#frederick frankenstein imagine

[rosesloveletters]

lucky star.

Pairing: Dr. Frederick Frankenstein x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 6,645

Warnings: sexual content / smut

Summary: ‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’ // You had been burned before, but never like this. // Frederick and Reader spend a loving, passionate night alone inside the castle.

Author's Note: Hopefully you all can forgive me for taking a small break from writing Wonka fics to write for another of Gene's roles. If you haven't seen Young Frankenstein, please go watch it. It's so damn funny and Gene is so attractive.

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

The cold air seeped down into your bones, penetrating your thin nightgown the same way the moonlight cut through the clouds and bathed the dank night in a milky haze. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and the cold air bled through the castle walls. December was a brutal month to be up in the mountains; the winters here seemed to last a lifetime. 

What little reprieve you had was the crackling fireplace in your quiet bedroom. You took up residency on the hearth, the stone-cold floors beneath your bare feet sending tremors through you, but it was nothing you wouldn’t suffer so long as you were able to stand before the fire. 

This was how he found you most nights, your silhouette red-rimmed and glimmering from the firelight as each fragile little flame arched in a furious, swirling dance. Encased in stone, the flames could not travel, but you imagined them swallowing you whole. 

Your body was a block of ice and you feared it would take a decade just to thaw your heart, but his presence melted the frost on your fingertips and got your blood pumping again. Such was your complicated relationship between this professor turned mad scientist. 

The lick of the flame never heated you up like he did. 

“Oh, you’re still there?” He asked in an amused tone as he entered your chambers, already shedding his coat to prepare for the long night ahead. He must’ve been exhausted, though you had no idea what he was working on down there in the laboratory. He abated your questions with affection, arms encircling your body like the flames you dreamed of and shielding you from the cold. 

You turned just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, “every night,” you responded and turned back to the fire. The flames reflected in your dilated pupils danced in a blaze of infernal passion as though you were lit from within. 

You heard him shuffling around behind you, but you paid him no mind. The flames enchanted you; you always dreamed in noire, but for the first time you could see in the color he had shown you. 

Soft violin music permeated your senses and you suppressed a full-bodied shudder. 

It was as if you had been summoned out of thin air, stagnant temptation veiled over you. 

With your curves accentuated in firelight, you resembled the moon in all her shimmering, shivering opalescence. In her craters all alone, you were a woman scorned, a maiden murdered in cold blood, a ghost of herself digging her own grave to be buried alive, but inside of the castle you were unapologetically yourself. You belonged here as much as any of the other residents, a misfit to the rest of the world, a crisis of consequence, the quintessence of vice and virtue and all alone in every way except physical. 

Your ears rang from the haunting harmony as you waited for warmth to come. 

It finally did, in the form of your lover’s arms wrapped around you. 

You saw less and less of him these days and you suspected a new achievement of his sometime soon, but he kept quiet about what it was. It was much easier to pretend he was falling out of love with you than to conjure any idea of what he had been doing for the last several days because in a state like this he was much more difficult to study than any lecture he might’ve once given. You would have gratefully taken down notes from him rather than pick apart his brain for the learning material. 

If your love was ancient history, then why weren’t you hanging up in a museum yet? 

As much time as he spent away from you it was imaginable that he forgot you existed, yet he always came back to you at night. 

It was all just an idea, the seed of all science, which bore roots of hypotheses and germination in study and, if one were lucky, might someday bloom into spectacular results. 

“I suppose you’ve still got no intention of letting me know what it is that you’re working on down there?” 

The way in which his arms tightened around your body indicated the affirmative, but you were always going to be curious. Your tired game of pretending was no longer enough to satisfy your hunger for the truth and he knew it. His tender love would not sate you forever and if he didn’t swiftly act, you might begin to demand more. Not that he minded, really. Being wanted was pleasant and not something he was used to. His romantic relationships were stinted and tense, stifled and repressed. He succumbed to your advances and gave answers to your questions ultimately because you made him a priority. 

He felt safe with you. No more longing glances at women who did not want him or elbow touches with the supposed “love of his life” because she didn’t want to mess up her outfit. He treated you with respect and with dignity because you offered him the same. He did not have to fit himself into a pre-cut spot in your life. You molded him into your heart, enveloping him in your love and holding him close to your chest because he meant that much to you. You wanted him there and he could feel it, all his nerve-endings alight with the sacred promise of love and mutual want and connection. 

A gentle chuckle came from him and he leaned in close, lips by your ear, “I promise to tell you more about it soon, my dear. I feel that I am nearing a breakthrough.”

A breakthrough or a breakdown, you were uncertain which word best suited where he was headed. His wild curls appeared more and more disheveled each day because he couldn’t be bothered to style his hair when more important things weighed on his mind. His work consumed him to the point that when he dragged himself back to you at night, his mind was still buzzing with ideas and he seemed distant even though he did not mean to be. 

Sometimes you caught him up reading long after you would have retired to bed for the night. When you thought he was sleeping beside you, he was poring over case studies and medical journals by candlelight. When your bed was cold and the spot beside you that he always occupied was empty, you would find him fast asleep at his desk, the rise and fall of his shoulders and gentle snores indicative of his peaceful slumber. 

On nights like those would you guide him back to bed where he would curl in beside you and hold you close, sheltered through the night in his embrace until morning light touched your face. 

Other nights were fitful and full of restlessness and nightmares. He would twitch and quiver, plagued by images no man was ever meant to see. He wouldn’t tell you what he dreamed of, even less about what frightened him, but you had reason to believe that his brain tormented him on occasion, such was the case of most, but with deep intellect came a price and he was much crueler to himself than any colleague of his might be. 

He needed to unwind, to take comfort in closeness and sanctity from insanity. 

He would work himself to death like this and you would be damned if you were to let that happen. 

“That’s good news, darling,” your gentle response made him grin and you could feel the slight upturn of his lips against your cheek, “but do you think we might not speak about work tonight?”

“Well, if not that, then what shall we speak about?” 

As he asked the question, he began to pull you in. Your bodies connected and with you flush against him you could feel his arousal, unabashedly betraying his aching need for you now more than he had felt in a lifetime for anyone else. 

The pungent scent of frosted Frasier fir, candle smoke and scintillating wit clung to him, lingering like twilight hues on the longest day of the year. You inhaled, apt to lose yourself in him the same way he lost himself in his work, only now did you understand that there was much more to it than that. His work was important, but you were his love and that took up more space in him than the chunk of matter between his ears and the story of your lives filled more pages than any of the studies in his medical journals. 

A night off would do him some good; for once, he could devote enough time to engage in a passionate, loving affair rather than a quick frolic and he would do well to remember how much he had always wanted something like this. 

He wanted you now and would not wait. You made him forget who he was for a while and that was such a beautiful thing. 

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, a man whose names’ reputation preceded him, had learned that he could only put so much distance between himself and the truth. As absurd as it was to say, he had perhaps stumbled upon a secret that could not be contained, a truth so groundbreaking, a scientific discovery so unbelievable that it had to be believed to be seen…

Except, currently, the only thing he was seeing were blurred lines and the gothic undertones of lust which tinted his periphery. His lips slanted over yours and the modest friction from his wispy, sorrel mustache scraped deliciously against your cupid’s bow. The wet graze of your tongue sent a shiver through him and elicited a small grunt as his large hands swept down the length of your body and grabbed your hips. 

Your pelvis ground deliciously against his and he groaned, “you’ll be the death of me, my love.” 

Your closeness was the finger on the hairpin trigger of his desire. He felt like his aorta might burst at any moment and so, using every second he hoped he had left, he savored the warm press of your body on his and devoured every inch of your exposed neck. He was gentle at first, taking care not to mark your delicate flesh, but soon his intrinsic carnality corrupted him and he could not help himself from sinking his teeth into your skin. 

You let out a breathy gasp and could feel him grinning against the column of your neck.

Your arms were around him, holding him to you mostly to steady yourself because if your hands had nothing to hold onto, you would have fallen to your knees for reasons beyond just lacking support in your current state. He would have approved of it now, although he was squeamish about it at any other time. He would have even encouraged you, with hands in your hair on the back of your head to guide you in pleasuring him, but no. 

He wanted more. His body demanded more and he would have it so long as you were willing. He was tired of being asked to wait, his resolve worn down to nothing because he had gone without for far too long. 

As a physician, he knew well the needs of the human body and the satisfaction that came from indulging one’s desires. He did not think on it all too much, but whenever he found himself alone and steeped in eroticism and longing, he had no choice. Everything you did turned him on and his cock throbbed at the thought of him burying it inside you. 

It was inescapable. No matter how often he changed course or preoccupied his mind with other things, his thoughts always returned to you. 

He moved you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees coming into contact with the edge of the mattress and you dropped down onto it, pulling him on top of you. He collided with your body, an animalistic growl clawing its way out of his throat as his hips grinded against yours. 

This was unlike him, a version of himself that never saw the light of day – he kept it in a cage and fed it blood; only carnal desire was enough to sate its hunger. 

He dragged his teeth along your neck as your fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons. He couldn’t take his lips off you, he had to kiss every inch of you. He needed it far more than he could communicate through words and luckily for him you did not ask him to. You were busy undressing him while he worshipped your body with his mouth, his tongue tasting your succulent flesh as he inhaled your heady scent. Your body was ripe for him to take a bite and he would devour every bit of you until there was nothing left to satisfy him. 

He sat up enough to toss his jacket aside, undershirt now open to reveal the hint of bare skin and a dusting of hair several shades darker than the curls on his head. He looked ethereal in the low light, fire silhouetting him, and the edges of his body glistened as his dark pupils glittered and burned like glowing embers. A wildfire of its own raged within him as he was driven mad with lust. He kissed you feverishly, lips and teeth clashing with yours as he was anything but gentle with you in this moment. 

His kisses were rough, but his delicate appearance contrasted his movements. His long, thick lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, accentuating his shimmeringly blue eyes that, even in such low light, glistened like gemstones. He had the softest features of any man you had ever seen and you would have paused to admire him if only he wasn’t so tempestuous in his urgency for you. 

His hands slid up underneath your dress, fingers tantalizingly rubbing against the crotch of your panties and along your inner thighs. He unashamedly touched you and a smiled graced his lips as you moaned for him, arching your back as your hands splayed on his chest, scrabbling for purchase but you were hopelessly plummeting into the pit of your own desire with nothing to grab onto and no way to cushion your fall. 

He rubbed you a little bit through your panties, but it was not enough. 

He wanted to feel your wetness saturate the soft cotton, however, it would be much more appealing to him if his fingers were to glisten with your juices instead of allowing all your sweet honey to leak into your underwear. He ached to feel your tight heat clench around his long fingers as they curled inside you, delicately massaging your sweet spot as he guided you towards a climax. It was a boost to his ego, knowing he could pleasure you that way and with little to no difficulty. He was a physician, after all, and had had many lessons in human anatomy. He knew what he was doing and, though he would never say it, was prideful over the fact that he could bring you to orgasm with just his fingers and a few heated, teasing whispers. 

Even if you were defiant and tried to hold out, those fingers of his were your weakness and he knew best how to use them. A stubborn girl presented a challenge and that interested him; Frederick wanted excitement and connection, not just clinical sex. 

His fingers hooked under your panties and teased them down your legs, watching you squirm as you anticipated what might happen next. It was up to him to decide and the thought made him dizzy. 

Your excitement was palpable. With sweating palms, you clutched onto the thin bedsheets and peered up at him, a halo of fire backlighting his frizz of curls. You were unable to keep still, thighs rubbing together in anticipation of his large, warm hands that would spread them apart. Your full-bodied blush was crushed into existence by rose petals and rouge and your exquisite form buzzed with giddiness and euphoria as he tenderly pulled your legs apart and nestled between them, shoulders against your thighs for support. You were hesitant to follow his lead, but you trusted him to care for you the same as he cared for his reputation.

He began almost immediately, wasting no time. Neck bent, head between your legs, he shamelessly suckled your clit and swilled your sweet nectar with instinctive, primordial hunger. 

The doctor tasted you with insatiable vigor, his tongue lapping greedily at your glistening folds as you squirmed and writhed on the bed. You were grappling with yourself, attempting to stave off your own needs as your fingers splayed and flexed on the sheets as though you were imagining grasping onto him instead of the linens. 

You wanted him, that much had been determined, however, you could see no end to his brutal self-satisfaction; he would take as much from you as you were willing to give, not because he had no thought of returning the favor, but because he had deemed himself a dying man long ago and you were his cure. This was what would set him free, seal his fate and claim his immortality, not whatever lined the pages of myriad medical journals he tutored himself with. 

That did not matter. Perhaps this was all he had ever wanted: a beautiful love to have and to hold, who would, most importantly, meet and master his needs. 

‘The needs of any man,’ he thought in defense of himself, ‘it isn’t just about love or sex…it’s science.’ 

That was what the young doctor told himself, especially during intimate moments such as these, when he found himself struggling to maintain consciousness as his tongue breached your center and delved into your core until your gentle moans crested into the shimmering, shivering crescendo of an orgasm. 

You were on the cusp of one already. 

You peered down at him and gasped; Frederick was a vision even when he wasn’t knelt between your legs, but such a position afforded you the best view of his facial features and he was a sight to behold. 

His long lashes fluttered against his high cheekbones, the light from the fire defining the subtle curves and valleys of his face, the creases of concentration on his forehead and the swell of his parted lips as they suctioned around your clit. He pressed one finger inside of you, followed in quick succession by a second digit as he gently stretched you. 

You moaned as his fingers scissored inside you and his tongue delicately teased and flicked your sensitive bundle of nerves. Tension coiled in your abdomen as you could feel the bud of an orgasm beginning to grow. 

