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Martial, Epigrams. Book 1. Bohn's Classical Library (1897)

BOOK I.

TO THE READER

I trust that, in these little books of mine, I have observed such self-control, that whoever forms a fair judgment from his own' mind can make no complaint of them, since they indulge their sportive fancies without violating the respect due even to persons of the humblest station; a respect which was so far disregarded by the authors of antiquity, that they made free use, not only of real, but of great names. For me; let fame be held in less estimation, and let such talent be the last thing commended in me.

Let the ill-natured interpreter, too, keep himself from meddling with the simple meaning of my jests, and not write my epigrams for me.1 He acted honourably who exercises perverse ingenuity on another man's book: For the free plainness of expression, that is, for the language of epigram, I would apologize, if I were introducing the practice; but it is thus that Catullus writes, and Marsus, and Pedo, and Getulicus, and every one whose writings are read through. If any assumes to be so scrupulously nice, however, that it is not allowable to address him, in a single page, in plain language, he may confine himself to this address, or rather to the title of the book. Epigrams are written for those who are accustomed to be spectators at the games of Flora. Let not Cato enter my theatre; or, if he do enter, let him look on. It appears to me that I shall do only what I have a right to do, if I close my address with the following verses:----

1 Let him not make them his own, by the false interpretation which he puts upon them.

TO CATO.

Since you knew the lascivious nature of the rites of sportive Flora, as well as the dissoluteness of the games, and the license of the populace, why, stern Cato, did you enter the theatre? Did you come in only that you might go out again?

I. TO THE READER.

The man whom you are reading is the very man that you want,----Martial, known over the whole world for his humorous books of epigrams; to whom, studious reader, you have afforded such honours, while he is alive and has a sense of them, as few poets receive after their death.

II. TO THE READER; SHOWING WHERE THE AUTHOR'S BOOKS MAY BE PURCHASED.

You who are anxious that my books should be with you everywhere, and desire to have them as companions on a long journey, buy a copy of which the parchment leaves are compressed into a small compass.1 Bestow book-cases upon large volumes; one hand will hold me. But that you may not be ignorant where I am to be bought, and wander in uncertainty over the whole town, you shall, under my guidance, be sure of obtaining me. Seek Secundus, the freedman of the learned Lucensis, behind the Temple of Peace and the Forum of Pallas.

1 That is, a copy with small pages; a small copy.

III. THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK.

You prefer, little book, to dwell in the shops in the Argiletum,1 though my book-case has plenty of room for you. You are ignorant, alas! you are ignorant of the fastidiousness of Rome, the mistress of the world; the sons of Man, believe me, are much too critical. Nowhere are there louder sneers; young men and old, and even boys, have the nose of the rhinoceros.2 After you have heard a loud "Bravo!" and are expecting kisses, you will go, tossed to the skies, from the jerked toga.3 Yet, that you may not so often suffer the corrections of your master, and that his relentless pen may not so often mark your vagaries, you desire, frolicsome little book, to fly through the air of heaven. Go, fly; but you would have been safer at home.

1 An open place, or square, in Rome, where tradesmen had shops. 2 Have great powers of ridicule, which the Romans often expressed by turning up or wrinkling the nose. 3 People will take you into their lap, and then jerk you out of it, as if you were tossed in a blanket

IV. TO CAESAR.

If you should chance, Caesar, to light upon my books, lay aside that look which awes the world. Even your triumphs have been accustomed to endure jests,1 nor is it any shame to a general to be a subject for witticisms. Read my verses, I pray you, with that brow with which you behold Thymele 2 and Latinus 3 the buffoon. The censorship 4 may tolerate innocent jokes: my page indulges in freedoms, but my life is pure.

1 In allusion to the jests which the soldiers threw out on their generals while they were riding in the triumphal procession. 2 A female dancer. 3 A dancer in pantomime; a sort of harlequin. 4 Alluding to Domitian having made himself perpetual censor.

V. THE EMPEROR'S REPLY.

I give you a sea-fight, and you give me epigrams: you wish, I suppose, Marcus, to be set afloat with your book.

VI. ON A LION OF CAESAR'S THAT SPARED A HARE.

While through the air of heaven the eagle was carrying the youth,1 the burden unhurt clung to its anxious talons. From Caesar's lions their own prey now succeeds in obtaining mercy, and the hare plays safe in their huge jaws. Which miracle do you think the greater? The author of each is a supreme being: the one is the work of Caesar; the other,2 of Jove.

1 Ganymede. 2 Comp. Eps. 14, 22.

VII. TO MAXIMUS

The dove, the delight of my friend Stella,3----even with Verona4 listening will I say it, ---- has surpassed, Maximus, the sparrow of Catullus. By so much is my Stella greater than your Catullus, as a dove is greater than a sparrow.

3 A poet of Patavium, who wrote an elegy on the dove of his mistress Ianthis. See B. vi. Ep. 21; B. vii. Ep. 13. 4 The birth-place of Catullus.

VIII. TO DECIANUS

In that you so far only follow the opinions of the great Thrasea and Cato of consummate virtue, that you still wish to preserve your life, and do not with bared breast rush upon drawn swords, you do, Decianus, what I should wish you to do. I do not approve of a man who purchases fame with life-blood, easy to be shed: I like him who can be praised without dying to obtain it.

IX. TO COTTA.

You wish to appear, Cotta, a pretty man and a great man at one and the same time: but he who is a pretty man, Cotta, is a very small man.

X. ON GEMELLUS AND MARONILLA.

Gemellus is seeking the hand of Maronilla, and is earnest, and lays siege to her, and beseeches her, and makes presents to her. Is she then so pretty? Nay; nothing can be more ugly. What then is the great object and attraction in her? ----Her cough.

XI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Seeing that there are given to a knight twice five pieces,1 wherefore is twice ten the amount which you spend by yourself, Sextilianus, in drink? Long since would the warm water have failed the attendants who carried it, had you not, Sextilianus, been drinking your wine unmixed.2

1 Ten sesterces, the usual sportula, or donation from the emperor. 2 The Romans used to drink their wine mixed with warm water.

XII. ON REGULUS.

Where the road runs to the towers of the cool Tivoli, sacred to Hercules, and the hoary Albula 3 smokes with sulphureous waters, a milestone, the fourth from the neighbouring city, points out a country retreat, and a hallowed grove, and a domain well beloved of the Muses. Here a rude portico used to afford cool shade in summer; a portico, ah! how nearly the desperate cause of an unheard-of calamity: for suddenly it fell in ruins, after Regulus had just been conveyed in a carriage and pair from under its high fabric. Truly Dame Fortune feared our complaints, as she would have been unable to withstand so great odium. Now even our loss delights us; so beneficial is the impression which the very danger produces; since, while standing, the edifice could not have proved to us the existence of the gods.

3 A plain near Tivoli.

XIII. ON ARRIA AND PAETUS.

When the chaste Arria handed to her Paetus the sword which she had with her own hand drawn forth from her heart, "If you believe me," said she, "the wound which I have made gives me no pain; but it is that which you will make, Paetus, that pains me."

XIV. TO DOMITIAN.

The pastimes, Caesar, the sports and the play of the lions, we have seen: your arena affords you the additional sight of the captured hare returning often in safety from the kindly tooth, and running at large through the open jaws. Whence is it that the greedy lion can spare his captured prey? He is said to be yours: thence it is that he can show mercy.

XV. TO JULIUS.

Oh! you who are regarded by me, Julius, as second to none of my companions, if well-tried friendship and longstanding ties are worth anything, already nearly a sixtieth consul is pressing upon you, and your life numbers but a few more uncertain days. Not wisely would you defer the enjoyment which you see maybe denied you, or consider the past alone as your own. Cares and linked chains of disaster are in store; joys abide not, but take flight with winced speed. Seize them with either hand, and with your full grasp; even thus they will oft-times pass away and glide from your closest embrace. 'Tis not, believe me, a wise man's part to say, "I will live." To-morrow's life is too late: live to-day.

XVI. TO AVITUS.

Of the epigrams which you read here, some are good, some middling, many bad; a book, Avitus, cannot be made in any other way.

XVII. TO TITUS.

Titus urges me to go to the Bar, and often tells me, "The gains are large." The gains of the husbandman, Titus, are likewise large.

XVIII. TO TUCCA, ON HIS PARSIMONY.

What pleasure can it give you, Tucca, to mix with old Falernian wine new wine stored up in Vatican casks? What vast amount of good has the most worthless of wine done you? or what amount of evil has the best wine done you? As for us, it is a small matter; but to murder Falernian, and to put poisonous wine in a Campanian cask, is an atrocity. Your guests may possibly have deserved to perish: a wine-jar of such value has not deserved to die.

XIX. TO AELIA.

If I remember right, Aelia, you had four teeth; a cough displaced two, another two more. You can now cough without anxiety all the day long. A third cough can find nothing to do in your mouth.

XX. TO CAECILIANUS.

Tell me, what madness is this? While a whole crowd of invited guests is looking on, you alone, Caecilianus, devour the truffles. What shall I imprecate on you worthy of so large a stomach and throat? That you may eat a truffle such as Claudius ate.

XXI. ON PORSENA AND MUCIUS SCAEVOLA.

When the hand that aimed at the king mistook for him his secretary, it thrust itself to perish into the sacred fire but the generous foe could not endure so cruel a sight, and bade the hero, snatched from the flame, to be set free. The hand which, despising the fire, Mucius dared to burn, Porsena could not bear to look on Greater was the fame and glory of that right hand from being deceived; had it not missed its aim, it had accomplished less.

XXII. TO A HARE.

Why, silly hare, are you fleeing from the fierce jaws of the lion now grown tame? They have not learned to crush such tiny animals. Those talons, which you fear, are reserved for mighty necks, nor does a thirst so great delight in so small a draught of blood. The hare is the prey of hounds; it does not fill large mouths: the Dacian boy should not fear Caesar.

XXIII. TO COTTA.

You invite no one, Cotta, except those whom you meet at the bath; and the bath alone supplies you with guests. I used to wonder why you had never asked me, Cotta; I know now that my appearance in a state of nature was unpleasing in your eyes.

XXIV. TO DECIANUS.

You see yonder individual, Decianus, with locks uncombed, whose grave brow even you fear; who talks incessantly of the Curii and Camilli, defenders of their country's liberties: do not trust his looks; he was taken to wife but yesterday.

XXV. TO FAUSTINUS.

Issue at length your books to the public, Faustinus, and give to the light the work elaborated by your accomplished mind,----a work such as neither the Cecropian city of Pandion would condemn, nor our old men pass by in silence. Do you hesitate to admit Fame, who is standing before your door; and does it displease you to receive the reward of your labour? Let the writings, destined to live after you, begin to live through your means. Glory comes too late, when paid only to our ashes.

XXVI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Sextilianus, you drink as much as five rows of knights 1 alone: you might intoxicate yourself with water, if you so often drank as much. Nor is it the coin of those who sit near you alone that you consume in drink, but the money of those far removed from you, on the distant benches. This vintage has not been concerned with Pelignian presses, nor was this juice of the grape produced upon Tuscan heights; but it is the glorious jar of the long-departed Opimius 2 that is drained, and it is the Massic cellar that sends forth its blackened casks. Get dregs of Laletane wine from a tavern-keeper, Sextilianus, if you drink more than ten cups.3

1 Seated on the benches allotted them in the theatre. See Ep. 12. 2 The vintage of B. C. 121, in which year L. Opimius was one of the consuls, was extremely celebrated, and is frequently mentioned by the Roman writers. 3 The number to which persons at feasts usually restricted themselves.

XXVII. TO PROCILLUS.

Last night I had invited you----after some fifty glasses, I suppose, had been despatched----to sup with me to-day. You immediately thought your fortune was made, and took note of my unsober words, with a precedent but too dangerous. I hate a boon companion whose memory is good, Procillus.

XXVIII. ON ACCERRA.

Whoever believes it is of yesterday's wine that Acerra smells, is mistaken: Acerra always drinks till morning.

XXIX. TO FIDENTINUS.

Report says that you, Fidentinus, recite my compositions in public as if they were your own. If you allow them to be called mine, I will send you my verses gratis; if you wish them to be called yours, pray buy them, that they may be mine no longer.

XXX. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus had been a surgeon, and is now an undertaker. He has begun to be useful to the sick in the only way that he could.

XXXI. TO APOLLO, OF ENCOLPUS.

Encolpus, the favourite of the centurion his master, consecrates these, the whole of the locks from his head, to you, O Phoebus.1 When Pudens shall have rained the pleasing honour of the chief-centurionship, which he has so well merited, cut these long tresses close, O Phoebus, as soon as possible, while the tender face is yet undisfigured with down, and while the flowing hair adorns the milk-white neck; and, that both master and favourite may long enjoy your gifts, make him carry shorn, but late a man.2

1 Encolpus, a favourite of Aulus Pudens the centurion, had vowed his hair to Phoebus, is order that his master might soon be made chief centurion. Martial prays that they may both obtain what they desire. 2 Extend his youth as long as possible.

XXXII. TO SABIDIUS.

I do not love you, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, I do not love you.

The following lines, in imitation of this epigram, were made by some Oxford wit, on Dr John Fell, Bishop of Oxford, who died in 1686:

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell; The reason why I cannot tell. But this I'm sure I know full well, I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

XXXIII. ON GELLIA.

Gellia does not mourn for her deceased father, when she is alone; but if any one is present, obedient tears spring forth. He mourns not, Gellia, who seeks to be praised; he is the true mourner, who mourns without a witness.

XXXIV. TO LESBIA.

You always take your pleasure, Lesbia, with doors unguarded and open, nor are you at any pains to conceal your amusements. It is more the spectator, than the accomplice in your doings, that pleases you, nor are any pleasures grateful to your taste if they be secret. Yet the common courtesan excludes every witness by curtain and by bolt, and few are the chinks in a suburban brothel. Learn something at least of modesty from Chione, or from Alis: even the monumental edifices of the dead afford hiding-places for abandoned harlots. Does my censure seem too harsh? I do not exhort you to be chaste, Lesbia, but not to be caught.

XXXV. TO CORNELIUS.

You complain, Cornelius, that the verses which I compose are little remarkable for their reserve, and not such as a master can read out in his school; but such effusions, as in the case of man and wife, cannot please without some spice of pleasantry in them. What if you were to bid me write a hymeneal song in words not suited to hymeneal occasions? Who enjoins the use of attire at the Floral games, and imposes on the courtesan the reserve of the matron? This law has been allowed to frolicsome verses, that without tickling the fancy they cannot please. Lay aside, therefore, your severe look, I beseech you, and spare my jokes and gaiety, and do not desire to mutilate my compositions. Nothing is more disgusting than Priapus become a priest of Cybele.

XXXVI. TO THE BROTHERS LUCANUS AND TULLUS.

If, Lucanus, to you, or if to you, Tullus, had been offered such fates as the Laconian children of Leda enjoy, there would have been this noble struggle of affection in both of you, that each would have wished to die first in place of his brother; and he who should have first descended to the nether realms of shade would have said, "Live, brother, thine own term of days; live also mine."

XXXVII. TO BASSUS.

Yon deposit your excretions, without any sense of shame, into an unfortunate vessel of gold, while you drink out of glass. The former operation, consequently, is the more expensive.

XXXVIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus but, while you read it so badly, it begins to be yours.

With fruity accents, and so vile a tone, You quote my lines, I took them for your own. Anon.

XXXIX. TO DECIANUS.

If there be any man fit to be numbered among one's few choice friends, a man such as the honesty of past times and ancient renown would readily acknowledge; if any man thoroughly imbued with the accomplishments of the Athenian and Latin Minervas, and exemplary for true integrity; if there be any man who cherishes what is right, and admires what is honourable, and asks nothing of the gods but what all may hear; if there be any man sustained by the strength of a great mind, may I die, if that man is not Decianus.

XL. TO AN ENVIOUS MAN.

You who make grimaces, and read these verses of mine with an ill grace, you, victim of jealousy, may, if you please, envy everybody; nobody will envy you.

XLI. TO CAECILIUS.

You imagine yourself Caecilius, a man of wit. You are no such thing, believe me. What then? A low buffoon; such a thing as wanders about in the quarters beyond the Tiber, and barters pale-coloured sulphur matches for broken glass; such a one as sells boiled peas and beans to the idle crowd; such as a lord and keeper of snakes; or as a common servant of the salt-meat-sellers; or a hoarse-voiced cook who carries round smoking sausages in steaming shops; or the worst of street poets; or a blackguard slave-dealer from Gades;1 or a chattering old debauchee. Cease at length, therefore, to imagine yourself that which is imagined by you alone, Caecilius, you who could have silenced Gabba, and even Testius Caballus, with your jokes. It is not given to every one to have taste; he who jests with a stupid effrontery is not a Testius, but a Caballus.3

1 See Juvenal xi. 163, and Mayor's note. 3 A play on the word Caballus, which, as an appellative noun, meant a hack-horse.

XLII. ON PORCIA.

When Porcia had heard the fate of her consort Brutus, and her grief was seeking the weapon, which had been carefully removed from her," You know not yet," she cried, "that death cannot be denied: I had supposed that my father had taught you this lesson by his fate. She spoke, and with eager mouth swallowed the blazing coals. "Go now, officious attendants, and refuse me a sword, if you will."

XLIII. ON MANCINUS.

Twice thirty were invited to your table, Mancinus, and nothing was placed before us yesterday but a wild-boar. Nowhere were to be seen grapes preserved from the late vines, or apples vying in flavour with sweet honey-combs; nowhere the pears which hang suspended by flexible twigs, or pomegranates the colour of summer roses: nor did the rustic basket supply its milky cheeses, or the olive emerge from its Picenian jar. Your wild-boar was by itself: and it was even of the smallest size, and such a one as might have been slaughtered by an unarmed dwarf. Besides, none of it was given us; we simply looked on it as spectators. This is the way in which even the arena places a wild-boar before us. May no wild-boar be placed before you after such doings, but may you be placed before the boar in front of which Charidemus was placed.1

1 By Domitian, to be torn in pieces. See Sueton. Life of Domit.

XLIV. TO STELLA.

If it seems to you too much, Stella, that my longer and shorter compositions are occupied with the frisky gambols of the hares and the play of the lions, and that I go over the same subject twice, do you also place a hare twice before me.

XLV. ON HIS BOOK.

That the care which I have bestowed upon what I have published may not come to nothing through the smallness of my volumes, let me rather fill up my verses with Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.1

1 Let me rather use frequent repetitions, just as Homer frequently repeats these words.

XLVI. TO HEDYLUS.

[From the Loeb translation]

When you say "I haste; now is the time," then, Hedylus, my ardour at once flags and weakens. Bid me wait: more quickly, stayed, shall I speed on. Hedylus, if you do haste, tell me not to haste!

