#hes like... charming and people person in contrast to harvey

[goldlightsaber]

No Country for Old Men

No Country for Old Men doesn't really need my praise, given that it won the Academy Award for Best Picture and Best Supporting Actor and several other awards. But I'm here to give it anyway! It is truly a work of art. Over a decade old and it has stood the test of time as a gripping thriller. Warning: this review is a bit all over the place, but I covered the bits I liked best!

The Big Bad

Javier Bardem. Where do I begin with him? I could watch this man clean up gunshot wounds in a cheap motel room for hours. It was so fascinating to see him work -- even if a lot of that work was brutal, cold-blooded, psychopathic murder. Watching him was like watching a true crime documentary. He felt real and chilled me to the core.

I commend the script for all its cleverness, but especially the intentionality behind Anton Chigurh's dialogue. I have never seen more unusual, rhythmic dialogue. What stuck in my head was his relentless way of asking questions. "Where does he work?" he asks the trailer park management lady. She tells him she can't tell him. Again, he asks, "Where does he work?" She tells him again, more firmly, that she can't reveal the information. In the same monotone, he asks for a third time, "Where does he work?" He puts on no charm. He does not bribe or threaten. He asks questions straight. He disguises himself as --but does not claim to be-- something he's not. He pretends to be a cop; a man stranded on the road; a hotel guess. People believe what he only appears to be. They make something of him, something recognizable, so that they know how to interact with him. Except slowly, through dialogue, he reveals to them his true, sadistic nature. And no one wants to believe it. Often the people he speaks with are dumbfounded, stammering out "Sir?" and "I don't understand." It doesn't dawn on them until its too late that he is someone they should run from. It's ironic, really. The goodwill and trust of other people is his bread and butter -- it's what allows him to extract information without force (at least at first) and to obtain all the resources he needs. There's a Southern hospitality theme that runs throughout. Many of the Texans he runs into offer him help -- little do they know that, with Anton Chigurh, it will likely cost them their lives. Everyone is a means to an end unless they are the end -- the person he means to kill.

Don't even get me started on his weapon of choice. It looks like he's carrying around an oxygen tank. It even gives him a misleading look of frailty -- like he might be using it to survive despite it not being attached to his person. If he was carrying around a gun, people might run in the other direction. But, seeing a captive bolt stunner, people are often just confused (I had to look up what it was called) -- and that's part of his genius too.

Yet he's tone deaf. He is easily irritated by small talk, seeming not to understand its point (award for most extreme introvert like, ever?). He nearly killed a gas station worker seemingly because of the small talk. A hint at his disturbed, unusual mind. As I mentioned earlier, he always cuts to the chase -- no fluff. He will get what he needs now, or else. Unless you're lucky and the coin toss flips in your favor. Or there are too many witnesses nearby. But rest assured -- there is no escaping this man. As Woody Harrelson's character, Wills, asks Llewelyn: "You've seen him, and you're not dead?"

Subverting Expectations

With a crime movie, you hope the good guy lives and the cops catch the killers, or that at least one of the two things happen. Nope! Not that simple with a Coen brothers film. Llewelyn is a law-breaking and a "street smart" guy but has a golden heart. He's empathetic (like when the "agua" man hung over his conscience) and only shoots people when he needs to -- Anton Chigurh is his foil, in that sense. Even though his resourcefulness and quick thinking gets him out of trouble for the majority of the film, he is suddenly killed by the Mexican cartel. We don't see it happen, we only see the drug dealers fleeing the scene and the aftermath. It comes minutes after a flirty motel patron tells Llewelyn that, whatever is coming, Llewelyn will never see it coming. And he doesn't. And neither does the audience, for that matter. With Llewelyn seemingly gearing up to fight Chigurh, I expected the two of them to have a showdown over the money. Llewelyn's death was sudden and abrupt. He didn't go out with guns blazing. He didn't get to showcase his strength. For all the times he has healed from injuries, Llewelyn--likable, honorable--still dies.

The sheriff retires -- he doesn't manage to track down Chigurh or anyone else for that matter. To him, Chigurh is a "ghost." The sheriff, at the end of the movie, describes himself as "ummatched," and that is underwhelming too. You fully expect -- or I did, based on previous crime thriller movies-- for some sort of justice to be served, for someone to be caught and locked away, but Chigurh is alive and free at the end of the movie and so are all the anonymous players of the drug cartels working these deals. There was no justice. Not for Llewelyn, not for his wife, not for all the collateral damage.

A Brilliant Script

Speaking of Llewelyn's wife! I loved her last show of defiance in the face of Chigurh. She was shocked but not surprised. Surely, his appearance scared her, but she knew death was coming for her -- and she didn't give Chigurh the liberty of making her death her responsibility. He was fully accountable -- and she made that clear. Was it a foolish choice? I don't know. It did leave me thinking for a while -- what would I do in the situation? The coin toss is the greatest mercy Chigurh is capable of bestowing on anyone. He is a Harvey Dent without a grudge. She chooses not to participate in the game and he kills her. I asked myself: were I in that situation, would I have chosen not to play? There were two options: she plays and has a 50% chance of living. She doesn't play, and she will, for certain, die. She chooses the latter. Is that bravery? I think so. It's certainly strength of character. She is principled in a wholly other way than Chigurh. I feel that I would have wanted to "call it" -- give myself a chance at living. But even that phrasing is misleading. No matter the "choice," Chigurh is the real judge, jury and executioner. And he chooses to kill. Always.

When he exits Carla Jean's house, I found myself wondering what had happened. In the first few seconds of the scene, it isn't yet clear whether he killed her. What follows is one of the more brilliant, subtle moments of the film: Chigurh checks the bottoms of his shoes. We know from an earlier scene that he takes care to keep them clean from the carnage of his crimes, and so, we also know he was checking to see if Carla Jean's blood had spilt on them. He murdered her.

The Ending

I have not yet uncovered the symbolic significance of the car crash, but I can try to take a guess. The car crash brutally injures Chigurh, breaking his arm and God knows what else. It is a random accident, not someone intentionally trying to kill him. Two boys who were riding their bikes behind him approaching Chigurh, who is sitting on the sidewalk, seriously injured. The boys offer him help only out of goodwill. But then he offers them money for one of their shirts, which they initially reject until he insists they take it. Is the symbolism in that? Of yet-uncorrupted youth starkly contrasted with his total evil? In offering them a large sum of money, is he corrupting them to think of life transactionally? As he walks away, the boys argue about splitting the money and he is no longer their concern -- greed is on their mind but only because he brought up money in the first place. (I feel like I cheated on this one because I read somewhere how the movie is about the rising forces of evil in the world that are hard to defeat -- hence the sheriff is unable to defeat them). Will this start them down the path of chasing money and power? Who knows. Maybe.

Overall: a movie I couldn't look away from except to run to the bathroom. I could watch hours of Javier Bardem in this role just sitting. Or eating. But preferably treating his own wounds.

Watch if: you're a fan of Ozark (TV show); or Fargo (movie or TV show).

[thoughtsaboutshows]

21. Touch Football

this took forever but here we are! Set in a post part 4 world where no one dies. Sabrina was in Heaven in the halls of Baxter High.  Or at least the version of it that was actually good.  Nick’s arm was draped around her shoulder and holding her hand in his, brushing her knuckles as she enthusiastically explained how the week was going to go.  Her own hand was tucked into his back pocket and she was replaying the growl he’d let out in her head when she slipped it into his jeans.  He was wearing his letterman jacket and she was in her cheerleading uniform and without even trying the two walked as if they owned the school.  All eyes were on them, a couple that looked that good were going to draw the attention, but Nick’s entire self was captured by Sabrina.  And well, she was paying no mind to the rest of the school.  She was full to the brim with joy, and this Heaven was nothing like the Sweet Hereafter she’d spent a week in after she’d died draining the void.

