#fluorescent-cinema

[anncanta]

‘The Rings of Power’ and what is adult cinema

I think I understand what the matter is. Why there is such a strange attitude towards The Rings of Power and constant reproaches from a number of viewers that the series is boring and that it lacks epicness and vivid characters.

This point of view (and it is the same point of view) has two reasons – age and an excess of content.

The thing is that modern viewers consume a huge amount of content. These are books, films, computer games, fan fiction, TV series. It is not that it is difficult to surprise such a viewer – it is actually possible to surprise them since they are quite naive – it is as if they have sensory fatigue. Or, rather, they have stopped perceiving shades and see only colors. And among the colors – only those that glow neon and fluoresce. What is below this threshold is not interesting to them, simply because their sensitivity is dulled, like (sorry for the comparison) for a user of psychoactive substances who needs to increase the dose to get the same sensations.

That's why the characters of The Rings of Power are dull for these viewers, the storylines are boring, and the whole story lacks epicness. And it doesn't matter that this story is not about epicness at all. It's about the price living beings pay for epicness. About what attempts to start a ‘great war’ or ‘correct big mistakes’ turn out to be. How good intentions and the desire to return to the ‘great past’ or start into a brilliant future end. What an attempt to cheat death leads to.

And here we come to the second reason. To adulthood. The series The Rings of Power is for adults. Not only because adult actors play in it. Young people play there too. But because it is written in an adult way, conceived in an adult way, and played in an adult way.

These heroes and this story do not have the problems of ‘who looked at whom in what way’, ‘who does not want to marry whom off to their beloved’, and ‘which armies clashed on this hill’. With all due respect to these problems. The Rings of Power is about something completely different.

In this film, one of the central scenes is the conversation between Galadriel and Elrond in Cirdan's workshop. The scene in which stubborn Elrond repeatedly brings Galadriel back to the question she doesn't really want to return to – has Sauron really left her consciousness? How did he get there? How far did he go?

And it's not about whether she's in love with Sauron or whether he has a chance to become her lover. I have the impression that the writers don't care about that at all. They care about Galadriel's relationship with Sauron inside. For them, evil is not a black blot that just wants to destroy the whole world (in this sense, the beginning of the second season and Sauron in his black form are also a parody of such decisions), but something that has crawled into your soul and become you. Where, at what point did it become you? How much has it become you? Can you resist it? These are very boring questions to answer – especially if you are uncomfortable with them.

The other pivotal scene is where Sauron tortures Celebrimbor. I know it's bland for viewers used to detailed violence and fan fiction. But it's monstrous. It's horrifying in its simplicity. You look at this beautiful creature who knows exactly where to shoot, so it hurts, but also so the victim stays alive. Then he comes over and moves one arrow slightly. You look at it and you want to scream.

And then Celebrimbor defeats him. Not because Celebrimbor is physically stronger, or a greater wizard, or has a deadlier sword. Because Celebrimbor speaks the truth. Because all these mind games are worthless when you look at them with clear eyes. So Celebrimbor looks. And makes Sauron look. That is stronger than any battle. As is the silence Sauron remains in, which he has tried so hard to drown out with the sounds of thunderous battle. That is why he weeps, and not because Celebrimbor has humiliated or insulted him.

The central part of the story is strange, imperfect, doubting Galadriel. After centuries of pain and loss, fear and anger, rage and grief, she believed that there was someone in this world who could understand her – and he turned out to be the Dark Lord. This makes their misunderstanding all the more vivid and profound – Sauron thinks that Galadriel rejected him because he did not offer her enough, but she did it because he offered too much. The noble Halbrand was enough – not the divinely handsome (another jab at fans of epic films with grandiose perfect men), but a man who was wrong and willing to admit his mistakes. By showing her that Halbrand was a deception, Sauron betrayed not her love, but her belief that there was a way back. Including for herself, who, no matter how absurd it may be, still cannot forgive herself for putting the helmets of her brothers and sisters in the mound.

This faith will be restored to her later by Adar – for a moment, for a few minutes, he returned to his former elven appearance and showed her that it is possible to forgive others and forgive herself. Having missed the opportunity to escape with the ring of power and accepted her help and their alliance.

All these plot lines, all these stories, all the events and heroes do not look bright and spectacular. Even the battles do not look spectacular. Do you know why?

Because battles are not spectacular. They are dirty, stinking, disgusting, and full of pain and blood. Eregion during the siege does not look like grandiose fortresses – it looks like bloody besieged cities. Like cities on which bombs fall. Like cities into which, like cockroaches, aliens crawl. This is what the truth looks like. Do not believe the artificial mouse running across the floor. Better check if the candle is burning out.

The problem and, in fact, the essence is that all these things are impossible to see and understand if you are a young person. In youth, all the stories are about love (with a capital letter), about war (heroic and brilliant), and about refined characters who proudly walk back and forth. They talk little because the young are not interested in conversations. They are interested in kissing and figuring out who is better.

But I am interested in something else. And many people like me are too. And I am incredibly happy that the authors made this film for us. It is not even about Tolkien – I repeat, I am rather indifferent to him. The point is how, through Tolkien and his legendarium, the authors talk about what is important to me. And they do it masterfully. And the most beautiful thing is that those who are young will definitely grow up and become adults.

And then maybe they will love this story too.

[cera-writes]

First of all, you are an angel ♡

And second, me wee little heart has been nourished by my childhood crush of Nightcrawler thanks to his lovely interpretation in the X-Men 97' series.

If I may request a cute prompt of a selective mute fem! mutant reader attempting to make a sweet, first impression towards him ♡

A/N Thank you so much Anon! I try to be a great writer as far as Kurt is concerned! <3 Pairing: Kurt Wagner x F!mute reader (X-Men 97)

No Subtitles Needed

You were part of the X-Men, but you also had a small part time job at the local video store. The comforting hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint scent of popcorn filled the air, a familiar backdrop to your Friday night shift at "Rewind Reels." You weren't here to stock shelves or replace worn-out VHS tapes, not entirely. Your target was browsing the cult classic section, a figure almost swallowed whole by the towering shelves – Kurt Wagner, the Nightcrawler.

He wasn't dressed in his usual garb, just jeans and a black tee shirt. He was a regular customer, his midnight-blue fur surprisingly soft-looking under the harsh store lights. Despite his imposing stature, there was a childlike wonder in his eyes as he scanned the titles. Today, you were determined to spark a conversation beyond the usual "horror" or "comedy" aisle inquiries.

Behind the counter, a stack of old movie posters rested against the wall. You grabbed one, its faded paint depicting a whimsical scene from a classic silent film - a lovestruck couple with exaggerated expressions, their hands reaching out to one another. With a trembling hand, you scribbled a single sentence on the bottom: "Have you seen this gem?"

Taking a deep breath, you approached him, the poster held out like a nervous offering. Kurt's gaze followed your hand, then met yours. A smile, warm and genuine, spread across his face like the opening scene of a feel-good film.

"Wow, I haven't," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft. "This looks interesting! Thanks for the recommendation. And hey, haven't I seen you around the X-Mansion?"

You flushed, nodding, the heat rising to your cheeks. Words weren't your forte, but the silent film poster spoke volumes. He gestured to the counter, breaking the comfortable silence. "Mind if I tell you some obscure horror classics you might not know about? Maybe we could even watch them together sometime."

Hesitantly, you nodded, a silent invitation. As he launched into a detailed explanation of a forgotten B-movie monster, a comfortable rhythm settled between you. He spoke with such passion, his enthusiasm as infectious as a classic monster chasing a damsel in distress.

When he finally finished, his yellow eyes twinkled with amusement. "You know," he said gently, "sometimes the best connections are made through the magic of cinema, even if you can't quite find the words."

You met his gaze, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, this video store wasn't just a place for mindless entertainment, but the beginning of a connection that unfolded as captivatingly as any silver screen romance.

[underoossss]

the way you move - s.h. - part 4

pairing: ballerina!reader x jock!steve harrington

warnings: none, just two pining idiots

1.6 words

an: sorry this took longer than I thought but we’re getting so close to the ending I’m so excited for lol these two need to stop dancing around each other and KISS but we’ll get there soon enough.

part 3

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The sound of conversation and scraping cutlery floats around you along with the classic smell of fresh fries. The booth’s leather is shiny under the fluorescent lights and the cozy spot at the far side of the diner gives you the perfect view of the street outside through chilled glass and the customers talking by the register to the left. It’s warm, lively, and comfortable; you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening. Especially with your friends around you and the setting sun outside. Steve’s basketball team won their game tonight against the visitor team, so naturally you’re celebrating his victory with a greasy dinner before going to the cinema.

Robin and Nancy sit close to each other in the booth in front of you, looking happy and excited as they ask question after question. Steve sits next to you, his arm above your shoulder as it rests on the booth behind you, drawing you closer to him by the maddening yet fain smell of his cologne. As if your feelings aren’t enough, he had to flood your senses by proximity too.

To anyone walking by it, the scene at the table would look like a double date, but you know in your heart that it’s not. The reality is simple, no matter how much you want him to be, Steve isn’t your boyfriend. Lately you don’t really know what he is exactly, with how much affection he shows you and the way it has increased in doses since last Saturday. Friends don’t hold each other like he did, maybe best friends do, but they definitely don’t wipe your tears away or kiss your forehead as tenderly as Steve had. Yet he hasn’t said anything that may hint he wants to be something more, leaving you wondering if it’s all in your head. You really hope not.

Robin’s laughter makes your mind go back to the present, and if you subconsciously lean closer to Steve you pretend to not notice. Your two friends in front of you arrived from New York in the morning to visit their family and see Steve’s basketball game, and to show they are the epitome of a perfect couple. They balance each other out, and together they’ve become the best version of themselves; not to mention their new life in the city has suited them well. They don’t want to talk much about that yet though, instead asking question after question about Steve’s certificate, your university classes, and ballet. They want to catch up as much as they can before they leave on a redeye tomorrow, which seems fair as you’re now many miles away.

When you first met Robin and Nancy, you’d been apprehensive and frankly very scared. You knew how much Steve cared about them, so you wanted to get along with them because you cared so much about Steve. It’s something they seemed to notice right away, and all the pieces fell perfectly into place. You built a good dynamic before they left for New York shortly after you met them, and it’s been only you and Steve in Indianapolis ever since –except for the long phone calls the four of you share now and then.