XLVII. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus, lately a doctor, is now an undertaker: what he does as an undertaker, he used to do also as a doctor.

XLVIII. ON THE LION AND HARE.

The keepers could not snatch the bulls from those wide jaws, through which the fleeting prey, the hare, goes and returns in safety; and, what is still more strange, he starts from his foe with increased swiftness, and contracts something of the great nobleness of the lion's nature. He is not safer when he courses along the empty arena, nor with equal feeling of security does he hide him in his hutch. If, venturous hare, you seek; to avoid the teeth of the hounds, you have the jaws of the lion to which you may flee for refuge.

XLIX. TO LICINIANUS.

O you, whose name must not be left untold by Celtiberian nations, you the honour of our common country, Spain, you, Licinianus, will behold the lofty Bilbilis, renowned for horses and arms, and Catus1 venerable with his locks of snow, and eased Vadavero with ita broken cliffs, and the sweet grove of delicious Botrodus, which the happy Pomona loves. You will breast the gently-flowing water of the warm Congedus and the calm lakes of the Nymphs, and your body, relaxed by these, you may brace up in the little Salo, which hardens iron. There Voberca 2 herself will supply for your meals animals which may be brought down close at hand. The serene summer heat you will disarm by bathing in the golden Tagus, hidden beneath the shades of trees; your greedy thirst the fresh Dercenna will appease, and Nutha, which in coldness surpasses snow. But when hoar December and the furious solstice shall resound with the hoarse blasts of the north-wind, you will again seek the sunny shores of Tarraco and thine own Laletania. There you will despatch hinds caught in your supple toils, and native boars; and you will tire out the cunning hare with your hardy steed; the stags you will leave to your bailiff. The neighboring wood will come down into your very hearth, surrounded as it will be with a troop of uncombed children. The huntsman will be invited to your table, and many a guest called in from the neighbourhood will come to you. The crescent-adorned boot 3 will be nowhere to be seen, nowhere the toga and garments smelling of purple dye. Far away will be the ill-favoured Liburnian porter 4 and the grumbling client; far away the imperious demands of widows. The pale criminal will not break your deep sleep, but all the morning long you will enjoy your slumber. Let another earn the grand and wild "Bravo!" Do you pity such happy ones, and enjoy without pride true delight, while your friend Sura is crowned with applause. Not unduly does life demand of us our few remaining days, when fame has as much as is sufficient.

1 Catus and Vadavero are names of mountains near Bilbilis. Botrodus is a small town; Congedus and Salo, riven. 2 The name of a town. Dercenna and Nutha are fountains. 3 Worn by senators. 4 See Juvenal, iv. 75.

L. TO AEMILIANUS.

If your cook, Aemilianus, is called Mistyllus, why should not mine be called Taratalla?1

1 A meaningless jest taken from Homer's words (Il. i.465).

LI. TO A HARE.

No neck, save the proudest, serves for the fierce lion. Why do you, vain-glorious hare, flee from these teeth? No doubt you would wish them to stoop from the huge bull to you, and to crush a neck which they cannot see. The glory of an illustrious death must be an object of despair to you. You, a tiny prey, canst not fall before such an enemy!

LII. TO QUINCTIANUS.

To you, Quinctianus, do I commend my books, if indeed I can call books mine, which your poet recites.1 If they complain of a grievous yoke, do you come forward as their advocate, and defend them efficiently; and when he calls himself their master, say that they were mine, but have been given 2 by me to the public. If you will proclaim this three or four times, you will bring shame on the plagiary.

1 A poet that recited verses to Quinctianus; the same, probably, that is mentioned in the next epigram. 2 Manumitted; released from my portfolio.

LIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

One page only in my books belongs to you, Fidentinus, but it bears the sure stamp of its master, and accuses your verses of glaring theft. Just so does a Gallic frock coming in contact with purple city cloaks stain them with grease and filth; just so do Arretine1 pots disgrace vases of crystal; so is a buck crow, straying perchance on the banks of the Cayster, laughed to scorn amid the swans of Leda: and so, when the sacred grove resounds with the music of the tuneful nightingale, the miscreant magpie disturbs her Attic plaints. My books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, "You are a thief"

1 Earthen pots from Arretium, a town of Etruria.

LIV. TO FUSCUS.

If, Fuscus, you have room to receive still more affection, (for you have friends around you on all sides), I ask you one place in your heart, if one still remains vacant, and that you will not refuse because I am a stranger to you: all your old friends were so once. Simply consider whether he who is presented to you a stranger is likely to become an old friend.

LV. TO FRONTO.

If you, Fronto, so distinguished an ornament of military and civil life, desire to learn the wishes of your friend Marcus, he prays for this, to be the tiller of his own farm, nor that a large one, and he loves inglorious repose in as unpretending sphere. Does any one haunt the porticoes of cold variegated Spartan marble, and run to offer, like a fool, his morning greetings, when he might, rich with the spoils of grave and field, unfold before his fire his well-filled nets, and lift the leaping fish with the quivering line, and draw forth the yellow honey from the red1 cask, while a plump housekeeper loads his unevenly-propped table, and his own eggs are cooked by an unbought fire? That the man who loves not me may not love this life, is my wish; and let him drag out life pallid with the cares of the city.

1 Stained with vermilion.

LVI. TO A VINTNER.

Harassed with continual rains, the vineyard drips with wet. You cannot sell us, vintner, even though you wish, neat wine.

LVII. TO FLACCUS.

Do you ask what sort of maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy, and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures, nor that which cloys.

LVIII. DE PUERI PRETIO.

[Untranslated]

LIX. TO FLACCUS.

The sportula1 at Baiae brings me in a hundred farthings; of what use is such a miserable sum in the midst of such sumptuous baths? Give me back the darksome baths of Lupus and Gryllus. When I sup so scantily, Flaccus, why should I bathe so luxuriously?

1 Sportula. A present from the richer class to the poorer; nominally the price of a supper. See Dict. Antiqq. s. v.

LX. ON THE LION AND HARE.

Hare, although you enter the wide jaws of the fierce lion, still he imagines his mouth to be empty. Where is the back on which he shall rush? where the shoulders on which he shall flail? where shall he fix those deep bites which he inflicts on young bulls? why do you in vain weary the lord and monarch of the groves? 'Tis only on the wild prey of his choice that he feeds.

LXI. TO LICINIANUS, ON THE COUNTRIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS.

Verona loves the verses of her learned Poet; Mantua is blest in her Maro; the territory of Apona is renowned for its Livy, its Stella, and not less for its Flaccus. The Nile, whose waters are instead of rain, applauds its Apollodorus; the Pelignians vaunt their Ovid. Eloquent Cordova speaks of its two Senecas and its single and preeminent Lucan. Voluptuous Gades delights in her Canius,1 Emerita in my friend Decianus. Our Bilbilis will be proud of you, Licinianus, nor will be altogether silent concerning me.

1 See b. iii. Ep. 20.

LXII. ON LAEVINA.

Laevina, so chaste as to rival even the Sabine women of old, and more austere than even her stern husband, chanced, while entrusting herself sometimes to the waters of the Lucrine lake, sometimes to those of Avernus, and while frequently refreshing herself in the baths of Baiae, to fall into flames of love, and, leaving her husband, fled with a young gallant. She arrived a Penelope, she departed a Helen.

LXIII. TO CELER.

You ask me to recite to you my Epigrams. I cannot oblige you; for you wish not to hear them, Celer, but to recite them.1

1 To plagiarise them from me, and then to recite them as your own.

LXIV. TO FABULLA.

You are pretty,----we know it; and young,----it is true; and rich,----who can deny it? But when you praise yourself extravagantly, Fabulla, you appear neither rich, nor pretty, nor young.

LXV. TO CAECILIANUS.

When I said ficus, you laughed at it as a barbarous word, Caecilianus, and bade me say ficos. I shall call the produce of the fig-tree ficus; yours I shall call ficos.1

1 An untranslatable jest on the double meaning of the word ficus, which, when declined ficus, -i, means piles or someone afflicted with it; and when ficus -lis, a fig-tree.

LXVI. TO A PLAGIARIST.

You are mistaken, insatiable thief of my writings, who think a poet can be made for the mere expense which copying, and a cheap volume cost. The applause of the world is not acquired for six or even ten sesterces. Seek out for this purpose verses treasured up, and unpublished efforts, known only to one person, and which the father himself of the virgin sheet, that has not been worn and scrubbed by bushy chins, keeps sealed up in his desk. A well-known book cannot change its master. But if there is one to be found vet unpolished by the pumice-stone, yet unadorned with bosses and cover, buy it: I have such by me, and no one shall know it. Whoever recites another's compositions, and seeks for fame, must buy, not a book, but the author's silence.

LXVII. TO CHOERILUS.

"You are too free-spoken," is your constant remark to me, Choerilus. He who speaks against you, Choerilus, is indeed a free speaker.1

1 Free from all restraint, for he may say all sorts of things against you without fear of contradiction.

LXVIII. ON RUFUS.

Whatever Rufus does, Naevia is all in all to him. Whether he rejoices, or mourns, or is silent, it is ever Naevia. He eats, he drinks, he asks, he refuses, he gesticulates, Naevia alone is in his thoughts: if there were no Naevia, he would be mute. When he had written a dutiful letter yesterday to his father, he ended it with, "Naevia, light of my eyes, Naevia, my idol, farewell" Naevia read these words, and laughed with downcast looks. Naevia is not yours only: what madness is this, foolish man?

LXIX. TO MAXIMUS.

Tarentos,3 which was wont to exhibit the statue of Pan, begins now, Maximus, to exhibit that of Canius.

3 Tarentos, a place in the Campus Martius, in which was a temple consecrated to Plato, and filled with statues of Pan, the Satyrs, and other deities or remarkable personages. On Canius, a humorous poet of Gades, whose statue, it appears, was put there with Pan's, see above, Ep. 61; B. iii. Ep. 29.

LXX. TO HIS BOOK.

Go, my book, and pay my respects for me: you are ordered to go, dutiful volume, to the splendid halls of Proculus. Do you ask the way? I will tell you. You will go along by the temple of Castor, near that of ancient Vesta, and that goddess's virgin home. Thence you will pass to the majestic Palatine edifice on the sacred hill, where glitters many a statue of the supreme ruler of the empire. And let not the ray-adorned mass of the Colossus detain you, a work which is proud of surpassing that of Rhodes. But turn aside by the way where the temple of the wine-bibbing Bacchus rises, and where the couch of Cybele stands adorned with. pictures of the Corybantes. Immediately on the left is the dwelling with its splendid facade, and the halls of the lofty mansion which you are to approach. Enter it; and fear not its haughty looks or proud gate; no entrance affords more ready access; nor is there any house more inviting for Phoebus and the learned sisters to love. If Proculus shall say, "But why does he not come himself?" you may excuse me thus, "Because he could not have written what is to be read here, whatever be its merit, if he had come to pay his respects in person."

LXXI. TO SLEEP.

Let Laevia be toasted with six cups,. Justine with seven, Lycas with five, Lyde with four, Ida with three. Let the number of letters in the name of each of our mistresses be equalled by the number of cups of Falernian. But, since none of them comes, come you, Sleep, to me.

LXXII. TO FIDENTINUS, A PLAGIARIST.

Do you imagine, Fidentinus, that you are a poet by the aid of my verses, and do you wish to be thought so? Just so does Aegle think she has teeth from having purchased bone or ivory. Just so does Lycoris, who is blacker than the falling mulberry, seem fair in her own eyes, because she is painted. You too, in the same way that you are a poet, will have flowing locks when you are grown bald.

LXXIII. TO CAECILIANUS.

These was no one in the whole city, Caecilianus, who desired to meddle with your wife, even gratis, while permission was given; but now, since you have set a watch upon her, the crowd of gallants is innumerable. You are a clever fellow!

LXXIV. TO PAULA.

He was your gallant, Paula; you could however deny it He is become your husband; can you deny it now, Paula? 1

1 He was said to be your gallant when your first husband was alive. You then denied it. You married him as soon as your husband died. Will you deny it now?

LXXV. ON LINUS.

He who prefers to give Linus the half of what he wishes to borrow, rather than to lend him the whole, prefers to lose only the half.

LXXVI. TO VALERIUS FLACCUS.1

Flaccus, valued object of my solicitude, hope and nursling of the city of Antenor,2 put aside Pierian strains and the lyre of the Sisters; none of those damsels will give you money. What do you expect from Phoebus? The cheat of Minerva contains the cash; she alone is wise, she alone lends to all the gods. What can the ivy of Bacchus give? The dark tree of Pallas bends down its variegated boughs under the load of fruit. Helicon, besides its waters and the garlands and lyres of the goddesses, and the great but empty applause of the multitude, has nothing. What have you to do with Cirrha? What with bare Permessis? The Roman forum is nearer and more lucrative. There is heard the chink of money; but around our desks and barren chairs kisses 3 alone resound.

Though midst the noblest poets you have place, Flaccus, the offering of Antenor's race; Renounce the Muses' songs and charming quire, For none of them enrich, though they inspire. Court not Apollo, Pallas has the gold; She 's wise, and does the gods in mortgage hold. What profit is there in an ivy wreath? Its fruits the loaden olive sinks beneath. In Helicon there's nought but springs and bays, The Muses' harps loud sounding empty praise.

1 The author of the Argonautica. 2 The city of Patavium, founded by Antenor 3 As tokens of applause.

LXXVII. ON CHARINUS.

Charinus is perfectly well, and yet he is pale; Charinus drinks sparingly, and yet he is pale; Charinus digests well, and yet he is pale; Charinus suns himself and yet he is pale; Charinus dyes his skin, and yet he is pale; Charinus indulges in [infamous debauchery], and yet he is pale.1

1 That is, he does not blush at his infamy.

LXXVIII. ON FESTUS, WHO STABBED HIMSELF.

When a devouring malady attacked his unoffending throat, and its black poison extended its ravages over his face, Festus, consoling his weeping friends, while his own eyes were dry, determined to seek the Stygian lake. He did not however pollute his pious mouth with secret poison, or aggravate his sad fate by lingering famine, but ended his pure life by a death befitting a Roman, and freed his spirit in a nobler way. This death fame may place above that of the great Cato; for Domitian was Festus' friend.2

2 Cato said that he died to avoid looking on the face of the tyrant Caesar.

LXXIX. TO ATTALUS, A BUSY-BODY.

Attalus, you are ever acting the barrister, or acting the man of business: whether there is or is not a part for you to act, Attalus, you are always acting a part. If lawsuits and business are not to be found, Attalus, you act the mule-driver. Attalus, lest a part should be wanting for you to act, act the part of executioner on yourself..

You act the pleader, and you act the man Of business; acting is your constant plan: So prone to act, the coachman's part is tried; Lest all parts fail you, act the suicide. L. H. S.

LXXX. TO CANUS.

On the last night of your lift, Canus, a sportula was the object of your wishes. I suppose the cause of your death was, Canus, that there was only one.1

1 He had hoped for several largesses; he died of mortification at receiving only one.

LXXXI. TO SOSIBIANUS.

You know that you are the son of a slave, and you ingenuously confess it, when you call your father, Sosibianus, "master".2

2 The mother of Sosibianus had been guilty of adultery with a slave. When Sosibianus calls his reputed father Dominus, as a title of respect, but which was also a term for a master of slaves, he confessed himself a verna, or born-slave.

LXXXII. ON REGULUS.

See from what mischief this portico, which, overthrown amid clouds of dust, stretches its long ruins over the ground, lies absolved. For Regulus had but just been carried in his litter under its arch, and had got out of the way, when forthwith, borne down by its own weight, it fell; and, being no longer in fear for its master, it came down free from blood-guiltiness, a harmless ruin, without any attendant anxiety. After the fear of so great a cause for complaint is passed, who would deny, Regulus, that you, for whose sake the fall was harmless, are an object of care to the gods?

LXXXIII. ON MANNEIA.

Your lap-dog, Manneia, licks your mouth and lips: I do not wonder at a dog liking to eat ordure.1

1 A sarcasm on the foulness of Manneia's breath.

LXXXIV. ON QUIRINALIS.

Quirinalis, though he wishes to have children, has no intention of taking a wife, and has found out in what way he can accomplish his object. He takes to him his maid-servants, and fills his house and his lands with slave-knights.2 Quirinalis is a true pater-familias.

2 Equitibus vernis. (See Heinrich on Juv. ix. 10.) Eques verna, the offspring of a knight and a slave.

LXXXV. ON AN AUCTIONEER.

A wag of an auctioneer, offering for sale some cultivated heights, and some beautiful acres of land near the city, says, "If any one imagines that Marius is compelled to sell, he is mistaken; Marius owes nothing: on the contrary, he rather has money to put out at interest." "What is his reason, then, for selling?" "In this place he lost all his slaves, and his cattle, and his profits; hence he does not like the locality." Who would have made any offer, unless he had wished to lose all his property? So the ill-fated land remains with Marius.

LXXXVI. ON NOVIUS.

Novius is my neighbour, and may be reached by the hand from my windows. Who would not envy me, and think me a happy man every hour of the day when I may enjoy the society of one so near to me? But, he is as far removed from me as Terentianus, who is now governor of Syene on the Nile. I am not privileged either to live with him, or even see him, or hear him; nor in the whole city is there any one at once so near and so far from me. I must remove farther off, or he must. If any one wishes not to see Novius, let him become his neighbour or his fellow-lodger.

My neighbour Hunks's house and mine Are built so near they almost join; The windows too project so much, That through the casements we may touch. Nay, I'm so happy, most men think, To live so near a man of chink, That they are apt to envy me, For keeping such good company: But he's far from me, I vow, As London is from good Lord Howe; For when old Hunks I chance to meet, Or one or both must quit the street. Thus he who would not see old Roger, Must be his neighbour----or his lodger. Swift

LXXXVII. TO FESCENNIA.

That you may not be disagreeably fragrant with your yesterday's wine, you devour, luxurious Fescennia, certain of Cosmus's1 perfumes. Breakfasts of such a nature leave their mark on the teeth, but form no barrier against the emanations which escape from the depths of the stomach. Nay, the fetid smell is but the worse when mixed with perfume, and the double odour of the breath is carried but the farther. Cease then to use frauds but too well known, and disguises well understood; and simply intoxicate yourself!

