#helen o’hara

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

[bitter69uk]

Heartfelt gratitude to everyone who attended the Lobotomy Room presentation of The Fan (1981) on 19 September at Fontaine’s. We truly attract the sexiest, hippest and most discerning crowd! I’m sure you’ll agree that what elevates The Fan to camp nirvana are the enticing glimpses of Never Say Never, the glitzy musical starring Sally Ross (Lauren Bacall). These scenes hit the same sweet spot as Neely O’Hara or Helen Lawson’s musical segments in Valley of the Dolls (1967). We chart Never’s progress from early rehearsals (dancers in leg warmers doing stretching exercises, Bacall sporting a leotard) to glittering opening night. But what kind of gruesomely bizarre, inadvertently hilarious production is this? It seemingly features a grand total of two songs. Everyone enthuses wildly about Sally’s singing, but Bacall’s chain-smoker rasp is grating. What we see on the triumphant premiere incorporates pink neon lighting, male and female dancers gyrating Fosse-style on scaffolding, copious dry ice – and no perceptible plot. “A remarkable woman / Ten and a half out of ten!” exclaims the opening number. “A remarkable woman / You want to bathe in her light / Whenever she moves / It indisputably proves / God got it right!” “Givin’ ‘em hell / But all is not well / in Paris!” a male dancer sporting a chauffeur uniform, wielding a riding cop and seemingly channeling the emcee from Cabaret hisses dramatically. “With all that she’s got / She’s got no love / In Paris!” Then, Sally cavorts on a circular bed with three shirtless young Adonises in an implication of group sex. “Hot love, baby – tonight!” she teases, then turns rueful. “No love, baby – tonight!” Finally, shimmering in black sequins and smoking a cigarette, Sally belts “Diamonds seem to cling to me / Hearts are hard to find …” Choreographer Arelene Philips was also responsible for the catastrophic Village People disco movie Can’t Stop the Music the year before. Whose bright idea was it to hire Phillips after that debacle? Whoever it was, I could kiss them!

[naeverse]

Dear My Beloved (1/2)

~Ｖｉｃｅ ＃３~

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝟑: 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥

(𝐎𝐜𝐭. 𝟏𝟑-𝟏𝟗)

----

𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳:

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯.

-

"𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯."

Ｍｕｓｉｃ：

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘰 𝘔𝘦" - 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘍𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘮 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨" - 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥

🤎staring: Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

      👗preview: But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with an foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player  suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

 “Nothing is what it seems… Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

💄summary: It’s your husband Miguel’s birthday, a day that should be filled with love and celebration. Yet, something feels…off. 

🎂tw/cw: 1950s Era, Abuse, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Death, Despair, Disturbing Imagery, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Grief, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Mental Illness, No Smut, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Violence, 

💙Pet names: Amor (Love), Bebé (Baby), Cariño (Darling), Esposa (Wife), Mi amor (My love)

     ♥️Rating: 18+ explicit I ANGST I

 🎵 Word Count: Total - 14.5k, Part 1 - 6k words

Art found on Pinterest, all credit goes to original artists/designers/photographers 

~ I say, Oogum, oogum, boogum, boogum ~Boogum now, baby, you're castin' your spell on me. ~

The jolly tune of Brenton Wood resonated from the record player, your hips swaying to the song while you cooked. Sunlight poured in through the drawn gingham drapes, filling your home with a warm glow that energized everyone inside.

But, in particular, you.

Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from you and your husband's shared closet — a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthday — a blend of chorizo and potatoes, black pudding, fried eggs, and homemade tortillas. However, you wanted to make it exactly how his parents made it for him all those years ago, but you were finding it difficult with how vague the measurements were.

“‘Enough oil to make things crispy, but don't be stingy, but don't swim in it either?’ Then how much oil do I use?” you whispered in slight bewilderment before continuing on, nevertheless, thankful for the English translations alongside the Spanish handwritten recipes inside the cookbook.

The smell of black coffee, just the way Miguel liked it, along with the sound of the knife slicing vegetables atop the cutting board, wafted through the air.

You hummed, singing along softly. “You got me doing funny things like a clown, just look at me~” Hips swaying, you danced over to the calendar on the kitchen wall, your heels clicking upon the checkerboard tiles in rhythm with the upbeat melody.

Your eyes ran along the autumn month, rosy red lips pulling into a grin at the sight. “October 13th, 1950. My beloved husband's birthday.” You beamed, poking the colorful orange pin into the appropriate date. Pressing a kiss to your two manicured fingers, you placed it upon the date, completely in love with your husband.

Spinning back towards the stove, the blue dress and white apron you wore flaring with your movement. Your hands moved about, dashing seasoning here, a slice of butter there, and a mix with the whisk here. The Oogum Boogum Song played steadily in the background all the while.

You heard, amidst the song and noises of the kitchen, the small pitter-pattering of feet on the mint and creamed checkered floors. It wasn't long before the owner of such adorable footsteps hugged your leg, tugging at your apron to get your attention.

“Good morning, mommy,” your daughter, Gabriella, whispered from your side.

Your daughter, Gabriella, now six, was your bundle of joy. You loved your little girl so much, willing to go through any lengths to ensure she knew how much you did.

You grinned, wiping your hands on your apron before crouching down to her level. “Good morning, my sweet girl,” you greeted, unable to help but giggle at her messy brown hair, showing she had instantly run downstairs as soon as her eyes opened from her slumber.

You ran a hand along her head, smoothing the wild strands with your palm. Adoring how your daughter beamed up at you in her pink floral nightgown that reached down to her ankles and how she tightly clutched her stuffed rabbit, Flopsy, in her arms — an old gift from Miguel and you upon learning of your pregnancy.

“You seem happy this morning. Did you sleep well?” you asked, caressing the top of her head. However, you watched her bright smile falter at your question, causing your eyebrows to furrow. 

You already knew the reason for her change in mood.

“Another bad dream, huh?” you sighed, stroking her cheek with a finger, almost as if she were fragile glass that could break any moment.

“Yes… another bad dream. It's always the same, Mommy. I just wish they would go away,” she said, her eyes starting to glisten with approaching tears.

Your heart clenched as you reached out to embrace your daughter, hugging her close to your chest. “I know, baby, I know. I'm so sorry you are going through this.” you soothed. “No one should experience this, especially not a young girl like you.” 

The first tremble and shaky sob that escaped your little girl's mouth was like a knife to the heart. “We don't have to talk about it if you do not want to.”

“B-but I want to, Mamá,” she quickly interjected, surprising you. “P-Papá told me t-talking about it could… make them go away.” Your daughter sniffled, remembering your husband’s words the last time she had a nightmare.

You gave her a squeeze, hating how such dreams were tormenting your little girl. “Okay…” you agreed, pulling away slightly to meet her eyes, bracing yourself to hear about the terrors she experienced in her sleep.

“Was it about… Mommy again?” you asked warily. The question was simple enough, but the way your heart skipped a beat made it feel much deeper.

The sad nod Gabriella gave you made you frown. “Really? Was it… bad Mommy again?”

“N-no.” She replied in a brittle voice, her tanned cheeks growing a rosy red. “Y-you weren’t scary t-this time, Mommy. You were… sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” you asked, not expecting her reply. She confirmed with a nod. “You were dressed in a… w-white dress, and you were l-laying on a white bed,” Gabriella explained, twirling the fabric of her pink gown around her finger. “There was a sound that wouldn't stop. A...b-beeping sound, I think." Your daughter said between trembling lips.

"People were t-talking, but I couldn't understand them, and...you laid in the center of them…

Sleeping.”

Your eyebrows rose, a horrid thought instantly coming to mind as you imagined what your daughter could have dreamt. You shook the thought away, unwilling to linger on it.

You smiled at Gabriella, cupping her cheeks. “I know dreams can be scary and confusing, but they’re just dreams,” you told her. “I’m okay, completely fine, my sweet. See?” You held your hands and arms out to her with a grin, showing her you were, indeed, okay.

You felt at peace when she returned a small smile of her own. “I know, Mamá…” she trailed off, taking your hands in her smaller ones. She fiddled with your fingers for a moment, lost in thought. 

“Mamá… you'd never harm me or Papá… right?” Gabi asked, her question striking your core.

“What!? No, of course not, honey,” you assured her, squeezing her hands. “I’ll never harm you or Papá.”

“I know…” Gabriella replied with a small smile.

“Good. I love you, Gabi,” you said, kissing the top of her head. She returned your affection with a peck on your cheek, making your heart soar.

You gave her head a gentle pat. “But on a happier note,” you began, springing back to your full height to tend to the sizzling beans and eggs, feeling the joy of the morning return once more. “Do you know what today is?”

“Papá’s birthday!!”

“Shhh, not so loud,” you said, hastily clasping a hand over her mouth, making you both giggle. You didn’t want your sleeping husband to know you had plans for him.