“So, practice for the play is going well?” Nancy asks, stealing some of Robin’s strawberry milkshake. “We haven’t heard anything new since you told us auditions would be opening soon for the Nutcracker.”

You inevitably get teary-eyed but shake your head and the bittersweet feeling away. No reason to still be hung up about that. “I didn’t get the part I wanted but it’s going really well.”

“Oh no,” Robin’s shoulders sag as a shocked look comes across her face. Her and Steve exchange a look that can only mean Is she okay, so you hurry to speak again. The last thing you want is to rehash the ugly feelings from last week.

“It’s all good though, the girls that I’m dancing with are really nice.” You stress, hoping to reassure Robin. “I’m getting the costume fitted tomorrow, I’m excited.”

Nancy frowns and looks at Robin, like they know your optimism isn’t 100% genuine. “We’re sorry you didn’t get to be the lead, though.” She says reaching out and squeezing you hand. “We’ll try to come see the play, I think some of our classmates are driving through here for Christmas.”

“Who got it instead.” Robin asks, not helping herself and looking around. But there are no ballet dancers around you, so you shrug and give her the name.

“Ugh, Agatha.” Steve says with distaste. “Not only is she rude to you, she got the role.”

You chuckle at Steve’s petty tone and look up at him briefly, love bubbling under your skin. “Stevie, it’s okay.” He rubs your arm up and down in response and pulls you close to his side as you turn towards Nancy and Robin again. “Thanks guys but I’ve made peace with it. Stevie says he’s gonna tell everyone I’m the lead.”

Robin snorts and Nancy rolls her eyes, “Yeah, that sounds like you, dingus.”

“She’s gonna be so good they’ll think she’s the lead anyway. We have to cheer really loud and everyone will believe us.” Steve’s voice is so full of confidence you can image the beautiful smile on his face as his eyes burn the side of your face.

Nancy shakes her head, trying to understand Steve’s logic and it makes you laugh, which seems to be what Steve was aiming for. You look up at him in wonder for a second, feeling affection run through your veins and flooding you whole body just by looking at him. Even in the fluorescent lights his cheeks have their characteristic rosy color, and his eyes look as beautiful as ever, especially with the dark green sweater he’s wearing that makes them pop. Then he goes and makes the feeling worse by smiling and sending a knee weakening wink your way.

You’re grateful when he looks away after a second, glad that he gives your heart a time out. There’s only so much yearning it can take. A moment later of staring at his profile, you risk a look back at your friends only to regret it instantly. Nancy is giving you a knowing look that you don’t have time to ignore because a server arrives with your orders. Thankful beyond words for the interruption, you say “Okay, we can officially celebrate Stevie’s win.”

The four of you keep talking between mouthfuls of burgers and chicken strips you make everyone swear not to tell Madame Laverne about. Nancy and Robin finally start answering your own questions about their journaling and creative writing programs in the big city. They indulge you with funny stories their roommates have dragged them into, retelling their hunt for the best yet cheapest coffee shop, and all the odd places where they’ve found rats. Food gone and sky darkening 45 minutes later, Steve stands up and insists on paying the bill.

You knew it would happen but startle anyway when Robin leans close and ambushes you with questions. “What is going on here? Do you have some news you have to tell us?”

 “No?” Your answer sounds more like a question to your ears after you urge Robin to keep quiet.

Nancy rolls her eyes in both exasperation and fondness. “Honey you both look like lovesick puppies, it’s like you’re going to kiss any second now.”

“You’re one to talk, when I met you both…”

“We were already together, which is why I need to know if you’ve told Steve yet!” Robin whispers, eyebrows doing acrobatics in anticipation to your answer. “I swear he looks like he’ll die if he can’t kiss you soon.”

You look away and chuckle awkwardly as your entire body lights up at the idea. “I mean you know how I feel so I wouldn’t complain if that happened. But no, I haven’t told him.” Your two friends had spotted you crush on Steve from miles away upon your first meeting. The teasing is incessant but you’re grateful for their support –and discretion.

“But if you feel that way, why don’t you make it happen?” Robin insists, sinking back into the red booth in defeat. “It’s so clear that Steve’s in love with you.”

You go to deny her statement but stop short when you see Steve approach. He smiles at you when he catches your eye and makes your heart stall inside your chest then start back up ten times quicker than before. Still, despite the nervous frenzy you’re in, you smile inevitably because… Steve makes you happy beyond words and you know how worried he’s been ever since you didn’t get your dream role, there’s nothing you want more than to put him at ease. You’re with him, of course you’re okay.

“Ready to go, beautiful?” Steve asks you then looks at his friends, “We’re going to miss the movie if we don’t leave.”

When all of you nod to agree he extends his hands and helps you out of the booth, his warm touch making electricity course from your point of contact to your heart. Even more so when he pulls you close to his side once outside in the winter night. “You sure you don’t want my jacket? It’s colder than usual tonight.”

You look up at Steve, smiling softly at his ever-present caring nature. “Everything’s perfect right now.” Your voice is light and gives away your emotion, and it makes Steve smile once more.

“Let me know, though.” He says and you can only nod, leaning your head on his shoulder until you get to his car.

 What if Robin is right? What if you can just lean up and kiss Steve and feel him kiss you back immediately? But what if you’re all wrong and it ends your friendship? No, you can’t do that until you’re certain Steve feels the same way. But how will you know?

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part 5

reblogs are super appreciated

masterlist

[klanced]

i just finally watched the batman (2022) and need a repository for my thoughts

anyway yes i know i am the voltron blog but you all must understand. and this is key to my lore. that i am an insane batman fan. i haven't kept up with comics in recent years but i am a total sleeper agent when it comes to batman and i've been waiting literal months to watch The Batman (2022) and i finally watched it last night and have been marinating in my thoughts since. and also my parents are tired of hearing my ranting and watching me walk around in circles.

ANYWAY.

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cinematography

this is literally the best looking batman film in years, if not the best looking one ever. the color grading was like a balm to my eyes, especially after the slog fest that is some of the other superhero movies... even with the constant rain the city never looked washed out, reeves and his set designers made such awesome choices when it came to fluorescent and neon lighting... the DINER SCENE!!!!!!!!!!! also omfg the way they made battinson the Red and Black Batman like what an excellent color combination. i loved it. i need to buy some of the theatrical release posters post HASTE.

more than anything this movie was SHOT like a comic book and so many scenes looked like they were ripped straight from a comic book, like i could visualize the paneling and everything... so freaking baller.

my family wasn't super impressed but i think it's because they expected an action movie but No You Don't Get It. batman sees the world as a gritty detective noir movie but to everyone else in gotham they're living in a horror movie and that is BATMAN CINEMA!!!!

when the riddler was arrested i was like 'wait there's still 40 minutes?' and then i preceded to have my mind completely blown. i kept questioning what reeves was doing only for him to IMMEDIATELY correct me minutes later. literally, let this man cook he knows what he's doing. when bruce lit the flare i didn't immediately get it -- and then the little mayor's boy reached for batman without any hesitation. and then the crowd began to follow him, closing the distance. and then he began to lead them to higher crowd. And Then I Got It.

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2. gotham

yes i'm devoting an entire section just to the city.

gotham city is one of the hardest things to get right in any kind of batman media. like gotham is Not Normal and that should always be something hovering in the background. but many directors just don't bother because gotham architecture is so fundamentally different from normal sensibilities that building lore accurate sets would be both incredibly costly and almost impossible to do. but matt reeves tried and the movie was so unbelievably better for it.

bvs gotham was basically just new york city and don't even get me STARTED on how futuristic minimalistic modern the nolan movies were. ugh.

but when bruce and alfred were in their penthouse suite surrounded by fifty layers of gothic style trim my dad verbally said 'are they in a fucking church or something' and like YES DAD! that's the POINT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! gotham is supposed to be borderline CAMPY GOTHIC like the city itself is not just a setting, it's a full blown supporting character. the city looking batshit is essential lore and PIVITOL to the world building that has produced a man dressed up as a bat to fight crime like you DON'T GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! batman is divorced from our reality but he is GROUNDED IN GOTHAM!!!!

actually side note i've been playing gotham knights on the PC and 1) the game is way better than critics gave it credit for and 2) GOTHAM LOOKS SO GOOD IN THIS GAME. THE LIGHTING IS CRAZYYYY. best adaptation of gotham city fr, i loved the arkham video game series but the panache. the style. it became so diluted after arkham asylum fr.

my one criticism is that reeves needed to make one more rooftop set it was so silly that all the characters kept returning to the same gcpd roof with the bat signal on it.

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3. plot

FINALLY A MOVIE WHERE BRUCE IS A DETECTIVE. i've waited literal years for this. i do wish batman had been a little bit more active/proactive in the plot, i.e. not strictly following with riddler's games, but this is also early batman so i'm more forgiving of his rookie mistakes... however in the second movie i expect him to be on his BALL GAME!!!! give me plot-armor-borderline-prescient batman PLEASE MR. REEVES I BEG OF THEE.

LOVED this adaptation of the riddler. using the zodiac killer as an inspiration for the riddler was amazing, brilliant, showstopping, spectacular. and they kept a little bit of camp in paul dano's performance which i appreciate. i don't think we'll ever go back to batman forever levels of camp, but that's okay </3

there was a nod to the character of hush in the movie (at least that's how i'm choosing to interpret it) but i don't think they could ever use hush in the future because they already adapted so much of his gimmick for the riddler... but that's okay tbh i don't think hush is that interesting anyway.

at its core the batman was a buddy cop movie and i LOVED that. jeffrey wright KILLED it as lieutenant gordon and the dynamic between batman and gordon was amazing. excellent usage of our favorite future-commissioner, you could really see they already had an established rapport but their bond was becoming even stronger... their conversation in the interrogation room was so amazing, as well as their scene with the penguin.

my one criticism is that alfred became non-existent after a certain point. also lowkey the lego batman movie did a better job at the 'bruce realizes that his trauma has made him reluctant to form bonds or deepen them because of his fear of losing anyone else' subplot. lego batman movie on top!