1 Cosmus: a celebrated perfumer of the day, and frequently mentioned.

LXXXVIII. ON ALCIMUS.

Alcimus, whom, snatched from your lord in your opening years, the Labican earth covers with light turf, receive, not a nodding mass of Parian marble,----an unenduring monument which misapplied toil gives to the dead,----but shapely box-trees and the dark shades of the palm leaf, and dewy flowers of the mead which bloom from being watered with my tears. Receive, dear youth, the memorials of my grief: this tribute will live for you in all time. When Lachesis shall have spun to the end of my last hour, I shall ask no other honours for my ashes.

LXXXIX. TO CINNA.

You always whisper into every one's ear, Cinna; you whisper even what might be said in the hearing of the whole world. You laugh, you complain, you dispute, you weep, you sing, you criticise, you are silent, you are noisy; and all in one's ear. Has this disease so thoroughly taken possession of you, that you often praise Caesar, Cinna, in the ear? 1

1 When his praise ought to be proclaimed aloud everywhere.

XC. ON BASSA.

Inasmuch as I never saw you, Bassa, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and report in no case assigned to you a favoured lover; but every duty about your person was constantly performed by a crowd of your own sex, without the presence of even one man; you seemed to me, I confess it, to be a Lucretia.

XCI. TO LAELIUS.

You do not publish your own verses, Laelius; you criticise mine. Pray cease to criticise mine, or else publish your own.

You blame my verses and conceal your own: Either publish yours, or else let mine alone! Anon. 1695.

XCII. TO MAMURIANUS.

Cestus with tears in his eyes often complains to me, Hamurianus, of being touched with your finger. You need not use your finger merely; take Cestos all to yourself if nothing else is wanting in your establishment, Mamurianus.2 But if you have neither fire, nor legs for your bare bedstead, nor broken basin of Chione or Antiope;3 if a cloak greasy and worn hangs down your back, and a Gallic jacket covers only half of your loins; and if you feed on the smell alone of the dark kitchen, and drink on your knees dirty water with the dog;

Non culum, neque enim est cuius, qui non cacat olim, Sed fodiam digito qui super est oculum.4 Nec me zelotypum nec dixeris esse malignum: Denique paedica, Mamuriane, satur.

2 Mamurianus is ridiculed for his sordid and licentious life. He had but one eye, as appears from what is said below. Cestus was Martial's servant. 3 Names of courtesans, from whom Martial intimates that Mamurianus would accept broken vessels. 4 A play on the words culus and oculus. A common threat was, "Oculos tibieffodiam," often used in Plautus.

XCIII. ON AQUINUS AND FABRICIUS.

Here reposes Aquinas, reunited to his faithful Fabricius, who rejoices in having preceded him to the Elysian retreats. This double altar bears record that each was honoured with the rank of chief centurion; but that praise is of still greater worth which you read in this shorter inscription: Both were united in the sacred bond of a well-spent life, and, what is rarely known to fame, were friends.

XCIV. TO AEGLE THE FELLATRIX.

[Not translated in the Bohn - adapted from the Loeb]

Badly you sang while you fornicated, Aegle. Now you sing well; but I won't kiss you.

XCV. TO AELIUS.

In constantly making a clamour, and obstructing the pleaders with your noise, Aelius, you act not without an object; you look for pay to hold your tongue.

That bawlers you out-bawl, the busy crush, No idler you, who bring to sale your hush. Elphinston.

XCVI. TO HIS VERSE, ON A LICENTIOUS CHARACTER.

If it is not disagreeable, and does not annoy you, my verse, say, I pray, a word or two in the ear of our friend Maternus, so that he alone may hear. That admirer of sad-coloured coats, clad in the costume of the banks of the river Baetis, and in grey garments, who deems the wearers of scarlet not men, and calls amethyst-coloured robes the dress of women, however much he may praise natural hues, and be always seen in dark colours, has at the same time morals of an extremely flagrant hue. You will ask whence I suspect him of effeminacy. We go to the same baths; Do you ask me who this is? His name has escaped me.

XCVII. TO NAEVOLUS.

When every one is talking, then and then only, Naevolus, do you open your month; and you think yourself an advocate and a pleader. In such a way every one may be eloquent. But see, everybody is silent; say something now, Naevolus.

XCVIII. TO FLACCUS, ON DIODORUS.

Diodorus goes to law, Flaccus, and has the gout in his feet But he pays his counsel nothing; surely he has the gout also in his hands.

XCIX. TO CALENUS.

But a short time since, Calenus, you had not quite two millions of sesterces; but you were so prodigal and open-handed, and hospitable, that all your friends wished you ten millions. Heaven heard the wish and our prayers; and within, I think, six months, four deaths gave you the desired fortune. But you, as if ten millions had not been left to you, but taken from you, condemned yourself to such abstinence, wretched man, that you prepare even your most sumptuous feasts, which you provide only once in the whole year, at the cost of but a few dirty pieces of black coin; and we, seven of your old companions, stand you in just half a pound of leaden money. What blessing are we to invoke upon you worthy of such merits? We wish you, Calenus, a fortune of a hundred millions. If this falls to your lot, you will die of hunger.

C. ON AFRA.

Afra talks of her papas and her mammas; but she herself may be called the grandmamma of her papas and mammas.

CI. ON THE DEATH OF HIS AMANUENSIS DEMETRIUS.

Demetrius, whose hand was once the faithful confidant of my verses, so useful to his master, and so well known to the Caesars, has yielded up his brief life in its early prime. A fourth harvest had been added to his years, which previously numbered fifteen. That he might not, however, descend to the Stygian shades as a slave, I, when the accursed disease had seized and was withering him, took precaution, and remitted to the sick youth all my right over him as his master; he was worthy of restoration to health through my gift.1 He appreciated, with failing faculties, the kindness which he had received; and on the point of departing, a free man, to the Tartarean waters, saluted me as his patron.

1 I.e. I wish my gift could have restored him to health.

CII. TO LYCORIS.

The painter who drew your Venus, Lycoris, paid court, I suppose, to Minerva.2

2 Represented Venus less beautiful than she is, in order to please Minerva, her rival for the golden apple.

CIII. TO SCAEVOLA.

"If the gods were to give me a fortune of a million sesterces," you used to say, Scaevola, before you were a full knight,1 "oh how would I live! how magnificently, how happily!" The complaisant deities smiled and granted your wish. Since that time your toga has become much more dirty, your cloak worse; your shoe has been sewn up three and four times; of ten olives the greater portion is always put by, and one spread of the table serves for two meals; the thick dregs of pink Vejentan wine are your drink; a plate of lukewarm peas costs you a penny; your mistress a penny likewise. Cheat and liar, let us go before the tribunal of the gods; and either live, Scaevola, as befits you, or restore to the gods your million sesterces.

1 That is, before you had four hundred thousand sesterces; which was the fortune that a man must have before he could be a knight

CIV. ON A SPECTACLE IN THE ARENA.

When we see the leopard bear upon his spotted neck a light and easy yoke, and the furious tigers endure with patience the blows of the whip; the stags champ the golden curbs; the Libyan bears tamed by the bit; a boar, huge as that which Calydon is said to have produced, obey the purple muzzle; the ugly buffaloes drag chariots, and the elephant, when ordered to dance nimbly, pay prompt obedience to his swarthy leader; who would not imagine such things a spectacle given by the gods? These, however, any one disregards as of inferior attraction who sees the condescension of the lions, which the swift-footed timorous hares fatigue in the chase. They let go the little animals, catch them again, and caress them when caught, and the latter are safer in their captors' mouths than elsewhere; since the lions delight in granting them free passage through their open jaws, and in holding their teeth as with fear, for they are ashamed to crush the tender prey, after having just come from slaying bulls; This clemency does not proceed from art; the lions know whom they serve.

CV. TO QUINTUS OVIDIUS.

The wine, Ovidius, which is grown in the Nomentan fields, in proportion as it receives the addition of years, puts off, through age, its character and name; and the jar thus ancient receives whatever name you please.1

1 Being mellowed by age, it maybe called Falernian, Cecuban, or any other name given to the best wines.

CVI. TO RUFUS.

Rufus, you often pour water into your wine, and, if hard pressed by your companion, you drink just a cup now and then of diluted Falernian. Pray, is it that Naevia has promised you a night of bliss; and you prefer by sobriety to enhance your enjoyment? You sigh, you are silent, you groan: she has refused you. You may drink, then, and often, cups of four-fold size, and drown in wine your concern at her cruelty. Why do you spare yourself, Rufus? You have nothing before you but to sleep.

CVII. TO LUCIUS JULIUS.

You often say to me, dearest Lucius Julius, "Write something great: you take your ease too much." Give me then leisure,----but leisure such as that which of old Maecenas gave to his Horace and his Virgil -- and I would endeavour to write something which should live through time, and to snatch my name from the flames of the funeral pyre. Steers are unwilling to carry their yoke into barren fields. A fat soil fatigues, but the very labour bestowed on it is delightful.

CVIII. TO GALLUS.

You possess----and may it be yours and grow larger through a long series of years----a house, beautiful I admit, but on the other side of the Tiber. But my garret looks upon the laurels of Agrippa; and in this quarter I am already grown old. I must move, in order to pay you a morning call, Gallus, and you deserve this consideration, even if your house were still farther off. But it is a small matter to you, Gallus, if I add one to the number of your toga-clad visitors; while it is a great matter to me, if I withhold that one. I myself will frequently pay my respects to you at the tenth hour.1 This morning my book shall wish you "good day" in my stead.

1 The tenth hour from sunrise, corresponding to our four o'clock is the afternoon. SeeB. iv. Ep. 8.

CIX. ON A PET DOG AND THE PAINTER.

Issa is more playful than the sparrow of Catullus. Issa is more pure than the kiss of a dove. Issa is more loving than any maiden. Issa is dearer than Indian gems. The little dog Issa is the pet of Publius. If she complains, you will think she speaks. She feels both the sorrow and the gladness of her master. She lies reclined upon his neck, and sleeps, so that not a respiration is heard from her. And, however pressed, she has never sullied the coverlet with a single spot; but rouses her master with a gentle touch of her foot, and begs to be set down from the bed and relieved. Such modesty resides in this chaste little animal; she knows not the pleasures of love; nor do we find a mate worthy of so tender a damsel. That her last hour may not carry her off wholly, Publius has her limned in a picture, in which you will see an Issa so like, that not even herself is so like herself. In a word, place Issa and the picture side by side, and you will imagine either both real, or both painted.

CX. TO VELOX.

You complain, Velox, that the epigrams which I write are long. You yourself write nothing; your attempts are shorter.1

1 Imperfect; abortive; ending in nothing.

CXI. TO REGULUS, ON SENDING HIM A BOOK AND A PRESENT OF FRANKINCENSE.

Since your reputation for wisdom, and the care which you bestow on your labours, are equal, and since your piety is not inferior to your genius, he who is surprised that a book and incense are presented to you, Regulus, is ignorant how to adapt presents to deserts.

CXII. ON PRISCUS, A USURER.

When I did not know you, I used to address you as my lord and king. Now, since I know you well, you shall be plain Priscus with me.

CXIII. TO THE READER.

If, reader, you wish to employ some good hours badly, and are an enemy to your own leisure, you will obtain whatever sportive verses I produced in my youth and boyhood, and all my trifles, which even I myself have forgotten, from Quintus Pollius Valerianus, who has resolved not to let my light effusions perish.

CXIV. TO FAUSTINUS.

These gardens adjoining your domain, Faustinus, and these small fields and moist meadows, Telesphorus Faenius owns. Here he has deposited the ashes of his daughter, and has consecrated the name, which you read, of Antulla;----though his own name should rather have been read there. It had been more just that the father should have gone to the Stygian shades; but, since this was not permitted, may he live to honour his daughter's remains.

CXV. TO PROCILLUS.

A certain damsel, envious Procillus, is desperately in love with me,----a nymph more white than the spotless swan, than silver, than snow, than lily, than privet: already you will be thinking of hanging yourself, But I long for one darker than night, than the ant, than pitch, than the jack-daw, than the cricket. If I know you well, Procillus, you will spare your life.

CXVI. ON THE TOMB OF ANTULLA.

This grove, and these fair acres of cultivated land, Faenius has consecrated to the eternal honour of the dead. In this tomb is deposited Antulla, too soon snatched from her family: in this tomb each of her parents will be united to her. If any one desires this piece of ground, I warn him not to hope for it; it is for ever devoted to its owners.

CXVII. TO LUPERCUS.

Whenever you meet me, Lupercus, you constantly say, "Shall I send my servant, for you to give him your little book of Epigrams, which I will read and return to you directly?" There is no reason, Lupercus, to trouble your servant. It is a lone journey, if he wishes to come to the Pirus;1 and I live up three pairs of stairs, and those high ones. What you want you may procure nearer at hand. You frequently go down to the Argiletum: opposite Caesar's forum is a shop, with pillars on each side covered over with titles of books, so that you may quickly run over the names of all the poets. Procure me there; you will no sooner ask Atrectus,----such is the name of the owner of the shop,----than he will give you, from the first or second shelf a Martial, well smoothed with pumice-stone, and adorned with purple, for five denarii "You are not worth so much," do you say? You are right, Lupercus.

1 The pear-tree. The name of some spot near which Martial lived.

CXVIII. TO CAEDICIANUS.

For him who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams, no amount of trouble is sufficient, Caedicianus.

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Early Church Fathers - Additional Texts

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okay, so a terrifying thought I had regarding the covid vaccines.

This is a back or forth scenario where Biden and his people distribute the vaccine, and trumps administration doesn’t dump it off this undetermined location around Griffins Wharf. Regardless which scenario we get, Dr. Fauci and members of the CDC have expressed that these vaccines will only have at highest a 75% effectiveness among those administered.

YET that is good enough, because America people are in desperate need of this vaccine, not just those who have not encountered covid or the frontline workers (the healthcare and most vulnerable people), but for long-haulers. But 75% is better than no percent, some shield is better than no shield.

That given, there will be an astronomical amount of idjits who believe “I have been immunized. I am 100% protected, and have no more fears of the plague.” And then go out without masks, or care that they can still contract this lethal virus.

The aspect of the vaccine, is it will be the last line of defense if a person contracts covid infection. And it should prevent the majority of people from going into covid shock - complications due to vitamin D delinquency - other issues. That’s it.

Even with a vaccine, citizens will still be able to spread the virus. Likewise, symptoms may present if a person contracts covid, but how extensive is determined by the health of the carrier. As always, masks and other measures such as handwashing and distancing, will always be more effective than the vaccine itself. The CDC has stated this, it’s fact.

Yet, based on the political heat behind the virus, people will still be dumb morons and act like they’ve been delivered absolute immunity from this virus. And will begin to disregard the health and safety of others, especially those health compromised.

Because ‘Murica.

No amount of explaining and broadcasting, to reach the masses will penetrate these thick skulled, excuse driven asshats. Even now, the CDC is attempting to prime people regarding how to behave post vaccination - though the vaccine doesn’t exist yet, it’s still in trials. But if at this point those people are dumb in regards to the extensive damage and dangers of this virus, poses to healthy individuals, then they are not going to be responsible citizens following vaccination. It won’t happen. It can’t. If they still live by it’s a respiratory disease, or a little flu, they can’t possibly grasp what effects the covid virus holds over the body, let alone how difficult recovery will be.

We will likely see tremendous spikes in cases and deaths, due to the vaccine being that last line of defense - Murphy’s Law and all that. Not just in dumb bricks that went out to a covid party because they thought they were immortalized to the virus, but they will spread it to those who have not been vaccinated.

I get it. We’re tired of being afraid and paranoid, and washing our hands and wearing masks. But the virus is so widespread at this point, and we do not know how the effectiveness of the vaccine will be to the general population - mingling and existing.

Like Dr. Fauci and others waiting for this vaccine to offer some reprieve from this disaster, I know that the vaccine will be our first step towards recovery and control of the situation, I too acknowledge that people will completely bypass the instruction guide. Don’t get me wrong, I also know that there will be a substantial group who will be mindful and understand the vaccine is not certification to be a complete buffoon, but there will be a wild majority of people who will disregard caution, dump all former consideration for others, and try to defend lack of precautions as a “I’m immunized, so I have nothing to worry about.”

While others may still remain vulnerable, despite immunization. While others may have not been able to receive vaccination, due to limits in supplies. While we are still capable, of carrying a virus that can quietly infect and destroy the body, under the guise of asymptomatic carriers.

And at this current time of October 1, 2020, our current administration is doing nothing to inform or educate the vast majority of people. That is what is most horrifying to me. trump parodies the vaccine as a cure all solution, a fix all, the miracle that people should wait for. At this time, trumps people are not making effort to use their influence and reach out, instruct people, or make them understand - not that I’m surprised - that is the sum of his character. trumps a “get rich quick” scam artist, and eludes that there will be an easy solutions to problems, without working towards reaching goals. The flaming anus face won’t wear a piece of cloth, and made the whole affair a political fiasco. Worthless.

Even now, the CDC is prevented from broadcasting and educating people, getting them ready for vaccines. It’ll make trump “look bad”, because the vaccine won’t ‘perform’ as trump promised it would.

Yet that is where we are, today. If trumps people are given the authority to distribute the vaccine, if they don’t outright destroy it, there will be chaos. Could you imagine trump throwing bundles of the vaccine at people, like bundles of paper towels?

#coronavirus #corona #rona #covid19 #covid-19 #covid 19 #corona virus #Joe Biden #Dr. Anthony Fauci #Dr. Birx #center of disease control #trump

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 5 years

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Psycho Analysis Thanksgiving Special: Governor Ratcliffe

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

The Disney Renaissance which began in 1989 with the release of The Little Mermaid and lasted all through the 90s is one of the most beloved periods in Disney history. Not only were nearly ll of the films instant classics and some of the best works that the studio has ever put out, but every single film in the Renaissance managed to produce fun, engaging, and occasionally even deeply complex (for a Disney film, anyway) villains.

And then there was Ratcliffe.

Pocahontas is already the worst film of the Renaissance by far (though it’s still not outright awful at least), and not helping its case is its foppish, floundering villain. Ratcliffe is an absolute buffoon… and yet, somehow, by some strange miracle, he actually improves in the direct-to-video sequel. The question is, did they just polish a turd, or did they look at him and see how he glitters?

Actor: If there’s one thing they actually did right here, it was cast Disney MVP David Ogden Stiers as Ratcliffe. While Ratcliffe is certainly no Cogsworth or Jumba, Stiers still gives it his all here, injecting Ratcliffe with that pompous, greedy campiness that has made the character so infamous and even ironically enjoyed by some viewers. I definitely feel like Stiers manages to salvage this boring character at least a little, though definitely not to an extreme degree; this is no Farquaad we’re talking about here.

