#but it isn’t a savior moment on neil’s part

[toddtakefive]

thinking about todd and his resolve toward… not quite isolation, but being alone in a room full of people again. he goes along to the study room to sit on his own and do his homework, he sits at the poets table and follows along with what’s being said while keeping quiet, he goes to the meetings at all but doesn’t necessarily contribute (in fact, if you watch him when cameron is telling the story ‘from camp in sixth grade’, you can see that he recognizes it before any of the other poets but doesn’t voice it until they all have). he’s not alone, necessarily, if you want to get technical about it, he’s just lonely, and he’s generally okay with that. he doesn’t have friends and that’s fine, he doesn’t participate in class and that’s fine, he doesn’t have a relationship with his family and that’s fine—he could live without any real connection and he’d have been, more or less, fine.

the thing about when he says “i can take care of myself just fine!” is that he isn’t really wrong, you can infer that he’s been doing it his entire life anyway, it’s that ‘taking care of yourself’ isn’t the same thing as really living or being happy. todd’s an introvert, certainly, and even as he gets closer to the group he defaults to sitting quietly in the background, but he’s also denying himself community out of fear not introversion. todd isn’t friendless because he’s an introvert, although that definitely plays a part, he’s friendless because he pushes anyone that might want his company away. if anyone has every wanted for his attention in the first place. (neil’s unwavering interest in him is unique (even when it comes to the rest of the poets, who are fine with todd coming along and joining the group, but aren’t really hellbent on him being there in the beginning) and his refusal to accept it is a direct result of being so lonely growing up.)

there’s obviously something to be said about the implications of his parents neglect, and the more than likely fact that he grew up friendless, and how those both play a part in in him being so skilled at dodging social interaction/being so avoidant of it, but by the time we see him in the movie he’s all but accepted his fate as being alone his entire life. he’s already accepted being the family disappointment, and he’s already accepted he’ll never amount to anything, and he obviously doesn’t like it, but he’d have managed living with that knowledge without the confirmation that it was all wrong. would he have been miserable? almost certainly. but he’d have managed. he’d done it for that long already, anyhow.

[thenightling]

Figured I’d share this immature, moronic, and “hehe, that’ll show ‘em” meme that quarktrinity sent in my asks.  

Funny how they send memes as a “win” instead of actually replying to anything I actually said about the deliberately out-of-context Wonder Woman post I dared question and went out of my way to watch the film of to see for myself.  

You assumed something was racist because that’s what you were told online with some deliberately out of context gifs and images.   That’s like assuming Captain Marvel is sexist against women because of cherry picking scenes where the character had to deal with sexism.

   And for those who missed it here is my reply that is getting me called racist.  

1.   Here we see Wonder Woman rescuing a few Middle Eastern children and this post calls her a “White Savior.”  She saved white characters earlier too.  In this scene she was in the Middle East for the context of the plot.  Lots of things were going on and she is the superhero.  Superheroes are saviors, that’s kind of the entire point.   Would you prefer the children die?  Or just that a random non-superhero save them?  Also the actress is Israeli and Jewish.  But sure... “White savior.”...Or is the “problem“ really that a Jewish woman playing an (according to DC comics) bisexual Greek Pagan woman rescuing Islamic children that actually is what made you uncomfortable?  Funny how this looks like thinly disguised bigotry masquerading as “concern about racism.”

The same people complaining about this rescue scene would have also complained if Wonder Woman was only rescuing white people or do you prefer when people “stick to their own kind” and “only care about their own race”?  Casual racism disguised as “woke” is “fun” isn’t it, folks?  Racial segregation disguised as woke is still racial segregation. 2.  The Oil Baron / Prince talking to Max Lord is loosely based on real political figures from the 1980s just as Max Lord is at least partly based on Trump and there is even a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Freddie Mercury look-a-like.  Lots of characters in Wonder Woman 1984 are based on actual famous political and pop culture figures of the era.  If a character is inspired by a real person it is stupid to pearl clutch and scream “RACIST!” for making a close allegory of a real person who actually lived in 1984.  Learn your history, kids. 3.   This post shows a deliberately out-of-context POC man wishing for Nuclear weapons.  This is deliberately misleading. And shame on the person trying to trick you with this.  In this scene (in context) people all over the world were making wishes, many of them horrible, including a white man wishing a woman drop dead. Another man wished to be a king.  Lots of bad wishes were being made.Earlier in the movie a white character wished for nuclear weapons too but this stupid, out-of-context, post deliberately leaves that important detail out. Context is important for a reason. You let yourselves get tricked. The main antagonist is modeled after Trump.  And he is a pretty awful guy until the ending shows a sympathetic side to him and he renounces his choices in order to save his son, because the man was still capable of love, and realized what was more important than his mad ambitions.  But I suppose that wouldn’t set right for a lot of people, the idea of redemption...

Don’t lie about a movie, or spread misinformation, or leap to conclusions, if you haven’t seen it for yourself and don’t know the context of these scenes. Some of us actually saw the movie.  This is like when I saw an angry Tumblr post circulating, pissed off that  Marvel’s four part Vote Loki comic “did away with Loki being genderfluid.”  Thousands of reblogs from people who never actually read the comic.  Not only was it wrong but Loki spent half the story in woman form.

Why do people feel the need to lie like this?“ Do you ever read the books you burn?” - Clarisse from Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Next time you want to feel victorious, actually address what is being said.   The moment a child responds with a meme instead of conversation I feel they’ve lost all effort of proving whatever point they think they have.

Remember, “memes” in response to actual well-thought-out rebuttals doesn’t suddenly make you right or “win.”

Here’s a meme for you though.

I watched the film to see if the context of those images and gifs was accurate and it was all lies by omission.   We are human beings, we shouldn’t be tricked with careful wording and out of context snip-its like victims of faeries in a folktale.

Much like those who used out-of-context bullshit to claim Neil Gaiman is homophobic (before they discovered J. K. Rowling actually IS Transphobic) I will remind you.   If something truly is racist, homophobic, or bigoted, then you wouldn’t have to lie about the content to make your point.

Same rule as the witch hunts where men used fake blades to make it look like the accused women were magically not bleeding.  If you have to lie to prove your accusations, chances are the accusations are false.

[moonlightchess]

I’m sure this has been done before but: lifeguard Billy, man. It’s a warm, balmy evening at dusk in Hawkins and the pool is closing in an hour. All of the kids have gone home for dinner and Steve is the only swimmer left, lazily making laps around the perimeter of the pool while Billy lounges in his chair, idly reading a book and waiting out the end of his shift. But Steve’s shoulder cramps all at once, abrupt and brutal, and he sinks almost silently under the chlorinated water with a gurgle and a gasp that Billy barely registers because he’s sun-drunk from a day of guarding lives and it’s not that different from normal swimming sounds, but then. Harrington’s not swimming anymore and Billy definitely didn’t hear him get out of the pool and there are no wet footsteps leading away from the ladder and oh shit. 

Billy slides in like a hot knife through butter, because for all his violence and pain the water is where he belongs and the water is what he knows and half of the reason he’s such a stumbling, ruined disaster now is because they stole his ocean from him and forced him to gasp and struggle and ache on dry land for years and expected him, a sea creature, to thrive in an alien and arid place. Here in the water though, he’s a prince and a savior, and he’s got one arm wrapped around Steve’s narrow waist and he’s hauling him out, laying him flat. Steve is pale and waterlogged, his chest is still, and Billy’s moving, pumping his arms, swearing wildly. He seals his mouth over his and exhales desperately, willing Steve’s lungs to expand, seized by a panic he doesn’t understand because who the fuck cares, it’s Harrington. But also, it’s Harrington, and directly following one fleeting, horrifying moment in which Billy’s brain informs him that it’s been too long he’s not breathing he’s fucking dead, Steve gasps. Heaves, lurches up, flailing, soaked.

It takes them both a solid two minutes to absorb the reality of what just happened, what has happened, and even longer than that before they’re both aware that they’re crying, clinging to each other. Billy cries like he’s afraid to, some part of his lizard brain constantly alert for the threat of his father, maybe rising from the water like Godzilla this time, snapping his belt and ready to kick the shit out of him for being a weak-ass little bitch. He cries in short, hiccuping, aborted gasps, his throat working hard as he fights to keep them contained. Steve though, he wails, throwing both scrawny arms around Billy and clutching at him like they’re still in the water and Billy is still keeping him afloat. “Jesus! I alm--” he starts, but then Billy socks him. Just punches him right in the chest, still gasping back tears.

“You fuckin’! You stupid piece of shit! You fuckin’ fuck! Fuck you!” He’s nearly incoherent with fear masked as rage, but Steve has met his father, he understands. Anger is the only face Billy’s feelings can wear, and he wraps all of them up in anger like a protective layer against the frigid cold permeating his home. Anger and violence and bitterness are all he knows, even now, and Steve’s embrace loosens, goes tender instead of a panicked grip. He was afraid, Steve knows, because Steve isn’t nearly as stupid as he wants people to think. He tangles his fingers in the wet blond curls at the back of Billy’s head, soothing him even though he was the one who had nearly drowned, and Billy’s head drops to his shoulder, both hands softening against Steve’s back, cradling him close even after the punch. It’s dark now and they’re wet, the air cooling as the night waxes deep. Billy presses his face to the side of Steve’s neck, his breathing settling now that he can sense his pulse.

“Saved my life,” Steve says quietly, his voice scraped raw and hoarse.

“Whatever. Won’t be making a habit of it. Shoulda let your dumb ass drown.”

“Let’s get some dry clothes on. I only plan on almost dying once this summer and it’s already like sixty-five out.”

“Pussy.”

“Fuck off. Come on, I’ll buy you a burger.”

And the moon has risen and the pool is closed and Billy hangs up his whistle on a little metal hook on their way out of the lifeguard’s office. He’s reluctant to let go of Steve, one arm looped loosely around his waist even as he mutters and complains the entire way to his car, the backseat of which is surprisingly packed with more books. Thick paperbacks mostly, mysteries and science fiction and biographies - he seems to enjoy reading about historical figures, Steve realizes, and it’s like another punch to the chest when it hits him that Billy keeps them in his car because Neil would probably kick his ass if he caught him reading at home. Neither of them say a word when Steve rests his head on Billy’s shoulder halfway to the burger place, neither of them say a word for a while.

[biillyhargroves]

hi! are fic requests still open? if so, can you do like a kinda angsty post s3 harringrove fic? im in a Feels mood ya know? also i love your writing!!

oh gosh, thank you so much, friend!!! that truly means so much to me!!! and  yes, requests are certainly open. I hope that you enjoy this one- if you wanted something more specific, just let me know and I can do that for you!!

sad savior(fic requests open)

Billy doesn’t like to be touched anymore- not a hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back, not the brushing of Steve’s arm against his; he doesn’t want fingers in his hair or grazing over his wrist or trying to tangle between his own. He doesn’t lean his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, and he won’t let Steve kiss him anymore. He wants distance. He wants as much space as he can get, and in a lot of ways, it makes him worse than before- worse than the angry kid dropped smack dab in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Indiana and shoved into a world he never asked to be a part of. 

It started in the hospital. 

Steve thought it was because of the pain, or the pain medication, or the fact that Billy’s father hovered around him for hours on end screaming at nurses and badmouthing doctors and otherwise making it impossible for Billy to rest. Steve visited as a friend, but Billy never seemed to want to see him. Once, he arrived to find Max sitting outside Billy’s room. 

“Are they changing the dressings or something?” Steve asked, knowing that the nurses always shooed visitors out of the room for privacy when they did care (Neil Hargrove always refused, and would linger as looming outside the drawn green curtain until they were done), but Max shook her head. 

“He told me to get out,” she told him. “In so many words. You can try going in, but he really doesn’t want to see anyone.” 

Steve looked past her into the room and not even Neil was in any of the uncomfortable vinyl chairs lined up at the bedside. Billy was alone, for the first time in weeks. He was lying in the dark with his head turned away from the door. The machines attached to him beeped rhythmically.Steve hovered in the doorway, counting the soft beeps of the heart monitor, before finally stepping inside. 

He thought Billy was asleep. He quietly pulled a chair up beside his bed and sat down. He watched for a few quiet moments- the rise and fall of his chest, the way the bandages stretched taut with every inhale. It wasn’t until he saw Billy’s eyelids start to flutter that he sidled closer. He slipped a hand carefully over Billy’s, mindful of the IV line piercing his vein, but Billy pulled his roughly away.

“Hey-” Steve started, but Billy interrupted him.

“Don’t,” he said. Steve tried to protest, but Billy repeated, “Just don’t.”

Billy wouldn’t turn his head. He wouldn’t look at Steve, and he wouldn’t lay his hand back down against the scratchy hospital blankets. Steve sat there, watching him, for one minute and then for two, but Billy never once turned around or spoke another word. Finally, he softly said, “Okay.” and he let himself out.

“Told you,” Max had said as Steve walked out of the room. “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“Did he tell you why?” Steve asked, and Max only shook her head. 

“He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, either,” Max said. “He’s being a real asshole.”

Her tone didn’t sound harsh. It didn’t sound accusatory or angry or bitter. Steve thought she sounded something akin to defeated, like she’d been fighting for far too long and was resigned to a fate she hadn’t quite hoped for. She peered into her brother’s room, where he lay with his head turned away from them, refusing to look. 

“He’s hurt,” Steve excused. 

“He’s something,” Max agreed. 

This lasted for weeks. Steve had hoped that once Billy was released, things would get better, but it’s been weeks since his release papers were signed and it’s been a whole lot more of the same. Steve will stop by the Hargrove-Mayfield house, oftentimes under the guise of picking Max up since Billy is not yet cleared to drive (and, even if he were, his car is sitting in Hawkins Gas & Auto waiting for a helping hand). Billy does not come outside to see him, and barely says hello when Steve pokes his head in Billy’s room. 

“He’ll get better,” Max keeps saying, and Steve thinks she is trying to convince herself as much as reassure him. She updates him as he drives her to the Wheelers, or to arcade, or to Byers’ house to see El. Billy is still in a lot of pain, and he curses more than anything else. He doesn’t let anyone help him clean or dress his wounds because he doesn't want anyone to touch him. Neil has ignored his son’s wishes, and Billy has fresh bruises to prove it. 

“I’m gonna take him to my house this weekend,” Steve declares one day. “My parents are out. You can tell your parents he’s with me or tell them you don’t know where he is. Whatever you think will keep his dad away.”

Max takes some convincing. In many ways, she has become her brother’s keeper. Even when he calls her horrible names or shoves her away from him, even when he refuses to speak to her for days on end, she takes on the role of protector. Steve understands that she might not want Billy too far away, too far to watch, but by the time Steve parks at the curb outside the Wheeler’s house, she concedes. “I think that would be good,” she says. “For both of you.”

Billy, for his part, does not want to go.

This does not surprise Steve, and when he tries to haul Billy to his feet to pull out the door, Billy lashes out. He swears and stumbles backwards, ripping his arm away and scratching Steve in the process. Steve tries his best not to act hurt. Max ushers Steve out of the room and tells him to wait in the car, tells him that she’ll handle Billy. Steve doesn’t know what she says to him, but eventually Billy emerges in the yard in his jacket and sunglasses, almost looking like himself again. He falls heavily into the passenger seat of Steve’s car and says nothing. Steve turns on the radio station he knows that Billy likes, but Billy doesn’t acknowledge it. He tries to strike up a conversation, but Billy only grunts at him. When they gets to Steve’s house, Billy follows Steve to his bedroom, keeping a few feet behind him. 

“Sit down,” Steve says. “Max said your dressings need changing? Do you need help?”

“No,” Billy says, voice low. He is already unbuttoning his shirt. The bandages beneath are thinner than the gauze padding they wrapped him with in the hospital. They don’t go all the way around his body anymore. This, at least, relieves Steve. It means he’s healing. It means he’s getting better, even if he isn’t acting it. 

“I’ll get you the stuff, then,” Steve says, and when Billy doesn’t look up he goes into the bathroom. He grabs everything Max told him he would need: the hydrogen peroxide, the washcloths- Billy will have the bandages in his bag, and Max told him to be sure he took the painkillers she would slip in there when Billy wasn’t looking. He fills up a bowl with soap and water and carries his supplies back to the bedroom.

Billy has peeled off his bandage, and is waiting with the angry red wound open on his chest. 

“That looks better,” Steve says, and he means it. 

“Don’t fucking lie,” Billy says. He reaches out his hand and Steve hands him the washcloth. He balances the bowl on the bed beside Billy, holding it steady as Billy dips a corner of the cloth. Billy lets out a sharp hiss when the cloth makes contact, and the sound makes Steve wince. Billy stills, and on instinct Steve reaches out to help. “Don’t,” Billy growls, and he jerks away. 

“Stop,” Steve says. “Come on, man, just let me help.”

Billy refuses. He continues to blot at his healing wounds as he rounds his back on Steve, moving further from him. He clenches his teeth but Steve can still hear the whistle of pain escaping between them. 