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4. characterizations

everyone and their mom has already talked about how this version of bruce wayne is more focused on developing his identity as the batman versus his identity as brucie wayne so i won't repeat those essays. but i will say that i have such high hopes for bruce's development in the sequel. like the way the movie ended with him emphasizing how he needs to become a 'symbol of hope for the city' reads to me as him preparing to finally re-enter gotham society as Billionaire Bruce Wayne and i am SO READY FOR IT.

but what i actually want to talk about is how amazing catwoman's development is. i love how much backstory they gave her in this movie. i will always love the nolanverse version of catwoman but you really learn almost nothing about selina in TDKR. but in the batman selina's is this fully fleshed out character. you can immediately guess what her life has been like. and her motivations in the story... the way she was prepared to run until she found annika... and then she immediately changed gears and focused on vengeance for annika and her mother... god, i love it.

cobblepot's character was also so, so good. you can intimately tell that he's a two-faced bastard who's spent years being a yes-man purely so he can climb the social ladder. i know colin farrell is going to rock the HELL out of that monocle in the sequel.

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5. hopes for the future

i know it's too late but i reallyyy don't want joker to be in the sequel. i unfortunately think that's more or less guaranteed though since they've already casted barry keoghan. and his performance was really good. i'm just tired of seeing the joker in batman media. (inb4 keoghan absolutely kills it in the sequel and makes me eat my hat). i don't really consider batman to have one arch nemesis, only that the joker has consistently ruined batman's life more often than all the other villains.

literally the one hill i will die on is that reeves NEEDS to include robin at some point. PLEASE. you can't have batman without a robin, he gets so lonely. literally that's all i want. i want battinson to become a dad so, so bad. you have no idea.

and (and this is key) robin must be a kid. a pre-teen aged 14 or younger. "oh but that's so unrealistic, child superheroes totally break the immersion" well I DON'T CARE. FULL THROTTLE ON THE CHILD ENDANGERMENT. let children fight crime, for the culture.

[okay, okay. make it a robin origin story where dick grayson is introduced and is plot-relevant but he doesn't actively patrol and fight crime and only becomes robin at the very end.]

introduce robin in batman 2, and then have robin be a participating older teen/adult in batman 3.

my incredibly indulgent ideal batman 2:

at least two years have passed (bruce is more or less settled and has finally hit his stride). he has mastered air gliding and now attacks villains from the rafters instead of just constantly walking out of the shadows. i want to see arkham-level combat So Bad.

selina is mentioned, but doesn't really appear (and there are no other love interests.

actually wait i change my mind about joker. joker can be included in the movie IF the red herring "main plot" is that he's using a circus as a base of operations (because clowns and circuses).

i say red herring "main plot" because the movie starts with a joker crime spree, so you think the movie is going to be all about the joker, but then he leads batman to his circus base and it turns out that PSYCH! THIS IS ACTUALLY A DICK GRAYSON ORIGIN STORY. because joker's base of operations is haly's circus.

batman is snooping around looking for evidence and that's when he comes across dick grayson, age 10.

kid dick grayson. PLEASE. PLEASE.

batman decides to visit the circus as bruce wayne. You Know What happens.

plot plot plot

COURT OF OWLS SUBPLOT.

bruce has to balance hunting down the joker while also protecting this little kid he pretends he isn't totally attached to.

this is incredibly indulgent because i have no idea how you would balance joker screentime with that of the court of owls. idk. that's what's fanfiction is for i guess c:

i have decided that over winter break i am going to rewatch all the batman movies from 1980s onwards so i can revise my Batman Cinema power rankings. i will create some kind of metric or spreadsheet so i can grade and quantify each movie.

hell i should also replay all my favorite batman video games. because those are basically just movies anyway. and i miss kevin conroy :(

thanks for reading. god i love batman.

[tygerland]

George Segal Cinema. 1963. Plaster, plexiglass, metal and fluorescent lights: 299 × 243 × 99 cm (117 × 95 × 39 in).

[jswayman1]

can i request something hurt/comfort with brad marchand, maybe after the team gets knocked out?

i kneel in front of the locker you're already grieving, you turn to me; eyes haunted by the game to come. yellow has never felt so sorrowful.

IN WHICH, emotions run high pre-game, dreams hang on a knife's edge, and bonds are tested in the face of impending loss

i KNOW you requested a post-game fic, but BARE WID ME. already working on a part two for you.

2.5k words, 14k characters in all, LOTTA angst. 2023 Game 7 if that helps narrow it down for you. Yeah.

a song to listen to while reading: BEING LOVED ISN'T THE SAME AS BEING UNDERSTOOD, VINES

The arena’s cold, brisk air tingles against my skin as I step inside TD Garden. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights, the faint scent of popcorn, and the sharp, almost metallic tang of ice flood my senses, anchoring me in this moment. Tonight's Game 7 against the Florida Panthers holds a weight unlike any other game I’ve experienced.

This is my second playoff season with Brad, and the stakes have never felt higher. As the assistant captain of the Bruins, he’s shouldered immense pressure all season, trying to move past the once reckless and angry rat title he's held. Now, with the possibility of elimination looming, especially with their record this time, the atmosphere almost feels explosive with tension.

Walking through the corridors, I spot some of the other WAGs right in the tunnel. Their designer jackets, specifically made for them, and meticulously styled hair do little to hide the anxiety etched on their faces.

It’s not just about the game; it’s about what happens after. The camaraderie among us is palpable yet tinged with the growing rivalry these two teams have, we all want our partners to shine. To be the heroes, if you will; but only one team can win.

I pause near the lounge area, where a few of the wives and girlfriends have gathered. 

Mia, a jet-black-haired striking girl with an infectious laugh, waves me over. Her boyfriend, Jake, is one of the team’s wingers. We’ve bonded over the past few months, finding solace in shared experiences and the unique rhythm of hockey life.

"How are you holding up?" She asks, her voice a blend of concern and excitement. "First Game 7, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, attempting a smile. "It’s a lot to take in."

Mia’s eyes soften. "It doesn’t get easier, but you learn to ride the highs and brace for the lows. Tonight’s huge, though. The guys are feeling the pressure."

I glance around, taking in the nervous energy. "Have you seen Brad?"

Mia shakes her head. "Not since the warm-ups. He seemed focused, though. More than usual."

Before I can respond, Coach Montgomery appears, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room. His presence is commanding, a stark reminder of the gravity of tonight’s game. I’ve only exchanged pleasantries with him a few times, but his dedication is… well, pretty undeniable. What he’s done for this team in such a short amount of time is cinema.

"Ladies," he acknowledges us with a nod, his expression a mix of determination and weariness. "It’s going to be a tough one, but we’re prepared."

As he moves past, I catch sight of Jeremy Swayman, the young goaltender. His face is a mask of concentration, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s the substitute tonight for Linus Ullmark, who's undoubtedly winning the Vezina, but out due to tearing his groin last game.

Jeremy has been performing well too - no doubt he's been the top backup in the league - but ever since Mia told me about his girlfriend Tori breaking up with him after three years together, he’s been struggling.

In addition, he now faces the pressure of ending the best season in NHL history and potentially losing key players Bergeron and Krejci to retirement if he fails to win this game.

I catch Jeremy's gaze for a brief moment, offering him a small, reassuring smile before he turns back to his thoughts. The weight on his shoulders is immense, and I can only imagine the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him.

I make my way over to Jeremy, hoping to give him some words of support before the game begins. As I approach, I observe how his hands are balled up into tight fists and his body is tense with nerves.

"You got this." I say softly, trying to break through his pre-game reverie.

Jeremy turns to me abruptly, his eyes widening a bit as he's pulled out of his thoughts. His face is tinged with surprise, but it's tinged with another emotion that I can't quite place.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, the brown strands sticking up and falling back around a pale, weary face. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable for a moment.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice hushed but rough from nerves.

"I mean it." I say firmly, holding his gaze. "You're an incredible goalie, and you've got this. I've seen you play. You've been the best backup in the league this season. You're ready for this."

Jeremy lets out a dry scoff, his hands clenching into even tighter fists next to him. The tension is obvious in his muscles, in the way his jaw is set and his shoulders are taut. "Pressure's on," he mutters, his voice dripping with a bitter mix of self-deprecation and nerves.

I let out a low breath, seeing how he's doubting himself already. "Pressure's always on in this league," I say quietly but with a sharp tone. But you've risen to the occasion every other time? You'll do it again tonight. I have faith in you."

He looks at me then, the doubt still in his eyes, but something else too. A flicker of vulnerability, of need for reassurance. He's fairly new, always been reserved and private from what I know about him, but I think tonight that veneer has cracked a bit.

Jeremy lets out a shaky exhale; his brow furrowed as he tries to rein in his nerves. I can see the internal struggle in his face, the battle between fear and confidence waged fiercely inside his mind.

"I don't know," he chokes out, his voice a strangled whisper. "This isn't just another game, and… -- well, I've never been the number one. They're all just… all watching. Expecting."

He looks away, his gaze going distant as he speaks, his voice wavering.

I step closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He's tall, but even standing next to him, I can sense the way he's coiled so impossibly tight, holding all the pressure in his body.

"Yes, they're watching." I say, my voice low and sure. "But you've been trained for this. You're one of the most dedicated athletes I've ever seen. You've prepared for this moment. Use it."

His eyes dart to mine, and there's a flash of something like hope in them, before it's washed away by another wave of self-doubt.

Jeremy lets out a bitter laugh, but it's interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if he's trying to hold back something bigger. Maybe tears, maybe a scream, maybe just his emotions bubbling to the surface.

"I have been preparing, and I have trained." He says, his voice cracking a little despite his effort to keep composure. "I don't think it's going to be enough."

His gaze is wide and raw, a mixture of fear and desperation looking back at me.

"Enough is subjective." I say firmly, my grip on his shoulder tightening. "Don't let yourself spiral. You are enough, Jeremy. For this team, for this game, for yourself."

Jeremy sucks in a deep breath, his body shuddering under my touch. It's like I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself together physically but falling apart mentally.

His eyes close for a brief moment, his lashes trembling against his skin. When he opens them again, staring straight ahead, they're still wide in fear, but there's a fire there too.

"You make it sound so simple," he mutters, his voice choked with emotion. "It's not, though. Not when everything's on the line."

I nod, understanding his struggle even if I can't relate directly. The pressure he's under is enormous, more than most people will see in their lives. I can only imagine what it feels like to have the weight of such a thing on your shoulders.