Motivation/Goals: Ratcliffe has one of the most trite, boring, and bland motivations a villain can possibly have: Greed. Villains motivated solely by greed need a lot to make them interesting, and Disney has always struggled to make money-grubbing villains interesting or entertaining, which is extremely strange as the corporation that produces the movies is evil and money-grubbing itself. You’d think they’d be able to make villains like Clayton, Rourke, and of course Ratcliffe a little more entertaining by writing what they know, you know?

Ratcliffe goes that extra mile, however, by being a moron. He continues to believe that the indigenous people of America are hiding vast quantities of gold from him even long after it has conclusively been shown that, no, they have no gold. I mean, his blatant racism and colonizer tendencies are there, but they weirdly play second fiddle to his greed. It’s so weird because Disney probably would have done better with him if they played up the fact he’s a racist, bloodthirsty colonizer more and had his desire for gold just be an excuse, rather than literally what he wants most. You could argue for this interpretation, sure, but he has an entire song dedicated to him being a greedy bastard, so any argument pointing to ulterior motives his greed might be hiding are moot.

Credit where credit is due, though; in the sequel, Ratcliffe’s goal is to incite war between the English and the Indians, and is in general a lot more cunning and competent in achieving his goals. Guess he figured that playtime was over.

Personality:Ratcliffe is ridiculously flamboyant and is the epitome of a sissy villain, at least in terms of appearance; despite his vanity and his greedy social-climbing desires, the guy still leads his men into battle, so it’s clear that he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty if it comes down to it. The sequel also shows him to be a cunning manipulator, something he probably should have leaned more into in the first film.

Final Fate: He gets away with everything he did in the first film unfortunately; as he had a higher social standing than John Smith, the king believed Ratcliffe’s BS over Smith’s story. Still, by the end of the sequel, after he’s finally thwarted once and for all his luck finally runs out; King James not only has him arrested, but it’s heavily implied Ratcliffe is going to hang for his crimes. Sadly, we don’t get to see it.

Best Scene: His parts in “Savages” actually serve to make him legitimately intimidating, and that was in the first movie! Shame the rest of the film just constantly undermined that at every step of the way.

Best Quote: Before there was “Shiny,” Ratcliffe’s villain song showed he was the best shiny villain around with his immortal line: “SEE HOW I GLITTER!”

Final Thoughts & Score: Ratcliffe just really couldn’t catch a break. Not only is he in the worst movie of the Renaissance, he had the bad luck of following up Scar, and was followed by JUDGE CLAUDE FROLLO. Frollo in particular is everything Ratcliffe could and should have been, which makes Ratcliffe stick out as remarkably awful, to the point not even Stiers could really pull him out of the gutter even with his performance, and that’s not even getting into his bafflingly boring motivations that really downplay elements that should have been played up, leading to Ratcliffe feeling even tackier in this film that already has a very awkward relation with history and the evils of colonizers.

But then, amazingly, the sequel came along, and made him a competent antagonist. It helps that in the sequel, Pocahontas is on his turf; being a wealthy aristocrat in England, he has a lot of power and is able to turn people against Pocahontas, using her own nature against him and just being a cunning manipulator. In a startling subversion of expectations, the sequel managed to legitimately be better at something than the original, and it definitely warms my opinion of Ratcliffe a fair bit. Then there’s just the fact that Pocahontas in general has aged… not good, but it’s easier to look back on it at least a little fondly and appreciate the good elements about it, and while Ratcliffe is by no means good in that film, he is just so absurdly campy it’s easy to get some ironic enjoyment out of his badness.

If the first film was all that existed, Ratcliffe would be an easy 3 or 4, but thanks to the direct-to-video movie I’d say he earns a nice, average 5/10. While he’s definitely the worst “greedy” villain Disney has ever made in the first film, his much more impressive showing in the sequel manages to elevate him up even slightly, and the ironic enjoyment to be mined from the first film can’t be denied. He’s definitely the weakest villain of the Renaissance, but at least there’s some stuff there you can have a laugh at.

#Psycho Analysis #Governor Ratcliffe #David Ogden Stiers #Pocahontas #Disney

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hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger · 5 years

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Spider-Man: Velocity #2 Thoughts

It continues to not be BAD...but it also continues to be a disappointment.

I think I and maybe other people need to start accepting that, as great as the game’s story was, the tie-in material is simply always going to be a step down. Looking back even the DLCs and prequel novel were not up to the same level.

But they were still good and to be honest better than City at War or Velocity have been thus far.

I don’t know why that is, maybe they had more time and people to help develop the stories, maybe there was more oversight from the head’s of the projects like Feige has with the MCU?

Either way the comic book forays of Gamerverse Spider-Man, whether it’s this comic, City at War or Spider-Geddon just haven’t been as good. They’ve not been godawful, and to be honest after the last 10 odd years that’s a miracle unto itself.

It rather reminds me of the MCU’s TV efforts. It is clear that the films are regarded as the core of the MCU and the ‘main events’ of them, whereas stuff like Agents of SHIELD were not and so the quality of those shows tended to not be as good as the movies. Almost like they were made to keep the train moving but the movies were the interesting destinations.

Perhaps that’s the thinking with these comics. Make sure the Gamerverse Spidey has a near constant presence month to month until the next DLC or sequel game comes out.

But let’s dive more into specifics of this issue.

As I said it isn’t bad, in some ways an improvement over the last issue. We get more Peter/MJ interactions, again not much romance going on but like I said last time that’s not a fault of the issue that’s just something I’d prefer to see.

Spidey isn’t as much of a buffoon but he does make one big dumb move I need to call out. So he is testing the Velocity suit and as part of the tests he decides to allow himself to be hit by a rocket launcher. He even refers to it as the moment of truth.

Not only is there still a question mark over where he is getting the technology and resources to make this suit, but you have to imagine if he has access to that stuff surely he has the means of testing it’s durability in a safer way. Couldn’t he just put the suit over a dummy and then use a rocket launcher on it himself, or use something else designed to test its durability?

Even if he doesn’t have anything like that where he works remember he has contacts with the police and Silver Sable who surely have weapons of their own. If he asks Yuri or Sable to borrow a rocket launcher or something and tells them why he wants it, I’m sure they’d trust him with one. He could even borrow one from a criminal he knocks out and return the ordinance to police custody.

Why does he need to take practically a 50/50 chance that he will be killed or critically injured to see if his latest gadget works? In fact thinking about it, why did he need to find crimes in progress to test the suit at all, even last issue? The problem last time was that the suit seized up. Combat wasn’t necessary to test that, he could’ve just swung around, done some flips, etc.

At least it matches the cover and in-game design now. And the idea of the suit boosting his speed has finally been raised and playing into the main story. I confess last issue I was confused as to what a ghost and the idea of speed have to do with one another, but apparently I totally missed out on the clues that the ‘ghost’ was really a speedster even though they seem obvious looking back, it was clever though I’ll give Hopeless that. I think that’s a great way to tie everything together although I’m at a loss as to who exactly the speedster is. It could be a reimagined version of Speed Demon I suppose but if not I’m at a loss right now.

Her look is a little underwhelming to be honest and I do wuestion somewhat how she can be so fast as to be invisible to the naked eye but can’t move through walls like the Flash. Maybe I’m missing something though as I presumed that was a standard feat amongst speedsters.

Ironically I wish the story would speed up and get to the part where Spider-Man himself exhibits faster abilities. It’s 2 out of a presumed 6 issues in and that still hasn’t happened yet.

Sticking with the tacky speed jokes I can make, another problem with the issue was how it abruptly stopped. It feels very much like the story was written start to finish and then shifted slightly to break up into parts. I’m not saying that’s what happened but i am saying that’s what it felt like.

In fact last issue had a problem with the ending too. it’s not so much the ending was bad it’s just seemed like it was setting up a cliff-hanger but when this issue begins…nothing. it is just a weird storytelling choice is all.

Let’s talk about the art as there are two points of criticism I have.

The first is that the architecture/layout of the building Spidey fights the speedster in is not clearly conveyed. I was under the impression the door leading into the file room they trap her in was located inside the greater Bugle building. And yet when Spidey gets tackled through that door they are suddenly outside. If the idea is that the speedster tackled him through that door and through the building to get him outside it wasn’t that clear to me.

That’s ultimately something of a nitpick, more significantly though is that the art, whilst it isn’t bad, is not great at times. Mary Jane in particular looks weird and off model at times. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it last issue but now I think I’ve figured it out. A lot of the time she looks like a Bratz doll.

Going back to the story, perhaps I’ve missing something, but how precisely is Norman Osborn not in major trouble if there is video footage of his painful experiments on human test subjects, conducted by himself of all people!

That was a negative for me but something that was more of a mixed bag was Mysterio

On the one hand as a general AU twist on Mysterio it is a neat idea…but it is also one very far away from the core concept of Mysterio as a showman, a film lover and so on. It wouldn’t be out of place in like Spider-Man: Noir or something but the Gamerverse tends to cut closer to canon, just updating it, grounding it and making it fit more for a playable experience. But like Vulture, Electro and Scorpion aren’t that different. Mysterio I feel is and to be blunt I’d rather he be reserved for a the full on AAA video game experience than be wasted on a tie-in comic.

Finally I’ll end with something more positive. I like that Peter is sceptical of the supernatural because it’s something that would appear dumb in the 616 universe where he’s met Ghost Rider and Thor. But in the Gamerverse, currently populated JUST by him and his villains and being more grounded, is more conductive for stuff like that

So yeah, right now it’s not baaaaaad but it’s also not much beyond the mere novelty of seeing the Velocity suit, Mysterio or just checking in on these versions of the characters. If you are THAT into the Gamerverse or new to comics and liked the game then go ahead and pick it up but if you are looking for are looking for a above average Spidey/comic story this is kind of skippable.

#Spider-Man #peter parker #mjwatsonedit #Mary Jane Watson #Mary Jane Watson Parker #mj watson #Marvel's Spider-Man #Marvel Gamerverse #Mysterio #quinten beck #Spider-Man PS4 #Spider-Man Playstation 4 #Insomniac Spider-Man #insomniac games

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imababblekat · 6 years

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Imagine Prowl Feeling Jealous Of Bumblebee’s Close Friendship With His Cybertronian/Gem Crush

(A/N: While this is mostly focused on Prowl and his crush, it can be interpreted that Bee is developing one as well.)

“What are you two doing?”

Paint brushes halted, yellow and (g,c) paint falling to the ground and making messy splatters on the factory floors. The wielders of said art tools looked up to the ninja bot like two young children being caught in the act of something mischievous by their mother.

“What’s it look like?”, Bumblebee spoke up, covered in your frames theme color.

“Like you’re making a huge mess.”, Prowl stated un-amused, arms crossed and optic ridges narrowing.

You stifled a giggle, continuing your work on Bee while also trying not to ruin the yellow paint he covered you in.

“No-well yes-but no! You see, my dear Prowl, Bee and I are switching places for a day to see who takes the longest to figure out who’s who!”

“Brilliant right?!”

Prowl let out an audible groan, placing a servo to his shaking helm as you two continued to cover each other in the others color. Sure, perhaps you shared the same protoform mold as the young bot in front of you, but you two weren’t that similar. For starters, though metal appearing, the plates of your amour had a crystal sheen to them, something that clearly shown through the thick globs of paint slapped onto you. There were other factors as well, such as the different voices (though Prowl supposed you two could figure out how to switch that if either of you had the processor cell to do so), you’re very obvious carbon fiber infused clothing (something that Bee could not produce), and other more things that would give you two away in a nano second.

“If it’s so brilliant, Bumblebee, then amuse me in explaining how you’ll be wearing magical shorts and hoodie?”

Bumblebee opened his intake confidentially, but then frozen.

“Scrap, I didn’t think about that. . .”

“I did!”, you suddenly piped, pulling out some badly sewn together drapes to make up the clothing you wore on your body.

Prowl wanted to laugh at how ridiculously put together they looked, but held strong and kept his stoic appearance. He then watched as you and Bee struggled to get the items of clothing onto the young scout, fussing and tugging to get it over kibble and more prominent parts of his Cybertronian form. Once it was finally, somehow, on the young bot, you took the liberty of grabbing a full paint bucket of your color and dumping it over him. Bumblebee stood there drenched and struggled to keep his optics open from the drooping liquid, vents huffing in coughs as he attempted to strike a model pose.

“Tada!”

Prowl simply stared at the two of you, taking in Bumblebee’s harsh gags, and your attempt to paint the small black stripes of his helm onto your own. Buffoons, absolute idiotic buffoons is what you two were.

“I’m going to mediate.”, was all the serious mech had said, turning on heel and walking away from the confused expressions of both your faces.

Sometime had passed since that absurd scene Prowl had caught you two in, but as much as he tried pushing the gleefully dumb expressions on your faces, he just couldn’t. It bothered him, not the silly prank itself, but the reactions it caused from you. The way you smiled so brightly at Bee as he wore your work of art, or the cute, adorable scrunched up expression you’d make when said bot would get close to your face to fix any minor mistakes. Hell, just Bumblebee being in such proximity to you in general spurred a sick feeling in his spark.

“They’re just friends.”, Prowl mumbled to himself, fixing his posture as he sat in a meditative pose.

“But so are you.”, is what his clouding mind would echo back to him.

Prowl grunted frustratingly as it seemed tonight, he would not be able to clear his processor as usual. It just really irked him. You and Bee and the friendship you both shared. If there was one thing Prowl could clearly determine tonight, was that he had unmistakably fallen for you, and boy did he fall hard. Before, seeing you and Bumblebee engage in whatever mischief you were up to didn’t bother him in the slightest, in fact he wouldn’t even so much as bat an eye at it. Now, however, it pulled at his spark’s strings, because he knows he could never be with you the way Bee is. He’s not as open, not as uppity or boisterous. Prowl wasn’t a negative mech, but his calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the bouncing personality of Bumblebee’s.

Prowl thought of you and Bumblebee more; thought of you more. You were a rarity, something unheard of, but certainly not one of monstrosity or hideousness. Far from it actually! A home world Gem, somehow by the beautiful wonders of the universe, crossed with that of a Cybertronian. You came from the harshness of two worlds, but brought a beauty and light like no other in the way a geode was rough on the outside but a striking cluster of beauty on the inside. This, along with other in depth descriptions of Prowls enamor for you, is what the ninja bot felt, but with the closeness you shared with a certain yellow Autobot, he wouldn’t be the only one who did for long.

Prowl’s servo’s shook as he thought about this fact, and with it he also felt deep confliction. He knew what he was feeling, jealousy, something ugly and bound to ruin his friendship with his non stop talking friend as it had done with so many others. Bumblebee was, is, his friend! He shouldn’t feel such blinding hate and spite towards him when he’s done nothing wrong. Oh-but the sheer closeness between you two. The way he can so effortlessly make you laugh and smile without even trying; it all makes Prowl just seethe and shake and-

A loud ring snatches Prowl from his insecure, jealous, and poisoning thoughts, and it takes a second before he realizes it’s his comm link. With a deep inhale and exhale, he keeps his tone even and answers.

“Yes Ratchet; what is it?. . .What do you mean they-I-I’m on my way!!”

Prowl quickly transformed, hanging up on the doc and rushing to the other side of the factory base. Once in the area of the makeshift medbay, he changed back to bi pedal mode, looking up at the sound of sniffling. Sari was there, sitting up in Bumblebee’s lap as the latter tried desperately to keep it together.

“It’s all my fault Sari. It was my idea that we-“

Sari’s brows furrowed further at her best friend choking up as he tried to speak. The young girl continued to hold his face in one hand and rubbed his knee plate in soothing motions to provide him some comfort as he was soon falling into escaped sobs. Prowl walked by the two, not wanting to bother his friends especially in the moment they were sharing, but also because he was focused on getting into the actual medbay itself. Before he could walk in, or even get a glance inside, his view and path was obstructed by the broad build of Optimus.

“What happened?”, Prowl question, his tone slightly harsh and demanding.

Optimus looked down and away from his blue visor, before looking back at his teammate. He placed a servo on Prowls shoulder to offer some comfort for what he was about to explain.

“Bumblebee and (y,n) went out to do some scouting when they were suddenly jumped by Starscream. He had mistaken (y,n) for Bee, and-“, Optimus let out a shaky breath before continuing,” he force activated (y,n)’s transformation cog.”

Now, Prowl would describe you as nothing but perfect. A miraculous miracle in the strange happenings of life, but not everything about you was truly flawless. The biggest con of your mixed Gem DNA and Cybertronian CNA, was that you struggled to transform. Add to that your corrupted gemstone, and transforming was practically near impossible for you. One could only imagine what consequences could come from trying to perform the act.

Prowl didn’t bother to ask his leader to see you, furry and frightened concern coursing through him and giving him the strength to push the larger bot aside. He felt his spark catch in his throat, optic visor fizzing when his sights landed on the slowly fading, cracked gemstone lying on the medical slab.

~xXx~

#tfa prowl x reader #tfa prowl #transformers animated imagine #transformers animated #transformers imagine #maccadam #scenario #drabble #imagine #gem reader #cybertronian reader #su crossover #angst #sorry!!#request #@gothicwatermelons-blog #imababblekat's writing

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ryder-s-block · 5 years

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Jaig Eyes (Ch 8)

Jaig Eyes

Ch 8/?

Always available here

Chapter Eight: Naboo Swamps

“Senator,” I whispered softly to Padme as she readied herself, C-3PO guiding the ship towards the royal palace. “Are you sure you’re needed to investigate this? I’m sure it’s something your local militia could do. Or a clone squadron.”

“Nonsense,” she responded with a wave of her hand, the ship landing gracefully in the hangar. “I don’t want Republic occupation on my planet. If the Separatists are back, I need to make sure of it before I ask for any soldiers to land in my home.”

I hummed, pursing my lips as the ramp descended gracefully. The queen of Naboo approached us, flanked by a man with dark skin and only one eye. He was armed--probably the head of security.

“We came as soon as we could, my lady,” Padme expressed as she hurried down the ramp, Jar Jar and C-3PO behind her. “Have you found anymore droids?”

I waited for them all to exit the ship before following in my Mandalorian armor. The man I assumed to be head of security gave me a suspicious look, but I didn’t react.

“Only the three,” the queen responded, her voice accented. “But you can be sure, they aren’t tourists.” I regarded the woman closely. It was hard for me to imagine Padme being the queen once. Of course, I knew Naboo always had young queens and I didn’t doubt that she was good at it. But she was highly expressive as a person. How could she stand there in the heavy robes and makeup...expressionless?

“I need you to convince the Senate, or the Jedi Council, or whoever is in charge of this terrible war that we are threatened!”

