#arthur shields

[citizenscreen]

Arthur Shields with his older brother Barry Fitzgerald. Both so good!

[letterboxd-loggd]

National Velvet (1944) Clarence Brown

March 18th 2024

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in Irish History | 15 February:

1782 – The first Dungannon Convention of the Ulster Volunteers calls for an independent Irish parliament; Grattan continues to campaign for the same objective. 1793 – A third convention of Dungannon – a gathering of Volunteers from Ulster is held. 1794 – The United Irishmen published a plan for parliamentary reform, advocating universal male suffrage, equal electoral districts and the secret…

[gatutor]

Gloria Talbot-Arthur Shields "La hija del médico y la bestia" (Daughter of dr. Jekyll) 1957, de Edgar G. Ulmer.

[affiches-cinema]

Daughter of Dr. Jekyll, 1957.

[kwebtv]

From the Golden Age of Television

The Mummy's Foot - NBC - February 11, 1949

A presentation of "Your Show Time" Season 1 Episode 4

Hosted by Arthur Shields (The Bookshop Man)

Drama

Running Time: 30 minutes

Stars:

Herbert Anderson as Peter Renault

Peggy Dow as Sylvia

Phyllis Coates as Princess Hermonthis

J. Edward Bromberg as Pharoah Xixouthros

Hank Henry as Amon

This episode marked the first small screen appearance by both Herbert Anderson and Peggy Dow.

[cinevisto32]

¡Qué verde era mi valle! (1941)

[famousdeaths]

Arthur Shields was an Irish actor on television, stage and film.

Link: Arthur Shields

[therileyandkimmyshow]

Podcast Actor Arthur Shields Golden Age of Radio Tribute

[illustratus]

''Then Sir Percivale's sister hung the sheathed sword upon the girdle, and girded it about Galahad's waist'' by William Henry Margetson

[citizenscreen]

Remembering Arthur Shields (February 15 1896 – April 27, 1970)

[letterboxd-loggd]

The River (1951) Jean Renoir

March 16th 2024

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1896 – Birth of stage and film actor, Arthur Shields (younger brother of Barry Fitzgerald), in Portobello, Co Dublin.

While Sean Connolly claimed the unfortunate title of being the first rebel fatality, others were luckier and escaped from Easter Week, 1916 with their lives. For Arthur Shields, his role in the Rising was to become merely an interesting titbit in what was a fascinating career as an actor at home and in the US. Arthur was born into a poor family in Portobello, Dublin in 1896. As one of eight…

[nickfuryagentofsword]

S.H.I.E.L.D. 9 (2015) by Mark Waid & Lee Ferguson

Cover: Arthur Adams (variant)

[amber-laughs]

it’s unlikely lyanna gave birth 10 minutes before ned got there. she probably spent a few unwell days to weeks with jon before she died which means arthur dayne probably rocked jon to sleep a few times while lyanna rested. arthur’s best friend just died and the children he watched grow up now it’s him standing between his friend’s last child and the man who wants to murder them all (jon’s First uncle portraying the role of his father)

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

The new mind welcomes them in easily. His memories catch like paper, burning down to golden embers in a matter of moments. Smoke chokes out his thoughts, and it seems for a moment as though he, like all the other despairing souls they have brought to roost over the centuries, would simply become one with the flame. No more to divide or distinguish. May chaos take the—

—hmm? 

There is a memory here that does not come alight at the merest touch. Its paper-thin edges are damp, somehow, and the heat of the flames cannot seem to dry them. Rather, when they reach out, their own edges sizzle and pop, and they are forced to recoil. 

No matter. Some things are difficult to relinquish, they understand; still, they will aid this ailing soul. They gather themselves, reach forward again—and are… stopped. As though snagged by the back of the collective collar. 

The mind is resisting. 

Not this one, comes a low whisper from the darkness beyond the embers of memory. The rest of them, you can have. Burn them all away, do what you will. But I cannot give this one up. 

