#both films end in tragedy but there's still a sense of hope somewhere in there

[the-goat-carnival]

can well-written shows please stop ending on tragedy before a hiatus? i’m literally sitting here with a box of barbecue wings in front of me that i can’t eat because that tragic sulemio breakup has twisted my stomach up in knots.

[trucoop]

Less head canony but what is ur ideal trucoop timeline?? - for instance: canon, lodge dodge, etc etc

This is a GREAT question that gave me a lot to think about, thanks Chester!! :) I love each of them for their own reasons, tbh. Canon, including The Return and the additional books, is amazing for some intense gay tragedy. But, I can't help but view a bit of a timeline split at different points during canon (e.g. between series, and with the supplementary books, and so on) because of the divergences in like... the stories that were planned to be told versus the ones that were actually told, and the huge volume of different writers across the series, books, and so on. I'm hoping that makes sense, I'm struggling to articulate it properly!

The series was cancelled prematurely (obvs) so there's a whole lot of the original plot that went untold - first it was gonna be in the form of further seasons, then it was gonna be as films (like FWWM), but obviously ultimately the rest of the story was altered to fit with The Return, when it eventually came out. With that in mind, I kind of view the timeline splitting at the end of season 2, and The Return telling a story that happens in one universe, but not all of them, and the story kind of... Carrying on somewhere, unseen. To me, that's where the Lodge Dodge timeline comes in, and I've gotta say, I'm a Big Softie so I like the idea of the Lodge Dodge very much lmao, even though The Return timeline had some really interesting stories to tell.

I especially like a Lodge Dodge AU where Dale still goes into the Lodge, but the circumstances are different on entering or leaving - even if he doesn't get out properly. I just legit can't believe that no one, not even like Harry or Hawk or anyone else, wouldn't realise that something was fucked up when Dale's doppelganger left and would just... Let him run off like that. It's out of character! It's unrealistic! It pisses me off! lmao. It just feels *convenient* to the plot that they'd let Dale run off like that and I hate writing that happens just because it's convenient to the story, it feels super lazy to me.

TL;DR they both have their own merits, both in terms of shipping and otherwise, but I prefer the Lodge Dodge, for a whole host of reasons - particularly around keeping consistent characterisation etc.

[bettsfic]

Hi Betts, hoping for your guidance if you have the time. No pressure really. But my course will be focusing quite a bit on Shakespeare for the rest of this year. Do you have any advice for someone who isn’t really a writer on how to understand Shakespeare better? Have you read much of it? How did you tackle understanding the language? Is it just reading a lot more of it and looking up words? I struggle getting through one play, but is it just pushing through it? Resources you found helpful?

i feel like i’ve been waiting my whole life for this question. 

i’m feral for shakespeare. i have a hamlet tattoo. i have an unfortunate number of monologues memorized on the off-chance someone at some point goes “hey does anyone know any good monologues?” and i can be all “TO BE OR FUCKING NOT TO BE, BITCHES” or “ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH DEAR FRIENDS, ONCE FUCKING MORE.” i have an actual literal lecture on how richard ii is a greedy glamazon bitch, and an outline for an article on how lady macbeth can teach us everything we need to know about sympathy in fiction.

like many people, high school made me despise shakespeare. i can’t tell if it was the simple coercion of being forced to read things, period, or that we were made to treat everything so seriously, and expected to understand the use of language as if it were like anything else we were reading. 

then when i was 23ish, i got obsessed with doctor who, which led me to david tennant’s filmography, and david tennant happens to have done really a lot of shakespeare. when i geared up to watch his hamlet, however, i thought, i want to read this first, so i can see how different it is from my perception of it.

cue me surreptitiously scrolling through the wikisource version of hamlet while pretending to listen to conference calls at work. i think that helped, making it something i wasn’t allowed to do. it made reading feel like an indulgence. 

free of the constraints of “i’m going to have to write a five-paragraph essay about this when i’m done,” i began to read very casually, only trying to understand what was going on and not trying to find any profound meaning in it. 

in doing that, i realized i was actually doing it correctly. these are plays, meant to be performed on a stage, to entertain, immerse, and evoke feeling. you’re supposed to be sad at the end of tragedies and happy at the end of comedies. however, reading the plays is a far different experience than watching them, and in many ways more of a challenge.

you can’t read a play, especially a shakespeare play, like a book. prose and poetry both lend themselves to crafting intentional images. the entire thing exists to be and only be read. but plays and scripts are just one piece of a much larger puzzle, involving directors and actors and costume designers and set designers. bringing a play to life is a team effort. when you’re reading, you’re only seeing the skeleton of the story. it’s like reading a guidebook for a vacation destination. you can get the gist of it but only truly know a place by going there.

you can’t read shakespeare as a reader. you have to read as a director. you have to envision each actor, and after every line, decide where they are standing on stage, how they deliver their line, and what happens between each line. shakespeare gives almost no stage direction, so you have a lot of creative license in interpretation.

another thing to remember is that shakespeare is first and foremost a rhetorician. he wanted his words to be memorable and beautiful, to persuade and delight. if he wanted to be understood simply, he would have written simply. but instead, he uses 17 lines where 1 would have sufficed. it’s helpful, after every line, to consciously ask yourself, “what has just been said?” and very often the answer is simple. a yes or a no, i agree or disagree, or even sometimes banal statements.

consider hamlet’s “to be or not to be.” he goes on and on and on, but he’s really just being the “guess i’ll just die” meme. in the comedies, shakespeare often uses this effect as a joke. one character will go on and on, and another character gives a simple and curt and blunt reply, and depending on the delivery, it’s hilarious. 

you’re not supposed to love hamlet, or richard ii, or macbeth, or any other character. the tragedies are train wrecks that make you go “i get why you’re doing this but you need to Stop.” the comedies are similar, in that the characters sometimes make you go “you are being so fucking stupid.” it’s the sense of irony, the “i know what’s right in this situation but you don’t” that creates a huge amount of engagement. we’re always bracing ourselves for what comes next.

so here’s how i recommend reading shakespeare:

pick a play, and pick a version or two to watch afterward. here’s a really great list of productions. personally, i’d stick to ones where you’re familiar with the actors, which heightens the engagement. 

before you start reading, consciously cast each character, using actors you really like. or, instead of actors, you can cast your favorite characters as if they were in an AU version of your current fandom. reading shakespeare as fanfic is a speedy way of ensuring your emotional investment.

pull up the wikipedia plot summary of the play to have on hand while you read. every few pages or so, line your reading up with the summary to make sure you’ve caught onto what’s been happening.

as you read, direct the actors you’ve chosen. how do they deliver the line? sometimes this takes a few tries. you can’t let your eyes move left to right across the page and just expect to miraculously understand it as if it were prose. you have to puzzle it out.

if you’re really stuck on something, pull up the spark notes version. there’s no shame in that. if you compare with spark notes enough, you begin to get a sense of the language and begin to need it less and less.

when you’re done, order a pizza, pour a glass of wine, and watch your chosen production version. delight in already understanding what’s happening, figure out where you might have been wrong or confused, and revel in the places you were right. 

watch another production and see how your version, the last version, and this version all differ. 

if you get all the way to this point and you’re not utterly in love, i don’t know what to tell you. i think i watched wyndham theater’s much ado over a hundred times. rsc’s hamlet probably just as much. i have yet to watch or read a single play i didn’t at least appreciate. i’m one of the few people who even enjoys titus andronicus. 

shakespeare takes a lot of energy, but it’s worth it. once you get a feel for the strings he pulls and how he pulls them, it’s like opening a door to a whole other world. you see clips of phrases from this play or that, understand subtle references, and see how his influence exists in nearly everything. you can use his characters and plots and dynamics in all your own work. you can reach backward to see his own influences in greek plays, and forward to see his influences throughout all of literature. it’s amazing, not just who he was, but how his plays are still both so beautiful and so human. 

i’ve skipped over rhetoric, craft, the sonnets, and a few other things that i really enjoy about shakespeare, but those are probably topics for another time. if you’re looking for somewhere to start, i highly recommend much ado about nothing, particularly the wyndham 2009 production with david tennant and catherine tate which is genuinely one of the funniest things i’ve ever watched. it’s fun to compare it to the 1994 kenneth branaugh film and then rage against whedon’s 2013 travesty. 

best of luck in your shakespearean pursuit!

[ariainstars]

Ben Solo - A Sad Star Wars Story

Warning: longer post. (And possibly, a few unpopular opinions.)

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a start: I’m not here to say I like how the sequels ended with Episode IX, in particular the way they handled their protagonist.

It sucked, to say the least.

I am writing this because looking back now, I can hardly imagine how the authors could have wrapped up the sequel trilogy with the happy ending we expected.

Let’s start with that word: happy. Honestly, did anyone want Ben to be “happy” with what Rey has become? I did expect her to fall down the rabbit hole. We repeatedly have witnessed how aggressive and judgmental she is; and by all logic, she had to meet her own Dark Side in order to realize that she has no right to judge the man she first knew as Kylo Ren. The moment I heard Palpatine’s evil laugh in the first trailer, I figured he had come to pursue Rey, not him. Unfortunately, her moment of shock was short and she hardly learned from it; if anything, since Luke sent her right back into the battle. This scene may have been what fanbros expected from Luke, but honestly, it was ridiculous. It did not fit to The Last Jedi’s Luke and it did not do Rey any favor.

And: had Ben emerged victoriously, found his happy ending, how would the title “The Rise of Skywalker” be justified? He is a Skywalker by blood, but in fact he is a Solo.

  Wrapping Up the Saga

The sequels were received with mixed feelings from the start. Fans of old were angry at The Force Awakens since it seemed to say that history was repeating itself; that the heroes or the original trilogy had brought down the Empire but not managed to preserve peace. We saw them separated from one another as they once had been, disillusioned and worn out. Not the mention the wasp’s nest that was raised by The Last Jedi! If the Prequel Trilogy dismantled the illusion that the Jedi were perfect, the Sequel Trilogy definitively does the same with the Skywalker family. Both messages are clear for everyone to see, provided one is ready and willing to see them.

If Star Wars is a tale with a moral - and given its approach and the fact that it was handed over by Lucas to Disney of all studios it is - then the authors are trying since the 80ies to teach our minds to a compassionate approach on both villains and heroes. One of the main reasons why many fans dislike the prequels is that they expected to see the Jedi and Anakin / Vader being cool; they felt let down by witnessing the Jedi’s narrow-mindedness and Anakin’s strong emotionality. The affronted reactions to The Last Jedi were on the same line of thought. The prequels showed that the Jedi were not the good guys, and for the observant viewer this is already clear enough in the original trilogy. But it was only with The Last Jedi that the elephant in the room was finally approached.

Through Rey, The Rise of Skywalker makes clear that wanting to be a Jedi does not entail actual heroism but the conviction of being a hero. And Rey’s dyad in the Force, the tragic figure of Ben Solo, warns about the dangers coming from a child and teenager no one believed in as a person because everybody only saw his powerful potential.

The Jedi’s Failure

Neither Luke nor Anakin nor Rey needed the Jedi in order to become heroes. They already were good-hearted, brave and idealistic when we first met them. The Jedi ways did not make any of them happy; they learned to use their powers and employed them for short-lived “victories”, but they never found lasting peace.

Not a few fans have wondered how Luke Skywalker, who believed in his father despite all, could give up on his nephew that fatal night (even if it was only a moment of panic). Simply put: as strong and mature as he is by the time of Return of the Jedi, Luke suffers from a father trauma, and he desperately wishes for Vader to become Anakin again, his father, who used to be a hero. When he asks Vader to leave and come with him, it is not out of pure idealism but also a personal request. But Luke did not need his nephew. The moment he had at the temple was a personal issue, it had little to do with Ben’s strength in the Force or his status as Luke’s model student: Luke was afraid that Ben would be the end of everything he loved. Luke, Leia and Han were thrown together by a trauma bonding; Ben had no place with them because he hadn’t been through the same.

The actual tragedy in Ben Solo’s life was the bitter realization, over and over, that he was not needed by anyone (except for being abused, e.g. by Snoke). Ben desired Rey even before he had met her because she was powerful but unexperienced, and he hoped to find sense and belonging by protecting and instructing her. No wonder Rey’s rejection in the Throne Room drove him out of his mind with rage: it was another confirmation of what he had experienced all his life - that people can do without him. So he decided, bitterly and sullenly, that he could do without others as well. But over and over, he had to realize that he could not escape his want for connection. He kept hunting for Rey; and he was very conflicted both when it came to his father and his uncle, letting on that he did have an emotional connection with both of them although he didn’t want to accept it.

Ben’s tragedy was that he did not want to be special at all, and that contrarily to his uncle and grandfather he was aware of it. Ben simply wanted to belong somewhere.

It is an intrinsic part of the saga that a hero is never a hero “because he is superior to others for… reasons”: Star Wars does not bow to that cliché. Some people are born with the capacity to tap into the Force, but not all of the saga’s heroes have it. The morally good qualities a person has, the right decisions they make are not inborn but passed on, learned, communicated. In A New Hope Luke was saved by Han, to whom he had offered companionship and set an example by trying to save Leia. In Return of the Jedi Vader was won over by his son’s loyalty and sacrifice. For an average action film hero, this kind of attitude or outcome of his adventures would be unacceptable: a hero is expected to be triumphant, not saved by someone else. And I know enough fans who don’t understand Luke and prefer Han or Vader to him, who are both cooler and more predictable.

In film, where characters need to be introduced to the audience within the scope of minutes, narratives are applied in a way that the general audience gets them quickly. The downside is that this goes at the expense of nuances. Fans don’t like to see Anakin being passionate and stormy because as Darth Vader he was coded as brutal but cool; they don’t get Obi-Wan’s many mistakes because he was coded as a hero, or Yoda’s arrogance due to his status as a wise old mentor. The sequels brought this dichotomy to a new level coding Rey as the heroine although she has a bad attitude and comes from bad blood, and Ben Solo as the villain when his attitude is conflicted at worst, and who is the offspring of the original story’s heroes. The difference lies in their intentions - hers are good, his are bad. This is interesting because it makes us, the audience, question ourselves as to how and why we believe we can tell good from evil.

You could probably say into a megaphone that the Jedi are not the good guys who always win, that the Force is not a superpower belonging only to the Jedi and that there is no simple Dark and Light but that the Force needs balance: some viewers will never get it. I guess everybody feels the saga’s subtext on a subconscious level; but woe betide if someone like Rian Johnson brings it up to the surface for everyone to see.

  Narrative Key

One of the main reasons why The Last Jedi is so divisive is, I think, that its major theme connecting all of the others is communication. While the prequels told much about miscommunication or lack thereof, Episode VIII is packed full of beautiful examples of what happens when people actually manage to communicate; and even when they do not, they learn from their misunderstanding one another (e.g. Poe with Admiral Holdo).

It is a common but major mistake not to question the narrative key to a story. Many Star Wars fans believe the story is simply about the good guys defeating the bad guys, so they overlook the deeper themes of the saga and respond with outrage when the authors try to humanize their heroes, bringing them down from their alleged pedestal. It is e.g. helpful to know Joseph Campbell’s monomyth theory; to consider that a film saga is not the same as a TV show and that therefore if the characters go through changes these must be significant from one instalment to the next due to the time limitations; to watch a few films by Akira Kurosawa, in particular The Hidden Fortress, to understand the significance of a major event seen through different eyes; or consider the prequels’ parallels with legends, classic literature, or the Bible - Lucifer’s fall, Romeo and Juliet, the tales of King Arthur. Star Wars is a conglomeration of many narratives, from Western films to the Japanese to French fairy tales to Greek mythology to Shakespearean drama. Who approaches these films expecting mere “action” is bound to be disappointed. It is understandable, however, that if you are used to certain kinds of stories, you will assume that every story should basically follow the same lines, and you will have difficulties accepting anything that is different, or believe it’s just badly made.

I still remember the (sometimes vicious) quarrels I followed in an online forum a few years ago about a Japanese mecha anime who some fans by hook or crook wanted to fit into the structure of a French novel. Of course, those two narratives don’t fit together: no wonder most of the other fans didn’t accept that kind of interpretation.

The Phantom of the Opera’s film version of 2004 was largely a failure both with regard to quality and audience appreciation because it made a tacky Byronic romance of a story that actually is a mystery thriller, probably expecting that it would be more appealing that way. What the filmmakers accomplished was making the story flat and the characters annoying by stripping them of the drama behind the original story.

Filming Rebecca’s film version from 1940 Hitchcock managed the transition excellently maintaining the storyline of the original novel; but Daphne duMaurier’s book is a coming-of-age story, and who expects a crime thriller may feel irritated by the narrators’ meandering and detailed inner monologue.

Game of Thrones also could not culminate in “all’s well that ends well”. The last season was not well-made, but I think now that was not the whole reason behind the audience’s disappointment. The show always was very crude and included loads of horrific events; even the worst victims of the war, who seemed to have a justification for their actions and seemed well-meaning, at times did terrible things. It would be a misfit to apply a happy ending to a “sex and violence” narrative as with another martial epic, like Aeneid and Iliad. Who waits for happy endings ought to avoid this kind of story from the start. (Yes, I know, I should listen to my own advice - had I imagined how depressing Rogue One is, Star Wars fan or not, I would probably have skipped it.)

Stories of this kind can be dissatisfying because as an audience, we follow our heroes’ adventures, sometimes for years, and we usually want to see them to find their happiness in the end. But in all honesty: we should have imagined.

That is why I think it was naïve to believe that the sequel trilogy would lead Ben to a happy ending with Rey. I have read more than one fanfiction which irritated me at first, until I realized that they were told on the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey, or Pride and Prejudice. That may work well for a fanfiction, but Star Wars is not a mere romance. Even if there was a hint of the overture to Romeo and Juliet during the abduction: couples based on that trope are not destined to end well. I myself was hoping for a happy ending due to the fact that the saga’s rights were in the hands of Disney of all production companies; and giving that the Skywalker family is one of the most famous in pop culture, I was certain they wouldn’t wipe them out. However I was not quite sure how they would do that and make it convincing, and I was wary when it came to the assumption (which many Reylo’s took for granted) that the love between Rey and Ben would be strong enough to save the galaxy and give them a happy ever after.

When a guy is introduced by murdering a defenseless old man, letting an entire village be wiped out with practiced ease, going on with torturing another guy both physically and mentally and climaxing with the horrible crime of patricide, one can hardly expect a happy ever after for him; even less since so very little was explained in terms of his childhood and adolescence. Some viewers identified with Ben Solo and saw his abandonment and abuse issues; many others didn’t, and none of the sequel films really thematized them. That he made peace with his parents and died to save the girl he loved is sufficient for a convincing redemption arc, not to offer him a happy closure.

  The Trope That Comes Closest

There were a lot of speculations with regard to the trope Ben (Kylo) and Rey were actually modelled on. Romeo and Juliet, Hades and Persephone, Pride and Prejudice or Beauty and the Beast, and there were probably more. Rian Johnson is known for loving The Phantom of the Opera more than any other musical. I don’t think that’s coincidental.

- The phantom is disfigured by birth, Ben is extremely powerful by birth; and Ben also gets disfigured by Rey during their duel. (Vader’s sunken, charred face under the mask was, for a long time, how I imagined the phantom unmasked by the way.) - The phantom is highly intelligent and has huge musical talent. Ben was born with a strong power in the Force. - Both wear masks and look much less threatening without them. They also wear a cloak, and black clothes. - The phantom had committed terrible crimes both to protect himself and to punish a world which would not accept him. Sounds familiar? - In the musical we do not get to know how he became a ruthless monster in the first place. Ditto. - The phantom dies (or disappears, in the musical) because only the girl knew that he was lonely and unhappy and that he still had goodness inside him. She had forgiven him, but the rest of the world wouldn’t have believed her or forgiven him.

Both Kylo Ren and the Phantom are creatures who are at the same time terrible and wonderful. The normal world, populated by average people, cannot accept them because they are both too fascinating and too terrifying. In order to find lasting fulfilment, Ben ought to have found back to humanness. The phantom couldn’t due to his disfigurement and his criminal past; and though Ben loses the scar on his face, the Cain’s mark of the patricide he committed, his deed and his former status as Supreme Leader of the First Order never would have been forgotten.

“Yet in his eyes all the sadness of the world Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore…” Christine in The Phantom of the Opera (on the rooftop)

  Heroes: Dynamic and Static Characters

A general rule of storytelling is differentiating between dynamic and static (also called “impact”) characters. A static character is like an anchor for others: while they live through crises, learning and maturing, this character always remains his old self and always stands for the same values. He may be misunderstood, opposed and belittled, he may lose the battle, but never the war; and after having helped others through their troubles, he usually is on his own. (Cue: cowboy riding into the sunset.)

Superman stands for peace and justice, Jack Sparrow for freedom, Peter Pan for the innocence of childhood, Paddington for faith in people’s goodness. No wonder they are so popular: it is familiar and reassuring to follow the adventures of someone who is always like a rock in a storm. Static characters are in essence childlike, two-dimensional; which is probably why our child self easily gets attached to them and may be outraged at the idea of them changing, or maybe (gasp) being wrong about something.

But George Lucas developed his saga along the lines of personal growth, and by exploring its themes: thankfully, otherwise it would have become as boring and repetitive as so many other franchises. To continue a story you can either make it dynamic, or press the repeat button over and over. The Skywalker men with their strong emotionality may be unusual heroes, but much more interesting than other, “cooler” guys whose actions are more or less foreseeable. So, I can understand the Disney studio’s choices. On the other hand, it is not surprising when fans of old get angry when their supposedly unalterably perfect heroes make mistakes: everybody wants to know that some things (or persons) never change. Even if on the long run, change might be for the better.