Nick was over the moon as well, with his girl tucked close to him as her lavender lotion invaded his senses.  This is what he had envisioned when he showed up at Sabrina’s co- president meet and greet, the two of them together walking close.  It was only out matched by the moment Sabrina had shown up in the Academy’s library, hand in hand with Hecate, cheeks flushed and alive.  He’d almost tripped over the table leg running to her.  He didn’t care if she was a ghost or a dream, he just wanted to be near her, look at her, see the golden specks in her brown eyes.  But when he touched her face it was warm and the fingertips that she rubbed up and down his chest sent real goosebumps rushing across his skin.  He felt those same goosebumps now, with her hand in his back pocket and a laugh that was more like sweet honey than anything else.

“And Wednesday is jocks and nerds day.  And you’re both so that shouldn’t be too hard.”  She giggled as she nuzzled her nose into his jaw.

“Hey now!”  He mocked hurt and kissed her nose, drawing an even bigger smile from her lips.

“And then Thursday is the powder puff game.”  Sabrina nodded proudly.  She was excited for this.  It was Juniors versus Seniors and had been looking forward to it ever since she started Baxter High.  She’d missed it last year, too busy with eldritch terrors and dying to attend homecoming festivities.   But now as a senior, she was going to make it count.

“I’m sorry, the what now?”  Nick raised his eyebrows as he turned to her.  She giggled again and stopped, leaning against a wall and pulling him against her.  His hands settled on her hips as hers trailed up his chest and onto his shoulders.

“Powder Puff.  It’s a touch football game the junior and senior girls play during homecoming week.”  Sabrina smacked her lips and smiled as she smoothed her thumbs over the sinews underneath his shirt.  “What there’s nothing like that at the Academy?”

“Prudence and her sisters liked to play some crazy games.”  He joked as she rolled her eyes at him and poked him in the side.  They both chuckled as he leaned in to kiss her softly.  Sabrina and Nick had long since grown out of any insecurity about the sisters or any other aspects of their past.  Harvey and Nick even had become something like friends.  Nick and Sabrina were just grateful that they were here and alive, choosing to channel their energy into spells or the perfect way to make their bodies tick.  Rather than rehashing ghosts of choices past.  His lips were still pressed against hers as he spoke again, tasting her smile.  “I like our games much better, Spellman.  Trust me.”

She bit his lip once but then pushed him away with her gentle fingers, knowing that getting caught engaging in too much PDA could earn her detention and a one way ticket off the powder puff team.  The two could hardly be trusted once they got a taste of each other and Sabrina didn’t want to test their self-control today.  She and Nick could have their fun later.

“So you’re gonna come and cheer me on, right?”  Sabrina asked him as she grabbed his hand and returned it to its spot over her shoulder.  The look she gave him was inviting, an unspoken promise of what he’d be rewarded with if he went.  But she didn’t need to dangle the carrot in front of him, he was down and supportive of anything she wanted to do.  He’d show up regardless and well, they’d end up naked and in their bed later regardless too.

“I’ll be there, Spellman.”  He turned to kiss her forehead and she nudged his chin with her nose once before they walked into their first class.

Later that week when Sabrina was donned in her short black shorts and red t-shirt, headband firmly in place, Nick wondered why Powderpuff wasn’t a year round thing.  Somehow a masterpiece of adorable and sexy all at once, Sabrina Spellman took the field by storm.  The black shorts were a contrast to her milky skin and so different from what he normally caught her in.   He didn’t care much what she wore, she amazed him either way.   But around Nick Sabrina was wearing her classic sweatered style or nothing at all, saving the headband for last for Nick to pluck off of her.

She knew what she was doing, purposely rolling her shorts up higher and charming her t-shirt to sit just tight enough.  She winked at Nick from below on the field as Roz applied two thick, black lines on her cheeks, and bit her red lip before waving and skipping off.  Nick swallowed thickly, already thinking of all the games they could play or the football innuendos he could squeeze in later.

But to him, even sexier than she looked, was the way she was playing.  She was the strongest person he knew, and that certainly came through.  A menace on the field that Sabrina Spellman, she managed to pay both offense and defense, scoring the seniors enough points where the refs didn’t even have to rig the game for the seniors to win.  Nick knew well that Sabrina was energetic, dedicated, and can definitely hold her own when it came to being physical.  But she took it to a whole new level and made that game her bitch.  And frankly, while Nick still didn’t fully understand football, he understood one thing: Sabrina Spellman drove him absolutely wild.  He was turned on, and he wanted her.

Despite playing all game, she was all energy and smiles when she saw Nick waiting for her by the football field gate.  He was donned in his letterman jacket and when he opened it a bit it revealed a dark shirt with her face on it, making some ridiculous face from over the summer that Nick had snapped a picture of and fell in love with.  She rolled her eyes and took off running towards him, his own smile widening at her excitement.

His arms opened on instinct and she threw themselves in them, partly to cover up his shirt and partly because she could feel his desire for her all game.  It radiated off him all night, his magic mingling with hers and desperately seeking release.  She’d been feeding off of the energy, channeling it into her blocks or feet while she ran.  But now it was itching at her skin, seeking out what it has wanted all along.  Who she’d wanted all along.

He sunk into her kiss immediately when she finally did kiss him, and one hand trailed into her hair while the other pulled her around the waist to keep her to him.  They could both feel it now, that crackle underneath every party of them, humming in anticipation at being reunited.

“Good game, babe.”  Nick groaned when she pulled away and slowly slid down his body to her own feet, purposely taking her time when ber hips brushed against his.

“Did you like it?”  She asked him with a head cocked to the side as she reached out and brushed a curl out of his face.  Her hand trailed down his chest as she picked at the shirt and shook her head.  With a smirk he brushed her chin up to look at him.

“I loved it.  As for this shirt, well I did say I would cheer for you.  And I thoroughly watched you score over and over.”  He brushed her hair back now and she shivered at how dark his eyes had gotten.  “Think you’ll score again?”  He wasn’t talking about the game.

“I don’t know, you might though.”  She narrowed her eyes suggestively and he tugged her closer.  “If you play the game right.”

“I always take you all the way.”  He kissed her so gently it tingled.   Neither of them cared that there were people around them still.  “What do they call it, babe?”  He asked her with his mouth a breath away from her ear.  “A touch down?  I know you love a good touch, especially down.”

Sabrina swallowed thickly, nearly choking on the desire for him and the magic rushing through her seeking out the connection it only found with Nick.  She grabbed his hand and pulled him behind a shed, kissing him wildly and hungerly grabbing at his hands and placing them where she wanted them on her body.

“Take me home, Nick.”  She nearly demanded and he gave a biting chuckle against her lips before teleporting them back to what had quickly become their room at the Mortuary.

They both got their chances to tear off the other’s t-shirt, not wasting anymore time or energy on anything else.

[caoscompanion]

Witch Laws:  As punishment for being part of a plot to attempt to blow up the Vatican, Ambrose is housebound, even his spirit is forbidden to leave the premises via astral projection

Church of Night:  As Hilda is excommunicated she’s not allowed within ‘spitting distance’ of the Academy or any other Church of Night property.

The Academy:

Sabrina claims her only agenda for going to the school is to learn how to conjure, bind and banish the Dark Lord.  

Zelda claims ‘only babies and ninnies’ try to bring their familiars to school.