"I know." I say softly, my tone a mix of softness and steel. "But you're not alone. The team believes in you. Brad believes in you. I believe in you. You just have to believe in yourself."

He gazes at me with his mouth half-open and eyebrows slightly raised, as if he is touched by what I said, but he doesn't have a chance to speak before--

"Swayman, get over here NOW!"

Jeremy's gaze snaps towards the voice, the harsh sound of his name being called in that authoritative tone breaking the fragile moment between us. His body stiffens, and the expression of vulnerability on his face vanishes, replaced by a mask of concentration.

I step back, watching as he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He looks every bit the professional now, but I can see the turmoil of emotions just beneath the surface.

He glances back at me for a brief moment, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and fear, and then he does as said, walking towards Coach Montgomery.

I leave him to his thoughts before making the decision to visit Brad quickly. The game is about to start, and the anticipation is nearly suffocating. I turn to reach the locker room entrance, where the muffled sounds of last-minute strategies and pep talks drift through the door.

Before I can enter, I’m… well, intercepted by Patrice Bergeron, the captain and Brad’s best friend. His usually warm and inviting eyes are shadowed with worry. Tonight could be his last game, and the weight of that knowledge is etched into every line of his face. 

"Hey," he greets me, his voice hushed. "You doing alright?"

"Trying to be," I admit. "How’s Brad?"

"He’s focused," Patrice replies. "But… it’s tough. We all know what’s at stake. Not just the game, but the future. Especially for guys like me and Krejci."

I swallow hard, feeling the lump in my throat. "It’s not going to be the same without you."

He smiles faintly, a bittersweet expression. "That’s life, isn’t it? Constantly changing. Just make sure you’re there for him, no matter what happens."

"I will," I promise, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.

As Patrice heads back into the locker room, I linger for a moment, gathering my thoughts. This is it. The culmination of an incredible, record-breaking season, and the potential end of an era. I take a deep breath and step inside.

As I push open the door to the bustling locker room, my gaze immediately lands on Brad. He sits on a bench in a secluded corner, his head bowed and hands knotted together as if in prayer. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, and my heart sinks at the sight of him in such distress.

I cautiously approach, not wanting to disturb his intense focus. As I come closer, his gaze meets mine and my heart races with conflicting emotions. In his eyes, I see a fierce determination, but also a hint of fear and uncertainty. Yet there's something else, something deeper that I can't quite decipher. My mind is torn between wanting to ease his worry and wanting to understand the turmoil within him.

"Hey," I whisper, kneeling in front of him. "How are you holding up?"

He exhales sharply, reaching out to take my hands in his. "I’m … hanging in there. Lockin' in."

His grip on my hands is firm, almost desperate, and I can feel the slight tremble of his fingers. The weight of the game, the season, and the potential end of an era is bearing down on him, and it’s almost palpable in the air between us.

“You know you’ve got this," I say, my voice steady. "You’ve been incredible all season, Brad. No matter what happens tonight, you’ve given it everything."

His fingers tighten around my hands, a silent thank you. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a small glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Despite his usual fiery personality, he looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him, and it’s almost disconcerting.

"I just…" he starts, pausing to collect his thoughts.

It’s… well, rare for Brad to struggle with his words, and the brief moment of hesitation speaks volumes about the intensity of his thoughts. He takes another deep breath, his gaze fixed on our intertwined hands.

 "I just don’t want to let anyone down," he continues, his voice quieter. "The team. The city. Myself. I’ve worked so damn hard to get here."

He lets go of one of my hands, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. I can’t tell if his expression is torn between hope and resignation—

"I don’t want this season to be over," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s been the best damn year of hockey I’ve ever played, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Nothing’s certain."

He clenches his jaw, his shoulders tensing. The thought of the future, uncertainty looming, is clearly weighing heavily on him, adding to the already immense pressure.

I squeeze his hand, trying to offer him some comfort, some reassurance. I honestly… don’t know that words aren’t enough to ease the anxiety coursing through him, but I do my best to convey my support and understanding.

"You’ve already done so much this season, Brad. You’ve broken records, led the team to greatness. This season is already a success, no matter what happens tonight."

"It doesn’t feel like enough."

His voice is tight, filled with a mixture of disappointment and determination. The drive to win, to push further, is just a part of who he is. Anything short of victory, no matter how incredible the season, will never be enough for him. "I want the fucking cup."

There’s no need to sugarcoat the truth. Winning the cup is the ultimate goal for every player in the league, and Brad has tasted its sweetness before. The hunger for that feeling, the need to experience it again, fuels his every move.

"I know you do." I sigh softly, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles soothingly. "And you know this team can do it. We all believe in you."

As the door creaks open, I see that there are only three of us in the room: myself, Brad, and now Patrice walking towards us. No one says anything, but when he reaches us, Patrice extends his gloved hand for Brad to take.

Brad looks up at Patrice, his gaze meeting his best friend’s steady one. For a moment, they share a silent exchange, the kind that only comes from years of understanding between brothers.

Brad reaches out and takes Patrice’s hand, holding on like he’d fall if let go. Their bond is evident in the subtle expressions they share, as if silently preparing themselves for the game ahead.

Patrice pulls him to his feet, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. They exchange a brief nod, a silent pact between teammates, friends, and brothers. The years they spent together, the memories they share, it’s all coming to a head on this one night.

Patrice claps him on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance and support. "It's alright, man."

Brad lets out a deep breath, his expression a mix of determination and nervous energy. He gives Patrice a brief, sharp nod before turning back to me, meeting my gaze with a hint of vulnerability beneath his usual swagger.

I give his hand one last squeeze, wishing I could say more, do more, to ease his tension. "Go out there and play like only you can." I murmur, my voice soft and earnest. "We’re all counting on you."

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Sixteen (Part 2)

As final term goes on I seem to have a lot less time to socialise than I used to, spending late evenings in the computer room polishing off my digital art piece, or down in the life drawing studio compiling my best drawings from the year, or in the library composing my critical cultures essay, hours spent pouring over books to cite, researching and learning all about my chosen topic, which is the fashion and textile of Asian tribes. 

For most of this time I am alone, but for the times I amn’t, it’s because I’m with Dean. Whenever he has time off work he’ll join me in the lab or the studio or the library and we’ll sit there together silently working through the evening, ankles intertwined beneath the desks as we pore over books about contemporary ceramics, ancient civilisations, Iranian cinema, pop art and the frescoes of Pompeii. The clocks change in late March, and even as April comes and the sky is bright until late into the evening, we stay until the sun goes down and the light fades from the room and all that’s left is the fluorescence from the lamp on the table between us to light the pages of our books. 

“Do you ever get sick of this?” He asks me quietly one evening as I organise my bibliography on my laptop. I lift my head to look at him, hand fisted on his cheek as he stabs his own keyboard with one finger. “Sometimes.” I say. “But I think my essay is finally coming together.” 

He huffs. “It’s so stupid that we have to do this writing shite, this is supposed to be a fine arts degree.”

“Yeah I get that but it’s also an academic degree. There has to be some sort of essay portion, I don’t think you’ll ever get away without having to do it.”

“I’m terrible at writing.” He frowns. “And I’m so sick of reading these stupid books about fucking pottery, the words they use are such bullshit, it’s like these writers are having a contest to see who can make their book the hardest to understand.”

Dean’s education, as I’ve learned, is a touchy subject for him. He left school when he was fifteen because he had either some difficulties learning or a lack of interest. It isn’t clear to me which, but either way he struggles now because of it. I tried to ask him about it before but I only ended up irritating him and he shut down, so I’m careful before broaching it again. “If you need help with anything just let me know.” I say. 

“I don’t.” He goes back to typing something aggressively onto his laptop for several minutes before he whacks the backspace key in frustration and sits there with the heels of his hands dug into his eye sockets. I clear my throat nervously. “Dean, like, I mean it if there’s anything I can do-”

“I don’t need help.” He repeats. “As in, I don’t need you to help me, do you not get it?”

“I get it.” I say quietly. I try to go back to my own citation list but I seem to have lost where I was, my focus having been thrown by him. I scroll back up to the beginning of the bibliography and start checking it again. After several more minutes, he sighs and drops his hands back to his lap, and while I don’t dare look over at him, from the corner of my eye I see him drop his head and shake it from side to side. “I’m so sick of this.” He says. “I’m so tired of spending all of my time in this building. I just go from college to work and back to college again over and over. Everything is shit.”

“I know it’s hard right now.” I attempt. “But soon it’ll be over and you’ll have so much more time to relax during the summer. At least then when you’ll only be working in Primo you’ll have every afternoon free.”

“Yeah.” He says flatly. I know that it’s more than just pure exhaustion with him, more than just college. It’s his family, his father’s death, his sister, his aunts, all of these things that I can’t even begin to relate to or even know how to comfort him about, things that feel so far out of the scope of my experience that they only serve to remind me of the worlds between he and I, a terrain between us that I can’t traverse. It makes me feel weak, small, ineffective and childish. “I don’t know how to make you feel better.” I tell him. 

He sighs and beckons me towards him. “C’mere.” He says, and when I hesitate he repeats himself. “C’mere.” I get out of my seat and walk around the table to stand in front of him. He slides his hands around my waist and links them at my back, and then rests his cheek against my belly. For a moment I’m not sure what he wants me to do with him, but he hums with approval as I lift a hesitant hand and run it through his hair, the dark roots an inch long now and the bleach turning brassy yellow, beginning to grow long over the tops of his ears. It’s so silent in the empty library, nothing but the buzz of the lightbulbs and the gentle whirr of Dean’s laptop fan. He lifts his head and kisses my ribs, gazing up at me with honey coloured eyes that I am immediately knee deep in. Despite the sharp anglesthere really is something so lovely about his face. He takes me by the hips and pulls me easily down onto his lap.

“What?” I whisper. I stroke my thumbs over his dark brows and kiss him gently on his nose, and he looks back at me, eyes travelling over my body as he says “just let me kiss you.” He lifts my hands away from him, and the feeling of his fingers on my wrists makes my skin tingle with awareness. Heat flashes in his eyes and the weight of his gaze makes my breath catch in my throat, and when he kisses me he crushes his mouth against mine so suddenly that I want to gasp. He lets go of my wrists to hold my face and I’m free to touch him again, so I sink one hand into his thick hair while the other sweeps down his chest, then his hands grasp at my waist and pull me even closer to him. 