The embers of frenzy do not understand. Cannot understand. This memory is etched deep, yes, but it is painful. The flame offers simple and beautiful release. Why would he resist? Why will he not let them take this pain away? 

That would be taking the easy way out. 

Of course. Is that not what he wants? To let go? For things to be easy? They know the outlines of this mind, the defeat that consumes it. It is a mind that welcomed the flames to make their home inside. He called to them. On the edge of life and death he sang to them, and they came for him. Now he would turn them away? 

No. No. He called to them; he is theirs now. They will not abide hesitation. They move to gather their strength again. 

The hands that had caught them intensify. Gather them up and pull them back, heedless of the flames. 

I said, he hisses, no. 

They struggle, now, confused and afraid and at war with their own internality. They cannot be conflicted. They are as one. And yet, and yet—

Yes, it hurts! Of course it damn well hurts! If it didn’t, I wouldn’t care what you did with it! Now he is incensed, voice growing hot to meet their measure. You’ve already gone and burned the rest, haven’t you! 

But not this. His voice softens. They know this tone, soaked in sorrow and guilt. Usually it catches quick as oil. But now, once again, their flame is stifled, as if tossing water on the pyre. I’m the only one left who remembers this. I might be the only one left who remembers her at all, at this point. If I let go… no. No. I will carry this with me as long as I live, and I will not let you take it. 

Now. 

Get the fuck out of my head. 

He pushes them down. Things solidify around them. Sights and sounds that they cannot make sense of in the scarce few moments before—his hands break the surface of the water and they are being smothered. 

They are in a basin and the water is all around them and they cannot evaporate it quicker than it eats away at them. They kick and writhe and snap and crackle and still they drown. 

Under the hissing sounds of their dying flames, they think, for a moment, they hear the faint notes of a piano. And then they hear nothing at all. 

—

With the scraping of metal against rock, the body stirs. 

“Ah,” purrs a low voice, “hello, friend. I was starting to get concerned when you—“ 

“What the fuck,” the other man gasps, as if he hadn’t even spoken. He lurches to a sitting position and his hands fly up to his face. The source of the metal scraping becomes immediately clear. “What—the fuck, why is it so fucking hot in here–“  

“Slow down a moment, you—“ 

“Fucking get it off!” His hands scrabble at the edges of the iron mask encasing his head. It was clearly not made to be easily removed. “Too—fucking hot. Fuck. Off.” 

“Stop that!” the other voice snaps, the remainder of the soothing hum draining out of it entirely. “You’re going to break your neck if you keep that up—“ 

“Then stop talking and fucking help me!” He’s gasping for breath, and starting to sway in a concerning manner. "I can't– I–"

“There’s a knife!” Finally, he says something that gets him to actually stop and listen. Slightly calmer, he continues, “There’s a knife next to your left hand. You should be able to use it to pry the mask off. Other left. No—for fuck’s sake be careful, try not to stab yourself—“ 

“You do it, if you’re so concerned,” he mutters, too focused on the task to even think about the retort much. Finally he manages to find the seam that holds the mask together, and gasps again, this time in relief, as it clatters to the ground in two pieces. 

The interior of the mask is warped, as if from extreme heat. The other voice decides not to point this out. 

“Fuck, that’s better. Okay. Give me a second.” He lies back down on the ground, enjoying the chill of the stone. “Wh… hah. Right. Perhaps we ought to… start over? …Friend?” 

“Oh, so you did hear me the first time.” 

“Yes. I was just—a bit preoccupied thinking I was going to suffocate in—whatever the hell that was, on my face. So. Sorry.” 

“It looks like a prisoner’s mask,” he offers. “Why you’re wearing it, I’m not entirely sure, since this doesn’t look like a prison.” 

“Yes, where are we, anyhow?” He blinks at the wall, debating the benefits of trying to get up. “And—who are you? And… how can you see our surroundings when I can’t?” 

“I… don’t know.” 

“Ah. Which… which question are you answering, there?” 

There’s a pause, and then a resigned sigh. “…All of them.”