The academy is disguised/glamoured as an abandoned building that says Gehenna Station. Gehenna is a valley in Jerusalem deemed to be cursed due to it being where Judah kings sacrificed their children there by fire.

The Academy was built according to the principals of sacred geometry. Each room is a perfectly proportioned pentagon that interlocks with the one next to it. No one knows how many pentagons there are exactly. Some say an infinite number.

There is a statue of the Dark lord in the centre of the main hall.

Lessons at the Academy include binding spells, conjuring, demonology, necromancy, infernal choir practice, invocation, ritual magic, herbalism, Latin.  

The Academy has something called a Harrowing for new students, which is much like hazing.

Familiars are not permitted at the Academy.

The Academy is haunted by a collection of ghost children, at least 8.

The Harrowing:

Sabrina’s first night of Harrowing has her left alone, locked in a witch’s cell where the Greendale 13 (and others of the earliest Greendale witches) were held. They were left in darkness, without food or water, and left to sleep in their own filth (this is actually precisely how the Pendle Witches were left, and many died in captivity before even reaching trial). We see a hand of something, rotting and bloodied, grab Sabrina’s hand.

Her second night involves being taken to the Hanging Tree, and standing before it without shoes and wearing nothing but a night dress, watching the tree and not turning around no matter what she hears. She is tormented by the voices of her loved ones, including her dead parents, appealing to her before being tortured and devoured.

The ghost children that haunt the Academy all died at the hands of their own Harrowing. These include Quentin Corvin, Cyrus Mercy and Percy Parks.

Harrowings have always been a part of the Academy and are apparently tradition. Zelda participated in Harrowings herself, including her own sister’s, in which she killed Hilda.

Sabrina’s third night involves being hung as the Greendale 13 were. This is presumably going to kill her so she was never intended to survive, but with the help of the ghosts this is prevented. We later find out Blackwood had ordered the Weird Sisters to Harrow Sabrina. “The Dark Lord wants Sabrinaa educated at the Academy, so be it, but he gave no indication she shouldn’t suffer while she’s here”

Possession:  

Jesse’s possession is not due to seeing the same monster Harvey did, a Harvey saw the Dark Lord.

Jesse’s behaviour is in reference to the style seen in films like The Exorcist.

He tells Harvey ‘He’s going to eat all your souls’. He attacks Harvey and Suzy is forced to knock him out.

Displays of Power:

Zelda astral projects ‘all the time’.

Lilith travels through the shadows to arrive at Blackwood’s office.

Spells:

Astral projection requires candles, the address of the location and a map. Ambrose lies himself in a circle of candles, with his hands on his chest, palms facing his head, and chants repeatedly ‘vola anime (indistinguishable)’ meaning fly the soul. The rest sounds similar to the Latin for foot, or sole of the foot. Zelda pulls him out of the projection by kicking the candles aside, breaking the circle.

Lilith, when at the Spellmans’, takes the the hair, nails and clothing of the family members for use in what appears to be charm bag spells, though we never learn the purpose of them.

Lilith casts a scrying spell using her own spit (using it to make outline the mirror with her figner) on the mirrors in the Spellman house and in her own cottage, creating a link between the two.

The ghosts use their power to hang the weird sisters until they agree to stop the Harrowings. They use the spell ‘light as a feather, stiff as a board’ which is also used as a common magical game in which several people levitate another.

Magical Objects:

Edward’s Acheron configuration, his personal variation of the arcane puzzle. Supposedly only the ‘weak willed’ fall victim to the Acheron’s fascinations. This one was Edward’s thesis: he built it. Nick tried to break it for three years and gave up. The more you stare at it the harder it is to solve and you can get lost in it. He put the answer to solve it in his journal, using Diana as the key. When Sabrina opens it, a demon escapes-

Mythology:  

Only the dead are allowed to travel the astral plane. If the living spend too much time there, the psychopomps will find them and assume they are dead and will carry them off to the hereafter or tie them to a pillar in the Abyss.

Psychopomps are apparently, despite their sparrow like appearance, “spiteful, hateful, creatures”. This is in contrast to common real-life mythology where psychopomps are guides between the realms of life and death. Hecate is considered to be a psychopomp.

Ambrose says ‘swear on Satan’s Claw’ while making a claw gesture with his left hand, much like Witch’s Honour in Betwitched.

Familiars:  

Though Sabrina screams all the way at the Academy, Salem hears her from the Spellman house and runs to her rescue.

Stolas was spying on the girls in the showers (as he was sent to watch Sabrina, not naked showering, it can be presumed this was his plan not Lilith’s. in direct contrast to Salem’s loyal behaviour). Stolas doesn’t like being caged.

[shireness-says]

skating in circles (with no way to stop)

Summary: Anne Elliot likes her life just the way it is. The last thing she needs is her handsome, charming, professional hockey player ex... something to show up during lockdown and prove just how wrong she is about that. ~7.9K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: For @welllpthisishappening, who is going a little stir-crazy during the NHL break. Also because it is absolutely her fault I ever thought “What would a hockey-flavored Persuasion AU look like?” 

Special thanks to @snidgetsafan for her beta skills. Any mistakes, hockey-type or otherwise, are absolutely my own. 

Tagging the potentially interested parties: @profdanglaisstuff, @thisonesatellite, @ohmightydevviepuu, @thejollyroger-writer, @snowbellewells. 

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Social distancing almost doesn’t seem so bad in weather like this, the snow outside Anne’s window falling in huge flakes more furiously each second. Weather like this is designed for staying inside, curled up in an armchair with a cup of tea and a soft knitted afghan. It’s almost enough to soothe the little voice in her head that chides her for not working; there’s genuinely little for Anne to do from home as a school nurse, beyond writing and filing the reports she usually puts off until the end of the year, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling guilty at not doing more. Even if she isn’t expected to. Even if she is actually supposed to bunker down. 

It’s been odd, adjusting to a life of jigsaw puzzles and overly involved embroidery projects and all the books she swore she’d read two years ago and never did. Hell, she’s even taken up online archiving projects after an old friend from school sent her a link, just for something to do. Her social life hasn’t particularly suffered; she’s a transplant to this town, anyways, drawn back by the memories of one beautiful, peaceful year, only really meeting with folks from work or her old roommate, and infrequently at that. Every few days, she’ll go through the motions of calling her sister Mary just so the younger woman can chatter away about all her own complaints; truthfully, that’s all the socializing she can handle. Anne has always kept to herself, and usually even likes it; the only difference now is that it’s by governor’s decree, not by her own introverted preferences. 

Way out here, it’s not surprising that the power eventually goes out; it’s not uncommon, when the snow gets too heavy on the power lines in heavy storms like this. This is exactly why she has a generator - it’s all but a necessity when you’re living here year-round. Sure enough, the generator roars to life a moment later - an auditory nuisance, for sure, but a necessary one when you like such things as central electric heating and wifi and refrigerated items not spoiling. 

The crunch of snow under tires outside her little cottage is more surprising, however,  especially under the circumstances. She hasn’t ordered takeout, or grocery delivery; there’s no reason anyone should be pulling up to her house, especially in this weather. Peeking out the window reveals the kind of SUV only people with money buy, and the last person in the world she ever expected to see climbing out of it; she’d almost think it a hallucination brought on by isolation, if she hadn’t already seen him from a distance at the grocery store, earlier in the week. 

Anne barely has a chance to pull herself together before the knock at the door sounds, bouncing off the walls of her little house. Opening the door reveals Frederick Wentworth, the dream she put away nigh on nine years ago, standing on her stoop in a ridiculous hat and a peacoat that’s not remotely suited to the practicalities of winter in rural New Hampshire. 