Despite his lust for your body, his mind was focused only on your pleasure. No paltry sum would be enough to make him use his advanced knowledge for just his benefit; he loved you and even though he could only stave off his most primal needs for so long, there would be no mistaking his devotion. 

He pulled away and his parted lips glistened with saliva and your juices. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, savoring the essence of you left behind, “oh, my darling,” he crooned, hand reaching out and fingers burying into your soft hair, “oh, my only love…”

When he uttered those words to you, he meant them. 

You would not dismiss him whenever he made such professions of love. His words resonated within you, cut through you like a sharp scalpel through soft skin, peeled back the muscle and tissue that clung to your ribcage to nestle deep within your chest cavity, taking up residency inside your beating heart. Everything that he said made sense, as though you had been the one his words were always meant for. 

His outfit was disheveled to a state comparable to his wild mane which stuck out in curlicue flyaway strands going in all directions. 

Your heart was beating rapidly, pumping blood through your veins and carrying his love for you outwards and to every part of your body. Your core ached and throbbed with need and your lower lip jutted in a pout of disappointment at being denied your first orgasm. 

Frederick watched you squirm with a hooded gaze, taking in your exquisite beauty as you arched your back enticingly and rolled your hips despite the lack of friction, “May we continue, my dear? I’d say you’re as ready as ever…”

You felt far away from yourself as you nodded and nothing else was going through your mind other than connecting with your lover, physically, emotionally and mentally. 

He had a pleased expression on his face when you consented and he stripped off his undershirt, exposing his bare chest. You sat up and reached for him, warm hands caressing his stomach, his sides, his broad chest. Every inch of him burned with intense passion and desire and his heart skipped a beat with every touch of your hands on his skin. He took a shaky breath, entranced by the way you held him close, needy for his affection and craving more of his love. 

He bent his head and nipped at your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. 

His dominance pervaded your senses and hindered your ability to reciprocate in as many ways as you would have liked. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on his lower back as he sat up a bit straighter and began unbuckling his belt. You were on your knees, the soft bed linens beneath your legs was comfortable as you nibbled and kissed his neck, drawing sweet, almost feminine moans from him. He could hardly focus on what he was doing because the touch of your lips was too intoxicating. He was drunk off your love and every bit of attention you afforded him stilled his fingers as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. 

After a moment, you had to help him. You tenderly popped open each button for him before your hand slipped inside and cupped him through his underwear. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a shrill whine; your lips turned upwards into a smirk and you leant over him, biting at his sensitive neck as your fingers danced over the length of his aching erection. 

“Oh ho ho, darling…” he grasped your wrist, but did not try to stop you, “oh, how you tease me…”

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tease him in this state, but he could stand to wait a bit longer for you. As maddening as it was, you were enjoying the foreplay far too much to let it end yet. 

You quieted him with a kiss as sweet as the tulips in spring, stifling his moans of pleasure as your hand slid beneath the barrier of his underwear and held his rigid flesh in your hand. He mewled in ecstasy as you gave him a firm stroke. 

Your lips broke apart and he pressed his forehead against yours, “darling, I can’t wait any longer…you’re killing me.”

An unsurprising choice of words, given the status of his most recent experiments, though you would be none the wiser. 

If there were a way to achieve immortality and worldwide acclaim for his scientific achievements in the medical field, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein would find it; he would devote the rest of his life to such a cause if it meant he could spend an eternity in your loving embrace, to be brought to completion by your hands and your body. 

“I’m all yours, Frederick,” you whispered to him and you could’ve sworn the flames inside of the fireplace leapt for joy at that statement, “I always have been.”

He groaned at your words and his manhood throbbed in your hand, aching to be inside you. He nosed along your jaw, snuffling and nuzzling your cheek as his lips pressed kisses onto your face. His body was filled with love and that was what kept him alive, not the heart that was beating inside his chest. 

His head dropped down to your chest and his lips attached to the swell of your breasts that peeked out from the top of your dress. He murmured against your skin, fingers snagging on your dress as he fought to pull it off you, but your touch on his most sensitive area rendered him useless beyond simple measures of attention. For you to have isolated control over a mind as intelligent and focused as his was some feat and had you a mind to control him, it would have been easily done. 

However, the only control you had was already slipping away now that the cloying desperation had begun to take hold of you.

You gave his manhood several more deliberate strokes, savoring the little noises he made as he tried not to lose control. 

When you removed your hands, his cheeks were flushed and his chest heaved as he dragged air into his once-barren lungs which now bore flowers, petals of pining and passion blooming in this season of love and making it difficult for him to catch his breath. 

He grinned as you and he made eye contact and you were submerged into those icy blue depths, treading water out there in the deepest, lapis lazuli pools.

“And I am yours, my dear,” he whispered as he cupped your face, thumbprints kissing the rosiness into your cheeks, “now and forever.”

His kiss seared through you, sweeping the love back into you that had spilled out through the cracks in your soul. You were mesmerized by the feel of his mouth hovering over yours, breaths mingling and lingering between the two of you like morning fog between fir trees. 

You were one already, even without the connection between your two bodies, although that was to come as Frederick slipped away from you long enough to remove the rest of his clothing while you did the same. 

Completely naked, you were warm clay to be molded by his steady, capable hands. 

You hoped Frederick would shape you in the image of the love he had for you so that you could kiss his chiseled ivory cheeks, bringing your stone-cold lover to life.

He hesitantly touched your body, reverent in the way that he let his hands gently hold your hips and guide you beneath him on the bed. 

However many times he had done this, when he was with you it always felt like the first time. In truth, his first time was not what he had imagined: awkward, halting and less than satisfying for both him and his partner, but more than likely it had been a deep disappointment to her rather than to him. He cringed at the thought whenever it surfaced unbidden and stowed it away with the rest of his deeply embarrassing faux pas. 

The inexperience of his youth was not something he could fault himself for, as is the same for anyone, but now that he was older and wiser and had become a more experienced lover, he finally felt like he had earned the right to claim such a lovely woman as you. He had earned his right to be your lover, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, but in death he was determined that you should not have to part. 

Frederick made a mental note to put everything he had into solving the mystery of life after death, to secure yours and his immortality so that neither of you might face such sadness as to outlive the other. 

Nothing so melancholy would reach either of you tonight. 

Frederick loomed over you, catching your gaze as you wriggled into position beneath him. Your legs wrapped snugly around his hips and he propped himself on his forearms so that he did not put his full weight on you. 

He reached between your bodies, taking himself in hand as he guided himself to your entrance. He pushed into you, taking note of your slight wince and the way your body twitched as he entered you as gently as he could manage. Your wetness was the perfect natural lubricant and he had prepared you quite nicely to be able to accommodate him. 

One of his hands took hold of yours and squeezed, grounding you as he finally claimed your body. You held fast to him, your lips parted in a silent expression of pleasure as you adjusted to the fullness of him being inside you. 

Frederick eased into you slowly, taking care not to hurt you or cause you any unnecessary discomfort. If he could avoid it, Frederick would not ever bring you any pain. He wanted you to want this as much as he did and so he took his time with you, being as careful as he could be. Your pleasure meant as much to him as his own; he would have felt terrible if you got no enjoyment out of your shared intimacy. 

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked breathily as he bit back a moan. 

He stilled once he had slid in to the hilt, awaiting your approval and permission. 

You let go of his hand and instead wrapped your arms around his body, clinging to him fully so that he felt the reciprocation of the love he was giving you, “I am, darling,” your whispered against his skin as you kissed his shoulder, making his eyelids flutter as his eyes rolled back.

He groaned, wanting to let instinct take over so that he could finally, finally have his way with you. His hips curved and bunched as he resisted the urged to let go and lose control of himself, but he did not allow himself to move until he sensed you were getting impatient. Slowly, carefully, he began to pull out, only to thrust back into you with a deliberate snap of his hips. 

The initial force of his thrust forced the breath from your lungs and imparted to you the desperation behind his every move. 

Frederick was a romantic at heart. 

Even though he was still just a man, his craving for love rather than sex for the sake of having sex made moments like this feel even more potent with raw emotion and need he had for his partner. He had made mistake after mistake in his past relationships and he was determined not to make a mess of things like he once had done. There was a sense of predestination between you and Frederick, as if the two of you were meant to be together before either of you were aware. Your paths only crossed because you were brave enough to grasp the string of fate and follow it until you came face to face with him. 

You believed it now to be the case because your soul had become magnetized, gravitating to him as he now became your orbital center. 

It was as if the planets and the fates had aligned to bring you together; you did not like clichés except for ones which reminded you of Frederick because no matter how many times those words were spoken, they rang true for the two of you. 

Frederick quickened his thrusts once you were properly adjusted to him. 

He glided into you with ease, taking care to soak up all your moans and pleasurable sounds as your bodies moved in unison. 

You clawed ferociously at his back, digging in your nails as his maddening pace awoke some deeply instilled, hidden carnality buried within your soul. Your kisses were reckless and rough, tying his tongue down with promises whispered in sloping cursive. 

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed throughout the room as you made love, the gentle groans and moans he emitted bringing you closer and closer to your release. You caressed him, gentle with him now as you wanted to convey to him that he was special. 

‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’

The beauty of stars was meant to be admired from afar; inside of his eyes did they shimmer, but up close, they blazed. 

You had been burned before, but never like this. 

You gripped onto his hair, giving it a gentle tug, which made him groan even louder and his next thrust was perceptibly harder as he seemed to like when you pulled on his hair. 

“I love you, Frederick…”

The confession spilled out of you in a flood as you anticipated the light in his eyes leaving him as all the color drained out once the weight of your words set in. 

“I love you, too,” he panted, repeating those words back to you with no hesitation, as though he had been waiting to hear you say it. 

It still felt like the first time, as you had often been told was the truth with true love. You had not believed in it until you met Frederick, though even now it seemed foreign to your system. Perhaps it was that you were still in shock after plunging deep into those electric pools of blue, but you shone just as bright as the galaxies in his eyes and if this was love then you would have looked for him in every lifetime, anticipating the feeling he evoked in you the first time you met. 

He wanted you too, waded through tide pools and wept away the storm clouds in his eyes so he could see clear enough to find you. 

He clutched you to him, his rhythm faltering as he crept closer and closer to release. His moans took on a higher pitch and you savored his whimpering as the heaviness of your own release had sworn you to silence. 

At last, did he coax a moan from you and, once the dam had been broken, you were unable to silence the sounds which spilled tantalizingly from your lips like honey drizzle from spoon to teacup. 

You and Frederick were finally one with each other, two halves of a whole like a split peach fitted back together, the fruit of your consummation leaking juices from your pierced flesh. 

You devoured him, holding him close as your moans became louder and more drawn out until pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave and plunged you into euphoria. 

Your orgasm spread outward throughout your body and your skin tingled, your core throbbing as he continued his thrusts until he released inside of you, announcing his climax with a soft cry of completion. Several short bursts of heat filled you, warming you from the inside as he came, his lips parted in sweet bliss and relief. 

His wiry, tufts of fluffy curls framed his round face and you gazed at him in amazement, in awe over what you had just done as well as his beauty. Sweat clung to his brow and he took several shuddering breaths before he was able to move again and pull out of you, taking up the spot by your side as he reached over you with one arm and brought you in against his side. 

You curled up against him, letting him place a lingering kiss on your shoulder as he held you in the dark room. Your sweaty bodies glistened, dewy, slick skin sticking to each other, a perfect testament to what had just taken place. 

Frederick’s body was a galaxy and every freckle on his skin formed a different constellation. 

You wondered idly which one were you a part of and how many ways there were to connect them. 

The graze of his nose on your arm made you turn your head to look at him and he was smiling at you as he held you. 

‘The human body is meant to hold another,’ he had told you once, ‘look at how perfectly our hands fit together…how easy it is for me to hold you in my arms.’

He was right, it seemed, for you fit perfectly against his body like you were made just for him, as though the universe crafted you as each other’s perfect lover.

There was no such thing as perfection, but what you shared was as close to that as a human being could ever get and, if Frederick had anything to do with it, he swore that he would find a way to share eternity with you even if it meant being buried with you till you were nothing more than two skeletons in each other’s arms. 

An end which did not have to be so grim, yet Frederick accepted that as a mere part of who he was. 

As he swept you into his arms now, pulled you on top of his chest as the two of you giggled and laughed like lovestruck teenagers, Frederick knew that he would do anything for you, even accept that he could not outrun his fate. 

He was a Frankenstein and some things could not be helped, but with you by his side it all became worth it and suddenly he could not understand why he had fought it so hard, other than the fact that he had something else to prove rather than letting himself be defined by the past, his fate determined by those who lived before him. 

His love for you cancelled out the afflictions to his spirit, the blows he had taken from turning a blind eye to what he only hoped now might be true. 

In this place, he would find it. 

He was on the cusp of making such a miraculous discovery, that much was he certain. 

Perhaps it should have concerned him that he was chasing something so morbid, but this dream, once realized, could mean the difference between life and death, between her heart and his. He was not doing this for the wrong reasons now, and maybe that would be enough for it to work. 

Perhaps that was the key to unlocking his grandfather’s scientific masterpiece. 

Your gentle kisses on his cheek comforted him as he slipped even deeper into thought, contemplating what he had that his colleagues did not: love. 

That was the difference. 

Science was supposed to be unbiased and supported by fact rather than feeling, but an impossibility transcended bias and factual evidence; would it not make some sliver of sense that if all things possible were supported by scientific evidence, that all things impossible were only able to be maintained by those who were bold enough to challenge science itself? 

Frederick’s peers were not led by love as he was, otherwise, it might not have been the name ‘Frankenstein’ that was known by many yet understood by few.

As you settled atop Frederick with the side of your face against his bare chest, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you as your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, you were content to be one of those few. 

Frederick held you to him, hands splayed lovingly on your back. 

He had never felt more himself than in this moment; for once in his life, he was proud of who he was. 

