes, complete with a bouncing ball keeping place. This can become awkward when, say, Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me” comes on during a 90’s Jams Playlist. I want a freak in the morning/ A freak in the evening, just like me/ I need a roughneck nigga/ That can satisfy me. Why should a song that boldly expresses black female sexuality be awkward for me? I listen to plenty of songs all day that foreground white male sexuality: AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” or Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy.” Or why should a rap song with explicit lyrics put the room in a frenzy? Eric Clapton literally has a song called, “Cocaine.”

White supremacy resides not only within the purview of avowed white supremacists; that resident of Spring Grove or Dover with truck nuts hanging off his gun metal grey Ford Raptor with the giant confederate flag waving. We are all complicit. The MAGA white supremacist is not the only one lying to themselves about America’s past. The liberal resident of Lititz is as well. So am I. Somewhere we all believed the wonderfully illustrative mid-century American propaganda that America was a white family behind a white picket fence and that everyone else is just borrowing space, when in reality people from all ethnic backgrounds have shared this country since day one. And to be more factual there was a time on this land mass before white people; before genocide, theft, and slavery. Us people of color need to combat this as well. We may be mathematical minorities, but we are not new here. We are not the cousin crashing on the couch, lying awake and hungry, afraid to go to the kitchen and make food, so as not to disturb the owners of the house. We need to not be ashamed of our music, our existence. We need to show up and be seen; at those corny 4th of July celebrations and especially at the voting booth, reminding all onlookers that we are just as American. Only then might we all imagine a more diverse picture when we think of the Best Small Town in America, and only then might I be freed from the hell of “Hotel California” playing on my radio into eternity.

#music #aretha franklin #elton john #pennsylvania #america #rocknroll

3 notes · View notes

recentanimenews · 8 years ago

Text

FEATURE: Sword Art Online: Ordinal Scale Review

Spoiler Warning for the entirety of Sword Art Online: Ordinal Scale.

Some movies are made for a single moment.

For Sword Art Online: Ordinal Scale, that moment is when Yui appears in the middle of the film's final battle—a showdown with the boss of the Aincrad Castle's Floor 100—bringing with her all of Kirito and Asuna's friends from stories past. There's a swell of music (the tune's called "let's join swords," and it's a remix of the franchise's most memorable track, "swordland"), and suddenly we see the silhouettes of Kirito's iconic dual blade against the backlighting. Along with back-up, Yui returns to Kirito and Asuna their appearances and weapons from the original Sword Art Online game, and the entire group explodes into frenetic action that carries through until final moment of the battle.

If you have even a shred of fondness for Sword Art Online as a franchise, particularly the Aincrad arc, this moment alone is worth seeing Ordinal Scale for. It's the moment the entire film drives toward, a rush of near-euphoric glee enough to make me scream with delight under my breath in the theater. It's been five years since the first season of Sword Art Online began airing and nearly three since SAO II ended, so it feels like we've been without new Sword Art Online long enough for it to feel like an event of the past (despite the continual chatter following the show since then). This, in turn, gives us enough space from the early days of Sword Art Online, the time when it truly felt new, that Ordinal Scale can actually get away with remembering Aincrad, both as an motion within the film itself and outside it with the fans.

I walk into my local showing of Ordinal Scale about 30 minutes before the film began, wondering what kind of crowd I'm going to see. An awkward pass in front of the screen looking for a seat later, I'm reassured that this won't be like some of my other anime filmgoing experiences, as the crowd is substantial—and boisterous. Occasional laughs about the "super easy" quiz questions rotating on the screen pepper the dull buzz of conversation; I hear one girl mutter "Must get" to herself with a vengeance upon seeing an ad for the recently released SAO mobile phone game. And although less interested in the welcome messages from LiSA, Haruka Tomatsu (Asuna), and Yoshitsugu Matsuoka (Kirito) before the film begins, by the final corny slow-motion fist pump from Matsuoka, a genuine cheer finally emerges from the crowd before giving way to silence and the movie's opening moments.

Whatever else was true of my company for Ordinal Scale, one thing was certain: these people were fans of Sword Art Online. And that was good, because this movie—all else aside—is for fans of Sword Art Online.

I'm no stranger to being a fan of things generally, but as a fan of Sword Art Online (it was one of the first anime I watched once I'd finally figured out what "anime" was and decided I wanted more) it was delightful to see Ordinal Scale speaking a language only those who care about this franchise—warts and all—can understand. In the moment when we see Starburst Stream unleashed once again or Yuuki's spirit embracing Asuna as the Mother's Rosario Sword Skill appears in a burst of purple lights, the film clearly, unavoidably asks but one thing of its audience: "Remember. Because if you remember how you felt when you watched Sword Art Online, this is for you."