“Believe me, I hate this just as much, if not more, than you do,” he begins, plowing forward before Anne can even remember to reassure him that it’s not true, “but my power’s out, and I need your help.”

As it turns out, Frederick - her handsome, charming, professional hockey player ex… something - is all that’s required to upset any equilibrium the snow might have brought. 

———

Frederick Wentworth hadn’t intended to return to Kellynch, New Hampshire. Then again, he hadn’t intended to be sitting out indefinitely with the rest of the league because of the current pandemic.

New York just feels odd like this, the tourists all gone, the streets practically empty. Fred has never credited himself as one of those maniacs who claim that New York is the only city in the world, and there’s nothing like it; he’d been happy in a small town, and he’ll be happy in a different city if the worst happens and he ends up traded. That’s the way these things work. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t formed opinions over the last years about how this city is supposed to feel, and it sure as hell ain’t this. 

So he gets in his car, arranges for a rental house, and drives up to Kellynch. If nothing else, he hopes it will be easier to look outside in a place he’d expect to see barely a soul even under the best conditions. Nothing ever happens in Kellynch, after all; maybe that will include the virus too.

(Well, that’s a lie. Exactly two things have ever happened to Kellynch, and he’s one of them. The other… if they’re very, very lucky, they’ll never have to deal with egotistical directors and their ilk again. Even pretty, quiet brunettes aren’t worth that trouble; in fact, sometimes, they make things worse.)

The irony to all this is that usually, Frederick craves a little bit of solitude. He spends essentially his entire life around the same group of guys, at practice and in games and especially on the road, when he’s got to share a hotel room to boot. Hell, he even lived with them for years, sharing an apartment with Harville and Benwick. A man can be forgiven for wanting some time to himself.

And he’d gotten it, at least for a while. Harvey had met his now-wife and moved out, and now Benwick’s got a girlfriend who giggles and his own place to giggle with her in or whatever. Fred can finally come home and just collapse in the closest thing to silence one ever gets in New York, and truthfully, he’s been enjoying every moment of it.

There’s a difference, though, in solitude on your own terms and solitude on others’ terms, and Frederick can’t help but feel lonely as he remembers that in the middle of all this, his friends and teammates are cozied up with those they love, and he’s all by himself in the empty apartment he once yearned for. In Kellynch, at least, it’s a solitude of his own making; his parents are long gone, Sophie out in Virginia with her husband, and for the most part, he hasn’t talked to his old school friends in years. There won’t be this constant awareness of all the people he can’t see if there’s no one about that he’d want to. 

Maybe he ought to try dating again, he thinks as he drives. Obviously, there’s nothing to be done in the moment, what with social distancing and impending stay-at-home orders, but maybe later. Maybe Harvey’s wife has friends he’d like - he’s always liked Amelia and her steady personality and good-natured humor, so unlike Benwick’s high-maintenance Louisa and her ear-piercing squeals. Her friends have got to be similar, and Amelia would probably even be kind enough not to make him sound completely desperate. 

It’s not that he hasn’t found anyone interested in the past years; he’s got a decent face, after all, and a better paycheck. But the thing about that face and that paycheck is that it’s hard to trust that any woman is interested in him, him alone, the person he is without all that. It’s not a great way to live, but it’s hard to move past. 

There’s also the matter of the pretty quiet brunette who came to Kellynch when he was 16, seized his heart, and never really gave it back. Walter Eliot may have been an asshole - every cliche of the self-absorbed Hollywood director, convinced that their town was “quaint” and “just what he needed” to spark inspiration while demanding kowtowing and wrecking havoc wherever he went - but his daughter, Anne, had been of a different mold altogether. He’d met her at the annual Fourth of July parade, of all places. It was obvious she hadn’t intended to be noticed; indeed, she’d blushed and done her best to fade into the background while her father and older sister had made some kind of scene that Frederick can’t honestly remember anymore. He’d been too intrigued - and later, enchanted - by Anne to pay much attention to the rest of the fiasco she’d called a family. 

She’d probably felt then the same as he feels about people now - some strange boy coming up to her out of nowhere with mini-donuts, someone she’s never met but undoubtedly knows her and her family, stuck wondering if he was interested in her or all the rest of it. But it had always been her; she’d initially been fascinating just in the contrast, but as he’d talked to her Fred had gotten to see her sense of humor and her brilliant mind and caring heart, and been smitten with the whole package. 

That was, until she’d ended things between them, insisting that they’d never work across such a long distance, that she didn’t want to try. Maybe they’d only had 8 months, but he’d been all in, with all the conviction of youth that this was it for them, in some kind star-crossed true love way. She was the first thing, besides his family, that he’d loved more than hockey; truthfully, he still hasn’t found anything or anyone else to match that. It’s hard to move on from that kind of heartbreak. Maybe it’s finally time he tried. 

The house he’s rented proves to be up a winding, hilly road lined with pine trees stretching in every direction. The seclusion is its own kind of calming - exactly what he needs, when the rest of the world feels like it’s going to hell in a handbasket. There’s something about  being alone amongst the trees that feels comforting in a way that being alone in the city can never touch - almost like a hug. Or something else less weird-sounding. English was never his thing. The house itself is just a little two-bedroom cottage, but that’s more than enough space for just him. What’s more important is that there’s a TV and WiFi and plenty of blankets to bunker down with for however long this lasts. 

What he doesn’t expect is to see Anne Eliot - the same Anne Eliot who he thought had left Kellynch for good, who’d broken his heart - at the supermarket like any other local, presumably looking to stock up on supplies just like he is. He doesn’t think she spots him - Frederick ducks into another aisle as soon as he spots her - but just the briefest sight of her sets his heart beating faster in a way that he doesn’t really want to examine closer. 

(It would be ridiculous to still have feelings for her after all this time, even if that’s sure what it seems like.)

He tells himself that it’s just a fluke; that they won’t run into each other again; that they can avoid each other without any problems, given the situation. He is wrong on all counts. The cottage sits at the top of a hill, and on days where the fog hasn’t settled around the tops of the trees, he can see just a peek of a few houses and driveways down below. 

And just who should he happen to see wrestling with her trash bin one evening, but the woman herself?

(Some higher power really has it in for him, he’s certain of it.)

Still, they don’t call it social distancing for nothing. It’s easy to avoid the people you don’t want to see when you don’t even leave your house. He naps a lot and catches up on Netflix and even attempts a puzzle that he finds in the hall closet (though it just winds up abandoned on the dining table). 

In eight years, though, he’d forgotten about the weather up here. It’s late March, technically spring; the worst of the snow should be over. Should be over isn’t the same as is over, though, and he’d forgotten about the late-March snowstorms that pop up more years than not. They’d had them in Minnesota, too; the locals there had always joked it was because of the college basketball tournament. Well, the NCAA tournament may have been cancelled, but the weather sure didn’t get that memo, as the flakes start falling huge, heavy, and fast just outside the windows, almost pretty in a way that’s only possible when you know you don’t have to go outside in the storm. 

Fate has other ideas, though. At least, Frederick has to believe it’s fate, otherwise this is all a cruel, cruel trick, and he doesn’t like to think about what he might have done to deserve that. Where he’s going with this is that the power goes out, knocking out the heat and the lights, as well as all those systems he’d been so thankful for until now. There’s a fireplace, but he hadn’t planned for this, and there’s not enough logs and he doesn’t know where or how to chop more and as much of his life as he spends at an ice rink he is not prepared to spend the night in these kind of temperatures without heat and —

— and when he looks out his window, he can just see a hint of light from Anne’s house, just hear the hum of a generator.

And he really doesn’t have any option at all but to throw himself on the mercy of the last woman he wants to see. 