“Sorry… it’s Papá’s birthday,” she whispered this time, watching from her short height as you returned to cooking, adding the appropriate herbs and vegetables to the dishes.

“Good job, it is,” you grinned, turning to her once more. “And did you finish your present for him?”

Frantically, Gabriella nodded. “Uh-huh, I did, and it was really hard work, so I hope Papá will like it.”

“He will, I assure you,” you promised, chuckling as you took note of her disarrayed hair once more. “We’re staying home all day to celebrate Papá’s birthday, so why don’t you return upstairs to get dressed?” you told her. “I’ll call you down when breakfast is finished.”

With a nod and another quick kiss to your cheek, Gabriella skipped off, her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

You returned to the task at hand, but Gabriella’s dream lingered in your mind.

‘Is there a reason she’s having these dreams? Is it something she’s eating? Watching?’ you pondered, your parental fears taking root. 

Setting the spatula aside, you moved toward the record player, wishing to change the song—when it hit you. 

Sharp.

Sudden. 

Like a spike driven into your skull.

The pain burst through your head, making you stagger. You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter. 

Your vision blurred and clouded with white spots as a low ringing filled your ears.

It felt like the room was tilting, the ground shifting beneath your feet. You whimpered in agony, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to steady yourself, but the pain lingered, pulsing relentlessly.

“G-gosh, what is happening?” you whined, gripping your temple in a futile attempt to quell the ache.

Without realizing it, the throbbing pain vanished as quickly as it had come—disappearing without a trace, leaving you shaken and breathless.

Slowly, you straightened, disoriented and confused, glancing around your kitchen.

Everything seemed normal again—the stove, the breakfast, the cheery sunlight—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt heavier, as though an unseen force was pressing down on you.

“I-I’m just tired,” you muttered, trying to shake off the strange sensation. You continued toward the record player in the corner of the kitchen, which sat atop a circular table. “Tired, indeed,” you affirmed, convincing yourself that the odd occurrence was nothing more than exhaustion from trying to perfect your husband’s birthday.

Still, you reminded yourself that the tiredness was worth it.

It was for your husband, the man you cared so deeply about, after all…

“Nothing like music to help ease my troubles,” you whispered, running a finger along the records until you stopped at a familiar one. “Yes… this one.” You smiled fondly, the events of just moments ago fading from your mind at the sight of the worn sleeve.

You carefully pulled the vinyl from its case—one of yours and Miguel’s favorites. Slipping it free of the sleeve, you replaced the previous record, The Oogum Boogum Song, with the new selection, placing it delicately on the turntable.

The needle dropped, and the warm, familiar voice of Helen Foster filled the kitchen.

The song, You Belong to Me, always made your heart flutter. It was the soundtrack to so many of your happiest moments.

It played at your wedding as you walked down the aisle, the same song you and Miguel slow-danced to the night you discovered you were pregnant with your little girl. 

It was also the song Miguel often sang while strumming his guitar, each deep note passing his lips a promise of his undying love.

The melody had wrapped around the two of you like a promise. Every time the soft, wistful notes filled the room, it felt like your love was stitched into the very air.

It was your song, the one you always came back to, every single time.

Hearing it now made everything feel right.

Perfect.

You breathed easier, allowing the song to calm you and completely erase what had happened before.

Everything was normal once more.

Everything was fine…

Returning to the pan of food, you found everything perfectly cooked. “Wonderful,” you murmured, feeling pleased. Turning off the stove and covering the finished dishes, you moved to begin setting the table.

You placed floral plates over perfectly selected napkins, then added a glass of cold juice for Gabriella, along with two mugs of coffee—one black for Miguel, and the other with sugar and cream for yourself. Lastly, you set the utensils in their proper places.

Each pastel-colored fork, spoon, and knife was meticulously arranged beside the empty dishes, perfectly aligned. Any deviation, no matter how slight, would surely unsettle you.

While setting the table, you hummed along with Helen Foster, holding a knife poised to place it on the pale yellow Formica dining table. 

But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your manicured fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with a foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

 “Nothing is what it seems…

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

You froze in horror, the knife slipping from your grasp and clattering onto the floor. The sound snapping you from your trance, but a foggy haze lingered.

Your heart pounded like the rapid thump of a rabbit’s foot, your wide eyes fixated on the record player. Its eerie chant looped, searing into your mind.

 “Nothing is what it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

Over and over the words were repeated, searing the horrid message into your brain. 

Chest heaving, you backed away to collide into the table, causing dishes and glasses to rattle. “W-what—” you could only stammer in terror.

Before you could spiral further in your petrified state, calloused hands reached out to you, cupping your face. With gentle caution, you were guided to meet a pair of familiar amber eyes.

“Cariño?”

“Is everything okay?”

The deep, concerned voice brought you back to reality. Its steady tone grew louder, grounding you amidst the chaos of your thoughts. 

“Qué te pasa? Talk to me, miel.”

You met the gaze of your beloved husband, Miguel who stood in front of you, his features tight with worry. Slowly, the fog in your mind lifted, and the room regained focus.

“Esposa?” Miguel prompted, his voice low and steady as his thumb and forefinger tilted your chin, urging you to look at him.

“M-Miguel, I—” you faltered, your gaze darting toward the record player. Helen Foster’s soothing voice now played once more, making you question if you were going crazy. 

But the chant—its ominous message—still echoed in your mind.

Miguel frowned, his concern deepening. “Mi amor, you’re shaking.” Your husband said, grabbing your attention. “Take a seat.” His tone left no room for argument, as he was already guiding you with a hand upon your lower back to one of the dining chairs. 

You complied, feeling the soft cushion shift underneath you. Miguel’s large hand enveloped yours, his thumb brushing soothing circles across your knuckles. 

For a moment, he studied you in silence, however, you hardly noticed as you could only focus on your lap, where your hands trembled slightly.

“What happened, miel?” he asked, breaking the silence. His voice was steady but laced with unease.

You gulped, simply recollecting the moment, causing your head to ache painfully. Your mouth opened and closed, unable to find anything to explain. “I-I don’t know,” you admitted, swallowing hard. “I... thought I heard something.”

“Heard something?” Miguel inquired, straightening to his full height. He began to pace the kitchen, his black slippers shuffling across the checkered tiles. 

“It may have been Gabi,” he suggested, his attempt at humor evident despite the worry in his tone. “You know how our princesa tends to get carried away with her dolls.” He chuckled, knowing your daughter sometimes became noisy when she was excited during playtime. However, you could hear his nervousness. 

Hastily, you shook your head, dismissing his assumption. “It wasn’t Gabi!” you exclaimed, louder than intended. Looking up to meet your spouse’s gaze, certain your fear was etched into every line of your face.

For the first time, you noticed Miguel’s attire—a burgundy robe that concealed his undershirt and casual trousers underneath. His outfit did little to conceal his musculature that pressed against the soft fabric of his sleepwear. 

Miguel stopped pacing and crouched in front of you, his robe parting slightly to reveal his broad chest. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He whispered soothingly, the timbre of his voice the only thing keeping you grounded. 

You buried your face into his neck, letting his comforting words and the gentle strokes of his hand on your back to calm you.

“It’s just stress, sí?” he murmured. “You just needed a moment to rest.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, his warmth grounding you.

And like always, you wanted to believe your husband with all your heart—to accept his reassurance. But the chant lingered, clawing at your thoughts like a dark shadow.

 “Nothing is as it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is as it seems...”

You managed to push through the festivities, finishing the breakfast your husband scarfed down with a grin and playing family party games that ended with your little girl winning (with some assistance). Now, it was time for your husband to blow out his candles.

“Here it is!” you shouted, bringing from the fridge the handmade cake that Gabriella and you had created the day before.

You set it on the pale yellow dining table: a vanilla cake adorned with white frosting, doused in sprinkles (Gabi's touch), and decorated with piped, wavy red and blue trimmings. A singular lit candle sat in the center of the cake, its flame flickering gently.

Gabi bounced up and down excitedly. Her orange blouse, knee-high skirt, and matching ribbon hair ties made her look even more adorable. “See, Papá?! I told you I helped!” she exclaimed, bringing a smile to Miguel's lips.

“I see, princesa,” he grinned. “No one quite has your... expertise in sprinkle quantity,” he chuckled, his chest rumbling at the sight of the overwhelming amount of colorful candies atop the white cake.

Your husband's previous sleepwear had been replaced with a simple white button-up, black slacks, and slippers. His dark brown hair was styled as usual—slicked back with precision, each strand flowing neatly to the back of his head.

When he settled his gaze on you, his eyes softened. “Esposa,” he practically whispered your name longingly, holding out an arm to wrap around your waist. Pulling you to his side, he pressed a gentle kiss to your head. “You did all of this for me?” he asked, stroking a thumb along your cheek.