I glanced at Padme, my eyebrow raising. It seemed the queen didn’t mind occupation as much as Padme did.

“We’ll need more proof,” the senator sighed. “Finding a couple of battle droids will not be enough.”

Someone’s comm beeped, followed by a digitized voice. “Captain Typho, the battle droid is ready for analysis.”

“Thank you,” his deep voice responded before he glanced at me. “I’m going to need you to remove your weapons.”

I patted my dual pistols. “No can do, Captain,” I responded with a small smile.

“Sorry,” Padme butt in, gesturing to me. “This is Kida. She’s been my protector since the attempt on my life.”

“That was a few months ago,” Typho responded. “Is she still necessary?”

I quirked my eyebrow, but surprised the group by laughing. “I ask myself the same thing, but the senator seems to like me for some reason.”

Padme swallowed, but cast me a look. “She has information. And she can get things done that I can’t.”

As we walked, the captain consigning for me to keep my weapons, he grumbled. “So she’s your errand runner?”

“She’s my friend,” Padme responded curtly.

“Who you pay well,” I added in with a smirk before glancing at the captain of the guard. “And by the way. I’m an infamous bounty hunter and a first-class assassin. So don’t ever call me an errand runner, alright?”

He glared at me, but let me pass into the examination room. “Have you been able to retrieve any information?” the senator asked the medical droid as we entered.

“Unfortunately,” the queen responded. “The Naboo security who discovered them preferred to shoot first and retrieve data later.”

I hummed. “How helpful.”

“They were found in the grasslands,” Padme mused. “Where’d they pick up all this mud?”

“Add that to our very long list of questions,” Captain Typho responded, resigned.

As the medical droid began to saw into the battle droid’s head, my gaze followed the motions of Representative Binks. He was wandering around the room excitedly, as if he was looking for something.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” C-3PO said, watching the medical droid work. “With your permission, Senator Padme, I would like to shut down before I get sensory overload.”

I rolled my eyes at his words, but kept my gaze on Jar Jar.

“Permission denied,” Padme sighed.

“Denied?” The droid seemed shocked.

“3PO, you might be able to get some information out of him.” As the senator explained, the battle droid sat up violently, his ocular lenses dark.

“Cannot see,” it voiced, confused. “Where am I?”

“You are in very good hands,” 3PO spoke. “Aboard a separatist ship. Count Dooku himself intends to reward you for your bravery.”

“Bravery,” the battle droid responded. I rolled my eyes, casting my glance back towards Jar Jar. He seemed to be chasing something....a blue beetle? My brows furrowed in thought as I listened to the droids talk.

“For your assignment on Naboo,” 3PO explained, Padme smiling. “Do try to activate what’s left of your memory. We all want to hear your tale of medical heroics.”

The battle droid shorted for a moment before voicing, “Virus.” The queen and her captain glanced at each other nervously, my own eyebrow raising.

“Yes, the virus,” 3PO responded, surprising me with his acting ability. “You do remember. Please continue.”

“A small amount leaked out,” the droid responded. A small ruckus drew my attention across the room, my eyes widening at the sight of Jar Jar’s tongue stuck in a contraption. I sighed quietly, grinding my teeth at the likelihood of him messing things up. “Must contain,” the droid continued. “Naboo cannot know.” In the back, I watched Jar Jar get his head stuck in the top of an R4 unit, flipping backwards over a table. “Lab must remain secret.”

“A secret lab on Naboo?” 3PO said, clearly blowing his cover. “Where? You must tell-” Padme leapt forward, slapping her hand over 3PO’s modulator.

“It’s a secret,” the battle droid pressed. “This is no separatist ship.”

My hand rested on my pistol, but the captain beat me to it. He drew his weapon, aiming it at the battle droid. “Unless you want to become a box of spare parts, you’ll tell us where that lab is.”

I rolled my eyes as the droid responded to the threat. “The lab is secret.”

My senses sparked to life, my gaze lifting to see the shelves begin to fall towards the examination table. “Senator!” I yelled.

She gasped. “Look out!” She pushed C-3PO out of the way, my own hand coming up to drag Captain Typho away from the table. The shelves crashed down, destroying the battle droid completely.

“We’ll never get any information out of him now,” the captain grunted as he stood, giving me a nod of thanks. Everyone glaned at Jar Jar, and while I had no love for the Gungan buffoon, I sighed.

“We wouldn’t have anyways. Battle droids don’t really respond to death threats,” I huffed, casting a glance at the senator before looking back at Jar Jar.

“Me-sah sorry,” he said, removing the R4 headpiece and walking over Padme. “It was a accident.” He dumped the headpiece sideways, the blue beetle plopping out.

“Is…” Padme cleared her throat as she looked down at the bug. “This what you’re after?”

“Me-sah loving!” Jar Jar exclaimed, the debacle with the battle droid forgotten in his mind. I lifted my eyebrow at him, casting a glance at Captain Typho, who held a similar look of disdain. “Issah very very good tongue grabbin! Issa find in only one place-in!”

My head lifted at that, making me approach behind the crouching senator. “Where?” I asked for us both.

“In the mud under the perlote tree!”

Padme glanced back at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Like the mud on this droid.” She thought for a moment. “The eastern swamps! I think Jar Jar just found out the location of that lab.” The senator jumped up from the ground and rushed from the room, the captain, queen, and I following swiftly.

Jar Jar stayed a few moments to eat his precious beetle. I rolled my eyes. What luck would it be that a moron would have all the clues to finding a secret separatist lab?

By the time I caught up with the rushing senator, she was already setting up communications with the jedi temple. It only took a moment for Mace Windu and Yoda to appear, both expecting an update from Senator Amidala.

“Master Jedi,” she greeted as we joined her, my own form preferring to lurk in the background.

“Senator,” Windu greeted. “What news do you have?”

“Jar Jar found a beetle that is exclusive to the eastern swamps of Naboo. The battle droid the security team captured mentioned something about a secret lab there...and a virus.” Her tone was solemn. Worried.

“They’re planning an attack on Naboo,” Captain Typho joined in. “It’s the only explanation.”

The jedi looked uncertain for a moment before Yoda spoke. “Delicate, the situation is. Two jedi, we will send.”

I felt a spike of emotion from the senator. “May I recommend,” Padme started as she stepped forward. “General Kenobi and General Skywalker? Relations with the Gungans are a little tense right now, but they trust General Kenobi like one of their own.”

I quirked my eyebrow, trying not to laugh. It was a damned miracle no one knew anything yet. It’s not like either of them was very subtle. I wondered for a moment if Kenobi or Ahsoka knew. Maybe they were just keeping it a secret to protect their friend.

The jedi glanced at each other. “Send them, we will,” Yoda conceded.

The transmission ended, Padme immediately jumping into action. “I want as much information as possible before the jedi arrive,” she explained, her hand coming down a bit too hard on the console. “See if you and 3PO can download any of the other battle droid’s memory,” she said to the captain before looking determinedly to the side. “I’m going to go find that lab.”

I cleared my throat. “And that’s my cue.” I put myself between the senator and the door. “I highly advise against that, Senator.”

“Don’t worry, you’re coming with me,” she grinned, moving to step by me, but I stepped with her.

“You see, my job is to keep you safe. And that’s a lot harder to do when you go out searching for Separatist strongholds. I can protect you from assassins all day, but I can only do so much against an army.”

“I agree with the bounty hunter,” Captain Typho voiced, stepping forward. “I’m not sure going out there is wise.”

“Kida will be there to protect us,” she fought back.

“Us?” I repeated, crossing my arms.

Padme looked me up and down. “Come on. Guarding me here is easy. Since when are you one to back away from a challenge?” She looked away, moving past me. This time, I let her go with a roll of my eyes. “Come on, Jar Jar.”

Wonderful. The Gungan was coming. I sighed heavily before following. In the end, she was right--I often enjoyed a challenge.

“I advise that you put a hazard suit on,” Padme said as she landed the Naboo cruiser. I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

“No offense, but you look ridiculous,” I laughed.

“But if there’s a virus, like the droid said, I’m safe,” she argued. “I can’t have my protector dying from a toxin.”

She tried to hand me a suit again, but I pushed it away. “Relax, Senator,” I chuckled again. “My mask filters out toxins. I’ll be fine.” As I spoke, I drew down my goggles and brought up my mask, the two pieces connecting and coming to life with a flash of blue light. Immediately, I felt the air filters kick in, my wrist comm notifying me that it was working.

I followed Padme and Jar Jar from the cruiser, taking in the rolling Nabooian fields and the massive Elder head that was half in the ground. Ahead of us, past the uncomfortable looking Jar Jar, were masses of dead Shaak.

“This is bombad,” Binks voiced, his voice automated through his helmet. “Wassah happened to them?”

“It’s the plague,” Padme answered immediately. I scanned over it, noticing them all near the water. “We’re definitely getting close.”

My senses tingled to life, my eyes casting sideways as I became aware of a creeping presence. I turned immediately, lifting my pistol...to see a Gungan with pink skin.

“A Gungan?” I voiced, choosing not to pull my trigger in my shock. I’d expected a droid… or at least something sinister. It only took a moment for her feet to connect with my chest, propelling me backwards.

I hit the ground hard but rolled upright to watch Padme fly by me, having taken her own hit from the female Gungan. She went after Jar Jar as I helped the senator to her feet.

“Who-sah are you?” she cried as Jar Jar yelled, panicked. “Why you-sah here?” She ripped off his helmet, the representative yelling in fear and attempting to not breathe the air. I watched, unsure, seeing the female Gungan wearing no protective clothing.

“Don’t move,” Padme said, surprising me as she pulled a pistol. “I don’t want to hurt you. Jar Jar, put your helmet back on.” Binks ran up immediately, snatching back his helmet.

“Senator,” I voiced gently as Jar Jar put his helmet back on, panting frantically. “It’s okay.” I stepped between her and the female Gungan, putting my hand on her pistol and lowering it. Then, I pressed the button to retract my mask, breathing in the beautiful Nabooian air.

“Kida!” Padme said in fright.

“You-sah okeday,” the female Gungan said behind me. It’s not in the air, it’s in the water.”

After a beat and a nod from me, the senator removed her helmet. “Who are you?” she finally asked.

“Me-sah Peppi Bow,” the female said.

“We think the virus that made your animals sick, came from the perlote trees.”

“You-sah follow this-ah river, you-sah findah you-sah perlote,” Peppi said back. “Me-sah take you!”

“No, Peppi,” Padme argued. “You stay here. You’ll be going home soon, I promise.” She placed her hand on the Gungan’s pink arm. “I’ll send some soldiers to pick you up and take you back to Theed.” Peppi smiled gratefully as I began walking down the river.

Padme and Jar Jar joined me quickly, their helmets at their sides. I chuckled as we walked, the senator looking disgruntled.

“And what is funny?”

“Oh nothing,” I said through another laugh. “Just, now that we know the toxin isn’t airborne, you look even more ridiculous.”

“This isn’t a funny situation,” she scolded.

“You’re telling me. How the hell am I supposed to protect two neon yellow targets that can’t move as fast because the pant legs are too big?”

My attempt a lightening the mood worked, Padme laughing lightly. “Well,” she said with a sigh, picking up the pace down the river. “Then I guess you’ll have a nice challenge.

The river and grassland turned to swamps quickly, the perlote trees rising above us with long tendrils of vines hanging down.

“Keep your eyes open,” Padme said, stepping over the raised roots carefully. “Look for anything out of the ordinary.”

I rolled my eyes, my hand on my pistol and my eyes scanning the dark trees. “This is a nightmare,” I muttered. “This is a perfect place for an ambush.” Padme brushed off my worry as part of my job, but I couldn’t help the feeling that we were being watched. And considering my force sensitivity, I was pretty sure I was right.

I heard a slam, automatically drawing my gun and turning...only to find Jar Jar face down in the dirt. I sighed unhappily, holstering my weapon again as Padme went to help her friend up.

“A hatch!” Jar Jar expressed, my mouth falling open in disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered as Padme activated her comms.

“Captain Typho,” she spoke quickly. “I think we’re standing right on top of the lab.” I stepped forward, watching the hatch become more clear as Jar Jar brushed away the dirt. “I need a geo-scan of coordinates SP-127.”

I heard a small beep, my head whipping to the side to look past the senator. She got off the comms as I scanned the treeline, dropping to her knees beside Jar Jar.

“There’s no way we’re going to open this,” Padme sighed.

I blanched, abandoning my scan to stare at her. “Open it? We’ve found it. I’m not letting you go inside. It’s likely filled with droids and, not to mention, a deadly virus. And I have a feeling they already know we’re…” Automated hisses cut off my words as I spun, drawing both my blasters. “Here,” I finished, watching a circle of battle droids rise around us.

Padme, ignoring me, continued to think. “We’ll just have to-”

“Freeze!” one yelled, aiming his own gun right back at me. “Hold it right there.” My pistols were raised, but I knew I couldn’t get them all without at least one hitting Padme or Jar Jar. “Drop em, bounty hunter,” the droid voiced.

“Look at the trouble you get me into,” I growled back at the reckless senator, dropping my pistols to the ground. They searched me, removing my other weapons, before taking their hazard suits and cuffing us all. We descended into the lab, flanked by droids, and pushed through the dark hallways.

“You-sah let us go!” Jar Jar tried, pulling at his restraints as we were pushed into a room.

A male entered the room, his face long and pale blue with black circles around his tilted eyes. “Who are you?” Padme demanded. “Why are you holding us?”

He stepped forward into the light, letting me see him better as he brought up a pair of spectacles. A Faust. And what seemed to be a scientists, given his attire. He didn’t respond to the senator’s question, peering closely at Jar Jar.

“Wonderful specimens!” he expressed, turning his gaze to me. He looked me up and down, his eyes seeming analytical before curious. “Wonderful specimens indeed,” he muttered before turning to Padme. “What’s a lifeform like you doing in a swamp like this?” His voice was accented and teasing.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Senator Amidala responded smoothly, a bite in her tone. I watched him closely, unsure why he’d looked at me the way he did. I’d felt the force spark around him with curiosity.

“Thanks to the support from my compassionate friends in the Separatist Alliance,” he explained, stepping away from us. “I am creating life!”

“How-sah you-sah creating life?”

“I’m so pleased you inquired,” the scientist said smugly, giving Jar Jar a satisfied smirk. “A demonstration is in order!” My nerves immediately spiked, watching him turn and walk across the room. “Allow me to present the return of the infamous Blue Shadow virus!” He opened a case, carefully plucking a blue vial from the endless racks and waving it in the air.

“The Blue Shadow virus?” Padme asked, her voice clearly portraying her disbelief. “I thought that deadly disease was extinct.”

“Yes, it was wiped from the galaxy generations ago,” the scientist lamented before perking up again. “But I have given it life once again!”

“Stars,” I muttered in horror.

“You-sah not giving life,” Jar Jar argued angrily. “You-sah taking life! You-sah poison the Gungan water.”

The scientist laughed at the accusation--a sound that was strange to the ear. I’d never heard a Faust laugh, so I had nothing to compare it to. But this one sounded like he was screaming ‘yeah’ over and over. Or maybe that’s what the maniac was doing.

“Unfortunately,” he expressed, walking away from us. “The Blue Shadow virus in its natural form thrives only in water. Until I improved upon that weakness.”

My eyes scanned over the contraption he approached, watching him place the vial on a pedestal and pull a lever. Electricity sprouted out, electrifying the vial until the contents were gaseous.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” the Faust laughed again. “I have perfected and airborne strain of the Blue Shadow virus.”

And LEP servant droid entered the room, carrying a small, circular bomb. “This is the last of the bombs, Doctor,” it voiced, lifting it up to the scientist.

“I’m well aware it is the last!” the man yelled, snatching the bomb from the frantic droid. “Do you think I’d lose count?” He turned back to us, lifting the vial again. “The virus, in its gaseous form, combined with these bombs, will release the Blue Shadow virus back into the galaxy!” He placed the vial in the bomb, the timer lighting up with red lights. “More potent than ever before!”

The maniac was proud… I shook my head in disbelief.

“Are you insane?” Padme asked. I knew the answer to that, but chose not to say it. “It’s a deadly disease! No life forms are immune to it. That’s why it was eradicated!”

“You mean murdered!” he yelled back at her, his eyes showing me how unhinged he was. “Take this away,” he ordered, giving the bomb back to his droid. “Meanwhile, as we speak, thousands and thousands of so-called superior lifeforms are spreading their disease of war throughout the galaxy. Perhaps they are the ones who should be eradicated!”

“Dinii,” I growled at him, my eyes glaring. He regarded me, his eyes scanning again, before he approached one of the tables and pulled a needle.

“You speak Mando’a,” he expressed, stepping towards me with interest. “But you’re not Mandalorian.” He came forward quickly, pricking the side of my neck. I jerked away, but it seemed a drop of blood was all he wanted. “Interesting,” he muttered to himself as he analyzed it on a data pad. “This is even better than I expected.”

“What are you going on about?” Padme growled, the woman having grown surprisingly defensive of me. Ironic...considering I was supposed to be protecting her.

“What you said is true,” the scientist admitted, speaking to the senator. “No species are immune to the Blue Shadow virus...but some are more resistant. Some species that are far more rare than any others. Species that were thought to be lost.” As he spoke with glee, he took another vial from the case and electrified it, turning it gaseous. He snapped his fingers, battle droids grabbing my arms and dragging me forward.

“Don’t touch me,” I yelled, doing my best to pull myself free. A mask was brought forward, looking a lot like a gas mask, but with an access tube. I swallowed thickly as they placed it over my head.

“No!” Padme yelled, followed by Jar Jar’s own objections. “What are you doing? Don’t!”

“I don’t know what you think I am, man,” I tried, panic rising in my chest. “But I was born on Corellia! I’m Corellian! Human! That’s nothing special.”

The Faust regarded me as he held up the vial. “Perhaps you were born on Corellia. Perhaps not. But one thing is for certain,” he said as he fitted the vial into the nozzle and turned it, the seal popping audibly. He leaned close to the mask as it began to fill with blue gas, obscuring him from view. “You are far from an average human.”

Mando’a

Dinii - lunatic

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #captain rex X OC #Captain Rex #Star wars OC #bounty hunter #fanfiction #fanfic

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majingojira · 7 years

Note

So I’ve been meaning to get into Gen13 but don’t know exactly where to start besides issue one, any suggestion?

So, you want to read Gen13?

Starting from #1 is usually a good place to start. But not this time. Gen13 started with the Image Boom of the 90s, and it really, really shows in those early issues. Like it was clear from the beginning that a lot of this was written initially as a “Spank Book”. That good characters managed to come out of it is a damn miracle.