———

Anne’s house is neat, from what Frederick can see - small, but cozy, with everything obviously in its very particular place. It reminds him of her, in a way, or at least the her he remembers - quietly comforting and well turned out. It’s exactly what he expected, somehow - just the kind of house he’d expect her to inhabit.

The woman herself, on the other hand, looks tired - vastly different than what he remembered. Anne is worn down, somehow, in a way that makes her look older than she is. Frederick supposes that’s what happens when she’s undoubtedly been carrying her family members in the way she always has; it would exhaust anyone, especially under pandemic circumstances. 

“Nice place,” he comments as Anne leads him towards a promised spare bedroom once he’s retrieved his bag - more out of an effort to fill the empty space than anything. Anne was always quiet, but this is just unnerving in its discomfort. They’d always been able to talk, or at least exist contentedly in the quiet; this is the opposite of all that. 

“Thanks,” she replies. “I like it.” Just the kind of response a person makes when they don’t know what the hell else to say. 

And maybe that’s what makes Fred dive straight into topics they should politely ignore - the absolute blandness of everything else they could say. 

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he tells her foolishly. 

“In my own home, during quarantine?” She says it with a slight smile and the tone of voice she’s always used to hide her sense of humor, and suddenly Frederick is hit with a powerful wave of nostalgia. 

“No, here. Kellynch here.”

The amusement flits away just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile turning polite and wooden. Another look he vividly remembers. “I didn’t plan to come back, either,” she tells him softly, “but I like it here. I got out of school and there was a position open and… it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’m a school nurse,” she clarifies. “Over at the elementary.” 

And that… fits, in a way he should have realized. She’d talked about going into nursing way back when, back when they were still practically kids, but this makes a lot more sense than trying to imagine Anne in some busy hospital. More tender, more stable. 

“I bet you’re great at that.”

“Thanks. I like it. You’re… good at your job, too,” she finishes awkwardly. 

(Even if the words are halting, uncomfortable, they send a little thrill through Frederick’s veins. Does that mean she’s watched, sometime in these past couple of years? They’re decidedly out of Rangers country and New York broadcasting range, way up here, but there are ways around that and she’d said…

Had she watched? For him?)

“Just doing my best,” he replies, just as uncomfortably. What a pair they make now. 

“I don’t know if you’ve eaten already, but I was about to make up some dinner,” Anne tells him - an abrupt, but welcome, change of subject. “I’d be happy to do up another serving if you like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” He has no idea what kind of meal he’s committed to, but who the fuck cares; right now, it’s a way to get a moment to collect himself. 

“I’ll see you in a little bit then.” 

(If he’s not mistaken, Anne flees the room with just as much relief as he feels watching her go.)

(Kellynch was supposed to be his getaway, his haven - but right now, all it seems like is a terrible mistake as Frederick wonders what the fuck kind of situation he’s gotten himself into.) 

———

Dinner isn’t exactly an illustrious start to this whole thing, to say the least. Anne stresses about every step of making spaghetti - spaghetti, for goodness sakes, jarred sauce and boxed noodles, nothing a normal person could possibly find a way to stress about - only to realize as soon as they sit down that this is what they really should have worried about: what in the world two people who have unwillingly been forced into the same space have to discuss. 

(“How’s your family?” he asks at one point - probably a subtle dig, if he’s remembering the same uncomfortable dinner that she is, in which her father had done his best to treat Frederick like an utter idiot. Fred had always thought she’d let them walk all over her, anyways - an accusation that isn’t far off.

“Mary is fine. She just got engaged to a lawyer,” Anne relates as neutrally as she can. “I don’t much talk with Walter or Elizabeth anymore.” There’s a variety of reasons for that - especially their tendency to never listen to a single word she’s ever said in her life and making snide comments about how she’d rather live in some backwoods nowhere than in someplace with civilization like LA or New York - but the memory of the way they’d treated Frederick, and everyone else not like them had contributed too. “And your sister?” That’s a safer topic; Sophie and Anne had liked each other. 

“She’s good. She lives down in Virginia now - her husband’s some big shot in the Navy.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”)

(And that had been the end of that feeble attempt at discussion.)

Anne thinks a lot that night about what she must have done to deserve this. Clearly, something terrible in some past life to have earned this particular variety of torment. Frederick is everything she remembered, only colder - not that she can blame him. After what she did, all those years ago, the way she broke them… she’s more than earned it. 

Still. She can be strong, Anne tells herself. She can remain detached, and collected, and unaffected by his presence. She’s had years of practice, after all, pretending that she still isn’t carrying a torch. 

(It was always a foolish idea to watch him play online - but then again, she’s always been a fool.)

It’s a little harder to keep up that calm facade, however, when Frederick is walking out of the bathroom in the morning with nothing more than sweatpants and wet hair. God, but he’s handsome, between that face and that wonderful smile and the fit frame he must be displaying just to taunt her, like a reminder of all she rejected. Naturally. It’s no more than she deserves. Her relief is near palpable when he emerges from the spare room in another bright blue t-shirt. 

It gets easier as the hours pass and one day bleeds into another. It’s not Frederick’s fault that she’s so shaken by his very presence, and he really is trying to be a good houseguest. He picks up after himself and helps with the dishes and doesn’t argue with whatever she puts on TV. It could be worse. 

Still, she can’t help but feel like everything from their past sits between them, unspoken, in every interaction. It’s the elephant in the room, the loudly unspoken words in every little mundane interaction they share. They can reach a point where they’re able to converse without the overt distrust and borderline hostility of where they started this, but comfort is too much to ask.

(Does he feel it too - the pressure of all the what-might-have-beens, pressing down upon them? Or is she the only one that’s haunted?)

She can do this - survive Frederick’s presence when every moment is a reminder of all she threw away. But that doesn’t mean it won’t just crush and kill her. 

———

Frederick finds that he doesn’t mind being cooped up with Anne, likes it much more than he anticipated or planned. It’s not that they do much of anything - there’s limits in a small cottage like hers - but the companionship is nice. As it turns out, he was maybe lonelier than he’d wanted to admit. Even the stupid jigsaw puzzles go easier in her company; she’s got a system of sorting that Fred never would have had the patience to implement. 

Really, Anne is better equipped, literally and emotionally, for this whole isolation situation. Frederick has always needed to be out and active and doing, little planning involved; Anne, on the other hand, has all the supplies she needs, and the temperament for these kinds of quiet, time-wasting tasks to boot. It’s so entirely in character; he should probably have guessed. Then again, he was trying very hard not to think of Anne until he was forced to show up at her door, practically begging for shelter. 

Anne, of course, has plenty of firewood, unlike him, stacked neatly under a tarp at the side of her garage where it’s protected from the elements. She lives here year-round, after all; unlike his own dumb ass, she obviously remembers that it’s not uncommon to receive snow all the way through March and into April, and planned accordingly. Her central heating works fine, obviously, but there’s something about this weather that calls for a roaring fire. Plus, retrieving the firewood gives Frederick a chance to think away from Anne and all her distraction.

He’s not sure what he expected of her - tears? Begging? Apologies? The kind of aloofness the rest of her family has so perfected? None of that is Anne; she’s always been too accepting of her circumstances, even to her own detriment. Once upon a time, Frederick had viewed that tendency with a kind of fond exasperation, had wanted to help her understand that she deserved more than she had always settled for; now it just makes him sad, and angry. She should feel more than this, should be angry or distraught or anything now that he’s here.