So, that's the fanservice angle, but what's really neat about Ordinal Scale is that it pulls this metatextual conversation with its fans into the actual text of the film itself. The primary conflict in Ordinal Scale is, at its most basic level, one dealing with the importance of memories—specifically those of Aincrad. Memories that are immeasurably painful for some and bittersweet for others. One of Sword Art Online's ongoing themes has been a question of the validity and value of virtual experiences (although this idea's traced an admittedly inconsistent arc throughout the franchise's various stories), and so Ordinal Scale putting Asuna's memories of her time in Sword Art Online (the game) on the line aligns it strongly with this tradition—and, by the end of the film, doubles down on the Aincrad arc's very serious affirmation of the worth of such experiences.

So when Ordinal Scale instructs the audience to dig into their own memories, it marries the meaningfulness of the fan's memory to those that Kirito, Asuna, and their friends hold dear. Whether or not the memories were all good or all bad matters little—rather, the key is that they mean something to them (and, ultimately, carry tangible weight in the real world as well). In some ways this parallels the fan act of immersing yourself in a show, finishing it, and then fondly carrying on the memories of your time in the world with you as you move on with your life—possibly even allowing them to affect who you are as a person. Of course, it's not like this kind of unity between fanservice and themes is anything new, but it's certainly enjoyable to experience it with Ordinal Scale if, like me, you do carry some measure of affection for SAO.

This kind of textual/audience resonance aside, as a film for fans, Sword Art Online: Ordinal Scale succeeds because it reaches for and achieves a single peak of unadulterated fan joy. It can be watched, thought of, and loved purely in these terms. That single shot of Kirito once again becoming the Black Swordsman who saved Aincrad justifies the entire movie. It was the only thing the film needed to do.

On the other hand, there are still 2+ hours of film that aren't that moment, I think it's still necessary that I note that on the whole Ordinal Scale is a surprisingly detached movie. While Ordinal Scale is certainly a more restrained, mature take on the world of SAO, at the same times it feels like it looses some of its charm in the attempt to present itself this way. The crisper, flatter character designs lend themselves less to diverse facial expressions than the more cartoony and moe designs from the TV series, and when paired with the lack of interesting character acting animation, the vividness of these characters had in the TV series finds itself drowning somewhat in the darker, grittier, colder world of augmented reality. It's without a doubt satisfying to see Kirito and Asuna looking and behaving like the young adults preparing to head off to college that they are, but I can't help but feel that the overall effect is one that makes the whole film feel rather cool in a way that lacks the passionate spirit of Kirito's over-the-top video game coolness from the TV series.

There's also a disappointing lack of immediacy in film's cinematography, which relies heavily on long shots that place the characters in large backgrounds and distance them from the camera. Director Tomohiko Ito and his friend Takahiro Shikama shared storyboarding duties for the film [1], and both have proven to be excellent at the task in past works like the Sword Art Online and ERASED, but the direction in Ordinal Scale is depressingly lifeless outside of the more dynamic action scenes, completely lacking the engaging energy of the TV series. One scene that's emblematic of this problem occurs midway through the film. Following Yuuna, Kirito finds himself on a bridge in the virtual world and talks with her. Framed with a long shot, we can only see the barest outline of each character's face, and even as Yoshitsugu Matsuoka's voice rises along with Kirito's frustration, all we see is Kirito walking in a basic cycle across the bridge towards Yuuna. The direction completely sucks the power out of the encounter—a frustrating pattern that recurs throughout the movie.

Happily, the story and script have a bit more of a spark to them, although the former is disconnected and the latter somewhat inane. It's fortunate that the key to the story of Ordinal Scale is, basically, that for the first time since Aincrad we finally have Asuna and Kirito's relationship back in the spotlight. Despite many battles that frankly don't always feel like they have actual stakes and the script's amusing failed attempts portraying friendly banter between Kirito and Asuna's group of friends (someone says something vaguely amusing, the rest of the group gently laughs), it's the promise that our two heroes made back on the 28th floor that holds it all together. If the final boss battle is the film's justification for existing, then it's Kirito and Asuna seeing the stars together at the film's end (and having their kiss interrupted by Yui lol) that validates the story.

Which, really, is just to say that Sword Art Online: Ordinal Scale is, at heart, Sword Art Online—a sometimes bumbling, sometimes ineffective, impossibly dorky, and charming invention with nothing but the best of intentions. SAO being SAO, this was never going to be a perfectly crafted movie—but it captures so many of the charms of the franchise whilst also avoiding nearly all of its most aggravating faults. It may be a few dozen minutes longer than it needs to be, undercut its own the drama by putting off the twists until near the end of the film, and lack the personality-driven dialogue that could really have made its characters come to life on the big screen, but it's still trying to be good and succeeding just often enough that I can't find it in my heart to ignore those efforts.

And, again: Yui appears, the Black Swordsman and Lighting Flash Asuna return. That was everything. And it was glorious.

[1] Thanks to Canipa from the Canipa Effect for making available his list of the full animation staff for the film. Be sure to check out his video breaking down the film's staff and the paths they took to this movie.

-----

Isaac eases his compulsive need to write about anime on his blog, Mage in a Barrel. He also sometimes hangs out on Tumblr, where he mainly posts his drawing practice as he seeks to become a renowned idol and robot fanartist. You can follow him on Twitter at @iblessall or on Facebook.

By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

0 notes