“Billy,” Steve says.

“I said don’t,” Billy snarls. 

“Billy,” Steve repeats, and he reaches for Billy again. Billy rises too quickly in an attempt to escape, and the sudden movement sends a ripple of pain through his chest that makes him cry out. His breath hitches, and his knees buckle, and he stumbles and staggers to the floor. “Woah!” Steve says, hurrying to catch him, and Billy’s whole body tenses when Steve’s hand touch his shoulders. 

“Get off of me!” Billy growls, voice strained, and Steve refuses. He slips an arm around Billy’s shoulders and he lowers himself beside him. Billy keeps telling him to get off, to leave him alone, and his throat gets tighter and tighter as his eyes well with tears he won’t let fall. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says. He eases the cloth out of Billy’s hands, but he doesn’t touch it to his skin. “Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothes. “I just want to help. Billy, please, I just want to help.”

“Just stop,” Billy pleads. “Just get the fuck away from me.”

“Why?” Steve asks. “Why do you want that?”

Billy just shakes his head. His muscles coil and tighten in Steve’s grip, but he’s stopped trying to get away. He’s stopped trying to make some bold escape. He is not quiet resigned, but there is not a whole lot of fight left in him, and Steve uses that to get closer. 

“Billy?” he asks. 

“You don’t know,” Billy says, “what I did.” 

He is shaking, but Steve does not want to hold him any tighter for fear of scaring him off. 

“What do you mean?” Steve asks him instead. “What did you do?”

“When it was in my head,” Billy says. There is a tear falling down his cheek and Steve wants nothing more than to wipe it away, to catch any others that might fall its wake, but he doesn’t want Billy to spook. He doesn’t want him to clam up again. He doesn’t want to lose him. “All those people,” Billy is saying. “I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want to.”

Billy’s small voice breaks Steve’s heart. He has never heard this kind of despair before, and if there was a way for him to dump the bowl of water over Billy and wash it all away, he’d do it a heartbeat. He lets his thumb rub gentle circles against Billy’s shoulder, and keeps going when Billy doesn’t shake him off or demand that he stop. 

“I know,” Steve says. “I know it wasn’t you.”

“It was my body,” Billy says. “My hands. I did it.”

“It made you do it,” Steve says. “That’s what El said.” 

“You don’t get it,” Billy says and, finally, he starts to pull away from Steve. Steve lets him, though he wants to hold on for dear life. He lets Billy slip out from beneath his arm and draw his knees up to his wounded chest. “I remember it. All of it.” 

“Billy,” Steve says. Billy shakes his head, lowers it into his hands. He doesn’t speak anymore and Steve doesn’t think he should push him. He wants, heart aching as he watches Billy Hargrove fall apart on his bedroom floor. When Billy calms down, Steve says his name again, and Billy looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. Steve silently holds the washcloth out to him. After a moment, Billy takes it. He returns to his work, keeping his distance from Steve, keeping his silence. Steve remains beside him just as quiet, helping in the only way Billy will allow: handing him a bandage, and offering sad smiles and warm bed to rest in. 

[dustinhendrsn]

swingsets and bitter daylight

max mayfield/lucas sinclair 3.4k - read on ao3 requested by anonymous from this list: 19. ‘please don’t let me be alone.’

Everything is over before Max even realizes it. The headlights of Billy’s car surge bright in her eyes, in her friends’ eyes, and the screeching of the monsters in the tunnels beneath them disappears. They stand there in the cold, breathless and apprehensive of the sudden silence, holding fistfuls of each other’s jackets and shirts and backpack straps to make sure they don’t lose someone else. Max’s mind is stumbling over itself as she tries to comprehend the new situation. The car lights fade back to normal and the bracing nighttime air wraps around them with a peaceful quiet that’s almost startling.

It’s really over. They just don’t know if their efforts were in vain or not yet.

“What do we do now?” someone asks after a long minute. She isn’t sure who spoke. Maybe it was her.

They go home. Steve drives.

Max is tired.

Numb and detached, she drags herself up into the Byers house with her friends and they find it empty. Shards of glass and papers upon papers of chaotic blue drawings are scattered everywhere. Billy is gone – all that remains of his attack is the empty syringe, a gash in the floor, and the bruises on Lucas’ neck and the blood on Steve’s face. She can barely look at them; how she wishes she had done more, sooner.

The fates of El and Will are still in the wind and Max knows that neither she nor anyone else will be able to rest until everyone has come home, so she starts moving. If she doesn’t, the waiting will kill her. The jagged memory of black and blue monsters clawing at the doors of the bus will kill her. The dread of how she might have just made things so much worse with Billy will kill her. The fear of how close she and her friends came to death tonight in those corrupt, claustrophobic tunnels will kill her. Her adrenaline is all gone; there’s nothing to hold any of it back now except her own force of will, and she doesn’t have much of that left at the moment.

There’s not much talking as the five of them shuffle around the house, finishing the cleaning they didn’t get around to earlier to keep themselves busy. Max tries to keep everything at bay by focusing on something good. The easiest thing to latch on to is Lucas, his kind eyes and even kinder words. Not once since their first meeting has he given up on her. While the rest of the party still feel somewhat like strangers to her, Lucas has already carved out a place for her and made sure that she knows he wants her there. After how I’ve treated him, I don’t even deserve it, she thinks sadly, looking over at him. He’s on the floor by the couch, scooping Will’s drawings into a trash bag. He’s clearly just as exhausted as she is, but when he looks up and catches her eye he offers her a smile. She tries to return it but finds that she can’t, so she hopes her eyes get the message across. From his expression, she thinks it does, and her heart eases.

Joyce, Jonathan, Nancy, and Will return first. Sighs of relief and tight hugs go around and questions of their wellbeing are met with quick reassurances. Will looks worse than all of them put together, his skin ashen, his eyes bloodshot and distant, sweat dripping down his temples. But he’s alive, he’s breathing, so all the risks they took weren’t for nothing. Joyce takes him to a room down the hall (Max still isn’t familiar with the layout of the house) and neither of them reappear for a long while. Nancy and Jonathan emerge from another room after a few minutes, their faces cleaned up and a stack of blankets and pillows in hand.

“If anyone wants to stay the night here, you’re welcome to,” Jonathan says, setting the pile of bedding on the couch. Max doesn’t need to ask why he’s offering – none of them want to go home and fight off the promised nightmares alone. She hopes tomorrow night will be easier, after they’ve had a chance to rationalize everything in the comforting daylight, but tonight…she doesn’t even want to think about what could be waiting for her at home.

“Have Hopper and El not come back yet?” Nancy asks, hovering by the kitchen table. Max isn’t sure who her question was directed at but since she’s the closest, she shakes her head. It occurs to her that Nancy and Jonathan probably don’t even know her name, let alone how she came to join this motley group. It isn’t important right now, she decides.

Mike is inconsolable – he paces in front of the broken window and chews his nails down to the quick and he’s so ramped up that it’s putting Max on edge even more than she already is. She gets it, but she can see it’s for two reasons: the need to keep his mind off everything, just like she and all the rest of them are trying to do – and El. Max wonders just how deep Mike is in it with her. When she saw their reunion earlier, the way they clung to each other made her feel like she had walked in on a private moment. Maybe it’s love. Max isn’t sure if she’d recognize it.

Finally, finally, the police chief’s truck rumbles into the driveway. Mike is first out the door and the rest of them follow after him, beyond relieved to see their telekinetic savior living and breathing. Max trails behind the group – she and El don’t even know each other, and besides, El already has enough people smothering her.

That’s what Max tells herself as she swallows back the hot lump in her throat. Before, El made it clear how she felt about Max, and as much as Max would love to try, she can’t pretend the rejection doesn’t sting.

Shortly after El and Hopper come inside and a headcount is made, the time comes to face sleep. Max knows she’s going to stay over even before they start discussing who will sleep where, and all of a sudden she’s struck with the heart-stopping fear that Lucas, her only ally here, will go home.

She quickly moves from her seat at the kitchen table over to where Lucas stands next to the wall, watching them divvy up blankets and pillows. He gives her a tired smile when he sees her.

“Are you going to go home?” she asks him quietly, without preamble.

“Oh, I – I don’t really know yet. If there’s not enough sleeping bags, I might.” He frowns. “Why? Is everything okay?”

Max hesitates, not quite sure how to put her need for him to stay into words. “I just – I can’t go home tonight. Billy might be there and I don’t know what to tell my mom and I don’t want to walk all the way there in the dark, and I just…please don’t let me be alone here, Lucas. Please.”

She can hear the desperation in her voice and feel the burning behind her eyes and she hates it, especially when they both know he doesn’t owe her anything, but his gaze softens immediately and he nods.

“Yeah, of course I’ll stay. Don’t even worry about it, okay? I’ll stay with you.”

She’s afraid that if she tries to speak she’ll burst into tears now that the terror and the adrenaline and the exhaustion of the night has finally caught up with her, so she just nods gratefully and he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Somehow she manages to choke out a thank you, and he squeezes her closer.

“I’m not going anywhere, Max. I promise.”

The next day is worse. It shouldn’t be, but somehow it is. After a night of tossing and turning without ever truly achieving sleep, Max opens her eyes to cold daylight streaming in through the broken windows. Her bones are heavy, her mind numbed to a standstill. All her emotions have all melted into one dark, unfeeling pit in her stomach, like when a kid tries to combine all their crayons to make a rainbow but just ends up with black. Lucas is still asleep next to her and it seems impossible that he could look so peaceful. At least one of us is, she thinks.

“Do you want to come to my house for a little bit?” he asks her once they’ve all gotten up and helped put away the sleeping bags. The rest of them are going home to make their excuses and change clothes and eat breakfast. Max hates to admit it, but even though she doesn’t want to force herself on the unknown family of her new friend, she’s still too terrified of the bigger unknowns lying in wait for her at home. Her mind is too muddied and wrung out from last night – the last week, really – for her to predict and prepare for Neil’s or Billy’s or her mom’s reactions to her being gone for so long. Some small, logical part of her mind tells her that waiting is just going to make things worse, but she ignores it. It’s easier that way.

She can feel her shoulders slump as she nods. “If that’s okay.”

Lucas smiles sideways at her, like the idea that it wouldn’t be okay is ridiculous. “Of course it’s okay. And besides, I don’t really want to walk home alone either.”

“Don’t you live next door to Mike?”

“Yeah, but he’s going to Hopper’s cabin to be with El, so it’s just us.”

The daylight is blinding. Reassuring, but blinding after everything. Autumn rips through the town with cold winds and dead leaves and spindly bare branches that reach towards the sky in vain. As they walk, Max can’t find the energy to make conversation but it’s alright, because Lucas can’t seem to either. With every other step she takes, movement flashes in her periphery. She knows it’s just the ghosts of everything she’s seen, the dark afterimages of nightmares made real, but the skip of her heart and the lurch in her stomach doesn’t. Lucas’ hand is swinging right there, just inches away from hers, and she doesn’t think he’d pull away if she took it. It’d be nice, having that warmth in her hand again. She barely had time to register it on the bus – grabbing his hand was a knee-jerk reaction. She needed something solid to hold on to, a reminder that there were other humans there with her. But thinking about it now, it was nice.

Lucas’ yellow-walled house is a blur. She tries her best to be polite when Lucas introduces her to his parents, and then they’re in his room, and then he’s showing her the bathroom. Distantly, she sees a soft pink towel folded neatly on the counter. Set out for her, most likely. She drops her mud-spotted, probably radioactive clothes on the tile and stands under the showerhead until the water runs cold. After, she changes back into her jeans and one of Lucas’ shirts that he offered her.

“I’d give you one of Erica’s but you’re twice her size,” he says. She shakes her head, tells him it’s fine. And it is. The cotton is clean and soft against her skin. It’s comforting, steadying.

Mrs. Sinclair, with the same gentle brown eyes as her son, gives Max a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a fork. She isn’t hungry, not in the least, but she smiles and says thank you and forces it down anyways. Sometime in the afternoon (or at least she thinks it’s the afternoon), Lucas suggests they go for a walk.

“Is there a park here?” she asks as they walk down his porch steps, zipping up their jackets. Surprise crosses his face for just a moment – it must be because all morning, she’s said a grand total of about twenty words – but then the look is gone, and he nods.

“Yeah, of course. There’s a few, actually, but there’s one near here that’s usually empty.”

“Okay. Cool.”

Again, they walk in silence. Her hair is wet and cold against the back of her neck, but it has the same grounding effect on her as Lucas’ shirt does. It reminds her that she can still feel things; she is still real.

They reach the park before long and like Lucas promised, it’s empty. Max makes a beeline for the swings; she hears Lucas chuckle at her quiet eagerness, and then he takes the swing next to her. She slowly pushes herself back and forth and tips her head up to the brilliant blue sky. She inhales, sharp, clean oxygen flooding her lungs. She doesn’t close her eyes. She can’t.

She realizes that Lucas is waiting on her to speak. Not in an impatient or expectant way; he’s just not forcing conversation on her. It’s a bit of a surprise when she finds that she wants to talk. Maybe it’s because it’s him.

“Thanks for, y’know, letting me shower and eat and stuff,” she says, glancing over to him. He smiles, already looking back at her.

“No problem. You can stay with me – I mean, us, for as long as you want. It’s no big deal.”

She shakes her head, her gaze falling back to her lap. “It’s okay. I’ll go home today.”

Lucas hesitates, and she already knows what he’s thinking. “Are you sure? I can go with you, if you want.”

The thought of voluntarily bringing sweet, courageous Lucas anywhere near the violent maelstrom of Billy again makes her sick to her stomach. She keeps her tone neutral, almost normal. “Really, Lucas, it’s fine.”

It isn’t fine.

He shrugs. “Alright. But if you need me, or you want me there, just let me know, okay?”

“I will.”

Will she?

After a few more minutes of tranquil quiet accompanied by the creaking of the swings, the gnawing in the back of Max’s mind urges her to talk more. She knows now that it’s definitely because of Lucas. She trusts him. He understands her, or at least he tries to. He’s kind to her, and her heart is yearning for all the kindness she can get nowadays. And she likes him – oh, how she likes him already. Too much. It’s dangerous – not for her, but for him.

“Can I tell you something?” she says to the woodchips being pushed around by the toe of her shoe.

“Yeah, sure.”

She takes another moment, trying to figure out the words she needs. “I’m not…brave,” she finally says, softly.

Lucas stares at her. “What are you talking about? Of course you’re brave. You’re, like, the bravest person I’ve ever met. What you did last night, with the car, and with Billy and the needle and what you said to him –“

“It wasn’t like that. I was just trying to keep you guys safe and I had all this adrenaline and all this anger and it’s like I wasn’t even thinking about what I was doing. It was easy right then and there.” She lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand up and down the cold links of the swing chain. “But it isn’t like that one moment changes everything. I’m still really, really scared of him, Lucas. He still hurt you and Steve, and what if I made things worse? What if I go home and he – he –“ She can’t fathom it right now. She swallows back the rest of her sentence and moves on to a new one. “I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of superhero or something. I’m not fearless, and I’m not really that brave.”

With a shallow breath, she finally looks up at him. His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly; she can’t tell what he’s trying to puzzle out. Finally, he shakes his head.

“Maybe it was just the heat of the moment, so what? You still did it, Max. You were brave whether you admit it or not, and I know that you can be brave again if you want to be. That’s who you are.” Lucas smiles at her again, his belief in her infallible, and she feels tears pricking behind her eyes. He reaches over and squeezes her hand. “You saved our asses, Max, even though it meant facing something that terrifies you. That’s brave.”

She can’t hold his gaze anymore. Her eyes fall to the faint purple bruises on the base of his neck, made visible in the sunlight. “I didn’t save your ass,” she mumbles.

“That wasn’t your fault, you know it wasn’t.”

“I put you in danger. He came after you because he knew you were my friend, he knew I liked you –“

“Max, he came after me because he’s a racist, abusive asshole. It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

Deep down she knows he’s right, but it’s hard to ignore the sirens in her head screaming at her to push him away, to shut him out for his own good. She blows out a breath, letting some of the guilt and the tension leave her shoulders. All she’s left with is the numbness, but Lucas’ warm hand in hers is thawing it ever so slowly. She was right – it is nice. And it isn’t even entirely romantic, she thinks. It’s an anchor to reality, something to hold on to so that she doesn’t float away in this new world he’s brought right to her doorstep.

After a long minute, she looks up at him, a new question in mind. Something that’s been bothering her ever since she first thought about it. “How do you…adjust?” she asks. “Like, do things ever go back to normal?”

What she really means is will the nightmares stop? but she knows he’ll understand. His reassuring expression from earlier fades away and he shifts in his swing, his hand still laced with hers in between them. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “After El sacrificed herself last year, and after everything we went through – it was hard. I guess it did get better for a little while. Sometimes I went a few days without thinking about it at all, and without waking up from nightmares. But this kind of stuff can really mess a person up, you know? It sucks.” He lets out a breathy laugh. “Sorry. That’s probably not making you feel any better.”

