#anyways i have more quality!de niro pieces in the works i just wanted to write something a bit shorter

[dollwritesarchive]

[ ᴍɪɴɪ ᴍᴜsɪɴɢs ] can you take me there? ❛ johnny civello

fandom: robert de niro featuring: john “johnny boy” civello x fem!reader   rating: sfw, just a little bit of flirting summary: i decided to start this whole “mini musings” thing for when i want to write one specific scene without a whole plot, and this is one that’s been in my head since i rewatched mean streets. our reader is tempted by a stranger who’s always up to no good. attention: do not repost my works or claim them as yours. feedback and reblogs are essential to me, so please consider letting me know what you think!

you knew it was a bad idea, making eyes at a man you’ve never met, in a sleazy bar that you shouldn’t be in, so far from home and so late at night. you couldn’t help yourself, not when the man in question sat in the corner of the bar, accompanied by two other women, each arm around one shoulder. these girls were vastly different from you, you knew that, but you found yourself envious. envious that they were lucky enough to have his company, while you watched from a sideline. 

to put it simply, you found him beautiful. beautiful in the way that one may find fire beautiful- daunting, and you know that you shouldn’t touch it, but there’s something, a little voice in the back of your head, that whispers for you to try. reach out, and let the flames lick your fingers, what could it hurt? even when you level with your own subconscious, and attempt to convince yourself that you would get burned, the temptation remains. there’s always a what if that comes along with danger, it was the uncertainty that was so sensual and enticing. this man was the same. dark hair, dark eyes, strong features, and a killer smile. only danger can look that good. 

so you sat in a stool at the bar, stirring your cocktail with the straw that you had mostly been chewing on, and your eyes stray from him every so often, but they always find their way home. to watch him laughing, or to follow the movement of his palms if they dipped and grazed a woman’s shoulder or bicep. the jukebox is too loud to hear what they’re saying from where you sit, however, he wears a perma-grin, one that is all too telling of his intentions with these women. 

you’re too caught up in admiring him, gaze dancing over his form, that when your eyes travel the length of him to land upon his countenance again, you see he’s staring right at you. you’ve been caught red handed. while you could’ve played bashful, looked away, and perhaps you should have, you don’t. you’re sucked in by honeyed hues that, even from the distance and against the dim lighting of the bar, have the ability to lock you into a vehement stare. you welcome the eye contact, perfectly content to keep it all night. his expression has changed, what was once an arrogant smirk was now full of curiosity. collecting the lower portion of your tiers between your teeth, it doesn’t halt the spread of a flirtatious smile, but makes it all the more so.

it’s strange, but you swear in this moment, this man can read your mind; he knows just how badly you want to be where those women are, he can feel the attraction, the magnetism. he can hear the pounding of your heart from across the bar the moment he excuses himself from his company, and each step he takes is only making it beat faster. he saunters to you, in a way that a peacock does, fully fanned and on display for you. 

“Well, well,” his voice is, somehow, exactly how you imagine it- a purr like an engine, as he slides into place beside you, resting with one elbow against the bartop so that he may lean against it and face you. “What do we have here, hm? You lost, darlin’?”

it feels as though someone has taken a torch to your cheeks, setting them alight with a telltale blush; you just pray that he can’t see how flustered you are from the reddish lighting that you both bathe in. “Is it that obvious?” you counter, nibbling on the inside of your cheek. “Do I really stick out that much?”

thunderous laughter erupts from him, as if he found the question hilarious. “I’m tellin ya, sweetheart, you stick out like a sore thumb. I gotta ask, what would your daddy think if he found ya in a place like this, hm?” 

your brow quirks, as if challenging, and you take the tip of the straw between your lips, taking a lengthy sip as you ponder the question presented to you. “He’d probably be pissed,” you admit, though there’s a ghost of a smirk against your lips at the idea, and what comes out next. “What daddy doesn’t know wont hurt him, right?”

the man’s eyes seem to twinkle at your words, no doubt impressed. they trail over your features, taking their time to admire your countenance in its entirety, before careening downward. he is shameless in his staring, looking you up and down once, twice, even thrice before he speaks again. “Oh yeah? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

without so much as a moment of hesitation, you tell him, and he repeats it, allowing each syllable to rest on his tongue. after a moment of tasting, he decides to introduce himself. “Johnny Civello. How ‘bout I buy you a drink, huh pretty girl?” 

allowing a giggle to bubble up from your lips, you gesture to the still-full glass that you’re currently nursing, held tightly between your palms. “I’m not finished with this one, Johnny Civello.” you tease, the tip of your tongue darting out to  lick about the excess of alcohol that may still linger on your lower lip. as you do so, you catch his eyes following the movement of your tongue, staring hard at your lips.