You nodded, cupping his face. “Of course, baby,” you replied with a gentle smile. “You always take such good care of Gabi and me, so I wanted to do this for you—no matter how many times you tell me not to.” You giggled as your husband simply stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing with adoration.

Leaning in close, he nuzzled your nose with his own, breathing you in. “Cómo demonios tuve tanta suerte?” he muttered, his lips seeking yours for a quick peck—only to be interrupted by none other than your daughter.

“When are we going to cut the cake!?” she cried out, her attention fixed on the sweet treat as she licked her lips eagerly.

Miguel snickered, giving your waist a squeeze. “Later. Much later,” he said, the fire in his gaze promising you a much needed night in his arms. The sight made your cheeks flush and your heart to skip a beat.

“Okay, okay, go turn the lights out, Gabi,” you instructed with a laugh, watching her hastily race off to flick the light switch, encasing the dining room in darkness except for the warm glow of the cake.

The three of you surrounded the table—you stood behind your daughter, your hands gently stroking her shoulders, while Miguel took his place in front of his birthday dessert, his eyes fixed on the glowing candle.

“I feel like I should make a grand speech,” your husband joked, glancing up at the two of you before settling his gaze on Gabi. 

“Thank you, my sweet girl, for filling my days with your light and granting me the honor of being your father,” he said, his deep voice full of love. “There isn’t a day that you don’t amaze me with your intelligence, imagination, talent, and humor.” He expressed. “You make me proud to call you my daughter, my Gabriella.”

Gabi’s eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and pride at her father’s words. She looked up at him, grinning widely, and then, in a small yet confident voice, she replied, “And I’m proud to call you my Papá. You’re like… the best dad ever!”

Miguel chuckled, his gaze tender as he looked at her. “Oh? The best ever, huh?” he teased gently, warmth lacing his tone.

“Sí!” she insisted, nodding eagerly. “You work so hard, but you always make time for me. And you teach me so much—like how to stand up for myself, help others, and to not let my emotions control me.”

Miguel’s expression softened as he reached out to gently ruffled her hair, his voice sweet. “You’re going to do amazing things, Gabi. I’m just lucky to be here to watch it all happen.”

Her smile widened, and she beamed up at him, her eyes filled with admiration. “I’m the lucky one, Papá. You’re my hero.”

Your husband, visibly touched by her words, shifted his gaze to you, his eyes brimming with the kind of love and gratitude that left you breathless. 

In that moment, as if he were seeing into your very soul, you felt a surge of overwhelming adoration that no words could capture.

“Y/N, my beloved,” Miguel began, his voice trembling, almost on the verge of tears. “You’ve stood by me through my worst, mi amor. You’ve endured my workaholic ways, my stubborn temper, and all my flaws… yet you stayed by my side.” He snickered softly, the sound filled with both gratitude and disbelief. “Because of you, I’ve become a better man.”

He cleared his throat, placing his palms on the wooden table as if trying to ground himself. “Thank you, mi amor, for your unwavering presence, for loving me unconditionally, and for bringing our little miracle into my life.” He glanced lovingly at Gabi, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I truly don’t think I would be here today without you.”

Your heart swelled as you listened, each word deepening the adoration you already held for him. 

He took a shaky breath, his eyes glistening in the warm candlelight, vulnerability etched across his face—a rare sight that made this moment feel even more precious.

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved,” he continued, his voice soft and sincere. “And I am endlessly grateful for every day, every laugh, every memory we’ve made together. You both are my everything.”

Gabi leaned back against you, her small hand finding yours as she whispered, “Te amo, Papá.” The simple words broke the last of his composure, and a tear slipped down his cheek. "Te amo, mi princesa." He replied wholeheartedly, giving his daughter's cheek a loving pinch that made her giggle.

Miguel reached out, taking your hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise to keep working, to keep growing, so I can be the husband and father you both deserve.” He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a deep kiss to your knuckles, sealing his promise.

Your husband released you and closed his eyes, whispering his wish before blowing out the candle. Darkness momentarily engulfed the dining room before you applauded, your own emotions welling up as Gabi hurried to turn the lights back on.

The cake was forgotten as Miguel took two long strides toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into a deep embrace—one he surely needed. 

“Te amo, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion as he gave you a tender squeeze.

You melted into the hard planes of his chest, your arms encircling his neck. “I love you too, Miguel,” you replied softly, feeling the warmth of his love radiating through the embrace. 

A small hand pressed gently against your back, making you smile. Both of you glanced down to find Gabi standing between you, her little arms wrapped around you both. “I love you too, Mamá and Papá,” Her laughter like a melody that filled the room with joy.

You welcomed her into the embrace, holding both of them tightly. 

In that moment, as you stood together, you marveled at the depth of love you felt—a love you had never believed yourself capable of, let alone for two people who meant the world to you...

The three of you were now settled in the living room. The familiar scent of the cake still lingered in the air as you and Miguel sat together on the couch, the cushions soft beneath you, the fabric slightly worn from use.

The soft glow of the lamp next to the couch highlighted the pastel green walls. Evening light from the window casted dim shadows across the vintage floral wallpaper, while the small box TV that flickered white and black images rested on a shelf in front of you. The clock on the wall ticked quietly, its hands slowly marking the time.

Gabriella sat cross-legged on the floor; her plate of cake balanced on her lap as she eagerly dug in. You rested your head on Miguel’s shoulder, letting out a small sigh as he fed you a bite of his own cake. His eyes met yours with a grin, and you returned it, savoring the sweetness.

“May I get another?” Gabriella’s voice interrupted your quiet moment, light and innocent as she looked up at the both of you, her lips already smeared with frosting. You blinked in surprise, your eyes flicking to her plate. It was already clean. Miguel nor you have even finished yours.

“Gabriella!?” you exclaimed, the shock clear in your voice.

Miguel’s laughter erupted beside you, warm and full of affection. “Sorry… it was really good,” Gabriella said with a pout, her lips dusted with frosting like a mischievous little angel.

“It’s fine, bebé,” Miguel chuckled, his finger brushing one jumbo curl behind your ear in a way that always made your heart skip. He stood, towering over both you and Gabriella in an instant.

“This will be her last slice,” he promised, amusement in his voice. “Come on, you little cake monster. Let’s get you another slice,” he teased, walking toward the kitchen, Gabriella rushing behind him, eager to get there first.

You watched them both, a smile tugging at your lips. The love between the three of you felt so natural, so full, like this moment could stretch on forever. It was simple, perfect even.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the soft cushions beneath you, and took another bite of your cake. It was the perfect slice, just sweet enough, and the warmth from Miguel’s touch still lingered on your skin.

But then something shifted...

You couldn’t quite place it, but there was a slight prickle at the back of your neck, an unsettling feeling that crawled across your skin like a soft whisper you couldn’t hear.

You paused, feeling the hairs on your arms rise.

Something… felt off.

The strange sensation was eerily similar to what had overcome you in the kitchen. 

You were certain of it.

You couldn’t put it into words. It wasn’t a sound or a sight—just a feeling. 

A quiet shift in the air...

Instinctively, your hand reached up to the back of your neck, fingertips brushing over your nape in an attempt to shake off the unease. That’s when it happened.

Your fingers grazed a lump, one you’d never noticed before. At the contact, a sharp pain exploded in your head, and your eyes rolled back into your skull.

Images, voices, and a crushing wave of dread surged through your mind all at once.

“Y/N, we have to be better for Gabi. You have to be better,” Miguel’s voice rang out, sharp and filled with disappointment.

“I am trying, Miguel! I don’t know what you want from me!” you shrieked. 

The voice—your voice—sounded deranged and very unfamiliar despite being your own. 

“Public breakdowns? Outbursts? I don’t believe that’s you trying to be better!” Miguel’s tone cut deep, piercing and accusatory.

“Just get out! Get out!” you screamed, hurling a glass vase. It struck the wall and shattered into a cascade of glittering shards.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you snapped back to reality. Your chest heaved, each breath shaky as your trembling body fought to regain control.

‘What was that?’ you thought, panic swirling in your mind. ‘What did I just see?’

You clutched your plate of half-eaten cake, fingers trembling as the memory replayed in your mind. 

‘Miguel and I were…arguing?’ The very thought made your chest tighten painfully. 

But the details... The setting, the clothes you and Miguel wore—it didn’t match. It wasn’t here. Not in this perfect, gleaming life you’d built together.

No, this memory felt wrong.

Your throat tightened, and you forced out a quivering breath, trying to steady your trembling hand. “I’m just... tired,” you muttered, your voice weak, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

‘Just tired. That’s all it is,’ you told yourself.

You shut your eyes, hoping the storm raging inside you would settle, that when you opened them again, everything would be normal.