He should be paying more attention to the task at hand than the woman in the other room, unfortunately, as the end of a twig clipped off a log slices the skin of his palm as he deposits his load by the hearth, causing Frederick to hiss in surprise at the mild pain. It’s not a deep cut, or hurt that badly - he plays a contact sport for a living, for fuck’s sake, this is nothing - but he can already see blood starting to bead. After making sure the logs are stacked as best as he can one handed, Fred quickly crosses to the kitchen sink to rinse it out. Anne finds him moments later as he examines his hand for splinters. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, that soft voice filled with the kind of concern that sends a pang through his heart. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just scratched myself on one of the logs. No biggie.”

Still, Anne pulls his hand closer to examine the little cut herself - gently enough that he could easily pull away, but somehow, too tenderly for him to ever want to. This is her life now, Frederick realizes suddenly - scrapes and bruises and doubtless all other kinds of minor playground injuries that need more tenderness than true care. School nurse, after all. 

“I’ll get you something for that.”

“Oh, you don’t have to —” but it’s too late; Anne is already walking down the hall with her determined pace, disappearing into the bathroom. Resistance is futile, or something. Faintly, he hears the squeal of a cabinet hinge before Anne pads back into sight in her stockinged feet, carrying something he can’t quite make out clutched in her hand.

“Just a bit of neosporin,” she explains, tugging his hand back towards her to apply the cream before peeling open the wrapper of a band-aid - the skin-toned butterfly kind.

He nods towards the little adhesive. “What, no fun prints? I’m appalled.”

“Left all my princesses and superheroes back in my office at school,” she smiles back. “You’ll just have to make do, I suppose.”

“I guess I’ll make it, somehow.”

(When she smiles, the ridiculous urge to ask her to kiss it better pops into his head with an ease that nearly frightens him. With a care that would impress even her, he shoves it back down.)

———

It gets easier  to share the same space as the days drag on - to learn to expect another person in her space, to expect that other person to be him. It would be overstating the matter to say that she’s not affected by him anymore; indeed, Anne is almost painfully aware of his presence at every moment. But she can prepare to face it when she’s come to expect him, and that feels like a victory all its own. She is braced and ready, long since versed in ignoring and minimizing those feelings that still linger from so long ago. Frederick’s physical presence in her space is a complicating factor, but certainly one that she can overcome. 

If she can ignore the way her heart aches, it’s almost kind of nice, having him around. They fall into a pattern of meals and Netflix and quietly finding their own distraction in between. It’s the kind of mundane existence she could almost dream of sharing with him if she was foolish enough to entertain those thoughts.

(She can’t afford to be such a fool - not when it’s only a matter of time until the snow stops and the roads clear and he leaves once again. She likes her life as it is, and that will have to be enough.)

It’s probably inevitable that, on the fourth night, when the snow has finally let up but the temperatures have turned bitter and icy, they find themselves huddled up next to the fireplace with a strong drink apiece. Frederick sips on a glass of the nice whiskey Anne keeps in the back of a cabinet for occasions that call for a little something stronger, barely kissed with enough soda to call it a mixed drink; Anne, at least, pours the same stuff into a whole cup of tea. She’s never been much for liquor, especially straight, but there are occasions that call for it, and being cooped up with a man she never expected to see again is certainly one of them.

“What are the fucking odds?” Frederick declares after his second glass. “I come out here, trying to get away, and I find you. What are the odds.”

“Well, the last couple of years, I’d say pretty good. Since I live here and all.” He’s kind of cute like this - drunk and verbose. It’s something she never had a chance to see, before.

“Oh. Yeah. That.” He takes another swig. “Still. What are the odds that I came back while you’re here?”

“It’s a mystery, I guess.” Maybe it’s the last few days; more likely, it’s the drink. Whatever the case, Anne finds herself telling Frederick something she should never admit. “I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him softly. “I… missed you.”

He tenses up at the words; not the reaction she expected, honestly. A feeling of dread starts to bloom in her stomach instead. “Really,” he comments, utterly flat. 

“Well… yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little bit,” he tells her bluntly. “Especially since you’re the one that wanted me gone in the first place.”

“It was for the best.” For him, that is; this was never about her, anyways. 

“Was it now?” His laugh is bitter, utterly devoid of joy. 

“Frederick…”

“I just want to know what the hell is going on here,” Frederick demands, a liquored slur rounding out his consonants. “Because I’ve been here for days, and I can’t get my feet underneath me where you’re concerned. You sit there with that sad smile and you say it’s for the best and yet you don’t seem happy. And I don’t fucking get it. You’re the one who wanted to break up, but you don’t seem happy that we did.”

“I wasn’t,” Anne admits softly. “I’m not.”

“Then why? Because I’ve been trying to figure it out for nearly nine years, and all I’ve ever figured out is that you must not have felt anything. And after a week spent here, I don’t know that that’s true. So tell me, why?”

“I did it for you!” Anne finally bursts out, more a plea that a shout. “And I know that sounds like a lie and an excuse, but that’s why. We were so young, but God, I loved you. And you loved me, so much that you were about to throw away your chance at everything, ready to find some lesser school near Kellynch rather than taking Minnesota’s offer just so we’d be closer to each other. And I wanted it too - God, Frederick, you don’t know how much I wanted it, how close I was to letting you do that, because I wanted that too. I wanted you close. I loved you.

“But then… it wasn’t even some big game, but you wanted me there, so I went. And you looked alive out there on the ice, throwing insults and elbows and grinning like a maniac. I realized… that’s who you were supposed to be. I couldn’t hold you back from that, just to keep you close to me. Minnesota was your path to the kind of career that would last. How could I ask you to throw away your future?”

“Why didn’t you just say that? We could have figured something out. Done the long distance thing, I don’t know.”

“And you would have been hopelessly distracted from the start. Your mind would have been halfway across the country when you needed to be focusing on hockey and classes and everything else.”

He doesn’t have any response to that, not that Anne expected one. Frederick has never been great at admitting to things he doesn’t like.

“It was never because I didn’t care enough, because I didn’t love you,” she finishes softly. “I did it because I could see everything you could be, and I love - I loved you too much to let you waste that.” God, Anne hopes he didn’t hear that slip of the tongue, even if it’s true. “We were seventeen, Frederick. Kids. There was so much still ahead for you. I couldn’t be the reason you hindered your own dream, or even let it slip away. And you made it, didn’t you? You’ve reached that dream. No matter what I wanted for myself… I had to. For you, so you could have this.”

“I wanted you more than any dream.” Frederick has practically collapsed in on himself in the armchair, the very same one Anne was occupying when he’d showed up and shattered her quiet little world. It seems almost fitting that he sit there while she does the same. 

There’s no words for this; nothing that could make it better. Telling him I wanted that too won’t fix what’s already been done, even if she wishes that was the case, even if that’s true. “Frederick…” she finally whispers for lack of anything else to say. 

It’s too late, though - though that’s not quite the right phrase, not when it was already too late before this conversation even started, before he even showed up at her door in the snow. Now is just when he pries himself out of her armchair, standing with a finality that’s impossible to miss. “I’m tired, Anne,” he tells her. Anne doesn’t think she imagines an extra level of meaning to his words. “Goodnight.”

There’s nothing left to say - and no use saying it to an empty room anyways as she hears the spare bedroom door click shut down the hall. 

There’s no changing the past, but not enough words to explain it either.

———

The next morning, the roads are finally clear, and Frederick can go back up the road to his own cottage. Anne watches silently as Frederick emerges from the guest bedroom, his duffle bag in hand. The silence only becomes more tense as they stare at each other, the luggage a physical barrier between them, both blessed and cursed. 

“I suppose I should thank you,” Frederick finally says, breaking the silence. 

Anne shakes her head. “It was nothing. Basic kindness. You don’t need to thank me.”