“Is this helping?” I murmur as he begins kissing my throat, and I’m sure that he can feel the flutter of my pulse against his lips. 

“Mhm.” He says, and guides me backwards so that the table edge presses into the base of my spine. He lifts me off him so I’m sitting on it, impatiently shoving his laptop and his books out of the way to make some room. I pull back to look at him, enjoying the way that his gaze sweeps over me before he takes me by the jaw and kisses the side of my mouth, his hands travelling to my chest, breath shuddering out of his nose as he captures my mouth again. “The things I want to do to you…” He says between hungry kisses. “If I told you about them they’d make you blush.” He moves his hands underneath me so he can hold me to him, right in the place that he wants me, his knee sliding between my legs until I can feel his thigh…

“Wait.” I whisper. 

His voice sounds hoarse and strained. “Evie… please.”

“We can’t be doing this here. Not in the library.”

He sighs against my collarbone and I feel him resign then, resting his forehead in the curve of my neck. His hands return to my waist. “Okay, it’s just, I think we should keep going.”

“And I think we need to stop.”

He sighs heavily and slumps back into his chair, his mouth a little swollen from kissing me, his amber coloured eyes expectantly fixed on my face as if waiting for an explanation, and I don’t really know what to say, so I just repeat myself. “Not in the library.”

“If not in the library then where? This is where we always are lately.”

“It’s not true, we go to the park together, we’ve gone to the cinema and to the harbour that time.”

“If we did what I wanted us to do in any of those places then we’d be arrested.”

I feel my cheeks flushed with heat. “Oh, well, I know, but-”

“And I’m not allowed in your apartment either, you’ve made that clear, since you’re hiding me from your housemate, and you won’t come home to my house either.-”

“You live in Kilbarrack.” I reason. “It’s too far away.” He also lives with three very intimidating sounding men with intimidating nicknames, one in particular that they ominously call Bones who I don’t feel ready to be in the presence of.

“So what do you want from me?” He insists, struggling to keep the impatience from his tone. The impatience that’s been steadily growing over recent weeks. “What is this to you?”

I hesitate. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“We’re not really, not in the ways I want to get to know you. I just don’t get it. You’re so open with me about everything, your art, your family, your friend Kelly from school who was mean to you, why is it so easy for you to show me all those parts of you but when it comes to sex you’re a closed book?”

“Because that’s private. I’m the kind of person who likes to wait a while.”

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and looks right up into my face from beneath me. “It’s been a while.” He tells me. “And I don’t get it.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why does it have to be all about that for you? Can’t we just keep doing what we’re doing?”

“No.” He says. “Because you aren’t my girlfriend.”

“So unless I’m your girlfriend, it’s impossible for you to care about parts of me that aren’t the ones hidden by my underwear?”

“No, Evie.” He says, letting out this intense, frustrated little sound as he clenches his fist and throws his body back into the chair again. “Stop twisting everything and acting like the victim, I’m just asking you why you’re so closed. It’s not like you’re a virgin with no experience.”

I nod. 

“So is it something about me? Is there something off-putting?”

“No!” I cry. “It’s not that, it’s nothing to do with you at all, I just get nervous.” Distantly, I hear my phone buzz from inside the pocket of my coat that’s draped over the chair behind me. I ignore it. 

Dean continues. “So let’s have something to drink first, let’s just relax and I promise that I’ll be nice to you, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I know you’re not.” I say in a quiet voice, and he takes my hand, softening his expression as we interlace our fingers, his thumb gently stroking up and down the inner part of my wrist. “Look, Evie.” He says. “If you don’t want to, just say that, and it’ll be grand. I’m not here trying to force you to do anything. I was just asking the questions.”

“I want to.” I say, and the way he looks at me makes my stomach lurch with anticipation and unease all at once. “But not right now, not tonight, and not here.”

“Okay.” He says, watching me carefully. 

“On Thursdays.” I swallow. “My housemate always stays over at her boyfriend’s house in Clonskeagh. I’ll be alone.”

“Thursday.”

“But if I chicken out and I don’t want to do it…”

“Obviously, Evie, then we don’t have to.” 

“Okay.”

He smiles. “Look, I’m going to go home now, I’m tired of being in this building, I feel claustrophobic in it, and my neck hurts.” He stands up and I move out of his way as he snaps his laptop shut and begins gathering up all of his books to put them back onto their corresponding shelves. I stay leaning on the table and watch him as he does it. “It’s going to be fine.” I say, and he looks over his shoulder at me. “Your essay.” I clarify. “You’ll get it done.”

“Oh, that.” He says. “It’s just about the last thing on my mind.” Stuffing his laptop back into its case he says “My essay will be… whatever it ends up being, like. If I cared about it I’d probably be staying here longer. Here, are you gonna leave too? Do you want to walk to the bus together?”

“No, I think I’m going to stay another while and just finish up what I was doing.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow, so.” He takes me by the neck and plants a kiss on my cheek. 

“Bye.” I say to him, and he waves over his shoulder as he exits through the swinging doors and is swallowed into the dark hallway. 

Sighing, I resume my place in front of my laptop, jiggling my finger on the touchpad to wake it, and the screen flicks back to life and displays my bibliography in the exact disappointing state that I left it in. I start moving things around more, checking for spelling mistakes, and then I suddenly remember that I missed a message on my phone earlier, and eager for another chance to procrastinate I dive into my coat pocket for it. I feel my heart expand a little bit when I see a message from Jude. 

Rate me? 

Following the message is a mirror selfie of him in his Top Gun costume. He’s doing a very Tom-Cruise-accurate pose, turned to the side with his shoulder to the mirror, his arm lifted to give a thumbs up to the camera, but also to show off the big red white and blue TOMCAT patch that he ironed onto the sleeve. We’ve talked extensively about this costume over recent weeks, trying to figure out the best ways to make it as authentic as possible, not because there’s a prize for the best costume or anything, but because, as Jude explains to me, he has an insatiable need to be the best at everything he does. 

“It’s a sickness.” He told me last week. “I absolutely cannot be outdone.”

I grin at the photo, feeling proud, and partly responsible for how well it turned out, seeing as I was the one who searched Ebay for three out of the six patches on that costume, getting a kick out of finding the ones most like those from the film and for the best prices.

Just to tease him, I text back:

6 out of 10. Where are the aviator shades??

He replies just a moment later with another photograph, this time of him wearing them, doing a silly duck face. It looks like he’s out already, as there’s a handful of people around him out on the city streets, random arms and legs and elbows filling up the edges of the screen.

Happy? 

Yep, now that’s a 10 out of 10. 

Because it covers more of my face, is it?

Yes 100%, uggo. 

And when he texts back again I forget all about my essay. Thumbs zooming over my phone keyboard, mouth quirked up in a smile as I think of a hundred clever things to say to him, texting, laughing and texting until my laptop screen gives up waiting for me and fades back to black. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[w-ht-w]

The Guardian: I survived the Barbie-Oppenheimer double-bill and I don’t recommend it

Instead of picking just one film, people started latching onto the idea of seeing Barbie and Oppenheimer together, on the same day, as part of a wildly incongruous double bill.

...But is it a good idea to smoosh two violently different films onto a single five-hour marathon? Both Barbie and Oppenheimer came out this week, and I spent an afternoon doing exactly that. The question is, will Barbenheimer save all of cinema as we know it?

In a word: no. In slightly more words: Jesus Christ no, absolutely not, what a terrible, terrible idea this is. Reader, do not attempt Barbenheimer. Or at least, if you do decide to do Barbenheimer, please don’t do it in the order I went to see it. If you take anything from this, it’s that you should really go and see Barbie first. Because otherwise, and I’m talking from very recent first-hand experience, the effect is a little like having your mother’s funeral invaded by a flashmob of parking circus clowns.

Because here’s what I just learned. Oppenheimer is a three-hour onslaught in which – and this has been reported in the press, but nevertheless might still qualify as a minor spoiler – the film’s director literally hired his own daughter to have the skin flayed off her face as a graphic demonstration of the immediate effects of a nuclear detonation. What I’m trying to say is that it is a lot.

It’s the sort of film that requires processing. After watching it, you’ll want to discuss it with the people you saw it with. Or you’ll want to read up on J Robert Oppenheimer in greater depth, to better understand the man’s motivations. Or – as I did – maybe you just felt taking three or four hours to blankly stare into the middle distance, silently rocking backwards and forwards in a state of numb despair at the destructive idiocy of mankind. In other words, it takes a minute.

But oh no, instead you’ll have just enough time to empty your bladder, turn around and subject yourself to the fluorescent full-beam positivity of Barbie. It’s such a tonal handbrake turn that you’ll end up with whiplash, even when Barbie reveals its slightly darker true intentions after about 20 minutes.

And by the way, don’t expect to encounter a lot of fellow Barbenheimers either. On the basis of my visit, people are still firmly intent on seeing either one or the other. Oppenheimer had an older, silently reverent crowd. Barbie, on the other hand, was populated by dozens of children whose parents didn’t get the memo that the film was a self-aware commentary on the nature of feminism 

So here’s my advice. Go and see Barbie. Go and see Oppenheimer. But for the love of all that is holy, please do the sensible thing and see them on different days. Honestly, your nervous system will thank you. (1)

1. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2023/jul/22/barbie-oppenheimer-double-feature

[54prowl]

don't you just miss old malls before all the renovations with the bright lights and flat arches and giant international chain restaurants? I miss my local ugly ass mall with the snazzy tiles and fluorescent lights. I miss the headphone stands and records I would skim through and the ACTUALLY AFFORDABLE DRUGSTORE MAKEUP. I miss the food court with floors that never seem to not be sticky and the ceilings that always seemed too claustrophobic. I miss local shops and being able to bring outside food to the cinema and playgrounds and arcades that are actually fun and

[banjjakz]

the grim reaper's wife; hananene oneshot

“...McDonald’s?”

Hanako smiles at her like she’s just told him a terrible joke.

“McDonald’s.”