She shrugs. “At least it’s the truth.”

“It shouldn’t be, though,” he sighs. He squeezes her hand again reassuringly and a rush of warmth soothes Max’s frazzled nerves. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Really. I had my friends to lean on back then, and now you have us to lean on.”

Max grimaces. “I don’t think I have Mike.”

Lucas rolls his eyes, some lightheartedness returning to the atmosphere with the gesture. “You will eventually. I promise. And El, too – they’ll both love you. They just have to get to know you.”

Her heart lifts hopefully at his words. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

To her immense surprise she finds herself smiling at the prospect, and Lucas grins. It’s almost startling to see. “That’s better,” he says with an air of satisfaction, like he’s just fulfilled a task he was set.

“It feels better,” she admits. She glances down at their joined hands and decides on one more moment of truth, just for him, the first person to start breaking down her walls. After a beat of mustering up her courage, she says, “I like holding your hand.”

Lucas beams even wider, if it’s actually possible. “That’s awesome,” he says, his enthusiasm so, so endearing. “And great, and fantastic, and spectacular. You know what?”

“What?”

“I like holding your hand too. Like, a lot.”

She laughs, nodding even as her cheeks flush warm. “Awesome. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

Lucas glances around the park for a moment, still smiling, and when he looks back at her, there’s new spirit in his eyes. “We’re going to be okay, Max. You know that, right?”

It feels like the truth. She takes a deep breath full of crisp autumn air and as she exhales it to the sky, a little bit more of her icy dread and worry and fear melts away. “Yeah.” Inhale, exhale. “I know.”

@calpurnias @summer-in-hawkins @you-wont-lose-me @formerlyjannafaye @mikewheeler @caseyk112 @maxmaysfield @thezoomermax @michael-hearteyes-wheeler

let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from my taglist!

[le-petitmort]

Part II – This thing is about to be a thing

In one-point-four seconds I came to the realization that I am quite literally…the dumbest motherfucker ever. First, I never got her digits. Second…I never got her digits. Disgraceful. Where was my situational awareness? It was akin to a scrawny defender putting pressure up court on the opposing team’s guard, not paying attention and running smack dab into a pick set by a seven foot chiseled like a bronze formed by the hands of Donatello, NBA center. Basketball metaphors…get used to them.

Anyway, it knocked the wind out of my sails. The reason being is that I had formulated this grandiose plan for her to make the first move beyond the first move. To engage the conversation. Open the forum. Get the small talk out the way. Allowing me to pitter patter and tiptoe my way past the threshold of awkwardness and straight to the glory road of getting to know her intimately.

By intimately, I’m not talking about straight to boom, boom, out go the lights carnal skullduggery complete with passionate wet kisses, heavy petting and cock to pussy communication. I was angling for dinner first. Not wine, dine and sixty-nine dinner either. I had it built up in my head that I was going to treat this one like a lady. Later on, I could whisper filthy invitations in her ear that would make her coo, as my hand deftly slid up her thigh towards paradise. Getting to that point would be the hard part. Or maybe not.

Maybe, I had put this particular pussy on a pedestal. Perhaps she was a cum guzzling cock whore who jumped bed to bed trolling for fat cock in the ocean of fuckery that is Brooklyn?

Mayhap, she was one of those chicks who secretly delved into her passionate side by stroking the kitty by the light of her iPhone to kinky images on tumblr. Trolling for virtual cock with selfie side boob action, a toothy smile of seduction and a user name like…say…wantonbabygirldreamsandtequilamemories.

Perchance, all that was completely off base and she was raised right by her parents. A pristine catholic girl with of heart and mind of gold, devout in her love of our lord and savior Jesus Christ who would be spending good Friday getting ashes thumbed on her forehead…or whatever it is Catholics do on that religious day. I’m agnostic so, I have zero idea and I highly doubt she’s Ms. Goodytwoshoes since I had already noted in passing that she likes a smoke and a cocktail in the evening. Plus, she wears those fancy stocking that scream “unwrap me Daddy and see the present beneath”.

Let’s get back on point. This is how much I’ve thought into her. The epitome of pussy on a pedestal syndrome. Now, we’ve had an actual conversation. Albeit, a very short conversation. Brevity is sometimes good…except when you don’t get the digits.

The face to face was going to have to happen. Overcoming my fear of ineptitude and delving into my inner rico suave. A little more toned down though, than an unbuttoned white shirt to the navel, smooth talking lothario schtick. But, more than simply me. Yep, this girl has me all sorts of fucked up.

You’re probably wondering, “what’s with all the self-loathing, dude?”. I admit it’s got to be a bit of a turn off so, here’s the back story. No, I am not a virgin who sprawls across the couch in my jockey’s eating flamin’ hot Cheetos whilst penning dirty poems to lewd images on tumblr under a username such as…bigdongdaddysearchingforhootchiecocksluts. I’m also not the kind of man who walks into a room, drawing in beautiful, leggy, big busted vixens like steel to a magnet. I’m somewhere in the middle.

A relationship failure who gets too wrapped up in his work. Which can come off as neglectful to a significant other. But, I’ve had a plan since I was eighteen that I’d be retired on a beach in Mexico by the time I was forty, with my gorgeous wife and two adorable children playing in the sand as I sip a corona and reminisce about all the good times.

You see, I like plans. I don’t like flying by the seat of my pants. Life is analytical. Meant to be linear with a point A, B, C and onward. Peaks and valleys are for the weak. Which is why, when I first spied my dream girl promenading down the crooked sidewalks of Williamsburg, I stopped the initial urge to go in for the kill and went with formulation of a process. Fucking up in love multiple times will do such things to a man.

The plan was off though, for now. I wasn’t going to be able to slap another ”call me, maybe” note on her morning coffee to pique interest. That was already done. Mutual admiration and quite possibly mutual eye fucking were already in play. She had said it herself! Not so much in those words. But, I’d been noticed. How had I not noticed her noticing me? I really am daft at this shit…or maybe I need a lightning bolt of confidence in my life?

Is this moment it? Is that all I needed was the knowledge that there was a connection from across the room that I hadn’t felt? Was there truly distant simpatico? Was kismet closer than the vacuum of my unsure, fearful mind? Do we already have a thing for each other?! Holy fuck. These are the questions whirring in my head at 5 AM. Just like the ceiling fan spinning full speed above my bed. I’m one hundred twenty miles an hour of jubilation and angst. As much as I pride myself on a linear lifestyle, I climb to the mountain summit and hurl myself into a canyon of doubt with every passing second spent thinking about her.

I can hear the city coming to life. The traffic beginning to snarl. The metal clank of bodega doors rolling open. A single bird stationed on it’s perch singing.

I should be ambling into my office, coffee cup in hand starting my so-called work day. Instead I’m counting the minutes before I jump in the shower, clean up and go finish business with my future paramour. Yes sir, I’m forcing myself to project a dose of swagger. Laying here, mean mugging like an NBA power forward who just euro-stepped his way to a thundering game-changing dunk. I’m a winner, baby! Shelve that pitiful shit, bruh. You da man! Get fuckin’ fired up!

Which is why I basically pimp walked my way to the coffee shop when the time came for action. Outfit: casual. A hoodie from my alma mater, jeans with a strategic knee rip, green Nike air force ones on my feet. I popped straight through the shop door towards the familiar blonde at the counter like I owned the place. Ya boy iz in da house! Woof, woof, woof!

“Large straight black and a skinny latte, please.” I winked, expecting she’d question why I was getting two drinks instead of one.

She went straight to brewing and giving me the inflated total. “Twelve even. Name, please.” Ok, babe, maybe you don’t understand that lives are about to change in mere minutes. A whole cosmic galaxy is about to open up. Astronomers like Neil Degrasse Tyson will be talking about the cavalcade of stars falling out of the sky because two lips met at an overpriced local coffee shop in Brooklyn. Guess I’m getting ahead of myself there.

“Stephen…with a P.” I responded.

Apprehension and giddiness course through me. Giddiness seems unmanly but, my excitement isn’t. I’m bouncing heel to toe as our drinks magically appear before me. I check my phone one last time. Knowing her punctuality, we are currently at T minus 2 minutes and counting. Ps. I am not a stalker…to reiterate.

I grab the steaming drinks and fly towards the door, nearly tumbling over a shorty with her nose buried her phone. No time for apologies, I must nail down a cozy table on the sidewalk. I want this first meeting to be something the entire five boroughs of New York stops in awe to witness.

But, there she is coming through the door just as I reach for it. The coffees are in one hand and I can feel them about to crash right into her. I swivel my wrist, going for the save. No fucking way am I flinging a skinny latte across the object of my forever affections. Fuck no. Shit. There it goes. Whoa…steady as she goes. Eye widening panic! Boom goes the dynamite! My fingers grip the cups harder and safely held. Crisis averted.

Cool and casual like that. “Here you go Iona.” I handed over her drink with a smile.

“Iona?” She looked at me puzzled.

My eyes darted, alarmed. “Uh, yesterday…when you made your order here. Uh…you told the cashier your name was Iona?” Now it was time for my own quizzical. “Your name is Iona…right?”

She blew out a breath. The kind that shoots upward, blowing a dangling strand of her bangs from her rolling at being caught in a fib eyes. “That’s a thing I do. To sound exotic.” She gave a quick shake of the head and nodded to the counter. “I change it up every day. Glenda, Marion, Billie Jean...Iona. Whatever I’m feeling like that day.”

Her hand casually reached for a true introductory shake. “My real name is Tuesday…and I already know you’re Stephen…with a P.”

My smile was contemplatively wry. “Isn’t Tuesday an exotic enough name already? I mean…I’ve never met a Tuesday.”

“Yeah, well, a girl has to have many faces. One must stay intriguing and beguiling.”

“I’m intrigued and beguiled.” I shot back. Somehow feeling comfortable in my skin for a change.

The corners of her lips curved. “Mutual.”

Relaxation immediately struck. My entire being at ease. A wordless infinity.

“But, I’m sorry Stephen. Much as I’d like to sit down and get to know you, I have to be to work in five minutes. I’m all about a strict schedule.” Nice! She really is perfection.

“I completely understand that.”

Tuesday fished a hand into her oversized tote, withdrawing a business card which she handed over. “I neglected to leave you my number last night. I was a little jittery over it all…well...you know.” Our eyes locked. Mesmerizing. “Will you call me for dinner?” She questioned as if there was some sort of doubt.

“Absolutely.” I opened the door, leading her through. Two fingers steadied at the small of her back. Feeling a response as Tuesday’s back comfortably adjusted.

She turned to me on the street, one last parting moment.  Words breaking apart the sweetest lips I’d ever laid eyes on. “Thanks for latte. I like a man who gets me coffee in the morning…cliché, I know.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

Tuesday paused, giving thought to one last message. “Just so you know…I don’t do personal calls or texts during the work day. So, don’t bother. I’m married to my career. I have a plan.”

I gave the thumbs up. Fucking perfection.

-bart 4.20.2019

[douxreviews]

Quantum Leap - Season Five Review

It had been awhile since I watched season five, and some of it was better than I remembered. Unfortunately, some of it was worse.

Celebrity leaps

The Kennedy assassination? What were they thinking? ("Lee Harvey Oswald," 5.1 and 5.2.)

Quantum Leap always played with celebrity encounters as cute little supplemental by-the-ways and isn't-this-fun, like Buddy Holly and Michael Jackson, and honestly, I totally understand their desire to try something new, to do a high concept two-part episode. But "Lee Harvey Oswald" was terrible, uncharacteristically grim and unforgivably dull. Quantum Leap is a science fiction adventure show with a great deal of humor and charm. It is not a documentary.

Not to mention that Quantum Leap's raison d'etre is to fix "what once went wrong." How on earth could they possibly fix the Kennedy assassination without changing a massive event in American history? Having Sam save Jackie Kennedy, who died in the original history, was an interesting twist, but it was also a cop-out. Especially when you consider what Jackie did with her life after Jack Kennedy's untimely death. (No judgment there, honestly. I'm just saying.)

It also felt wrong to see Sam so affected and influenced by the person he leaped into that he couldn't change anything, and it's telling that this was the only way they could make the script work. We all know that if Sam had been himself, he would have found some way to stop the assassination. I understand from the internet that Donald Bellisario believed that Oswald acted alone and that it was the point he was trying to get across. And I will respond by saying that a show like Quantum Leap was not the place to do it.

"Goodbye, Norma Jean" (5.18) didn't work either, despite a good performance by Susan Griffiths as Marilyn and some enjoyable faux cameos by actors playing Clark Gable, John Huston and Peter Lawford. The big question for me again was, why? What did Sam put right that once went wrong? Supposedly, Marilyn needed to live a little bit longer and do one last film, and if The Misfits had been one of the greats, I would get it, but honestly, it's not a great film. If they had to do Marilyn, wouldn't it have been great if Sam had kept her from committing suicide earlier in her life?

The other two celebrity leaps this season were outright fun, though, and those did work.

I loved Scott Bakula doing an actual impression of "Dr. Ruth" (5.14) in an episode that featured the real Dr. Ruth Westheimer. While the double entendres were uncomfortably thick on the ground, it was pretty much the perfect celebrity leap to illustrate the differences between the reserved and prudish Sam, who had a terrible time doing a radio show about sex, and Al, who didn't hesitate to avail himself of free sex therapy in the Waiting Room with Dr. Ruth herself. We also got a timely reminder that Al has been married five times, and that he still loves his first wife, Beth.

I also enjoyed "Memphis Melody" (5.21) where Sam leaped into a young Elvis Presley. It was so much better than Lee Harvey Oswald and Marilyn Monroe because it wasn't depressing, and Scott Bakula got to sing as Elvis. Very nice. Especially his version of "Amazing Grace." (Which is not what they're singing in the photo below.)

Movie tributes

One of Quantum Leap's constant go-tos was movie tributes and/or ripoffs. In "Leaping of the Shrew" (5.3), Quantum Leap did The Blue Lagoon, and they even got Brooke Shields to guest star. You'd think that wouldn't work, but it was actually pretty darned cute. They also did Coming Home in "Nowhere to Run" (5.4), and it even guest starred an adorable pre-Friends Jennifer Aniston. But honestly, the way they got around Sam walking around while he was supposed to missing his legs was pretty darned weird.

Points for trying

I liked the idea behind "Trilogy" (5.8, 5.9 and 5.10), an interesting twist in the formula where Sam leaped into three different people while trying to save the same person, Abagail Fuller. It was almost like they finally addressed the "what happened to the person Sam saved later on" question. But the story acquired a mildly incestuous feel when Sam went from being Abagail's father figure in part one to her fiance in part two. And the idea of Sam fathering a child while not in his own body was interesting, but also weird. Although I did like the idea of Sam's brilliant daughter Sammy Jo helping out at the Quantum Leap project. Were they thinking about casting her as a permanent character? That could have been fun.

I also liked "Killin' Time" (5.5), where Sam leaped into a serial killer and had to explain the truth about the Quantum Leap project to his hostages. The best part about it was that there was actually action at the project in alternate universe 1999 as the killer escaped and Al took off after him, while Gooshie had to replace Al in the imaging chamber. I'll admit that the face paint, neon decoration and strange computer stuff didn't work, mostly because we all know now that 1999 didn't look like that. Maybe I should have taken that to mean that all of Quantum Leap happened in an alternate universe?

I wasn't as crazy about "The Leap Between the States" (5.20), the first and only time that Sam leaped out of his own lifetime, inhabiting his great-grandfather and romancing his great-grandmother back in 1862. It might have been a little better if they'd managed to resist white savior syndrome.

"Promised Land" (5.11) was a nice idea in theory, popping Sam back to his own home town with people he grew up with. Maybe a little hokey, but at least he got to see his late father one last time. But couldn't we have spent time with Sam's family again instead of getting stuck in a bank for the entire episode?

No points for trying

And then we had the evil leaper. (5.7 "Deliver Us From Evil," 5.16 "Return of the Evil Leaper," 5.17 "Revenge of the Evil Leaper")

Okay. I can see where the writers would have hit on the idea of an evil counterpart to Sam, but I thought it made absolutely no sense and was in fact never explained. Was Satan carrying on a Quantum Leap project of his own to put wrong what once went right? Although it was nice to see the characters from season two's "Jimmy" again and the carrying on in the women's prison was sort of fun, it just didn't work for me. Plus Alia's existence made Sam non-unique, which is something you don't want to do with your lead. The evil leaper concept didn't deserve to take up three full episodes of their final season.

The series finale

I hadn't seen "Mirror Image" (5.22), the final episode of Quantum Leap, since it aired, and was really looking forward to it because I remembered how choked up I was by that last scene with Beth and that final card about what ultimately happened to Sam. Unfortunately, I am sad to report that I found the rest of "Mirror Image" to be sub-par.