I think one of the sequels’ most important messages was that the Skywalker-Organa-Solo family failed their heir precisely because their mindset did not change. Ben grew up in another world than they did; obsolete political structures, dictatorship or rebellions did not matter to him. But his family wanted him to adhere to the ideals that had gotten them through the war against the Empire, discouraging him from searching and finding his own place in the world, a world that now was very different both from the old Republic and the Empire.

Whether a static or dynamic character is more relatable to the audience is a personal matter. Many fans adore Darth Vader, Leia and Han Solo etc. precisely for the fact that basically they always remain their old selves. Padmé also is a favorite, probably due to the fact that she does not change considerably. Anakin changes a lot, which is perceived as a sign of weakness. Some fans may relate more to Luke, who undergoes serious trials and emerges from them stronger and wiser, far away from the greenhorn he was in A New Hope. And yet Luke’s final decision to throw his weapon away before Palpatine is often perceived as weird to this day. It’s not “heroic”.

The outraged fans who ranted at Luke’s portrayal in The Last Jedi did not realize that Luke was doing something both Obi-Wan and Yoda, or the other Jedi for that matter, never had done: he took responsibility for his actions. In this context Ben was the audience’s self-insert, he was as appalled at Luke’s misstep as we were. Such a blow is enough to send someone on a lonely island to meditate about his mistakes for years, convinced that the world is better without him.

But for the action film audience, that is not acceptable. If you have a light sabre and the Force (an alleged superpower), what do you need responsibility for? You can’t do wrong if you’re the hero, right? Luke also was the only character from the original trilogy who underwent character growth, which makes it all the more ironic that the many, many critics who tear the sequels to pieces are fuming at how Luke could be so “defiled”. Luke grew beyond the person he had been in A New Hope; these fans obviously did not. Which is why the studios thought they had to produce The Rise of Skywalker in order to “appease” them and to give them the Luke Skywalker they wanted.

  Where Does the Galaxy Go From Here?

A conversation between my husband and me, about a year before The Rise of Skywalker came out.

Me: “I hope Ben Solo will survive at the end of the trilogy.” Him: “I do hope that, too. But they won’t give him a happy ending.” Me: “Why?” Him: “He killed his own father.”

I hate to admit it, but he was right. I’m not aware what ethics code is under use in the film industry now, but in any case, the horrible crime of patricide was done; even if it was under coercion, the son traumatized by it, and it ultimately brought him back to redemption. You can’t make a patricide, the former right hand and for a time leader of a terrorist organization a hero and give him a happy ending; in particular when you are Disney of all film studios. (Not to mention that he killed Han Solo, a very popular character.) And from exchanges with other viewers I am aware that many do not understand how Ben killed Han under Snoke’s coercion, and the implications that led him to kill Snoke: they believe he simply did it because it’s something an evil, power-hungry person will do.

Ben dying without anyone knowing that he was not a villain at heart and worse, leaving the fates of the galaxy in the hands of a young woman whom we often saw giving in to evil influences again and again within the scope of minutes was a dangerous turn. If he was but “a child in a mask”, Rey is a child who believes to be a Jedi. How is Rey supposed to be a heroine, with the other half of her soul gone? She and Ben fitted together perfectly because she had the good intentions but a violent attitude, while his intentions were bad but his attitude desperately conflicted because inherently good. Rey came from evil blood but was kind-hearted because she believed in her parent’s love. Ben was the heir of a family of heroes but did not feel loved by them, which made him lonely and bitter. What good is Rey on her own, even more so when at the end of Episode IX she deliberately leaves her friends and goes to a literal desert? The little girl inside of her is still starving for connection, and neither being a Jedi nor a “Skywalker” will appease her. She had to meet Luke to realize that he was a good man but still just a man; a lesson she didn’t quite internalize yet. The sequel trilogy wasn’t her story because her personality hardly developed. It was Ben who went through hell and back.

Films (and film sagas) have a determined length and as a film studio you need time to explore all themes, which in Star Wars are quite complex. The worst mistake I found with Episode IX was that it broke the Campbellian monomyth in favor of a Marvel type B-movie to appease the fans of old who had hated The Last Jedi. Which is understandable from their point of view, but went at the expense of quality. The Rise of Skywalker may have quenched the fire a little, but as a film, it’s frankly forgettable, and compared to the other films from the saga, I doubt that it will age well. Had the sequel trilogy continued Rian Johnson’s approach instead of putting a band-aid on The Last Jedi, it would have been good enough to make a cultural impact the way the classics did. If the sequel trilogy was meant to follow The Hero’s Journey, no one completed it: Ben died and Rey went into exile, and no one brought any kind of elixir or salvation into the world.

All of this is not to say that I have grown to like The Rise of Skywalker and that I am not disappointed about the ending, or no longer sad about Ben Solo’s death. I hope that the next trilogy will give him a second chance: I am still convinced that his ultimate fate should have been to bring lasting Balance to the Force. If I am wrong and his existence practically cancelled the past without improving anything, the whole saga loses its sense. I think that by now he atoned more than enough for his sins.

When I learned that Rian Johnson had negotiated his own trilogy after The Last Jedi, I remember wondering what it would be about. After all, almost everything had been said about the Skywalker saga, hadn’t it?

It hadn’t. I had naively assumed that like with Episodes III and VI, the final revelations were preserved for Episode IX. By now it seems to me like The Rise of Skywalker is meant as an appetizer for the next sequel. It can’t be that the studios unlearned how to make good films in so short a time after The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi, also considering that everything else they made about Star Wars in between (Rogue One, Solo, The Mandalorian) is solid work and not by a long shot as flat as Episode IX.

The studios assuredly will keep their secrets as long as they can. The Mandalorian was met with huge expectations, yet nobody knew about Baby Yoda before the first episode was aired. Due to their depth and love for details, Star Wars films can be watched and discussed over and over, and the message regarding the necessity of Balance is still widely unknown or not accepted by the fans. If this is supposed to be not only an entertaining but also an educational tale, authors must give new fans room to get to know the saga, and old fans time to let the new ideas sink in. Lucas and his collaborators have taken decades trying to teach us that morals are not black and white. But still when The Last Jedi came out, the message was utterly hated.

Whatever Johnson’s trilogy will be about, it can’t be a part of the Skywalker saga any more: they are all dead. Even if Ben is brought back somehow, he is a Solo, so this time it would be the story of his own family. The Skywalker saga was basically Anakin’s, and by reconciling with a Palpatine and giving his life to save the woman he loved his grandson ultimately made up for his sins. The Last Jedi was a bold move; but what are “bold moves” supposed to be good for if they are not followed through? Apart from the fact that the sequels weren’t even exactly bold but drawing sums from what we already could see in original trilogy and prequels about the Jedi and the old Republic.

  Family Is the Key

Star Wars is a family tale. It is for families and it is about families. One of the most frustrating things about The Rise of Skywalker was, for me, that the “new” heroes didn’t make any kind of home or family of their own; and a Star Wars film or series never works without a father figure at its heart. I am sure Ben Solo was ultimately meant to be a father figure; the sequels couldn’t work without even giving him the chance to be one. Anakin and Luke both founded a family - one through marriage, the other befriending many different people. The third generation did not even get a chance either way.

“I believe that you are redeemed by your children.” George Lucas

In Star Wars, children always have to pay for their parent’s sins, and only they can make them atone. Which makes it all the more tragic that Ben is not a father; by this logic, only his child could have saved him, or an adopted one. On seeing the enslaved children of Canto Bight, of whom one is Force-sensitive, I was convinced that the sequels would be the children’s trilogy. (I might have accepted Ben dying had he saved and left them with Rey, who also is an abandoned child and so would have found a meaningful task.)

What the galaxy needs most are not heroes but people. Heroes exist to save desperate situations; lasting peace can only be made by normal people. With Luke becoming a hero in the original trilogy and Anakin a villain in the prequels, I was expecting Ben to find back to humanness. Since we have another trilogy to look forward to, I do still hope Ben will get another chance and this time he will find his happiness; but I also believe that he will have a long way to go before that. By the end of The Rise of Skywalker he is a hero, but in order to be happy he would need to learn how to be fully human, realigning both sides of his personality and healing the gap between them (the way Anakin couldn’t). And you don’t learn how to embrace your humanness quickly after having lost it within the scope of years and years. Ben wanted Rey because she was the only person in the galaxy with whom he could be completely honest. But being human also entails bonding with other people, not only with one’s significant other.

Ben tried to pull off the “bad guy” role and failed because it’s not in his nature. A lot of fans see him as a loser, because whether good or evil, a male protagonist is supposed to be always unfazed. The gentle, nurturing and emphatic personality that comes out in Ben when he is balanced is not that of a warmonger but of a peacekeeper: I see nothing inacceptable or emasculating in that. Unfortunately, who has Luke, Anakin or Han as blueprints for “real” men, won’t accept someone like Ben Solo. I hope that in time, he will be more appreciated, and that his life story will be a warning both for the audience and for the saga itself, i.e. that it is more to the point not to punish a criminal but to prevent him from becoming that way in the first place. Which brings us again to the topic of children and a better way to raise them, Force-sensitive or not.

Rey and Ben both are children with unhealed wounds. Their brief moment of harmony during the Force connection on Ahch-To was so powerful because both were speaking to each other’s inner child: Ben saying to Rey that she was not alone, Rey offering Ben an understanding he had not known before. Padmé also always saw in Anakin the good little boy she had first met; one of the reasons of the unbalance in their relationship was that he felt powerless to do something for her in return.

I think that the sequel trilogy of the Skywalkers wanted to tell us is that even if you save the whole galaxy, it’s not sufficient if afterwards you can’t support and protect your own offspring. When we met Han, Leia and Luke again, their personalities were pretty much as we left them; their mistake in handling Ben can’t have been something they actually did to him, the blunder must lie somewhere in their attitude. All three of them were traumatized by cruelly losing or never having known a healthy family life, so we must assume that after the war against the Empire, they tried to build a new world that would fit to their needs. But if adults build a home, they must do so thinking first and foremost not of themselves but of the ones who need it more than them. Children shape the future, not a victory of “good” over “evil”. And I find it interesting that the codebreaker DJ, who had such a pragmatic view of war, was also someone we met on Canto Bight, like the children. He was a traitor, but as everyone in the saga, even he had a point when he said that ultimately, wars are useless because they always flare up again.

“Good, bad, made-up words. You blow them up today, they blow you up tomorrow.” DJ in The Last Jedi

The last scene of The Last Jedi showed us a Force-sensitive boy sweeping an open space before looking up at the sky and dreaming about being a Jedi. I still believe that this scene’s meaning was “Clear the stage, it’s time for us - the children.”

The Jedi, respectively Force-sensitive creatures, must find new and better ways if they want to be advocates for peace and justice. No institution can claim to have a moral standard if it does not protect, nurture and encourage their most vulnerable and needful members, i.e. the children. Watching the prequels it is shocking to follow how the intelligent, brave and affectionate child Anakin could become the most hated man in the galaxy, crushed in the powerplay between the “good but narrow-minded guys” and the “bad but not always wrong” guys. Both his and his grandson’s dark fate could have been avoided, had it not been for the Jedi mentality based upon the conviction of having the right to destroy everything that does not (or does not seem) to line up with them.

The Star Wars saga told us over and over that power is not what it takes. The Jedi lost the Clone Wars; Vader was a lonely, bitter guy (not to mention Palpatine); Kylo had all the power his grandfather never had and it did him no good. Anakin, Han and Ben all were loved most by their women when they were at their weakest. And this brings me back to what I stated above: stories can be interpreted in different ways, but what about the message the author actually wanted to convey? If I am not getting it all wrong, it’s that compassion and not power is the key to everything good.

Episode VII and IX mirror one another, only VIII hints at a possible balance. Star Wars has a cyclical narrative; Anakin / Vader had his happiest moments and successes in his youth, while his grandson in his own youth hit rock bottom and committed his worst sins. If Kylo Ren’s destiny, as per Adam Driver’s words, is supposed to be the opposite of Darth Vader’s, how can The Rise of Skywalker really be the ultimate ending for him?

  P.S. What do you think, could baby Yoda and Ben meet? Then Obi-Wan and Yoda would be together again in a new way. P.P.S I would also like to see the Force, for once. I’m sure it’s not black and white at all. How about a rainbow? (Does anyone have Rian Johnson’s e-mail…? 😊) P. P.P.S. On the other hand, if the next film starts with Rey being pregnant and not knowing how, I might be sick… ☹

[carewyncromwell]

Whew! Three drawings for the price of one for the POTC AU! The first two feature our new Pirate King Jules Farrier-Weasley @cursebreakerfarrier (flanked by Jacob “Black Jack” Cromwell Roberts and Orion Amari), and Cutler Beckett (flanked by Carewyn Cromwell “Carey Weasley” and Patricia Rakepick). The last one features the human form of our Davy Jones, Finn McGarry @theguythatdraws, with his One True Love Chiara Dalma, A.K.A. Calypso! These took a while, but they were fun to do, so I hope you like them.

Jules’s “tunic” is actually the same chemise she cut up while she was still on board the Artemis, as seen in a doodle on a previous post. Carewyn’s new uniform (which we’ll address in this part) is based on yet another of James Norrington’s costumes, this time the one he wears in the third Pirates film. Unlike the character whose role she roughly fills, though, Carey isn’t going to die unceremoniously in the middle of the damn story after getting this costume change. (Why no, I’m not bitter about the fact that Jack Davenport didn’t get more screentime and that Norrington didn’t get to be the Javert to Captain Jack Sparrow’s Valjean in the sequels the way he so could’ve been after the first movie, why would you think that? *snort*)

Now that we’re getting more into the Davy Jones/Calypso stuff, I can acknowledge how much I’ve changed from the original films’ depictions of the characters, as well as why. Personally I find the characters’ relationship to be a bit toxic and not as romantic as it should be. Calypso, being a goddess, could very easily not understand things like the passage of time through a man’s eyes, but the excuse she gives for why she wasn’t there to support her lover after all of the hard and lonely work he’d put in for her after ten years is just “it’s who I am.” I get that she’s a manifestation of the sea and not something you can pin down and all that jazz, but at the same time, it was cruel to follow her own selfish whims over considering her lover’s feelings. She presumably then also didn’t even try following up with Jones after he returned to the sea, as they aren’t able to sort out that misunderstanding before the events of At World’s End. (I mean, she’s a shape-shifting goddess of the sea, and she made him that way in the first place, so it’s not like she couldn’t have met him somewhere that wasn’t dry land.) I understand Jones couldn’t expect her to change her nature, and that’s fair, but it doesn’t make me like Calypso very much or feel much of anything for her relationship with Jones. And on the flip side, Jones decides to take out his pain at this misunderstanding (which he really should’ve tried clearing up AGES before the events of At World’s End) on his lover in the most spiteful, vindictive way -- teaching a bunch of pirates how to trap an immortal goddess into a mortal body that definitely has none of the power innate to her, presumably feels pain, and could even age or die. Rather than trying to quit the job Calypso gave him or even trying to figure out what happened, he decides to clip the wings of the woman he supposedly loves, all due to his own pain at being betrayed. So I don’t feel much for Jones as a character and for his relationship with Calypso either. In the end, when they quasi-make up, I didn’t think it was earned or that it was a good outcome for either of them. I do think there’s some tragedy in the situation, for they clearly feel deeply for each other, but their romance is really dysfunctional in my opinion, and I think it could’ve been handled a lot better if you wanted to make the pairing as romantic as the theme Hans Zimmer wrote for it. (As a side, take a listen to this lovely lyric cover someone wrote for the Davy Jones theme, it’s so good!) This is part of why I like being able to write Chia and Finn (the Calypso and Jones analogues in this AU) with a more sympathetic backstory, as well as some organic development for both them and their relationship while they’re apart from each other, which I kind of think was lacking in Tia Dalma/Calypso in particular.

Previous part is here, whole tag is here, and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn was perturbed by how fast an armada of ships from Port Royal caught up with the Flying Dutchman, once Rakepick had Jones send one of his cursed crew members with a message for Beckett. It was as though the head of the East India Trading Company had been waiting in eager anticipation of the Dutchman locating Shipwreck Cove ever since he gave her and Rakepick the mission in the first place.

Among the armada was the Clearwater, and Carewyn was shocked and a little happy to see Percy crossing over to the Dutchman from his ship and leaping off the gangplank to greet her. The youngest of the three Weasley brothers who’d joined the Navy gave her a salute for formalities’ sake, but he couldn’t keep the relieved smile off his face.

“Commodore Weasley,” he said formally.

“Captain Weasley,” said Carewyn in return.

As soon as they’d greeted each other, both of them loosened considerably. Carewyn opened her arms and brought Percy into a rather mannish hug, clapping his back the way Bill often did whenever he hugged his brothers.

“Jones’s men treated you well, I hope?” Percy murmured under his breath, his voice betraying some cold suspicion despite himself.

“Well enough,” Carewyn said softly.

When they broke apart, Percy was smiling a bit more fully. 

“It is good to see you, Carey,” he said, his faintly pompous voice nonetheless incredibly sincere, “though I’m afraid I’ll have my own ship to run now...”

Carewyn smiled proudly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. A Commodore needs a talented Captain in his fleet.”

‘I know how long you’ve dreamed of moving up the ranks. Even if the Navy isn’t what it should be...I’m glad that you’re living your dream, Percy.’

Percy’s brown eyes softened, clearly touched. Before he could say anything, however, a familiar, aloof voice interrupted him.

"A Commodore does indeed need a talented Captain...”

Both Weasleys turned to Cutler Beckett as he stepped down onto the deck of the Dutchman beside them. His small eyes were locked firmly on Carewyn.

“...as does the Admiral of the fleet.”

He materialized a folded letter and held it out to Carewyn. Her eyebrows furrowed as she opened it, before her eyes widened upon its contents and the royal wax seal at the bottom.

“I’d already had this prepared ahead of time, prior to your departure from Port Royal,” said Beckett with a cool smile. “I wrote to the King of how impressed I was with your dedication, ingenuity, and talents, and he was most pleased. When I requested you to be at the head of my fleet for this upcoming venture, he agreed immediately. Upon receiving Madam Rakepick’s letter about you initiating the search for the Tower Raven’s old fleet and using one of their own ships to guide us to our target...I knew that my faith had been more than warranted.”

His eyes narrowed slightly over his cold, satisfied smile.

“Congratulations...Admiral Carey Weasley.”

The “honor” the King had bestowed upon her, if one could call it that, made Carewyn feel ill for multiple reasons. Not only did she truly not, NOT want to fight the Pirate Lords and whatever ships they gathered together, but she knew that she had largely gotten the position thanks to the effort of Rakepick -- who had for whatever reason credited Carewyn for following the Phoenix rather than taking credit herself -- and Beckett -- who Carewyn didn’t trust as far as she could throw him, but couldn’t figure out why exactly he had so much “faith” in her. Was she truly that good of an actress to completely fool him? She wanted to think so -- and yet the way he looked at her, not unlike how Rakepick looked at her, spoke of him knowing something she didn’t. Sadly Percy, even if he had seemed legitimately troubled by the hangings in Port Royal, was not distrustful enough of Beckett to express anything but pride in Carewyn’s accomplishment, so Carewyn couldn’t talk to him or anyone else about her suspicions.

When she confronted Rakepick about what she wrote to Beckett, the older woman’s response was oddly coy.

“I already told you you don’t belong on this ship,” she said, her dark blue eyes locked firmly onto Carewyn’s with a murky emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “Now that you’re Admiral, you’ll have more power to command your own ship, overlooking the Dutchman as well as the rest of the fleet.”

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed. “So you wrote that so I’d get off the Dutchman?”

Rakepick’s eyes narrowed slightly too, becoming more solemn. “You heard Lord Beckett -- he’d already planned this for you in advance. Although my reasons are different from his, I’m more than willing to play along with his whims, if it means I get what I want.”

“And what is it you want, Rakepick?”

Rakepick’s red lips curled up into a cool smirk. “Now, Admiral...one can hardly expect a lady to answer such a personal question.”

Not long after confronting Rakepick, Beckett summoned Carewyn to his cabin on his flagship, a Man O’ War called the HMS Lion. Unlike any of their previous meetings in his office, Carewyn found the cabin completely empty except for Beckett when she arrived -- in the past, Percy or Rakepick had been there too, as well as one or two employees of the East India Trading Company. It gave her the feeling that Beckett wanted this meeting to be more private than the others, which gave her a terrible sense of foreboding.

“You wished to see me, Lord Beckett?” she asked, once she’d finished saluting him.

“Yes,” said Beckett.

He was sitting behind his desk, which once again had a map laid out with different model soldiers and ships littered all over it. There were also seven Piece of Eight coins lined up in a neat little row -- he was once again playing with the eighth, rolling it along his fingers lackadaisically.

“Word has come from Shipwreck Cove, from the so-called ‘Pirate King,’“ he said, his eyes on the coin in his hand. “She wishes to rendez-vous on a tiny island on the far side of Shipwreck Island at sunset tonight, a ways away from the Cove. No weapons -- just talking.”

Beckett’s eyes flickered up to Carewyn’s face almost critically.

“...The Pirate King...signed her name as ‘Captain Jules Weasley’ -- so she’d be an old flame of yours, would she not?”

Carewyn stiffened slightly. ‘Jules is the Pirate King?’

She covered up her surprise quickly, her blue eyes narrowing.