He did not think it would be the last time he felt that way, especially with you by his side. 

As the two of you drifted off, snuggled in the embrace of one another, you slipped into what would be and let the rest crumble away. 

You loved Frederick far too much to let yourself be consumed with worry for what was to come. 

Whatever you faced, you would face it together.

With love guiding you, nothing could come in between you, not even death. 

[jujujulia]

Research Trip - Tate Britain

Finding connections

We had to write down 4 words that connect to our initial ideas/ interests and find something in the gallery that relates back to one of the 4 words. The four words I chose were:

“Memory” • “Layers” • “Imagination” • “Childhood”

I found myself really drawn to Zeinab Saleh’s paintings (top left). To me her paintings felt like positive memories because of how soft and layered they are, as you examine her paintings more you notice more details about them. For “Layers” (top right) I chose Richard Hamilton’s “Fashion Plate”, because it’s collage but also because of how this specific piece deconstructs women’s fashion photography creating a sort of “Frankenstein’s monster” from the women.

I chose Peter Doig’s “Echo Lake” (bottom left) for “imagination” because of how different the painting looks when you take a picture of it, it looks very blurry and different on camera but in real life there was something clearer about it when you viewed it with your own eyes. I equated it to trying to get an idea from your imagination out into the “real world” and how it get warped when trying to translate it. Finally, for “Childhood” I chose “Pastoral” by Frederick Cayley Robinson because this painting carries a lot of symbolism of rebirth and nostalgia.

Making Connections

While in a random room I was immediately drawn to this painting by Gluck, titled “Flora’s Cloak” (1923). The description stated that Gluck was a gay and gender non conforming artist, and the female form was more realistic than how male artists would paint it, the female form in this painted is more celebrated in a way not defined by the male gaze. This painting made to think back to how I loved flowers as a child and still do, flowers and nature bring me a lot of joy so that’s how I found this piece connected back to my work.

Sketch I did at the gallery from a painting.

[shinehalley]

I've been thinking about the Frankenstein family in the Penny Dreadful universe and decided to share some thoughts.

I'm not sure if the three men who were in the corner at Victor's mother's funeral were supposed to be his much older brothers, or family acquaintances, or lawyers, or anything similar so I won't focus on them. Although I elaborated that if they really are Victor's brothers, then they are his father's children from his first marriage. Baron Frankenstein's first wife died after giving birth to their third child, and many years later he met Caroline and they had four children together before she died of tuberculosis. That would make a total of seven Frankenstein children, practically.

Victor didn't spend enough time with his three much older brothers, but he did spend considerable time with those closer to his age, and those are the ones I'm going to focus on in this post.

The eldest is Henry Frankenstein and is Victor's least favorite. Henry is a lunatic in the purest sense of the word. His ideas and concepts made him a difficult creature to live with, especially when he was fixated on an idea. His penchant for the mystical and mocking Victor's aspirations is the main reason their relationship is complicate. It's impossible for Victor not to compare his brother to his best friend, even though they don't share any resemblance other than the name. Yet Victor feels that, after Henry Jekyll, if there was anyone who would travel halfway around the world to help him, it's Henry Frankenstein. Victor is still his little brother, after all.

Victor is kind of aloof towards Ernest most of the time. He is the wittiest and most optimistic of the Frankenstein brothers and the only one of the last four to have married. Although Victor has the soul of a poet, it is Ernest who became a writer after an unsuccessful attempt to enlist. Like Victor, he was the least built brother, but not having asthma gave him a huge advantage. Although Victor is not close with Ernest, the same cannot be said for his wife. Sometimes it's as if Elizabeth were born to be a Frankenstein, she's blended so well into the family. Victor considered her more his sister than Ernest at times and he was sure she saw him in the same way. Victor avoided them more because of the feeling that he was missing something when he saw what they had with each other than because he didn't really sympathize with them.

William was the Baron's favorite and when he died in a carriage accident a few years before Victor left for England, it was as if Baron Frankenstein's world had completely come crashing down. He died a short time later and Frederick, the eldest son of the first marriage, assumed the title, leaving the rest of the brothers to fight for the rest of the fortune. Victor took what was rightfully his in his father's will and let his brothers argue over these futilities.

Victor has not kept in touch with his siblings after going to England, with the exception of occasional letters to Elizabeth and Henry sending money to make sure Victor is not in need. After dropping out of college, contact was lost completely. The next time Victor had any contact with the family it was through a niece he didn't even remember he had.

So far the only one who had children was Frederick, although to his disappointment no heir. An older daughter called Tanya and a younger one called Sophia, both with the same light eyes inherited from their grandfather. Tanya was born with an indomitable soul and an intimidating intelligence, which led to a head full of ideas and dreams. Sophia is not far behind, but she doesn't possess the same relentless confidence as her older sister. That means Tanya didn't mind running away from her family in search of her own space in the world, but Sophia would never be able to come close to doing something like that.

Finally, I imagine that Victor's mother is English and his father is Swiss. They were all born and raised primarily in the Frankenstein family home in Switzerland, but have spent a lot of time in England with their maternal side of the family as well.

[spaceintruderdetector]

Guillermo del Toro interview

DEL TORO: But what is fantastic for me is that the Romantic movement comes out as a counter balance to everything that has been accumulating since the Age of Reason. I think the downfall of imagination as a genre or as a perception starts with the Age of Reason, which says everything else that came before us, all those superstitions, all those myths, are childish. Then it continues when the novel assumes that realism is the highest form of art. And then it continues when that gets psychologized. And everything else, the parable and the fable, these forms that are ancient to us are seen downgraded on film. Chronicle and fable were born at the same time, basically, with the Lumieres and Méliès. One decides to do a train arriving to the station, the other one decides to do magic. And very often we forget the fantastic, [which gave] some of the key images of the catalog of images in cinema.

GALLOWAY: Such as?

DEL TORO: You name it, Nosferatu at the top of the ship, Frankenstein crossing the threshold, the unmasking of Phantom of the Opera, the gushing blood from the elevators on Kubrick’s The Shining, the star child on Kubrick’s 2001 [A Space Odyssey], and you can go on and on. You know, in the same way that in literature, you can go in through Richard Matheson or somebody very commercial — Frederick Brown, Stephen King, whatever — and you are going to end up reading Victor Hugo. You are going to end up reading Henry James, Oscar Wilde, Jorge Luis Borges, Robert Louis Stevenson and so on and so forth, you know.

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/guillermo-del-toro-seeing-a-ufo-hearing-ghosts-shaping-water-1068754

[rosecorcoranwrites]

Paranormal, Oddities, and Curiosities Reading List

All synopses are taken from either the Flagstaff Public Library catalog, Novelist.com, or my own fevered imagination.

Psychic warrior : inside the CIA's Stargate program : the true story of a soldier's espionage and awakening by David Morehouse

An ex-army officer reveals his experiences working for the CIA as a psychic and his spiritual transformation that led him to expose the CIA's Stargate program.

The big book of UFO facts, figures & truth : a comprehensive examination by Stephen Spignesi and William Birnes

In a mothership full of entertaining and informative chapters, Spignesi and Birnes, shed a revealing beam of light on the UFO phenomenon, from inexplicable cattle mutilations and modern astronauts who have seen UFOs, to close encounters of the third and fourth kind.

History decoded : the 10 greatest conspiracies of all time by Brad Meltzer and Keith Ferrell

A book inspired by the History Network show explores unexplained mysteries, including the truth about Area 51, the Nazi hunt for the Spear of Destiny, the fate of skyjacker DB Cooper, and more.

The Weiser field guide to cryptozoology : werewolves, dragons, skyfish, lizard men, and other fascinating creatures real and mysterious by Deena West Budd

West Budd surveys the field of cryptozoology—the study of "hidden" or "unknown" animals not recognized in standard zoology—giving readers tips on how to recognize and interact with hairy humanoids, giant mammals, and creatures of myth and legend.

The apparitionists : a tale of phantoms, fraud, photography, and the man who captured Lincoln's ghost by Peter Manseau

Manseau weaves together the early histories of photography and Spiritualism against the backdrop of the Civil War and the trial of one self-proclaimed spirit photographer.

Paranormal America : ghost encounters, UFO sightings, Bigfoot hunts, and other curiosities in religion and culture by Christopher Bader, Frederick Mencken, and Joe Baker

Rather than trying to prove or disprove strange phenomena, Paranormal America provides a portrait of Americans who believe in or have experienced such phenomena as ghosts, Bigfoot, UFOs, psychic phenomena, astrology, and the power of mediums and examines how those beliefs shape their lives.

Phantom hitchhikers and other urban legends : the strange stories behind tall tales by Albert Jack

Jack probes the origins of urban legends, conspiracy theories, and old wives' tales and uncovers some eye-popping true stories that are even more far-fetched than their mythical counterparts.

Unsolved Arizona : a puzzling history of murder, mayhem & mystery by Jane Epinga

Eppinga details thirteen stories of disappearances, murders, lost treasure, and unsolved cases from the annals of Arizona history.

Beyond bizarre : frightening facts & bloodcurdling true tales by Varla Ventura

Ventura offers up scores of freaky facts, terrifying trivia, and stranger-than-fiction stories about everything from female pirates and creepy candy stripers to psychic predictions and virgin shark births.

Monster trek : the obsessive search for Bigfoot by Joe Gisondi

Gisondi brings to life the celebrities in bigfoot culture—people who explore remote wooded areas of the country for weeks at a time and spend thousands of dollars on infrared imagers, cameras, and high-end camping equipment—and ponders why these bigfoot hunters do what they do.

History's mysteries : people, places, and oddities lost in the sands of time by Brian Haughton

History's Mysteries explores of the archaeology, history, and mysteries of 35 ancient places worldwide, some of which are hotly debated by archeologists to the day.

When Churchill slaughtered sheep and Stalin robbed a bank : history's unknown chapters by Giles Milton

In this collection of obscure and addictive true tales from history, Milton presents outrageously unbelievable-- yet true-- stories from history.

Hoax : a history of deception : 5,000 years of fakes, forgeries, and fallacies by Ian Tattersall Peter Névraumont

Hoax begins with the first documented announcement of the end of the world in 2800 BC and winds its way through controversial tales such as the Loch Ness Monster and the Shroud of Turin, past proven fakes such as the Thomas Jefferson's ancient wine and the Davenport Tablets built by a lost race, and explores bald-faced lies in the worlds of art, science, literature, journalism, and finance.

Haunted : on ghosts, witches, vampires, zombies, and other monsters of the natural and supernatural worlds by Leo Braudy

Award-winning scholar and author Braudy explores how fear has been shaped over the years into images of monsters and monstrosity in the form of the monster from nature (King Kong), the created monster (Frankenstein), the monster from within (Mr. Hyde), and the monster from the past (Dracula). 

Ghosts : a natural history : 500 years of searching for proof by Roger Clarke

Looking at the history of ghost stories, ghost hunters, and some of the most haunted places of the last five hundred years, Clarke unfolds a story of class conflict, charlatans, and true believers.​

[shipburner]

Over the past week, I’ve become obsessed with the 1994 musical adaptation of Jekyll & Hyde (from a @prokopetz​ post, which I consider a repayment of the debt he owes me for blowing up my dash by Colbert-bumping my scientific scales post). As a fan of both mad science and musicals, it’s pretty much exactly my jam ...

But there were elements of the song “Board of Governors”/“Jekyll’s Plea” that sounded like “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, and, upon looking it up, I discovered that Leslie Bricusse worked on both musicals. (There’s also a few similarities, at least to my untrained ear, to the 2013 Charlie & the Chocolate Factory stage musical, although there’s no direct connection I can find.)

The point of this post is to consider that, while Dahl’s Wonka is clearly a space alien, and Wilder’s Wonka straddles an odd line between the Christian and folkloric devils (thanks, @tyrantisterror), Willy Wonka overall could be considered an archetypal mad scientist.

His fantastic powers are in his chemistry/alchemy (like Victor Frankenstein and Jekyll); he has long been isolated from society and acquired strange mannerisms and devoted minions (like Moreau); he attained previous success as a non-mad scientist (like Frederick Frankenstein and Rappaccini); and his story is told through the eyes of a deuteragonist (like Jekyll and Moreau). He is not destroyed by his creation, but like Wells’ anonymous time-traveler, he is vindicated by the wonders only available through his science.

So, while Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory may be properly shelved with the slashers ... I respectfully submit that Charlie & the Chocolate Factory should be shelved with Shelley, Verne, Wells, and the like.

[jadagul]

I watched Young Frankenstein for the first time a couple nights ago. (Spoilers for both YF and the original below).

Obviously, Young Frankenstein is a comedy, while the original was a tragedy. But the most interesting thing for me is how clearly Mel Brooks understood the source of the tragedy in the original.

Frankenstein is a story about (among other things) parental abandonment. Victor creates a "son" but abandons him, and does not give him a father's love. Adam's primary motivation throughout the book is to find some place he will be accepted and someone who will love him. But Victor fears annd hates him and can't offer that support.

From this perspective, it's clear that the most important scene in YF is the one where they've recaptured the monster and are holding him in a cell, and Gene Wilder/Frederick Frankenstein announces that he will go in "and show him that he is loved!" This is clearly a very clear, specific decision to not make his grandfather's error.

And indeed, it works! Frederick convinces the monster that he is loved, and this support---and his willingness to risk his life to help his creation---is what turns the story from the tragedy it almost is, into the comedy it becomes.

I have to imagine Mel Brooks knew exactly what he was doing. Props to him.