When you finally opened them, your gaze fell to the plate of cake in your hands, and your heart instantly froze. 

In pure terror, you watched the once neat red and blue frosting of the cake start to become uneven—distorted, as though someone was standing beside you, dragging their finger along it to write something in the icing. 

You stared, petrified as the words formed one by one, the weight of dread building with every stroke until the final letter was etched… 

OPEN YOUR EYES.

You froze, shaking, unable to tear your eyes away. No... this couldn’t be real. It had to be some trick of the light, a cruel fabrication of your mind.

But the message didn’t vanish.

And you couldn’t ignore how it had appeared—slowly, deliberately—as though someone had been watching you while they wrote it.

“M-Miguel!” you screamed, panic rising in your throat, your voice sharp and pleading.

The room seemed to tilt. Your vision blurred, and everything shifted in an instant.

An overwhelming pressure built in your chest, as if the weight of the world had collapsed onto you. The last thing you saw before your eyes snapped shut was the half-eaten cake with the horrid message—and then, darkness.

Suddenly, the sounds of the living room sharpened, each one more vivid than the last. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The faint rustling of fabric. And Miguel’s warm voice, gently calling your name.

“Mi amor? Is something wrong?"

You blinked, disoriented, struggling to find your bearings. The living room was just as it had been—the soft, plush couch beneath you, the warm glow of the lamp, chatter from the television, familiar scent of cake lingering in the air and your family close by.

You blinked again, and realization struck.

Your breath hitched.

Miguel and Gabriella were still in their same positions. They hadn’t gone anywhere. You hadn’t seen them leave to get more cake. 

Glancing over at your daughter, still seated on the floor cross-legged as before, you saw her happily eating her first slice of cake—not her second.

Your gaze darted to your own plate, the one you distinctly remembered nibbling on, the one that had held that ominous message. But instead of the eerie writing, the cake sat uneaten, perfectly pristine.

A cold chill ran down your spine, your breathing beginning to quicken.

Things weren’t making sense. And it was starting to scare you.

Miguel’s hand cupped your face, warm and grounding, his concerned eyes searching yours. “Mi amor?” His voice was softer now, tinged with tenderness. “You dozed off. Are you okay?”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.

What had just happened?

To you, it felt like you've done more then simply 'dozed off.' You recalled your love ones going to the kitchen, the shift in the air, heated occurrence between Miguel and you and then the...horrid message upon the cake.

You could speak the memory out loud, explain each detail like it was happening once more. So, why did it seem like it didn't happened - that it couldn't have happened.

Gabriella’s innocent gaze rested on you, her brows furrowed in worry. “Are you okay, mamá?” she asked, her small voice full of concern. The frosting smeared on her cheeks from her first slice of cake made her look even more endearing.

Her question snapped you out of your troubled thoughts, however, you couldn’t answer right away. Your throat felt dry, and your thoughts were swirling in a chaotic storm. The distorted memory that had overtaken you only moments ago lingered like a shadow, unshakable.

“I... I thought Gabriella asked for more cake,” you stammered, your voice unsteady. It made no sense. You could’ve sworn you’d seen them leave, yet part of you was convinced they hadn’t.

Miguel raised an eyebrow, a mix of concern and confusion crossing his face. “Are you okay, bebè?” he asked, chuckling nervously, as though trying to lighten the mood. “You told Gabi she can only have one slice, and was quite adamant before you went to sleep." Your husband explained. "So no, neither Gabriella and I have gone anywhere. We’ve been right here with you the whole time.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you more closely. "You were mumbling a lot as you slept, it made me worried. Did you have a bad dream?”

You blinked again, willing yourself to calm down. The confusion still clung to you like a heavy fog, but Miguel’s steady voice and familiar presence helped ease the edges of your panic.

The room felt normal again.

Everything looked... normal.

But you weren’t so sure.

Forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, you murmured, “Perhaps...”

Your gaze dropped to the plate of cake in your hands. It was untouched, as if you’d never taken a bite.

Out of fear and a sudden loss of appetite, you hastily set the plate on the nearby pastel-green end table, wanting it out of your sight.

Like before, everything went back into motion. Your daughter seeking to savor every crumb and frosting of cake on her plate as Miguel returned to watching television, the words from the box of wires falling deaf to you.

Wrapping your arms around your husband’s burly one, you rested your chin on his shoulder. Nuzzling his sleeve, you clung to him like a lifeline. Your heart was still hammering against your ribcage from the previous occurrence, still unable to decipher if what happened was true or not. 

‘What is happening? Am I going insane?’ You found yourself wondering, squeezing Miguel’s bicep tighter. Your perfectly sprayed jumbo curls brushed against your cheeks but you could hardly feel it, still completely rattled. The only solution that came to calming you was to confide in your husband, like you always did. 

Glancing up at your spouse from where you rested on his arm, he gazed ahead of him at the black and white images that were flashing across the miniature television. You hesitated before leaning in, your rosy lips brushing his ear. “I—I have to talk to you,” you whispered, your eyes silently begging for his undivided attention.

You needed to tell him what was happening—how you felt like you were losing your mind.

But then it hit you…

It was your sweet husband’s birthday.

You didn’t want to alarm him with this—not today, the only day he was able to get a break from his demanding job and be free of the workload.

You can wait…

An worried expression appeared upon his face as he sipped from his glass of water. “What’s wrong, esposa?” he asked, his smiling features shifting into intense concern. The sight pierced your heart.

Laughing nervously, you shook your head and pulled away, hiding the trembling of your manicured hands in your lap. You tried to ignore how desperately you wanted him to comfort you. “Actually…i-it’s not that important,” you said, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. The more you tried to dismiss his worry, the more troubled he seemed.

Luckily, Gabriella came to your rescue.

Having finished her slice of cake (and every crumb) she jumped up, her mouth still smeared with frosting. “Can I show Papá my gift now?!” she exclaimed, the sugar clearly taking effect. Her orange ribbons bounced in her hair with her excitement.

Miguel glanced briefly at Gabriella but remained unsettled by your earlier unease. You leaned into him, masking your distress with a playful smile. "How about it, my love? Ready to see our gifts to you?" you asked, your heart clenching at the way his eyes softened, adoring your words yet oblivious to the truth they were meant to conceal.

“Sí, princesa. I’d be delighted to see your present,” Miguel replied with a grin, flicking off the television with the remote. The two of you watched Gabriella race upstairs, her footsteps echoing and fading, leaving you alone with your husband in the living room.

A moment of silence passed, the air thick with the lingering excitement of your daughter’s energy, before Miguel smirked at you. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me alone, hmm?” he teased, giving your cheek an affectionate pinch. “I know you only ask for me like that when you want something…” His eyes glinted with desire, unaware to the turmoil swirling within you.

You forced a soft laugh, schooling your features. “And… w-what if I did?” you replied, your voice faltering just slightly, your breath hitching when he leaned in closer.

Without warning, he pulled you into a kiss. The world around you seemed to melt away as his arms wrapped around you, his lips warm and urgent. Each kiss chipped away at your worries, his touch both soothing and electric. You pressed into him, feeling his heartbeat sync with yours.

He chuckled against your lips, each kiss leaving you hungrier for more. “So that was your plan? Hmm… Mi chica traviesa, traviesa.”

You gasped as his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, holding you steady. His touch was both tender and possessive, and the taste of him—sweeter than the cake you’d abandoned—flooded your senses, leaving your body humming with need.

Before you could process it, he gently pushed you back onto the couch, his lips never straying far from yours. A breathless laugh escaped you. “Miguel—”

Your halfhearted scolding was silenced by another kiss, and then another, each one more urgent than the last, until your bodies seemed to fit together seamlessly.

Your fingers combed through his dark curls, undoing the careful styling he’d done that morning. You tugged him impossibly closer, each kiss a promise—a vow that felt as eternal as the one he’d made to you on your wedding day.

And then, the spell shattered.

The sound of Gabriella’s blood-curdling scream pierced the air, cutting through the tranquility of the room like a knife.

Your heart dropped in an instant.

“MAMA!!”

You froze, eyes wide, breath catching in your throat. Hastily, you pushed Miguel away, panic rising in your chest. “Did you hear that?!” you asked, your voice tight with alarm.

For once, Miguel’s expression mirrored the terror that gripped you. Rising from the couch, he reached out to steady you as both of you looked toward the stairs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

The air between you was heavy now—this wasn’t just the innocent sound of a child’s call.

Something was wrong...