Sam arrived in a barroom at the moment he was born, and for the first time, when he looked into a mirror, he saw himself. That was actually a powerful scene, and it was touching that his hair had started to become gray. There were many scenes in the barroom in the coal mining town of Cokesburg that included actors from previous episodes playing other characters. I'm sure they were going for some sort of huge metaphorical what's-is with the mine collapse, but I just didn't get it.

I also thought it was sad that, even though the resolution of the series was all about Al Calavicci, we saw too little of him in the finale. Instead, we got Bruce McGill as the enigmatic Al the bartender, who kept giving Sam clues about what's going on. Was this new Al supposed to represent the God who had sent Sam on this strange journey? I suppose so.

We also learned that it was always Sam's unconscious choice to keep leaping, that his leaps would become more difficult, and at this point, Sam could choose to go home. The fact that Sam chose instead to leap back to the end of "M.I.A." and change Al's life forever was by far the best part of this mishmosh of an episode. Sam's ultimate choice was a selfless expression of love for his closest friend. It was also a radical, series-changing choice, breaking all of the rules we've come to accept as governing Sam's leaps. It was emotionally satisfying, though. So like Sam to give such a huge gift to someone else instead of taking advantage of his one last opportunity to go home. Tragic.

That last title card, "Dr. Sam Becket never returned home," really got to me way back when it first aired in May of 1993. This time, when I saw it, the one big thing that struck me was that in their rush to close down their series, they spelled their lead character's name wrong. (It's "Beckett," with two T's.) Maybe they made that mistake because "Mirror Image" wasn't supposed to be the series finale and they were forced to tack on an ending.

While that last scene with Beth, and its implications, were a worthy end to the series, and I loved the idea of Al happily married to the love of his life, the thought of a sad and exhausted Sam choosing to continue leaping forever was emotionally wrenching. In a way, it also negated everything that happened in the entire series. The Al Calavicci that helped Sam on every step of his journey is no longer the same Al Calavicci. I guess I need to remind myself that I must never try to apply logic to time travel stories.

Bits and pieces:

-- The credits for season five featured a new arrangement of the original theme song. It was terrible. Awful. Blech.

-- Notable actors: Neil Patrick Harris, age twenty, in "Return of the Evil Leaper," Stephen Root in "Goodbye Norma Jean," Hinton Battle from the Buffy musical in "Revenge of the Evil Leaper," and Meg Foster of the amazing eyes in "Trilogy."

-- Bruce McGill, who played Al in the series finale "Mirror Image," was also in "Genesis," the pilot episode. That was a nice touch, since I assume it was deliberate.

-- I hadn't known this until I looked it up, but Susan Griffiths ("Goodbye, Norma Jean") has made a career out of playing Marilyn Monroe. And Michael St. Gerard, "Memphis Melody," played Elvis several other times as well.

-- Just a general observation: when I was finished my rewatch, I figured out what years Sam leaped into the most, and which months of the year. There were very few winter leaps, which makes sense since they filmed in Los Angeles. It also makes sense that the writers would mostly choose the 1950s and 1960s because they could do more interesting period stuff. The year Sam leaped into the most was 1957 (seven times).

And in the end:

Despite this mostly negative closing review, I enjoyed rewatching Quantum Leap more than I thought I would. It was a creative series that aired at a time when there was very little quality science fiction on television, and the two lead characters and the actors who played them were exceptional. There's also no question that Quantum Leap is showing its age a bit sooner than it probably should.

There are a lot of series revivals going on right now. What would a reboot of Quantum Leap be like? I bet that in today's "it's all about the arc" environment, they could go in some truly interesting directions.

What do you guys think?

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

[whirlybirbs]

girl can you write some bittercoffee amazingness about the reader finding out it’s Bucky’s bday?

— BIRTHDAY BOY!

a little #bittercoffee realted drabble about the reader & bucky celebrating his birthday. this is tooth rotting fluff. i love bucky barnes so much. wtf.

You’d figured out the date in passing – Steve had mentioned it, talked about how old Bucky was when he joined the 107th, how old Steve himself had been. You’d made a quick note to write it down, to mark it in your phone, which had sparked a big grin on Steve’s part. 

“You really care about him, huh?”

“Duh,” you chided, “Don’t you?”

Steve had nodded, and when Bucky entered the room, the conversation shifted.

That was weeks ago, and now your personal planner was displaying a happy little red blip on the 10th of March – the reminder reads ‘Bucky’s Birthday!’ and you keep it on the down-low. Between classes and work at the Tower, you sneak off to the grocery store to get necessary dinner and cake ingredients. 

You don’t see him much that week; he leaves for a mission Monday and comes home tired and bruised on Wednesday. You’re happy to see him for a bit between nightly rounds on Thursday evening and he promises he’ll see you this weekend. 

You make plans for Saturday, suggesting a lowkey night – Bucky jumps at the idea, making a comment about how his back is starting to kill him from carrying his ‘people personality’ around. He likes being himself; he doesn’t have to worry about being too quiet or too standoffish with you. You get it. Tony doesn’t – Tony tells him to smile more.

Bucky hates it.

Saturday evening rolls around and you swear you never want to cook again.

You’d managed to make sarmale and mici and even a beef tripe soup that Bucky had raved about once when you asked him about food his mom used to cook – the Romanian dishes were no easy feat seeing as you were the type to live off leftovers and take-out for majority of the week. It only took you the whole day. Marissa, your flat-mate, had helped set the dinner table, insisting that it would be her contribution to his birthday before she skirted out, giving you both a little privacy. 

The cake was iced, albeit poorly, and was sitting on the bottom shelf of your fridge, waiting to be cut and served.

You felt pretty good about all of it. 

Bucky knocks on your apartment door, wringing cold fingers as his breath curls around his nose. It’s cold for March – he never remembers it being this cold.

He hates it. 

He knows the second you pull the door open that something is up.

You have this big grin on your face, eyes bright, and you – you smell like… cabbage? And… beef. Bucky takes a deep inhale, stomach growling at the fleeting memory of a small Brooklyn dinner table full of food, his sisters crammed around it. 

“You did not,” he starts, eyes narrowed, “You didn’t cook.”

“Oh, I cooked,” you grin as he steps through the door, “I mean, maybe not well, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Bucky’s face softens when he sees the small dinner table set for two. The tension in his shoulders nearly melts away as he peels off his jacket and ball cap. He bends down and kisses you firmly on the cheek, fingers pressing into your jaw as he does. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I did,” you say, “Anything for the Birthday Boy.”

Bucky’s face splits, eyes creasing in the corners and dimples digging in – he laughs and it’s a bark from his chest. He crams his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight from socked foot to foot. It’s bashful. His nose is rosy.

“Who told you?”

“Steve,” you shrug, hands finding his abdomen as you blink up at him, “He mentioned it while ago. I made a note in my phone – I’ve been trying to get this ready all week, so let’s hope I didn’t fuck up the recipes.”

He leans again, nose bumping yours as he steals a gentle kiss. It lingers. You don’t complain.

He loves it.

Bucky moves across the room, peaking into the pans on the stove before he groans in appreciation. A small blurb of Romanian spills from his lips and you grin – he sounds excited. It’s enough for you. 

“Go ahead,” you chide, swatting his behind with an oven mit, “Sit down.”

He does as he’s told and as the courses are plopped onto his plate, his smile grows. He looks boyish, even with his hair tugged back in a bun, jaw darkened with a trimmed beard. He’s 101 years old. His smile shaves about 90 years off him.

You grab wine and settle in across from him.

“The last time I had this,” he says, mouthful of miri and brows creased in contemplation, “I musta been fifteen years old.”

You spend the rest of dinner sunning yourself in his bright-eyed expressions, his stories and his everything. You forget how much you love him sometimes – then he burps, pardons himself, and smiles. It’s an easy reminder. He’s a dork. Half way through dinner, you grin into your wine glass and bat an eyelash.

“I have that Cosmos show queued up on my laptop,” you hum, “I thought after cake we could settle in and watch it. It’s the one –”

“– The space one?”

You grin. His excitement is palpable. “Mhm, the space one.”

He chews his food and beams with delight.

Sure enough, once you’re both feeling pretty heavy with cabbage rolls and beef rolls and beef soup, you settle on plopping candles into his cake. Bucky makes quick work of the dishes and is sure to pack up the leftovers, insisting this stuff is probably still good for another week and that he is definitely stopping by to snack at night. 

Once the dishwasher is running – it always takes him a few minutes to remember how to work it again – his hands slip around your waist and his lips drop to the curve of your shoulder. He kisses you there and noses against the fabric of your sweater.

“Happy 101st Birthday, Bucky,” he reads, “Sounds right. I feel that old most days.”

“Is it the disconnect from modern technology,” you jest, “or the ache in your bones?”

“Both,” he chuckles, “But mostly my achin’ bones.”

You laugh, fingers finding his and giving them a squeeze. 

“So am I going to sing to you? Or do you wanna make a wish, blow these candles out, eat some cake and open your present?” you say, “Because I might kill you with my singing.”

Bucky’s face goes a little soft and his smile gets a little quiet. Less like the sun, more like a warm breeze.

“I have everything I could ever wish for, you know. You’re the whole package.”

The words settle in your chest and you pout. Bucky’s hands skirt your jaw. He kisses your temple. “Stop that, you’re gunna make a girl cry.”

“No,” he sways you, “No crying – not at this party.”

“Hey, it’s my party –”

“– And you’ll cry if you want to?”

You grin, a little proud he gets the reference. He’s learning. 

You don’t sing to him, but he blows out the candles (after wishing for you and him to get married someday) and you hand him a gift wrapped in recycled Christmas wrap. Bucky likes the dogs on it and he laughs at the antlers taped to their heads. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“But I did.”

He tears open the package and nearly falls over at gift inside – his eyes are wide and mouth upturned with happiness. Inside the box is a set of new socks, a much needed gift from a man who’s socks frequently look like hobo socks, and a small book. The front says THOUGHTS and inside list prompts. You wrote him a nice note on the front cover, imploring him to write – he’s good at it, you read his war journal after all – and expressing your gratitude for him being in your life.

He reads it and gets misty eyed.

He loves you.

He spends the rest of the night curled around you in bed, half pay attention to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s narration, half paying attention to the way you lean into the touch of his hand as his fingers ghost through your hair. Bucky think that maybe turning 101 years old isn’t so bad if it means he can spend it with you – after all you don’t treat him like he’s some ancient supersoldier. You kiss him like he’s normal, you laugh at his jokes. You kiss his metal fingertips like they’re flesh. You love him for who he is – he’s not perfect, you know that.

Stubble tickles the back of your neck and you hum, eyes squeezing shut as he buries his face there. He breathes softly, fingers tightening in your hair for a moment as he cradles you and listens to your heartbeat. Bucky has to remind himself you’re real sometimes, and not just some fever dream he’ll wake up from. 

Your fingers find his. You roll a little, blinking back at him.

The kiss you share is lazy and lovely.

“Happy Birthday, Buck.”

He kisses you again, settling on enjoying the best gift he’s ever been given: you.

TAG LIST:

@cutiefrankie @luxieluu @justalittlebitofhisheart @oh-glory@dutchnorkat@buckyb4rnacle@chuckennuggets1213@pandalandalopalis@valiantlymysticfestival @soggysouls @buckywhitewolf@radrouda @moony-you-fold-your-socks @kitty-and-bats-0@rulesbyproblematique @allltheships@im-not-insane-im-a-fangirl@louieisbae42@itshinothey@simplystarsinthesky@model-howell @marveltotheendoftheline @moroiboy@ghost-with-spaghetti-arms@swimmeranxiety@sigynwrites @shadowhunters-warlock@magic-from-the-ordinary@josiehosiedaninja@smarvills@rollcalls@simplyonehellofapilot@marassberry@shrekssunflowers@myboyfriendgiriboy@dameronstars@avengedhearts@commanderrpoe@roadtripsonspaceships@whyisbuckyso@meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian@bulletproofseb@boyzines@nataliarxmanxva@alexblrus@henrietteoaks@omg-imagines-for-days@iamgabby22 @silence–in–the–library@sebashtiansatan@fangeekkk@llianniall@mymourningtea @artemis521 @anise-d-castle6@sighodinson@mischievousweasleys@potterglory @poedamn-ron @seltsamkind @odysseys-and-oddities@happily-beinghappy@listeningtothewalls @im-sebastianstan@daytripper45@crispychrisevans@paintedkylo@superxbarnes @swimmeranxiety@capkitkat@vechkinfan@paleflames@dxrkrxse@daybreakseventeen @buckys-plumbs @chook007@alisible@part-time-patronus@alex-hamiltonian @sebstanwassup @steemy@sebby89@mymourningtea@poopybadwi@inconvenientvoid @dianedancer18 @radrouda@breathlessgirl1991@lamia-maizat@kileybird @laurafloradora @ranialih @mashtons-dirtbag@justasoutherngirly @as-long-as-theres-light @russian-empress @jennifersier @saltiestdemon @mllx-anazra@picturethisfantasy@snipsnapyappap @wh1sk3ypr1nc3ss@alisible@chipilerendi@battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @daybreakseventeen@faunacea@bookgirlunicorn @bleulady01@rollcalls @disgustingpatdstan@superxbarnes@vaguelyminty @killerfirewolf @lazyhistorian@sarasxe @im-sebastianstan@queendade @storiesbehindyoureyes @ufffg @is-this-you-manning-up-sammy @kaeling @alyssaj23

[yandere-tech]

Villainous Thing [Villain!DanielXHero!Reader] [Part 1 of ??]

The life of a normal human is precious. It's short lived and often unfair. You know this, you've watched it come and go. For years.

Of course, you had been normal once- you weren't inherently born into this life with the knowledge of what you'd come to be. Just how much power you would hold. No, no, it all happened in middle school- during the shooting...

You had been terrified- the door had be barricaded and you were forced to a corner of the room without everyone else. Shaking, crying and clinging to each other. Everyone seemed to drop the whole 'too-cool-for-you' attitude at these situations. All you could hear was the breathing, muffled cries and teacher gently trying to soothe everyone. Your heartbeat was thundering in your ears in the rather quiet classroom.

That's when the first gunshot sent your heart to your throat. It wasn't even that far away. If you hadn't been shaking before, you surely were at that point. Tears had formed quickly as you heard screams next, followed by more gunshots. It was like the whole world had turned itself upside down as you were left to cower in corner with other small mice, only waiting to be taken out by the cat slowly stalking your mouse hole.

Once the gunfire stopped, you had clung to the closest person to you, burying your face into their sleeve as they hid id their own in your shoulder. Their tears only being soaked up by the dark red cotton shirt you wore. It was still so vivid- every last detail. You even remember the way the kid you clung to you started telling themselves 'everything will be okay!' while digging their nails into your arm.

The thud of what sounded like combat boots clunked down the hall, something rattling with each step. Coming to a stop in front of the door- everyone held their breath as the madman jiggled the handle.

You still remember the way he sounded. His voice was something that could easily put you to sleep. Slick, sweet and syrupy.

Perhaps that's what made it all the more horrific.

"I'll give you until the count of three-"

"One..."

The teacher had gotten up- standing in front of you all. She was shaking- a fragile woman,a young woman, a teacher who only started that year.

Her body couldn't handle gunfire.

"Two..."

And it didn't.

"THREE!"

The moment the door started to get kicked in she had flinched, but remained resilient. In that moment, all those cartoons of the men and women in colorful clothing seemed so fake. True heroes were people like her. Facing death with a brave face to try and save even a few lives.

It wasn't spoken- but it seemed everyone had the same idea- try to get past the gunman for the door- run and don't stop. Don't look back, get somewhere safe and call your parents if you could.

A cold shiver ran down your back as the door flew off it's hinges and that man- a dark grin plastered across his face, eyes seeming to reflect hell itself as he opened fire. That poor woman... Her body seemed to move in some unnatural ways as each bullet sliced through her body, knocking her back. She eventually landed on the ground, blood pooling around her corpse- holes covering her. Staring at her body, it felt so hard to move. Like the Earth itself had melded you to the spot. However, it was when the bullets started raining down that you found the energy to run. Screaming wouldn't do anything and you were finding it hard to even do something as simple as keep your breathing even. Or run properly-

You had tripped over yourself and gone sprawling just at the doorway. Everything seemed to go in slow motion as you pulled yourself up and scrambled to get away. But that damn sound of combat boots was right behind you.

"Come on!" Someone had stopped and helped you to your feet. Some boy who you hardly ever spoke too. Some kid you hardly knew the name of.

Someone who took a bullet for you.

As soon as you were to your feet, they shoved you out of the way- making you stumble down the hallway as you turn to grab their wrist- hand extended. Only to have their blood splattered across that deep red cotton shirt.

No, you had to run. The gun was aimed at you-

The bullet lodged itself between your ribs, sending you back against the wall. Sliding down against it as the man continued on his way.

That pain you recall to this day- so vividly. Blood drenching you. Some from your teacher- some from your little unnamed savior who was dying for nothing but to have you follow a few seconds behind.