(Or, in which Nene goes to college and meets the... janitor. Groundskeeper. Gardener? He works there. She thinks.)

wc: ~4k warnings: horror; graphic depictions of violence; serial killer!au; psychological thriller; emotional manipulation; major character death

🖤 read on ao3 🖤

Her lungs burn. Like running a marathon in the middle of winter. It hurts to breathe, it hurts so badly that she holds her breath and counts and waits and counts and waits and counts until the numbers melt away, along with her mind.

If, Nene thinks, she were to be anybody else right now other than herself, she would like to be the grim reaper’s wife. Then she wouldn’t have to drive herself dizzy with the held-breath business. What must it be like to exist so intimately with her own death? The idea excites her. When she can breathe again, she’ll remember to scribble it down on her Thought Wall.

“Hey. You’re doing it again.”

The sky knits itself back together. The clouds right themselves. The trees are next, sprouting up from the ground and defiantly raising dark, jagged limbs against the fluorescent inferno of the city’s setting sun. 

And at the center of it all is him: pale and slim and dark in all the worst places. The mask from that foreign horror film she had to watch for her world cinema class. Ghostface.

“Hi,” Nene exhales, shuddering.

“Hey there.” Why is he smiling? She hates when he does that. She hates it so much that she holds her breath and counts and waits and counts and waits and counts until the ardor of her fury threatens to burn her alive. 

The sight of him makes her want to shut her eyes against all else. She doesn’t. She bears the brunt of him, even as he grins and extends his hand. “Need some help?”

“No, thank you.” 

“I’ll leave you here.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t. Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

He refuses to retract his hand. Something tells her it’ll never leave. She reaches out to take a hold of it, and ignores the way their skin slips and slides together with a disturbing familiarity. 

“McDonald’s?” asks Nene, exhausted.

“McDonald’s,” answers Hanako. 

He’s still smiling.

When Nene first arrives on campus, she is already exhausted. It’s hot. She’s in the heart of a metropolitan playground. She almost killed herself trying to wiggle her way into the lucky little sliver of 17% of all applicants that get to attend this bustling, elite microcosm of academic prestige. And now that she’s here, she mostly just wants to take a nap.

This goal would be easier to accomplish if she hadn’t already lost her keycard. You know -- the tiny, four-by-four piece of cheap plastic that acts as her means of entering literally any building on campus. 

The breakdown isn’t quite yet at the point of boiling over, but it’s a very near thing. She can feel her internal temperature beginning to rise with each measured breath she struggles to control. It’s the first day, thinks Nene, the first day and I’ve already done something bad. 

Move-in is stretched over the course of a four-day period. No more than 25% of a residential building’s populace is present at one time, at least not for today. Her building is at the southernmost corner of campus, a good twenty minute walk from any kind of support service. There is nobody around to let her in. She really wants to take a nap.

Suddenly overcome with a wave of frustration, Nene rams her fist thrice against the locked double doors. It is a testament to her self-control that she doesn’t shriek out in rage. It is an even larger one that she continues to breathe -- deeply, evenly -- through the upset coursing viscous and molten through her rigid, tremorous body.

“Wow.”

It takes her a moment to process that there is now a presence here, in this volatile space she’s created, that does not belong to her.

Woodenly, Nene turns around. fists balled tightly into muted remnants of her momentary lapse in judgement. 

He stands there in a white T-shirt and jeans. Beat-up old trainers. A red windbreaker tied around his slim, wiry waist. Double knotted. The fabric is red and frayed at every conceivable edge.

“What’d he ever do to you?”

The joke falls flat, but the dark haired boy pays it no mind as he bustles around in his pockets, pulling out a large keyring. Quickly, assuredly, he swipes one of his many apparatuses against the black swatch of plexiglass beside the left door. A telltale click echoes in the otherwise heavy quietude. He hefts the door open and holds it for her by the handle.

“If you really wanted to fuck him up,” he continues, “you’d have gone for the jugular, or the solar plexus. A solid hammer strike would take any fella out of commission, even if he were as big as this nasty brute.”

“Do you live here?” asks Nene, dubiously.

He flashes an ID card with his free hand. “Maintenance.”

She scans the few characters she can catch before he shoves it away. “Yugi Amane.”

“Yes, Yashiro Nene?”

Every cell in her body goes cold and still all at once. She can’t even speak. The synapses in her brain are just beginning to fire again -- propelling her desperately towards flight flight flight -- before the strange boy nods at something on her chest.

Despite herself, she looks down. 

At her new student name tag, pinned to the front of her shirt. 

Sheepishly, she meets his eyes again, this time with a little less unguarded accusation in her gaze. 

“Come on, give me a little credit,” says Amane, amicably. “If I were a creep that would have been a rookie mistake. Now you know too much. I gotta kill you. Game over.”

“I could take you,” she argues, against her better judgement.

“Really?”

“Sure.” She feels the lingering jitters from her initial wariness melt away into something gentler, something placed decidedly lower in her gut, something colder than fear, so cold that it threatens to brand the very core of her. “Wouldn’t be too hard. Jugular, solar plexus.”

“My oh my. I’d better be careful of you, then.”

“You do that,” Nene hums, gracefully sliding past, “Yugi-san.”

“Call me Amane.”

He doesn’t move from his spot amidst the doorframe, one hand gripping easily onto the slab of steel, the other waving in the air, bidding her adieu. He doesn’t move even as Nene makes her way into the elevator. He doesn’t move even as Nene raises her own hand in farewell. He doesn’t move even as their field of vision is severed and Nene rises up, up, up and away. 

It’s absurd, she knows, but she can’t help picturing the image of his thin, wiry, bobbleheaded self, rooted to the spot, holding open the door, waving at nothing, frozen still and solid well into the night. 

And in this fantasy, his grin never falters.

The Thought Wall is an entire stretch of plain, white drywall that she’s cleared off in her single suite room and dedicated to thousands of post-it notes. 

Not all of the stickies are significant. Some are grocery lists. Some are doctor’s appointment reminders. Others detail traipsing, loosely connected plot points narrated by fragments of her mundane schedule: Lunch is with Aoi @ 12:30 p.m. Meeting is with Professor Tsuchigomori @ 4:00 p.m. 

They are all the same color, and they all fall into neatly gridded lines across the expanse of her wall. If she wanted to, Nene would be able to catalogue each and every individual experience dating back to the day she moved into the dorms -- which, to be fair, was only a mere two weeks away from where she currently reflects, but retrospect tends to cloud her view with a hazy, dissociative glaze. 

Amongst all of the transient variables of her newfound independent, adult life, there is one constant:

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

The bins are right underneath her second-story window. If she parts her blinds just so, she’s able to catch a glimpse of that familiarly sparse frame lugging gargantuan black bags that dwarf him near comically in size. The noise of him struggling through the task would wake her, if she were one to sleep early and well. 

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

Come to think of it, Nene doesn’t think she’s seen him wear the university’s trademark navy jumpsuit reserved for custodial staff. It’s always those same jeans; that same iridescently bright shirt; that same frayed, crimson jacket, double-knotted around his waist. Falling apart at the seams.

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

Tonight he is whistling. She doesn’t recognize the tune.

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

Tonight the moon is full. Autumn swiftly approaches. She wonders if he ever gets cold, out there, alone. In darkness.

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

She wonders where the custodial staff live on campus. Is it close to her building? Is that why he’s always lurking around on the grounds?

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

She saw him today, with a bucket and a mop outside of her lecture hall. He winked at her, and raised a finger up to his lips.  As if there was anything to say.

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

Where is his jacket? 

At first, Nene thinks he’s cut off the sleeves in some bizarre, avant-garde fashion statement. And then she realizes that it is his t-shirt he wears -- the one that’s supposed to be white, but is now dyed a horrifically deep shade of carmine. The entire garment is soaked through with it, oversaturated to the point of streaking down his lean, pale arms in red rivulets. 

What meagre light filters down from the street lamp above highlights the pop of color bright against his usually washed-out palette. He is wraithlike. He is gorgeous. He is hefting a black bag into the dumpster with frighteningly considerable ease.

He is meeting her gaze through where she peeks between two blinds.

He is smiling.

He is red there, too.

Amane takes out the trash at 9:00 p.m.

“Campus should be shut down. I mean, this is just ridiculous.”

“What is?” Prompts Nene, sidling down into her usual seat beside the other girl. Aoi blots the lipstick so violently onto her thin, pouting lips it’s almost as though her intention is to bring forth a fresher, brighter burst of ruby. The image makes Nene shudder.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about the bathroom stall.”

“I can’t say I have.”

A pause. The lipstick slides shut and away, for now. Nene breathes a silent sigh of relief. “Nene, I don’t know whether to weep or scold you. Anyways. You really haven’t heard anything? Nothing at all?”

Nene shakes her head.

“Well, in the girl’s bathroom on this hall -- this hall! -- someone was…”

Before Aoi has the chance to finish her sentence, Professor Tsuchigomori interjects from the pit of the amphitheater, announcing the beginning of class. His voice, too, is stretched thin in the same way that Aoi’s is, as she hisses under her breath in consternation.

“A girl was murdered,” she whispers, heatedly. “And we’re having class the next week like the crime scene tape hasn’t just been removed. It’s horrible. The girl who did it-- perpetrator, whatever -- even signed her name. Hanako-san. Like, what is this, some sadistic role-play fantasy?”

“Miss Akane. Is there something you feel compelled to add to today’s lecture?”

“No, sir.”

“Alright then.”

“When,” murmurs Nene after a moment has passed.

“Two days ago, Saturday. At night, too. Right before all the buildings lock at nine. Makes you wonder who could’ve gotten away with it, at that time.”

And wonder Nene does.

“Hanako-kun,” she greets him, which is her first mistake.

She beat him out to the bins tonight. Instead of observing from the relative safety of her bedroom, Nene elected to stand out in the mid-October cold and wait for thirty minutes, with thinly-veiled anticipation that made her toes twitch and shiver with more than just the chill in the air.

He doesn’t expect her to be standing there. He certainly doesn’t expect her to say that name, but he manages it well. “Yashiro Nene,” he chirps, hefting one large black bag up and over his shoulder.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” She asks, which is her second mistake.

Laughter. He’s -- laughing, possibly for the first time Nene can remember after all the weeks she’s spent observing him. Quietly. Studiously. Obsessively, if she’s being honest with herself.