If you want to get a start with Gen13, there are two main ways. One is to read Gail Simone’s run on the series (Volume 4, #1-12). This covers a new take on the origin and really gives new life and depth to the characters. Older stuff has them a bit simpler, but the basics are there still. But with Simone, they are much richer. The Caitlin Fairchild is pretty much the same, though less cheesecake in Simeon’s hands. Sarah Rainmaker was Bi originally (but for titillation reasons, as well as her habit of being naked regularly), but with Simone, full gay. Roxy Spalding/Freefall was more of whiner before Simone (to the point where a mini she starred in was jokingly named “Magical Drama Queen Roxy”). Burnout was pretty flat/standard teen hothead hero before Simone. After, he became a pacifist Bob Marley fan (and possibly Rastafarian). And then here’s Percival Edmund Chang, or Grung.

My god did Simone improve on him. Originally, he’s a lout. Like, a dumb, sex-obsessed buffoon. The origin and rework Simone gives him is poignant and beautiful.

Her series also ties into “Welcome to Tranquility” which is one of my favorite Gail Simone series. After she leaves, it continues into “Okay” land, but it’s still a decent place to start, even if character wise, things will be different ‘before’ her.

Another is to read one of the several crossovers they’ve had with other series. Crossovers, when done well, introduce you to the basics of who and what a character is pretty quickly. Of the (many) crossovers Gen13 has had, the best of them are:

Gen13/Generation X - These are two crossovers. The one where they team up against Marius St. Croix is decent, but the one where they go on vacation together and battle Doctor Pretorius from the classic Universal Frankenstein movies is much more fun.

Gen13/Superman - Caitlin Fairchild is a Superman fan and it’s adorable. She also gets conked on the head so hard by a Metropolis Supervillain that she finds herself thinking she is Supergirl (much to the real supergirl’s annoyance) and this silliness saves the day.

Gen13/Monkeyman & O’Brien - Arthur Adams does the art on this one. It also involves the two teams battling their Mirror Universe selves. That’s where I’d start. But I’m open to second opinions.

#Gen13 #Gen 13 #secret-warriors-unite

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redeyedryu · 7 years

Text

Apathy & Happenstance

Chapter 2 - Vexation and Aversion | 1 | x | 3

And we jump straight in to the next! And mind the end, you have a choice to make.

Summary: There’s something oddly familiar about these skeletons but you just can’t seem to put your finger on what, exactly, it is about them that’s nagging at the back of your mind.

“hey. bud.” Don't look at it. Absolutely do not look at it. Don't acknowledge it, don't even breathe the same air as it. ...no, okay, that last one might be a bit hard to manage (speaking of, do skeletons even breathe in the first place?). “hey. i know ya can hear me, sweetheart.”

Your brows furrow, lips pressing into a tight, straight line. Ignoring them isn't working, they're still here. Why are they still here?

“HUMAN!” cries the second one—the obnoxiously loud, tall, and pointy one.

Don't look at it, girl. There's still a chance they’ll go away, that this is all a figment of your imagination or something.

“NYNNNGH!!” it growls in frustration at your unresponsiveness, to not being acknowledged. It stomps a booted foot against the ground, various knickknacks shaking and jostling with the impact.

...so much for them being imaginary.

“ARE YOU PERHAPS TOO STUPID TO COMPREHEND THAT THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS STANDS BEFORE YOU?” ...seriously? “OR PERHAPS… YOU ARE PARALYZED IN FEAR!” Oh it cannot be serious—though, it did sound rather smug just then...

It starts laughing. A somehow even more obnoxious, grating sound than its nails-on-a-chalkboard speaking voice. You have to bite the inside of your mouth to keep yourself from saying anything (and boy would you like to say something) but a snort still manages to weasel its way out.

The taller, more pokey skeleton freezes, and despite not having any indicator of where its gaze is directed with those empty eye sockets, you get the distinct feeling it's staring right at you. Although… maybe glaring is a better word? Regardless, don't look to confirm; just continue to keep the skeletons in your peripheral vision and nothing more.

“HUMAN…” There’s something of a warning tone to its voice. “DID YOU JUST… LAUGH AT ME?” It doesn’t sound happy. The smaller, more rounded looking one seems to be… sweating? Is its perspiration red?

“c-c’mon, boss. i’m sure she didn't mean nothin’...”

“SHUT UP, SANS.” the pointy skeleton yells at the sweaty one, stomping its foot once more, the rather forceful action causing a couple more knickknacks around the room to rattle. You're silently hoping nothing winds up tumbling off the walls or shelves if it keeps that up.

It's just as you're releasing an incredibly heavy, woeful sigh that the loud one rounds its attention back on you. It’s taken a step towards you, one red-gloved hand perched on the crest of hip bones peeking out from tight black pants, the opposite hand aimed and pointing straight at your face. You silently thank small miracles for the fact the coffee table forcefully separates the two of you, as you get the feeling its gloved finger would probably be lodged somewhere in the vicinity of your own eye socket otherwise.

“YOU!” the skeleton cries, “PATHETIC HUMAN! YOU DARE MOCK ME? PAPYRUS, CAPTAIN OF HIS HIGHNESS’S MOST PRESTIGIOUS AND TERRIFYING ROYAL GUARD?!”

Bite your tongue, girl. Don't give it what it wants.

The next few seconds that pass are awkward and riddled with tension but you stay firm in your stoicism.

“NNNGH!! ANSWER ME, YOU FILTHY, WRETCHED CREATURE!”

Attention. It clearly wants attention. Any kind of acknowledgement or validation.

“SAY SOMETHING, YOU IMBECILE! OR I SHALL BE FORCED T-”

You interrupt its little tirade with a loud slap from your laptop—perhaps closing it with a wee bit more force than you had meant—but it's enough of a distraction to shut the loud mouth up.

Perplexed, the two skeletons watch in silence as you slide off the couch, laptop grasped between your hands. As you bend over the coffee table you catch sight of the tall one snapping to attention, feet shifting to stand up straight and tall, arms crossing over its chest.

“NYEH HEH HEH,” it laughs as you set your laptop on the table, as you then lift to straighten yourself. “FINALLY BUILT UP THE COURAGE TO FACE OFF AGAINST THE TERRIBLE PAPYRUS, HAVE YO-” Its voice cuts off as you abruptly turn from it and its shorter, sweaty counterpart.

“HUMAN?!” Its tone is one of bafflement as you pad your way across the floor, from the plush area rug of the living room to the chilled wooden floors by your dining area, towards the key rack hanging by the door.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING?!” You grab a jacket hanging nearby, slip into your shoes, and grab the keys off the rack, tossing them into a pocket. “WE ARE NOT DONE HERE!!” There's the unmistakable sound of it stomping its foot, of various knickknacks jostling about.

Don't turn to look. Don't even pause to consider. Just keep going through the motions of heading out.

You pat a pocket of your jacket, content when you're met with the feel of your cell phone. Pat another and you find your wallet. Good, you've got everything.

“GET BACK HERE, HUMAN! I AM NOT DONE SPEAKING TO YOU, YOU INFURIATING WRETCH!”

Hah. Joke’s on it if it thinks yelling demands and acting like an all around pompous buffoon will get you to acquiesce to its demands.

You grasp the handle of the door, twist, and without a glance back to the strange, red and black clad skeletons that had literally appeared out of thin air, you step out into the breezeway, door clicking shut behind you. You lock it before turning around and heading towards the stairs. There's silence at your back for a beat but as you reach the stairway you hear the unmistakable, muffled screaming of “The great and terrible Papyrus” coming from your apartment. If you were a more petty person you’d be reveling at the reaction you had elicited. Instead, you simply proceed on your way out. Judging by that particular skeleton’s reactions to being rebuffed, it's probably used to getting its way.

A hand slides into a pocket of your jacket to retrieve your phone. Maneuvering passed the lock screen, you pull up your preferred search engine. ‘Skeleton monsters, Sans and Papyrus’ is entered into the search bar as you work your way down a flight of stairs.

Your brows furrow as you hit ‘search’, lips pulled to one side in silent contemplation. There was something vaguely familiar about those two, their names especially so, but you just can't quite put your finger on exactly why they evoke such an odd reaction.

You reach the ground floor as the search index pulls up several pages worth of results. You only need to see the first to find what you're looking for.

“What the…”

You have to stop and take a good, hard look at the search results, at the images greeting you from the top of the page. It's unmistakable that Sans and Papyrus are indeed the names of a couple skeleton monsters but the ones smiling up at you from the pictures don't quite match the rather… for lack of a better world… edgy ones you had just left behind in your apartment. For one, these two look a whole heck of a lot more friendly. Secondly, you now remember why the names sounded so familiar.

Sans and Papyrus were part of the initial group of monsters to emerge from Mount Ebott, along with that one kid whose name you can't seem to remember. You think one of them had been some kind of mascot? A bodyguard?? You're not sure; you’ve never exactly been able to keep up-to-date with the news. Regardless, you recall having heard those name floating around for a good while, along with… who else was it? Alpyne? Undphys? No, those don't sound right… There's Toriel and Asgore—they're easy enough to remember since they're the Queen and King, respectively, and their names are always popping up everywhere, but you're finding it rather difficult to recall everyone else’s names… Oh well. Not like that's exactly pertinent to your current predicament.

Anyway! You're letting your mind wander. Get back on topic!

Alright. So. If you base the names to match up to general physical similarities, then the Sans you're looking at, aside from sporting a cooler color scheme of blues and whites, is missing the shark teeth and that one golden tooth of the other Sans. He’s wearing a loose white tee with a blue and grey zip-up hoodie over top, whereas the Sans upstairs is sporting a red turtleneck sweater under a black, fur-lined jacket accented in red and gold—and if you were being honest, it looked like something your younger self probably would have picked up from a certain store in the mall. Much like the sweaty Sans, this one’s also wearing black basketball shorts, though the line stretching down from top to bottom is white, rather than gold. The blue Sans also looks a lot less tense, more relaxed, despite noticeable dark rings around the bottom of his sockets.

The differences are more noticeable between the two Papyrus. ...Papyruses? ...Papyri? Whatever, that's not important.

While the pictured Papyrus definitely shares the physical characteristics of the one you left screaming in your wake, this one, too, is lacking in the pointy teeth department. He also doesn't have those jagged claw (?) marks across his left eye socket that his pointy doppelgänger does. He’s got some kind of rounded, white armor encasing his ribcage—it vaguely reminds to of an old video game from your youth that you never managed to finish. It's the polar opposite of his counterpart’s black, pointy variant. Some kind of blue underwear over black leggings (a reference to those good ol’ spandex wearing superheroes?) that counter the tight black pants of his other, though the red boots and gloves aren't too dissimilar. You find it interesting to note that both wear an overly large, red scarf wrapped around their neck, positioned in such a way that it could double as a cape.

“Weird…” you mutter, squinting your eyes at the screen and resuming your trek out and away from your apartment—from the nonsense that the universe decided to dump upon you. “They're like evil, edgy clones or something…”

You purse your lips, your face crinkling in intense thought and confusion. You ponder the possibility of the two pairs of monsters having the same names as being a coincidence—after all, just look at how many humans share the same name—but how would that explain their similarities? Twins? Monsters (or at least their King) do have a penchant for being absolutely terrible when it comes to names… but still, something just doesn't feel right, doesn't quite matchup.

You stop in your aimless wandering at a street corner, the signal across the road indicating pedestrian traffic to stop, and hang your head, an exasperated sigh escaping from between your lips.

Just what are you going to do about this?

* Contact the friendlier looking Sans and Papyrus

* Do nothing; you can deal with this mess later

#Red Drabbles #Undertale Fanfiction #Underfell Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Apathy and Happenstance

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ryanjdonovan · 8 years

Text

Donovan's Oscar Prognostication 2017

What can we expect at the Oscars this year? I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you can expect a lot of sociopolitical commentary from underqualified celebrities. If you want to know what else to expect (like who will win), read on for my 18th annual Oscar predictions.

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN: Hell Or High Water WILL WIN: La La Land GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Sully INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: The Nice Guys

Do I think La La Land SHOULD win Best Picture? Let me put it this way: It's a movie about idiots chasing idiot dreams for idiot reasons with idiot excuses, spending time with other like-minded idiots. If I ran the marketing campaign, my tagline on the poster would be: "Everybody has dreams. Nobody achieves them. Grow up." I think the audience's opinions of the characters in the film can be categorized into 3 groups: 1) Struggling actors or musicians, who are gushing, "These people capture EXACTLY why I want to be an actor/musician, including all the passion and heartbreak!" 2) Actors or musicians who have actually made it, who are thinking, "These people are morons." 3) Adults with real responsibilities, who are like, "Are you f---ing kidding me with these people?" I couldn't help but think of Judge Smails: "Well, the world needs ditch-diggers too." Let's just say, I'm clearly not the target audience. If you want a movie with a similar theme, stronger chemistry, and frankly, better music, watch 500 Days Of Summer. So, the more appropriate question: Do I think La La Land WILL win Best Picture? Almost undoubtedly. Hollywood is practically falling all over itself to congratulate this film… which is, of course, essentially congratulating itself. The fact that it tied the record for most Oscar nominations ever (14!) is absurd and obscene. Between the critical praise, huge box office take, cleaning up precursor awards, and being one of the few nominees that's not cripplingly depressing, it's a pretty safe bet to win the big prize. (Incidentally, the biggest question of all after seeing the film was: How old is Tom Everett Scott??)

Most people will tell you that there are two films with a (small) chance to knock out La La Land for Best Picture: Moonlight and Manchester By The Sea. This is not true. There is a film with a chance to pull an upset, but it's the underdog about underdogs: Hidden Figures. How could this happen? For starters, La La Land wasn't nominated for a Screen Actors Guild Best Cast award, and only one other film in that situation has ever gone on to win the Oscar for Best Picture (Braveheart, in 1995) - so history is not on its side. And when there IS an upset for Best Picture, it's often the SAG Cast award that portends it (remember Spotlight, Crash, or Shakespeare In Love?). And this year's SAG Cast winner? Hidden Figures. (On the other hand, the SAG Cast winner only goes on to win the Oscar about half the time.) Most importantly, Hidden Figures is gaining steam at the right time: It's been universally praised by reviewers and audiences, it's the highest grossing of all the nominees, and it's a triumphant, crowd-pleasing story that stands out against most of the other films which are, put simply, huge bummers. Detractors argue that it's a little predictable and safe, leans heavily on social context, borrows too liberally from the Apollo 13 playbook, and doesn't have a whole lot of bite to it. But given the harshness of the competition, these may not be such negative things. It's not a bad time for a feel-good, heroic, unifying, patriotic, adversity-conquering, well-crafted story based on true events. It may just be enough to steal the Oscar.

The most fashionable upset pick by the pundits is Moonlight. In my opinion, it's a strong film, but it's too enigmatic to be a serious threat for Best Picture (I think it will have to settle for an Acting award and a Screenplay award). It's an existential puzzle box - it poses a lot of questions, but doesn't necessarily answer many. It gives us a sense of the main character, a hint, but leaves a lot up to possibility. It ultimately leaves us wanting more - which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it doesn't help if we are looking for a sense of closure or finality to the story. (It also doesn't help that the main boy in the story endures more horrible things than any child ever should.) The main question the film poses to the boy (and to everyone) is: What makes a person who they are? And beyond that, it asks: Is a person a product of their environment? Their relationships? What they say? What they don't say? Their actions? If it's none of these things (or all of these things), then how is a person supposed to know who they truly are? Is it one thing, or many things? Does it evolve, or do they always have one constant true self? Is it even possible to know? Moonlight presents us with a main character who's trying to answer all these questions, but doesn't say much at all. It's an interesting choice, and a maddening one. We get a sense that maybe at the end he finally knows the answers to the questions, but he's not about to tell us. (And if YOU can answer any of these big questions, then congratulations, you've solved humanity.)

The other film favored by a few critics is Manchester By The Sea - the one where the filmmaker decided, "I'm going to make a movie about the most depressing family ever." While it's competent and convincingly acted, it's hard to get real enjoyment out of it. There are some moments of lightness and humor (which are dearly welcome), but it basically starts with melancholy, takes a couple dips, takes a huge dive in the middle, and then only mildly recovers. What makes it worse is that you expect that the story will go in a fulfilling direction, but it never does. There's a certain sense of 'Jeeezus, what now?' throughout the movie. At a certain point, it's like, Are there any more terrible things that could possibly happen to this family? Do they have a dog that will get mutilated by a coyote or something? The 'Life is messy' rationale in movies only goes so far with me. And more than that, I think there are a few cases where the script is overly-manipulative, and doesn't feel true to the story. Ultimately, I came away thinking: I bet the town would be gorgeous if it wasn't in a Kenneth Lonergan movie, and apparently "F-ck you" is how you say "I'm so sorry for your loss" in Massachusetts.

My personal choice for Best Picture would be Hell Or High Water, the modern Western that came out of nowhere. Most of the film's critical praise is for taking a tired, hackneyed genre and invigorating it in a slick new way. I fully agree, but I'd take it a couple steps further. It makes what is ostensibly a farcical adventure of epically bad decision-making seem sympathetic and understandable, if not downright inevitable. Bottom line, it's a fun ride: good old-fashioned cops and robbers, where the bad guys are good and the good guys are interesting. I'll get more into this film, and my other favorite, Arrival, in the other categories.

Shane Black has mastered a lot of things, first as a screenwriter, now as a director: seedy faux-glam noir, slick one-liners, overconfident buffoons, the LA crime caper, idiot heroes and the straight players who balance them out, and most of all, fun movies. His type of humor is literally one of the reasons why I watch movies. In a perfect world, the release of each of his new movies would be a highly-anticipated event. (We can probably leave Iron Man 3 out of this conversation; while it was a solid action pic and had some of Black's signature irreverence, it was squarely a studio-machine product, not an auteur piece.) Unfortunately, Black has somehow been relegated to being an afterthought compared to mainstream Hollywood. He's not a guy that fits the mainstream studio mold, he's too offbeat and puckish for mega-hits, and he's too "big idea" for the indie world. In my aforementioned perfect world, Black's film The Nice Guys would have been nominated for Best Picture (among other categories). The excellent comedy about a pair of mismatched, bumbling, low-rent private investigators tweaks convention, stereotypes, and tropes. It generally eschews sentimentality, except for a few key moments (that feel earned). Unfortunately, it got clobbered at the Box Office. Maybe Black can boost his career by trimming budgets; The Nice Guys was a pricy $50 million, but it probably didn't have to cost that much. (On the other hand, would it have been nearly as good for $2 million starring Mark Duplass and Jake Johnson? Definitely not.) So what can we expect the reception to be for his upcoming Predator film? In this imperfect world, probably indifference.