All you could do was stare at his body- watching the way the red bled into his white shirt almost matching your own shirt. His opened eyes staring at the ceiling as he gave a few raspy breathes, dying a slow, likely painful death. Much like you currently were.

"I'm sorry- I'm so so sorry- I'm sorry- I'm sorry" You had repeated over and over to the boy as he slowly closed his eyes. Breathing and speaking became even harder with each 'sorry' you uttered. Your breathing becoming more and more shallow as you close your own eyes.

Unsure of how long you sat there, you eventually hear a voice.

It was the most gorgeous voice you had heard. It still is the only voice that you know of that you can say belonged to an angel.

An angel by the name of Sariel.

"Not yet, dear." It was velvet enveloping your body, seeming to bring a warmth back to the cold in your body. His touch was the lightest thing you had ever felt. Even as it dug through the hole in your chest. Even as he pulled the bullet out. Even as he got your heart beating again.

"Get up."

It wasn't like you could say no. Your body felt- fine. With that light touch of his, he helped you to your feet.

"How...?" A soft chuckle escaped the angel. "Don't you worry. You'll soon find out."

As he walked you out of the school, he explained everything.

Archangel Physiology and what it meant to be his One. At such a young age, you hadn't any idea what it meant, you hadn't even tried to understand.

That's why he sent you here, you supposed. To master your new powers. So you could become the guardian he was trusting you to be.

"Hey- Hey are you even listening!?"

A hand waves in front of you as you snap out of your thoughts. "Huh? Oh- sorry Gwen." You say, sitting up quickly, hands clasped together. The entire team had its eyes on you now. "Everything okay, [Y/N]?" Asked David at the other end of the table. "Of course, why do you ask?" You raise an eyebrow only to have Max speak up. "You're fucking crying."

Blunt as always...

Reaching up, you touch your wet cheek and mentally curse. "Ah, I guess I just zoned out, it's all okay." You swat at the air. "Continue the meeting." You smile, hoping that David will understand and just get back to the topic.

After a look that said 'you'll talk to me about it after this', the redhead went back to the large holographic map of the city. "Well, as I was explaining, this new guy is kind of a huge threat. So far, from what Neil gathered from the few minutes he got to collect information, he's isn't exactly something we've dealt with before. Does anyone know what a Demigod is?"

"Oh! I got this one!" Nerris said, standing up quickly, clearing her throat. "A demigod is a mortal divine status. Either by a god and mortal having offspring or a mortal being raised to divine status." She explains happily with a smile.

"Very good, Nerris! Ten points to Team Magic!" David smiles, hands clasped before his smile dropped slightly. "Well- as Nerris explained- this is exactly what we have on our hands. The townsfolk have taken to calling him 'The Killing Spree In White' or 'Ethereal' depending on who you talk too." The redhead explains, tapping a few times in the air with the fancy green gloves he wore- bringing up a few reports. "Wow, he looks like you Davey." Laughs the male beside David, Jasper. This doesn't amuse David it seems. "Neil has found that he has only been around for about a month. Hasn't really done anything terrible until last week, where he was found in the middle of the massacre in the middle of Sleepy Peak Park."

"HE did that?!" Snapped Preston, who slammed his hands on the table. "Forty six people were found dead by suicide! Are you telling me-" He stops as David speaks over him.

"As I said before, he isn't something we are use too. And I honestly don't want any of you near him yet..."

"Bullshit! We can handle him!" Max shouts. "Team Adrenaline can take it!" He says, as if nominating his three man team."Hah, as if, Team Magic has a better chance." Harrison rolls his eyes. "Oh fuck off, Harrison." Neil snaps. "Personally, I think team Rad can take it." Ered says with a flip of her hair. "Ja! Agreed!" Dolph grins. "Unbelievable. Team Cosmic is far more capable." Preston scoffs.

"ENOUGH!" Snaps Gwen, standing up. "None of you are going anywhere near this guy. From what we gather he has the ability to get in your head! I'll be damned if we're sending teens in to get killed by their hands- or their teammates hands!" She looks between you, Jasper and David. "I think it's us who have to get involved."

As she's talking, you're busy looking through the information that was able to be retrieved. Your eyes scanning over it, feeling a writhing hatred build in your chest, which is slowly doused as his voice calms you.

'Volunteer.'

"David, I want to fight him." You say out of nowhere. "Wh-what!? [Y/N], he's-"

"He can't get in my head." You simply state. It was already occupied. You had the best defense against such an ability. "I- I think I can take him."

"But-"

"I can handle it, David."

Not only did you have a defense, you had started working on your healing abilities. It was weak at the moment, only really able to fix first and second degree burns and small cuts. But you were working on it! And your Earth manipulation was getting better by the day. You were able to terraport easily nowadays!

"I can't send you alone..."

"I'll go with them." Shrugs Jasper, arms crossed over his chest. "When I'm in ghost form, he can't really get into my head." He jabs a finger against his temple. "Not exactly anything for him to get into!" He laughs, making a slight smile tug at your lips. David huffs, but seems to back down. "Fine- fine. Just keep each other safe when you DO have to go after him, okay?" He demanded.

"Always am." You smile.

Jasper gives a lazy smile. "We'll see." He jokes, making David glare at him.

You chuckle lightly before you look at the profile before you. Examining it like your life depended on it.

Only for your alarm to go off. The song breaking the focus you had and making you jump up. "Oh crap! I'm gonna be late for practice!" You says, grabbing your bag from under the table. "Sorry guys! You know how to get a hold of me!" Tapping the side of your wristwatch, you smile.

With that, you bring your feet together and let the material at your feet swallow you. It was still weird for you. To allow the Earth to move you to where you needed to be and all. Terraporting was useful but took a great amount of concentration and not getting stuck under the ground where you'd likely suffocate... But you tried not to think of that as you feel yourself shoot up through the Earth, pulling yourself out and huffing lightly as you look around the campus of your college. Dusting yourself off, you quickly take off to practice-

Band Practice.

[aion-rsa]

Tenet: Robert Pattinson’s Neil Timeline Explained

https://ift.tt/3tjao7T

This feature contains Tenet spoilers.

I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship. Those are the (near) final words of the ever wry Neil in Tenet. Riffing on the last line of dialogue from another Warner Bros. film, Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca, it’s a wink and a nudge from Christopher Nolan toward classic Hollywood cinema. But it’s also an admission by the Robert Pattinson character that he is at least vaguely aware that he’s headed toward his death, and though he is about to die, his relationship with the Protagonist (John David Washington) has only just begun.

On first viewing it’s a bit of a bewildering revelation. In fact, many watched the whole film without realizing the Robert Pattinson character had already died onscreen before he saved the Protagonist and Ives (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), plus the Algorithm, from certain death in the bowels of subterranean Siberia. And, speaking candidly, even I was initially a little bit foggy on whether Neil really died, as well as when exactly he first met Our Man Protag in the future-past.

But with the movie gaining renewed interest on HBO Max, now seems like an excellent time to revisit Nolan’s most trenchant timeline to date, and just where the man who calls himself Neil falls in it.

When We First Meet Neil

Technically, the first time Neil appears onscreen is during the movie’s opening moments at the opera house in Ukraine. Neil is the fella who fires an inverted bullet into his gun, killing the corrupt cop (or mercenary) who is working for Sator.

Like everything with the opening sequence, it’s a tad confusing since all characters—cops, undercover CIA agents, and undercover gangsters/military personnel participating in what is secretly a “vanishing” hit—dress the same way. That includes Neil. But after viewing the movie all the way around, we can recognize Neil is the Protagonist’s savior because the mysterious not-a-cop who shoots the evil not-a-cop with a reverse bullet is wearing a backpack with a red string tag.

At the end of the movie, we see Neil walk off with that same backpack and tag (more on that later). So Neil knew to be at the Kiev opera house on this day to save the Protagonist, likely because the Protagonist told him about the event sometime in the future and/or past.

Indeed, when the Protagonist first properly meets Neil in Mumbai, and finally gets a look at Pattinson’s gorgeous mug, Neil has actually been friends with our main character for years. As he later explains to the Protagonist on an empty Siberian landscape, “You have a future in the past, years ago for me, years from now for you.” Which explains his already cheeky sense of familiarity with the Protagonist on their first linear meeting, with Neil knowing that his buddy never drinks on the job and only orders Diet Coke.

At the end of the film, Pattinson paraphrases Claude Rains’ famous line of dialogue to Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, but the duo’s instant camaraderie in India here reminds me of other “buddies at war” movies from yesteryear, including The Man Who Would Be King (1975), which starred Sean Connery and Michael Caine on misadventures in India. Considering the setting and Caine’s presence in this film—as well as the overt James Bond influences on Tenet —it’s hard to imagine this is coincidental for Nolan.

In any event, Neil completes the circle by helping recruit the man who really recruited him into the Tenet organization. For much of the rest of the film, he’s patiently letting the Protagonist know how this all works and helping with the mission at hand. That includes leaning into his British foppishness by posing as a rich man wanting to use a freeport tax haven he’s actually about to rob, and it includes stopping the Protagonist from killing his future self in a fistfight.

It really isn’t until the end of the movie Neil begins going his own way again through both directions in time.

When We Last See Neil(s)

During the end of the movie, Neil and the Protagonist are on different sides of a temporal pincer movement in Siberia. This assault on the site where Sator (Kenneth Branagh) first began amassing his fortune also not-so-coincidentally is occurring on the exact same day as the opera siege in Kiev. This is by design, because when Katharine (Elizabeth Debicki) thinks about the time her vile husband was last happy, it was on their trip to Vietnam. However, he vanished one evening during that trip because he had business in Kiev, where his men were retrieving another piece of the Algorithm (which we explain here).

It’s actually Neil who puts together that Sator left his yacht 10 days ago on the 14th because of the siege. At the time, the Protagonist shoots a suspicious look and asks, “How do you know about that?” (Psst, because he was there too, dummy.)

So along with a fella named Ives, the leader of the paramilitary side of the Tenet operation, Our Man Protag and Neil participate in the siege to retrieve the Algorithm on Sator’s perfect day, which is thereby also the day he’ll assemble all the pieces in Russia. The Protagonist is part of the Red Team, who will be performing the operation through the normal direction of time while Neil is part of the Blue Team, which observed the operation from afar and then were inverted, traveling backward in time, knowing what they need to do to be victorious.

And if that is a little hard to grasp, we see Neil effectively perform a temporal pincer movement within the operation’s larger temporal pincer movement to clarify how this all works. During the siege of Sator’s hometown, Neil is the cheeky Blue Team member in a gas mask who helps fire a rocket launcher, clearing a path for the Protagonist and Ives to enter the closed city’s tunnels. He then sees Sator’s right-hand goon lower himself from a helicopter and go into the tunnels from a different entry point. In the film, we see this from Neil’s perspective. Since Neil’s entropy has been reversed, he is traveling through time in reverse, however everything with normal entropy will appear reversed to him, including the thug’s arrival by chopper.

Neil then abandons the rest of the Blue Team to run off, as we later learn, to reverse his entropy again and provide a helping hand to Our Man Protag and Ives from the explosion that is to come. With that said, we get the classic Nolan misdirection in this moment since we also see Neil running with his gasmask back on toward the tunnel in which Goon #1 entered.

That is because at this moment there are three Neils on the battlefield. There is the one who is going to reverse his entropy to save the Protagonist and Ives; there is the one who, with normal entropy, is driving a truck to save Ives and the Protagonist; and then there’s the one who’s already done that, and reversed his entropy again and who is now going to open the door that will be blocking Ives and the Protagonist’s way. Since he already knows they saved the world, he knows exactly what he needs to do.

“I’m the only one who can get that door open in time, right Ives?” Neil asks at the linear end of the movie. “I don’t know a locksmith as good as you,” Ives cracks back. Boom. It’s a temporal pincer movement within a larger temporal pincer movement. And since this is happening concurrently with the opera house siege in Kiev that means there are technically FOUR Neils chewing bubble gum and kicking ass. (Does your head hurt, yet?)

Read more

Movies

Tenet Ending Explained

By Chris Farnell

Movies

Tenet’s ‘Inversion’ Logic Explained

By Chris Farnell

When we see the climax of the film play out in the missile silos below, we are watching the events from the Protagonist’s point-of-view, which means time is flowing in the natural direction. It’s why when he gets there, a masked Blue Team member with a backpack attached to a red string and tag is already dead on the other side of the locked door. That is Neil’s corpse, which means, speaking strictly from a linear perspective, this is the last time we see Neil in Tenet: a martyr who’s taken a bullet for his buddy the Protag.

However, since the dead Neil had his entropy reversed yet again, he dies while moving in reverse. It’s why we see him rise up and take a bullet for Neil while opening the door to the missile silo, allowing the Protagonist and Ives to get in there and claim the Algorithm. But in reverse, it looks like Neil has risen from the dead to open the door for our living heroes—a ghost from the future.

The Protagonist puts this altogether at the linear end of the film when he, Ives, and Neil are discussing what to do with the pieces of the Algorithm. Neil rather knowingly gives his share of the Algorithm to the Protagonist before announcing he’s going to go back into the past for another pass with reversed entropy.

“It’s me in there, again,” Neil says, “weaving another past in the fabric of this mission.” It’s unclear whether he knows he’s about to die, but by spotting Neil’s backpack, the Protagonist realizes in this moment it’s his newfound friend who died down there in the tunnels and also saved his life in Kiev. He asks Neil if they can try to do things differently—implying to Neil that he’s about to die. But like a good Tenet man, Neil refuses to tempt fate by trying to change it.

“What’s happened’s happened,” Neil says, “which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the world. It’s not an excuse to do nothing.” He sadly adds, “Now let me go.”

Before he dies though, Neil offers one last head-spinning nugget: “This whole operation is a temporal pincer movement.” The Protagonist’s operation to be exact. Which means, technically, Neil is performing a temporal pincer movement within a temporal pincer movement, within an even larger years-long temporal pincer movement. Great Scott!

When the Protagonist Recruits Neil

Before his death, Neil also confirms that the Protagonist recruited him years ago in his past, and years from now in the Protagonist’s future. “We get up to some stuff,” Neil smiles. “You’re going to love it.”

However, what is intentionally fuzzy is exactly when the Protagonist recruits Neil. The conventional wisdom is that sometime in the distant future an older Protagonist creates the Tenet organization—which is stated elsewhere in the movie—and then recruits a young Neil (if that’s really his name) into the group. This seems entirely plausible and makes a certain amount of sense.

With that said, it’s worth keeping in mind that time travel is basically possible in this film only through the process of traveling for the same amount of time into the past as one does going into the future. Which means if you need to travel years into the past, you must spend years with your entropy reversed going backward.

While it’s possible Neil did this, Robert Pattinson is a relatively young man at the age of 34 (33 when Tenet was filmed). So the idea that he spent years, or maybe a decade, traveling backward seems a bit hard to swallow. But… what if the Protagonist’s future is in the past? It’s implied that Ives and the Protagonist could use inversion to hide their pieces of Algorithm further in the past, just as a future scientist did when she put those pieces in late-20th century nuclear programs.

It’s worth entertaining at least the idea that the Protagonist begins the Tenet program directly after the events of the film and then travels further back to hide his Algorithm. He could’ve recruited Neil years ago in both the character and our world’s literal past. It would make recruitment easier, as he’s already completed one half of the Pincer movement. The “halfway” point, as Neil calls it. But this interpretation is up to each viewer.

About That ‘Neil is Max’ Fan Theory

On the subject of viewer interpretations though, there is one doozy of a fan theory out there: Neil is Max, Kat and Sator’s much talked about, if little seen, son.

I am not entirely sure what this is based on other than folks liking to imagine there is a hidden mind-bending twist out there that only they can deduce. But what is the logic behind this? Kat has a posh English accent and Neil as a posh English accent, ergo they must be related? For some American viewers, I guess that’s enough. Although it sure gives an added satisfaction to the scene when the Protagonist saves Kat at the end of the movie by receiving her text message in the future that she’s being spied on and then traveling into the past to save her.

However, I’m going to call shenanigans on this theory based on Neil’s simple disinterest in Kat and quick acceptance that she’s an asset who’s become collateral damage when Sator shoots her with a reverse bullet earlier in the movie. When one of the Tenet organization’s men says she’s going to die, Neil even smirks, “Standard operating procedure,” lightly mocking the Protagonist’s CIA tactics.

Granted, if he’s Max he knows this isn’t how his mother dies and could therefore take comfort in the idea the Protagonist will eventually figure out how to save her. Maybe. But while Neil’s a cool customer, I don’t think even he could be so cool with his mother bleeding out before his eyes. So this theory doesn’t really hold water with me.Still, it’s kind of fun to think that if Max is Neil then there was a brief moment where FIVE Neils walked this Earth at the same time.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The post Tenet: Robert Pattinson’s Neil Timeline Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2PZCuHp

[raindrenchedstories]

Search and rescue.

A bit more fun in the mix. FH cast.