“Miss Farrier -- pardon, Mrs. William Weasley -- never commanded any affection from me. Although her father bid she court me, her feelings were always for my brother -- so much so that she followed him into piracy.”

Beckett’s lips spread into a cold smile. “Then it’s as I surmised. Governor Farrier expressed frustration that his daughter had not managed to ensnare your heart, as opposed to your older brother’s -- especially considering how much she seemed to enjoy your company...”

Carewyn could not figure out what Beckett was trying to suss out from this conversation and it troubled her greatly -- so she put on her best, coldest expression and lied through her teeth.

“Whatever woman I respected in the past is dead, now that she’s an enemy of the Crown,” she said harshly. “I know no ‘Captain Jules Weasley’...nor do I wish to.”

Beckett’s smile did not shift in the slightest. If anything, his small, dark eyes flickered in something almost like triumph.

“I understand your sensitivity to the matter. You truly do love with all of your heart, don’t you, Admiral Weasley?”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit tightly over her eyes in confusion, but she did not reply. Beckett put the Piece of Eight coin down in the row on his deck and rose from his chair, moving over to the decanter of red wine on the side table so he could pour a glass.

“I saw you with Captain Weasley, before you left Port Royal -- and of course, your reunion on-board the Dutchman, earlier today. I also heard quite a few interesting rumors circulated among our prisoners from Tortuga, speaking of your honor and the respect you showed them despite their criminal status...even moving a woman into a cell with her husband without being asked, if I’m not mistaken...”

His voice was very aloof and was tinged with a bizarre fascination, like an entomologist might have for a rare butterfly he’d pinned to his wall. Carewyn felt like her heart was being squeezed, but she dare not say anything.

Beckett finished pouring out two glasses of wine and put down the decanter so he could pick up both glasses.

“It’s not something I’m familiar with, that kind of concern for others.”

He offered the glass of red wine to Carewyn, his eyes boring into her face. Carewyn kept her face as blank as she could even though she could feel the blood leaving it as she took the glass of wine from him, but did not drink it.

“...I did not mean to displease you, Lord Beckett,” she said lowly.

Beckett’s eyes flickered again with that strange satisfaction as he took a sip from his glass of wine.

“On the contrary -- it’s only appropriate, for a woman to have a gentle heart.”

Carewyn stiffened sharply.

‘No. No, no, no -- !’

It was one thing for Rakepick to find out, but Beckett to know -- did Rakepick tell him? No, she said she wasn’t really doing any of this for Beckett -- should she deny it, Carewyn wondered? But if she did, and he caught her in a lie, could that make it worse -- ? 

Her hesitation made Beckett’s eyes gleam with greater satisfaction than ever.

“Then I was right,” he murmured. “I admit, I wasn’t sure. True, your voice is higher than one normally hears and you’re smaller than most, but I know first hand that means nothing. And your military record...had it not been for me having met and employed Patricia Rakepick previously, I would never have believed a woman could be so skilled in battle and strategy, nor so aggressive. But when Captain Weasley expressed such interest in me having hired a woman, and even went out of his way to bring it up to you...my interest was peaked. All the more so when I found out how truly useful you are, as an officer.”

Carewyn felt like she was drowning in horrifying, icy cold water. Beckett knew she was a woman -- he knew she was a woman, and could tell anyone about it, if he so chose. She’d not only lose her position -- the one thing that she had left that she could use to protect Jacob, Orion, Bill, Charlie, and Jules...but she’d be cast out in disgrace, leaving her with nothing -- possibly taking Percy along with her for having kept her true gender a secret --

Her blue eyes had drifted down to the floor absently, but were not focusing on anything.

Yet...Beckett had said nothing of his suspicions to anyone. True, he hadn’t known for sure...but why would he recommend her to the King as an Admiral, if he’d suspected?

And then it hit her.

She bowed her head, casting her eyes into shadow as she put down her untouched wine glass on the side table.

“...What do you want from me, Lord Beckett?”

Beckett raised his eyebrows but did not respond.

“You very easily could’ve gotten both Percy and me cast out of the Navy in disgrace,” she said, keeping her voice low in an attempt to try to keep it steady, “yet you’ve kept me and even helped get me promoted, presumably because I’m so ‘useful.’ What use do I have, for you?”

Beckett gave her something of a patronizing smile as he stepped forward, coming up right in front of Carewyn so that his chin rested just shy of her shoulder and he could look at her face out the side of his eye.

“Isn’t it obvious? You are an excellent Naval officer -- a leader and inspiration to those who serve under you. You’re world-renown for your honor, your courage -- your passion. You prompt people to fight with you -- for you -- with a loyalty that even the King of England himself cannot boast. Were you a man, you would be someone I’d be very threatened by, indeed. But since you are a woman...I can appeal to your heart.”

Carewyn could feel his breath sliding past her ear and she couldn’t help but cringe. She stubbornly refused to look him in the eye, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor.

“I’m afraid my disinterest in the once-Miss Farrier was not a one-off thing, Lord Beckett,” she said very dryly. “Romance is not something I think about very regularly.”

Orion’s face rippled over her mind, making her heart ache. Oh, if he were there, in that room -- the thought of him seeing her letting herself get pushed around by the man who’d branded him and sent the Navy after him for piracy...it made her feel ill.

Beckett’s lips curled up in a slightly tighter, almost miffed smile as he pulled away just enough that he was facing the wall behind her rather than looking at her face.

“...Oh...no, Admiral...you misunderstand me. I know I own no part of your heart...but Captain Weasley, he most assuredly does.”

Carewyn’s head shot up so she could look at him, her expression stricken despite herself.

“Your younger brother is not nearly as useful as you, but he has shown great dedication to me, since I threw him a bone and ensured his promotion. It’s a loyalty I hope that you will likewise show me...especially considering that both you and he have been given access to information that few others have been...and that I would do just about anything to ensure doesn’t become common knowledge...”

Carewyn stared at Beckett, her shock giving way to cold hatred. 

“So that’s it,” she murmured. “You’ll hold Percy’s and my lives and livelihoods over our heads, to make sure that I don’t surpass you, somehow. How I don’t know, considering that the Navy is not part of the East India Trading Company, nor shall it ever be, but clearly you feel loyalty is something to threaten out of people, rather than earn -- ”

“The only thing one can really earn in this world, Admiral, is money, and therefore power,” Beckett cut her off sharply, “and I have no intention of losing either, now that I’ve earned both of which I’m owed!”

He turned to look Carewyn straight-on in the eye, their faces mere inches apart. Gone was any hint of attempt at gentlemanly poise -- there was a hard edge to his gaze, not unlike the way he’d looked at Jones, but because he was actually an inch or so taller than Carewyn, he seemed to relish the power he had looking down at her both literally and figuratively.

“You will use your talents to serve my interests,” he said under his breath, “and I, in return, will continue to reward you and your brother, by ensuring that your careers and lives flourish under me. It’s just good business.”

At sundown, Beckett and Jules met at the tiny island agreed upon. Jules strolled down the long, narrow beach toward the shoreline where they were to meet, Jacob on one side of her and Orion on the other. She’d originally wanted Bill with her, but McNully was able to persuade her that she’d look that bit more intimidating to Beckett if she arrived in the company of two of the most wanted pirate captains in the world, and even Bill had to agree. Jules was determined to stand between Jacob and Orion, though, considering that there was still a lot of tension between them.

Jules had been furious with Jacob, when she’d learned about the deal he’d struck with Davy Jones. Even if he’d originally planned to give Jones “a Cromwell” as in Charles or Blaise Cromwell -- two objectively bad people who had been largely responsible for Carewyn and Jacob’s abusive, unloving childhoods -- Jules was also confident in thinking that Carewyn would be horrified, knowing that Jacob was willing to enslave another person to Davy Jones, just to find her. Jacob refused to feel guilty for that, but he clearly was destroyed by the knowledge that his choice had put Carewyn in so much danger. It was apparent from the way he talked about it and the way his hands and shoulders shook with silent sobs that Jacob would’ve sacrificed himself a hundred times over, if it would guarantee Carewyn wouldn’t be harmed.

Orion, by contrast, hadn’t said a word since Jacob told them what was going on. Throughout the entire conversation, he’d had his hands clasped tightly in front of him and kept his gaze downcast, even taking time to close his eyes for long periods of time as if he were meditating. Despite his silence and his detached affect, his usually stoic expression and unsteady breathing betrayed genuine anxiety. At one point, Bill brought a hand onto Orion’s shoulder to try to comfort him, and Orion actually subconsciously smacked his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” said the Captain quickly, his voice very hushed and tense as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. “Just...please, don’t touch me.”

Bill, Charlie, and Jules all thought they could guess how Orion was feeling. Although the others had forcefully shot down the idea that Orion was the least bit responsible since he couldn’t have known the consequences of calling Carewyn by her real name, their words had done little to soften the Pirate Lord’s brow. If Orion’s past behavior hadn’t been indicative of how deeply he felt for Carewyn, then the way he clasped anxiously at his own hands and shut himself off from everyone else at the thought of her being doomed to spend the rest of her life trapped on board the Flying Dutchman made it crystal clear.

“Orion’s always valued his own freedom more than any kind of loot,” McNully murmured to the three Weasleys under her breath, “more than anything, really. And if he cares about the Commodore so much...”

“...He probably couldn’t bear it, if she lost hers,” finished Charlie, bowing his head and closing his eyes as they welled up with pain and righteous anger.

As Jules, Jacob, and Orion approached the shore, they caught sight of three people standing in the distance. The man in the middle dressed in black Orion identified as Cutler Beckett. On his left was an older woman as tall as Orion with hair as ginger red as Bill and Charlie’s that Jacob immediately recognized as Rakepick...and on his right was Carewyn, dressed in a new yellow-trimmed navy blue uniform and a black tricorn hat.

The three pirates stopped five feet away from the Head of the East India Trading Company and his two female companions, a notable sting of tension prickling at the air. Jules tried hard to keep her focus on Beckett, but her eyes were drawn to Carewyn despite herself. Although her friend faced Orion -- the person directly in front of her -- with a hard, stoic expression, she looked so pale. When Jules glanced over, she noticed out the side of her eye that Orion’s unreadable gaze was also locked on Carewyn, even as he took deep breaths through his nose and his hands clenched absently at his sides.

“Well, well,” said Beckett, his eyes narrowing darkly upon Orion’s face, “if it isn’t my old friend, Orion Amari.”

Orion glanced at Beckett out the side of his eye without turning his face away from Carewyn’s. Although his face remained rather calm, there was a faint edge to his soft-spoken response.

“...I did not think you were ever much in the market for friendship, Cutler Beckett...considering it’s something you cannot buy.”

His gaze returned to Carewyn. Beckett glanced from Carewyn to Orion, his lips curling up in a very cold smile.

“Ah, yes -- you and Amari are old friends also, aren’t you, Admiral Weasley?”

“Admiral?” repeated Orion, taken aback despite himself.

“Yes,” said Carewyn, and although her response was very cold, her eyes pulsed with emotion that she attempted to obscure by glancing to the side in Jacob’s direction rather than straight at Orion. “By order of the King, as a reward for my work alongside Lord Beckett.”

Jules could see Jacob’s jaw clench out the corner of her eye. She too felt like her heart was being squeezed. Carewyn no doubt hated her promotion with everything in her, if it was something she’d earned chasing after them on Beckett’s orders. Still...Jules couldn’t express that flat-out, so she put on the strongest expression she could.

“...I suppose congratulations are in order, then.” 

Carewyn flashed Jules a look. “I don’t want congratulations from you, Mrs. Weasley. Or should I call you ‘Your Majesty,’ now that you’ve started playacting as a royal?”

Jules’s lips came together tightly when she saw how broadly Beckett smirked. The small man’s reaction seemed to piss off Jacob too.

“You will show proper respect to the Pirate King,” he said with a fierce look at the Head of the East India Trading Company.

“Respect,” scorned Rakepick. “Is that a word you can even define, Black Jack?”

“As well as I could wring your neck, if I were allowed,” spat Jacob.

“I’m surprised your ‘Pirate King’ would want a man in her company who’s so comfortable threatening a lady’s life,” said Carewyn sharply.

‘Don’t start a fight with her,’ she thought desperately, praying that Jacob would be able to sense her intent even with the act she had to play. 

Unfortunately Jacob, as smart as he was, was never the best at reading people’s emotions -- and so when his narrowed eyes shot to Carewyn, she could see a flicker of pain. She surmised that even if he clearly didn’t think she believed what she was saying, it hurt him beyond reason, to see her having to defend the woman who’d tried to kill him.

Orion, however, very quickly adapted to the new method of “conversation,” fixing Carewyn with a calm, but piercing gaze.

“And I’m surprised that a honorable officer such as yourself would be so comfortable in the company of those with no honor whatsoever,” he said.

‘You’re in danger,’ Carewyn surmised he was trying to say. Her eyes narrowed upon Orion’s face.

“I beg your pardon?” she retorted. “I fail to see how a pirate has any leg to stand on, speaking of honor.” ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

“Even I have more honor than a captain who would burn an entire settlement to the ground,” murmured Orion. ‘Davy Jones.’

“Jones follows orders, as do we all...something else a pirate wouldn’t understand.” ‘What about Jones?’

"Orders...from Cutler Beckett, or from you? From what I’ve heard, you were on the Flying Dutchman yourself -- hardly a place one would expect to find Port Royal’s greatest hero.” ‘You must get away from Davy Jones. Get off of the Flying Dutchman.’

Carewyn’s blue eyes narrowed a bit more. First Rakepick wanted her off the Dutchman, and now Orion? Yes, Davy Jones was dangerous, but at present she found him much less of a threat than Beckett...

“A true hero knows that his reputation comes second to the good of the others,” she said very softly. “As does a loyal officer.” ‘I can’t leave.’

Something in Orion’s dark eyes flinched.

“Your older brother will be very disappointed, to know you’ve sold your loyalty so cheaply,” he said just as softly.

Carewyn felt her heart clench. She knew he didn’t mean Bill -- and yet the thought of both her surrogate brothers and Jacob was a silent knife to her back. She didn’t dare look at Jacob for fear her strong facade would crack, so she kept her focus solidly on Orion.

“I would think given your own history with Lord Beckett, you’d know full well how valuable of an ally he is, ” she shot back quickly, feigning temper as best she could, “and how dangerous of an enemy, as well. Both I and the brother who chose to follow the law rather than spit in its face are certainly glad for his aid, in ending your reign of terror.”

‘I can’t leave, not with what Beckett has over me and Percy. And if I do leave, then you’ll be in more danger than ever...’

Her eyes bore into Orion’s fiercely as she begged beyond reason he’d understand.

“...You may tell William...that I am no Bedlam maid in need of saving.”

‘You can’t help me. I love you.’

Deep in the depths of his sparkling black eyes, Carewyn could see a flicker of desperation, almost like anxiety. Afraid that Beckett might notice the crack in Orion’s expression, or in her own at the sight of it, she quickly whirled on Jules.

“He is the one who should stand down,” she said, her voice hardening further in an attempt to obscure her emotions. “All of you should, unless you wish to face down an entire armada.”

‘There are 34 Man O’ Wars waiting out there for you,’ she hoped Jules would be able to discern. Even if she didn’t know an armada had that many ships, Jacob and Orion would.

Jules, to her credit, matched Carewyn’s act with her own cold gaze. “Don’t underestimate us, Admiral Weasley. Both the British Navy and the East India Trading Company have done that consistently from the beginning.”

“And now we have come to the end,” said Beckett smoothly. “Of you and the rest of your Brethren.”

The others all turned to look at him. He flashed Orion a look better suited to a cockroach before redirecting his gaze onto Jules.

“Tell your Court this,” he said in an aloof, condescending voice. “You can fight, and all of you will die...or you can stand down, in which case only most of you will die. I daresay the Governor could be persuaded to spare you from the gallows, if you threw yourself on his mercy...and if I were to be merciful enough to leave out your new position, in my correspondence with the King...”

Jules’s dark eyes flashed with hatred as she strode forward, coming to a stop two feet from Beckett so she could glare right into his face.

“There are few things I can tolerate less than cowards who resort to blackmail just to make themselves feel powerful.”

She didn’t look at Carewyn, but Carewyn could sense Jules was thinking of her, as she said this.

“We will fight. And you’d best hope that we will show more mercy than you would, in our place.”

The Pirate King turned on her heel and walked away. With some reluctance, Orion and then Jacob turned away and strode quickly after her, leaving the other three alone on the shore.

“So be it,” said Beckett with a cold smile.

Carewyn couldn’t look at Rakepick or Beckett at her side. Her gaze was solidly locked on the departing backs of her brother, friend, and love as they began to shrink into the distance.

She’d never been very good at relying on or having faith in others...but in that moment, more than anything, she knew all she could do now was put her trust in Orion -- in Jules -- in Jacob -- in Bill and Charlie and all of the other pirates on Shipwreck Cove.

‘Please...please, be careful. Please be safe.’

In that moment of helplessness, she felt her heart ache all the more, watching Orion walk away. She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the memory of him standing shoulder to shoulder with her on the Artemis -- of him lying in bed as she tended to him, when they were young -- but it was no use. The graveness of the situation was too dire even for escapism...

Carewyn clutched her own arms behind her back. They suddenly felt so much heavier...as if there really were manacles there she couldn’t hope to break.

‘...Please...please live.’

On the opposite side of the island, both Jules and Jacob noticed the silent tears that had streaked down Orion’s face...but none had the heart to address it as they boarded the jollyboat that would take them back to the Artemis and to Shipwreck Cove.

At the same time that the pirates and the leaders of the British Navy were meeting, Davy Jones had been left behind on the Flying Dutchman with Percy supervising the troops. Beckett thought that Jones was threatened into line by how many soldiers were still guarding his heart, but thanks to Carewyn, Jones knew that Rakepick had stolen and relocated it. Now that he didn’t know where his heart was at all, he knew he couldn’t afford to move until he’d found it again -- and with Carewyn likely leaving the Dutchman with her new position as Admiral, it was likely it’d take a while before she could smuggle him any more information she might acquire about that. For the moment, though, Jones had put that concern on the back burner, for the Dutchman’s arrival near Shipwreck Cove gave him the opportunity to catch up with the Phoenix.

As luck would have it, when Jones phased through the Dutchman and onto the Phoenix, the ship was largely abandoned, since the crew had all gone ashore to Shipwreck Cove. The only person remaining was a small woman with long white hair, looking out to sea over the deck. In her hand was a pretty silver locket in the shape of a moon, the lid of which was cracked open so that a sweet, tinkling music box melody played.

Chia Dalma closed the locket half-way through the song, her eyes closing sadly as she clasped the locket close to her chest. She straightened up in shock, however, when she suddenly heard the rest of the tune echoing from behind her. She whirled around, to be faced with a giant, hulking shadow with writhing tentacles sprouting out from his jaw, holding an identical locket in his claw. Anyone would’ve been terrified at the sight -- but Chia looked upon the figure with tears in her eyes.

“Finn,” she breathed. Her lips were curled up in a weak smile, just as they had been before, but the joy was stained with so many other emotions -- grief, shame, and regret.

Davy Jones regarded Chia critically as he took several plodding steps toward her. “You know I haven’t been called that name in years.”

Chia bowed her head. “Nor have I been called my true name in years.”

Jones tilted his head, trying to read her expression better now she was looking away from him.

“I had not expected to find you like this,” he said very lowly. “You’ve never taken on such a small shape before.”

Chia’s eyes flashed with righteous anger as she raised her head. “That’s because this form is one I did not choose to take. It was thrust upon me by the Brethren Court.”

Jones straightened up slightly. His eyes narrowed to slits.

“...Then they did not kill or trap you. They transformed you.”

His voice was as low and growling as thunder. Chia clutched at the sides of her arms with her hands, her gaze smouldering with resentment as she glared down at the deck.

“Oh, but they did trap me,” she said bitterly, “trapped me in this single form, which can’t do even half of what I should be able to. I’ve been able to use what power I have to slow down the aging process, but this body still feels pain. This body still feels strain, and weakness, and hunger, and exhaustion, and longing...”

Something rippled over her eyes -- something more ashamed and pained.

“...I never knew...how much time truly weighs on a human,” she murmured.

Jones’s expression grew much more grim. “An immortal such as yourself should never have had to learn that.”

“Should never have had to, yes...but...”

She looked up at Jones, her gray eyes pulsing with strength despite the pain rippling within.

“...why did you not tell me, how long ten years felt for you? I have felt those ten years several times over, trapped in this tiny, fragile, helpless body every single moment -- and it’s...it’s been torture. To know you took the job I gave you -- only coming ashore once every ten years, so you could help me with the burden of tending to the dead at sea -- when ten years feels like that, to you -- ”

Chia’s eyes flooded with tears.

“I gave you the position of ferryman because I wanted to spare you from death,” she whispered. “Because if I didn’t give you that role and give you some of my power, you would’ve died. I’d never thought that those ten years would feel so long -- drain you so much...”

Jones was quiet for a long moment. Then he brought up his claw to brush her bangs from her eye.

“It’s only natural that you saw things the way an immortal would. Time is no object to you -- ten years no doubt felt like a small price to pay, in the face of your life span. And...”

His eyes became a bit smaller.

“...it’s not exactly like I wanted to die and be separated from you either. Even though part of me always doubted you’d be there waiting for me, when I returned...even though I resented you for years because you weren’t there...”

A ghost of a smile flickered over his features.

“...I know I shouldn’t have expected you to see things as I have -- to change yourself to suit me. If you did...you wouldn’t be the goddess I fell in love with, would you?”

Chia smiled up at Jones, her eyes shining with tenderness.