Surprised not to see Star Wars in my Best Picture conversation? Oh, just wait. I was sooooo tempted. I kept it confined to the Adapted Screenplay category, since it was such a surprisingly strong story. But don't worry, there's going to be a new Star Wars movie literally every year for the rest of eternity, so I'm sure it will make it back into this category in future articles.

For my Gloriously Omitted choice, I've gotta pick on Sully, Clint Eastwood's latest. Eastwood is operating at a level where every film he releases in the fall gets serious Oscar consideration. Sully is no exception, but it turned out to be a bit of a clunker, story-wise. It's thrilling, to be sure, but it simply isn't enough to carry a complete movie (especially considering the real 'Miracle on the Hudson' events just took place a mere 8 years ago). It should have been a 1-hour TV special (even allowing for 15 minutes of commercials). An attempt at a narrative is framed around the investigation by the National Transportation Safety Board - manufactured drama for the sake of the movie. The problem is that there is no real opposition - the investigation into the pilot's decision-making is illogical and unrealistic, and we know how it's going to play out - so the film forces some ordinarily talented actors to ham it up as 'villains'. (By comparison, the movie Flight used a similar construct, but was much more effective. This is partly because it was completely fiction - we didn't know how things would turn out - and partly because the protagonist was hiding something critical from investigators - creating dramatic tension and conflict… things missing from Sully that are, you know, essential to a movie). On the plus side, I will give Eastwood a lot of credit for his staging the water landing itself - that is the part of the movie worth watching. The splashdown is an absolute dynamo. The sequence is completely riveting, and emotional in a way I was not expecting. We know exactly how the events will turn out, but by putting us right in the action - giving us the perspectives of the people involved and on the periphery - the stakes become huge. That's a really difficult thing to pull off. (Eastwood also borrowed from the Apollo 13 playbook - a common theme this year. Maybe that's why he cast Tom Hanks?) Unfortunately, I only have one takeaway from the film: Landing an airplane on the water doesn't look that hard.

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Denzel Washington (Fences) WILL WIN: Denzel Washington (Fences) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Tom Hanks (Sully) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ryan Gosling (The Nice Guys)

This category promises to be the most dramatic of the evening. It could come down to a coin flip between Denzel Washington (for Fences) and Casey Affleck (for Manchester By The Sea). They've pretty much split the run-up awards, with Washington claiming the most important - the Screen Actors Guild award - and Affleck making off with secondary prizes like the Golden Globe, Critics' Choice and BAFTA. As a performer and as a person, Affleck is polarizing, while Washington is dependable. Comparatively, fewer people absolutely love Washington's performance; but also, fewer people loathe it. Smaller camps of passionate fans (think: a few 1st place votes) tend to beat out the larger warm-ish ones (think: a bunch of 2nd place votes) during the nomination process due to Academy rules, but it tips the other way when it comes to the actual winners. (That's how Viggo Mortensen snuck into this race with Captain Fantastic, but he has no shot at winning.)

So how much of the vote will they get? With Affleck, one challenge will be to decide how much of his performance is "acting", and how much is coincidence that he plays a character with the same mush-mouthed, dopey, mopey aloofness that he has. Personally, I don't think it's the best performance of the year, but I'll concede it's a good one - it may not be riveting, but it feels authentic and earned. The other (and possibly bigger) challenge is if voters decide to judge Affleck the man. In the film, his character says that he's "just the backup"; funny, that's exactly how the world feels about Ben Affleck's little brother in real life. More importantly to his voting peers, there are the harassment allegations from his train wreck of a project with Joaquin Phoenix, I'm Still Here. (By the way, how did Phoenix manage to emerge from that catastrophe with his reputation unscathed?) So how did I reconcile seeing (and supporting) Affleck's film in light of the accusations against him? Well, I watched it… but I didn't pay for it.

With Washington, there really are no challenges. He is, predictably, fantastic. But that's the catch: "predictably". With his reputation and resume, nobody is surprised (like they are with Affleck) that he hits a home run. And more than that, he's ALREADY been great in this role - on Broadway, where he won a Tony a few years ago. Voters will consider if there's a need to reward him for more of the same. Putting the voting into larger context, a win for Washington would put him in the exclusive 3-Oscars Club - becoming the 7th actor, joining recent inductees Meryl Streep and Daniel-Day Lewis. Many voters will agree that it would be a fitting honor for one of the finest actors of our time. On top of that, Washington also directed and produced Fences. The Academy loves a multi-hyphenate, and members that think he deserved a nomination for Best Director won't hesitate to vote for him here.

So for my prediction of who Will Win, I think the SAG win tips the scales slightly in Washington's favor. It shows he has the support of actors - it's the biggest branch of the Academy, and the one that will probably judge Affleck's accusations most harshly. And for my Should Win, I'm also going with Washington, because I can't bear to imagine a world where Affleck has an Oscar and Gary Oldman doesn't. (And not for nothing, but have you seen Affleck recently? He actually LOOKS like Joaquin Phoenix in I'm Still Here. Maybe… a sequel? One can dream.)

Ryan Gosling deserves to be nominated in this category… but for The Nice Guys, not La La Land. (If you're only going to see one of those movies, do yourself a favor and skip La La Land. If you're going to see both of those movies… watch The Nice Guys twice.) You would think that in a musical, the male lead should be able to, you know, sing. The song 'City Of Stars' may well win Best Song, but criminy, couldn't they get Marni Nixon to dub his vocals? "I thought he sounded pretty good," sniffed Russell Crowe, still believing his agent's high praise of his singing in Les Miserables. (Come to think of it, Crowe and Gosling really should have had a duet in The Nice Guys.) And while we're being honest, I think the best music in La La Land is the cheesy 80s music that's meant to represent the antithesis of the goodness and purity of jazz. After sitting through some snoozy musical numbers, I perked up when Emma Stone's character jokingly requested that Gosling's band play 'I Ran (So Far Away)' by Flock Of Seagulls: "Aw, hell yeah! Here's where the movie gets good!"

Andrew Garfield is an intriguing inclusion in this category, scoring his first nomination for Hacksaw Ridge. After emerging about 10 years ago, I figured he'd be an award-season candidate, but he's taken a more circuitous route than I expected. I thought he'd be a bit more independent-minded, eschewing quantity for quality and aiming for smaller and smarter films… but hey, I suppose money is nice, too. With Hacksaw Ridge (and the less-admired but no less prestigious Silence from Martin Scorsese) he at least seems to be half-way headed in that direction, following a natural trajectory from other winning films like The Social Network and 99 Homes. Just please, no more franchises. (And if you want to see a film that foretold Garfield's Oscar-caliber abilities, skip the Spider-Man movies and watch Boy A - in short, he's remarkable.)

For my Omitted choice… Playing the titular role in Sully, Tom Hanks is in a familiar bind: He's excellent, but not excellent by Tom Hanks' standards. To his credit, he plays Captain Sullenberger (he of the heroic airplane landing on the Hudson River) in a fairly realistic, understated way. Unfortunately, the performance underwhelms, and doesn't seem terribly different from Hanks himself. The film tries to play up some of his inner turmoil - grappling with fame and family troubles - but ultimately he's a character that doesn't say much, has almost no dynamism or magnetism, and reacts to his own heroism with a shrug. Scenery, un-chewed. (By the way, the film was much more enjoyable when I imagined Sully played by Will Ferrell as Ron Burgundy. I'm getting a Kickstarter campaign to make it happen. Who's in?)

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Natalie Portman (Jackie) WILL WIN: Emma Stone (La La Land) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Marion Cotillard (Allied) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Amy Adams (Arrival)

If only the Best Actress race was as unpredictable as the Actor race. While it's not a lock, Emma Stone appears to be pulling away. If there was a still a chance for Natalie Portman or Isabelle Huppert to surpass Stone, Stone's victory at the SAG Awards pretty much ended it. It doesn't hurt that Stone's personality is custom-made for the Oscar press circuit. Much like Jennifer Lawrence, she comes off as talented, confident, intelligent, and beautiful, but also disarming, funny, self-deprecating, and most importantly, cool - to both women and men. In short, she's easy to root for. (Lip Sync Battle, anyone?) Hollywood voters lap up her role as an earnest actress struggling to make it while remaining true to herself. Female voters can relate to Stone's character much more than they can to Jackie Kennedy. And male voters can imagine her as the fun, unpretentious girlfriend or the easy-going, sarcastic friend. (Portman is insanely talented, but nobody would ever believe her being amused by Jonah Hill's dick jokes.)

Not to be dismissive of Stone's performance in La La Land (don't worry, I'm plenty dismissive of the film itself), but her triumph here will be in part due to fortuitous circumstances. She can thank her lucky City Of Stars that Amy Adams (Arrival) or Annette Bening (20th Century Women) aren't nominated - either one of them would have been a clear sentimental favorite. With 5 previous nominations for Adams and 4 for Bening (and probably a bunch of 2nd-place finishes), voters would be anxious to reward either of them.

Stone's slate of competitors bode well for her, too. Her presumptive biggest threat, Portman (for Jackie), already won an Oscar while pregnant , like she is now. Doesn't it seem like accepting an Oscar in a maternity gown is probably a once-in-a-lifetime thing? Huppert (the Meryl Streep of the French Cesar awards) scored her first Oscar nomination this year for Elle, and like Charlotte Rampling last year, it feels like the nomination was a lifetime achievement nod of sorts for decades of admired work in foreign films. (I give Huppert extra credit for starring in the underappreciated I <HEART> Huckabees.) Ruth Negga, starring in Loving, is a relative unknown (outside of the big Preacher fans out there), and her nomination in itself was a bit of a surprise.

And then there's Meryl herself. Does anybody care less about Meryl Streep winning than Meryl Streep? In her 20th (!) trip to the Oscars, she's probably bored, especially because she knows she's going to lose. (I mean, despite being so celebrated, she actually LOSES at an astonishing rate: 84% of the time! And she's by far the best thing in Florence Foster Jenkins; without her performance elevating the film, it would be a trifle.) After 3 victories, she doesn't care about winning, either. Or does she? While she holds the unbreakable record for most acting nominations, she's 1 behind Katharine Hepburn for acting wins. And I'm sure Hepburn would be quick to point out that she won all of her Oscars in the Lead category, while Streep slummed it in the Supporting category for one of hers (kidding… Hepburn didn't even care enough to attend the ceremonies to accept any of her statuettes). In a quest for a legacy that only Tom Brady would understand (damn him), Streep needs 5 Oscars (2 more) to achieve the undisputed title of Greatest of All Time. Think she doesn't want the Oscar this year? Then you don't know Meryl. I'm just hoping she follows Florence Foster Jenkins with Florence Griffith Joyner. Streep in a tale of triumph, controversy, and mortality, as the 1988 Olympic sprinter, 100m/200m world record holder, and one-legged-track-suit fashion icon? Now THAT would get her one of those elusive Oscars.

My vote? It would probably go to Portman, with less enthusiasm than I had for her Black Swan performance. Frankly, a good portion of the time it looks like she's doing Jackie Kennedy as a high-society spoof of Black Swan: paranoid, isolated, terrified, duplicitous, unreliable. Other times it comes off as more of a boozy, breathy Marilyn Monroe (another one of JFK's lady friends). But for the sake of posterity, the real question is, after dozens (hundreds?) of Jackie portrayals, does she bring anything new or novel to the character? I mean, how can she possibly plumb new depths unexplored by Minka Kelly, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Katie Holmes? My biggest disappointment with the film is that Big Edie and Little Edie (the Beales of Grey Gardens) don't show up, along with their live-in raccoons. That's the movie I want to see. (Totally random side-note worth mentioning: In German, Jackie is titled "Die First Lady". I'm not kidding.)

My Gloriously Omitted choice is, of course, Marion Cotillard, for her role as The Villainess in The Curious Marriage Of Bradley Pitt. Team Angelina!

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Mahershala Ali (Moonlight) WILL WIN: Mahershala Ali (Moonlight) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Aaron Eckhart's mustache (Sully) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Chris Pine and Ben Foster (Hell Or High Water), Tom Bennett (Love & Friendship)

When most of America watches the Oscars on TV, this will be the "Guy From" category, where nobody actually knows the names of the nominees. The bad guy from Man Of Steel. The military guy from The Hunger Games. The kid from Slumdog Millionaire. The kid from… I don't know who that kid is. And the guy from all the Jeff Bridges movies.

One thing's for sure, one of the guys from this category won't be the "Guy From" much longer. In case you haven't been paying attention, Mahershala Ali is going to be a gigantic movie star. After he wins the Oscar for Moonlight, he's going to be at the top of the list for any franchise looking for an anchor, regardless of the tone or genre. In 2016 alone, he managed to star in 4 feature films (2 of which were nominated for Best Picture: Moonlight and Hidden Figures) and 2 hit shows (House Of Cards and Luke Cage). He's not a shoo-in to win the Oscar, but he's clearly the best bet, and in my not-so-humble opinion, the most deserving. The biggest knock against him is that his screen time is relatively limited in Moonlight. After he disappears at the end of Act I, I think everybody wants the story to follow him - his character Juan deserves his own film. His portion of the film builds to such a compelling moment - the only moment of true dramatic conflict between him and the main boy, Chiron - that it's shame that it ends. It's meant to be a turning point for little Chiron, but it appears to be just as big a turning point for Juan, someone who supposedly "knows who he is" (the key theme in the film). The child deftly turns the tables on Juan, and challenges him to define who is really is - and in that moment we see Juan realize that he really doesn't know at all. And then, unfortunately, he's gone. While it's ultimately a minor role, I think Academy members will be impressed by his character's grace and contradictory nature. It certainly doesn't hurt that Ali also does charismatic work in crowd-pleaser Hidden Figures, and impressed voters at the SAG awards with his inspiring, humble speech and impeccable pearl-white tux.

The next most popular choice will be Jeff Bridges, for Hell Or High Water. If he hadn't won recently (for Crazy Heart), he'd probably be the front-runner. He has the benefit of being essentially the second main character in the film - one with his own story, his own decisions, his own spotlight. The portrayal itself is just good ol' boy fun - Bridges looks like he's having a blast, with a guttural, fricasseed voice and a Texas swagger that invokes the late Richard Farnsworth and his own Rooster Cogburn. Though I have to say, as Bridges ages, it seems he's getting more and more like that in real life. I think he liked this character so much, that he's decided to stay in it.

Speaking of Hell Or High Water, I'd like to mention both Chris Pine and Ben Foster for my Snubbed spot, for delivering surprisingly strong performances as ill-prepared bank-robbing brothers. (Particularly Pine, whose surname is an apt description of his typical on-screen personality.) Both Pine and Foster are generally unlikeable actors, but they both summon something I've never seen before, and create an impressively magnetic duo together. It's possible I actually cared about their characters (but still wanted to see Jeff Bridges shoot them). Most critics are calling Pine's performance the best of his career - which isn't saying much - and I agree.

Is there a chance for Dev Patel or Michael Shannon to sneak in here? They're both possibilities, but probably not. For his lauded role in Lion, Patel won the BAFTA, which bolsters his chances… but then again, he's a Brit, so that doesn't count. Shannon snuck into this category by somehow supplanting his Nocturnal Animals co-star Aaron Taylor-Johnson, who managed to win the Golden Globe but then got passed over for the Oscars. (Christmas cards should be awkward this year.) Shannon is the only actor to make Ali look lazy in 2016, with a whopping 10 feature films, plus a starring role on Broadway. I'd be happy to see him win; he's a Chicago theater actor whose unique look and style have enabled him to methodically carve out a niche career, score kudos (including 2 Oscar nominations) for pretty much every one of his movies that's not about Superman, and somehow stay relatively anonymous and tabloid-free despite having about a zillion screen credits. His agent must hate him, because every project that seems to attract him (or he attracts) is low-budget and, for lack of a better word, weird. A small sampling: Elvis & Nixon; Midnight Special; Take Shelter; My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done; Let's Go To Prison; The Broken Tower; Bug; and of course, Kangaroo Jack. (And yes, that's him at the diner as a teenager in Groundhog Day.)

I'm a little puzzled by the nomination for Lucas Hedges in Manchester By The Sea. (But given how puzzled I am by the movie itself, I guess that shouldn't be a surprise.) I just don't know what's so impressive about his performance. To me, he just seems like a smart-assed, foul-mouthed, horny 16-year old; in other words, every 16-year old. For all we know, that's what he's like in real life - so is it great acting? For a character whose father has just died and whose mother abandoned him years earlier, his performance just doesn't feel that authentic to me. There are interesting flashes of denial, but it seems like the film mostly glazes over that element, instead of using it to elevate the character. More than anything, I'm struck by how much he seems like a teenage version of Matt Damon - voice, accent, posture, performance. It's no accident that Damon is a producer on the film - he probably held New England-wide auditions to find his mini-me, to star alongside Ben Affleck's mini-me. In terms of advice, I'm guessing Damon just handed Hedges a VHS tape of Good Will Hunting and said, "Hey Lil' Matt, watch this movie, because I think I'm amazing." For my money, I would have preferred to see any of a number of actors take Hedges' place in this category: Pine or Foster (see above), Tom Bennett (a hilarious Victorian moron in Love & Friendship), Hugh Grant (playing his weaknesses as strengths in Florence Foster Jenkins), or even Robert Downey Jr. (in a tiny, magnificent cameo as the corpse of a porno director in The Nice Guys).

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Viola Davis (Fences) WILL WIN: Viola Davis (Fences) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Anna Gunn (Sully) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Kathryn Hahn (Bad Moms)

This is the biggest lock of the night: Viola Davis will win for Fences. She's winning everything. Literally everything. She's even winning awards that have nothing to do with this movie. I'm pretty sure she just beat out Beyonce for a Grammy. If she would have announced her candidacy for President the day before the election, she would have won that, too. And it's overdue: I'm in the camp that thinks she should have won the Oscar for The Help. She's been the prohibitive favorite here since the movie adaptation of August Wilson's play was announced; after all, she won a Tony for the same role on Broadway. And the critical consensus is that she's even better in the film than she was on stage. Even her nostrils give an award-winning performance during her crying scene. (Oh my, that's a runny nose. Which brings up a lot of practical considerations: Did director Denzel Washington call for the amount of snot in each take? Did he ask for a variety, so he had snot options in the editing room? Do they have continuity checks for snot? Did the script specify the viscosity and texture of snot? Do close-ups require 'hero' snot? Can Davis snot on cue? Is there fake snot for the days she can't get the nose-works going? Does that fall under the Makeup department, or is a there a specialized Snot Wrangler? Is there a separate casting call for snot, and if so, which agents specialize in it? So many questions.) If Davis is emotional during her acceptance speech, let's hope they hand her a kleenex - or five - along with the Oscar.