There is just something so illustrious about the darkness that clings to his alabaster skin like a magnetic field of sin and dread and enticing ambiguity. He is bright, but there are shadows that tuck themselves away into the hollow of his cheekbones, the crook of his lethal elbows, the depressions beneath his abrasive, beady eyes; he is slim, but there is an unannounced strength that emerges when he slinks out beneath the moon every night to fill the dumpster; he is dangerous, Nene knows he is dangerous. And yet, still she is drawn like a moth to flame. 

“I know too much,” she continues, “You’ve got no choice. It’s game over.”

His back is to her. Something about the absence of his ever-present grin sets her on edge. 

“There’s worse things than death.”

“Like what?” She prompts, which is the final nail in the coffin. 

Hanako turns around, then. The straggly lighting of the street lamp does little to properly illuminate his features, but Nene thinks that there is nothing that could obstruct this view from being permanently etched into her memory. He’s a basket case, hands coated in red, his teeth a stark strip of grim white amidst the impenetrable inky black of the city limits. Nene feels nauseous. Her feet move on their own accord, drawing her closer, impossibly close. Close enough to smell, to touch.

To burn.

“I can’t wait to show you, Yashiro,” says Hanako, mouth wide, eyes bright. 

Foresight is not one of Nene’s strong suits. Neither is thinking in retrospect. Seemingly the only kind of self-preserving thought Nene has mastered the art of is fight or flight, and even that survival instinct fails her at some notably terrible times. 

If she were a better person, she wouldn’t have ignored the red flags. No, that’s not quite right. She didn’t ignore them. She was excited by them; charged headlong straight through them like a bull incensed with bloodlust, throwing herself straight into the impending gore.

If she were a smarter person, Nene would have figured a way out of the spider’s web into which she’d so foolishly fallen. She would have escaped before it got too serious, too scary, with consequences all too material. She would have clawed her way back to the mundanity of her former life. She would have lived to tell the tale. Or, at least, this is what she likes to believe. It helps her sleep at night. 

If she were perhaps anyone other than who she is, Nene might have done better.

Unfortunately for her, she’s stuck with her own fate.

This is how she finds herself on a double date at McDonald’s. An empty, grimy, liminal McDonald’s.

At eight-thirty in the evening. On a Saturday.

“That’s so funny, Yugi-san,” hums Aoi into her medium seltzer water with lemon (ordered at the counter of this decrepit, run-down, understaffed McDonald’s. Really. She’s a wonder.) “I didn’t know you went to our school. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around, before? What program are you in?”

“Business and finance. And please, Amane is more than fine. No need for formalities. A friend of Yashiro’s is a friend of mine, yeah?”

Akane raises his double-patty in solidarity. “Hear, hear! Y’know, I quite like this guy, Yashiro. Where’d you dig him up at?”

“The dumpsters behind my building,” Nene answers truthfully.

The raucous laughter that rounds the table is undercut by a sharp pang of discomfort in Nene’s gut as she catches Hanko’s eye; for a moment, they are the only two in this restaurant, in this city, in this country, in this world, and the way he holds her gaze captive in a merciless chokehold lets Nene know that if he could keep it this way -- just them, forever, suspended in an indefinite, impenetrable solitude -- he would.

Give to me what you love the most, he’d told her last night at nine p.m, and I’ll return the favor.

So. They’re on a double date with Nene’s best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend. It’s rapidly nearing her own personal witching hour. It’s a Saturday. 

She recognizes the irony inherent in one’s last meal being soggy fries and a limp bun from a McDonald’s straddling the edge of the city limits, no help, no contact, no hope in sight. Just one long strip of highway to the east and an extreme abundance of shadowy, secretive forestry an innocuous ways away. 

“Nene-chan? You there?”

Blinking back into focus, Nene meets Aoi’s eyes. Her kind, gentle, sweet eyes. 

“I’m here,” says Nene. “I’m right here.”

It’s hard to believe that, though, as the conversation ebbs and flows around her and all she can do is soak it up and let it leave her like a grimy, worn out sponge. She feels old. She feels tired. She feels more alive than she ever has in her whole life and the evening has barely started.

“Good.” 

Aoi reaches across the table and risks her dainty elbows against the greasy surface, all just to grab Nene’s hands in her own smaller, paler, softer ones, and squeeze. “I’m glad.”

There is little else Nene can bring herself to do other than nod jerkily.

TO: XX Univeristy Class of 20XX, 20XX, 20XX, 20XX, VP XX, Shinjuku Police Department

Subject: Regarding The Bathroom Stall Incidents

Good Afternoon,

There has been much speculation and rumor spread amongst the student populace as of late. We’re sure you all are looking for real, conclusive answers.

Our administration writes today under the express permission of the Shinjuku Police Department to confirm the discovery of two bodies in the third floor bathroom of the Arts Center for Creative Development. This is the second instance of homicide on school grounds in what has now been confirmed to be a slew of serial murders, marked by the signature ‘Hanako-San of the Toilet.’

In light of recent events, all students and faculty are to adhere to the new curfew implemented Sunday morning, effective 8:00 p.m. tonight. The Arts Center for Creative Development has been shut down until further notice. Anyone caught trespassing will be subjected to a fine and potential lawful investigation.Class re-assignments will be posted on campus portal later today.

On behalf of the families of the victims, we ask that students refrain from circulating the names of the victims. Until legitimate identities can be confirmed by the police, neither the University nor any other unaffiliated party may comment conclusively on the identities of the victims at this time.

Stay safe, stay vigilant, and care for one another amidst this tumultuous period of fear and uncertainty.

Thank you.

XX UNIVERSITY

“You hungry?”

Nene remains silent. Squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut. 

“Because it’s been a while for me. I’m hungry. I’m starving.”

Curls her fingers into the comforter. Sinks into her mattress. Pretends she isn’t there, not really. This isn’t her life. It can’t be. It’s not. It’s not.

“It’s been McDonad’s these past few times, but we could switch it up, if you’re bored. You just say the word, Yashiro, and we can go anywhere. Anywhere you want. Pizza, Chinese, American, Traditional--”

Holds her breath and counts and waits and counts and waits and counts.

“Korean--”

And waits.

“--Mexican--”

And counts.

“--Italian--”

And--

“God,” Nene bursts out, shooting up from her corpse’s lay on her bed. “We just ate this weekend. It’s been three days, you can’t possibly be hungry again. Don’t you ever get full? Are you not satisfied?”

Hanako hates sitting in chairs. The only time he does so is when they go out to eat; and even then, he’s fidgeting the entire meal. With cagey, restless energy. Today he’s twisted pretzel-like on top of her work desk, one arm leant for balance against her lamp as the other fiddles idly with a pen and a sticky note. “Satisfaction is the furthest thing from why humans eat. Survival. Baser Instincts. Satiation, more like.”

“Okay,” she bargains, “well, I’m done. I’m full. I’ve had enough, Amane. Really.”

“Really-really?” He huffs out, amused.

“Really- really. I’m not hungry. I don’t think I can ever eat again in my life. So please, can we just--”

“But you were the one who killed her. Or don’t you remember?”

How couldn’t I, screams Nene’s stilled posture, her held breath, her glassy eyes.

“You held the knife.” He is smiling. How can he smile and say disgusting things such as these? It’s almost impossible to believe. Nene wouldn’t be able to wrap her head around the juxtaposition had she not already bore witness to Hanako’s grin present in much darker, much more twisted deeds than simply telling the horrible truth. 

“You stabbed her. In fact, you wanted to go first. And right before you took the plunge -- right before, just right before, remember, Yashiro? -- what did you say?”

That wretched, awful night comes flooding back into the forefront of her mind regardless of how hard she tries to suppress it. Sharp flashes of images awash in murky technicolor, stained a muted burgundy by her subconscious’s feeble attempts at guarding her sanity; Aoi’s long, slender legs quivering in fear from where they were bound together at her pretty, petite ankles; her grey face stripped of its normal flush by a slab of crudely-torn duct-tape; her luscious amethyst curls scattered around her quaking shoulders; and her eyes. 

Those eyes. The same eyes that twinkled at her, not just an hour before the tragedy, which then begged -- pleaded -- for a second chance. A last chance. Any chance at all.

“I’m hungry,” whispers Yashiro.

“Louder.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Did you mean it? Do you mean it?”

“I’m hungry!”

“Are you? Can you feel the craving? Does your stomach ache with it, Yashiro?”

“I’m hungry! I’m hungry! I’m hungry!”

“Exactly right. You’re just like me. We’re no different. We’re the same.” Hanako unfolds himself to hop off of the desk and approach the bed. She remains still as a statue, even as he touches her at her jugular, her solar plexus. A light, fleeting, feathery caress. “The same here, and here. And here, too,” a touch at her lips, then. He tastes chemical. Sterile. She fights the urge to lap at the pads of his fingers, and then forgets why she’s ever resisted in the first place. When it was so inevitable to fall into him, into Amane, into Hanako, into the strange abyss that lay between the two.

When he pulls away, it feels all too soon. Hanako slips something from his pocket and sticks it in the next free space on the Thought Wall:

Lunch is with Hanako @ 6:qkjewkn right now.

“Come on,” he beckons her. “Date night.”

“Double date?”

“Double date.”

“...McDonald’s?”

Hanako smiles at her like she’s just told him a terrible joke.

“McDonald’s.”

Maybe he was right, in the end. Maybe they were just alike.

Maybe Yashiro is just as bad as he was, or no better. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? 

When she asks the bathroom stall, she receives no reply. Not even when she calls his name three times -- Hanako, Hanako, Hanako! -- echoing and staccato and cacophonous and desperate and tragic in the worst of ways. He doesn’t answer not even when she shakes him, not even when the knife slips from her grasp and into the sea of blood that pools around her ankles, tepid and viscous, as though she’s wading through the world of the undead. 

What facts Nene knows definitely are these:

She is hungry. She will never not be hungry, now that she’s learned what an appetite she possesses.

The name on the bathroom stall is hers to keep.

And,

The jugular was easier to hit, in the end. 

All she needed was a solid hammer strike.

[misscammiedawn]

I hate how cinema has latched on to the idea that super speed must always be displayed via slow motion. It was cool in The Matrix but it's truly the opposite of what I wish to see in speedsters.