(Can he see the way this pains her? Read the plea in her eyes - for forgiveness, for understanding?)

After another beat of silence, Frederick finally nods decisively, turning towards the door. “Take care, Anne.”

“You too, Frederick.” It feels final; it feels like a farewell, of a permanent kind. 

And then, with a last soft click of the door, he’s gone.

And Anne is left to herself again. 

———

He should feel peace, now that he’s back in his own space, away from Anne and every memory that she’s dredged up.

He doesn’t.

Because now, back alone in the little house at the top of the hill, Frederick once again has to face the particular kind of loneliness that comes with knowing that it doesn’t have to be this way.

What it all circles back to is this: he should feel smug. After all, this is everything he’d wished for in his most bitter moments over the years: Anne, all alone, with no real support system, just living a quiet little life of little note and, to all appearances, little true happiness. 

But it doesn’t feel good - not even remotely. How has he suffered? Sure, he hasn’t had her, but he got drafted, went to a top rate school, wound up playing hockey for a living in the NHL. By any measure, it’s a damn good life - all while Anne has been left to become the shell of herself he found four days ago. 

And that shouldn’t be his problem. Technically, you could argue that she brought this upon herself; dug a hole of her own making. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel… sad, he supposes, to see what she’s resigned herself to. Maybe a little guilty, even. 

And still, he can’t help but feel like there’s questions left unanswered. They’d talked plenty about the past, how they’d felt and why they’d acted the way they had, but that hadn’t touched on where they stand now. If there’s one thing he’s learned in these last few days, it’s that his own feelings aren’t nearly as dormant as he’s tried to convince himself all these years. If there’s any chance Anne might still feel the same… well, he owes it to them both to find out. 

This chapter of their history doesn’t seem quite finished yet, and Frederick knows exactly what he has to do. 

———

This time, she should have expected the knock on the door - social distancing be damned. 

It’s been three days since the storm’s finally stopped - three days since snowplows had cleared everything out, three days since Frederick had left, back to his own little house up the road.

She’d been content by herself for so long - happy with her plants and her books and all the little hobbies that take up her time in the evenings and weekends. Anne had even found a new kind of solitary contentment in the pandemic, discovering tasks to give her days purpose and goals. Frederick was here for a matter of days, not even a week; it’s absurd to think he could change any of that.

And yet somehow, he has.

Because Anne had been… content by herself for so long - not happy, per se, but satisfied - but the house feels empty now without him. Even when they’d barely talked, or were in separate rooms, he’d been there, the energy of another person making the whole house feel full. She’d grown used to him, she supposes; allowed herself to remember, for once, all the reasons she had loved him, and all the dreams she once had had of what a life together could have been like . 

She chose this life - here, in Kellynch, by herself. But for the first time in the only place that’s ever really been hers, she feels not just alone, but lonely. As much as she’s always claimed to like her life, just as it is, there’s no denying that the past days have illuminated all the ways that she’s been lying to herself. She tries to pass the time the same way she always has, but it’s just not the same; she even calls Mary at one point, hoping her sister’s dour moods might be an efficient distraction, but Mary is even more snippy than usual. It’s been days since Anne last called, and her sister feels an outsized outrage about the so-called abandonment; truthfully, Anne hadn’t even noticed it had been a week since her last call. Moreover, she finds that she doesn’t really care about Mary’s bad mood the way she always has, doesn’t feel the need to fix it or blame herself for the outburst. It’s easier just to hang up the phone. 

(Maybe this is the first step in moving on: accepting that you deserve more than you’ve ever settled for. That doesn’t stop the yearning; moving on isn’t the work of a couple days, especially when the man himself has only just exited her life again, and is staying just up the road.)

As if she’s summoned him, tires crunch on the drive outside, heralding his reappearance. It isn’t right, the way her heart lurches with happiness and hope and excitement when she peeks out the window to once again see his SUV, once again see him climbing out in that ridiculous blue hat and shuffle to her front door without once slipping on her icy walk. There’s a sense of déjà vu as Anne draws a deep breath before she opens the door. There’s only so many times she can go through this, be subjected to such a blast from the past, before it will eventually break her. And yet, like a fool, she keeps opening the door. 

“Can we talk?” Frederick asks. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched inwards, but there’s a look in his eyes that Anne is afraid to name. 

(It almost looks tender - almost looks like hope - but it will hurt far worse to be proved wrong if she allows herself to believe that.)

“Of course,” Anne says softly, stepping aside just enough to let him in. It touches a special little bit of her heart to see the way that Frederick carefully knocks the snow off his boots at the threshold as he pulls his hat off his head, trying his best not to track anything in to her rug and floors. It’s such a simple little thing, but it’s care for her home - and, in a way, care for her. More than she ever expected again from Frederick Wentworth. 

“Anne…” he begins, reaching out a hand for her, but she quickly takes a step back. Touch will be too much, too permanent a memory if this is the end. 

“I think we ought to keep a bit of distance,” she explains at his odd look. 

If anything, that only serves to confuse him further, his brow crinkling up in that endearing way she remembers. “We already spent days together. I think social distancing is kind of a lost cause, at least where we’re concerned.”

Anne shakes her head. “It’s not about the virus.”

She can see the moment it hits him, just exactly what she means by distance, as he physically flinches with the realization. She can also see the moment he decides to plow forwards anyways with whatever he came to say. 

“I’ve been thinking, these last couple of days,” he tells her, “and I’ve had a lot of time to consider things. Everything you said and did, the other night and way back when. And I realized… I did a lot of talking about what I wanted, and what I felt. And in the middle of all that shouting, I never asked about what you wanted, or want, or how you felt. And you never told me, because that’s what you’re used to - people not caring enough to ask. That’s on me, and I’m sorry. But —” he swallows heavily, as if he’s forcing down the nerves he evidently feels — “but I’m asking now. I want to know what our break-up meant to you. Because the more I think about it, the harder it is for me to believe you did all this because you didn’t care.”

Anne fights the urge to turn away from Frederick; he deserves that much, after everything. Meeting his eyes is too much to ask, however, and she fixes her gaze instead just over his right shoulder, crossing her arms over her body protectively. “I loved you,” she tells him quietly. “I knew what I had to do, but I loved you. I hated every word that came out of my mouth.” Anne smiles sadly. “You weren’t the only one who wanted. You were the first person - the only person to look at me and see something wonderful and worthwhile, and it killed me to throw that away. I’ve had to live with that ever since.”

“And now?”

Anne turns pleading eyes upon him, sure that every emotion is now splashed across her face and too distraught to care. How dare he do this? How dare he make her speak this into existence if he’s only about to crush it all? “Don’t make me say it,” she begs. 

“Please, Anne.” His voice is nearly as desperate - and that’s, ultimately, what breaks her, leaving the words to spill forth almost without her permission.

“And now… that doesn’t go away, you know. A love as big as that. You got to go be this success story, doubtless had all kinds of… distractions over the years, but when you have a quiet little life like mine, you don’t forget. It doesn’t go away. There’s a large part of my heart that is still yours - probably always will be - and I have to find a way to deal with that.”

“You still love me?”

Anne nods, whispering her response. “I do.”

She suddenly feels his hand trail down her arm, causing Anne to jerk abruptly to meet his eyes again. “Well that’s lucky,” he smiles down at her, achingly gentle, “because I haven’t forgotten either.”

Even as Anne’s heart lurches with hope, she shakes her head. “Don’t tease, Frederick. Don’t be that cruel.”