Nicole Kidman has said she felt a strong bond with her character in Lion, as they're both adoptive mothers. Many credit that real-life connection and perspective with propelling Kidman to her 4th Oscar nomination. In order to secure a nomination in her next film, she's planning to play a woman who marries a celebrity in order to conceal his closeted sexuality. "I could play that role in my sleep," she said. "Come to think of it, I've played that role twice." Does she have a chance to win this year? She already has an Oscar. Next.

Octavia Spencer gives a strong performance in Hidden Figures, but it seems that she's something of a surrogate for the entire SAG-winning cast, a way to recognize all of them. (They could have easily nominated Janelle Monae, who infused Figures, as well as Moonlight, with a welcome burst of energy. Pretty impressive for a singer in her first acting roles ever.) While Spencer is steady throughout, her portrayal is fairly businesslike; she doesn't have many showy scenes that would stand out to Oscar voters. So does she have a chance to win this year? She ALSO already has an Oscar. (And even she is rooting for Viola Davis.) Next.

Perhaps the biggest revelation of all this year's nominees is Naomie Harris, for her role as a struggling drug-addict mother in Moonlight. She's been recognizable in a variety of roles over the past decade and a half, but she hasn't shown anything like what she does with this role. But does she… I think you know where this is going. Next.

That brings us to Michelle Williams, for her role in Manchester By The Sea. She's quietly racked up 4 career Oscar nominations without a win - she's venturing into Amy Adams territory. She's been consistently strong since the day she paddled out of Dawson's Creek, so a lot of voters WANT to pencil her in. But with such a tiny role in this film, there's simply no compelling reason to do so this year. Frankly, I'm not even so sure she deserves one of these slots. She only pops up in a handful of scenes, mostly to fill in emotional backstory for Casey Affleck and to make us feel terrible about life in general. (And gahwd, that accent.) So… no.

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Denis Villeneuve (Arrival) WILL WIN: Damien Chazelle (La La Land) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Stephen Frears (Florence Foster Jenkins) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: David Mackenzie (Hell Or High Water)

This category, a collection of refreshing, talented directors with unique voices, probably represents the future of cinema. (And that's including Mel Gibson - there will always be at least one racist old coot in the establishment. I guess if the Academy forgave Roman Polanski, they'll forgive anybody.) There's very little doubt here that Damien Chazelle will prevail for La La Land. I'm more okay with the film scoring the Director prize than Picture, due to the daunting technical nature of the film, but I would still choose someone else. I was frankly more impressed with Chazelle's previous (and more poignantly intimate) film, Whiplash. After all the hullabaloo surrounding La La Land, I kept waiting for it to transform into a unique, original take on the musical romance genre… but it never does. I don't think the opening freeway musical number is as much of a dazzler as everyone else seems to. And the dancing… Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone don't look like naturals, they look like contestants on Dancing With The Stars, going through the paces after a couple weeks of rehearsals. To Chazelle's credit, there are a lot of nice touches in the film, and the final sequence is outright fantastic (more on that in the Original Screenplay category). I just expected more to justify the hype… and the slew of Oscars it will win.

I'm much more impressed with Denis Villeneuve's vision in Arrival. Besides crafting a film that's visually stunning, narratively captivating, and intellectually stimulating, he managed to make a deeply personal film about what's effectively a silly sci-fi alien invasion. (Though the title is inauspicious: Dithering voters might confuse it with that other alien invasion movie called The Arrival, the 1996 masterpiece starring critical darling and Hollywood treasure Charlie Sheen as a - wait for it - brilliant astronomer with a goatee.) This year's hipster nomination, Villeneuve may appear to be a newcomer, but he's been a darling on the French-Canadian art-house scene (Is that a thing?) for two decades. (Credit where credit's due: I predicted he would be the next big thing back in 2000 at the Toronto Film Festival; it just took 16 years, that's all. Next up for him? The SLIGHTY high-profile Blade Runner sequel.) If you want to impress your film-snob friends, check out his French-language film Maelstrom, a twisty, dark thriller / love story with bits of absurdist humor thrown in for good measure. (Oh, and it's narrated by a fish. In a butcher shop. Being chopped up into pieces. I’m telling you, the French-Canadian art-house scene.)

It's a real longshot, but a win here for Barry Jenkins (director of Moonlight) would be a pleasant surprise. Jenkins took a tiny, potentially difficult, urban art film and turned it into a true sensation. The feat is even more astounding considering it's only his second feature, his main actors are mostly inexperienced, and he tells a story about the internal conflicts of an introvert who barely speaks. To top it all off, he chooses to split the story into 3 pieces, spread out over 15 years. As narratives go, it's about as tough as it gets. Moonlight is not going to be everybody's favorite film, but it's a marvel, and Jenkins is someone we'll be hearing plenty more about.

It's actually been 10 years since Mel Gibon's drunken, expletive-ridden, anti-Semitic rant during his DUI arrest. Just long enough for Mel Gibson jokes to be funny again - and since Jimmy Kimmel is hosting the Oscars, I think you can expect one or two (or twenty). How to explain Gibson's nomination for Best Director for Hacksaw Ridge? I think an old episode of South Park featuring a loony Gibson put it best: "Say what you want about Mel Gibson, but the sonuvabitch knows story structure." Want to know a totally, completely true fact? Gibson fought hard for a couple of titles to his World War II drama, before the studio forced him to change it to Hacksaw Ridge: "Guess Who's Responsible For WWII (And All The Wars In The World)" and "Sugar Tits".

While I respect Kenneth Lonergan as a filmmaker, I haven't been overly impressed with any of his films. I mean, I WANT to like his movies. They're just… tough to digest. I know that, above all, he strives for realism. Referring to typical Hollywood movies, he recently said in an interview, "I see them sugarcoat and pass over experiences everybody in the world has had. It annoys me, because it seems like a lie." He certainly doesn't sugarcoat anything in Manchester By The Sea, where Lonergan's form of realism is exceptionally harsh. And maybe that's my problem - when I watch a movie, realism isn't always exactly what I want to see, especially when it puts me in a depressed mood for a couple days. Aside from the tone and story, I actually have problems with the awkward editing and incongruous musical choices. They make the film seem unpolished, beyond the point of realism. It feels, I don't know, almost lazy. I'm sure it's all intentional, but I just don't understand why. When it comes to Lonergan, I guess there's a lot I don't understand.

David Mackenzie got passed over for an Oscar nomination for Hell Or High Water, but he may still win a Nobel Prize… for coaxing an actual lifelike performance out of Chris Pine. I was hoping Mackenzie would sneak into this race. The Scottish director filmed in New Mexico with a West Coast actor and somehow managed make a film that feels authentically like West Texas - without casting Tommy Lee Jones. (I damn near had to turn on the subtitles to understand those accents.) His wide lens captures something both intoxicating and toxic about the region. How do you make geography look so beautiful and so crappy at the same time? There are plenty of postcard-worth landscapes in Odessa, but Mackenzie will be damned if he'll use those. But instead, here's an extra helping of rural decay! The West Texas office of tourism has to absolutely hate it every time a new movie is set in the area. Based on what we see in movies, we assume it's depressive, repressive, oppressive, backwards, racist, redneck, violent, callous, dead-end, dying, undereducated, sweltering, and corrupt. Maybe that's why they filmed Hell Or High Water in New Mexico: they weren't allowed in Texas. "If you're not going to film La La Land 2 here, then git the hell out!"

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Taylor Sheridan (Hell Or High Water) WILL WIN: Kenneth Lonergan (Manchester By The Sea) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: A million people (Zootopia) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Anthony Bagarozzi, Shane Black (The Nice Guys)

It's not uncommon for one of the screenplay awards to serve as a runner-up for the Best Picture race, particularly when there's a chance to reward a writer-director. This year, probably both screenplay categories will serve this purpose, which is unfortunate. While La La Land certainly could sweep every category and claim this prize, it's more likely that Manchester By The Sea will take it. Personally, I'd rather see it go to a more enthralling piece of writing, Hell Or High Water.

As movie writers go, Kenneth Lonergan is about as unassailable as they come. No stranger to accolades, Manchester By The Sea is his 3rd screenplay nomination (following You Can Count On Me and Gangs Of New York), and he's got a pile of other film and playwrighting awards (including a Pulitzer nomination). I would be an idiot to criticize his writing, but I’m going to do it anyway. (I think I've proven that I’m an idiot in the past, so I might as well embrace it.) Simply put, I don't think Manchester has a strong story. I won't go so far as to claim that the emperor has no clothes, but if you spent 20 seconds on the Internet, you'll find tons of people who feel that way about Mr. Lonergan. I suppose I would categorize this script as a tragedy (in the ancient dramatic sense), but there isn't really anywhere for the main character to fall from. It strikes me as more of a portrait (admittedly, a rich, vivid one); it seems to take more cues from the stage world than screen. I don't want to say too much to spoil anything (but just in case you're going to see this movie, skip this paragraph to avoid spoilers). Probably my biggest complaint (other than the fact that it's a serious downer) is that the story is set up as a classic redemption story, and then… there's no redemption. Instead, the main character resigns himself to failure. (And please, I'm not saying "I wish it had a Hollywood ending.") There's a clear crossroads in the movie where, after the 'Lost Point' (the main character's lowest point in the story, about 3/4 of the way through), the character would choose a redemptive path (through an epiphany, an active decision, drastic measures, etc.). But he simply doesn't. And then the rest of the story just peters out from there. The frustrating thing is that the character recognizes the opportunity for redemption (taking responsibility for his deceased brother's teenage son), but he refuses it. Lonergan clearly sets this situation up, tempts us to follow him, gives us a head-fake, and runs off in the other direction. (In his defense, there is an intriguing - and potentially heartening - hint of self-sacrifice on the part of the main character, but I think it's too faint to truly pay off.) This is a long way of saying that after a 2-hour journey of unrelenting grief, I wanted more of a reason for the journey to be worthwhile.

As I mentioned, there's a good chance that La La Land will win Best Original Screenplay instead of Manchester, but brother, I hope it doesn't. I'm not even sure why it's nominated here in the first place. The genre and music notwithstanding, there isn't much motor in the story. I find no compelling reason to be invested in the romance between the drippy, selfish faux-idealists. There are no real obstacles. There is no conflict other than superficial conflict for its own sake - internally fabricated by the characters to get in their own way. It's like they're trying to make their lives harder for no particular reason. How do these wistful whiners get past practical inconveniences, like filing their income taxes? (I'm sure their 1040s are met with an abundance of longing sighs.) But believe it or not, I have to say, I think the ending is superb. It almost redeems the movie… almost. (It's the one part that I like, and not surprisingly, the one part that my wife hates.) I can't say much without ruining the movie (and trust me, I REALLY do want to ruin the movie for you), but it effectively turns the entirety of the movie into a fairly poignant metaphor. It gives weight to many of the themes that were, up to that point, trite, and adds legitimacy to some of the lazy aspects of the screenplay. It attempts to answer the question (with some success, I admit) of what it means to dream - with all the perks and perils that come along with it - and whether a dream can ever truly become a reality. I'm certain there are different interpretations of the ending; I prefer a cynical one. What if you achieve your dream - is that even a good thing? I guess my primary lament about the script is: If writer-director Damien Chazelle had such a cool trick up his sleeve for the finale, why did he drown the rest of the movie with such lifeless material?

I'm rooting for Hell Or High Water, written by Taylor Sheridan. Besides what I previously mentioned, probably its biggest strength is that it wisely does not dwell on backstory. It doesn't spend time in the beginning "setting up" who the bank-robbing main characters are, or shoehorn in flashbacks to fill in the gaps (ahem, Manchester By The Sea). It jumps right into the story in the opening scene and never looks back, giving us just enough of a sense of the characters' backgrounds and motivations to keep us on track - without EXPLAINING it all to us. (The price of that is a few clunky expositional lines of dialogue, but in general it's handled pretty well.) Credit the director and editor on that front as well: knowing that anything that is NOT part of the story does NOT belong in the movie. The message of the script, a clear allegory, is an admirable - if damning - one. Besides condemning the evils of greed and "the bank", it hammers home a theme about the sins of fathers (biological and generational) and redemption of (or rejection by) sons. Unfortunately it teeters into preachy, heavy-handed territory occasionally. (There's an awkward, unintentionally funny scene where Jeff Bridges' lawman stops his truck to allow a ranch hand to corral his cattle across the road. As he's struggling to herd the cattle away from a blazing prairie fire - clearly a life and death situation - the rancher pauses to casually deliver an absurdly jarring, unprovoked, preachy, expository speech. Given the circumstances, I don't think I'd be up for much conversation with a random driver, other than, "Watch out for my cows, a--hole!") Unlike many of the nominees this year, the film delivers with a resonant, satisfying ending. The only detriment is that the final scene (which had the potential to be understated, sly, and truly great) is a little on-the-nose. I have a feeling the studio gave a note… that should have been ignored.

It seems that whenever Mike Mills writes a script about his family, it gets nominated for Oscars. A few years ago, he wrote Beginners about his father, and Christopher Plummer won Best Supporting Actor. Now 20th Century Women, written about his mother, is nominated for Best Original Screenplay. I can't wait for the script about his goldfish.

Ah, The Lobster. This is the most intriguing and refreshing nominee in either screenplay category. It's as strange as you would expect from a filmmaker named Yorgos Lanthimos. After seeing it, the only thing I know about it for sure is that the story can't be taken at face value. It's clearly a satire, with subtext serving as the point of the film. (Some would argue that subtext ALWAYS serves as the point of any film, and that a film should never be taken at face value.) At its most obvious, it's a send-up of the absurdity of the "rules" and social norms around being a romantic couple and being single. However, I'd argue that it better serves as an allegory for pretty much any arbitrary dichotomy, with 2 diametrically opposed sides or points of view. It applies in particular to any situation where the line between the 2 sides is essentially fabricated, and people are forced to choose a side. It applies well to important things like war, religion, and political parties, as well as more trivial concepts like cola wars, sports fans, and late-night talk show rivalries. The film poses the questions that should be obvious: Why can't there be a 3rd point of view? Or even infinite points of view? Why are there any sides period? Why do we have to choose? I wish all this meant that it was a great movie. The premise and the absurdity, especially in the first half of the film, are a strong draw (dialogue like: "Do you have any pets?" "Yes: my brother."), but the harshness is a little too sobering. The story is whimsical, but in a rigid way: there are rules in the world of The Lobster, and they are relentlessly, brutally severe. Going into it, I thought it might be quirky-fun (in the vein of Michel Gondry, Charlie Kaufman, or Wes Anderson), but it's quirky-disturbing. There's a sensibility to The Lobster that's almost masochistic, which is belied by the comically flat and simple dialogue. (All the characters deliver their lines like Europeans with 3rd grade English skills - appropriate, considering it was written by Greek men with 3rd grade English skills.) It's more akin to A Clockwork Orange or Brazil, in terms of the skewed definitions of "normal", and the frightening prices people pay for not being "normal". But unfortunately it's not nearly as good nor as enduring as those films.

I know it's not fair to pick on a kids' movie like Zootopia, but am I the only one who thought the sloths-working-at-the-DMV gag was unfunny and unoriginal? I guess so.

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Eric Heisserer (Arrival) WILL WIN: Barry Jenkins, Tarell Alvin McCraney (Moonlight) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Todd Komarnicki (Sully) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Tony Gilroy, Chris Weitz (Rogue One: A Star Wars Story), Whit Stillman (Love & Friendship)

Ever since Moonlight was shifted from the Original to the Adapted Screenplay category, it's been the favorite, not having to compete against Manchester By The Sea and La La Land. And once it beat both of those scripts at the Writers Guild Awards, it became a virtual lock for the Oscar. Anyone that considers voting for it as Best Picture or Director will almost surely vote for it here. But truthfully, I think the screenplay is one of Moonlight's weaker elements. It's probably because I'm an advocate of a strong narrative. And while there is a narrative thread across the film's 3 segments, I think other elements orchestrated by writer/director Barry Jenkins are what make Moonlight such a triumph. So I'd probably vote for it for Director or Picture before Screenplay. But to be fair, the script has many unique elements rarely seen in cinema, and people are clearly responding to it. Whether it was the story, theme, production, direction, or acting, I found the film to be entrancing in a way I didn't expect.

On the other hand, I love the script for Arrival (by Eric Heisserer), which has a very strong narrative. In fact, it toys with narrative by dismantling what we've come to expect from flashbacks. Flashbacks are often derided as a screenwriter's crutch, so Heisserer preys on that notion, then manipulates it into something new. The story even takes a novel approach to the Alien Invasion genre: What if the aliens aren't the most important thing in the story?

So, Moonlight will win, and if there's an upset, most people expect that it will come from Arrival. But not so fast. As I mentioned earlier, it's possible that a groundswell for Hidden Figures could conceivably propel it to a Best Picture victory. And if that happens, look out, because it could well carry over into this category as well. Never count out a story that people absolutely love. (That said, the film's lack of nomination for Best Director makes this scenario much less plausible.)

I expect Fences will also get its share of votes, from a small group of passionate devotees. It would be a way to honor the late August Wilson (who adapted his own Pulitzer Prize-winning play into a screenplay years ago). But since Wilson had no active involvement in this incarnation of his story (he died in 2005), it won't approach the support that Moonlight is getting.

Of course, we can't forget about Star Wars. I really would vote for Rogue One: A Star Wars Story for Best Screenplay. While the film on a whole was excellent, Screenplay is where it truly excelled. Imagine the audacity of it: It takes a few throwaway lines from the opening crawl of the first Star Wars movie, and turns them into a clever thriller that culminates in a breathless firestorm leading smack into the first scene from the original masterpiece. I expected cool action and mythology; I did not expect such an emotional story about characters that have never before even been mentioned in the series. While I would also give full credit to director Gareth Edwards and the entire production, screenwriters Tony Gilroy and Chris Weitz (leveraging a story from John Knoll and Gary Whitta) are the MVPs. By comparison, the story is unquestionably superior to The Force Awakens. (Why, you ask, is my wife such a fan of Gilroy? Because she's a bigger Star Wars geek than I am? Because he was nominated for Screenplay and Director Oscars for Michael Clayton? Because he was the mastermind behind all the Jason Bourne movies? No. Because he wrote The Cutting Edge. That guy could cure cancer, and he would still be best remembered for the words "toe pick".)

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