Neil squirmed. Trying his best not to topple more rubble on himself. The landslide had come from no where. Catching the mountain climber off guard and sweeping him under. He was a little too panicked to know if he’d broken anything. But he was definitely stuck. Only the tiniest crack of light to show him which way was out. By his foot.

He tried to steady his ragged breathing. Tried to gauge how much oxygen he had to his name. If he kicked something away, would he bring more stone down on him? He thought better than to risk it. Clearing his throat and...

“HELP! I’M DOWN HERE! HELLO!” He paused for air. Trying to decide if that was a good course of action. He didn’t dare look around. Especially now that he noticed a hot pain in his left arm. 

Why did he have to climb THIS mountain? The one commonly known as the untouchable legend. A small shuffling broke his thoughts.

“Hey! Hello? Can you hear me in there?” A voice? A human voice! Someone found him!

“Yes! Oh god yes! I’m here! I’m- Wait wait! The rocks! I don’t know how stable they are! Don’t come too close!” His savior was no good if they got caught too. Or even caused another slide. 

The man was closer, by the sounds of things, but paused. “O-Okay man. Hang on! I’m going to get you some help. Are you hurt?”

There was a noise above him, Like something had been pushed into the earth. “M-may arm hurts. I don’t want to move it.”

“Okay. Just breath. Are you okay here for a little bit?”

“I don’t really have a choice. Unless you have a flare.”

“Right. Sorry. Won’t take long. Just try to stay calm okay?” The mans footsteps left, and Neil leaned his head back against the stone. Breathing slowly. Help was on the way. He’d be okay. 

The ground shook. A small whimper escaped him. He pleaded with the fates that the man who’d found him would make it before the next quake. The stone above him shifted. Was he done for?

Light spilled in from above as the stone parted. Carefully lifted and filtered through. His eyes took a second to adjust, he squeezed them shut just as a shadow fell over him. Something wrapped around his limp form and lifted him into the air.

“Ah, There we go little one. Are you- Richter? Could you translate? I’d rather focus on healing him first.”

Neil opened his eyes once more and jerked back. Before him, was an overwhelmingly large face. Smiling kindly at him, gaze hidden behind thick rimmed glasses.

“Sure thing Arch. Hey! Remember me?” Neil snapped his gaze to a tiny figure on the titanic mans shoulder. Another person his size waved happily. Being lifted by his large companion and set on the same palm Neil was sprawled uppon.

“Sorry for the surprise. My name is Richter. And this is my friend Archibald.” The giant nodded. Making his way carefully down the mountain.

Neil just stammered. Staring at his arm. It was bent all the way around in an alarming position. His heart jumped. “A-arm... Hurt. But.. No pain I...”

“Okay. Try to calm down. We’re going to see someone who can help.” Richter spoke gently.

“Why doesn’t it hurt? IT SHOULD HURT!” Archibalds golden eyes flicked over to them.

“Richter, is he alright?” The giant tried to get a better look at them.

“Er... He’s in shock I think. His arm isn’t too great.” Richter made a moetion to Neil trying to smile. “But it will get better. You’re not feeling any pain because Archibald is using a numbing spell on you.”

“Sp-spell? But... Giants shouldn’t exist! Magic shouldn’t exist. This is just-”

“I thought the same. I know it’s overwhelming. But you need to calm down a bit. They’re just big people...What’s your name?” Richter tossed his coat over Neil, covering the damaged limb.

“N-Neil.” He shuddered.

“Okay. hi Neil. Welcome past the veil.” Looking behind himself, he saw the human city shimmer away, replaced by large, open forest. A massive house stood at the foot of the mountain. One that Archibald aproached steadily.

On the inside of the home was another giant. Sitting at a table. This one looked like a beard has sprung a face and legs, and decided it likes smiling a lot. He stood quickly, making his way to the trio.

“Slowly. He’s had a scare.” Archibald kept the spell up, while the other giant cupped a hand under his. Slowly, with Richter help, sliding Neil into the bearded ones palm.

There was a moment where the pain returned in a sharp pang. Then soothed over. As Neil was carried, he lay there in an awestruck silence. Watching as Richter handed his jacket to the giant. It was held over the arm still, keeping Neil from seeing the injury again.

“So tell me about yourself. What are your hobbies?” Richter smiled back around the coat.

“Er... I... Well I obviously climb mountains. Um. I’m studying to be a phys ed teacher. I have a cat... What are you doing exactly?” He attempted to take a glance around.

“I’m setting your arm. Don’t worry. I’ve done this many times. I used to be a paramedic.” Richter beamed.

“Used to?” Neil took a moment to gaze up at both giants. The bearded one gave a brief smile before returning his attention to Richter. Archibald just seamed to be setting a beverage up.

Richter waved to the fuzzy one, coming around the jacket. “All yours big guy! -yes. I ended up leaving after making it past the veil. Helping people is a lot easier with magic involved.”

“Wait wait! What’s he doing?” Neil started to jerk and flinch away, only to be kept in place by Archibald. Apparently finished whatever he was doing before.

“Relax. He’s just finishing your arm off. You should be able to use it when he’s done. However. You’ll want some form of pain killer for the next two weeks okay?” Richter applied a feather light touch to Neils shoulder.

He took a few breaths to steady himself. “I’m dreaming.” When the giant removed his hand, ALL feeling returned in a wave of pain. “AHH I’m not! I’m NOT dreaming!”

It soothed off slowly apparently another numbing spell was being cast. Archibald muttered something, Though, Neil didn’t catch it. “Er, he says sorry. HE was supposed to keep the numbing up. Think you can stomach some tea?”

Neil gave a weak nod. Flexing his hand the moment he was permitted to see it again. It was fine. As if nothing happened. His eyes widened, astonished. “S-sure.. are there cups our size?”

Richter laughed a bit nodding. “What do you think took Archibald so long?” The giant grumbled, trying his best to hold a little tea cup out to him. Neil took it in both hands, smiling briefly.

“Um. Could you thank him for me?”

“No need. Translation magic is a thing.” Archibald snickered.

“Oh... Ah... Thanks. Again I guess?” He puffed over the hot liquid and took a sip. “It’s good.”

“It should work on the pain for you. Once you’re finished. We’ll send you home with enough to last.” The other giant smirked, passing by and cleaning things up.

“Oh! Um.. Great. Thanks. But how do I?”

“There’s a door we can use.” Richter sat back with Neil smiling.

“I take it you do this often?” Neil heaved a relieved sigh.

“Not as often as we’d like. Richter may be a damn good paramedic but he’s not so good at the finding people thing.” Archibald smirked.

“HEY!”

Neil paused, staring them down. “Wait... So...How many people have you found... Alive?”

A somber look crossed over the trio. Neil paused, staring into his cup. If he were left out there much longer...

“Um... I’m pretty good at finding things... Maybe I can..” They crowded around him. “I mean... I’d need help. But I could BE of some help too right? If only there were a way to make me landslide proof.” Neil gave an awkward laugh.

“There is.” Archibald deadpanned. “But... it would involve some more magic and... IT’s hard to explain. Focus on recovering for now. And we’ll talk about it after.”

[nonameinanytongue]

The Worst Ones Always Live

“I never understood why they treated us differently.”

In the midst of war, a drunken Cersei reflects bitterly on her exclusion from the circles of power to which the men in her family, including her twin brother, have such ready access. It’s a throughline to her character, part grasping, part wounded, and it cuts deeply into what Blackwater is saying about what the ladies of Westeros are expected to suffer in the course of their cloistered lives.

But damn, what a war it is! The season is ending and there’s wildfire roaring in on Blackwater Bay, Baratheon soldiers dying messily on the beaches, the Hound splitting men in half like an enthusiastic Panera Bread sandwich artisan sawing through some choice focaccia; fantasy battles have never looked as good, or as upsetting, as they do in the expert hands of director Neil Marshall of The Descent fame. Marshall uses fog, torchlight, and the haunting emptiness of the bay by night to make Blackwater’s bloody thrills and harrowing combat sequences feel as impressive as any big-budget Lord of the Rings-style CGI extravaganza.

The war fought at home with wine and words is no less brilliant than the one fought on the shore. Cersei holds fatalist court in Maegor’s holdfast and gives Sansa what has to be the single most scarring version of “The Talk” since the Lovecraftian sex-ed session in Late Bloomer, all while Ilyn Payne stands by with orders to shorten the ladies of the realm by a head apiece if Stannis’s men take the city. Better a clean death than the grisly picture of gang rape and torture Cersei paints.

Lena Headey is so alive, so believably in conflict with the world around her, that she steals every one of her appearances, whether she’s browbeating Sansa, interrogating Shae, or smacking around the hapless Ser Lancel. She may not have the freedom men possess by default, but she keeps her claws sharp and her eyes open for any opportunity to exploit, often pettily, the pecking order that giving birth to a king has placed her at the teetering top of. Cersei is a complicated person, as often pathetic as sympathetic, never less than vindictive, and this episode functions in part as a tour of the ruins of the woman she might have been.

Game of Thrones is a show with a lot to say about patriarchy, family, and violence, but nowhere do those themes come together like they do when the Hound pleads with Sansa. Rory McCann is tremendous as Sandor Clegane, a seething smokestack of a human being who lives in a state of terror deferred by violence, a child who made himself into a nightmare so he wouldn’t be afraid of his own. “Your father’s a killer, your brother’s a killer, your sons will be killers,” he tells Sansa wearily. The Hound, broken by his brush with the river’s flames and set on fleeing the city, is moved to share the only wisdom he has: a clear-eyed view of war and violence. That he sees some kind of escape in Sansa, that he wastes precious time trying to bring her with him when he knows deserters are bound for the hangman’s noose, speaks volumes.

Even up against pros like Headey and McCann, Sophie Turner’s Sansa more than holds her own with her battered, cagey portrayal of a child entering adulthood through the gates of Hell. The hardening of her soul, the death of her golden vision of a world of virtuous knights and gracious ladies, is painful to watch. Finding and clinging to the doll Ned gave her back in season 1, a gift she scorned at the time, is a moment potently emblematic of the shame and fear under which she must try each day to survive. As she listens to the Hound she clings tightly to the toy and thus to the man who gave it to her and the memory of the child she was, but those things are gone forever.

This show can be brutal both emotionally and physically, but God if it isn’t also funny - something other prestige dramas in the Golden Age of television often struggle with. There’s an impulse to be grim when confronting the human condition, but Stannis’s callous pragmatism and Tyrion’s appeal to common thuggishness are amazing demonstrations that rousing pre-battle speeches don’t have to hit the same rote notes about honor and sacrifice every time; they can be ugly, dull, and desperate, and still land. Tyrion’s “who’s on first” routine with Lancel, Joffrey, and the Hound, and Sansa’s deft attempt to maneuver a preening Joffrey to his death through self-effacement, along with the sick burn she lands on Tyrion as he marches off to battle, are all worth a shout-out as well. 

‘Blackwater’ is one of the tightest, most engrossing episodes of television I’ve had the pleasure to see this year. When Tyrion hits the sand, when Cersei drops the vial of poison she bullied out of Grand Maester Pycelle and nearly used to mercy-kill her youngest child, when Sansa bids farewell to the man who never beat her but didn’t stop the men who did, we can’t help but feel how human these people are. The end is so visceral, so taut, that it’s easy to forget we basically just spent an hour rooting for Cersei and her putrid son and that the savior striding into the throne room is Tywin Lannister, arch-bastard of Westeros.

That’s good writing, folks.

[thisdaynews]

Bennet faces steep hurdles in long-shot campaign

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/bennet-faces-steep-hurdles-in-long-shot-campaign/

Bennet faces steep hurdles in long-shot campaign

Michael Bennet acknowledges the steep odds of qualifying for the first Democratic debates over the next month, but has vowed to stay in the race until the Iowa and New Hampshire contests next year. | M. Scott Mahaskey/Politico

2020 elections

The Colorado senator is struggling to make the stage of the first debate.

Michael Bennet has every reason not to run for president.

The low-key Colorado Democratic senator has a relatively centrist record that may be out of step with some primary voters, a recent cancer diagnosis and no real national profile. He’s not a cable news staple and shies away from the press in the Capitol.

Story Continued Below

And Bennet’s already facing crunch time. He’s the Democratic senatormostin danger of missing the first debate in June, which would mark a major setback to Bennet’s already narrow path toward breaking out in a field of 22 other prominent White House hopefuls.

In a 30-minute interview with POLITICO ahead of a swing to New Hampshire, Bennet acknowledged the steep odds of getting 65,000 donors and cracking 1 percent in the polls one more time over the next month in order to qualify for the debate stage. He wouldn’t disclose how close he is to hitting the donor threshold and declined to guarantee he could make it happen.

“It’s not trivial,” Bennet, who jumped into the race only three weeks ago, said of the challenges he faces. “A lot of people in America don’t know me and that’s something I have to overcome … I may not be able to overcome that between now and the first debate.”

And if he doesn’t make it?

“I don’t think that’s fatal but we’re going to keep going,” Bennet said. He vowed to stay in until the Iowa and New Hampshire contests next year.

Those closest to Bennet wondered whether he would even go through with a presidential run after his cancer diagnosis, which he disclosed April 3. Bennet had initially planned to announce that month. The delay made an already difficult campaign that much tougher.

But for the second-term senator, the diagnosis of prostate cancer was a “clarifying” moment. Now cancer-free, Bennet conceded that the diagnosis was the “best excuse” to back out, but instead he’s using it to fuel his message. Like many Democrats, he decries Republican rule. But he also defends his private insurance, tries to gird against further exercises of partisan warfare and bluntly criticizes his own party.

Now, Bennet says the race is “more open today” than it’s been in a year. But his colleagues say the former Denver superintendent of schools with the baritone voice doesn’t view his own chances without skepticism.

But there are some centrist Democrats who are eager for someone to carry a message of realism and pragmatism. Sen. Jon Tester (D-Mont.), who has hinted he will endorse a candidate soon, said he’s been “harassing” Bennet for three years to run.

“He is realistic about the big field,” said Sen. Tim Kaine (D-Va.), a close friend who worked on health care legislation with Bennet. “The way he looks at it: … with a field so big it’s not like anybody is a prohibitive favorite.”

He’s also facing plenty of competition even among pragmatists. Montana Gov. Steve Bullock, Senate colleague Amy Klobuchar and former Vice President Joe Biden, who is leading the polls and the chase for endorsements, all are of similar ideology.

“I don’t think he is the right candidate for our country at this moment but I think he has a lot to offer the Senate and this country,” said Sen. Chris Coons. (D-Del.), who went to law school with Bennet and praised him but supports Biden.

In past presidential cycles, Bennet’s political bio would be formidable: He’s fended off a liberal primary challenge and was twice elected in a swing state. He has donor connections from chairing the Democratic Senate campaign arm. But what’s set him apart thus far is his emotional approach to politics, sometimes translating into sheer exasperation.

In a field filled with liberals and bold ideas like “Medicare for All,” Bennet has emerged as a teller of unpopular truths. And he signaled his entry into the race this winter by angrily lashing Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) on the Senate floor, part of a still-simmering personal feud with one of liberals’ archenemies.

Bennet spoke to former President Barack Obama before launching his run, but his message isn’t exactly “hope or change” or “yes we can.” Instead, he says in so many words, that Republicans are thrashing Democrats.

Bennet’s had multiple “disagreements” with Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer (D-N.Y.), the architect of the party’s strategy to filibuster Neil Gorsuch’s Supreme Court nomination. And he grows most animated when discussing his party’s “terrible failure” on Supreme Court justices and judicial nominations, which have dominated the Senate during the presidency of Donald Trump.

“I’m sick and tired of losing to those guys,” Bennet said. “We lost to [Mitch] McConnell on judges … And then what we say is that, ‘Well, our solution to that is we’re going to pack the court,’ with no predicate being set with the American people for that as our agenda. What we create is the opportunity for Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell to set themselves up as the saviors of our institutions. And we shouldn’t do that.”

Bennet has been notably tangling with Demand Justice, a progressive group advocating for hard-line opposition to Trump’s nominees.

“When it comes to fighting Trump’s judges, Michael Bennet is the George McClellan of the Senate Democrats,” said Brian Fallon, who heads Demand Justice, a reference to a flailing civil war general. “The only difference is, McClellan actually did go on to win the Democratic Party nomination for president.”

Yet as liberals seek to make structural changes to the American political system, Bennet finds himself defending it. He opposes getting rid of the legislative filibuster, has recanted his support for gutting the filibuster on nominees and argued against trying to block Gorsuch.

Bennet says that by filibustering Gorsuch, who did not change the high court’s ideological leaning, Democrats gave McConnell “a gift.” The filibuster prompted McConnell to go “nuclear” and change the voting threshold for Supreme Court nominees from 60 to a simple majority.

None of that is exactly electricity to jolt his party’s outside liberal wing. But Bennet experienced his first real national energy when he clashed with Cruz, accusing the Texas Republican of crying “crocodile tears” for the government shutdown in 2019 after leading the GOP into one in 2013. The clip of their exchange became the most viewed C-SPAN video on Twitter.