[therosenbach-blog]

The Destruction of Nosferatu

On January 31, 2018, the Rosenbach will host a screening of the classic horror film Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, with Frederick R. Haas accompanying the movie on the organ at Macy's. Conceived as a companion program to our Frankenstein and Dracula: Gothic Monsters, Modern Science, this spooky cinematic event will give us a chance to experience another gothic monster in this critically acclaimed and beautifully visualized--and, as it happens, plagiarized--vampire film. Released in Germany in 1922, Nosferatu is considered a masterpiece of German Expressionist filmmaking. The screenplay was written by Henrik Galeen, whose work has been lauded for its dark imagination as well as its poetic rhythm. The director, F. W. Murnau, was well-known and established with ten films to his name; he employed distorted angles and shadows which, in concert with Albin Grau's gothic-inspired production design, created a creeping, dreamlike atmosphere of horror. The film was meticulously story-boarded and filmed with only one camera; Murnau carefully followed handwritten instructions on camera positioning and used a metronome to control the pace of the acting. As the first release of a new film company (Prana Film, co-founded by Grau), Nosferatu was fêted with a lavish opening party including a costume ball, and the company sank no small resources into its press coverage and advertising campaign. Nosferatu opens with a German man named Hutter who is sent to a Transylvanian castle to work with a mysterious client named Count Orlok. Hutter is repulsed by Count Orlok's malformed appearance and eccentric table manners, and gradually realizes that Orlok is a ravenous creature out of legend (the titular nosferatu) who sleeps at day and kills at night. After finding Orlok asleep in a crypt coffin, Hutter is injured and knocked unconscious in his frantic attempt to escape the castle. When he comes to, Orlok is gone--to Germany, with plans to find Hutter's wife. When the monster's ship docks in Hutter's hometown, its residents are horrified to find the ship's crew dead.

Still from Nosferatu (1922) Does this sound familiar? The premise of Nosferatu is lifted, almost whole cloth, from Bram Stoker's Dracula. Read the full article

[dollypopup]

Could you imagine a Young Frankenstein AU with Stein and Marie? Who would play Stein? Frankensteen or the creature?

confession time

i never saw Young Frankenstein

all I know is one, rather fitting, segment of dialogue

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: For the experiment to be a success, all of the body parts must be enlarged.Inga: In other vords: his veins, his feet, his hands, his organs vould all have to be increased in size.Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Exactly.Inga: He vould have an enormous schwanzstucker.Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: That goes without saying.Inga: Voof.Igor: He’s going to be very popular. 

because i;m still cackling over

voof

[takeenata]

The Scrapheap

October, 2001. Wife and I have been married for about a year, kids are just a year old. Pirella and I are moving state to state for work, and the current state we’re in is the “Show Me” state. The old fashioned state of Missouri, living near the Kansas City area. I was looking to work as some kind of construction worker, maybe help build homes and buildings for people. But, sadly, I found myself working nine-to-five as a garbageman. Not really all too bad, just an awful smell that lingers onto my clothes and skin, that I usually spend an hour trying to scrub off me. I was thankful to have the helping hands of my wife to get the stink off me.

I was told that I need to wear this bright yellow vest and a type of hat with a bill on it. So everyday I go to work wearing a light gray shirt, some worn jeans, black boots, thick work gloves, and a black baseball cap.

I worked with two other gentlemen on a daily basis. They were named Frank, and Louie. Frank was a irish-man with a set of red-haired mutton chops, who wasn’t all into drinking despite the stereotypes. Louie was canadian, bald, with a bit of a gut to him. My relationship with these two men was nothing past co-workers, but the two were friends way before I joined their daily routine of collecting people’s filth; they had been working together for about ten-years.

While we’re on a lunch break, the three of us eating some sub-sandwich in the front seats of our trash-filed truck, Louie says something that caught the attention of Frank and I. “Have you two heard ‘bout that monster in the junkyard?”

“Our junkyard?” Frank asked.

“Nah, not ours. The other guys, the one that drives around, taking the blue bins.” We collect the black colored trash bins, and drive around in a green trash truck. “There’s some kinda monster that put the other guys outta business.”

“How do you put an entire junkyard outta business?”

“When workers refuse to go there anymore ‘cause they’re afraid of this thing. Didn’t you hear that it killed a cop already?”

That caught my interest even more so. Louie was getting more and more irritated by the looks of it, saying “A cop, really?”

“Yeah!”

Louie shook his head in disagreement. “This is a bad rumor spreading ain’t it? I’m pretty sure if a cop was killed they’d go in and investigate.”

“What if the cops are scared of this thing, Louie?”

“Then why the hell are they cops? Get someone in there with some stones and figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Frank laughed, then said “Are you the one that’ll do it?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, interrupting their conversation. The two looked past their argument, and their lunch, and gazed confused at me. Most of the time I remained quiet and to myself, just doing my job and getting my paycheck. I’m pretty sure that this is the first time in awhile I said something to them.

Louie reassured that. “Don’t say a thing for months and you cowboy up for that?”

I shrug my shoulders and answered with “You’re both being kinda silly with this. I’ll go in, see what’s happening, and hopefully word will spread that there’s not a damn thing going on in that junkyard.”

“What if there is a monster though,” Frank questioned. “I don’t believe there’s a monster in there.” I was lying of course. I had suspicion that there’s something happening in that junk yard. The rumors were newer, and relevant. They had to have some kind of truth behind it, in some way.

“You’re an elf and you’re doubting another monster being real?” Louie coined in. He had a point to make, in this world a lot of strange oddities come and go. Which only lead me to believe that there is something to be found.

“Shut up. I’ll go after work.”

…

Five in the afternoon on this day. This is kind of early from my usual days. I take the bus home in hopes to save on gas and cash, which usually works. In the morning I also take the bus to work. I am usually the first man on the bus, and the last one off. Today however, I guess the driver forgot some stop somewhere and didn’t want to go correct themselves. Sad that someone might be late for something because of this operator, but I am happy at least to come home early.

My family resides inside a single bedroom, single kitchen, single bathroom, small living room, apartment.  A duplex actually. It’s enough room for the infant children to grow and play, and enough room, for now, for Pirella and I to do what’s needed and live on our lives. We don’t own much personal property between the four of us. I keep a bit of tools and spare clothes, my wife more tools and even more clothes, a crib for our children and blankets given to them by Frederick when they were born.

Moving on, I come home during the evening of this day, greeting my wife with both our kids in her arms. All three of which have fallen asleep on the couch; it must’ve been one hard day for her, but if they’re all three asleep together, then it’d be wrong of me to wake any of them up. I take a scrap piece of paper, scribble where I’ll be, what I’m doing, and what time I should be back home; in my head, no later than midnight. I didn’t bother to take a shower just yet, seeing how I was going to visit a junkyard there’d be no sense in ridding myself of an awful stench just so another would cling on to me. The only thing added to my wardrobe was the utility belt that held my pistol.

I had no garage. Only had a driveway that was shared with the connected neighbor. It was funny to see the difference between a traveler and a local, just by seeing what kind of car they had. My neighbor drove a 1992 Toyota Camry, two doors with a brown color to it, with a Missouri license plate. I drove a 1997 Dodge Durango, with a Michigan plate. If the plates didn’t tell the difference, the milage sure could’ve. This had been my second vehicle bought, the first one having been through a few troubled years of damage. This one was due for replacement too, the engine started to sound heinous. I’m not a repairman, or any sort of car fixer to know what’s wrong with it. I also didn’t have the right cash to take it to get repaired. I pull myself into the vehicle, start the engine as fast as I could, and drove away in hopes that it wouldn’t disturb or awake my wife and/or kids.

Give or take; twenty-minutes later I arrive at the abandoned junkyard. I could imagine that there’d be some kind of security here, kind of like how my job has somebody watching the piles of garbage to make sure no one gets in; there wasn’t a single guard or post in sight. Believe it or not, people want trash and state government won’t let people have it back. This has started to make me question if what I’m throwing away is something another man can use, or if I can find a way to reuse it.

The only security were two padlocks and a coil of chains. I had two obvious options: take my pistol and waste two bullets breaking the locks, possibly gain the attention of someone nearby that will call to complain about gunfire, which would send officers here, and get me in more trouble with the law; I could hop the fence. There was a third option that came to mind of using some hot flames from my hands to melt the locks off, but that seemed like overkill for me. So I climbed over the tall fence, pushed away at the barbed wire at the top so I wouldn’t get pricked too much, and landed on the flats of my feet with a grunt.

I’d scout the area for what seemed like an hour, and only found several football fields worth of junk. Just straight junk. At the same time, I could understand why people assumed this place had a monster. The wind knocked and moved unstable bits of trash. The noises of items being moved or adjusting to their new location was unsettling too; I understood why it was assumed there was a monster here, but I was still lost what made so many workers here run away in fear. Supposedly run away in fear. There had to have been more reason. Which meant I’m continuing my search.

...

Another hour later, I came across a terrible stench. It wasn’t the smell of trash either, or rusted items. It smelled of something dead, rotted. I could hear the sound of many flies buzzing from afar as well, which only furthered my theory that there was something deceased within this scrapyard; could it be the officer that Louie and Frank were talking about, or maybe just an animal that got into the wrong place? I followed the foul odor to what looked like a makeshift shack in the heart of this yard. I was kind of surprised something like this was made in the environment provided; was it possible the workers here built this place as some kind of joke, or maybe a place for them to relax? The smell could be food, flies attracted to it for whatever reason nature needs them for.

I step foot into the shack, and had immediately regretted doing such. It was like setting foot inside another world of horror; like looking into the laboratory of Dr. Frankenstein, if he had set his castle and sinister workings in the heart of a trashyard. Loose wires are hanging from the ceiling. Televisions and computer monitors, both with broken and exploded screens, are scattered all across, some left on floors and others either bolted or taped onto the steel walls. Pieces of broken glass decorated the floors of this makeshift home. I know it was a home too; there was a disgusting-stained mattress with a sleeping bag on top of it. The very person who lived here was home too. Dead on the floor, with the strangest of helmets strapped around his head; devices all around this shed structure lead several hundred wires across the walls and attach themselves all around this helmet. Either this place is some kind of makeshift electric chair, or the man was trying to do something with his mind. Maybe install something into his brain, make himself super intelligent? I didn’t want to know.

I look around this place, trying to piece together some kind of story. What I have so far is this man must’ve built this machine, and it turned and fried his brain out. That’s about as simple as I could think of it. As I think, I hear movement outside. There was no way it was just the wind; the object I heard sounded like something heavier being moved. I drew my hand cannon and started to head outside to investigate, but when I opened up the door, I was blocked by a rusted car. Something managed to move an entire car to block my path, but it wasn’t clever enough to consider that I can crawl through the vehicle’s busted windows and get out the other side.

I scan the area, being outside now. All was quiet, which was just a terrible sign that danger was near. All things were making noises earlier, and now it was as quiet as a mouse. I stood still, waiting for some kind of movement, something to shift in the area. Sure enough, from behind the building I heard the shuffling of metal parts and the scratching of metal.

Fast as I could manage I found the source of the sound. It was something that was ten-feet-tall, covered with a burlap robe, and the way it was grunting and struggling, trying to climb up a giant mound of scrap metal but failing to do so; I knew it was panicing. It was afraid of me. I had wondered the reasons it was scared of me, and assumed it was just scared of the gun I had pointed on it. I wasn’t sure what instinct made me put away my magnum, but I did. I shouted out at this behemoth “Where do you think you’re going?”

It must’ve not heard me at all approaching it. After I asked the giant, it quickly turned around to face me. It wasn’t a giant at all; it was some kind of machine made out of spare parts. A living junk pile; a collective of broken things; a scrapheap. Two pieces of scratched glass stare at me with surprise, or what I could assume was surprise when I witnessed two dots shrink and shake. It stopped what it was doing, backing up to the furthest thing to be called a corner. A giant rusted arm and a proportionally sized arm covered up it’s odd shaped head, and it spoke out with voice that sounded emitted from a megaphone, if it was covered up. “No hurt! No bad!”

The broken english was a surprise for me. I raised my hands, gesturing I didn’t want to hurt him at all by waving them before me. “Not gonna hurt you, not unless you deserve it.”

“Did no bad!” It was still trying to fortify an escape. “Accident!”

The word accident caught my attention pretty well. I took careful steps towards the metallic ogre-like creature, hands out before me. “Take a breather, bud. I’m not accusing you of anything. What happened here?”

“B-bud? Friend?” The creature stopped it’s panicking, lumbering a few loud steps at me.

“Yeah, friend. So, tell me what happened?”

The hulking android would slam their bottom against the rough dirt, making an absurdly loud noise that lasted for a while. “See colors two weeks ago. Sleeping man on floor. See skin mountains all around, and wanted to see more. Try to leave but small pink scared by me. Cannot leave home.”

At first I couldn’t understand what all they meant. It only became clear to me later. They woke up two weeks ago to see a dead man on the floor. They looked around and seen they’re inside the heart of this scrapyard, seeing it was material it was made out of too. I could piece together that there was a chance that the man laying dead on the floor and the machine he was strapped to had something to do with the birth of this golem of garbage. Was it using his body to power it; a religious belief; deranged thoughts of a man living in a junkyard? The wicked science behind this metallic man brings only questions, and I grow worried of the answers.

I guess they ventured out at some point, wanting to see more than trash around them, but a child had seen them. Maybe not even a child; small is relevant to the sayer, to it I am small. To me, my children are small. To my kids, an ant is small. This could explain the rumors of the monster existing, and how it spread. Doesn’t exactly explain why workers left though. I decided to ask it what it knew about the garbage men that worked here, saying “Has anyone tried to enter your home?”

“Many have. Scared away! No mean to! I do wrong?”

“Not as far as I know, uh - what’s your name again?”

“No name. Never have.” It brought it’s giant rusted hand to scratch the top of it’s wired head. “Name is. Scrapheap!” Lights around it’s neck and head started to shine bright with blue. The way it’s voice sounded, it simulated joy.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Heard before. Bad?”