I wouldn't mind it so much if they were clever about it. For all Justice League is a terrible movie the scene of Superman tracking Flash's movements was wonderful because it was creative.

I need to know if anyone has ever done a speedster fight in a room with fluorescent lights where the fight is in pitch darkness for a few seconds at a time, utilizing the slow motion and the low frequency 60 flashes per second to create pockets of time where the opponents cannot see one another.

Is it scientifically accurate? Hell no. Outside of how Pratchett handled light at fractions of a second in Thief of Time, I do not expect people to do light in slow motion conditions right. But heavens it would be inventive and add something exciting to the typical tedium of a slow motion speedster fight.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | 2010: The Year We Make Contact (Hyams, 1984)

This is a great movie if you have a fondness for this era of science fiction cinema. There's a real tactility to the production design. The spaceship interiors here are not sleek like earlier space age designs nor more recent Apple-fied designs. They're boxy, rigidly geometric, the kind of thing you can imagine snapping in, sliding, thudding with a metallic sturdiness were you to place your hands upon the surfaces, maybe give them a little knock. The keyboards have a nice weight to the keystrokes and radiate a not too forceful glow in their RGB colours. The CRT monitors have a nice level of static. The lights are fluorescent, except the glow from the displays and consoles. The 'Scope cinematography captures these things with a great sense of visual depth, and a subtle chill with the hints of lens flare. You can practically feel the climate control in these ships, hear the thrumming of the ventilation. It's that kind of movie.

But I think this is kind of a great movie in any case. Obviously this doesn't live up to its predecessor, but it's kind of unfair to hold one of the high watermarks of the artform against a movie with more modest aims. The easy and arguably glib comparison would be that this has given up the ideals of the '60s and the ambitions to transcend, and is instead occupied with smaller-minded concerns. This is very much coloured by its Cold War context, with rapidly deteriorating U.S-Soviet relations providing background tension for the heroes' mission. But this rejects the zero-sum mentality of more jingoistic fare from this era, and presents a vision of cooperation and humanism and friendship. ("Listen, just because our governments are behaving like asses doesn't mean we have to. We're supposed to be scientists, not politicians.") And with such great actors filling in these roles like Roy Scheider, Helen Mirren, Bob Balaban, John Lithgow and Elya Baskin, it's hard not to become attached to them, and hard not to be at least a little moved by the end.

[boredtechnologist]

Bally Midway's "Tron" Arcade marquee

Released in 1982 by Bally Midway, "Tron" is an arcade game that was developed alongside the groundbreaking Disney film of the same name. Both the film and the game were instrumental in showcasing the potential of computer graphics in entertainment, making "Tron" a landmark in both cinematic and video game history. The game itself is not just a tie-in but an extension of the film's aesthetic and themes, exploring the concept of living inside a digital world, a notion that was revolutionary at the time.

Technological and Historical Context

The early 1980s marked a period of rapid evolution in video games, with developers exploring new ways to integrate storytelling and advanced graphics into gameplay. "Tron" was released during the golden age of arcade games, a time characterized by intense creativity and technological advancement. The film "Tron" was notable for being one of the first major motion pictures to make extensive use of computer-generated imagery (CGI), and the arcade game sought to bring that visual style to the gaming world.

Gameplay and Design

"Tron" consists of four distinct mini-games, each based on different scenes from the movie. The games include:

Light Cycles: Perhaps the most iconic of the four, this game has players controlling a light cycle that leaves a solid trail behind it. The goal is to trap the other cycles with your trail while avoiding walls and the trails of other cycles.

Grid Bugs: Players must destroy grid bugs and clear a path to the I/O tower within a set time.

Battle Tanks: In this mini-game, players control a tank and navigate a maze-like battlefield, destroying enemy tanks.

MCP Cone: The objective is to break through blocks spinning around the MCP's cone by firing at them, without getting hit by returning fire.

These mini-games are accessed from a central hub, a design choice that not only provided variety but also reflected the segmented nature of the digital world depicted in the film.

Graphical Innovations

"Tron" utilized colorful and detailed raster graphics, which were advanced for the time and provided a visual fidelity that mirrored the high-tech, neon-infused aesthetic of the film. The game was one of the first to use a blacklight in the cabinet, which made its fluorescent colors stand out, enhancing the visual experience and drawing players in arcades.

Control and Interface

The game featured a unique control scheme, including a rotary dial for aiming and a joystick for movement, which were innovative at the time. This setup allowed for precise control, which was necessary for navigating the game's various challenges.

Sound and Narrative Elements

"Tron" featured pioneering sound design, with audio that closely mimicked the electronic score of the film. This integration of sound helped immerse players in the digital world of Tron, enhancing the game's futuristic feel.

Impact and Legacy

"Tron" was critically acclaimed and commercially successful, becoming one of the most memorable arcade games of the 1980s. Its success helped solidify the concept of games as a viable promotional tool for films and demonstrated the potential for cross-media convergence.

Technologically, "Tron" pushed forward the notion that video games could be both visually stunning and complex in design. The game's emphasis on multiple types of gameplay within a single cabinet anticipated later developments in arcade and console gaming, where multi-genre games became more common.

Conclusion

The arcade game "Tron" stands as a significant achievement in the history of video gaming, notable for its technological innovation, distinctive design, and its role in the broader context of 1980s pop culture. By bridging the gap between cinema and video gaming, "Tron" not only captured the imagination of a generation but also pointed the way toward the future of interactive entertainment, where the lines between different media would continue to blur. As a historical artifact and as a piece of entertainment, "Tron" remains a fascinating study in the convergence of technology, art, and commercial entertainment.

[shellibisshe]

— what do your ocs yearn for & ocs as silken poems

tagged by @corvosattano @chuckhansen @shegetsburned @nightbloodraelle and @roofgeese to take these uquizzes for some clowns!

I’m a little late so no tags, but if you want to do these, tag me!

to be seen, to be understood without having to speak

you yearn to be understood, but more importantly, to understand yourself. your emotions are often tumultuous, and tend to go from one feeling to another with strength and speed. others may call you disloyal or two-faced, but your feelings are valid, no matter how fleeting or impermanent they are. because of this, you often hurt the ones you love even if it is the last thing you want. pain feels like a permanent fixture in your life and that there seems to be no end to your behaviours. you are fire and you burn. at least it is a beautiful sight.

I Had a Dream About You

surrealist dream piece but in a very homoerotic and fluorescent lit way. reminds me of going to waffle house at three am with my friends, or late night road trips. about the idealization of the good wild moments you have with people you love but also about the harshness of living outside of those moments. also kind of about crime, which i think is sexy. bonus poem: The Worm King's Lullaby

These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn’t have to / clean them up like this.

Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

to be free, to follow your heart

you yearn to follow your heart and your passions. you feel constrained by your current situation and life, and that you have yet to fulfill your potential. if you could, you would pack up your bags and take a train to the countryside or the city to explore the world you only see in cinema and literature.

Scheherazade

"Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake / and dress them in warm clothes again." poem about the terrible and beautiful intensity of love. makes me feel like i'm sharing a space with a significant other and we have many new and beautiful moments together. and it doesn't fix everything but it makes it easier, bonus poem: Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. / These, our bodies, possessed by light. / Tell me we'll never get used to it.

Shame means you're guilty, like the rest of us, / but you think you're better than we are. Maybe you / are. What would a better me paint? There is no / new me, there is no old me, there's just me, the same / me, the whole time. Vanity, vanity, forcing your / will on the world. Don't try to make a stronger wind, / you'll wear yourself out. Build a better sail. You / want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

[diamonddiancie10]

Introducing Arketan Kecleon and Neoleon, Electric/Steam-types!

They have the new ability Fluorescent, where a Pokémon's accuracy will decrease when it comes into contact with Neoleon.

Kecleons weren't really seen in Arketa before the invention of electricity, but have become a common sight in cities since. Their change in appearance seems to be in response to the cold climate and polar nights, heating up the gases in their bodies with electricity to stay warm and find eachother when it's dark. Despite being so new, they have become a staple part of the aesthetic of Arketa's big cities.

Based on chameleon bone fluorescence, neon signs, and the Draken-skylten of the former Draken Cinema in Stockholm. Shiny:

[theharpermovieblog]

#HARPERSMOVIECOLLECTION

2023

www.tumblr.com/theharpermovieblog

🎃HALLOWEEN LIST 2023🎃

I watched Street Trash (1987)

Never seen this, always wanted to. I'm in for what promises to be a gross-out good time.....or so I'm told.

A liquor store owner starts selling contaminated booze to the homeless community without knowing it has disastrous side effects.

Where would we be without splatter and body horror? Nowhere.

These are sub genres of horror that are often the most effective at turning our stomachs and sticking with us after we leave the theater.

Street Trash is a body horror which is alot like a Troma film, in the way it holds high the gore and wild insanity of pure.....well......pure trash.

Director J. Michael Muro works mainly as a cinematographer, and his talent for it is evident here. The movie features excellent camera work and quite a nice bit of cinematography. There's some really good shots here.

The plot concerns the homeless and the overwhelming amount of Vietnam Vets. Is the movie trying to make a statement? Maybe. But it never really casts any group of people in a good or sympathetic light. I can't say I really walked away liking any of the characters. They're mostly homeless and veteran characters who feel more despicable than they should, which works okay for the problematic comedy they're going for.

What makes Street Trash stand out from other horror flicks is it's balance of a unique horror style. The overuse of bright colorful slime only adds to the weird and disgusting feeling of the movie. People breakdown into fluorescent greens and purples and blues and yellows, melting into acidic paint splatter and sizzling bones. On top of that, street Trash uses a heightened version of the real world to create a film designed to make the audience offended. I mentioned Troma films earlier, and if you've seen a Troma film, you know the purposeful offensive type of stuff I'm talking about. While it's not my favorite style of in your face cinema, I'd argue it has it's place, and I'd argue Street Trash is the better version of a Troma film, simply because it's technically better.

Its fun in places, but it's dirty atmosphere and it's lack of direction began to bum me out a bit. There's not much in the way of a main character and every character in it kind of sucks, and it's view of the world is funny at first and then it gets depressing. Then you realize how much it wants you to laugh at slurs and sexual assault and homeless people. It's just not really enjoyable when watching through today's more progressive and empathetic lens.

The special effects are gross and cool.