The spat hasn’t been forgotten.Asked about Bennet’s campaign, Cruz responded: “As far as I can tell that [speech] is the only basis for his run.”

As his 2020 colleagues discuss killing the filibuster or Medicare for All, Bennet prefers to focus on what he sees as more politically defensible. He says Sen. Bernie Sanders’ Medicare for All bill would make private insurance “illegal” and prefers creating a public option. He wants to get rid of the influence of money in politics and ban ex-members of Congress from lobbying. Many of the ideas he has — and even his run for president — are shaped by a book he’s set to soon publish about restoring the state of American politics. The first chapter: “The accidental senator.”

But whether his ideas get widespread attention may depend on whether he can make the debates next month. And even if he does qualify for the debate, he still could be cut based on his polling numbers.

While Bennet says he can win,he knows he faces a brutal mix of challenges, from polling to fundraising to a late start.

“I think we’re going to get there on polling and we’re working hard to try to get to the 65,000. It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s a challenge … I haven’t spent the last 10 years of my life running for president and I haven’t spent the last 10 years on cable television.”

Zach Montellaro contributed to this report.

Read More

[lodelss]

Evelyn McDonnell | Longreads | March 2019 | 11 minutes (2,166 words)

  When Janelle Monae inducts Janet Jackson into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on March 29, it will be a beautiful moment: a young, gifted, and black woman acknowledging the formative influence — on herself and millions of others — of a woman who seized Control of her own career 33 years ago. It will also be an anomaly.

Jackson is one of only two women being inducted into the hall this year, out of 37 inductees, including the members of the five all-male bands being inducted. The other woman is Stevie Nicks. During the 34 years since the hall was founded by Jann Wenner and Ahmet Ertegun, 888 people have been inducted; 69 have been women. That’s 7.7 percent. The problem is spreading.

A November Rolling Stone article announced that the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York, was collaborating with the Rock Hall on a new exhibit of “iconic instruments of rock ‘n’ roll” called Play It Loud. Scheduled to open on April 8, the list of acts whose instruments would be on display included only one woman. My social media feeds exploded with rage and quips, as we wondered whether St. Vincent made the cut because the curators assumed from her name that she was male. Since then, the Met has added several women (and men) to the exhibit list, including Patti Smith, Wanda Jackson, and Joan Jett. It isn’t clear whether the Met added these women as a result of the internet outrage or if they were part of the show all along. After all, all three institutions — the hall, the museum, and the magazine — have, as Jett might say, a bad reputation for excluding women from their reindeer games.

People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars.

The Rock Hall is the most obvious offender in what I’ll call the manhandling of musical history. Manhandling is akin to, and often — as with the Rock Hall — intersects with, whitewashing. Manhandling pushes women out of the frame just as whitewashing covers up black bodies. People of color account for 32 percent of Rock Hall inductees, a far better figure than for women, but still not representative of the enormous role African Americans and Latinx people have played in American popular music. Manhandling is standard practice on country radio; there were no women in the Top 20 of Billboard’s country airplay chart for two weeks in December. Manhandling is standard practice on classic rock radio, where women are relegated to token spots on playlists, and are never played back-to-back. It’s standard in histories of music; there are no women featured in Greil Marcus’s seminal book Mystery Train: Images of Rock ‘n’ Roll in America. And of course, it’s standard practice at IM Pei’s partial glass pyramid in Cleveland. One year of affirmative action at the Grammys cannot wipe away decades of manhandling.

The problem is pervasive, and it is ideological. It is a way of seeing and presenting the world that is based on projections of power and control, not on reality. People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars. We have to change this image, this historiography, this institutionalization, this lie. In short, you do not need a cock to rock.

Kickstart your weekend reading by getting the week’s best Longreads delivered to your inbox every Friday afternoon.

Sign up

Exhibit A: Sister Rosetta Tharpe. In the 1930s, the blues and gospel singer began picking her guitar in a way that we now recognize as the foundation of rock ‘n’ roll playing — she laid the foundation upon which Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly built. There’s footage of her with a Gibson that’s been viewed 2.7 million times on YouTube. If you’re not one of those viewers, become one now. Tharpe was finally inducted into the Rock Hall in 2018.

Holly and Berry were both among the first 16 acts inducted in the Rock Hall, in 1986. All their fellow inductees were male. Built on such grotesquely imbalanced footing, the institution may never get itself right. After all, its main instigator was Ahmet Ertegun, an admittedly legendary records man who treated women abominably, according to Dorothy Carvello’s 2018 memoir Anything for a Hit. Carvello is a music executive who began her career working for Ertegun at Atlantic. Ertegun subjected her to crude sexual harassment and once fractured her arm in anger. The Rock Hall named its main exhibition hall after Ertegun. How can this ever be a place where women feel welcome, let alone safe? Just as universities have removed from buildings and fellowships the names of film executives who gave them money, such as USC renaming their Bryan Singer Division of Critical Studies, the Rock Hall should remove Ertegun’s name from the building and from the annual industry executive award that bears his name. It’s an award that has never been given to a woman.

I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do.

I pick on the Rock Hall because I care. I love rock ‘n’ roll, to borrow a phrase. I attended the building’s inaugural event, and despite my ever-growing disenchantment, I always pay attention to who is nominated and who wins. I even get to vote — finally. Aware of the way it was increasingly being seen as a sort of hospice for aging white men, the hall has been trying to diversify its voting body, or risk obsolescence. After two decades as a professional rock writer, I was finally asked to vote a few years ago, and to recruit friends. The problem is, every inductee also gets a vote. So every year, more and more men get the franchise and vote in their friends and heroes, who tend to be men. The hall rigged its own system with its testosterocking inaugural class, and despite efforts to add gender and color balance, the numbers are getting worse.

It’s tempting to just say so what. I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do. They are essentially shrines to white men created by white men, so of course, they honor white men. But they pretend to serve the public — and in the Met’s case, it is in part a publicly funded institution. The Hall of Fame and its associated museum have enormous cultural power, writing in stone the historical importance of individuals in a way that no other institution or publication or organization does. They also create real economic benefits for culture workers. Being inducted into the Rock Hall doesn’t just look good on your resume, it helps sell records and tickets. Most importantly, these institutions provide inspiration — role models — for future generations. And if the only women you’re going to see receiving awards on that stage at the Barclays Center are Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, would you, if you were a little girl, go pick up a guitar?

Time’s up for the Rock Hall and the music industry. The Grammys got called on its #GrammysSoMale gender gap in 2018. After women complained that they were largely shut out of the telecast winners, Recording Academy president Neil Portnow responded that female artists needed to “step up” and they would be welcome. Needless to say, that patronizing, clueless comment went over like a lead zeppelin; there were calls for Portnow’s head, including an online petition for him to resign. So this February, the telecast featured an impressive roster of contemporary and historic talent, from Lady Gaga and Brandi Carlile to Dolly Parton and Diana Ross. But then Portnow stepped on stage and publicly patted himself on the back for the show’s sudden gender balance, like he was our white savior, our knight in shining armor coming to our emotional rescue with this feel-good moment.

Moments are not enough. Thankfully, Portnow is stepping down from his position in July. And yes, I’m sure a woman would be happy to take his place. This is part of the change that must happen in the businesses and nonprofits that support music. Women must be hired and promoted across all facets of the industry: as the editor in chief of Rolling Stone, the chairman of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the CEO of Universal Music Group. After all, a recent study from the University of Southern California shows that women are outnumbered in most aspects of the business, accounting for only 2 percent of producers and 12.3 percent of songwriters, for instance.

Some of this imbalance is a result of outright exclusion or unwelcoming environments. (Just ask any woman who has worked at a music magazine or a recording studio what it’s like to be, as former Rolling Stone writer Robin Green titled her 2018 memoir, “the only girl.”) Some is a result of sexual harassment or assault, which leaves women so traumatized that their careers stall or even stop. Ever wonder why a favorite artist, songwriter, or DJ ghosted for years? Increasing revelations about the predatory behavior of musicians, publicists, producers, managers, and executives show that, as a whole, the music industry can be a frightening place to be female, whether you’re a young intern working for R. Kelly or a talented country singer married to Ryan Adams. Mandy Moore married Adams in 2009, and hasn’t released an album since. They divorced in 2016. A New York Times investigation of Adams’s alleged predatory behavior toward younger women described him as “psychologically abusive” to Moore.

Guys like Ertegun, who died in 2006, reportedly manhandled in the workplace, in addition to creating the Cleveland shrine to gender inequity. Carvello’s book documents in scandalous detail how he and other executives created a boys’ club environment where women had to either pretend to be one of the boys, betraying their sisters, or trade sex for promotion. In Ertegun’s world, women were not allowed to step up; they were stepped on. Having systematically excluded and oppressed women from the business of making music, Ertegun and his cronies at the Rock Hall then carved that exclusion into stone by essentially writing them out of history, year after year after year. When women do get let into the Rock Hall boys’ club, it is on the arms of men: Carole King is there for her songwriting with Gerry Goffin, not as the woman who recorded numerous hit songs herself, including those on the record-smashing album Tapestry. Tina Turner was inducted alongside her abusive ex-spouse Ike. Indeed, the hall seems to define rock in a way that is disturbingly masculinist, as opposed to expansive and risk-taking — the qualities I like to think of as defining popular music. How about a Hall of Fame that includes Selena, TLC, Patsy Cline, and Grace Jones?

There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer.

I’m delighted that two deserving female artists, Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, will be inducted this year. It’s particularly noteworthy that Nicks is getting the nod as a solo artist, after she was already inducted as part of Fleetwood Mac; she’s the first woman to be inducted twice, joining 22 men in the so-called Clyde McPhatter Club. Next year, the Hall must do the same for Tina and Carole. After being nominated so many times, Chaka Khan must finally be inducted as well.

That still won’t be enough to counteract the sheer numerical voting power of all the male musicians who get in as members of bands, especially if the men of Rufus, Khan’s collaborators with whom she has thrice been nominated, are inducted alongside Khan. There are three things the Hall of Fame can do to rectify that imbalance: 1. Flood the nominating committee and voting membership with more women. Six out of 29 members of last year’s nominating committee were women; the notoriously tight-lipped hall has not revealed this year’s committee members. 2. Reduce the voting power of members inducted as players in bands (so, say, the five dudes in Def Leppard each get one fifth of a vote). 3. Nominate a shit ton of all-female bands next year.

Female musicians and groups are particularly absent from the Rock Hall, as from the industry. There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer. It’s why Lady Gaga is basically the only woman in A Star Is Born, a film ostensibly celebrating female artistry. She has no mother, no sister; even her girlfriends are male, and they’re drag queens. By focusing on individual artists, not a collective, the entertainment-industrial complex elevates the star, not the gender. The lioness is separated from her pack.

That’s why some women involved in music have formed an activist group, named Turn It Up! As our mission statement says, we “advocate for equal airplay, media coverage and industry employment of groups who are historically and structurally excluded from the business and the institutions of music-making.” And yes, we’re coming for you, sons of Ertegun.

Here’s who I’d like to see inducted in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame next year:

Tina Turner

Chaka Khan

Carole King

Diana Ross

Dolly Parton

The Go-Go’s

L7

The Runaways

Bikini Kill

The Crystals

Labelle

Salt N Pepa

That would add more than 30 women to the voting rolls. It’s not enough to correct the historical record, but it’s a step up.

***

Evelyn McDonnell is associate professor of journalism at Loyola Marymount University. She has been writing about popular culture and society for more than 20 years. She is the author of four books: Queens of Noise: The Real Story of the Runaways, Mamarama: A Memoir of Sex, Kids and Rock ‘n’ Roll, Army of She: Icelandic, Iconoclastic, Irrepressible Bjork, and Rent by Jonathan Larson. She coedited the anthologies Women Who Rock: Bessie to Beyonce. Girl Groups to Riot Grrrl, Rock She Wrote: Women Write About Rock, Pop and Rap, and Stars Don’t Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth and edit the Music Matters series from University of Texas Press. She lives in Los Angeles.

Flor Amezquita, Marika Price and Adele Bertei assisted with research for this article. Figures are based off the official Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s induction page, which was then cross-referenced with multiple lists and sources.

Editor: Aaron Gilbreath; Fact-checker: Matt Giles

[aion-rsa]

Tenet Opening Opera Scene Explained

https://ift.tt/3tjao7T

This article contains Tenet spoilers. You can read our spoiler-free review here.

Christopher Nolan has a reputation for making complicated, hard to understand movies, but in all honesty, that reputation is unearned. In Memento, the scenes filmed in color are running in reverse order, the scenes filmed in black and white are running forwards, and the film ends when they meet in the middle. Inception is a pretty straight forward heist once you get your head round the idea that the dreams are nested inside each other like Russian dolls, each running a little faster than the one inside of it. Even Tenet isn’t as complex as it’s made out to be. There are no branching timelines, just an awful lot of bootstrap paradoxes and loops.

However, while the film as a whole has a fairly easy to understand plot after a viewing or two, one part of the movie really lives up to Nolan’s reputation. The opening.

A lot happens, zero context is given for any of it, and most if it is never referred to in the film again. So what the hell was going on?

Tenet Opening Recap

Let’s start by taking it step by step. Please pay attention, and remember the hand is quicker than the eye.

The film opens on a concert hall, and just as the musicians finish tuning up, a bunch of terrorists with machine guns come barging in shooting people and taking everyone hostage.

The police arrive on the scene.

However, there is another party of armed men—not the police or the terrorists—already there, waiting in a black van in SWAT uniforms.

One of the men in SWAT uniforms is John David Washington’s Peter Rotagonist—or the Protagonist for short. Pete is one of this team. As they see the police arrive, they slap on Velcro patches to match the incoming fuzz.

Then they burst out of the van, merging seamlessly with the incoming SWAT team as they storm the concert hall (which it turns out is an opera house because Nolan is too damn clever for his own good).

The police (the real police) pump sleeping gas into the vents of the concert hall, successfully knocking out all the hostages but, presciently, the terrorists understand the importance of wearing a mask at public gatherings.

At around this time we cut back to the box over the concert hall and a man who the script only refers to as “Well-Dressed Man,” even though he’s wearing a pretty non-descript suit to the opera. The person next to him, wearing a really much smarter looking military dress uniform, pulls a gun.

At this moment, the SWAT teams start busting into the concert hall, and Pete and his team storm up to the boxes, busting into the one where the Well-Dressed Man is sitting. They kill his military friend and anyone else in the room. Then Pete addresses the Well-Dressed Man, saying, “We live in a twilight world,” to which Well-Dressed Man responds, “And there are no friends at dusk.”

Then the Pete tells him, “You’ve been made. This siege is a blind for them to vanish you.” The Well-Dressed Man complains that he has already established contact, but Pete insists that he has to either bring the Well-Dressed Man in or kill him.

While this conversation is going on some of the Real Cops are coming down the corridor, shooting terrorists.

Who is “Them?” What’s the significance of “We live in a twilight world?” Who has the Well-Dressed made contact with? Shhh. Save your questions until the end, because right now we’re jumping out of this window to escape from the Real Cops.

But not before Pete can ask where “the package” is and be told “coat check,” and given a ticket.

We are three minutes and thirty-five seconds into the movie.

The Pete and Well-Dressed New Friend run and hide from the Real Cops among the audience, because if someone’s shooting at you there’s no better place to hide than a crowd of unconscious innocent by-standers. At the same time, the Real Cops come in and murder the last of the terrorists.

At this point the Pete notices the people in SWAT uniforms are planting bombs around the concert hall.

One of the Bomb Planting Cops tells Pete to grab a bomb from a dead cop’s bag. Pete stops to stare at the bomb for a few seconds, and then another cop sees him, thinks he’s sus, leading him to rip off Pete’s Velcro patch. Only then does Suspicious Cop gets shot by a Fake Cop who says, “No friends at dusk, huh?”

Pete tells Friendly Fake Cop to get Well-Dressed Man to the rally point, then runs to the coat room to pick up Well-Dressed Man’s bag.

The bag contains a strange metal object that, if you’re watching this for the second time, you will immediately recognize as part of the Algorithm (a secret formula for inverting the flow of entropy on a global scale, bringing past and future crashing together and ending the universe as we know it). Then Pete hoofs it to the rally point to meet up with Well-Dressed Man and the rest of the Fake Cops.

Pete says the Ukrainians are expecting a passenger. This is a Ukrainian opera house, so presumably he’s talking about the cops. Is the Ukrainian government behind this? No time to discuss that because we’reswapping outfits!

Well-Dressed Man, who I guess now is just Regularly-Dressed Man, puts on a SWAT uniform while a Fake Cop puts on the suit, presumably meaning he is now the Well-Dressed Man, and I’m sorry I may be making this more complicated than it needs to be, but please give your characters actual names in the future, Chris.