“I tried to make it back to you,” she murmured. “When the Court transformed me, I tried so hard to get there, to reach you...”

She extended her hands, tentatively trailing them along his tentacled face. Jones seemed to tremble at her touch.

“I know of the danger you’re in, Finn,” said Chia seriously. “As long as Cutler Beckett has your heart, I know you’re beholden to him. But I have allies among this newest Brethren Court. If they convince the others to break my chains, as I’ve foreseen they will...then as soon as I am free, I will come for you. I will make sure you and I are never separated again...and I will make sure your captors suffer the consequences, for hurting the man I love.”

As her small white hands held his face, Jones’s face and frame suddenly began to morph. In an instant, the slimy texture, the tentacles clinging to his face, and his claw all vanished -- and there stood the tall, handsome pirate she’d fallen in love with so long ago.

Finn McGarry’s face broke out into a broken, soft smile. He stretched out his hand, caressing his love’s human cheek with more gentleness than his claw ever could have.

“Calypso...” he murmured.

Chia’s face broke out into a full smile as well. She knew she couldn’t permanently remove the fishy transformation, as it was something that had mutated Jones over the many years they’d been apart, due to his heartbreak and grief...but seeing him looking so much like his old self after so long...it made her currently human heart swell with love.

“Just as you gave me your heart, when you became captain of the Flying Dutchman,” she murmured, “so too will you always have mine.”

[aelaer]

☕ The extended Avengers. Aka Rhodey, Wanda, Vision, Bucky, NOT PETER (already done), Captain Marvel and Ant Man. I think that's it? The others are outsiders that occasionally come into the fight and will be asked about later. 👀

Bucky you can find here.

So there’s a fun history to this post. The first draft I wrote when I was in a ranty mood, and in a rare moment of wisdom, I held off posting until I was calm and ready to revisit it. So that happened this summer, and the original draft was heavily edited. … and then Tumblr saved *none* of my edits. None of them. Ohhh, I was fuming. So I left it be, and then I had another break in the fall. Now as I play catch-up, I revisit this post once more withhh draft #3.

Rhodey: Not given nearly enough credit by most. First point: Tony wouldn’t be alive for y’all to ship (with literally everyone) without Rhodey being a motherfucking boss and saving him from everything. What I really like about Rhodey is his independence and agency. They make it a huge point in the films to show how independent Rhodey is from Tony Stark while still being his best friend. The best fan fiction with Rhodey is when the writer remembers Rhodey’s agency and keep him his own independent person rather than a Tony yes-man. The wonderful thing about Rhodey is that he supports his best friend when he agrees with him, and he lets his own opinion be known when he doesn’t, and on occasion, he sets Tony back in his place when it’s needed. He has a strong, strong character and strong personality which is why I love him so much.

With Tony’s strong personality, it would have been easy to have Tony walk all over him, but that doesn’t happen. He stands his ground when it matters, and he has his own strong opinions for his own reasons, and best of all, none of his opinions have anything to do with his friendship with Tony Stark. He’s his own man. He’s such an amazing character on his own, so why wouldn’t a writer explore the interesting dynamics between these two and make Rhodey stand on his own? I Don’t Get It.

Wanda: Not fleshed out nearly enough compared to other side Avengers in the MCU, and done outright dirty by a large segment of the MCU fandom (which was the start of my enormous distaste of anti-culture). I do think that she has a lot of potential for an expansion of character in canon, and I really hope we see more of her personality and what makes her her in her TV show. I hope we get some sort of flashbacks from her difficult childhood after she was made an orphan in a civil war, some sort of acknowledgement of her grief and healing from her brother’s death, and Vision’s as well. That is what I am looking for most in her show - more growth as a character and further acknowledgements of the grief and tragedy that shaped the woman she became. She’s never been near my favorite Avenger, but a large reason she hasn’t is because she hasn’t had the chance on the screen to really become a fully fleshed character. And that’s a crime.

Vision: Ah yeah, this was a large part as to why I didn’t post the first draft of this. A small segment of the fanbase upset me with their hypocrisy in mocking Vision’s and Wanda’s love as not real because of his android-ness, while understanding Tony’s care for his robots and his true grief for JARVIS’s loss. The inability to understand Wanda’s grief for Vision’s loss, while claiming to understand Tony’s loss for JARVIS, is simply willful ignorance. I remember I got especially angry about this at the time because some person somewhere was mocking Wanda for loving “a toaster”. The type of folks who make such comments just seem really… ignorant. Unless they’re mocking Tony in the same way for loving JARVIS. If they are, then it’s like– you’re just being more ignorant. I have stronger words, but– not worth the effort.

I don’t remember being so angry at fandom as often when I was active in the Tolkien fandom. Annoyed, but actively angry? Nah, but no one ever treated the characters so poorly and actively made fun of people for liking other characters. It might be part of why I pulled away so fully for the exhausting year 2020 was. (The ‘reset’ time did help.)

Anyway, Vision himself is absolutely fascinating. He definitely had a very interesting birth process, and I adore how the presence of the Mind Stone helps “evolve” him into something alive, which really makes sense: the mind and the evolved ability to reason and “think” is what has really separated humanity from the rest of all living creatures. While we’ve seen evidence of other animals using tools and higher emotion, and some recognizing their own form in a mirror, there’s no species that does it with a complexity and consistency that humanity does (and in the MCU, other creatures that are distinguished between “animals” and “people”). With the mind evolving, he becomes as complex as a human or another alien form. And that’s really amazing. I’ve really, really enjoyed writing him as well and people don’t understand what they’re missing by dismissing him.

Carol: I was wondering when this would come up, but no one’s asked before now. This is my least favorite Avenger. I found her movie really underwhelming and out of all the characters in it, the side characters were 10 times more compelling than her. And I really liked Brie Larson in Community, so it’s not the actress herself. I think it may be just that I don’t think she really connected with me as a person, at least with what we saw with her in her intro movie. She just felt flat, humor, emotions, everything. I also really dislike overpowered characters with no obvious weaknesses. Stephen can run out of magic, for instance, or certain tech can take him out. Carol feels too much like Superman, and I really don’t like Superman either. That’s one reason I have to write her in any fighting role or in any “heroes are in trouble” role because she just seems to be able to get out of every hero-in-trouble situation fairly easily. I’m open for future films to change my mind, but at the moment she has nothing substantial for me as a character, especially with the other Avengers competing for “most interesting” and her powers make her too OP. But I’m rooting for her (and Goose). I could try writing her with Stephen in something involving demons, so that might prove more of a challenge and help me explore her character further. I’m certainly open to metas that dig further into what makes her tick, too.

Scott: Not given nearly enough credit for his own heroics in Endgame, for one thing. Tony wouldn’t have been able to do his Famous Uno Reverse Card without Scott’s optimism and hope. I love his sense of humor, I love that he’s both smart and funny, I LOVE how good of a dad he is, I adore adore adore that he’s on good standing with his ex and her fiance by the end of the first Ant Man, and I love how he so clearly has a clear, individual personality. Kudos to Paul Rudd and the writers/directors of the first two films for helping convey that so clearly. I’d love him to meet Doctor Strange so much, properly. Yeah, he’s not appreciated as much as he should be by fandom.

And this post is finally done.

[mediawhorefics]

nefelibata, petrichor, and a wildcard of your choice, pls and thank youuuu!

nefelibata; do you think you’re an imaginative person?

uh, yeah !! def!! i feel like i’m always making up a story or a character or a world. i’m in my head imagining stuff more often than not haha 

petrichor; favourite type of weather?

any type of grey weather tbh!!! rainy !!!!!!!!! foggy !!!!! big thunderstorms !!!!!! windy !!!!!!! but all of the above is the best of the best to me !!!! so yeah, witchy scottish weather basically, i’m such a cliche! 

denouement; tell me about an ending to a book or movie that you really loved.

picked this for the wildcard because denouement is a GREAT word and because i loooove endings. i’ll try not to spoil things because i’m not rude but 

here some of my fav movie endings: 

birdy (1984) --> this is probably my favourite movie ending of all time. i won’t ruin it for those who haven’t seen it, but birdy is a bit of a weird movie, based on an even weirder book, still, it’s a really moving story of friendship at its core, but also trauma, and the ending is just... chef’s kiss. it takes you somewhere unexpected and ends kind of abruptly but it is, imo, perfection. it’s jarring, it’s funny, it fits the weirdness of the film. 

the circus (1928) --> i love how hopeful the ending to the circus is. chaplin’s tramp has lost everything, again, he’s left alone, left behind, the circus is moving on, and he’s sitting down as the sun rises, looking utterly alone and defeated, but then... he sighs, picks himself up, walks away from the camera, before adding a little bounce in his step. it’ll all be okay. it’s beautifully shot. 

1917 (2019) --> anyone who talked to me at any point last winter knows that this has become one of my favourite favourite films. i found it so profoundly moving with a beautifully understated performance from the lead. there are no words to describe the sense of satisfaction i got in the theatre when i saw that tree in the background at the end and i realised sam mendes was going to bookend his film perfectly. with schofield resting behind the line against a tree both as an opener and a closer. ugh, i love a sexy parallel. 

titanic (1997)  --> i mean ??? the prophecy gets fulfilled and rose dies an old lady comfy in her bed?? and we get to see proof of her vibrant beautiful and, most importantly hers, life ??? and rose and jack gets reunited for one last big movie kiss?? i do think it takes great skill to make a movie that is ultimately a tragedy/drama and still manage to offer the viewer a satisfying ending that doesn’t detract from the pain and sadness of the tragedy but leaves a sense of peace and warmth. i do hate to give james cameron rights but damn. he did that. 

pride (2014) --> nothing is going to top the feeling of seeing those miners opening london’s pride. just....... this is what serotonin feels like. 

the truman show (1998) --> i love when endings so concretely feel like beginnings. there’s something so beautiful about an artist making you love a character and showing you just part of their stories and leaving you with a sense that they have so much left to accomplish. i know some people find open endings frustrating and i get that, but to me, it leaves us with such a sense of... idk, joy ? because in a way nothing is finite when there’s more story to tell. when you think back to that character, you think of possibilities. and it’s especially moving in the truman show because here’s a main character whose entire journey is about that leap to freedom and towards a life free from the viewer (whether that means in-universe or us) 

dunkirk (2017) --> i am so so so so so obsessed with chris nolan’s choice to end the movie on fionn whitehead’s face with that silence. after such a big sequence with that rousing speech being quoted and that music.... it’s such a jarring moment to have this kid trying to puzzle what he just read and what he just went through. there’s a sense of ... idk confusion almost but also just of being slightly overwhelmed. it’s a great piece of acting and just takes you, as a viewer, completely out of the ‘cinematic experience’ and into the reality of a moment instead, just before the end. i fucking love it. 

i could probably go on for much longer because as i said, i love endings and a good ending, and i love films, but i feel like i’ve already cheated by talking about more than one haha. 

beautiful words asks

[thefilmfatale]

Jojo Rabbit (2019)

Who says you can't laugh about the Holocaust? Certainly not Taika Waititi.

The Hunt for the Wilderpeople director’s latest film Jojo Rabbit, set in Nazi Germany with a fanatical Hitler youth at its center, is uproarious, funny, and anything but glib. The story follows 10-year-old Jojo Betzler (played by the effortlessly charismatic and magnetic Roman Griffin Davis), who idolizes Adolf Hitler so much that Hitler (played by Waititi) has become his imaginary friend, popping up like a proverbial devil-on-one’s-shoulder during random moments of turmoil to comfort and counsel our budding young Nazi. 

Jojo’s dedication to the cause is unwavering. Thanks to some imaginative Nazi propaganda, Jojo is convinced that his purpose is to exterminate Jews, whom he envisions as winged creatures that eat children and hoard anything shiny. Alas, after playing cavalier with a grenade at Hitler youth camp, Jojo suffers an accident that renders him unfit to keep training with the other children, including his best friend Yorki (played by the adorably precocious Archie Yates). He’s promptly sent home, where his angst grows due to being isolated from his Jew-hating peers. To add insult to injury, he discovers that his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) has been hiding a Jewish girl in their home. Outraged and beside himself with indignation, Jojo hatches a plan to get rid of the Jewish girl, seizing it as an opportunity to prove himself as a true Nazi believer to his peers. 

Jojo embarks on quite the character arc, and Waititi once again proves that he is a masterful director when it comes to working with children. His ability to elicit the purest, most delightful performances from child actors is amazing (just as he did in Hunt for the Wilderpeople), and the audience swiftly finds themselves endeared to Jojo and the rest of the cast. Performances from everyone were delightful, with Waititi allowing each actor (such as Johansson, Sam Rockwell, and Rebel Wilson) to bring their signature flairs to their characters. While the film is approached mostly as a period piece from an aesthetic standpoint (with costumes, set design, and color palettes largely faithful to the period), Waititi’s deliberate choices in making it anachronistic serve two purposes: to punctuate the satire, and to help make what should be a very sobering subject matter more approachable.   

The story, a loose adaptation of the book Caging Skies by Christine Leunens, while quirky and sweet certainly doesn't shy away from the real horrors of the holocaust. It’s a tightrope walk to juggle humor and atrocity, but Waititi makes it seem natural. He also knows precisely how to tug at heartstrings without being melodramatic. Jojo Rabbit’s triumph is ultimately in its ability to treat the topic of ideological extremism with the ridicule it so often deserves while at the same time provoking interesting questions about why people get sucked into blindly following charismatic demagogues, entrenching themselves in hate-filled cults, and spouting toxic ideologies. The best part? Waititi does this with so much thoughtfulness and nuance, all while serving up an entertaining, poignant story. 

By the end of Jojo Rabbit, you’re not raising your pitchforks screaming about the injustice of the Holocaust—that would be rather trite. Instead, you’re reminded that humans are complex, multi-dimensional, and capable of both immense kindness and unbridled terror. It’s a celebration of people’s capacity to change their minds. More importantly, it’s a reminder of the beauty of comedy and how laughter can be the best medicine during turbulent times. 

(More—including spoilers—under the cut)

What I love most about Jojo Rabbit is the depth of each character and how there’s so much to dissect and unpack for each one. Beginning with Jojo—we learn that not only is his father far away, in danger, fighting somewhere on the frontlines, but that he also lost his older sister Inge. We’re never told in full detail what happened to her, but the main takeaway is that her death, coupled by the absence of Jojo’s father, were tragedies that may have propelled Jojo to seek out the philosophy of the Third Reich. It’s not uncommon for young fanatics to get swept into hate groups when they are at their lowest points. When you’re angry or feeling helpless and lonely, it’s easy to externalize your pain and find someone to blame, whether it’s an entire gender, people of certain ethnicities, or members of a different political party. It’s simpler, you see, instead of owning one’s problems and acknowledging that the world doesn’t revolve around you. By making boogeymen out of people who are easy targets, we assert control over the senseless things that happen in our lives. It’s a way to feel powerful.

When you’re young, there are so many things that are out of your control. You’re caught in this torrent of everyone else’s decisions—your parents, school, your peers, society at large—and you’re looking around, flailing and hyperaware, that you’re living what is supposed to be your life and yet there seems so very little that you have ownership of. That's Jojo’s story. Not only is he caught in the middle of a war, but he’s grappling with some seriously heavy shit: an absentee father, a dead sister, a craving for acceptance from his peer group and, ultimately, a longing for connection that is rooted in positivity rather that hate. 

At first that connection seems to be cultivated by his mother, Rosie, who is literally and figuratively the most vibrant character in the film. From her bold, striking fashion sense and rouged lips to her joie de vivre, Rosie is, to quote Mulan, a flower that blooms in adversity. Even during the bleakest of times, she finds ways to uplift her son, whom she can tell is hurting. Her bursts of energy, her ability to find excitement and enthusiasm even in the most mundane of things, her rally to dance in the face of tragedy—all were reminders that dwelling on hatred and sorrow, while easy and sometimes necessary, is a crutch in a balm’s disguise. We must always forge ahead and seek hope when all feels lost, like “staring a tiger in the eyes”, as Rosie would say. That’s why, despite the risks of being caught by the Gestapo, she housed a Jewish girl in her home. In some small way, she was doing her part in the resistance against a hateful movement. While Rosie says she’s never stared a tiger in the eyes, her act of defiance came at great risk to herself, and that’s true courage.

In one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the film, Jojo is wandering the streets when he notices a bright, blue butterfly fluttering against the backdrop of hate-filled propaganda smattered on the city walls. He chases it wistfully and accidentally stumbles on the gallows in the middle of the town square. All the audience sees, hanging from the gallows, is a pair of legs with bright-colored shoes, and our hearts immediately sink. It’s Rosie. Waititi leads up to this shocking moment during a previous scene, while Jojo and Rosie are hanging out by a river. Rosie makes fun of Jojo for still being unable to tie his own shoes. She’s skipping gleefully on top of a concrete wall, with the camera trained low at Jojo’s eye-level, so the audience sees a shot of her shoes as she taps into a merry little dance. Waititi counts on viewers remembering this quiet scene to make what follows truly devastating. The effect is quite heart-stopping, and it’s impossible to want to reach out and give poor Jojo a hug as he cries out and wraps his arms around his dead mother’s feet. It’s then that Waititi makes his message known: Yes, there’s plenty to make light of in the world, but you can do this while also acknowledging that there’s plenty of darkness. It’s an impressive balancing act, and Waititi does it with so much wonderful exuberance and earnestness that it’s tough not to commend.

Viewers notice that the more Jojo focuses on the positive things in his life—his mother, his new Jewish friend Elsa—the less we see of his imaginary friend Hitler. And this is a deliberate choice by Waititi to prove a point: when you are consumed with hate, you’ll want to constantly keep feeding it because it’s comfortable and easy. As humans, we have a biological negative bias that we rely on as a means of survival. The very idea of entropy exists as a reminder that it takes more work to put things in order, to be good, to rise above, than for things to decay and distort and devolve. The more you fill your life with things that bring you joy, fulfillment, and contentment, the less you’ll rely on poisonous literature and toxic people. While this isn't exactly an epiphany for most of us, one may applaud Waititi for the inventive way he delivers this message.  

Another delightful character who, on the surface, seemed to be solely there for comedic effect, was Sam Rockwell’s Captain Klenzendorf, who’s tasked with whipping up these little rascals into Nazi-fighting shape. From the very get go, we sense that this man’s commitment to the Nazi cause is entirely for appearances’ sake. From his clandestine romance with his right-hand man (played by Games of Thrones’ Alfie Allen) to his soft spot for Jojo, the audience is led to believe that this man is merely pretending to be a hard-ass because that’s what you were expected to do, else be accused of treason to your nation. One could assume his affection for Jojo had something to do with being able to sympathize with the young boy after Jojo is relegated to doing simple jobs due to his injury (Klenzendorf claims he was benched from the frontlines because of an injury that led to him having a dead eye). But it’s toward the end of the film where we fully realize the totality of his character. In an earlier scene, Jojo is bullied by some older boys into killing a rabbit. They jeer at him as he wrestles with the decision to kill an innocent animal. He’s torn between wanting desperately to ingratiate himself into his peer group and staying true to the part of himself that’s kind, pure, innocent, and staunchly against needless violence. The music builds as we lean forward in our seats waiting to see what Jojo does. He decides on an act of mercy at his own expense, releasing the bunny and yelling at it to flee from danger. Unfortunately, before it has a chance to escape, the bunny is snatched up by one of the older boys, who wrings its neck in front of all the young boys to see. 

At first this seems like a scene that’s simply supposed to be an obnoxious display of bravado. But Waititi calls back to this scene towards the end of the film twice. Klenzendorf arrives at the Betzler household when it is being searched and ransacked by the Gestapo, who suspect Rosie has been aiding Jews. Jojo is terrified, not just to be discovered as traitors by the Gestapo but for Elsa’s (the Jewish girl they have been hiding who has now become his friend) safety. To get ahead of the situation, Elsa emerges from her hiding place and pretends to be Jojo’s dead sister Inge. When the Gestapo demand her paperwork, she shows them Inge’s old ID card. Klenzendorf immediately intercedes, grabs the ID from her hand and demands that she variate her identity by stating her birthday. Elsa stammers in response. “Correct,” Klenzendorf confirms flatly. The Gestapo consider this acceptable and vacate the premises, none the wiser. We discover immediately that Elsa had actually given the wrong birthdate, and Klenzendorf could have outed her right then, but decided not to. He was helping the bunny escape.

In another scene, when the Allied troops march into Germany and start rounding up all the Nazi soldiers, Jojo (who has a Nazi officer’s jacket on) is mistaken for one of them. He runs into Captain Klenzendorf, who creates a commotion by wrenching the Nazi jacket off of Jojo’s back and pushing him away, telling him to flee while yelling at him for being a dirty Jew so the Allies don’t execute him. It was an act of sacrifice from a man who recognized himself in the young boy. Klenzendorf saw Jojo’s gentleness and purity of heart and knew this kid needed to live. He released the bunny, stared a tiger squarely in the eyes—at the expense of his own life.

Jojo Rabbit, while certainly laugh-out-loud funny and full of amusement, is a moving story about heroism from a group of people who rarely ever get acknowledgment for their acts of bravery. These were Germans who defied their Führer and their Aryan brotherhood at great risk to their own lives. While these acts will never erase the horrors of the Holocaust, it’s a reminder that people are complicated creatures, capable of miraculous acts of mercy and horrific deeds of violence. It implores us to think about how some of the people that get caught up in hate groups are hurting deeply and just looking for something to blame their pain on. It definitely doesn’t excuse their actions or the bile they oftentimes spew, but it merely reminds us that behind every caricature is a human being in pain. 