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the first part of Dear, My Beloved! What exactly is happening in the O'Hara house? Is the life inside those perfect green vintage walls as idyllic as it seems, or is there something far more sinister at play? 🤔

Also, I know I've mentioned this before, but once again, my apologies for the late posting of Despair and Greed for this event. Life became unexpectedly overwhelming toward the end of 2024 for my sister and I, and during my break, I found myself needing to take some time to recharge. The last thing I want is for writing to shift from a hobby to a chore, so I hope you all can understand! ❤️❤️

This one-shot was also in dedication to Miggy's B-day, so happy belated birthday to the handsome Spider-man himself. 💙❤️

Lastly, Part 2 of Dear, My Beloved comes with a LOT of trigger warnings—seriously, a lot. I'll include them in the warnings list when it’s posted but consider this an extra heads-up! ⚠️⚠️

If you’re excited for the next part of Dear, My Beloved, and to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

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[april-is]

April 5, 2024: May 5, 2020, John Okrent

May 5, 2020 John Okrent

It is beautiful to be glad to see a person every time you see them, as I was to see Juan, the maintenance man, with whom it was always the same brotherly greeting—each of us thumping a fist over his heart and grinning, as though we shared a joke, or bread. I barely knew him. Evenings in clinic, me finishing my work, him beginning his— fluorescence softening in the early dark. He wasn't even fifty, had four grandchildren, fixed what was broken, cleaned for us, caught the virus, and died on his couch last weekend. And what right have I to write this poem, who will not see him in his uniform of ashes, only remember him, in his Seahawks cap, and far from sick, locking up after me, turning up his music.

--

More like this:

Say Thank You Say I’m Sorry, Jericho Brown

When people say, “we have made it through worse before”, Clint Smith

Today in:

2023: Homeric Hymn, A.E. Stallings 2022: The Mower, Philip Larkin 2021: When people say, “we have made it through worse before”, Clint Smith 2020: Untitled, James Baldwin 2019: To Yahweh, Tina Kelley 2018: from how many of us have them?, Danez Smith 2017: Sad Dictionary, Richard Siken 2016: Lucia, Ravi Shankar 2015: Overjoyed, Ada Limón 2014: Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing, Margaret Atwood 2013: Anniversary, Cecilia Woloch 2012: Poem for Jack Spicer, Matthew Zapruder 2011: Now comes the long blue cold, Mary Oliver 2010: Jackie Robinson, Lucille Clifton 2009: In the Nursing Home, Jane Kenyon 2008: To the Couple Lingering on the Doorstep, Deborah Landau 2007: White Apples, Donald Hall 2006: Late Confession, Gary Soto 2005: Steps, Frank O’Hara

[slutforpetyr]

The Newport Beach Film Festival will start on October 20th in Newport Beach, California. They will be showing several Irish films, including Aidan’s indie movie Amongst the Wolves.

Amongst the Wolves, directed by Mark O’Connor, and starring Aidan Gillen, Luke McQuillan, Daniel Fee, Jade Jordan, Helen Behan, Dane Whyte O’Hara, Louise Bourke and Casey Walsh. In this film, a homeless former soldier haunted by PTSD forms an unlikely bond with a troubled teenager, while he navigates the dangers of life on the streets. Amongst the Wolves will be shown on Monday, October 21, at 8 p.m. at Regal Edwards Big Newport.

[titleleaf]

As Zanuck Sr. repeatedly told his son, had Valley of the Dolls been a product of the Hollywood studio system at its apex, in less than a week he would have assigned it to a contract director, one or more of the studio’s stable of thirty-plus top screenwriters, an available cameraman, production and costume designer, a composer, and a cast selected from 20th’s contract talent roster. It isn’t hard to imagine a forties-era Valley of the Dolls. On tap at the studio were any number of great beauties and “types,” some of them quite talented. And if those weren’t quite right, Zanuck might have arranged to borrow talent from other studios. There was Gene Tierney, Linda Darnell, or Jeanne Crain to play the reserved New Englander Anne Welles. Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, or Lana Turner might have played the luckless showgirl Jennifer North. The young Bette Davis, Susan Hayward, or Ida Lupino would have fit as brilliantly talented, tormented Neely O’Hara. Tyrone Power/Gregory Peck/Cornel Wilde could have slipped easily into the role of suave, slippery Lyon Burke, alongside Dana Andrews as press agent Mel, Vincent Price as Charles Revson–inspired cosmetics empire maven Kevin Gillmore, and Clifton Webb as fashion designer Ted Casablanca. For good measure, Zanuck could have thrown in Gertrude Lawrence as fading Broadway virago Helen Lawson, Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin/Vic Damone as Tony Polar, and Geraldine Fitzgerald as Miriam, sister of the sexy, childlike crooner. Or had Zanuck made the movie later in his career, he could have helped himself to the talents of, respectively, Hope Lange, Diane Varsi, or Shirley Jones as Anne, Marilyn Monroe, Joan Collins, or Debra Paget as Jennifer, Joanne Woodward as Neely, Richard Burton or Stephen Boyd as Lyon, Roddy McDowall as Ted Casablanca, Claudette Colbert or Mary Martin as Helen, Elvis Presley as Tony with Angela Lansbury as Miriam. But in 1966, the days of the studio system and exclusive contracts were on life support. With the long shadow of Darryl F. Zanuck looming over Valley of the Dolls, it would take Richard D. Zanuck, producer David Weisbart, and director Mark Robson long, torturous months and many reversals before the casting—let alone the entire production—finally pulled together. And, from his Paris headquarters, Zanuck Sr. thought that was laughable—when he didn’t find it infuriating.

-- Dolls! Dolls! Dolls!: Deep Inside Valley of the Dolls, the Most Beloved Bad Book and Movie of All Time, Stephen Rebello

Rebello's bonkers fancasts here have captivated me.

[fibula-rasa]

Cosplaying Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara in Valley of the Dolls (1967)

Take one of my closet cosplay of Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara in the telethon scene in Valley of the Dolls (1967)

Or, as Patty Duke herself called it, “Valley of the Dreck.”

Why Duke would continue to feel chagrin over Dolls and her performance even after the film developed a devoted cult following is no great mystery. Dolls was Duke’s first film after the end of her sitcom, The Patty Duke Show. What Duke envisioned as a potential first step in a full career of proper adult work was marred by an abusive work environment and resulted in a funhouse mirror reflection of the novel and, eventually,  a cornerstone of Camp.

Take two of my closet cosplay of Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara

Duke wasn’t the only one in the cast hot off major television roles: Barbara Parkins and Lee Grant had prominent roles on Peyton Place, Martin Milner and Paul Burke  starred in Route 66 and 12 O’Clock High, respectively. However, for Duke, Dolls held extra weight: between the end of her sitcom and the production of Dolls she had been institutionalized for her mental illness and she had finally been able to seek work free from the abusive management team she had as a child. There would naturally be a lot riding on Dolls for her, professionally and personally. For Dolls to not only be a shitty filming experience but a dud of a film—garnering Duke bad reviews—would understandably leave a lasting bad taste in her mouth.

Despite Duke’s negative recollections of the production and release of Dolls, it’s clear in her memoir, Call Me Anna, that Duke approached the role of Neely in earnest. She would be immediately dispirited, however, witnessing first hand the poor treatment of Judy Garland, originally cast as Helen Lawson, and experiencing abuse of her own from the director Mark Robson. Duke even alleged that casting Garland in the role was a publicity stunt; as it was long rumored that Duke’s role of Neely O’Hara was inspired by Garland.

A troubled production isn’t always destined to fail and, in fact, Dolls was successful at the box office. However, in this case, what resulted was a sort of “passionate failure”—to quote Susan Sontag—which has cemented its place in Camp canon over the fifty-six years since its release. Quite a few writers have examined that more thoroughly than I could here, so rather than doing a full literature review, let me instead recommend you do some reading on your own about Dolls’ Camp pedigree. Instead, taking note that I love Valley of the Dolls, I can provide some context on how the film became what it is—and why Patty Duke suffered for it.

Take three of my closet cosplay of Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara

Read on BELOW the JUMP

Buy me a ☕

Jacqueline Susann’s bestselling novel, Valley of the Dolls, published in 1966, is also a Camp classic (in a wholly different manner than the film—another story for another time). Regardless of Camp status, the novel pushed a lot of boundaries in terms of the social mores of the 1960s. Susann frankly depicted drug abuse, queerness, female friendships, and the difficult realities of living life on your own terms as a woman in the social climate of mid-century America. As you might imagine, a Hollywood film made in 1967 would hardly be able to present much of that effectively.

To start with, the filmmakers heavily sanitized the entire work and also condensed the timeline of the story significantly.* The language used and nature of conversations are heavily censored or completely removed. The events that form the basis of the three lead characters forming their friendship are elided or rewritten, making the intertwining of their lives/careers feel like little more than a narrative device.** In my opinion, the most obvious victim of the changes is Duke’s Neely O’Hara.