Pete tells the Regularly Dressed, Formerly Known as the Well-Dressed Man that he’s “never seen an encapsulation like this,” referring to the bit of Algorithm. “Encapsulation” is a term that often refers to the storage of nuclear waste, so Pete clearly thinks he’s there to retrieve parts of a nuclear bomb.

RDFKATWDM says, “We don’t know how old it is, but it’s the real deal.”

Pete wants to know if RDFKATWDM has an out, he does, the sewer, so Pete tells him to take that route, because he doesn’t trust the one they had planned. Pete also asks if the bomb (the cop bombs, not the nuclear one) can be defused. It can’t, and there are more among the audience. So even though it isn’t his mission, Pete goes back to rescue all of the audience members who didn’t get killed by stray bullets when he was climbing over them earlier.

He collects all of the bombs in a big bag, but as he picks up the last one a Cop (we think a Fake Cop) pulls a gun on him.

Pete says, “Walk away, you don’t have to kill these people.”

We know this because of the script. Until that became available there was a lot of debate online about who said that, because that’s a risk when everyone is wearing masks and delivers their lines in the same low-key tone of voice.

Then a bullet shoots backwards out of a bullet hole, through the Fake Cop, killing him, and into the gun of someone standing behind him.

Even on first viewing, this was the moment that made the most sense in the entire scene for me.

Pete has time to see his savior jogging away with a distinctive orange tag hanging off his bag. This is because he has just been rescued by Neil, the posh, trashy Robert Pattinson-portrayed English agent who we later learn has a timey-wimey River Song-esque relationships with Pete.

Fake Cop in Well-Dressed Man’s Clothes notices this and points out he’s not part of the Fake Cop club, but Pete isn’t fussed.

They run out, lobbing the bombs up somewhere I hope nobody else was hiding, and they explode behind them.

Pete and Fake Cop in Well-Dressed Man’s Clothes get back to the van, and as soon as they open the door, someone in the van says in Russian, “That’s not the guy!” presumably referring to the Fake Cop Who is Not the Well-Dressed Man, and shoots him in the gun. Then they knock out Pete. On second thought, maybe these are the Ukrainians?

Pete wakes up tied to a chair between some train tracks where the driver of the Fake Cops van tells him a man can be trained to hold out for 18 hours, so Pete’s colleagues will by free by seven. He points to Pete’s colleague to boast he didn’t last 18 minutes and knew nothing. The torturer confiscates Pete’s suicide pill, and tells him the clock is fast and turns it back an hour. This is called “Foreshadowing.” There are also trains running backwards and forwards either side of the torture scene. This is also “Foreshadowing.”

There’s some nasty implied torture, but in a moment of opportunity, Pete lunges forward and swallows the suicide pill that Fake Cop in Well-Dressed Man’s Clothes was smuggling behind his back.

Pete wakes up in bed to discover it was a test, despite the fact they pulled his teeth out for real  and apparently it’s taken a lot of reconstructive surgery to put them back. Also despite it being a test, Pete’s team are all dead and the bit of algorithm is lost.

This all took eight minutes, and then we launch into the film proper.

What Was the Plan?

So questions. First, what was the actual plan here?

Near as we can tell, the once Well-Dressed Man works for the organization run by Kenneth Branagh’s Sator (the “Private Russians” mentioned during Pete’s post-death debriefing). Sator had the Well-Dresed Man infiltrating the Ukrainian government to make contact with someone (if you want to go down that rabbit hole of who, the mystery third party could be the Protagonist’s future, Tenet-running self).

The siege was executed by a senior Ukrainian military officer and apparently enough of the Ukrainian police force that Pete’s team didn’t know which unit would respond to the terrorist attack. The police also very clearly shoot a lot of the terrorists dead. So on discovering the Well-Dressed Man is a mole, the Ukrainian government decide to vanish him and either get a hold of or retrieve the piece of Algorithm in his possession.

Read more

Movies

Tenet Ending Explained

By Chris Farnell

Movies

Tenet’s ‘Inversion’ Logic Explained

By Chris Farnell

The corrupt personnel decide the best thing to do is take him to the opera with one of their senior military officials. They then pay some mercenaries to act as terrorists and take the audience of the concert hostage. Some of the civilians, or the terrorists, must have informed the police, so that a SWAT team made up of what must be real police turn up.

The police gas the concert hall, and a team of real cops go up to the box where Well-Dressed Man is. Along the way they shoot some of the mercenaries they share an employer with.

At this point, Plan A is that Ukrainian Military Official will shoot Well-Dressed Man. Plan B is that if somehow the Military Official slips and lands on his own gun, a SWAT team will burst in and kill Well-Dressed Man.

Sator’s team knows about this, and have their own fake SWAT team ready, not knowing that their fake SWAT team has also been infiltrated by Pete and his CIA friends. Sator’s team plans to extract the well-dressed man and steal the bit of Algorithm, then plant a bunch of bombs in the concert hall the blow it up and destroy any evidence.

Pete extracts the Well-Dressed Man, hands him over to his undercover CIA pals, but dresses up his friend as the Well-Dressed Man to take back to Sator’s people. Sator’s people don’t fall for it.

They kidnap Pete, torture him, and when he takes a pill and drops unconscious, they think “Well, we’ll leave this body somewhere it can be easily retrieved by his colleagues” and call it a day.

Alternatively:

The torturers are on Tenet’s payroll, and Future Pete has instructed them to go back, kidnap and torture him, then let him commit fake suicide so he can be recruited. This plan means Pete gives the order to have his own teeth ripped out, which you have to admit is pretty hardcore.

Meanwhile Pete’s friends, the Algorithm piece, and the Well-Dressed Man all run into some more of Sator’s team as they escape through the sewer, and are killed.

Having watched the same eight minutes of film over more times than I care to count, this scenario is the best explanation I can come up with. Feel free to offer your own theory in the comments.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The post Tenet Opening Opera Scene Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3xI1UKD

[lodelss]

The Manhandling of Rock ‘N’ Roll History

Evelyn McDonnell | Longreads | March 2019 | 11 minutes (2,166 words)

  When Janelle Monae inducts Janet Jackson into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on March 29, it will be a beautiful moment: a young, gifted, and black woman acknowledging the formative influence — on herself and millions of others — of a woman who seized Control of her own career 33 years ago. It will also be an anomaly.

Jackson is one of only two women being inducted into the hall this year, out of 37 inductees, including the members of the five all-male bands being inducted. The other woman is Stevie Nicks. During the 34 years since the hall was founded by Jann Wenner and Ahmet Ertegun, 888 people have been inducted; 69 have been women. That’s 7.7 percent. The problem is spreading.

A November Rolling Stone article announced that the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York, was collaborating with the Rock Hall on a new exhibit of “iconic instruments of rock ‘n’ roll” called Play It Loud. Scheduled to open on April 8, the list of acts whose instruments would be on display included only one woman. My social media feeds exploded with rage and quips, as we wondered whether St. Vincent made the cut because the curators assumed from her name that she was male. Since then, the Met has added several women (and men) to the exhibit list, including Patti Smith, Wanda Jackson, and Joan Jett. It isn’t clear whether the Met added these women as a result of the internet outrage or if they were part of the show all along. After all, all three institutions — the hall, the museum, and the magazine — have, as Jett might say, a bad reputation for excluding women from their reindeer games.

People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars.

The Rock Hall is the most obvious offender in what I’ll call the manhandling of musical history. Manhandling is akin to, and often — as with the Rock Hall — intersects with, whitewashing. Manhandling pushes women out of the frame just as whitewashing covers up black bodies. People of color account for 32 percent of Rock Hall inductees, a far better figure than for women, but still not representative of the enormous role African Americans and Latinx people have played in American popular music. Manhandling is standard practice on country radio; there were no women in the Top 20 of Billboard’s country airplay chart for two weeks in December. Manhandling is standard practice on classic rock radio, where women are relegated to token spots on playlists, and are never played back-to-back. It’s standard in histories of music; there are no women featured in Greil Marcus’s seminal book Mystery Train: Images of Rock ‘n’ Roll in America. And of course, it’s standard practice at IM Pei’s partial glass pyramid in Cleveland. One year of affirmative action at the Grammys cannot wipe away decades of manhandling.

The problem is pervasive, and it is ideological. It is a way of seeing and presenting the world that is based on projections of power and control, not on reality. People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars. We have to change this image, this historiography, this institutionalization, this lie. In short, you do not need a cock to rock.

Kickstart your weekend reading by getting the week’s best Longreads delivered to your inbox every Friday afternoon.

Sign up

Exhibit A: Sister Rosetta Tharpe. In the 1930s, the blues and gospel singer began picking her guitar in a way that we now recognize as the foundation of rock ‘n’ roll playing — she laid the foundation upon which Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly built. There’s footage of her with a Gibson that’s been viewed 2.7 million times on YouTube. If you’re not one of those viewers, become one now. Tharpe was finally inducted into the Rock Hall in 2018.

Holly and Berry were both among the first 16 acts inducted in the Rock Hall, in 1986. All their fellow inductees were male. Built on such grotesquely imbalanced footing, the institution may never get itself right. After all, its main instigator was Ahmet Ertegun, an admittedly legendary records man who treated women abominably, according to Dorothy Carvello’s 2018 memoir Anything for a Hit. Carvello is a music executive who began her career working for Ertegun at Atlantic. Ertegun subjected her to crude sexual harassment and once fractured her arm in anger. The Rock Hall named its main exhibition hall after Ertegun. How can this ever be a place where women feel welcome, let alone safe? Just as universities have removed from buildings and fellowships the names of film executives who gave them money, such as USC renaming their Bryan Singer Division of Critical Studies, the Rock Hall should remove Ertegun’s name from the building and from the annual industry executive award that bears his name. It’s an award that has never been given to a woman.

I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do.

I pick on the Rock Hall because I care. I love rock ‘n’ roll, to borrow a phrase. I attended the building’s inaugural event, and despite my ever-growing disenchantment, I always pay attention to who is nominated and who wins. I even get to vote — finally. Aware of the way it was increasingly being seen as a sort of hospice for aging white men, the hall has been trying to diversify its voting body, or risk obsolescence. After two decades as a professional rock writer, I was finally asked to vote a few years ago, and to recruit friends. The problem is, every inductee also gets a vote. So every year, more and more men get the franchise and vote in their friends and heroes, who tend to be men. The hall rigged its own system with its testosterocking inaugural class, and despite efforts to add gender and color balance, the numbers are getting worse.

It’s tempting to just say so what. I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do. They are essentially shrines to white men created by white men, so of course, they honor white men. But they pretend to serve the public — and in the Met’s case, it is in part a publicly funded institution. The Hall of Fame and its associated museum have enormous cultural power, writing in stone the historical importance of individuals in a way that no other institution or publication or organization does. They also create real economic benefits for culture workers. Being inducted into the Rock Hall doesn’t just look good on your resume, it helps sell records and tickets. Most importantly, these institutions provide inspiration — role models — for future generations. And if the only women you’re going to see receiving awards on that stage at the Barclays Center are Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, would you, if you were a little girl, go pick up a guitar?

Time’s up for the Rock Hall and the music industry. The Grammys got called on its #GrammysSoMale gender gap in 2018. After women complained that they were largely shut out of the telecast winners, Recording Academy president Neil Portnow responded that female artists needed to “step up” and they would be welcome. Needless to say, that patronizing, clueless comment went over like a lead zeppelin; there were calls for Portnow’s head, including an online petition for him to resign. So this February, the telecast featured an impressive roster of contemporary and historic talent, from Lady Gaga and Brandi Carlile to Dolly Parton and Diana Ross. But then Portnow stepped on stage and publicly patted himself on the back for the show’s sudden gender balance, like he was our white savior, our knight in shining armor coming to our emotional rescue with this feel-good moment.

Moments are not enough. Thankfully, Portnow is stepping down from his position in July. And yes, I’m sure a woman would be happy to take his place. This is part of the change that must happen in the businesses and nonprofits that support music. Women must be hired and promoted across all facets of the industry: as the editor in chief of Rolling Stone, the chairman of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the CEO of Universal Music Group. After all, a recent study from the University of Southern California shows that women are outnumbered in most aspects of the business, accounting for only 2 percent of producers and 12.3 percent of songwriters, for instance.

Some of this imbalance is a result of outright exclusion or unwelcoming environments. (Just ask any woman who has worked at a music magazine or a recording studio what it’s like to be, as former Rolling Stone writer Robin Green titled her 2018 memoir, “the only girl.”) Some is a result of sexual harassment or assault, which leaves women so traumatized that their careers stall or even stop. Ever wonder why a favorite artist, songwriter, or DJ ghosted for years? Increasing revelations about the predatory behavior of musicians, publicists, producers, managers, and executives show that, as a whole, the music industry can be a frightening place to be female, whether you’re a young intern working for R. Kelly or a talented country singer married to Ryan Adams. Mandy Moore married Adams in 2009, and hasn’t released an album since. They divorced in 2016. A New York Times investigation of Adams’s alleged predatory behavior toward younger women described him as “psychologically abusive” to Moore.

Guys like Ertegun, who died in 2006, reportedly manhandled in the workplace, in addition to creating the Cleveland shrine to gender inequity. Carvello’s book documents in scandalous detail how he and other executives created a boys’ club environment where women had to either pretend to be one of the boys, betraying their sisters, or trade sex for promotion. In Ertegun’s world, women were not allowed to step up; they were stepped on. Having systematically excluded and oppressed women from the business of making music, Ertegun and his cronies at the Rock Hall then carved that exclusion into stone by essentially writing them out of history, year after year after year. When women do get let into the Rock Hall boys’ club, it is on the arms of men: Carole King is there for her songwriting with Gerry Goffin, not as the woman who recorded numerous hit songs herself, including those on the record-smashing album Tapestry. Tina Turner was inducted alongside her abusive ex-spouse Ike. Indeed, the hall seems to define rock in a way that is disturbingly masculinist, as opposed to expansive and risk-taking — the qualities I like to think of as defining popular music. How about a Hall of Fame that includes Selena, TLC, Patsy Cline, and Grace Jones?

There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer.

I’m delighted that two deserving female artists, Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, will be inducted this year. It’s particularly noteworthy that Nicks is getting the nod as a solo artist, after she was already inducted as part of Fleetwood Mac; she’s the first woman to be inducted twice, joining 22 men in the so-called Clyde McPhatter Club. Next year, the Hall must do the same for Tina and Carole. After being nominated so many times, Chaka Khan must finally be inducted as well.

That still won’t be enough to counteract the sheer numerical voting power of all the male musicians who get in as members of bands, especially if the men of Rufus, Khan’s collaborators with whom she has thrice been nominated, are inducted alongside Khan. There are three things the Hall of Fame can do to rectify that imbalance: 1. Flood the nominating committee and voting membership with more women. Six out of 29 members of last year’s nominating committee were women; the notoriously tight-lipped hall has not revealed this year’s committee members. 2. Reduce the voting power of members inducted as players in bands (so, say, the five dudes in Def Leppard each get one fifth of a vote). 3. Nominate a shit ton of all-female bands next year.

Female musicians and groups are particularly absent from the Rock Hall, as from the industry. There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer. It’s why Lady Gaga is basically the only woman in A Star Is Born, a film ostensibly celebrating female artistry. She has no mother, no sister; even her girlfriends are male, and they’re drag queens. By focusing on individual artists, not a collective, the entertainment-industrial complex elevates the star, not the gender. The lioness is separated from her pack.

That’s why some women involved in music have formed an activist group, named Turn It Up! As our mission statement says, we “advocate for equal airplay, media coverage and industry employment of groups who are historically and structurally excluded from the business and the institutions of music-making.” And yes, we’re coming for you, sons of Ertegun.

Here’s who I’d like to see inducted in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame next year:

Tina Turner

Chaka Khan

Carole King

Diana Ross

Dolly Parton

The Go-Go’s

L7

The Runaways

Bikini Kill

The Crystals

Labelle

Salt N Pepa

That would add more than 30 women to the voting rolls. It’s not enough to correct the historical record, but it’s a step up.

***

Evelyn McDonnell is associate professor of journalism at Loyola Marymount University. She has been writing about popular culture and society for more than 20 years. She is the author of four books: Queens of Noise: The Real Story of the Runaways, Mamarama: A Memoir of Sex, Kids and Rock ‘n’ Roll, Army of She: Icelandic, Iconoclastic, Irrepressible Bjork, and Rent by Jonathan Larson. She coedited the anthologies Women Who Rock: Bessie to Beyonce. Girl Groups to Riot Grrrl, Rock She Wrote: Women Write About Rock, Pop and Rap, and Stars Don’t Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth and edit the Music Matters series from University of Texas Press. She lives in Los Angeles.

Flor Amezquita, Marika Price and Adele Bertei assisted with research for this article. Figures are based off the official Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s induction page, which was then cross-referenced with multiple lists and sources.

Editor: Aaron Gilbreath; Fact-checker: Matt Giles

from Blogger https://ift.tt/2I1axsh via IFTTT