“It’s not bad. If Scrapheap is what you want to be called, then good to meet you, Scrapheap.”

“Good elf --” I heard the long pause that played with a buzzing sort of sound. I had guessed this was how Scrapheap was pensive.

“I am an elf, but call me Tak.”

“Good Tak.” I let out a laugh, in which the golem tilted their head and wires with an obvious sense of confusion.

“What noise?”

I looked back at Scrapheap with a same level of confusion they gave me. I questioned exactly how young-minded the giant was. “That’s laughter. What you said was funny?”

“What is ‘funny.’”

“I uh. I’m not sure how to explain it either. It’s just something that makes you happy and you express it by laughing.” “What is happy?”

I’d spend a while teaching Scrapheap everything I knew about emotions. Scrapheap could express emotions apparently; there was christmas lights adorned around his neck and chest with different colors, and they’d light up those individual colors based off his mood. They were blue for most of the duration I talked to him, which I was sure meant they were calm and at ease. Though when Scrap trying to dig away from me, they shimmered an orange, which probably meant fear of some kind.

By spending a while teaching. I meant a while. Not only for the remainder of the night, but the day after, the following weeks, and the remainder of the year. Even after my wife and I left Missouri, Scrapheap managed to keep contact with me, using some broken tech in their home to message my phone. I’d always talk to him, teaching him many things over the phone and with a cheap laptop.

Our relationship as friends goes as far as me considering Scrapheap as the far-away child of mine. I’ve taught them right from wrong, good morals and bad conduct. As much English as I could teach them, speaking wise; I let my wife teach him how to speak since she usually has better structure than I do. I haven’t figured out if she’s yet to consider Scrapheap like a third child; a distant one at that.

Though I guess most children don’t supply their fathers with tools to do their work. I had told Scrapheap that Pirella and I used to travel coast-to-coast looking for trouble anywhere we went, and dealt with problems that caused other innocent people problems. With that, he managed to make me certain tool that have long since helped me out in my career as a hunter-esq of whatever manner. I don’t question how he’s able to get them to my home, but I don’t bother to ask.

Scrapheap has been a great ally of mine for over a decade. In a world full of strange creatures and oddities, Scrapheap fits right into the quota of odd-jobs. But that’s alright; something new does not mean something bad, all the time.

[bloglivre-blog]

Qual o limite do humor? Sátira, paródia e crítica: 15 comédias que brincam com outras obras ou personagens

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Qual o limite do humor? Sátira, paródia e crítica: 15 comédias que brincam com outras obras ou personagens

 “Entre o riso e a lagrima há apenas o nariz”

Millôr Fernandes

 “Meu ideal é que até a hiena pare para pensar um pouco antes de rir de mim.”

Millôr Fernandes

Provavelmente você já viu ou ouviu a essa pergunta durante uma entrevista com algum comediante: “na sua opinião, quais são os limites do humor?”. Afinal, o riso é livre ou há assuntos que não devem ser temas de piadas? Por exemplo, as pessoas poderiam rir de uma tragédia, um crime cometido por Adolf Hitler? No entanto, não poder falar sobre algum assunto é censura. Além disso, limitar que determinadas questões não sejam abordados durante um período, também é uma atitude que tolhe a liberdade de expressão, de imprensa e do direito à informação.

Aqui no Brasil, o Supremo Tribunal Federal (STF) debateu, nesta quarta (13), a Ação Direta de Inconstitucionalidade (ADI) 4451 contra os incisos II e III (em parte) do artigo 45 da Lei Federal 9.504/1997, que impedem as emissoras de veicularem programas que venham a degradar ou ridicularizar candidatos nos três meses que antecedem as eleições. Na semana anterior (7), os humoristas Fábio Porchat, Bruno Mazzeo e Marcius Melhem se reuniram e foram até Brasília para pedir o fim da censura às sátiras políticas.

“O humor é do contra. É oposição seja de quem for que estiver mandando. E com essa função importantíssima de jogar uma luz, denunciar. A gente não tem poder nenhum de mudar nada, mas a gente tem um dever de denunciar, chamar atenção, botar lente de aumento”, afirmou Mazzeo ao Estadão. Ao ser questionado sobre o papel do humor nas eleições de 2018, com grande nível de incerteza: “Chumbo grosso para todo mundo”, disse Porchat. “O processo é acirrado e a gente vai brincar com todos eles, mas os motivos eles que vão dar. A graça é poder brincar com todo mundo”, completou Melhem.

O Tribunal concedeu medida cautelar “para suspender a eficácia do inciso II e da parte final do inciso III, ambos do artigo 45 da Lei 9.504/1997, bem como, por arrastamento, dos parágrafos 4º e 5º do mesmo artigo”. Segundo informações do Estadão, ainda será debatido se os dispositivos impugnados violam as liberdades de expressão e de imprensa e o direito à informação.

Taika Waititi, Roman Griffin Davis e Scarlett Johansson no set de Jojo Rabbit

Grandes nomes da Arte se dedicaram a fazer sátiras ou paródias seja na literatura, no teatro, na música, nas artes plásticas, etc. A sátira ridiculariza de maneira incisiva os defeitos e os vícios das instituições, dos costumes e das ideias da época, em estilo irônico ou indignado. O filme Dr. Fantástico (Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, de 1964), é uma das melhores comédias de todos os tempos. Nele o cineasta Stanley Kubrick faz uma alusão ao episódio que ficou conhecido como a crise dos mísseis de Cuba, naquela que foi considerada a maior sátira política do século XX na opinião do crítico de cinema Roger Ebert.

Idealizado inicialmente como um suspense de guerra fiel ao livro Alerta Vermelho (Red Alert, de 1958), escrito por Peter George, ex-tenente da Força Aérea Britânica, ao perceber as contradições do tema Kubrick transformou o projeto em uma comédia de humor negro. O longa-metragem chegou inclusive a ser proibido em alguns países, como França.

Este mês o diretor Taika Waititi começou a rodar o seu novo projeto: Jojo Rabbit. O cineasta divulgou na sua rede social a primeira foto em que aparece caracterizado como Hitler ao lado do elenco do filme. Segundo Taika, o ditador nazista será bem diferente da figura histórica original, afinal, sua versão surge da imaginação de um jovem. No entanto, ele promete fazer uma sátira ao nazismo sem romantizar a figura de Hitler. Jojo Rabbit ainda não tem previsão de estreia mas já faz parte do grupo de comédias que se dedicaram a satirizar o ditador. Outros três filmes são referências em releituras cômicas do Führer:

1 – O GRANDE DITADOR (THE GREAT DICTATOR, DE 1940)

Em 1940, enquanto os Estados Unidos ainda não tinham entrado na Segunda Guerra Mundial (1939-1945), Charles Chaplin lançou um clássico: O Grande Ditador (The Great Dictator), seu primeiro filme falado. O longa-metragem é uma sátira política ao nazismo, ao fascismo e seus maiores propagadores: Adolf Hitler e Benito Mussolini.

Escrito, protagonizado e dirigido por Charles Chaplin, O Ditador recebeu cinco indicações ao Oscar em 1941 nas categorias de Melhor Filme, Melhor Ator para Charlie Chaplin, Melhor Roteiro Original, Melhor Trilha Sonora e Melhor Ator Coadjuvante para Jack Oakie. Mas foi o suspense psicológico Rebecca, dirigido por Alfred Hitchcock, que acabou levando o prêmio de Melhor Filme.

2 – PRIMAVERA PARA HITLER (THE PRODUCERS, DE 1968)

Mais tarde, em 1968, foi a vez da comédia musical Primavera Para Hitler (The Producers) escrita e dirigida por Mel Brooks abordar o tema do nazismo. O filme é uma sucessão de mal-entendidos na qual Zero Mostel é um produtor teatral falido que se associa a um contador, até então, honesto (Gene Wilder). Ambos descobrem que um fracasso pode render muito mais lucro aos produtores do que o sucesso da peça. Mas tudo dá errado quando a peça se torna um sucesso.

A sátira musical de Mel Brooks foi eleita pelo American Film Institute como uma das 100 melhores comédias de todos os tempos (11ª posição). Esta foi a estreia de Mel Brooks na direção, que já levou o Oscar de Melhor Roteiro Original.

3 – ELE ESTÁ DE VOLTA (ER IST WIEDER DA, DE 2015)

Agora imagine se um estranho fenômeno temporal fizesse Hitler escapar da morte em seu bunker em 1945? Nessa realidade alternativa, Ele Está de Volta (Er Ist Wieder Da, de 2015), dirigido por David Wnendt e disponível na Netflix, dá uma resposta no mínimo preocupante. Baseado no best-seller homônimo de Timur Vermes, Hitler reaparece magicamente em um conjunto habitacional em Berlim, ao lado do bunker onde ele teria se matado no final da Segunda Guerra Mundial.

Misturando ficção e documentário, o desconhecido ator Oliver Masucci fez uma turnê pela Alemanha caracterizado de Hitler. Em 300 horas de gravação somente duas pessoas reagiram negativamente. A maioria tirava selfies com ele e confessavam sua preocupação com estrangeiros e refugiados que, para eles, estariam destruindo a Alemanha.

Borrando a fronteira entre ficção e realidade, neste filme Hitler é recebido como um comediante que não consegue sair do papel e vira uma celebridade midiática. Apesar de ninguém parecer estar levando a sério, ele prepara planos para finalmente construir o Terceiro Reich através da melhor invenção que veio depois do cinema: a TV.

Já a paródia é uma imitação de outra forma de arte, de maneira exagerada, para criar um efeito cômico, ridicularizando, geralmente, o tema e estilo da obra parodiada.  No vídeo acima, o humorista Renato Aragão, famoso por liderar a série televisiva Os Trapalhões, nas décadas de 1970 e 1980, faz uma imitação do cantor Ney Matogrosso. O grupo cômico fazia paródia de cantigas populares e outras canções da MPB. Ainda que por vezes as técnicas próprias da sátira e da paródia se sobreponham, não são sinônimas. A sátira nem sempre é humorística – por vezes chega a ser trágica. A paródia é inevitavelmente de caráter cômico.

4 – O JOVEM FRANKENSTEIN (YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN, DE 1974)

O Jovem Frankenstein (Young Frankenstein, de 1974), dirigido por Mel Brooks, é uma paródia do filme de terror: Frankenstein (Universal Studios, de 1931), dirigido por James Whale, baseado no livro homônimo de Mary Shelley. Inclusive O Jovem Frankenstein foi rodado no mesmo castelo onde foram realizadas as gravações do filme antigo. O romance de Shelley, considerado a primeira obra de ficção científica da história, relata a história de Victor Frankenstein, um estudante de ciências naturais que constrói uma criatura em seu laboratório.

O filme de Mel Brooks, traz Gene Wilder como Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, um professor universitário, que ao receber o testamento de seu avô fará uma viagem que mudará sua vida: vai à Transilvânia para reivindicar a herança. Ao chegar, é recebido por Igor, um corcunda vesgo. Acompanhados por Inga, a sexy assistente arrumada para Frederick, eles vão para o castelo de Frankenstein e são recebidos por Frau Blücher, uma serva assustadora de seu avô, cujo nome quando é dito, faz assustar os cavalos. Após uma exploração noturna, Frederick encontra o livro intitulado “Como Consegui”, de seu avô, e inicia uma aventura para realizar o maior dos experimentos: dar vida a um tecido inanimado.

A película foi rodada em preto em branco para dar um pouco do clima das primeiras produções de terror da Universal da década de 30. Quando Mel Brooks estava se preparando para este filme, ele descobriu que Ken Strickfaden, que havia elaborado o maquinário elétrico para as sequências de laboratório em Frankenstein, A Noiva de Frankenstein e O Filho de Frankenstein, ainda estava vivo e morando na área de Los Angeles. Brooks visitou Strickfaden e descobriu que ele havia guardado todo o equipamento em sua garagem. O diretor fez um acordo para alugar o equipamento e deu a Strickfaden o crédito de tela que ele não tinha recebido pelos filmes originais. É o primeiro filme de comédia parodiando um filme de terror.

5 – BANZÉ NO OESTE (BLAZING SADDLES, DE 1974)

Aqui Mel Brooks brinca com o gênero western, onde as histórias são ambientadas, primordialmente, no Velho Oeste dos Estados Unidos do século XIX, normalmente centrado na vida dos cowboys ou pistoleiros armados com revólveres e rifles da época, em cima dos seus cavalos.

Rock Ridge é uma pequena cidade do oeste americano, onde todos os seus moradores se chamam Johnson. A estrada de ferro está prestes a passar pelo local, o que faz com que Hedley Lamarr (Harvey Korman) aterrorize os moradores. Sua intenção é obter as terras da cidade, que serão bastante valorizadas após a conclusão das obras. Para controlar a situação o governador William J. Lepetomane (Mel Brooks) contrata um novo xerife, Bart (Cleavon Little). Só que Bart é negro e passa a ser hostilizado pela população racista. Ele recebe apenas a ajuda de Jim (Gene Wilder), conhecido como The Waco Kid, o pistoleiro bêbado mais rápido da região.

Banzé no Oeste é uma sátira irreverente sobre o modo de vida no Velho Oeste e o racismo nos EUA. O filme rendeu uma indicação ao Oscar de Melhor Atriz Coadjuvante para Madeline Kahn, Melhor Edição e Melhor Trilha Sonora. original. A comédia recebeu indicações ao ao BAFTA nas categorias de melhor roteiro e ator novato em papel principal mais promissor (Cleavon Little).

Na década de 70, a trupe britânica Monty Phyton, criadores e intérpretes da série cômica Monty Python’s Flying Circus (programa de televisão britânico que foi ao ar pela primeira vez em 1969), também se tornou conhecida por seus esquetes nonsense e satíricos. Um de seus quadros mais conhecidos, “Piada mais engraçada do mundo”, trata de uma anedota tão engraçada que matava de rir qualquer um que a entendesse. Para preservar a plateia, ninguém jamais a ouve no episódio, porém, ela fora traduzida para o alemão.