Even if you see Jojo Rabbit and don’t think it’s that deep—you may say “Starr, it’s just a comedy about stupid Nazis, it’s not even a true story”. What is true about it is that we live in a world of grey, and while it may be simpler to put people in buckets of black and white, hero and villain, good and bad, more often than not we are all just hurting in some way. What’s true about it is that we have more in common than we have differences and ultimately, everyone regardless of race, creed, sexual orientation, craves the same thing: freedom; Freedom from the burdens that we carry on our shoulders, from dead loved ones to strife and war. Freedom from the fear of persecution for being who we are. The freedom to wear whatever we want, screw whomever we want, and to dance like no one’s looking. 

[allie1804-fan]

Malaise (Chapter 3 Just Friends No Benefits)

Chapter 1, 2

Warnings Brief mentions of sex

A couple of weeks after the appointment with Tara, Keanu found himself at a loose end and really needing to “scratch the itch” as it were. He called Lucy, one of his “friends”

“Oh hey Ke” she said somewhat hesitantly “How are you doing?”

“ah I’m good thanks, just had some free time at last and thought maybe we could re-connect?”

“uh,errm, well that sounds great ……………but I should tell you, things have changed for me in the past few months”

“Oh, how so?”

The phone went quiet at her end for a few seconds.

 “I’m engaged!”

Now there was a pause his end while he sought to process this news, tamp down his personal disappointment and muster some happiness for her!

“Oh my god, congrats, that’s amazing news, who’s the lucky guy?”

Lucy proceeded to tell him how she’d met her new love Jamie and when the wedding was scheduled etc and they concluded the call with her agreeing to a celebratory lunch date with Keanu the following week, somewhere suitably fancy – he was nothing if not chivalrous even as he was letting go of one of his options for sex in future.

He made the next call straight away, figuring that if there was going to be more disappointment, then he might as well get it all done in one go and if there was a chance that one of his “friends” was free, then it would lift him out of the funk Lucy’s news had left him in. Karen agreed to come over later, saying she could tell he was lonely from the tone of his voice but she also said she’d been meaning to talk to him, just talk, for ages so he already felt that the shutters were coming down there too and that hanging out was all they would be doing.

As they tucked into a take-out pizza and beers that evening, they stuck to small talk but when she wiped her mouth after her last piece, Keanu could feel that she was holding back from making a pronouncement.

“Keanu, if I had to guess why I’m here right now, I’d put my money on you being lonely ……..  and horny and hopeful of moving onto the sofa shortly and working your charm on me”

His eyes widened and he took a swig of his beer.

“My, you’re awfully forthright tonight hun!”

“Well it’s true isn’t it, how many times in the past year have we hung out and not had sex?!”

“errrm, none”

“Correct, and the things is, Keanu, much as I love you and much as you are  fun to be around, so  giving and sexy as hell, I need to move on from being, well, one of your fuck buddies basically. Yes, that’s right, I know that I’m not the only one and I know no promises were ever made, that wasn’t the deal, but I want, no, I need a relationship with a man that gives me more. And the longer I am jumping to your tune like some child following the Pied Piper, the less I’m able to be open to a proper grown-up relationship. One where I prioritise what I want and need, something longer term with commitment on both sides. One where that person can give me time and not just occasional fun and  gifts but strictly on his terms. I’m honestly not complaining about what we had. We were both honest about it and it worked then, but not now. I’m sorry.”

Keanu smiled, a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes

“Good while it lasted though huh?”

“Yes!” she grinned “and I’m not breaking up with you, not as a friend, I hope I can always be your friend”

“Sure, of course, no chance of one final send off huh?” he asked, eyes twinkling mischievously

She pushed him in the chest “no way, that’s just a slippery slope right back where we came from, you cheeky boy!”

They hugged and spent another hour or so chatting and getting used to being ‘just friends’, Keanu trying to avoid staring at her breasts like he would normally.

After she’d gone, he called his third option.

“what a glutton for punishment!” he thought. “Might as well choose between becoming a monk or taking out a direct payment to the agency each month if this one doesn’t work out!

It turned out that Martha, his third girl was out of town on a 6 month work placement. When he called, he recognised a European dial tone and she picked up speaking with a sleepy voice. It was about 7am where she was in Italy.  The opportunity had come up out of the blue and she’d only been there a week and hadn’t gotten round to telling people who weren’t in her immediate circle that she was going.

They talked briefly and he said he would try and tie in a visit if he was in Europe whilst she was still there. He might have movie promo or a bike related trip to make. He hung up feeling utterly dejected. Two of his options were done for good and he wouldn’t mind betting that Martha would meet some gorgeous Italian stallion while she was there and that would be that, finished.

 “God you’re pathetic Reeves” he said out loud to no-one. “The world is your oyster, you’re single - check, rich – check, OK looking – check, what the hell is your problem?”

He took himself off to bed, found some porn to watch and jerked off angrily but despite the ejaculation, the satisfied sleep that should follow eluded him, and when he awoke as dawn was breaking through, he felt a grey malaise shrouding his senses, dulling his movements and fogging his brain.

He had a new film starting in a month’s time but he couldn’t concentrate on any of the character research he should have been doing, learning his lines or working out to make sure he looked the part.  He would look at his phone and think about calling the agency but he didn’t want to get hooked and for that to be his only sexual outlet just seemed kind of tragic. For a couple of weeks  he’d spend his days either sleeping or drinking or tooling  around on his bike for hours up in the mountains. None of that helped him to shake the sense of emptiness and foreboding that filled his spirit.

First his mother noticed he was being slightly morose when they met for lunch one day. He was usually charming with her but he was monosyllabic and not the least bit enthused about their meal, his new film or the latest bike launch with Arch. Patricia flagged her worries to Karina who called round on spec a few days after to find him lolling on the sofa, listening to John Coltrane. His hair was unwashed, he smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and he’d clearly told his housekeeper to stay away for at least 2 weeks.

Alex was next to join the list of people telling him they were worried about him and begging him to share his worries. Even Rob, his band mate who was often a bit oblivious to others’ problems, could tell just from the flatness in his voice when he spoke to him on the phone.

Keanu assured them all that he just needed to get back to work.  

A week before he was due back, with little done to prepare still, he made a decision and called the agency again for Tara. He left instructions about repeating something they had done before that fell into the ‘unusual’ category. It wasn’t that weird but certainly outside the realms of straight sex. When Tara saw the request, she wondered if something was wrong too. That last time he had this request, he had been out of sorts mentally. When he messaged her about dinner, she chose Ramen noodles thinking that would be light and vaguely healthy. She didn’t imagine burgers or pizzas would do him good if he was in a funk about something.  She chose a cosy, close fitting woollen dress in cream for their “date” and hoped she could sooth him if he was troubled.

Keanu greeted her at the door bare foot and freshly showered. Truth be told he hadn’t showered for days before that and, since he had shunned the housekeeper for 2 weeks, just half an hour before her arrival he had cleared up and shoved a load of rubbish and dirty clothes in the garage where she wouldn’t see. The ramen arrived soon after her and they ate in comfortable silence.

 “You OK, Keanu. You look a little tired if you don’t mind me saying. Are you on a shoot again? You don’t usually see me when you’re shooting”

 “naaah, next week,  shooting starts next week and I’m so not ready!”

 “That’s not like you”

“I know, I know, I dunno what’s wrong really, so I figured ……………….”

“Do you really think THAT will help?”

“Well , yeah, don’t you?”

“Not sure to be honest, I’m pretty sure sex would help but that kind of sex???”

What he had asked was for her to tie him up and take him. They had not done that in a long while. The last time her feeling was that it was driven by a deep inner need to submit all control and give up calling the shots. She hadn’t understood then what brought it on but afterwards, he’d gone off to New York, filmed John Wick and made an absolutely cracking film. Maybe this would work for him this time too.

Tara enjoyed the feeling of power at bringing him very slowly to a powerful release and she could feast her eyes on him the whole time and tease him, frustrated as he was not to be able to touch her breasts, lying totally at her mercy.

Afterwards she stayed much longer for the aftercare, making them both a cocoa and trying to get him to open up. He confessed about the friends with benefits situation and she posed the idea that maybe, faced with escorts being his only option and finding that lacking, just maybe his needs emotionally were changing.

“Maybe  it’s time to let your guard down again and let someone in”

“dangerous territory” he muttered

“for who?” she pushed, arching an eye-brow.

“no good has ever come of it, not for me and not for them”

“and how many tries have there been?” she pushed. “how many in the last 10 years say”

He formed his fingers into a 0

“thought so” she said smugly “you don’t even know how it would go if you don’t try”

@penwieldingdreamer @fortheloveoffanfic @kindainlovewithkeanu @ladyreapermc @witty-wallflower @gatsbynouvel @bitchyslut99 @keanureevesisbae @omg-imagine @iworshipkeanureeves @fics-not-tragedies @ficsnroses @kindainlovewithkeanu @paperplanesandwallflowers

[theparanormalperiodical]

9 REAL Curses That You Gotta Know About - Even If You’re Not Exploring An Ancient Egyptian Tomb This Weekend

It’s the 17th February 1923.

We are somewhere in Cairo, staving off the heat of an Egyptian Autumn.

We’re waiting. We’ve been waiting since 1915.

In a silent, swift moment the seal to Tutankhamun’s tomb is broken, and one of the most valuable pieces of history is finally passed to the hands of the historians.

But it wasn’t just the secrets of the past that were unleashed when the seal was broken.

Within 12 years, 8 of the explorers that accessed the tomb were dead. By taking their first steps into this place of rest they had unknowingly released what was to be known as the Curse of the Pharaohs.

Ever since the 19th century British explorers first disturbed the pharaohs, a legend gained ground that claimed anyone who disturbed an Ancient Eypgtian mummy was to experience serious misfortune, illness, or even death.

And ever since they returned home with their spoils of the treasure was this claim proven correct, especially with the supposed curses detailed within the once hidden tombs themselves.

EDIT: Obviously this curse is founded more on the British media sensationalising exoticism, a common tactic of Imperialists in their racist agenda, so be far more wary of that than any old legend.

But what exactly was this curse? And were there any other curses that we should be aware of before we break into any other uncharted tombs?

What Exactly Is A Curse?

It’s founded some of our favourite urban legends and it is still used to stereotype certain communities - but it turns out that they’ve had this reputation for centuries.

In official terms, a curse is a wish that imposes adversity on a person or group of people, an object, or a place. Specifically, it is related to wishes made effective by supernatural circumstances, whether they’re enforced by spirits, or conjured via magic.

Regional divergences also exist, with jinxes belonging to African American Hoodoo, and hexing being a resident of Germany.

Convinced you’ve been cursed?

You have two options if you want to break the spell. One, you can either perform elaborate rituals specific to said-curse, or two, you can pray, like, a lot.

How helpful.

Not sure how you got cursed?

You’ve most likely encountered one of three things:

There’s the cursed objects - if you’ve been rooting through forbidden tombs or looted from a sanctuary, you might’ve brought a curse home, too. This curse typically amounts to bad luck, or the manifestation of strange phenomena.

Then there’s the curses from Ancient Egypt which are often associated with those that disturb mummies in their eternal slumber. The 19th century exploration of Pharaoh’s tombs revived this concept, and would allow the proliferation of our pop culture curses.

And then there's the Biblical curses. They don’t pause for breathe when cursing each other in the Bible, but thanks to my year 8 Religious Studies, I can tell you that at some point snakes and/or Cain was cursed.

(I’m sure Ms Comber would be ashamed knowing I can just about provide a tl;dr of the first few chapters of the Old Testament before the big plot twist.)

What Are The Most Famous Curses To Date?

#1 - The Curse of Tippecanoe

Our scene is set in 1931.

The brains behind Ripley’s Believe It Or Not - the bestselling publishers of unusual and slightly unnecessary facts - might not have much to report in the pre-internet age, but they were the first to note a rather peculiar trend:

American Presidents elected in a year ending in zero were to die whilst in office. This was later adapted to new, uh, data, which suggested years divisible by 20 (e.g. 1920, 1940, etc.) actually followed this trend.

And beyond the publishing date of this thesis in the early 20th century, this theory had been proven correct.

Think of an iconic president. You know, the ones that have changed history and haven’t suggested one consume bleach like shots of tequila on a two-night bender in ‘biza.

They’ve probably been a victim to this curse.

Lincoln. Mckinley. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Even Reagan and Bush followed the trend, but survived their own assassination attempts.

Question is, where does this curse supposedly come from?

William Harrison was killed only a month after being sworn into office. Elected in 1840, he waged war against a Native American tribe over problems concerning land ownership. Also known as Tecumseh’s War, this was a battle over an attempt to regain land against the American government, and it culminated in the Battle of Tippecanoe.

Harrison won this battle, and ‘Tippacanoe’ became a favoured nickname of the president.

However, shortly after the battle, one of the men at the fore of the Native American side cursed Harrison. We might not know the exact terms of this curse, nor if he wanted such a timely effect to take place, but with an election on the cards this year this thesis is due to be tested.

#2 - The Kennedy Curse

Kennedy might’ve already fallen victim to the curse of Tippacanoe, but it turns out that wasn’t quite enough. The thing is, this curse doesn’t necessarily affect just JFK. It affected everyone around him.

The Kennedy Curse allegedly prompted the deaths, accidents, and variety of other problems that have haunted the Kennedy family since before JFK even took office.

Due to the fact that some recent tragedies has supposedly been related to this curse, I’m going to refrain from coughing up each incident, but here’s a few to convince you:

Joseph Kennedy was the first victim in 1944, and died in a plane crash over Suffolk, England.

Kathleen Kennedy met a similar fate in 1948 after a plane crash.

Robert F Kennedy was killed on the night of his Senate victory in 1968.

David Kennedy died of a drug overdose in 1984.

Michael Kennedy died in a skiing accident in 1997.

John F Kennedy died in a plane crash in 1999.

Rosemary Kennedy had a lobotomy and was mentally incapacitated for the rest of her life until her death in 2005.

#3 - The 27 Club

The passing of young people is a tragedy we can’t quite wrap our heads around. Heck, belief in the supernatural is partially founded on how we can’t quite comprehend just losing someone, and that just being it.

Finality is an impossible concept to grasp.

And it’s why we turn to things like curses to explain away our pain and to make sense of it all. The 27 Club is a prime example of this.

A remarkable amount of the most famous musicians, artists, and actors to date have all died at the age of 27.

Like, over 50.

Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, and Jim Morrison are just a few of the figures that represent the phenomenon, a phenomenon which has been referenced countless times in popular culture.

Some researchers may have disproven the alleged curse, but with the 4 founding members dying within a 2 year window (Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison), suspicions will always be roused.

#4 - The Curse of the Iceman

Popular culture phenomenons might form some of the most famous curses to date, but they really started with ancient legends. And this one is one of the most well-known claims of the awakening of a long-dormant curse.

Oetzi was found somewhere in the Alps in 1991.

No, this isn’t the name of some lovable character destined to have his own Netflix series; this is a corpse preserved by the icy temperatures of the mountain range in Italy. And this corpse is from 3100 or 3400 BC, or the Copper Age.

Given the value of this shocking discovery, numerous scientists took the fore in their investigation into Oetzi. But many of these scientists also died as a result of the supposed curse put on those that dare disturb Europe’s oldest natural mummy.

7 scientists that collaborated in the removal and examination of the corpse died in a suspiciously short window of time.

#5 - The Curse of Timur

Some of the world’s most famous curses have affected small groups of people. But this curse was a tad more far reaching.

Like 7.5-million-people-far-reaching.

Emperor Timur was a Turco-Mongol leader from the 14th century and established a highly impressive empire: the Timurid Empire. And this empire was so impressive that Stalin himself took direct inspiration from him.

That’s why he wanted the body of the emperor exhumed from his Uzbekistan tomb for investigation by Soviet anthropologists.

(There’s no explanation why, but the Soviet Union did many things we can’t explain.)

Locals protested, fearing a curse that reportedly started in 1740 when an Afsharid ruler took a slab from his final resting place to Persia. His son instantly fell ill amongst a host of other problems affecting his rule, prompting his advisors to convince him to return the slab of jade back to the tomb.

If the rumours weren’t enough to convince them not to break into the tomb, you’d think the warnings on there would do the trick:

"When I rise from the dead, the world shall tremble."

"Whomsoever opens my tomb shall unleash an invader more terrible than I."

Three days after the exhumation began, Hitler launched an operation that would figure as the largest military invasion on the Soviet Union to date.

#6 - The Superman Curse

Numerous films have been labelled with an alleged curse or a haunting. The Exorcist might be the most famous example of this - you know, with that severe fire burning down the set at one point - but a more specific curse can be attributed to those who played the lead in the Superman franchise.

George Reeves committed suicide in 1959.

Christopher Reeve became paralysed in 1985.

Lee Quigley died at 14 due to solvent abuse.

Kirk Alyn’s career met a dead end after his role.

Marlon Brando experienced a series of unfortunate events after his role.

Margot Kidder encountered serious issues with her mental health after her role.

Even the crew operating on the films experienced similar issues both on-set and in their personal lives.

#7 - The Hope Diamond Curse

It’s the most famous jewel in the world, weighing no less than 45 carats and passing between the hands of French kings and British bankers alike - but it’s value is far more supernatural than the $350m price tag.

It is said that a curse is attached to it, a curse that brings misfortune and accompanying tragedy to those that own or wear the gem.

Suicides, murders, executions (most of which were hangings), being ripped apart by wild dogs and various other mobs… Just wear the earrings next time.

Today it is on exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History in the US.

#8 - The Curse Of The Chicago Cubs

Bill Sianis lived an interesting life.

A Greek immigrant to the USA, he owned a tavern in Chicago affectionately named the Billy Goat Tavern. And it was this peculiar name that led to the curse that until recently haunted the Chicago Cubs.

Sianis took his pet goat to one of the games in 1945, a game that was a part of the World Series. But due to the odour of Murphy the Goat, he was asked to leave for the sake of the other fans.

“Them Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more”

He declared this shortly after discovering that he would in fact have to leave.

This curse lasted 71 years, and mysteriously ended in 2016 after numerous attempts by fans to utilise rituals  - mostly involving goats which may or may not be alive - to release the team from their magical confines.

Numerous goats have been brought to games with declarations claiming to reverse the curse being used, and even Sianis’ family members have done their bit in attempt to lift it. Yet despite these attempts - and that severed goat’s head sent personally to the owner in 2013 - some good has come from the curse.

Many charitable efforts have sprung forth from this legend, such as Reverse The Curse donating goats to those living in poverty in Third World countries.

#9 - The Curse of Turan

Now this is an interesting one.

Allegedly, the whole population of Hungary has been under a curse for many centuries, a curse that has two potential origins:

The first took place during the Christian conversion of the country in 1000 AD, from which those supporting the old religions of Hungary (Paganism and a mix of other minority religions) cast a curse that would affect Hungary for evermore…

(More… More… Mo...)

Or 1000 years, suggesting the curse might have been lifted already.

Alternatively, it could be a curse created or rumoured to exist during the failed revolution of 1848 which evoked a great sense of pessimism that is a reported symptom of the curse.

Although the previous curses mentioned in this article have a striking number of coincidences one can’t help be interested in, this one is a little, well, vague.

Sure, Hungary - like most countries - has experienced a number of tragedies over the last 1000 years, from the devastating impact of war and invasion, to foreign control, but how far can we pin suffering caused by imperialism on that of a curse?

The high suicide rate which ranks as 6th in the world might not point to a supernatural cause, but the rather darker reality of depression.

(Yeah, I agree, I should’ve finished this article on a cheerier note.)

Well thank god that’s over!

Want to read stuff that’s less depressing and more delightfully spooky? ‘Course you do. Then go check out my other articles about all things horror and hauntings.

I even post a new real ghost story everyday.

Stay spooky!

[douxreviews]

Legends of Tomorrow - ‘Hey, World!’ Review

"Yeah, this innocent moment where kids aren’t afraid? It’s resonating with people."

I'm not crying. You're crying.

Apologies, this is a long one. I had a lot to process.

So, that was season four of Legends of Tomorrow, that was.

I've been wrestling with how I feel about this one for a few days longer than I wanted to due to an internet outage, and I'm still not entirely sure, outside of the fact that it absolutely made me cry at least twice.

I think, ultimately, the season four finale felt much less focused and more sprawling that last year's 'The Good, The Bad, and The Cuddly.'  That's not necessarily a bad thing. 'I'm not sure where they're going with this' is one of the holy grails as far as audience responses go, but only if you're also communicating the impression that you, the showrunner, do.

It might be useful to compare this year's finale with last year's in terms of one specific aspect. Specifically, how they both used the various plot coupons from the earlier episodes of the season as plot elements in the season's resolution. In season three, the main 'phlebotinums' of the season were the six totems, and of course Beebo. The season was structured around introducing those seven items, and then showing us how they could be combined correctly to resolve the season's villain. And it involved a giant stuffed animal on demon ninja fight, which was awesome.

The fact that it was the combination of those earlier plot coupons that resolved the issue made that resolution feel nicely focused and the natural ending for the season. And further, because they had the solid structural underpinning they also could also bring back Helen of Troy, and Blackbeard, and a random Viking or two for a fun callback. They had already demonstrated that the callback references to previous episodes were there for a justifiable purpose, which meant that they could throw a few frivolous ones in without hurting anything.

This season's callbacks felt much less structured and integral to the final resolution, and so they felt a little more gratuitous.

This kind of dovetails into the real problem this episode has, and it's one that you might have heard me mention before. Sing along in the back if you know the words; This should have been three episodes.