The novel takes place between the mid-1940s to the mid-1960s, with relevant flashbacks/backstory for many of the characters. Neely is only a teen at the start of the book and is in her mid-thirties by the end. Obviously adapting a novel to a single feature-length film requires truncations. Characters are removed/reduced/remixed and a lot of backstory is erased—understandable and expected. But, a puzzling choice in the case of Dolls is that the bulk of the events of the nineteen years of the book are still included in the film. Which means packing a lot of pretty serious life events into a drastically shorter timeframe—a move destined to produce absurdity.

“Neely had no education, but she had the inborn intelligence of a mongrel puppy, plus the added sparkle that causes one puppy to stand out in a litter. This puppy was clumsy, frank and eager, with a streak of unexpected worldliness running through her innocence.” — Valley of the Dolls, Jaqueline Susann

In the case of Neely, she has her big break, gets married, gets a Hollywood contract, gets addicted to pills and booze, her marriage falls apart and she has an affair with/marries her costume designer who then cheats on her and they divorce, she hits rock bottom and she’s institutionalized, then she steals Anne’s boyfriend and when she’s poised to make her big comeback, she gets sloshed and can’t go on. All of that goes on in the film with little to no change in fashion or styling to indicate time passing. This makes Neely’s rise and fall and rise and fall come off as absolutely outrageous.

No matter how earnestly Duke might have pursued her characterization of Neely originally, she was going to emerge looking ridiculous. [IMO, ridiculous in a highly entertaining, non-mocking way, but nevertheless ridiculous.] Whether it was possible to foresee this outcome at the time, I can’t know for certain. However, Susan Hayward’s insistence on having her hair white, instead of being bald from cancer treatment (screenplay) or hair treatment gone awry (book), makes me wonder if the more seasoned performer saw the writing on the wall and wasn’t willing to commit to such extremities?

Take four of my closet cosplay of Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara

With the benefit of time, fifty six years after the film’s initial release, the Camp factor of Dolls has only increased. If it had been competently adapted and had better direction, I feel confident that we wouldn’t still be talking about it in 2023. And, if Patty Duke’s performance hadn’t been so wildly over the top, Dolls might have been kind of dour and slightly boring. That’s not to deride Barbara Parkins, Sharon Tate, Susan Hayward or Lee Grant, they did great work with what they were given—but they also weren’t given jobs as impossible as the adapted Neely.

Duke’s performance is often derided (even by herself) and Dolls did end up being deleterious to her transition to adult screen roles. But, her Neely O’Hara is a Camp icon and I have a great affection for her work. It’s a performance that’ll stick with you—love it, hate it, or laugh at it. Maybe it’s the irony of having such a young actress (only twenty two!) so convincingly portray a performer that’s already been chewed up and spit out by the industry. Maybe it’s the energy she brings—the bottled up ambition to make it stick and no longer be thought of as a kid. If nothing else, Duke’s Neely is one of a kind.

“Camp taste is, above all, a mode of enjoyment, of appreciation—not judgment. Camp is generous. It wants to enjoy. It only seems like malice, cynicism. (Or, if it is cynicism, it’s not a ruthless but a sweet cynicism.) Camp taste doesn’t propose that it is in bad taste to be serious; it doesn’t sneer at someone who succeeds in being seriously dramatic. What it does is to find the success in certain passionate failures.” — Notes on Camp, Susan Sontag

What do you all think about this film? It’s divisive for a lot of very good reasons! And also bad reasons!

---

Footnotes:

*Only in writing this did I learn that one of the two screenwriters credited for Dolls, Helen Deutsch, is also the screenwriter who adapted Paul Gallico’s The Love of Seven Dolls into Lili (1953). If you have also read the book and seen that film, the, um… creative choices there would also leave you questioning some things. Though maybe I should give her some leeway and assume that they weren’t strictly her creative choices given that, under the studio system in Hollywood at the time, it’s not likely that a closer adaptation of the book could have passed the censors or been palatable to studio heads. Ditto with Dolls.

**Most instances of queerness of the characters (mostly Jennifer and Anne) are erased entirely. I will talk about this more in future posts!

[latenightswithdoom]

Characters

(Organized Alphabetically for ease of use. If a character does not appear they either A. Haven’t been added yet and you can send an ask if they will be added as an accepted character, or B. Are not an accepted character.)

Avatar: Aang, Asami, Azula, Katara, Korra, Sokka, Mei, Tonraq, Toph, Zuko

Ben Ten: Ben, Gwen, Kevin

Beastars: Haru, Jack, Juno, Legoshi, Louis

DC: Barbra Gordon, Barry Allen, Beast Boy, Blackfire, Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Clark Kent, Clara Kent, Cyborg, Damian Wayne, Diana Prince, Dick Grayson, Hal Jordan, Harleen Quinzel, Harvey Dent, Jessica Cruz, Johnathan Kent, John Stewart, Lady Shiva, Pamala Isley, Power Girl, Raven, Selena Kyle, Sierra Hall, Starfire, Stephane Brown, Talia Al Ghul, Tim Drake, Wally West

Disney: Anna, Ariel, Aurora, Belle, Cinderella, Elsa, Gaston, Honeymarren, Jasmine, Moana, Mulan, Pocahontas, Rapunzel, Tiana

Edgerunners: David, Lucy, Rebbeca

Gravity Falls: Dipper, Mabel, Pacifica, Wendy

Helltaker: Asmodeus, Azazel, Beelzebub, Helltaker, Judgement, Justice, Loremaster, Lucifer

Helluva/Hazbin: Adam, Alastor, Angel Dust, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Blitzø, Charlie, Chaz, Husker, Lilith, Loona, Lucifer, Lute, Mille, Moxxie, Octavia, Stella, Striker, Vaggie, Velvette, Verosika, Vortex, Vox

Incredibles: Bob, Dash, Helen, Tony, Violet

Invincible: Amber, Anissa, Debbie, Eve, Immortal, Kate, Mark, Nolan, Rex

Kim Possible: Ann, Bonnie, Jim, Kim, Monique, Ron, Tim

Legend of Zelda: Ganon, Link, Zelda

Mario: Bowser, Daisy, Peach, Rosalina

Marvel: Ben Grimm, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Drax, Felica Hardy, Gamora, Gwen Stacy, Harry Osborn, Jean Grey, Jennifer Walters, Jessica Drew, Johnny Storm, Jubilee, Logan, Mary Jane Watson, Miguel O’Hara, Miles Morales, Mystique, Natasha Romanov, Nebula, Peni Parker, Pepper Potts, Peter Parker, Peter Quill, Reed Richards, Rio Morales, Scott Summers, Steve Rogers, Susan Storm, Thor, Tony Stark

Miraculous: Alya, Adrien, Chloe, Marionette

Miss Kobyashi’s Dragon Maid: Elma, Kobyashi, Lucoa, Tohru

Murder Drones: J, N, Tessa, Uzi, V

Overwatch: Ana, Ashe, Brigette, Cassidy, Doomfist, DVA, Echo, Emily, Hanzo, Genji, Kiriko, Mei, Mercy, Moira, Pharah, Ramattra, Reaper, Reinhardt, Roadhog, Solder 76, Tracer, Widowmaker, Zarya

Owl House: Amity, Camila, Eda, Edric, Emira Hunter, Luz, Willow, Vee

RWBY: Adam, Alyx, Blake, Bleiss, Cardin, Ciel, Cinder, Coco, Dove, Emerald, Flynt, Fox, Ghira, Glynda, Goth Nora, Hazel, Ilia, Ivori, Jacques, Jaune, Jessica, Junior, Kali, Kobalt, Leo, Lewis, Lil Miss Malachite, May Marigold, May Zedong, Mercury, Neo, Neon, Neptune, Nolan, Nora, Oscar, Ozpin, Penny, Port, Pyrrha, Qrow, Raven, Ren, Roman, Roy, Ruby, Russel, Sage, Salem, Saphron, Scarlet, Shad E. Mann, Summer, Sun, Tai, Theodore, Velvet, Weiss, Whitley, Willow, Winter, Yang, Yatsu

Scooby-Doo: Daphne, Fred, Scooby, Velma

She-Ra: Adora, Catra, Glitter

Sonic: Amy, Knuckles, Rouge, Shadow, Sonic, Tails

Spy x Family: Lloyd, Yor

Star Wars: Ahsoka, Alyaa Secura, Anakin Skywalker, Asaji Ventress, Ben Solo, Bly, Bo-Katan, Cal Kestis, Han Solo, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Obi Wan Kenobi, Padame Amadala, Sabine Wren, Shami Skywalker

TCOAAL: Andrew Graves, Ashley Graves, Julia, Renee Graves

Zootopia: Bellweather, Bogo, Bonnie, Fennec, Judy, Lionheart, Nick

[amazingdudesblog]

Ruby Gillman: The Call of the Leviathan (Sequel Fanfic Idea)

Summary: After getting precognitive nightmares about the Leviathan, a giant mighty mythical sea snake feared by all, Ruby Gillman soon learns that she has made the grave mistake of indirectly releasing the beast from its ancient magical bonds. The task to undo this mistake is not an easy one by a long shot, and the key to it working is an alliance so shocking and unorthodox that it may just be insane enough to work. If this mission does not go according to plan, it may lead to the destruction of everything Ruby holds dear in her life. No pressure, right?