6 – MONTY PYTHON: EM BUSCA DO CÁLICE SAGRADO (MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL, DE 1975)

Em 1975, eles lançam Monty Python e o Cálice Sagrado (Monty Python and the Holy Grail). No filme, o Rei Arthur (Graham Chapman) sai à procura de cavaleiros que o acompanhem em uma jornada histórica: a busca do Santo Graal. Aparecem então Sir Lancelot, o Bravo (John Cleese); Sir Robin, o Não-Tão-Bravo-Quanto-Sir-Lancelot (Eric Idle); Sir Galahad), o Puro (Michael Palin), entre outros personagens surreais. Escrita pelo genial grupo de comédia britânico, a trama satiriza o modo de vida durante a Idade Média e a figura do lendário Rei Artur, líder britânico que de acordo com as histórias medievais e romances de cavalaria liderou a defesa da Grã-Bretanha contra os invasores saxões no final do século V e no início do século VI.

7 – ALTA ANSIEDADE (HIGH ANXIETY, DE 1977) 

O comediante Mel Brooks se mostrou um especialista em paródias. Em Alta Ansiedade (High Anxiety, de 1977) produzido, co-escrito, dirigido e protagonizado por Brooks, ele zomba dos filmes de suspense, principalmente os dirigidos por Alfred Hitchcock a quem o filme foi dedicado conforme indica os letreiros iniciais. Reza a lenda que Brooks teria recebido uma garrafa de vinho enviada pelo lendário diretor como sinal de aprovação.

8 – A VIDA DE BRIAN (LIFE OF BRIAN, DE 1979)

Mais tarde, em 1979, chega aos cinemas A Vida de Brian (Life of Brian), considerado blasfemo, por uns, e genial, por outros. Controverso, devido a sua combinação de comédia e de temas religiosos, o argumento também se baseia numa sátira da vida na época de Jesus Cristo.

O filme mostra, de uma forma irônica, a questão da alienação da massa, pois o povo segue Brian o tempo todo, repetindo tudo o que ele diz, e sátiras são feitas à religião, como é o caso da cena de apedrejamento. A Vida de Brian foi muito polêmico e vários protestos foram feitos contra ele por pessoas que o consideraram uma blasfêmia, apesar de ser apenas uma crítica da sociedade da época.

9 – APERTEM OS CINTOS… O PILOTO SUMIU (AIRPLANE, DE 1980)

A comédia Apertem os Cintos… O Piloto Sumiu (Airplane, de 1980) é muito importante pois ela praticamente lançou o estilo paródia do cinema catástrofe na onda de filmes como Aeroporto (Airport, dirigido por George Seaton e Henry Hathaway), lançado dez anos antes. Dirigido e escrito por Jim Abrahams e pelos irmãos David e Jerry Zucker, o filme é estrelado por Robert Hays e Julie Hagerty, além de contar com outros nomes como Leslie Nielsen, Robert Stack, Lloyd Bridges, Peter Graves, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar e Lorna Patterson.

O longa-metragem toma emprestado todo o enredo de Entre a Vida e a Morte (Zero Hour!, de 1957) fazendo uma imitação de produções do gênero drama catastrófico. Apertem os Cintos… O Piloto Sumiu é conhecido por seu uso de humor surreal e comédia pastelão como trocadilhos tanto visuais quanto verbais e piadas com humor negro. A comédia recebeu indicações ao Globo de Ouro e ao BAFTA. No segundo caso, uma rara conquista para o gênero.

10 – A HISTÓRIA DO MUNDO – PARTE I (HISTORY OF THE WORLD – PART I, DE 1981)

Em A História do Mundo – Parte I (History of the World: Part I, de 1981), a invenção do fogo pelos homens das cavernas, Moisés descendo do Monte Sinai com três tábuas de pedra, Jesus dizendo aos apóstolos ‘Um de vocês me traiu’, a Revolução Francesa, e alguns dos episódios mais importantes da História da humanidade vira paródia.

11 – CLIENTE MORTO NÃO PAGA (DEAD MEN DON’T WEAR PLAID, DE 1982)

Em Cliente Morto Não Paga (Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, de 1982), Steve Martin é um detetive contratado para localizar um cientista famoso que estava trabalhando em um projeto secreto e desapareceu misteriosamente. Em busca de respostas, ele encontra homens e mulheres perigosos que foram extraídos de filmes dos anos 40 e 50. A comédia tem direção de Carl Reiner que assina o roteiro com George Gipe e Steve Martin. O longa é uma homenagem ao clássicos noir que marcaram época em Hollywood.

O editor Bud Molin foi quem enfrentou o desafio de misturar as filmagens antigas com as atuais. Dentre os astros que aparecem em cena com Martin, destacam-se: Ingrid Bergman (Notorious, de 1946), Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep, de 1946), William Conrad, Joan Crawford (Humoresque, de 1946), Bette Davis (Deception, de 1946), Brian Donlevy (The Glass Key, de 1942), Kirk Douglas (I Walk Alone, de 1947), Ava Gardner (The Killers, de 1946), Cary Grant (Suspicion, de 1941), Alan Ladd (This Gun for Hire, de 1942), Veronica Lake (This Gun for Hire, de 1942), Burt Lancaster (The Killers, de 1946), Charles Laughton (The Bribe), Fred MacMurray (Double Indemnity, de 1944), Ray Milland (The Lost Weekend, de 1945), Edmund O’Brien (White Heat, de 1949), Vincent Price (The Bribe, de 1949), Lana Turner (Johnny Eager, de 1941), entre outros.

11 – THIS IS SPINAL TAP (1984)

Uma paródia mais sofisticada veio sob a forma de falso documentário em This is Spinal Tap (1984). Dirigido por Rob Reiner e lançado em 1984, o filme satiriza o comportamento e as ambições musicais das bandas de hard rock e heavy metal da época, bem como as tendências dos documentários então produzidos.

Os três principais membros do Spinal Tap — David St. Hubbins, Derek Smalls e Nigel Tufnel — são representados pelos atores Michael McKean, Harry Shearer e Christopher Guest, respectivamente. Os três atores de fato tocam os instrumentos e cantam durante o filme. Rob Reiner aparece como Marty DiBergi, que produz o documentário.

Por conter várias piadas relativas ao mundo da música e seus bastidores, é necessário um certo conhecimento deste ambiente para entender o humor do filme. O sucesso cômico sobre a banda fictícia de heavy metal britânica deu origem ao subgênero mockumentary, que é tipo um pseudodocumentário (contém fatos supostamente reais, mas que são falsos) que faz paródias e/ou sátiras de eventos famosos.

12 – S.O.S. – TEM UM LOUCO PERDIDO NO ESPAÇO (SPACEBALLS, DE 1987)

Novamente Mel Brooks, desta vez fazendo uma sátira aos filmes de ficção científica, especialmente a saga Guerra nas Estrelas (Star Wars). Também são feitas homenagens a outras franquias de sci-fi, incluindo Star Trek, Alien e Planeta dos Macacos, criando uma galáxia caricaturesca.

Quando o arrogante Presidente Skroob (Mel Brooks) planeja roubar o fornecimento de ar do planeta vizinho Druidia, Lone Starr (Bill Pullman) e seu ajudante homem cão Baba (ing: Barf, interpretado por John Candy) são enviados para resgatar a estragada Princesa Vespa (Daphne Zuniga) das garras de Lord Helmet (Rick Moranis). Mel Brooks faz dois papéis neste filme, como o Presidente Skroob de o planeta Spaceball e o sábio Yogurt, quem tem sob sua custódia, o poder de a Schwartz (uma paródia da Força).

13 – BORAT! (BORAT: CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BANEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN)

Outro falso documentário, Borat! (Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, de 2007), dirigido por Larry Charles, mostra Borat Sagdiyev, personagem fictício de Sacha Baron Cohen viajando pelos Estados Unidos. Borat é um jornalista do Cazaquistão que, acompanhado de seu produtor Azamat Bagatov (Ken Davitian), deixa o país rumo aos EUA, na intenção de fazer um documentário.

Durante sua viagem pelo país, ele conhece pessoas reais, que ao reagir ao seu comportamento primitivo expõem o preconceito e a hipocrisia existentes na cultura dos Estados Unidos. Com atitudes ofensivas e declarações que beiram o machismo, a homofobia, o ódio contra judeus e até mesmo apologias à pedofilia e ao incesto, o filme se destaca por expor o fato de que muitas vezes os preconceitos, por mais terríveis que sejam, se propagam melhor de uma forma ingênua e indiferente do que quando impostos pela lei ou pela força.

Borat! foi indicado ao Oscar de Melhor roteiro adaptado (Sacha Baron Cohen, Anthony Hines, Peter Baynham, Dan Mazer e Todd Phillips), mas acabou perdendo para Os Infiltrados (The Departed, 2006), com direção de Martin Scorsese e roteiro de William Monahan. 

14 – O QUE FAZEMOS NAS SOMBRAS (WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS, DE 2014)

O que Fazemos nas Sombras (What We Do in the Shadows, de 2014) é outro exemplo de mockumentary, mas mistura comédia e terror. Dirigido e estrelado por Jemaine Clement (Legion, FX) e Taika Waititi (Thor: Ragnarok, de 2017), uma equipe de documentário (que está usando crucifixos) segue quatro companheiros de quarto vampiros: Viago (Taika Waititi), de 379 anos; Vladislav (Jemaine Clement), de 862 anos; Deacon (Jonathan Brugh), de 183 anos e Petyr (Ben Fransham), de 8.000 anos – que dividem o lar em um subúrbio da Nova Zelândia.

Enquanto eles lidam com os hilariantes conflitos naturais da convivência, como quem lava os pratos ou o cuidado para não estragar os móveis com o sangue das vítimas, eles tentam se manter atualizados tanto com a vida moderna como com todo o século passado. O filme estreou no Sundance Film Festival em janeiro de 2014 e foi lançado nos cinemas em agosto do mesmo ano pela Madman Entertainment. O que Fazemos nas Sombras arrecadou US $ 6,9 milhões com um orçamento de US $ 1,6 milhão.

[newyorktheater]

  Taylor Blackman as Emett Till, in the musical “Till”

The three shows reviewed below from this year’s New York Musical Festival are all, each in its own way, naïve…or one of the near synonyms for the word naïve, each of which offers a different spin — a different judgment — on the same quality: innocent, fresh, childlike, simple, unsophisticated, ignorant.

  Leaving Eden

‘Leaving Eden” tells the Adam and Eve story with a twist – two twists.

First,  the couple has been expanded to a threesome, adding in the character Lilith. Lilith is not in the Bible, but the Lilith legend was so popular that her image is included both in the Sistine Chapel and Notre Dame Cathedral. Lilith is said to have been Adam’s original wife, born of the same earth as he, but she refused to be subservient, so she was banished, and a far more pliant Eve was created out of Adam’s rib.

As this story unfolds, “Leaving Eden” pairs it with a parallel modern-day story of Adam and Lilith, who are a couple, and Eve, who is their lesbian friend. If I understood correctly, modern Lilith recently had a miscarriage, followed by a hysterectomy. Now, after a period of mourning and looking into adoption, Lily and Adam enlist Eve to be a surrogate mother.

The promise of the added Lilith was intriguing enough for me to see a show I normally would have avoided.  To be upfront about it: I could live a happy life free of regrets if I never again saw a new show inspired by the stories of Peter Pan, Frankenstein, or Adam and Eve. Each coincidentally – or maybe not coincidentally – focuses on naïve/innocent/ignorant characters.

I wish I could report that “Leaving Eden,” with a competent score by Ben Page and book and lyrics by Jenny Waxman, made me overcome my aversion. But the script has some awful writing — forced rhymes, unintentional howlers, awkward couplets like

  Why are man and woman in two different factions? Why are naughty bits more critical than the spirit of our actions?

And the presence of Lilith did nothing  to reduce the faux-naïve coyness that afflicts so many of these “In The Beginning” stories. Their Nautilus bods discreetly draped in Tarzan and Jane attire, Adam and Lilith sing as if they’re Dick and Jane:

And I saw some good, and I saw some bad and I met creatures that made me feel happy and sad

Together they discover rain, and fire  (“It is good… but sometimes… fire is bad. So is it good or bad?”/”It is…well, I guess it is both?”), and learn the meaning of death. For the first time, they experience dreams at night…and sex. Lillith realizes she doesn’t like being on the bottom all the time, and sings some double-entendres that are less clever than crude:

  I wanna try it on top

I’ll till your share of the crops

I’ll use your tool if you’ll drop it

You’ll beg me never to stop…

The modern-day scenes, which more or less alternate with the ancient ones, at first held my attention. I wanted to know what would happen next, and it struck me that “The Joys of Parenthood,” an ironic song in which the characters imagine their future bratty kids,  suggested what the musical could be like if the modern story were more developed. But the creative team seemed to tire of the story they were telling, and “Leading Eden” dissolves into the musical equivalent of speechifying by Ancient and Modern together, facing the audience and looking grimly triumphant.

Leaving Eden ended its run July 21.

  Till

I saw “Till” on the day that Emmett Till would have celebrated his 78thbirthday. Instead, he was murdered at the age of 14,  the victim of inarguably the most famous lynching in the history of the United States.

A six-member all-black cast sings the gospel-inflected score by Leo Schwartz, with a book by Schwartz and DC Cathro that tells the story of Emmett Till starting shortly before his visit to his relatives in Money, Mississippi.   We first see Emmett (impressively portrayed by Taylor A. Blackman) in Chicago as a church-going, fun-loving teen, something of a clotheshorse and a prankster, but devoted to his mother Mamie (Denielle Marie Gray.)