Because what the show was clearly interested in getting to was the big final showdown between the abstract power of fear and the abstract power of love. Which is great, and once they got there was fabulous. I swear I'll get around to saying positive things in a minute or two. Everything after Nate creates the circus using the book from 'Tagumo Attacks!!!' is paced perfectly. The eventual sacrifices were both foreshadowed to the exact right degree and were staggered with precision, the onset of Zari's tragedy coming right where it should at the moment we'd begun to exhale after Nate's resurrection. However, that good pacing comes in at about halfway through the episode's runtime, prior to which we'd been sprinting flat out to get all of the pieces in place for the final confrontation as quickly as we possibly can.

So, in the space of the first few minutes we go from Neron wanting to rule Hell as his motive to Neron wanting to collect fear, which kind of undercuts the clever terms of service reveal last week, but whatever. Then he apparently overthrows the Triumvirate anyway during the commercial break, as John speaks of it to Astra as a fait accompli. Then he doesn't want the fear itself, per se, but wants to use it to open a gateway to Hell so that they can come here for him to rule.

That feels like three solid end of episode reveals that we could have been wowed by over the course of three individual episodes. Because the evolution of his plan doesn't not make sense, if you follow me, it just evolves way, way too quickly to track well, and clearly only matters to get that final pit opening scene in the circus properly set up.

And hey, on that note, one of those three episodes could have been the 'Mick stealing the book of Brigid back from the Time Bureau' story that we were robbed of here. Honestly, they literally cut from Ava saying 'That will be super hard to steal' to Mick walking in holding the book saying, 'No, I totes already stole it, lets move on with the plotline.' That's just profoundly lazy plotting, and I get that it wasn't their fault, and that they didn't have any choice because the reduced episode count was never going to allow time for 'Mick-sion Impossible,' but it jars badly in context. And damn it, I totally just gave them the perfect episode title for it. I demand that they film it and include it as a DVD extra.

It honestly feels like they zipped through the first half of plot mechanics at least partially because they wanted to invest a lot of time setting up season five and it came at the expense of the season four wrap up. I specifically refer to the whole thing with the soul token/coin thing. As the episode was unfolding it felt like they were spending a lot of screen time setting up the mechanics of Hell's soul exchange which could have been time better spent telling the story at hand. At the conclusion, of course, we get the reveal of Astra and her menagerie of stolen coins, setting her and them up as the villains of next season. Which is, to be fair, a cool premise. Notice that we only saw a handful of the names on those coins, which means they can still turn out to be just about anyone. Dare I hope that the name Damien Darhk turns out to be on one of them?

Okay. We've danced around it long enough. Let's talk about Zari. First off, a big acknowledgement of how wrong I was in my review of the last episode where I mentioned that they were probably never going to get around to addressing the whole future dystopia thing. No, turns out that they were going to use its resolution as one of the foundations of season five. I should have had more faith. Second, a big shout out to percysowner, who opined in the comments thread last week that perhaps Zari would imprint on the dragon and that would undo the future dystopia. If you're reading this, percysowner, I publicly acknowledge that you read that situation much better than I did.

I genuinely thought they were killing off both Zari and Nate, I honestly did. I clocked the Nate/Constantine swap exactly when the show wanted me to, which was a satisfying and heartbreaking payoff to the Neron situation. It worked because Nate sacrificing himself and John telling Nate about the deal so that he would make the choice to do so is just so entirely on brand for both of them.

Also on brand; Zari leaving the safety of the ship to be with Nate when he died. Their final embrace before she faded away was a truly heartbreaking moment. I totally take back my earlier misgivings about their relationship. Similarly touching, Nate's farewell conversation with Hank in the rafters. I'm on record as not being a huge fan of Hank, but setting that aside, the callback to his James Taylor moment was well judged here, and I'm happy for Nate that he got that little bit of closure. Oh, and that he gets to still be alive.

So, Zari is out there somewhere living her life never having met the Legends, and in her place we have her brother Berhad, which explains why they went to such extraordinary lengths to get rid of the necklace earlier and turn it into a manly fitbit of power.

One parting thought on this change, as heartbreaking as it feels right now. Zari as we know her has left the show, but Tala Ashe has not. Apparently the Zari they find next season is going to be very different. And let's not forget that we're only a few months away from Crisis on Infinite Earths, in which all of reality is going to be put through a meat grinder and reformed on the other side. I have to believe we haven't seen the last of Zari.

Caity Lotz' impression of Melissa Benoist - Hysterical, and just a little bit mean.

Everybody remember where we parked.

This week we were all about Washington D.C in 2019 and Hell. Assuming that those are in fact two different places.

Insert drum snare.

Quotes:

Ogre: "Ha ha! Ogre wins again!" Mick: "Cheating bastard!"

Calibraxis: "Who the hell are you?" Nora: "Really? The dress doesn’t sell it?"

Nate: "I would have said ‘Zari, Zari, you smell like calamari’. … Bullying is bad."

Astra: "Nice sparkles." Nora: "Nice shoulderpads."

Ne-Ray: "We will make Earth Hell again." Subtle, show.

Mona: "Stay calm, they smell fear." Gary: "What if fear is my natural scent?"

Mick: "Give it back when you’re done. Buck and Garima’s sexual odyssey is far from over."

Zari: "Guys, I feel like that would have worked a little bit better with the real trinity." Sara: "Yeah, well, I asked and they said hard pass." Nate: "We should have done the crossover."

Vandal Savage: "Oh, I love those groovy guys."

Bits and Pieces:

-- It's a little hard to believe that all the magical creatures are down with behaving themselves now. Mike the Spike inside the puppet Stein was a serial killer, after all.

-- Also, is it just me or did the Legends just let all of the magical creatures just sort of wander off between the show and the dragon battle? Are we just not worried about them anymore?

-- It makes sense idiomatically in the US, but John Constantine wouldn't have phrased Nora using her fairy powers to get into the demon vault as 'poofing her way in.' That would mean something very different in the UK, and kind of implies that she'd somehow be getting into the vault through the magic of gay sex. Which is magical, sure, but not in a way that would be helpful in this situation. I don't know, maybe he was just going for an oblique 'fairy' joke.

-- It was fun seeing Vandal Savage and Ray bonding over Jenga, but again I kind of wonder if that wouldn't have been time better spent elsewhere.

-- It was a bad idea to bait and switch people into coming to Heyworld thinking it would be all about superheroes. I wish they'd handled that a little better.

-- Why did Mithra the dragon, who sadly never got to know the name Wixstable, turn back into a baby after eating Tabitha?

-- Nora and Gary now have the same kind of power symbiosis that Jax and Stein had, when you think about it.

-- I like them, I enjoy Wolfie, and I've enjoyed most of their plotlines this year, but it wouldn't break my heart if Mona and Gary had transferred to the Cleveland branch before the beginning of next season. We just have too many people. That's one of the reasons I believed they'd killed Nate.

-- We're all on the same page that only Mick, Sara, and Ray are non-negotiable members of the team, right? Like, I'd miss Nate, but I'd get over it.

-- How famous is Ray Palmer, exactly? Last year he was obscure enough to be working at Upswipes, and now he's working senate sub-committee hearings.

-- Lovely little cameo by The Monitor, just chilling back and eating popcorn at Heyworld.  That's a little less momentous than his other finale appearances, but it was a nice reminder that the Crisis is looming.  Also, it was funny.

Magical creatures?  Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine.

A big, sprawling season finale with lots of good bits and a little less focus and time to breath than it could have used. That kind of sums up season four as a whole, actually.

Three out of four James Taylor sing-a-longs.

And that brings us to the end of another Legends season. It's been a blast as always, see you all in the fall, when I hopefully will not have two other shows also running at the same time that the Waverider takes off.

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water.

[nikitasbt]

Yi Yi (2000) by Edward Yang: We are all born alone and we die that way too

Taiwanese-Japanese film Yi Yi directed by Edward Yang is widely regarded as one of the finest films of the XX century and the best film made by the Taiwanese directors. It was the final feature-length film directed by Edward Yang who would pass the rest years of his life fighting with health issues. Yi Yi had won him an award of the Best Director at 2000 Cannes Film Festival. This film summarizes all the achievements and experience of Edward Yang. The visual style can be compared with his older feature Taipei Story and A Brighter Summer Day, while the way of storytelling resembles the finest pieces of the Japanese Golden Age of cinema.

 In a magical Yasujiro Ozu-way, Edward Yang paints a family portrait which contains many different layers of life to be shown during enchanting almost three-hour runtime. The sketches of Jian family struggles and tribulations are told in connection of different generations and they let the viewers live the lives along with the characters, not just observe it. Yi Yi creates a broad space with an impressive cohesiveness of characters’ stories and emotions. The story is very gentle, clever, and deep, yet it is delivered in a simple slow-paced way.

 The plot of the films structures around the most important family events - a birth, wedding, and funeral. It concerns the love stories of protagonists, their search for reasons to live the life and work, little tragedies, disappointments, confessions, changes. The number of subplots is impressively high, though all the parts of the Jian family's story remain coherent, convincing and profound. Edward Yang in this film decides to talk about nothing but the life of an unremarkable middle-class family with their trials, and this task is very difficult to execute. Yang has proved to be a master making it very entertaining and thought-provoking, from the first moment till the very end.

 The first important layer of the story shown a gap between generations in the context of a grandmother’s stroke and subsequent comatose. The family members taking care of her are advised to speak with grandmother while she is in a coma, in order to help her regain consciousness. Some of them are not even able to speak, while the other realize during their monologues their life is so empty that they’ve got nothing to say but twaddle. Characters find out during these talks the life is not really going anywhere as they live blank being unsure about anything. They love the grandmother but they have been always lacking real emotional connections with her. Moreover, it appears even the bonds between father and wife and kids are also quite formal, not so sensible. The older daughter of Jian family approx. 14-tears old Ting-Ting (portrayed by Kelly Lee) seems to be the one who is close to the grandmother.

Ting-Ting is one of three main characters whose perspectives on the narrative are being depicted. We see her relationships with the family, a close friend and troubled childish boyfriend. At some point, Edward Yang crosses the love stories of Ting-Ting and her father NJ (Wu Nien-jen) who met his first love after 30 years from their separation. The way a girl and boy hold their hands applied on the same way NJ and his former love Sherry used to do. The scenes are identical, as well as hotel scenes were both couples were involved in within 30 years of time difference. Ting-Ting is shown as she is already following the same path of her parents, and the similarity of their paths is inevitable. The rehearsal of this motif is very important in Yi Yi: in the end, the young son Yang-Yang (Jonathan Chang) feels like he is taking a place of grandmother, and Ting-Ting gets a feeling of mother’s Min-Min (Elaine Kin) tribulations who struggles to get through the middle-age crisis.

 The patriarch NJ also experiences the middle-age crisis learning he has lost hopes for his own life to get changed. This is the time for him to reconsider relationships with the family members and the first love he suddenly encounters for the first time since they broke up at school. He also doesn’t feel right about the business he is involved in. NJ is shown as a man of honesty and good manners, and there is no room for such qualities in a large business. The life seems pointless, as he’s been doing this business he is not meant for throughout his life. Surprisingly, he becomes close to the Japanese software mogul Ota (Issey Ogata) who understands his feelings and helps him to regain the sense of the meaning of life. A mysterious Japanese happens to be an open-minded type talking about his poor childhood and tremendous changes his life had gone through. He insists that every day and week of life brings something new, but he remains a rare person to think so. His ideas are tantalizing and attractive, but very few people can share this approach. NJ can hardly follow him as well.

 The third perspective is the story shown from the eyes of NJ’s son Yang-Yang who attends elementary school. Edward Yang in a sublime and gentle way shows the relationships of Yang-Yang with classmates, first feelings for the older girl, troubles with the teacher and first own interests a kid develops willing to become a photographer. He clicks pictures of people’s back of the neck as they are not able to see what is behind them. So Yang-Yang helps them his way. His artistic approach doesn’t find an approval, though. A child has just started to live and he slowly learns the simple things about the world. However, he is already shown with a touch of sorrow and loneliness as neither parents nor classmates seem to be close to him.

 All the perspectives of the characters cross brilliantly and fill the space of Taipei with curious scenes of family life with their sublime and piercing emptiness at the same time. There is always a gap between generations, but all the characters will follow the more or less same path which is inevitable. The characters’ names such as Ting-Ting, Min-Min or Yang-Yang resemble the film’s title Yi Yi. It is literally translated from Chinese as “One and One” is used to show the oblique way of looking at the events of life. In order to demonstrate the ambiguity, the director often films the characters in an inventive way placing the camera behind the glass and filming them sitting and talking somewhere from outside. There are several scenes where the camera is far on the other side of the glass, yet we hear characters speaking in the café or room. The point of ambiguity is that everybody lives their own lives, yet we all experience the same things. In the end, life would be nothing, but disappointment, as the stories of protagonists tell. Even the kids are already on the way to end up like their parents. The parents had comprehended it and they already know for sure, we all born alone and we die that way too.

What is the difference between the generations in Yi Yi? In fact, the differences are just in the age, innocence, and expectations the children still possess. The crossing scenes and subplots show how similar people are. Nothing new is going to happen in the lives of these kids. The parents have already gone this way seeking harmony and had come in terms with the pace of life after failing. Yi and Yi, children and parents like one and one – we see them on the same track to learn life is quite meaningless.

Three-hour Taiwanese family drama concerns many more motifs, protagonists, subplots and stories. It would take a long to describe the stories of NJ’s brother marriage or his affair with Sherry or family drama of Ting-Ting’s neighbour and friend. It reminds of Ozu’s Tokyo Story with numerous wonderful things and drastically important features the viewers immerse into and slowly comprehends. Yi Yi is an encyclopedia of life with many dimensions and fantastically elaborate attention to the details and littlest things.

 Yi Y by Edward Yang is a visual delight with fantastic photography and the innovative camera work. The style of the film is catchy and exhilarating. However, the style delights are only employed to complement the philosophy of the story. This is the whole world depicted on a sophisticated canvas of Edward Yang. It can be certainly interpreted in different ways, as there are both beautiful, touching moments of Jian’s family life and a feeling of inevitable despair as the people are meant to live the same lives by the fact of their birth.

 Yi Yi is the most significant and acclaimed film of Edward Yang summarizing his filmmaking career. The cinematography of Wei-han Peng and brilliant performance of actors, as well as complicated and sublime story make Yi Yi one of the greatest ever produced by the Taiwanese filmmakers.

[class-wom]

Legion Chapter 24 “Morning After”-Thoughts – SPOILERS!!!

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 SPOILER TERRITORY

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Okay, as I mentioned in a previous tag from a previous reblog, where Shakespearean tragedy analogies/comparisons are concerned, this is looking less and less like Romeo and Juliet (doomed star-crossed lovers, but hey, at least their folks kissed and made up at their funerals, so to speak!) or Hamlet (huge “pile o’ bods,” including the struggling title character, but hey, at least he finally avenged Daddy’s death and left Horatio behind to tell the tale!) and more like MacBeth.  And frankly, that’s really hard for me to take, because I hate MacBeth!!!  (That being said, yeah, Lenny is now officially a classic Lady MacBeth figure.  Out damned spot indeed!)  And it seems rather ironic to me now that the body count we thought was “a thing” by the end of the Pilot -- dead Lenny, dead Clark -- really is a thing now.  (...or is it?!?  Duh-duh-DUHHHHHHHH!!!)

On the bright side (yes, I’m determined to find one -- LOL!), good and/or bad, there was a lot that happened in this ep that imo needed to happen if we’re going to reach a halfway-decent conclusion for better or worse.  And let’s not make the decision there just yet, though we’re kind of left in a position to anticipate the latter imo.

Clark’s fate? love him or hate him, yeah, he had to go imo, because to me he was a vengeful fly in the ointment who only back-burnered his David-grudge from Chapters 9 to 19 due to lack of sufficient evidence of David being a threat (a terribly useful tool in Farouk’s “bag o’ tricks;” please let us remember how casually Farouk literally flicked him off in the closing scenes of Chapter 18!), and consequently only succeeded in his relentless pursuit and obsession in making a bad situation ten times worse and more complicated in the long run.  I’ve mentioned before that Daniel’s lines in Chapter 20 made the consequences of Clark’s one-track mind perfectly clear, which brings me to Daniel’s fate:  Yeah, this is definitely one to file under “Okay, if you want me to badmouth David, I’ll go with this one; what he did to Daniel was (borrowing from Clueless) way harsh and completely unnecessary and cruel.”  Funny that it happened before he took down Clark, who again did have to be removed if any headway is to be made in any direction imo.  But maybe that’s part of the point being made here:  Okay, fine, go ahead and hate David for savagely taking down Daniel’s mental capacity as collateral damage, if you like.  But in the end, what put him in the line of fire in the first place?  His love for and loyalty to the obsessed (”focused”) Clark.  So could it be possible that, consciously or otherwise, Clark was so focused on taking down David by whatever means necessary that he was willing to put his partner at risk in the process? and doesn’t that make him as bad as David, allowing his obsessions to distract him from and ruin what he holds dear?  Not an excuse, mind, but just a thought.  It’s just that there are so many more of David at this point that it’s easier to spot in his case! LOL!

Which leads me to the next batch of things that happened that needed to imo:  The long-overdue Sydvid talk and Syd’s discovery of David’s alters.  Now regarding the former, this brings me to a tiresome sore point in light of the Chapter 23 gulag scene, namely the “one step forward/two steps back”-type of scenario where David has a much-needed confrontation that reveals his deep-seated pains and struggles beneath his dark persona, but GOTCHA! -- the whole thing turned out to be a trick, and David’s back to his guarded ruthless self as a result.  Still, hopelessly optimistic viewer that I am, I’d like to think some much-needed seeds were planted during the talk:  Even if Syd was deliberately attempting to lull David into letting his guard down (via SK’s Chapter 21 cringe-worthy promise to “teach you to lie so well that he’ll thank you as you stab him in the back”) by saying everything he wanted (and imo needed) to hear.  (Yeah, since David made a point of mentioning how he used to trust her, we’ll see how well he trusts her in future after that stunt!!! 🙄)  I’d like to think that, whatever state she may be in at this point (there’s the possibility that she may not take a literal physical form, but hey, after the whole Lenny S1-S2 Saga, who knows with this show?), she’ll know a lot better than to trust Farouk from now on.  (David was right about that when he said she shouldn’t have trusted him!!!)  I like the fact that she at least admitted that she had been jealous!!!  So at least she came out and stated the obvious; I was pleased about that!

And now that it’s happened, I can go ahead and say it:  Yes, the Sydvid Body Swap, Syd-trick or otherwise, needed to happen, because Syd needed to see what was/is driving David and making him behave the way he has been all this time.  I was shocked as to how quickly it transpired:  I wasn’t expecting it for a few more eps, tbh, and yeah, I was kind of hoping it would end a little more optimistically, with Syd and the Davids eventually talking things over, but depending on wherever Syd is mentally now (in David’s mind? somewhere in the stratosphere? I know that the next ep, which I may miss altogether but follow up on via summaries in the name of continuity, will follow her on the astral plane, so idk, maybe she’s just in a deep coma right now physically), maybe it could still happen with three eps to go? 

Also, on a side note, I liked watching DS’s “Syd-as-David” drag RK’s weakly protesting “David-as-Syd” down the halls muttering, “It’s okay, David! I gotcha!”  Took me awhile to figure out wtf Syd was up to and what she was really trying to pull during the discussion, complete with her tipping her hand about Switch’s whereabouts; I concur with a tweet I read dismissing it as a stupid plan on the part of Syd, quite frankly, thereby minimizing sympathy somewhat imo for her current position.  But I still enjoyed watching that post-swap part for some reason; acting-wise, that had to be a challenge for both DS and RK, so props there!  (And okay, yeah, Syd using David’s powers to blast his knife-wielding followers?  On the one hand, I feel sorry for them, but on the other, I concede with reluctance that it was kind of cool, if for no other reason that I no longer have to listen to them call him “Daddy”!  ROTFL!  Not sure what annoys me more, their calling him “Daddy” or Farouk calling him “My son” or “My baby.”  Let’s put it at a photo finish, shall we?  LOL!)

Okay, on to the Lenny Shocker -- and to me, it was a shocker!  Yet there was a huge dropped ball in this scene that annoyed me:  As Lenny was calling David out on his narcissism, why the heck didn’t he point out that the only reason he was keeping her around and/or she had a body in the first place -- a body destroyed by Syd, accidentally or otherwise, using David’s body and powers, I might add!!! -- was because Farouk destroyed the only tangible family, adopted or otherwise, in order to grant her request for a physical body and freedom?  He would have certainly had grounds to do so, Heaven only knows!  Okay, fine -- not saying that Hawley & Co. had to call up Katie Asleton to get her to film new scenes; a few flashbacks and/or at least the name-drop of Amy would have been good enough for me.  But I’ll give NH credit:  There may have been a case in which he did write such a line in this scene for David, and heck, maybe it was even filmed, only to be cut at the request of the FX execs who argued that it would cause the ep to run too long to ironically run that Twizzlers ad during the commercial breaks.  (Anyone else catch that in the “Lenny Swan Song”-ep with regard to a sponsor choice? that couldn’t have been a coincidence! LOL!)  Perhaps the best part of the scene (at least imo), David shedding visible and genuine tears as Lenny slowly bleeds to death, was supposed to indicate this, that the closest thing he had nearby to remind him of a true family was slipping away from him.  Interesting ref during the Sydvid talk that he later describes this as “abandonment” and equates it with his parents.  I guess that’ll work for now, but I would have liked to at least hear the Amy-ref, since it’s safe to call that moment the turning point in S2, David’s realization of Lenny’s true identity.  JMO.