Possible Casting

Chelsea’s grandfather - Willem Dafoe, Alfred Molina, Kurt Russell, Bryan Cranston, Michael Douglas, Dennis Quaid, Christopher Lee, Ian McKellen, Stephen Lang, Clancy Brown, J. K. Simmons, John Goodman, Chris Sarandon, Dustin Hoffman, Gary Oldman, Jeremy Irons, Anthony Hopkins

Chelsea’s crush - Ayo Edebiri, Keke Palmer, Zendaya, Halle Bailey, Riele Downs, Letitia Wright, Kiersey Clemons

Nerissa - Kathryn Hahn, Catherine O’Hara, Margot Robbie, Kristen Bell, Helen Mirren, Donna Murphy, Maya Rudolph, Sandra Bullock, Allison Janney, Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johansson, Elizabeth Olsen, Karen Gillan, Brie Larson, Cameron Diaz, Kristen Schaal, Christine Baranski, Molly Shannon

Soothsayer Eel - Wanda Sykes, Michelle Yeoh, Jamie Lee Curtis, Artemis Pebdani, Bette Midler, Julie Kavner, Angela Bassett, Sandra Dickinson, Kathryn Hahn, Catherine O’Hara, Leslie Uggams, Kristen Schaal, Jennifer Saunders, Awkwafina

The Leviathan - Peter Cullen, Tony Todd, Keith David, Benedict Cumberbatch, Ron Perlman, Kevin Michael Richardson, Christopher Lee, Greg Baldwin, Mark Hammil, Ken Page, Andy Serkis, Gary Oldman, Jeremey Irons, Giancarlo Esposito

[orlafilmblog]

Film Project Research – Film Diary #2

She Said dir. Maria Schrader

TW: Mentions of sexual assault and harassment

(Carey Mulligan btw <3)

This film follows the story of the two reporters Jodi Kantor (Zoe Kazan) and Megan Twohey (Carey Mulligan) that uncovered Harvey Weinstein’s history of sexual assault and harassment and started the #MeToo movement. The story in this film is far bigger than the one I am going to try and tell, however there are elements that I can definitely learn from.

The most impactful moments in the film are when survivors are telling their stories, and also when a real audio recording of an interaction between Harvey Weinstein and actor Ambra Battilana Gutierrez is used. In each of these sequences, none of the assault is shown or even heard. The shots are simply of the location the assaults took place in, along with some specifics parts of the set such as a half-eaten meal on a hotel table, or a bathrobe left on a bed (Weinstein infamously met a lot of assistants and actors in just his bathrobe before assaulting them). I found this to be an incredibly effective way of telling these stories visually without unnecessary triggering and demeaning content. A few shots were static and a few had a slow push-in. I felt the push-in worked best as it gave a sense of being slowly trapped as the frame got tighter.

In the current draft of Katie’s script, the main character Phoebe explains what has happened to her to her friend Jo. I think using a similar technique as in She Said could be effective in helping Phoebe tell her story without doubt that it did happen. By showing audiences the location, they are able to understand Phoebe’s point of view and feel that she is telling the truth. I would also want to see the actor playing Phoebe during this monologue as I feel it will be a very emotional and important performance. Ideally I can blend the two. Of course, Katie’s script may change but those are my thoughts for now!

On another note, I would highly encourage anyone who is not aware of how deep Harvey Weinstein’s rot reached to watch this film, or at least research it. I would recommend reading Chapter 10 of the book Women vs Hollywood: The Rise and Fall of Women in Film by Helen O’Hara (one of my favourite books and happy to lend to anyone wanting to read it)! To successfully change the industry into a more positive and accessible place, people need to first understand the past and current problems to prevent them from repeating.

Burden of Proof dir. Ivar Aase

TW: Mention of rape

A one-take short film about a woman confronting her abusive ex-boyfriend. We see the events take place from an aerial shot looking down at a bridge where the pair meet. She gives him his clothes back and he tries to coerce her into taking him back. She accuses him of rape and asks him to apologise. There is a small twist at the end which I won’t spoil for anyone that wants to watch!

The main learning from this is from the way the man denies what he has done in a very smooth non-chalant way until he becomes angry. He appears charming and likable until he isn’t. The character of Harry is in a somewhat similar situation that he has to try and talk himself out of. The body language of the two characters is interesting as it shifts as the film progresses. This is something I will need to consider in my work with the actors.

He’s The One dir. Jessie Kahnweiler

TW: Rape

In this short film, the main character Jess falls head over heels for a man. When they go to sleep, she notices a tattoo on his shoulder and realises that he is the man that raped her ten years before. In the morning she calls her best friend and struggles with her feelings towards him and the situation.

I am not sure how I feel about this film to be honest. It is an interesting idea but I don’t love the way it was executed. There is a flashback to the rape, which I think is filmed well and to be honest I am unsure how the filmmaker could have communicated what had happened without showing it as the audience needed to see it was the same man. It is unclear if the man recognises Jess and knows what he has done. There are some key lines of dialogue in the conversation Jess has with her friend that I thought were good, however I felt the jokey tone continuing to the end of the film didn’t quite work for me.

Why Didn’t You? – Podcast by Terri White

TW: Rape

I believe that listening to people with lived experience of sexual assault is an important part of my research. This podcast only began a few weeks ago and it is a platform for survivors to share their story. The title “Why Didn’t You” stems from the common questions survivors are faced with: why didn’t you run, why didn’t you report it at the time, why didn’t you break up with him, why didn’t you wear less revealing clothes etc. Listening to women’s stories has allowed me to think more about the psychological affects of sexual assault and means I am able to treat this story correctly.

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Pilton Palais Vanya Q&A from Glastonbury with Andrew Scott & Helen O’Hara

[docrotten]

THE FLESH AND THE FIENDS (1960) – Episode 189 – Decades of Horror: The Classic Era

“Just think of it, Willie. Burke and Hare, members of the great medical profession.” Yes. Just think of it. Yikes! Join this episode’s Grue-Crew – Daphne Monary-Ernsdorff, Chad Hunt, Doc Rotten, and Jeff Mohr – as they check out Scottish life in the 1820s as depicted in The Flesh and the Fiends (1960).

Decades of Horror: The Classic Era Episode 189 – The Flesh and the Fiends (1960)

Join the Crew on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel! Subscribe today! And click the alert to get notified of new content! https://youtube.com/gruesomemagazine

ANNOUNCEMENT Decades of Horror The Classic Era is partnering with THE CLASSIC SCI-FI MOVIE CHANNEL, THE CLASSIC HORROR MOVIE CHANNEL, and WICKED HORROR TV CHANNEL Which all now include video episodes of The Classic Era! Available on Roku, AppleTV, Amazon FireTV, AndroidTV, Online Website. Across All OTT platforms, as well as mobile, tablet, and desktop. https://classicscifichannel.com/; https://classichorrorchannel.com/; https://wickedhorrortv.com/

In 1828 Scotland, Edinburgh surgeon Dr. Knox does medical research on cadavers he buys from murderers Burke and Hare, without questioning the unethical procurement methods.

Directed by: John Gilling

Writing Credits: John Gilling and Leon Griffiths

Makeup Department: Jimmy Evans (makeup artist), Betty Sherriff (hairdresser)

Costume and Wardrobe Department: Laura Nightingale (wardrobe)

Selected Cast:

Peter Cushing as Dr. Robert Knox

June Laverick as Martha Knox

Donald Pleasence as William Hare

George Rose as William Burke

Renee Houston as Helen Burke

Dermot Walsh as Dr. Geoffrey Mitchell

Billie Whitelaw as Mary Patterson

John Cairney as Chris Jackson

Melvyn Hayes as Daft Jamie

June Powell as Maggie O’Hara

Andrew Faulds as Inspector McCulloch

Philip Leaver as Dr. Elliott

George Woodbridge as Dr. Ferguson

Garard Green as Dr. Andrews

Esma Cannon as Aggie

Geoffrey Tyrrell as Old Davey

George Bishop as Blind Man

Beckett Bould as Old Angus (as Becket Bould)

George Street as Publican

Michael Balfour as Drunken Sailor

Steven Scott as Grave Robber (as Stephen Scott)

Raf De La Torre as Grave Robber

The Flesh and the Fiends feels like a Hammer Film – although, in terms of producers, it is much closer to a Tempean film – and retells the Burke and Hare case of the late 1820s in Scotland. Burke and Hare (George Rose and Donald Pleasence) are “the fiends.” Mary (Billie Whitelaw) and their other victims are “the flesh.” Dr. Knox (Peter Cushing) is the one who purchases “the flesh” from “the fiends.” These four actors steal the show! And if you’ve ever wished you lived in Edinburgh, Scotland, during the 1820s, you might reconsider that wish after seeing this film. Or you might not. Let us know!