“So what?” he counters, although his gaze has yet to leave your mouth. it’s almost intimidating, how he’s gazing at your lips, as if he’s starving, and it seems as though the roles are reversed. this time, you feel as though you can read his mind, and what you see has your blush deepening. “Let me buy you another one.”

you contemplate his offer, though it would be a lot easier to think clearly if his eyes were not glued to your lips. still, he’s tempting. once again, in a way that shouldn’t be. you should level with yourself, convince yourself that he’s no good for you, but that voice in the back of your head is urging you to reach out and touch the flames. “The way you’re staring at my lips makes me think you want to get me drunk, Johnny.” you murmur, both brows raised as your head cocks to the side. you take another sip, and this time you swear his eyes follow the straw all the way into your mouth. it’s unnerving and exciting all at once. 

his own smile widens, and yet he shakes his head. “I’ve got plenty of other ideas about those pretty lips that don’t involve the booze, sweetheart.” he admits, brazen and proud of it. a short nod, and a low and guttural hum has you glancing down at the bartop with a shy giggle. “Oh, yes ma’am, lots of ideas, indeed.”

“You must be trouble,” you reply, peeking up at him from under your brows, as if the angle of your face is somehow meant to deter him from spying the effect he’s had on you. it’s obvious, of course, the way you can’t stop smiling and the heated blush, but you feel a bit safer shrinking away from him at this moment. nudging the end of the straw with your fingertip, you stir your drink, faux-thoughtful. “Only trouble talks like that.”

Johnny doesn’t bother trying to convince you otherwise. in fact, his presumptuous nature is even more apparent as he seems to be flattered at the statement. “I am trouble.” he admits, hand outstretched. the pads of his fingers seek your jaw, trailing along it. they seem to leave mini wildfires in their wake as they caress your skin, and for a moment you lose yourself in the sensation. how nice it is. his forefinger curls beneath your chin and urges it upwards, encouraging you to look up at him again, which you do, and are met with that same, intense eye-lock as before. “But I get the feelin’ that trouble’s what you’re looking for.” your gaze pours into his own, and you know for sure that if you were to hold it much longer, you may be  stranded in the depths of his umber pair for the rest of eternity. what scares you, however, is how willing you are to allow yourself to do so. 

“Maybe you’re right.”

[nicolasdagenais8thousand-blog]

Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver: review

I don’t know what happened between 1973 and 1976 in Martin Scorsese’s life, but he evolved, between Mean Streets and Taxi Driver, from a stylish B-movie director to a stylish genius of cinema, surpassing even his friend and mentor, America’s independent cinema God, John Cassavetes, who famously called Boxcar Bertha, Scorsese’s directorial effort before Mean Streets, a ‘piece of shit’.

Well, 3-4 years later Scorsese was directing one of America’s strangest, scariest and shall I say most truthful films not only of the 70s but of all time (easily blowing Apocalypse Now in any categories of quality - and truly a Vietnam War film too as Robert de Niro’s character is a shell-shocked ex-marine), the Palme d’or winning Taxi Driver, first of many masterpieces for Scorsese, still one of the world’s best film directors to this day.

Well, truly a lot of the credit must go to screen writer turned director Paul Schrader (who also wrote Raging Bull and The Last Temptation of Christ) for creating the character of Travis, the ’taxi driver’, one of cinema’s most enigmatic character, halfway between charming and crazy, a failed assassin turned into a real American hero, and writing some of the best scenes and dialogues of cinema all throughout the film, almost non-stop.

A lot of credits also to the actors (Robert de Niro, already at the top of his game, an excellent Cybill Shepherd as Travis’ quickly unresponsive crush, and a great ensemble cast, including an amazing cameo by Scorsese himself) but Scorsese didn’t direct all those masterpieces by chance and no doubt that his experimental, energetic approach to the camera work and editing was transmitted to his collaborators who often turned out some of their best work when working with him (more recently his collaborations with Leonardo DiCaprio is a good example of that).

As for the camera work and flow of the film, Godard at his best couldn’t have done better: rarely being too expressionistic (though it sometimes is), it really succeeds in putting us in Travis’ head as he progressively loses his mind, complimenting the sort of old school voice-over of Travis reading out his diary (Scorsese would work on that in subsequent films).