And while the World Wide Web is crying “There’s no doubt about it, David truly is a villain now!” can we just take a look at Farouk in this ep once and for all and say “Yeah, okay, whatever, but that doesn’t mean that Farouk is good by default!”?  (I know, I know -- two wrongs don’t make a right, as I keep saying, but again, Farouk’s old enough to have a better idea of what he’s doing, and apparently for all his coolness, even he in the end underestimates his competition!) Puppet master, master Chess player (oooh, a Xavier/Magneto ref! LOL!), etc., etc. -- we definitely see Farouk as nothing more than a master manipulator.  Yet he’s not completely successful in his control over D3, and since the D3/Summerland gang has changed so dramatically and frustratingly over the course of this show to the point where I’m not even sure I can root for the Loudermilks anymore (Kerry’s excitement about going to space was kind of fun, though!), I’m not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed in this turn of events and the inevitable parting of the ways.  (Or at least I would hope so; perhaps he’ll use Syd’s apparent condition to his advantage, idk.)  Frankly, I’m coming more and more to the conclusion that there is going to be no true winner at curtain’s end no matter how you slice it; at best, perhaps some parties will come away with a bittersweet sense of closure, and that’ll be about it.

Regarding Farouk’s underestimation of his control over the situation, I liked Switch’s suddenly popping up to help David, but if she’s incarcerated in a hibernation chamber, how the heck did she manage to snap out of it so quickly?  That had a rather deus ex machina-feel to it imo.  I may have missed something, idk; quite possible with this type of a show.  LOL!

And as often happens, I guess I had a little more to say the morning after than I thought I did! 😂

[hlwim]

Not All of Me Will End [1/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3  ff.net

who lives

Smoke gathers beneath the ceiling’s blackened tin tiles—a match for her mood, and for the roiling green clouds that gather low over the city. Riza could add a little cirrus stream of her own, but all she has is the cigarette holder to tap against her lighter, ivory clacking on silver again and again. They’ve been waiting nearly an hour, stiffly side by side and still in uniform, as though either of them will be going back to work afterward.

“What’s the point of rank if I can’t use it to get anywhere?” Roy sighs, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, and he smiles at her. He doesn’t know the way that she knows. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sure it’ll only be a few more minutes.”

A wave of vertigo ripples upward between her eyes—and the half-filled lobby blurs into a slumbering beast, churning, burbling, gasping with thickened lungs. The steady heartbeat of patients marching the corridors and tangled in their IV lines, the thrumming of each slippered footfall that plays her broken nerves to insentience—she calms by pressing her fingernails deep into her palms, carving long purple furrows across the spongy flesh.

The nurses chitter like insects across the floor, hiding their oddly jointed limbs beneath dark blue dresses, pressed leather boots, starch-white aprons crossed over the back. Hats pinned to hair carefully pulled into uniform curls—such dreadful little halos. One of them approaches, with black eyes and pin-pricked red lips and a slithery grayed tongue.

“Captain Hawkeye. Doctor Hauer apologizes for the delay. He’s prepared for you now.”

Roy’s hand on her back is not subtle or standard politeness—he has caught her twice in the last month from falling back down the stairs. Something in the exertion of climbing would send a sheet of foggy blackness across her vision and then, just as her fainting spell during the commemoration parade, Riza would groggily wake to find herself propped up by his steadying arm. Even now they are keeping to a slow pace, passed on every fifth step by an annoyed orderly or harangued custodian.

Doctor Hauer’s name is at last set on the glass of his door, in careful white etching—he’s new from the north, highly recommended and with a fellowship purchased directly from the führer’s considerable coffers. At least, from all this meaningless mess, Central City Hospital can boast of retaining the best diagnostician in the country. He won’t look like much in print, but she can imagine, somewhere in a distant memorial garden, his stately stone glower presiding over a mossy plaque dedicated to his advances in various medicinal sciences. Such men are almost never properly paid tribute in life, so she can find some comfort in knowing she probably wouldn’t have lived to see it regardless.

“I’m sorry,” he says, no preamble, no offer of tea, “but it is exactly as we feared.”

“Cancer.”

“Yes.”

Riza nods. She knew, in all the ways that Roy did not, and his fingers tighten painfully around hers.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I spoke to my colleagues in West City and East, and they both concurred with my initial reading. The shadowing on the film clearly indicates wide-spread metastasis.”

“What does that mean?”

Hauer glances at Roy and then back to Riza. She can, to some extent, respect his desire to keep her the center of the conversation—but it feels so unnecessary. Like the broken beaks of a thousand furious birds, rain begins to peck at the glass behind the good doctor’s head.

“Although the size of the mass in your lungs leads me to conclude that it is the originating site, your previously described symptoms—dizziness, hallucinations, blackout spells—strongly suggest that there may be a mass in your brain as well.”

He points, with alarming accuracy for not even bothering to turn his head, at the tacked-up transparency of her chest. The closest she will ever get to witnessing the true complexity of her own desiccated husk, save for running a knife beneath her ribcage and peeling back what flesh is found there.

“It also appears to have reached your lymph system. We could draw blood to confirm the presence of malignant cells moving throughout your body, but at the current rate of growth, in a matter of months…”

A twisting grimace.

“As they say, truth will out.”

“Is that—is that how long…?”

Hauer’s eyes are a brackish-green, painted with flecks of yellow by an unsteady hand. In one eye, the sclera holds a streak of bright red, and the pulse it hides could almost be visible, she thinks, by changing the angle of her observation. His left eye flickers first, followed by the right a quarter-millisecond after.

“It’s difficult to say with any accuracy. The disease process is unique to each person.”

“So then what’s our next step?”

She is not trying to memorize this moment or even Roy’s face—she is merely observing the cool milky sheen of his skin, the youthfully short lines bundling above his brows, the click and clack of his tongue and teeth as he seeks a futile reprieve. They—Hauer and Roy, and not Riza, who folds up her hands in her lap and watches Roy’s face without feeling the slightest change in her own—discuss medication and surgery and radium therapies with such naive hope cutting their lips to ribbons.

“No,” Riza says. The birds have left the window—for all its crescendo, the storm was brief and will have left only a discomforting haze to line the streets and sidewalks.

“Riza, there’s still options—”

“Not for me.”

“But they’ve had success—”

“In skin cancers. And most of the patients went on to develop a different cancer and died anyways, after a few years.”

He wants to protest, his eyes a pair of open wounds twisted wide by the gears of coming grief. The clouds have cleared from his side first—he sits in a shower of sunlight and reaches to her, delicately seizes her hands and pulls them to his lap. They stand sharp as plucked feathers against the dark wool of his uniform.

“I read the same studies as you,” she finishes.

“But it could work.”

It is difficult to explain the logic of what remains so… obvious. Hauer has withdrawn, content to study the bleed and retain his commentary. Riza, in a half-remembered instinct for solace, runs her narrow thumbs across the wide expanse of Roy’s palms.

“Cut me open,” she says, unblinking, by force of love and misery willing the certainty to bridge the empty air between them, “and scoop out what they can. Then weeks under one of those awful lamps or even worse—a tube of radium sewn up inside me until it burns through.”

He shakes his head as she speaks—his imagination is well-stocked with atrocity and no doubt illustrates each word with a facsimile of what its truth might be.

“Is that what you want for me?”

Ruined by all of it—torn open and shredded by the indifferent abyss. She sees him as one might see a lone telegraph pole with its lines all cut loose, fading fast into a horizon that welcomes no minute alteration. He squeezes her fingers, trying to coerce heat from his calloused skin into her. He speaks very quietly—not a whisper, but an inability to draw sufficient breath for each word.

“I want you to live.”

She smiles, somewhat, tempering the cruelty with a cold sigh and a tremor which passes, without origin or end, between their joined hands.

“Well,” she says, “I’m not going to.”

Roy’s car has broken down again, so they take a black taxi back to Central Command. The driver seems to sense their disquiet and leaves the divider up, assuming possibly that they have a need to talk—but they only stew in a long silence. The rain begins again, and ends, and then restarts and finally quits the greened sky for yellowing pastures somewhere south.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the hallucinations?” Roy asks. He speaks to the closed window, hands curled to fists in his lap, brow knit, frowning, eyes darting from face to face when they stop near a crowd. He will want a solution from his frustration and will find nothing.

“I don’t know,” Riza says. “It only happened a few times. I thought sometimes it hadn’t happened at all.”

Anger rolls from his shoulders in cutting waves. It radiates, and she wants to lay her hands along the span of his back, to absorb his heat and make it her own, to become the yawning, roaring void that has opened inside him: a little well of sadness, which seeks an ocean to drown it.

“I’m sorry.”

Their attendance at Grumman’s table is required, and she tells him immediately, wishing no delay to the plans that now must follow. He rages, of course, stalking the edge of his favorite Aerugian rug as he narrows his sights on the appropriate prey.

“I built that hospital!” he snarls, expelling foul breath with the lie. “Every brick belongs to me, and if they think they can reject my granddaughter for treatment—”

“I don’t want treatment,” Riza says, turning her fork to cut into a fig. “I made the choice.”

He softens to speak to her, just as always—she is glad, again, that he had no choice but to give her up as assistant. Familial affection is smothering at any distance.

“But, my dear heart, you’re far too young to give up.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, arranging her plate and cutlery for the ease of the maids, who will sweep the room spotless once they’ve gone through to the library, each night making such quick work of erasing all traces of their disorderly occupation. “I’m going to die.”

Grumman rages through the nightcap, malcontent as always with realities outside his making. Roy won’t defend her outright, but he’s far enough to her side to ignore Grumman’s attempts at alliance. Riza nurses a tiny glass of port, happy to let silence be her best answer.

She is the last to leave the library but stops short of climbing the first step. Roy will have found a room for himself somewhere in the east gallery—still trapped by the old etiquettes. They will not share a bed under this roof, which seems a trifling thing and yet—she can almost relish the possession of feeling again—some silly part of her is hurt. No matter that they’ve made love before, or that long before the tendrils of this nightmare began to tug at her ribcage, they had made such public promises.

Grumman had demanded an announcement and then disseminated one himself, when neither of them proved obliging. An alert of required celebration, and the drab party that followed—she thinks she still can smell the smoke of dusty candles and the flowers left too close to open flame. Smoke like meat, like the rabbits she hung inside that big hollow oak and the door she’d made of bark to cover, to pack with clay and come back later when Father lost his patron and they’d gone three weeks without anything but bread and foraged apples—

Riza curls her fingers around the ugly finial at the base of the bannister, feeling the weakness drain through her grip. There is no smoke here. The engagement party was months ago, and all its guests have gone home to sleep. Very carefully, she slides down to sit on the last carpeted step.

This is not the main staircase of the house—the grand incline that sweeps from the gilded foyer up to the narrow walk which runs from the east wing to the west—but a disused passage back to the kitchens. The sort of walk servants might have taken fifty years ago, slipping surreptitiously from their rooms in the attic to the basements. What need did they have for decoration? This landing holds a vase long empty of flowers, a dusty candelabra, and an overly-ornate bureau. And overseeing all, the painting.

Liesel Grumman, aged sixteen years, preserved and pickled in a brine of oil pigments and glaze. Her hair is styled in loose curls, her narrow body draped in white, and her hands are clasped primly on her lap—not one on top of the other, but palm to palm. Her eyes are blue, her throat bare, and her skin smoother than the brushstrokes that conjure it.

But the varnish is yellowing. The painting has gained a haze, and the corner of the frame is chipped of its gild. Riza shuffles herself forward along the carpet, not quite steady to stand on her own, until she is kneeling at the base of the bureau, looking up into her mother’s eternally averted gaze.

Berthold had had nothing to say on the subject of his late wife—other than that she was late and his wife—and Liesel had left precious few letters for perusal. Vaguely, Riza remembers a cardboard portrait of their wedding buried somewhere deep in the cellar: a matching pair in black, Liesel smiling gently and Berthold scowling.

If there had ever been anything like a journal of hers, Grumman never spoke of it. Despite the elopement which had separated them forever, he seemed to still think of his daughter as loyal, darling, sweet, pure, incorruptible—but her gaze in the painting is more dead than demure. The bureau is weighted and steady as Riza ascends, leaving her shoes to topple in the carpet, her elbows digging into the rough panels on either side.

Her eyes are a detached, icy blue. Round, large, surrounded on all sides by sclera barely distinguishable from her snowy white skin. Riza presses gently on the prick of her mother’s painted iris, flattening the peak. She didn’t really look like this. She never could have—and anyway, if she did and Riza knew, the memory is gone now in a foggy haze of black.

It is happening more and more—things Riza knew not because she could conjure the memory itself but because the vague shapes of it still threaded themselves in and out of other recollections. Impressions of a movement, of a tree weeping leaves into a river, a negative space between thought and thought, marked out only by its absence. It’s creeping closer as well, swallowing whole days and nights of solitude. She finds herself frantically scribbling out every thought that might someday find importance, before they can flit away from her fingers.

And what she does remember still—played out before her helpless gaze like a zoetrope glued to her face. A whirling vortex that melts to a view of Eastern Command, where Grumman brought her to the painting before even telling Riza who she was. Who she was—peering down from above the fireplace, amber-trapped, perpetually pre-elopement, pre-death, pre-decay, prevented from any comment on her own current condition—and he leered like a supplicant, offering up no sacrifice worthy of the penance sought in such adolated immortality.

Riza slides from the bureau unsteadily, spiked with sudden fear that the world has shifted itself while her back was turned. And it has—the shapes of Grumman’s old sitting room recede, bleeding backwards into carpet and empty wall and worn step, and her own shoes, kicked over and empty. She can’t remember how to get back to her own room, or what twists and turns will take her to where she is supposed to be. This isn’t home—it’s a stop in the pilgrimage to the end, and she sets her left hand on the wall, ready to resume.

By morning, Grumman has attained some level of acceptance. He is the last to come down for breakfast, white-faced and gray-shadowed, and he takes his seat without bothering to bring a plate.

“I’m going to see General Armstrong today,” Riza says. A maid woke her in the parlor at sunrise and lead her back to her room, where she slipped uneasily behind the mask of a dressing gown and slippers.

“You don’t have to,” Roy says, as his spoon scrapes across the bottom of his cup.

“I should,” Riza replies. “I want to.”

The grapefruit tastes like nothing, but she still winces. Grumman’s butler, with a stare of gravest concern, brings the old man some eggs and sausages, which he does not touch.

“When you return,” he says, barely managing to unfold his napkin, “we might discuss hiring on a nurse or two. To help out.”

“There’s no need. I’ll be going back to the house next week.”

His lip curls up like a burning leaf.

“You can’t possibly—”

“It is my home,” Riza says steadily.

“Wellesley is too far.”

“I had a telephone line installed. The tenants left last month.”

Roy’s stare shifts up from the newspaper he hadn’t been reading, fixing on her—furious, offended, incredulous. He must have thought they were in this together. Riza stares back, her mouth flat as her mood.

“I’m going back to the house,” she says. “There is no argument.”

“Riza, please, you must be reasonable about some of this—”

“Every Hawkeye,” she says, slow and deep and clear as a tolling bell, “for two hundred years was born in that house, and now the last of us will die there.”

Grumman’s fogged glasses clink against his spoon, and he sets his fingertips against each eyelid.

“I wish you would stop saying that word,” he mutters.

Roy waits at the bottom of the stairs with her dress coat—undeterred. They have covered the subject of stubbornness extensively in their time together, so she just sighs and turns around, allowing him to slip the sleeves up her arms and slowly pull each button through its slit. Her whole uniform has been freshly mended for this: its last exercise in the sun. The piping is bright white, the braids are neatly aligned in rows, and each metal pin of rank and office and regiment sparkles with shine. He keeps himself to civilian clothes.

His leave of absence has no doubt been expediently approved, or sits atop that neglected pile of forms awaiting the führer’s signature. Another piece in its waiting place.

They could take Grumman’s car, but she doesn’t want Armstrong to be immediately defensive. Roy orders a cab, and she almost wishes it could be the same driver as yesterday. This one is fine enough, although he smiles with too many teeth. Riza dislikes him instantly and wants, viciously and without cause, to see him frown instead, thinking to dim his irreverence with a remark about her condition. But that was her father’s way, never hers, and the impulse passes.

Roy keeps to his side of the bench when she steps in and settles against the door. She is beginning to miss him, even inches apart, and soon he’ll have his chance to miss her as well. Without hesitation, Riza slides her hand across the polished leather padding and slips her fingers between his.

He looks at their hands first, and then up to meet her gaze. She’s still half-sure he’ll pull away. There is nothing to say to the darkness growing behind his eyes.

The Armstrong estate suffered yesterday’s rain just like the rest of the city—every time, Riza expects it all to be unblemished and opulent, recently emptied of party guests and yawning for new attention. But instead, it is a quiet house hunched up and drawn in, dripping from its cornice like a near-empty wine bottle, unstoppered and tipped on its side.

There is a butler to let them in, and another butler to announce them. Having no business but escort, Roy is shown into the library, and Riza takes the next step without him.

Maybe they’re not all butlers. Three of them stand against the wall in the stately dining room, livery pressed to sharp creases and stares scalding. There must be one table for parties, and this smaller table for every day. Lieutenant General Armstrong sits at the head, newspapers spread on her left and correspondence unopened on her right, with her picked-over breakfast plate neatly in the center. Her brother is also on the right, sitting far down the table—but no doubt as close as she would allow—and he stands when Riza enters.

“Madame General, Captain Hawkeye to see you,” the door-opening non-butler says, bowing deeply and backing from Riza’s peripheral vision before returning to upright.

“Good morning, Captain Hawkeye,” Alex says. “Would you care to join us for breakfast?”

“Thank you, no—I’ve eaten already.”

“Is there some urgent matter?” the general interjects. “I didn’t send for you. I thought you were off planning your betrayal of a wedding.”

She does not look up from the newspapers, squinting to follow her forefinger across the narrow print. Alex gives her a look of almost matronly disapproval.

“Olivier doesn’t mean that, Captain. We’re both very happy for you.”

“Don’t speak for me,” she snaps, now lifting her coffee for a sip—obstinance. Riza used to find that horribly endearing in a commander. “The captain’s choice in romantic partner has already been reflected in her annual review.”

“Olivier, don’t be impolite.”

“I wonder if I might speak to the general alone,” Riza says. Her knees are beginning to strain, and the heels of both feet grow hot. She might have laced her boots too tight in her haste to leave.

“Of course, Captain. Please excuse me.”

Alex nods, rises, and ushers the butlers from the room. The general turns to her correspondence, unfolding a concealed pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of her nose.

“I can’t believe the cheek of you bringing that worthless cur into my library.”

She loves scolding over a meal. How many bottom-rankers had Riza brought to her table at supper, every one of them knock-kneed with hunger-strengthened fear, to receive a lashing of words no less capable of stripping flesh from bone than the stiffest leather strap?

“It’s bad enough you’ve accepted him—and now he follows you around everywhere like a sick dog, so eager to throw his victory in my face.”

She points with a butter knife.

“You know I take this all as a personal offense.”

“I know, ma’am.”

But what could she do about it? Her refusal would have changed nothing more than—distance? Perhaps Riza would never have gone in to check. The air around Briggs is so thin, and she’d been teased for her inferior Western lungs more than once. Perhaps one morning an enlisted aide would have been sent to her bunk, to rouse for inspection, and she would have just been found, blue-lipped and silent forever.

“Don’t tell me that he’s gone and knocked you up. The thought of that idiot propagating—”

The sting is surprising.

“I’ve said something cruel, haven’t I?”

Riza opens her eyes—surprised again, to find that she had closed them. The general has set aside her letters and her papers and hidden once more the glasses she wants no one to know of, and she watches Riza with her hands folded on the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s serious. And I’ve made some mockery of it.”

The overly-familiar upward rush of illness—Riza is standing close enough to the table to grip the back of a chair before she can completely collapse.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid I must sit in your presence.”

The general returns to her own seat slowly, too startled to conceal her concern. Beneath the table’s edge, Riza’s hands are shaking.

“What’s going on, Captain?”

“I came to submit my resignation, ma’am.”

She nods. She might be angry, disappointed, annoyed—but none of this shows in the knit of her brows.

“And I can’t refuse. No matter if I wish I could.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is it—is there anything—”

A fragment of a generous offer. A lilt in her voice, a downward shift in tone, maybe even something close to a tremor. They are not—will never be—anything resembling friends. And there is such deep relief in it.

“But I’m sure the führer’s exhausted every possible avenue—to confirm…?”

Riza says nothing. The general nods, sliding into her earlier pose, back rigid against the chair, hands shuffling through the correspondence pile, eyes averted—but Riza knows she is not done just yet.

“You’ll stay here, with your grandfather?”

“No, ma’am. I own a house in the Western District. We’ll go there in a few days, when the rest of my affairs are settled.”

The room has reoriented itself around its own wavering silhouettes. Riza can stand without shaking, and she sets the chair back against the table with a muffled click of polished wood on wood. She can even manage parade rest, fixing her stare on a single flower carved into the painting frame directly above the general’s head.

“I’ve briefed Lieutenant Falman already on my projects and as specifically as possible on expectations in serving as your interim adjutant.”

“There will never be an equal replacement.”

Riza’s fingernails bite briefly into the flesh of her palms.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I suppose that’s it, then. You are dismissed.”

She never looks up. Riza could imagine a slight twitch passing through the general’s occupied hands, but why bother? This is almost exactly what she wanted.