At the time of this writing, The Flesh and the Fiends (1960) is available to stream from the Classic Horror Movie Channel, Wicked Horror TV, Kanopy, and Flix Fling as well as PPV from Amazon and Flix Fling. It is available on physical media as a Blu-ray formatted disc from Kino Lorber.

Gruesome Magazine’s Decades of Horror: The Classic Era records a new episode every two weeks. Next in their very flexible schedule – this one chosen by Chad – is Indestructible Man (1956) starring Lon Chaney Jr as “Butcher” Benton! You won’t want to miss this one!

Please let them know how they’re doing! They want to hear from you – the coolest, grooviest fans: leave them a message or leave a comment on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel, the site, or email the Decades of Horror: The Classic Era podcast hosts at feedback@gruesomemagazine.com

To each of you from each of them, “Thank you so much for watching and listening!”

Check out this episode!

[april-is]

April 5, 2023: Homeric Hymn, A.E. Stallings

Homeric Hymn A.E. Stallings

What if it wasn't hell, it was only sadness And your mother never came looking for you, never Put the earth on hold, calling your number, And your husband only wanted to cheer you up With a handful of ruby arils, a lead-crystal Flute of bubbles that struggled to reach the surface; What if the pit-bull with squared heads was just That old black mutt who only yapped at ghosts, What if the ghosts were just insomnia, A way to never rest in peace, what if The winter came and went and came and went, And the spring was out of whack, and that had nothing To do with you, and the flowers weren't lamps Or bridal torches to solemn you into the darkness; What if the darkness was only the curtains pinched Against the sun in the bedroom during the day, And what if the corner's horror was only the shadow Of a coat hanging by its neck from a doorknob, And the woolly fog that scumbled out of the river Was a way of seeing carried inside your eyes, What if the meadow of sweets was the worn world Whose beauties would outlast you, until they didn't, What if your alarm was just the alarm, What if, all along, you were free to go?

--

More like this: 

Persephone Writes to Her Mother, Tara Mae Mulroy || Poems about Greek myths || Consolation for Tamar, A.E. Stallings

Today in:

2022: The Mower, Philip Larkin 2021: When people say, “we have made it through worse before”, Clint Smith 2020: Untitled, James Baldwin 2019: To Yahweh, Tina Kelley 2018: from how many of us have them?, Danez Smith 2017: Sad Dictionary, Richard Siken 2016: Lucia, Ravi Shankar 2015: Overjoyed, Ada Limón 2014: Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing, Margaret Atwood 2013: Anniversary, Cecilia Woloch 2012: Poem for Jack Spicer, Matthew Zapruder 2011: Now comes the long blue cold, Mary Oliver 2010: Jackie Robinson, Lucille Clifton 2009: In the Nursing Home, Jane Kenyon 2008: To the Couple Lingering on the Doorstep, Deborah Landau 2007: White Apples, Donald Hall 2006: Late Confession, Gary Soto 2005: Steps, Frank O’Hara

[screen1ne]

THE AFRICAN QUEEN Arrives on 4K UHD October 21st Watch the brand new remeastered trailer here

STUDIOCANAL is thrilled to announce that John Huston’s classic, THE AFRICAN QUEEN (1951),will be available to own on 4K UHD for the very first time when it is released on October 21 in a Special Edition release that will include a booklet with an exclusive essay from Helen O’Hara.  Adapted from the novel by C.S. Forester, this much-loved wartime romantic adventure combines the masterful…

[starlingsrps]

hangs in the air like stars in outer space

halloween comes and goes and nothing happens between nell and captain holland. privately, mary is annoyed as hell. she despises losing, especially when hatcher is still in the game and she’s out. she (probably) could have taken it if he had lost too but that gawky son of a bitch is still in. after the annoyance wears off, she achieves a kind of zen about it. she’s not richer but she also only put five bucks in so she’s not out too much, all things considered. she does, for a moment, consider grant’s theory that maybe nell and holland hooked up and just didn’t tell anyone but mary can read nell like a book. she’s as tense as ever and no, she’d be a lot more relaxed if she was finally getting some.

she’d know.

it’s quiet today - the mission light is dark and the men have been milling around back and forth between huts and rec buildings. she’s pretty sure she saw jack warren dragging a few of the guys to go see some cows, which should probably be a sign to brass that they need to get some new movies stat. clubmobile has been quiet since they opened up, an absolute waste of lipstick as far as mary is concerned, and it’s just been the her and nell perched at their little cafe table listening to a tommy dorsey album and painting each other’s nails for what feels like hours. she’s not sure where helen has fucked off to but since she hasn’t seen jp, she’s sure he’s trapped somewhere in the chapel with her debating theology, the poor bastard. 

“any headway with kirkpatrick?”

mary glances up from nell’s left thumb and pulls a face. “oh, that’s nothing. hold still.”

“you look cute together.”

“please, i look cute with everyone. it’s my cross to bear. what about you, heartbreaker? saw you talking to captain tucker the other day.”

“i think he’s just lonely. the guys are still hazing him.”

“oh, tucker’s something alright. i was at kimbolton for a minute and if it’s pretty and breathing, he’s on it.” an idea strikes her and she looks up. nell looks absolutely miserable, as though she knows what’s coming. “could be good for you. practical experience and all that. easy on the eyes, nice ass.”

nell’s fingers twitch as though she’s dying to pull them back and run like hell, wet nail polish be damned. “i don’t think-“ she cuts herself off with a frustrated huff and presses her lips together. “it’s fine.”

her eyes flick off of mary’s face and she turns her head to see halstead and holland approaching. there’s no mission today so they look about as relaxed as they ever do. nell’s fingers twitch again and mary laughs. “down, girl.”

“shut up.”

“gentlemen,” she calls in greeting. “need anything? let me finish this base coat on howard first and i’ll get on it.”

“do mine next?” halstead shoves a hand under her nose.

mary pretends to blanch like scarlett o’hara at the sight of the engine grease under his nails. “with those hooves? absolutely not. holland, you in? i’ve got skyhigh and dark ‘n’ handsome.”

“i’m good, thanks though.” across from her, nell’s face lightens a bit and mary just knows that he’s smiled at her. “we should get going. meeting.”

the two of them continue on and mary gives nell some dignity back by pretending she doesn’t notice her watch them walk away. she’s already terrorized the poor thing enough. “a little blood in the water might get him off his ass,” mary suggests, moving back to do a second coat.

“i really don’t know if he’s interested.”

mary rolls her eyes at nell’s cuticles. “honey, i know you’re not blind.”

“mary-“

“i’ve seen that man break speed records to say bless you first if you sneeze across base.”

“mary-“

“your children would have the best hair in human history.”

nell laughs a little at that. “well, maybe i’m not interested in him.”

“howard, you’re the worst liar i’ve ever met. don’t piss on my hair and tell me it’s raining.”

“i’m not. you know it’s a bad idea to get involved with the pilots. i just don’t want to get attached and get hurt.”

“because you’re not already,” mary mutters under her breath. “you’re an idiot.” at nell’s sound of protest, mary shushes her and moves to finish the second coat with a little more zeal than skill. “a very good man, dare i say a disgustingly good man, would marry you with five minutes notice and you just keep shooting yourself in the foot.”

“what if he-“

“what if the van falls over and crushes us right now? what if he dies? what if this ends tomorrow and he goes back to iowa and you never see him again and i get christmas cards from you and some bozo who looks like him if you squint a little for the next thirty years? you’ve got to take a chance sometime.”

nell is glowering, gnawing on the inside of her cheek before finally spitting out “omaha is in nebraska.”

mary caps the nail polish, mostly because she’s finished and a little because nell howard is stubborn as a goddamn mule and she’s about to throw it at her. “jesus christ, howard. are you ever going to let yourself want anything again?” she’s gone just a half step too far but her gloves are off and mary knows she’s incapable of backing off until she’s finished. “you know damn well your brother would want you to be happy. it’s not a fucking crime and it’s not going to bring him back if you sit there miserable for the rest of your life.”

nell’s face is white and she looks as pissed as mary has ever seen her. good. as far as mary is concerned, she doesn’t do it enough. she stands and shoves the bottle in her pocket and straightens her hair scarf. “give those five minutes to dry. if you still want to punch me in ten, i’ll be doing inventory and we can see if it really is chip proof.”