Meanwhile, Carolyn Bryant,  introduced in her husband’s General Store in Money, Mississippi, is shown talking about the Marilyn Monroe movie “The Seven Year Itch” with her sister-in-law. Later we meet her husband Roy, who’s gruff and adulterous  (All three wear odd half-masks and white gloves to indicate that their characters are Caucasian, a costume choice that feels like a mistake.)

It’s only in the last 20 minutes of the 90 minute musical that we see a version of the events (the details of which are still much disputed 64 years later) that led to his death. Emmett buys gum from Carolyn Bryant in her store, putting the money in her hand rather than on the counter, and then goes back outside to hang out with his cousins, who are playing a game of checkers. Unnerved, Carolyn goes out to her car to fetch her gun, at the same time that Emmett lets out a whistle. The other black teens panic.

“You whistled at a white woman, Emmett! “ his cousin Maurice says.

“I did not,” Emmett replies. “I whistled at the game. Besides, what does it

matter? What if I did whistle at her? She never been whistled at?”

“Not by a colored boy! It matters down here, Emmett. “

Roy eventually finds out, and, enraged, goes to Emmett’s uncle’s house, and drags Emmett away, hands bound.

Back in Chicago, Mamie gets a phone call, and collapses.

The musical ends with rousing back-to-back numbers, Mamie singing “I Want Him Back,” where she insists on an open casket to show his brutalized body, and then “Come and Follow Me,” accompanied by the ensemble in choir robes, in front of a series of projections – portraits of  Rosa Parks, Medger Evers, Martin Luther King Jr., and Barack Obama. Cast members briefly portraying each of these real-life figures recite quotes about Emmett Till. (MLK: “The

death of that child had a profound impact on my life…” )

Why is Emmett Till so important? Why does his lynching so stand out from the reportedly more than four thousand in the country over some 60 years before his?

The answer to that question strikes me as the heart of the Emmett Till story, and the reason why a stronger and more sophisticated musical could surely have been written that begins with his lynching rather than ends with it, replacing some of the mundane scenes and songs of the Tills’ everyday life (which can feel like filler) with the rich details of the aftermath.  We don’t learn in “Till,” for example, that his two killers actually went on trial – not usual for a lynching in the South — but were then acquitted by an all-white jury….and then a year later, they sold their story to Look Magazine, confessing to the killing.   We don’t see what is evident in old video footage of Mamie Till in Civil Rights documentaries — her strength, dignity and resolve as she attends the trial, and calmly, straightforwardly answers questions from unsympathetic Southern interviewers. The story of Emmett Till is really as much the story of Mamie Till as it is of her son.

Till will be performed one more time, today, Sunday, July 28 at 9 p.m. at Signature Theater Center

  Flying Lessons

Isabella, a bored, smart eighth grader, is assigned a final paper for the school year – write about an inspiring figure from history.

”Like, how am I supposed to choose someone who inspires me when I don’t even know who I want to be or what I want to do?”

Suddenly, two choices appear before her, as in a dream – Amelia Earhart and Frederick Douglass. Over the course of “Flying Lessons,” the two narrate and re-enact their respective stories, interspersed with scenes of Isabella’s fights with her mother  and her life at school with her classmates and teacher Ms. Young.

There is much that is wonderful in this show, including a soaring, eclectic score by Donald Rupe and Cesar De La Rosa delivered by a terrific nine-member cast.  I hope and expect that “Flying Lessons” will take flight in the future, in one form or another. But it needs to be rethought.

Book writer, lyricist and co-composer Donald Rupe began “Flying Lessons” in response to a grant to produce a show for the eighth grade students of Osceolo County, Florida. This is how I know that Isabella is supposed to be in eighth grade. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be clear.  The dynamics of Isabella’s tensions with her mother, as well as the hopes, fears and (G-rated) sexual awakenings of her three solidly etched classmates make the show seem geared for high school or older. But sometimes the characters are so naïve and the tone so childlike that it feels a better fit for elementary school.  At the performance I attended, I talked to the parents of a six-year-old, who loved the show so much she was there for a second time.

Similarly, the show is divided into three distinct storylines, maybe four, that are sometimes an uneasy fit. It seems just odd that the stories of Earhart and Douglass are shoehorned together. In a musical called “Flying Lessons,” wouldn’t it make more sense to pair Earhart with, for example, the real-life women from the movie “Hidden Figures” who worked for NASA, or other female aviation pioneers?   And the stories of the historical figures can feel like an interruption to the scenes in the classroom,  which are funny and touching and don’t focus on Isabella.

The best solution may be to split up “Flying Lessons” into separate musicals – one telling the story of Amelia Earhart (and possibly other aviation pioneers), another Frederick Douglass, both 30 minutes long and aimed at young children; a third about Isabella, her mother, her teacher and her classmates, aiming for a higher age group.

Flying Lessons will be performed one more time, today, Sunday July 28 at 5 p.m., at Signature Theater Center.

NYMF Reviews: Leaving Eden. Till. Flying Lessons. The three shows reviewed below from this year’s New York Musical Festival are all, each in its own way, naïve…or one of the near synonyms for the word naïve, each of which offers a different spin -- a different judgment -- on the same quality: innocent, fresh, childlike, simple, unsophisticated, ignorant.

[caveartfair]

Jocelyn Hobbie’s Hypnotic Portraits of Women Dazzle the Eye with Color and Pattern

Jocelyn Hobbie, Irises, 2018. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Jocelyn Hobbie, Hollyhock & Anemones, 2018. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

When is a pattern as interesting as a person? What happens when a portrait’s subject is overwhelmed by the vibrant stripes of a blazer, or the droopy purple heads of lilies? Such questions are unavoidable when looking at Jocelyn Hobbie’s paintings, the most recent of which are on view at Fredericks & Freiser in New York through December 22nd. In these canvases, women perch, lounge, and gaze, their expressions neutral—a marked counterpoint to the frantic business of the backgrounds filled with flowers and ornate details of textiles. Each painting becomes an exercise in exuberant power-clashing. How much is too much? How much can the eye take?

I met up with Hobbie at her home studio in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, where she paints accompanied by a 10-year-old Jack Russell Terrier named Pablo. Outside, it was a cold and torrentially rainy day; inside, the heat was blasting, and a wall of pattern studies and sketches on tracing paper gave off its own, almost palpable warmth. Hobbie uses these so-called “doodles” as she works on a painting—auditioning a particular cluster of dots or colorful zigzags, seeing what’s a fit and what isn’t. The goal, she said, is to achieve a “disjointed, harmonious thing, simultaneously.”

Jocelyn Hobbie, Ikat Bouquet, 2018. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

That tricky sweet spot isn’t easy to achieve. “The figure is kind of the foundation of the picture, the architecture,” she explained, “but then what I really get into is figuring out the patterns and the colors, and what’s going to go where. It’s all very much a discovery.”

Jocelyn Hobbie, Forsythia, 2011. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Jocelyn Hobbie, Abundance, 2015. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Jocelyn Hobbie, Untitled (Yellow), 2016. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Jocelyn Hobbie, Peony, 2018. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

An in-progress painting gave a glimpse into how Hobbie operates, move by move, in the studio. The human component of the portrait is pretty firmly defined: A young blonde woman, running one hand through her hair, gazes out into the middle distance. She wears a light, striped dress, tied at the waist with a sash.

But the background—not to mention the final patterning of the clothing—is still up in the air. A square of tracing paper tacked to the upper edge of the canvas offers one option—a pink-and-orange assortment of interlocking fronds—while an alternative motif waits nearby, a jumble of falling leaf shapes against a block of green. “I’m still figuring it out,” Hobbie cautioned. “This will go through layers, and layers, and layers. I do a lot of sanding down and starting over.”

Jocelyn Hobbie, Twin Iris, 2012. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Jocelyn Hobbie, Foxglove, 2014. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

The patterns Hobbie incorporates into her paintings come from a wild array of sources—the internet, of course, is an inexhaustible library—but she’ll often adapt or modify them. “I love plaid, I love gingham,” she said. “Recently, I’ve been looking at a lot of textiles. Portuguese tiles. Matisse’s cut-outs. You know, times are tough—I feel like I need something cheerful.”

If the patterns are cheerful, her figures often are not. Surrounded by such explosive hues, they’re stoic, unperturbed. In almost all cases, the subjects aren’t real people, but rather subtle combinations of faces the artist has seen—in real life or otherwise—“Frankensteined together,” as she put it. Sometimes, she’ll take photographic self-portraits to work out a particular pose or angle of the body, but Hobbie never has a subject sit for her in the studio. The typical Hobbie heroine looks a bit timeless, almost airbrushed, with intricate plaits of hair and enviably flawless skin. “I’m not a realist painter,” she said, simply. “I just think of them as made of paint.”

Jocelyn Hobbie, Chimes, 2016. © Jocelyn Hobbie. Courtesy of Fredericks & Freiser, NY.

Over the years, Hobbie’s style has evolved from early days spent painting in an almost miniature scale to a later body of work that includes multiple subjects and more loaded scenarios. In 2012’s Infant, for instance, we see a young woman—pensive, chewing her thumb—not paying much attention to a nude baby sprawled out on a blanket before her. Another woman cranes over the first’s shoulder, shooting the child an almost vicious glance. It’s a complex picture, and one meant to solicit questions (Whose baby is this? Why does no one seem very happy that it’s there?). In another painting from the same year, entitled Cocktail Party, a grandma with purple-tinted hair holds a different newborn, as well as a rocks glass, as an unknown person’s exposed breast looms over her shoulder.

Hobbie has excised this thread of enigmatic storytelling from her more recent work. Now, we see mostly single figures, their histories unreadable, their bodies hedged in by evermore wild, conflicted patterning. It’s not hard to imagine a stage in which the subject disappears entirely, or is reduced to a single gesture or limb—a pale arm flung out on a wild blanket in a field of flowers.

“Do you feel like they’re too cacophonous?” Hobbie asked before I left. “Do you feel like you’re looking for a break?”

The answers, happily, are “no” and “no.” There’s a simple delight in this artist’s anti-minimalism. Hobbie’s disjointed, harmonious thing is pure pleasure.

from Artsy News

[londontheatre]

Mel Brooks’ YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN – the new comedy musical based on the Oscar-nominated smash hit movie – will open in the West End on Thursday 28 September at the Garrick Theatre (Press Night: Tuesday 10th October).

The production will open for a pre-West End season at the Theatre Royal Newcastle from Saturday 26th August to Saturday 9th September 2017.

The London run for Young Frankenstein is announced in the week that Mel is to be awarded the BAFTA Fellowship, the highest honour that the Academy bestow and a lifetime achievement recognising his remarkable career across the arts.

Young Frankenstein, the wickedly inspired re-imagining of the Mary Shelley classic, see’s Frederick Frankenstein, an esteemed New York brain surgeon and professor, inherit a castle and laboratory in Transylvania from his deranged genius grandfather, Victor Von Frankenstein. He now faces a dilemma – does he continue to run from his family’s tortured past or does he stay in Transylvania to carry on his grandfather’s mad experiments reanimating the dead and, in the process, fall in love with his sexy lab assistant Inga?

Based on the hilarious 1974 film and co-written with Thomas Meehan, Brooks will once again collaborate with Broadway director and choreographer Susan Stroman for this all-singing-all-dancing new production, bringing his and Gene Wilder’s classic movie to life on stage.

Casting will be announced at a later date. Young Frankenstein is produced by Mel Brooks, Michael Harrison and Fiery Angel.

YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN – LISTINGS INFORMATION Book – Mel Brooks & Thomas Meehan Music & Lyrics – Mel Brooks Direction & Choreography – Susan Stroman Set Design – Beowulf Boritt Costume Design – William Ivey Long Musical Supervision – Glen Kelly Orchestrations – Doug Besterman Lighting Design – Ben Cracknell Sound Design – Gareth Owen Musical Director – Andrew Hilton Wigs & Hair Design – Paul Huntley Casting Director – Jill Green CDG Associate Director – Nigel West Associate Choreographer – Richard Pitt

Garrick Theatre Charing Cross Road London, WC2H 0HH

SEASON DATES Performances begin Thursday 28th September

PERFORMANCE TIMES Monday – Saturday: 7:30pm Wednesday & Saturday Matinees: 3:00pm

Review of Young Frankenstein at the Garrick Theatre

Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein opens at Garrick Theatre Autumn 2017

http://ift.tt/2zvVTCD London Theatre 1

[decaffeinatedlightluminary-blog]

Flash Gordon Didn't Bother With Fossil Fuels

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Flash Gordon Didn't Bother With Fossil Fuels

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Buster Crabbe played the iconic Flash Gordon like a man obsessed, giving the legendary movie serial its high-octane action and frenetic speed.

He didn’t wait around for help when faced with certain death, and leaped into action. Somehow rescue always came after the cliff-hanger that ended each episode.

Likewise, the creators of the then high-cost production didn’t mess around to make sure all scientific details matched reality or potential possibilities of space-time theory. They created staged sets complemented with electricity arcs, surreal noise and big machines with concentric circles of blinking lights. They fuzzed over details when it came to power sources, transportation and various high-flying technologies. The bird men’s floating city comes to mind.

Doctor Zarkov in his introduction to the dungeon-like palace laboratory immediately figured out the nuclear energy source that enabled Ming the Merciless to rule over all of Mongo and threaten the hapless planet Earth. Things that make you go, “Hmmmm,” to quote Arsenio Hall found no answers in the script.

Society could use such enthusiasm and blind faith about now. The debate over climate change has dropped out of the presidential campaign. And energy independence is coming to mean relying on burning coal and natural gas. But sordid, particulate-filled air will soon be determined to be the most costly disaster in the history of mankind.

We could use a hero.