Yet another butler meets her outside the dining room. Roy has broken the containment of the library, and he does not smile at her return.

[believerindaydreams]

the title is: this thing wot I don’t even

I'd like you all to know that I carefully tracked down a movie theatre that was showing “The Sting” in summer 1974. Chicago, which makes sense given the setting.

also I spoil the film in some fairly comprehensive ways. Including that it's a horrifyingly traumatic thing, if one happens to be a happy POC hustler...

Hard to write, in the cramped, swaying environs of an eighteen-wheeler's trailer. Be a smoother ride if the driver knew they were here; but then, if he did they wouldn't be in here at all.

Dear Angel Eyes.

Blondie glances at his sleeping partner again, carefully tucks away the postcard. Things are tight with them, sure, but not disastrous yet. Their stake's intact and as long as they have that, they're still in the money.

Admittedly there's not much left besides the stake. Tuco's probably going to have to break out the rainy day slush he pretends not to have until a supperless night's on the horizon, but they'll make it. They've come back from worse.

He wonders just where it is they're going. Arkansas has been new territory for them, also slim pickings; they'd both tired of it quickly and concluded to move out. A truck with Louisiana license plates had seemed as good a bet as any. South again, it'll do his partner good; the closer they get to the border, the better Tuco likes it.

Only once he'd asked, whether they ought to cross over to benighted Sonora; and Tuco had flushed and stammered about passports in such incoherent terms he'd got the picture. Afraid of crossing that border and then not being able to get back again, it makes sense. He's not given to asking questions when there's no need.

Less said the better, sometimes. Something he's got to remind himself of about calling Angel. If the man cared to take him back at all, it'd be with a reprimand and a leash; and that'd suffocate him. It'd be putting Tuco in danger too, in a way worse even than what they do already- and that'd hardly be the worst, but it's the reason most suited to his conscience, somehow.

Blondie lifts a bottle of pop from one of the surrounding crates, swigs it comfortably. They're pretty smart, him and his partner. They'll manage.

Wherever they end up.

***********

"....Chicago? Blondie, what the hell are we going to do in Chicago?"

Fair question. They're a little too far north for the usual routine to work; bars aplenty, sure but their hustle's not worth a damn without some local knowledge. "Play some poker, maybe?"

It's something he's been holding on to, the idea of making it straight; just them and the cards and the other players, no jiggery-pokery or tricks to give them an advantage. More honest than what they do- that does make a difference, despite Tuco's rolled eyes and insistence that a hustle is a hustle and cash is cash.

"Not that again. You remember that time in San Antonio? We were drinking rain water for a week."

"You bring that up every time I suggest we give the hustle a miss. It's- it's rough on you, I know that."

"I'd rather rely on that than our cardplay. Hate's never going out of style." Tuco stoops to the sidewalk, picks up a brightly coloured piece of garbage. "Hey. Look at this, it's advertising that Paul Newman picture you wanted to see."

The Sting. They hadn't had time, with it coming out at Christmas; that season's always hectic for them. An easy time of year to score free dinners, win big off men desperate to stay out late and forget about their families, they both always look forward to it. If not for reasons that would have made sense to Father Paul.

"Be nice for a memento, I guess."

"Better than that. They're mounting a special showing, it says- we could hit the matinee! What about it, Blondie, feel like taking the day off?"

He might demur. Probably should. He lights a cigarillo and lets the silence talk for him.

"A soft seat, that'll be nice after spending the night on crates. I didn't sleep so good- air conditioning! That'll be nice. And you never know, maybe we'll learn something useful. Two hustlers like us, right?"

It is, to all accounts. He'd talked up that aspect to Tuco last December, trying to make a case to waste some valuable time seeing it and he's vaguely ashamed of that zeal now. "If it's a special showing, the ushers might be checking tickets. We'd have to pay up instead of sneaking in, and you don't want to have to miss a meal just to see a motion picture."

"Sometimes I get tired of you playing the martyr, you know that? If you want to go, we'll go."

Now that's not fair. Not fair at all- like Tuco's taking something away from him, that's damn selfish almost- "I better not hear you complaining, then."

"Not a word," his partner says cheerfully. "You know me. If it gets dull, I'll just go to sleep."

***********

As it turns out, that doesn't happen.

Partly because if they're going to do this, they might as well do it right. Tuco splashes out on popcorn and soda and spends forever fussing over what candy he wants, while Blondie waits impatiently by the red ropes, not quite tapping his foot. His partner likes putting him through this, lingering and keeping him in suspense until just before the trailers will start, then presenting the ticket with ostentatious flair.

Happens this time, just like every time. Hard not to take it personally, especially with Tuco carrying a bag of Jordan almonds.

"You know I'm allergic to those."

"I forgot."

It's tiring, how unsubtle his partner's greed is sometimes. "Hurry up. We'll be lucky to get a seat."

He's completely wrong about that, as it happens. There's plenty of seats when they walk in the theatre's cool, reassuring dim- and the fact that the place doesn't console him like it ought is too telling. There's something wrong with him that won't accept being comforted by the here and now, the way his partner can always manage- it's him being spoilt, is what.

Hell. Any cinemaphile might get wistful over a film library and a personal projection room, he supposes. It's an unreasonable thing to want, but then it was an unreasonable thing to have have promised in the first place. No reason to complain if it'd slipped away like the dream it was.

"This is nice, isn't it?" Tuco says, chewing lustily on popcorn. "I hope it's a long film, that'll make me happy..."

"Hush." The screen's begun to flicker.

Paul Newman, Robert Redford- god, they'd been so good together in Butch Cassidy, cowboys and a three-way love triangle. That's given him food for thought a few times, has sort of been in the back of his mind for seeing this followup. He's always thought of Newman as a guardian angel of sorts- ever since The Hustler, when he and Tuco had finally picked up the right word for the way they lived. Somebody who always knows all the angles, somebody who knows where it's at. Might go down, but only with style.

And Redford, Redford's young like him. Able to make mistakes. But he pulls through, he always does.

Like he'll have to do now, in fact: this hustle that Redford's running (not so much a con, more straight up theft) is too much too soon. Eleven thousand dollars and the movie's barely started. A lot of money by '30s standards. A lot of money by theirs, even; he and Tuco maybe couldn't retire on that, but they'd be able to...well, take a few months and stop to think about their future. Who knows what that would even look like.

Tuco's frowning at the screen, and actually passes him the popcorn bucket- a sure sign he's preoccupied- and Blondie can guess why. Redford's partner isn't Newman at all but some black man called Luther, who knows who the actor is. But they've got a good camaraderie together.

They've got a home together. Luther's got a wife, a nice place; so cosy it's almost unbearable. He can see why Redford wants to leave that intact, head up to the big time alone, he'd want that himself (wants)- but it's nice just to see that his film alter ego has somewhere worth leaving at all. More than he had.

"Luther's smart," Tuco whispers to him. Almost quivering with excitement.

Just before the picture upends itself, from light comedy to revenge tragedy-

*********

he should have seen it coming, Tuco knows.

Should have known that nowhere's safe, even in pictures. That he's not safe himself, that's a fact of life he became used to long before he and Blondie hit the streets. But he'd let down his guard this time-

and it's stupid of him, stupid to feel like that's what killed Luther (it was a cop, of course it was a cop)- as though a moment more of keen attention could have changed the celluloid, could have made a film that came out six months ago different from what it always was.

About as stupid as the tears dribbling down from his eyes, that won't stop- and he's terrified now. It's far worse than a tell, letting his emotions get the better of him like this- he's not great at poker but he's not bad at it, but what use will he be next game if he gets worked up like this? He plays with this stuff every day, hate and fear; but shunting it all down channels he understands, playing a game whose rules he knows. This has caught him by surprise-

Tuco Ramirez, you get a grip on yourself. Right this minute.

Before Blondie notices.

A soft hand, faintly pink in the theatre twilight, takes his darker one; Blondie leans close to his ear. "You want to go?"

If it'd been an order, he would have obeyed with tired acceptance; but asking the question fills him with a stubborn need to push back.

(Fuck it, Blondie knows that.)

"We paid. We stay."

As much as he can do, to choke out the whisper intelligibly; he shakes his hand out of Blondie's and grabs up his Duluth from the floor. It's a heavy weight against his knees, packed solid with too much junk. Practical things and debris, keepsakes and even a few sweet little incidentals without any purpose.

It's everything he needs. It's all he has; and he's lucky to have that, luckier far than Luther who wanted too much and got cut down for it. At least he's alive.

That's about all he can think, while the film keeps unspooling and a plot plays out details he's vaguely aware he'd delight in, were he capable of paying attention. Redford seems unhappy about Luther being dead, decides to get revenge on the killer.

(As unhappy as Blondie would be, if one of their hustles went wrong and he ended up on a barroom floor with a bullet in his temple?)

No. No, Redford's not half so caring. There's something he can cling to, that poor Luther couldn't- if he died, Blondie would arrange a more permanent revenge than a mere half-million the mark can easily spare. His partner's hinted a few times lately about getting in with hitmen and assassins- too many Fleming paperbacks, probably- but his blood leaking out, that'd push Blondie to real action. To hire an expert, if the would-have-been priest couldn't manage the job himself.

Which is still not all that much consolation. Tuco hugs the pack closer, and keeps a shivery vigilance through salt-rimmed eyes.

Not at the screen. At the darkness-

and yet when it comes for him it's still a surprise-

************

"I've seen that film," Angel Eyes says, his lips quirking. "Or part of it- there was a black-gloved assassin who shoots a waitress. Rose's idea of a good joke."

Tuco breathes out, slowly. Looks around the gatehouse's safe confines. Sofa, potted herbs, fruit bowl, though that's empty. Everything's here.

"We had a chat about that, Blondie and I. The way you thought he might have put in a word about The Godfather. After we went on the run from you...you know, Blondie was so paranoid the hacienda might be bugged, we didn't get in as much conversation there as we should have. I told him no assassin would be stupid enough to keep records after Watergate, and he said maybe you hadn't put the bugs there."

"Ah. You mean, what if Rose had?"

"Right."

"It's a possibility," Angel Eyes agrees, dipping a ladle in the steaming pot. "I did my best, obviously, but there are limits...did you want to help me with this soup?"

"Sure, sure." Soup would be good, he's starving. "What do you want me to do?"

"Oh. Just stand there and look delicious."

That's when the terror hits him.

The awareness he's tried so hard not to examine. That this home that isn't his was bought and sold in blood, that if he stays he's just as guilty-

by the time Angel Eyes actually walks over and calmly starts to knife him, long scrolls of flesh scraped off him like potato peelings, he's long since started screaming-

************

-wakes up gasping for breath, with his partner holding him tight. The one, Tuco suspects, probably has a lot to do with the other. He wriggles loose a little.

"Tell me you're okay," Blondie pleads.

"I'm okay. I'm awake, mostly." It hadn't occurred to him to ask that question before; but he knows what's going on now.

The two of them are crammed into one small but heavily overbuilt bed, sturdy but with none too many blankets. Blondie’s childhood room isn’t made for comfort. "I've been having bad dreams. Angel Eyes...and that hustler movie from Chicago, I know that was mixed up in it somewhere." Fading quick, for which he's just as glad.

"God, I don't blame you for having nightmares about that," his partner says, and it does sound like his partner again instead of a priest. "Or anything. Can't say as I've slept."

That's not true, Tuco's aware. It'd felt like hours he'd spent awake, with Blondie huddled against him, clinging on for comfort even in his sleep. At least his shoulder's stopped throbbing.

"I wanted to be you, you know that?"

"Huh? Blondie, how'd you mean?"

"The way I got out of this place...that was my first hustle. Convincing your brother not just that I needed to convert, but that I had a calling. Somebody fit to preserve in stained glass- so he arranged a scholarship for me. I've often wondered just who it was I cheated out of taking a place at the seminary. Somebody who'd have stuck with it, maybe."

"That was clever of you." Tuco digs around beneath the bed, fishes a lighter out of his shoe. Flicks it repeatedly, just to see the fire- blurred staccato shots of his partner, looking strangely serene. "If it was this house or the priesthood, I'd have prayed a hundred rosaries to get out."

"It was so much better. I had a purpose. Beautiful surroundings, company, three meals a day I could stand to eat. I couldn't imagine ever complaining when I'd been so lucky- and then you came along. Dragging your pack around everywhere, full of all those tantalising possessions."

"Mmm hmm." He wonders whether what Blondie's describing even counts as a hustle. If Pablo had just looked and found a boy far too much like his little brother, begging for escape. Though that wouldn't be a kind thing to say.

"Griping about the meals, breaking rules, sneaking off to town- you just plain didn't care. It was amazing. Awful, but amazing...I fell in love with that before I even knew you, and then I did get to know you, and that made it worse. And then I caught you just before the monastery broke you."

"Yeah. Well, I'm okay now, you know that." He's pretty sure he is. A dream is a dream.

(He sure can't afford to question a truth that keeps him safe.)

"But you were wonderful, Tuco," Blondie murmurs, yawning. "I wanted to protect that. Finally did. If I've managed nothing else in my life..."

Okay. Maybe he can afford to ask, even should; but not right this second. Not with his partner passed out atop of him- that's such a pain. He can't reach his cigarettes now.

Carefully, with painstaking attention, Tuco reaches down to the floor and gropes around for his pack. Remembers belatedly it isn't there, it's resting on a bedside table in Angel's gatehouse-

there's the sound of a key in a lock. He pulls his arm back and freezes just before the door opens. Aunt Huldah coming to gloat over her charge, no doubt-

"Blondie? Tuco?" 

That way Angel's silhouetted in the doorway. It reminds him of something, but he can't quite recall what.

"Oh. It's you," Tuco says. Sits up with relief. "Yeah, we couldn't get out without breaking something, and Blondie didn't want to do that. What kind of woman locks the bedroom door on her own nephew?"

"One I'm not interested in getting to know. Do we leave him here?"

"God no. That'd be terrible," Tuco says, shaking the sleeping figure. "I wouldn't leave him alone in this house for a million dollars."

(The vague shape of an old joke slips through his mind, saying to Blondie that kind of exaggeration is the stupid sort of lie and he only does smart, but it's too late or too early. He can't make sense of it.)

"Help."

It breaks his heart a little, to hear such a moan in that sturdy voice. "It's okay. It's okay, Blondie, we're going home. Angel's here."

Tuco gets a cigarillo lit, passes it over and looks away while Blondie struggles to compose himself. Less decent than nakedness somehow, he doesn't want to see that inchoate vulnerability.

(Angel's still wreathed in shadow; impossible to tell, how much he sees.)

When he looks back again, though, it's his partner- Blondie with smoke in his face and an unreadable expression, tightly wound up again- and it's a sight that could make him cry if they only had the time but they don't. "C'mon. Let's go before your aunt notices, huh?"

No response: but he and Angel know how to read Blondie’s silences, now. 

The dawn light's just breaking when they slip outside. Angel's taken a risk, parking the car in plain sight; but Tuco settles into the backseat and decides to just be grateful.

"And we didn't even get a chicken. After all that."

"In the trunk," Angel calls. "I thought it'd be better to transport it home alive, or else the meat might spoil. Don't worry, I'll take care of butchering it for you."

That's not nearly as reassuring a statement as his lover seems to think it ought to be. Still. A leg and a thigh for him, the same for Angel, and a bed of warm brown lentils to eat with them-

"Christ, I'm looking forward to that," Blondie says. "Some of your comfort cooking, Tuco, I could do with that."

Right. Yes, well, after putting his partner through a hellish night like that it's only fair to give him a full share- only one plus one is two, and if he's making this for Angel and Blondie both that means there won't be any left for him- well, maybe he's not that hungry. After a night of involuntary fasting and crazy tension, he's too knotted up to have any appetite. "You want it for breakfast? Because that'll take a while to cook."

"No, I want to eat out. Something nice and ostentatious, not like those diner truck stops we went to all the time." And that's not directed at him but at Angel, and not a request but a demand. "Then we can have the chicken later on. God above, going back to that hellhole just made me sick. There's no point indulging in self-denial just for the hell of it, is there? Torturing yourself with thinking what you'd like and can't?"

He swipes his hand through Tuco's hair, and the gesture looks fine but Blondie's fingers tremble on his scalp. "Huh. You took your time getting around to my way of thinking. All those times on the road, when you let me think I always wanted too much."

"Don't know that I was wrong. The kind of money we had, you always did. But maybe it's about time I let myself be greedy too."

There's too much light in Blondie's eyes, the way they've caught the sunrise; Tuco looks at them, at him, and swallows down a sudden raging hunger.

But it’s only fair. To let his partner have what he wants, now they're safe and coddled and won't ever have to worry again.

More than fair.

[charcubed]

Wanda/Vision & Steve/Bucky parallels: the Russos really did That

Welcome.

I hypothesize that the Russos are hoes for Stevebucky (this is practically fact), and that they deliberately drew parallels between Steve/Bucky and Wanda/Vision in at least one scene in the first half of Infinity War.

Allow me to state my case. (All direct quotes from IW come from this transcript.)

The definitive and deliberate parallel:

During the discussion at Avengers HQ, the camera cuts to Steve about 3 times. While Wanda and Vision are speaking, we get deliberate focus on Steve’s (depressed, somewhat pained) deep-in-thought face.

Here’s some dialogue during which we get Steve camera cuts.

“I think if it were exposed to a sufficiently powerful energy source, something, very similar to its own signature, perhaps... Its molecular integrity could fail.”

“And you, with it. We're not having this conversation.”

“Eliminating the stone is the only way to be certain that Thanos can't get it.”

“That's too high a price.”

“Only you, have the power to pay it.”

What does this make me (and Steve) think of?

As Wanda is the only one with the capacity to destroy Vision, Steve and Bucky are the only ones equal to each other–physically, as well as with “shared life experience,” as Steve (unbelievably) references needing in a partner in TWS. Steve was the only one with the power to confront Bucky to break him out of his brainwashing, neutralize him, or die trying.

There is also...

“You're saying Vision isn't just a stone?”

“I’m saying that... If we take out the stone, there's still a whole lot of Vision left.”

“Perhaps the best parts.”

“Can we do that?”

“Not me. Not here.”

And then Steve kind of shakes his head a little bit, resurfacing from being in thought, and says, “I know somewhere.” Meaning, of course, Wakanda.

And what does talk of ~removing the bad parts of a mind and leaving the good parts~ make one think of...?

I can think of no other explanation for why the camera cut to Steve’s face–and no one else’s–at the times when he had no lines in the scene. Why would they show only Steve’s reactions? His, of all of them?

Parallels. Wanda and Vision made Steve think of him and Bucky.

The less obvious parallel I can’t unsee anyway:

Let’s go back, a little closer to the beginning of the movie, when Wanda and Vision are off the grid.

“So there's a 10 AM to Glasgow to give us more time together before you went back.”

“What if I miss that train?”

“There is an 11.”

“What if I missed all the trains? What if this time, I didn't go back?”

“You gave Stark your word.”

“I’d rather give it to you.”

“There are people who are expecting me too, you know. We both made promises.”

“Not to each other.”

“Wanda... Two years, we've stolen these moments, trying to see if this could work. And... I don't know. You know what, I'm just gonna speak for myself. I, I... I think... It works.”

“It works. It works.”

“Stay.”

This conversation... read it and remove “Wanda.” It is very reminiscent of Steve and Bucky’s prevalent themes and a hypothetical conversation for them, at least to me.

Missing trains, for one thing... Bucky died falling off of a train. Stolen moments... that is their lives. And it even works in the context of the 40s or in present day.

“Stark.” Howard or Tony. Steve in particular, as Captain America, has made promises to both.

"Two years.” Steve saved Bucky from HYDRA in 1943 and the Howling Commandos were formed, then Bucky fell in 1945.  In present day, Bucky’s been recovering with Wakanda’s help for two years while Steve’s been on the run. It’s also been confirmed by Joe Russo and Sebastian Stan that the reunion hug we see is not their first reunion; Steve’s been in close contact with Shuri and T’Challa, and he’s been to visit Wakanda a couple of times since we last saw him there in between being on the run.

Stolen moments.

The theme of wanting more time is used throughout the film for Wanda and Vision, and seeing as Steve and Bucky have been repeatedly separated and are “men out of time,” it fits as a parallel to me. At the very least, that concept isn’t a stretch. When Wanda and Vision’s wish for more time is explicitly mentioned in front of Steve–on the Quinjet, when Wanda says, “I'm sorry. We just wanted time.”–there is camera-angle focus on how pained Steve’s face looks.

He relates.

In conclusion,

Thank you Joe and Anthony Russo: The Ultimate Stevebucky Warriors for my life. I’m under no delusions that we’ll ever see canon queer rep with Steve and Bucky, but I truly do think the Russos have taken care to focus on their relationship and (dangerously) I really hope they’re setting us up with a happy ending for them.

Narratively, it makes the most sense for the characters, in my opinion. They’ve both done the death thing and now need to do the life thing. They’re tired. Let them rest. They don’t know how to live without war and struggle, because they’ve never had a chance to, but they deserve to figure it out. So much of the Russos’ MCU work centers around these 2 characters’ storylines, and how exhausted they’ve become–tired of war, tired of being separated, tired in general. It’s never been more apparent than it is in Infinity War. Killing one or both of them, after all of this, would be such a tragic end; I even see a shade of tragedy in having one or both of them continue to fight, because they both so clearly don’t want to anymore.

I’m really hoping the next “end of the line” these boys come across is the end of their suffering.

EDIT: If you liked this post, please also enjoy the Stevebucky Meta Collection here.