I don’t want to go too long on it, that’s the kind of film one can talk about for hours, dissecting it scene by scene, searching for clues in bits of dialogues and costumes or visuals, I leave that to film nerds: to me Travis, as an uneducated American coming back from the war, is just an extreme version of any human being in a state of depression, looking for a solution, not finding it and wanting to take revenge on life and on his own self for it; his plan could have worked, he was lucky to miss and that he was out of bullets at the end, but in the end, he managed to save Iris from a similar fate than his and that seems to be a way to save himself too: in the final scene, whether she’s real or an imagination, Travis seems to have made peace with Betsy and maybe even with himself and the world too or on its way.

Anyway he seems cured from wanting to assassinate any presidential candidate and that’s already a start, isn’t?

[noelmu]

WEEK IN REVIEW 5/14/17-5/20/17

It’s pouring rain outside right now, and Donna’s in London at a conference, so I have to skip what’s become one of my favorite Saturday morning rituals: taking a long walk with my wife. We used to walk with the kids on Saturday mornings, but ever since she hit adolescence Cady Gray has preferred to sleep in, and she was starting to act sullen and snippy whenever we’d wake her up to trudge around Conway for an hour or so. So for about a year now we’ve limited our family walks to a short jaunt after lunch on Sundays and the occasional trip down to the frozen custard place (or the nearby taco place) about a half-mile from our house.

That’s fine though, because we spend a lot of time with our children anyway, and while we also spend a lot of time with each other, there’s a difference between watching TV together (while pausing the show occasionally when we’re reminded of something we read or heard that day) and taking a 90-minute hike. That uninterrupted time gives us a chance to catch up more thoroughly on how things are going for each of us at work, and what the kids are up to, and our thoughts are on the week’s headlines, and what plans we may have for the near future and for the long-term.

It’s also nice just to have someone to share the changing of the seasons with, and to notice the flowers in bloom, the turtles on the creek-bank, the birds perched in the trees, and the ebb and flow of students and parents heading to the UCA campus for some kind of Saturday sporting event, tour, or ceremony. One of the things I love about our little city is that the local government -- working in conjunction with the Chamber of Commerce and the three colleges in Conway -- have really made an effort during the 18 years we’ve lived here to make this place attractive. We have more walking trails and parks than we did back in 1999 when we arrived, and the schools and roads and downtown areas have been much-improved. It’s been a heartening cycle: The town spends money on creating a better quality of life for its citizens, and more people come in from outside, pumping more money into our economy.

i enjoy taking the time to... well, to enjoy all of this. I’ve found as I’ve gotten older that I take less and less for granted. A leisurely walk through a thriving community, friendly folks out with their dogs, an especially pretty tree, a rabbit dashing into the brush, the chirp of birds, and quality time with the person I most want to be with... these are all things to cherish.

Also good: Having a lot of work to do. I had some big pieces run this week, including an essay about how Stanley Kubrick’s style changed but his worldview didn’t over the course of his long career. (The origins of that article are interesting, but I should probably keep them to myself.) I also finished up my Twin Peaks revisit for the NYT with a review of the season two finale and a list of TV subgeneres that the show helped bolster. And I was happy to get to write about one of my favorite subjects -- old industrial/educational films -- for The Verge.

I leave next Friday to go to Disney World with Archer and his high school choir, so I probably won’t have a post here. Then again, I have a 24-hour bus ride to Orlando ahead, so... maybe I will? Either way, thanks for reading and take care of each other.

The Los Angeles Times Movie Review: The details are messy in nonsensical revenge thriller Devil's Domain New In Home Entertainment: Get Out is both social commentary and a scary night at the movies

Musings The Arc Of Stanley Kubrick: From Killer’s Kiss to Eyes Wide Shut by Noel Murray

The New York Times Watching: Ace In The Hole Watching: Army Of Shadows TV Review: In ‘The Wizard of Lies,’ De Niro Excels at Being Madoff TV Review: The Leftovers Season 3, Episode 5: Ship of Fools TV Review: Twin Peaks Season 2, Episode 22: When You See Me Again, It Won’t Be Me Six Types of TV Shows Influenced by Twin Peaks

Rolling Stone TV Review: Fargo Season 3, Episode 5: Sex, Lies and Videotape 

The Verge Navigating the well-curated, deeply weird Sponsored Films online archive

Vulture Master of None Glossary: Every Major Film Reference in Season Two, From A–Z