Mongo and climate change

Eugene Robinson with the Washington Post calls out the president and his challenger on climate change, saying “neither has mentioned the subject in the debates.”

That’s a problem. The nations of the world are racking up a huge debt in the form of carbon spewed by everything from cook fires to aging diesel truck and coal-fueled power plants. Most scientists warn of dire consequences should the increasing rate of its production not be reversed.

Author and climate activist Bill McKibben says we don’t have much time to engage this enemy. In a piece for Rolling Stone, McKibben says the Earth’s average temperature can increase just another 2 degrees Celsius before it succumbs to significant effects of climate change. He says that equates to 563 gigatons of carbon dioxide.

More drilling, really?

Robinson points out that President Obama stoked his fossil-fuel credentials in the second presidential debate, saying, “We have increased oil production to the highest levels in 16 years.” Meanwhile, he quotes GOP hopeful Mitt Romney saying, “I’ll do it by more drilling.”

The “it” to which Romney refers is energy independence. But energy, at least from fossil fuels, is controlled by world markets. To say all domestically produced fuel should be used only in this country would be against the very free market beliefs that Romney espouses. In other words, increasing extraction of domestic fossil fuels won’t matter much.

The presidential campaign “is an opportunity with complicated implications for global prosperity and security,” Robinson surmises. “Unfortunately, Obama and Romney have chosen to see this more as an opportunity to pretend that the light at the end of the tunnel is not an approaching train.”

Or Ming the Merciless.

Danger Will Robinson

As in the inaugural episode of Flash Gordon, (metaphorical) meteors are cascading down upon the planet. Only in this case, we don’t have a Flash to go off seeking solutions. It’s got to be accomplished by slow and methodical investment into alternative energy solutions. Sure, it’ll cost money. What doesn’t?

Director Frederick Stephani created those initial Flash Gordon episodes, using what then was the best technology of the day. Suspension of disbelief and storyline allowed the viewer to disappear into Mongo along with Flash, Princess Aura and Dale Arden. No matter that the entire alien population of a marauding planet speaks perfect, although stilted, English. As for the fact the planet has an atmosphere and perpetual daylight even though it doesn’t orbit a star… big deal. Not everything needs explanation.

Stephani uses sets like current sci-fi directors employ armies of workers to create computerized graphics. Many scenes look as if they’re stage productions. The same caverns appear over and over. The interior of every space ship looks the same, and some of the characters, a bearded James Pierce as Prince Thun comes to mind, look as if he grabbed the first beach bums from Los Angeles to play minor parts. “Who are you? Beard looks good. You’ll do,” is how I imagine Stephani casting some the prince role.

In other words, he made it work. We could do the same with alternative energy.

Scene stealer

Stephani and the producers certainly recycled sets. Imdb.com reports that “despite its large budget (about three times its contemporaries), this serial utilized many sets from other Universal films, such as the laboratory and crypt set from ‘The Bride of Frankenstein,’ the castle interiors from ‘Dracula’s Daughter,’ the idol from ‘The Mummy’ and the opera house interiors from ‘The Phantom of the Opera.'”

Yet, with the exception of Crabbe, most of the people involved in the original Flash faded from the limelight. I had initially thought Priscilla Lawson was in some way related to “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.” Perhaps a homage as was “To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar” to its namesake.

No such luck. Despite the splash, especially amongst young theater-goers, made by the cast of Flash Gordon, Lawson, Charles Middleton (who played Ming), Jean Rogers (who played Dale Arden) and others faded quickly from celluloid view.

Princess Aura returns

Here’s a bit of Priscilla Lawson, one of the most mysterious of Hollywood’s mysterious women. Her film career peaked with Flash Gordon.

Roy Kinnard, author of the book “Science Fiction Serials,” says Lawson’s career was too short. “She immortalized and endeared herself to generations of movie fans, who, after seeing her, have wanted to know more about her,” he says in a post on Tony LoBue’s Flash Gordon website.

Maybe that’s what happens to the earliest players in a trend. Perhaps many of those who pioneered clean energy will be forgotten until the mainstream realizes their importance and the significance of their message. Then you can be sure the posts and tweets will start burnishing their image.

Or maybe not. It would be nice to see a Flash Gordon leap into battle with no weapons and stand in front of the enemy. Oh that’s right, Daryl Hannah did that in northeast Texas in October 2012, blocking construction crews working on the Keystone XL pipeline.

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[tinamrazik]

DISNEY’S THE LITTLE MERMAID

The dazzling production marks the South Florida premiere of the Disney classic

 February 22 – March 5, 2017

Music by Alan Menken; Book by Doug Wright,

Lyrics by Glenn Slater and Howard Ashman;

Directed by Glenn Casale; Choreographed by John MacInnis

 A spectacular new production of Disney’s The Little Mermaid kicks off at The Broward Center for the Performing Arts on Wednesday, February 22, 2017 for a limited two week run. Featuring the critically acclaimed work of Director Glenn Casale, this beloved tale of a young mermaid’s coming-of-age adventure is told like never before. Previously announced casting includes Diana Huey as Ariel and Matthew Kacergis as Prince Eric, with Broadway’s Jennifer Allen as Ursula and Steven Blanchard as King Triton. Melvin Abston, Connor Russell and Jamie Torcellini join the cast as Sebastian, Flounder and Scuttle. 

  This timeless Disney musical is based on the hit animated 1989 Disney film The Little Mermaid, which was loosely based on the Hans Christian Anderson tale. The show follows headstrong Ariel, no longer content to live on the ocean floor under her father, King Triton’s rule.

 Convinced she’ll only find happiness on land, she sets off to find a world where she belongs, battling a cruel sea witch and finding true love along the way. The film earned three Academy Award® nominations and four Golden Globe nominations, winning the awards for Best Song (“Under the Sea”) and Best Score in both ceremonies. The soundtrack won the Grammy Award for Best Album for Children and the Grammy Award® for Best Score Soundtrack Album for A Motion Picture, Television or Other Visual Media.

 The Broadway production appeared in 2007 under Director Francesca Zambello. In 2012, Director Glenn Casale was invited to re-imagine the show, making significant plot changes, introducing aerial elements and featuring a new set design by Bob Crowley that emulates a pop-up book. Casale’s changes are reflected in this production.

About the Cast

Diana Huey stars as Ariel. Her 5th Avenue credits include Jasper in Deadland, RENT, MAME and Adventure Musical Theater. Her regional work includes performances at Village Theatre, ACT Theatre, Seattle Children’s Theater, Signature Theatre, Milwaukee Repertory Theater, Flat Rock Playhouse, Prospect Theatre and Playwrights Horizon. Huey has been seen on TV in Leverage, The Glee Project and is heard on TV as New Day Northwest’s theme-song singer. She is a Helen Hayes Award Winner for Best Leading Actress for Signature Theatre’s Miss Saigon.

 Matthew Kacergis makes his 5th Avenue debut as Prince Eric. His work has been seen at Village Theatre in Les Misérables (Marius), Billy Elliot (Tony), Chasing Nicolette (Aucassin) and Anne of Green Gables (Gilbert Blythe). Other regional credits include Pride and Prejudice (Mr. Wickham) at La Mirada Theatre, Parade (Frankie/Young Soldier) and The Civil War (“Tell My Father”) at Ford’s Theatre, Spring Awakening (Melchior) and Cinderella (Prince Christopher) at Olney Theatre Center. Additionally, Kacergis was seen in Aladdin: A Musical Spectacular (Aladdin) at Disney’s California Adventure and Fiddler On The Roof (Fyedka) at the Ogunquit Playhouse. TV/Film: Veep. He can be heard on the cast recording of A Walk On The Wild Side.

 Jennifer Allen joins the cast as Ursula in her 5th Avenue debut. Her Broadway credits include starring and co-starring roles in Bridges of Madison County, Sister Act (Mother Superior), Memphis, A Catered Affair, Cats (Grizabella), Little Me, Guys and Dolls (Miss Adelaide) and City of Angels. Allen has been seen in National Tours of Ragtime (Emma Goldman), Jerome Robbins’ Broadway (Ma and Tessie Tura) and Cabaret (Sally Bowles). Regionally, she has worked at the Williamstown Theater Festival, Goodspeed Opera House and Paper Mill Playhouse.

 Steven Blanchard makes his 5th Avenue debut as King Triton. His Broadway credits include Beauty and the Beast (Gaston and the Beast), Camelot and The Three Musketeers. Off-Broadway, he was seen in Johnny Guitar and Frankenstein. Blanchard’s national tours include Phantom of the Opera, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Camelot, The Little House on the Prairie and Newsies. His TV credits include Ed, Third Watch, Law & Order, Sunset Beat, Police Story, Another World, One Life to Live, Guiding Light and Rapmaster Ronnie for HBO. Blanchard’s regional work includes performances at

Paper Mill Playhouse, St. Louis Rep, Madison Square Garden, Guthrie Theatre, TUTS and more.

 Melvin Abston returns to The 5th Avenue as Sebastian. He was previously seen in Memphis at The 5th, and appeared on Broadway in Sister Act (Broadway and first national tour) and The Lion King (Broadway and national tour). Abston’s regional performances have been seen at TUTS, Zach Theatre, La Jolla Playhouse, La Mirada, Pasadena Playhouse, Chicago Theatre, Goodman Theatre and more. His film and TV work includes Solace, Gotham, Raising Hope, Touch, Weeds, Grey’s Anatomy, Chuck, ER and more.

 Connor Russell joins the cast as Flounder. His 5th Avenue credits include Disney’s Aladdin, A Chorus Line, and Hairspray Anniversary Concert. Russell has been seen regionally at The Old Globe (Quentin in October Sky), The Smith Center (Idaho! The Comedy Musical), Pittsburgh CLO (A Christmas Carol), Arkansas Rep (White Christmas), Village Theatre (The Who’s Tommy) and Capital Rep (Gypsy). His film work includes Paul in The Hinterlands (IAWTV Award nomination for Best Leading Actor), Brand Upon the Brain (Toronto Film Festival/New York Film Festival) and Truth Slash Fiction (SeriesFest 2016 Winner).

 Jamie Torcellini makes his 5th Avenue debut as Scuttle. He was seen on Broadway in Billy Elliot, Man of La Mancha, Little Johnny Jones, Cats, Beauty and the Beast, Jerome Robbins’ Broadway and Me and My Girl. Torcellini’s TV and film credits include ER, Law & Order, The Jamie Foxx Show, Stuart Little, Aladdin, Tarzan, Mrs. Santa Claus and Pocahontas 2.

   This stellar cast is joined by Brandon Roach as Flotsam, Frederick Hagreen as Jetsam/Prince Eric Cover, Allen Fitzpatrick as Grimsby and Dane Stokinger as Chef Louis. Also swimming under the sea are Kristin Burch, Venny Carranza, Lisa Karlin, Michael McGurk, Amanda Minano, Taylor Niemeyer, Becca Orts, Marco Ramos, Robbie Roby, James Shackelford, Brian Steven Shaw, Momoko Sugai, Brenna Wagner, Michael Wordly and Brittany Zeinstra.

  About the Director

Glenn Casale revisits Disney’s The Little Mermaid as Director. Casale directed the 1999 Tony Award-nominated and Emmy Award-winning Peter Pan starring Cathy Rigby. Casale was brought on to re-imagine Disney’s The Little Mermaid, introducing aerial effects and plot revisions that are reflected in this production. Additional directing credits include a new production of Dragapella (nominated for Drama Desk and Lucille Lortel Awards for Best Production), Beauty and The Beast and Peter Pan (Broadway and National Tour). His TV work includes The Faculty and The Wayans Bros.

  About the Choreographer

John MacInnis’ choreography credits include European productions of Disney’s The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. He was associate choreographer of Something Rotten!; Aladdin and The Book of Mormon on Broadway. MacInnis was director and choreographer of the Olympic Medals Ceremonies for the 2002 and 2010 Olympic Winter Games. He was the director/choreographer of The Radio City Christmas Spectacular including the first international production in Mexico City, Mexico. He has been seen on stage in Curtains; Thoroughly Modern Millie; Kiss Me Kate; Steel Pier; How to Succeed in Business…; Guys and Dolls; Jerome Robbins’ Broadway and Me and My Girl on Broadway.

  About the Music Director

Colin R. Freeman has over 30 theater credits in both US and UK including: Annie, Annie Get Your Gun, Anything Goes, Assassins, Cats, Cinderella, Chess, Disney’s The Little Mermaid, Forever Plaid, Grease, Guys and Dolls, Gypsy, Harmony, Jesus Christ Superstar, My Fair Lady, Sweet Charity and The Wizard of Oz. His varied concert work has taken him from recording for the BBC to conducting many of the principal U.S. and Canadian symphony orchestras including the Pittsburgh, Rochester, Ottawa, Calgary, Utah, St. Louis and Minnesota symphony orchestras. Freeman has worked as an arranger and orchestrator for Lorna Luft, Barry Manilow, Rod Stewart and Hal Linden among others. He is a Los Angeles Ovation Award winner, and Desert Theatre League winner for Best Musical Direction.

  About the Creative Team

The production features flying sequence choreography by Paul Rubin, original scenic design by Kenneth Foy and original costume design by Amy Clark and Mark Koss, lighting design by Charlie Morrison, sound design by Ed Chapman, original soundscape design by Gareth Owen, and hair and wig design by Leah Loukas. The design team also includes assistant lighting designers John Burkland and Gary Echelmeyer and costume coordinator Nichole Hull. Additional staff includes associate director Michael Heitzman, associate choreographer Robbie Roby, associate music director R.J.Tancioco, assistant flying sequence choreographer Ashley Anderson and keyboard programmer Jim Harp.

 Michael McEowen is the production stage manager with assistant stage managers Jess Manning and Rachel Bury.

For more information on this show please visit:

browardcenter.org

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