“I’m not,” he assures her, twining their fingers together. “Because you’re right, I’ve tried to distract myself, but… you have no idea just how unforgettable you are, Anne. How could anyone ever compare? And I tried so hard for so long to move on, to hate you, but I never could. You were a little spark in my heart that I could never quite stamp out. And now…” Frederick pauses as if to gather his breath, squeezing her hand as he does so. “And now, I hope I won’t have to.”

“You’d want that? You’d want to…” Even with new-found hope singing through her veins, Anne still hesitates to finish the sentence. This all feels like a wonderful dream; she’d hate to wake up and discover that’s all it was. 

“To try again?” he finishes. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that. The real question is… do you?”

And she does, she wants that so terribly much, so badly that it aches, even as she hesitates. How could he want that, after everything she’s done? When their separation was her fault in the first place?

“I don’t deserve you,” Anne murmurs into the miniscule space between them, caving to the urge to brush his hair back from his face. It makes him smile, just a little bit, just a twitch of his lips, but that more than anything else sends a flood of peace rushing through her soul. 

“I think we deserve each other,” Frederick tells her in return, his voice almost unbearably soft. “I believe that, and somehow, I’m going to make you believe that too. We deserve this, Annie.”

And he kisses her, like he wants to, like he’s thought about it just as much as she has. His lips are soft against hers - just like she remembers, all those years ago - but there’s a surety to his hands now that wasn’t there before, in the way he pulls at her waist to bring her closer and his fingers thread through her hair with purpose. There’d been a handful of ill-advised attempts at dating in the past eight years, but nothing ever came close to this joyful swooping sensation in her stomach or the feelings of safety and love and home. That’s something only he can manage; something that only exists between the two of them. 

Her hands find their way to his chest as the kiss deepens, becomes more passionate, heads adjusting their position to allow tongues to tentatively begin to prod and search. Anne had known the difference 8 years had made on Frederick’s body, had seen with her own two eyes the way he’d filled out with more muscle, but feeling it is something else altogether, even through his shirt where his coat gaps open. It’s a reminder that they’re not the same - they’re older and more mature and have experienced different things than they had at 17. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, change can be good; it’s brought them here, together, at what otherwise feels like the end of the world. 

Even as they break apart - to get a breath of air, to process what just happened - Frederick continues to stroke his thumb across the round of her cheek, like he can’t bear to stop touching her. It warms her heart in a whole new way, like it’s proof that he meant every word he told her - as if she needs any more after that kiss. It would be easy to let herself get swept away on that little touch, perhaps into another wonderful kiss, but Anne forces herself to meet his eyes. 

“Stay.” It’s more than a question, but less than a demand - a plea, the dearest wish of her heart that she’s never admitted, now given voice. 

“For as long as you want me, Annie.” His voice is tender and husky as he smiles down at her. “Because I really don’t want to ever leave you again.”

And that’s awfully lucky, as Anne doesn’t ever intend to let him go again. 

[spaceorphan18]

Spaceorphan’s Movie Reviews: Batman (1989)

Before settling down to watch (and rewatch) all the films related to Marvel properties, I thought it’d be fun to take a look back over at DC.  Batman was probably the first superhero I was aware of? Since he (and Superman to a lesser extent) were the most well-known superheroes in the cultural zeitgeist.  I still say DC’s merchandising is far more prominent among children than Marvel, so of course, even in the late 80s, when I was a very young little person, I knew who Batman was.  

Of course, before 1989, there were other iterations of the character, most notably the Adam West series (and TV movies) of the 60s.  I remember catching those old episodes when it reran on Nick-at-Nite in during the 80s - I mean they were ridiculously campy, which of course also makes them family friendly, and so we had them on all the time.    Then Tim Burton came along and updated Batman to be dark and gritty.  (Like the comics! Actually, I have no idea, I’ve never read any Batman comics, so I can’t actually comment on that.)  Of course, being six at the time of theatrical release, I didn’t know what a big deal this would be.  

I don’t remember when I first watched the film.  It wasn’t in the theaters (I was too young - but not too young to see the sequel!), but I did see it a lot once it came out on VHS.  And I’ll be honest with you, it straight up scared me as a kid.  The Burton-esque imagery, mixed with dark cinematography, and the horror-esque elements of the film really seared into my young brain.  It wasn’t a film I sought out (though I don’t remember my parents watching it either, even though we owned it, I wonder if my brother watched it) but it was one that had a lasting impression, much like Ghostbusters and Back to the Future - it’s a film that I vividly remember from my childhood.  

The interesting thing (to me) is that I haven’t seen it (until now) since I was a kid.  I can think of no time as an actual adult that I’ve had the chance to pop it in again and watch it.  But, interestingly, there wasn’t a single moment of the film that I had forgotten - watching it again after, maybe, fifteen-twenty years, I really do remember every beat of this film.  However, maybe for the first time, I really understand the film as it’s intended - cause, yeah, it’s not a kids’ film (even if there was a ton of merchandising for kids - which there was, we had a toy batmobile and batwing).  

So, how does this film hold up all these years later? Surprisingly well - for what it is.  

So, maybe this is the analytical person in me, but I think this film is, maybe, more fun to talk about than to actually watch.  Of all the super fascinating things going on - the plot is the least interesting part of it, even the film itself seems to loosely hinge on the random things The Joker decides to do and is a little, meh, don’t think too hard about it.   To sum it up quickly - Gotham is being run by a crime ring and mob bosses and Batman is single handedly taking them down.  Meanwhile, The Joker is a crazed guy who wants to be bigger than the mob bosses who whole him back, and after he nearly dies in a vat of acid - he decides to become even more of a psychopathic killer and tries to kill everyone.  Because why not?

First, standing out to me much more as an adult, is all the Tim Burton-ishness about it.  Which I don’t say as a bad thing.  He has a certain Gothic, horror, cartoon-ish style, which I may say, is slightly toned down in this film than a lot of others.  Visually, I think he was a good choice of director, I think the film has such a captivating stylized look that it holds my attention when the plot doesn’t.  I think what stood out to me the most was that Burton went a drearily dark, with an occasional splash of white that made the whole film almost seem like it was in black and white - which was purposefully contrasting to the colorfulness of The Joker.  I mean, Burton is purposely giving artistry to the cinematography in a way that I don’t necessarily see in superhero films anymore, and I think that’s kind of cool.  There are times when the film is, maybe, too (literally) dark - but I feel like had the technology been just a bit better, it would have helped.  

Burton also seems to be aware of the special effects limitations of the time, because at no point was I taken out by how cheesy the graphics looked (it helps that there weren’t very man), and some of the scarier images from when I was a kid, like when The Joker kills the guy by incinerating him, hold up pretty well.  Some of the fight scenes seem weaker and stiff, not helped by the fact that I don’t think Michael Keaton could move much in that suit, but the action isn’t overdone.  The action sequences aren’t what they are today, by any means, but I think they work fine given the era of the film - I don’t really judge them for that.  

So - Michael Keaton’s Batman.  Does he do a good job? I say mostly.  As Bruce Wayne, I completely buy him.  He’s a bit charming, a bit reserved, a bit mysterious, and a bit crazy - and when Keaton is actually allowed to do something with the character, he comes alive pretty well.  The unfortunate thing is that this film really isn’t about Batman - it’s about The Joker (which I’ll get to in a moment) and therefore we don’t get to see much of Bruce Wayne doing anything - except staring off into the distance thinking about things.  I get The Joker is iconic and everything, but Keaton has made Bruce Wayne interesting enough that I do wish there had been more - because his character doesn’t get to move much beyond ‘brooding about my parents; murder thirty years ago’.  

As for Batman himself, he’s… fine.  I don’t really have any complaints, but he feels incredibly limited - more so because of the suit, and the constricting ability to do much while wearing it than anything in Keaton’s performance.  It makes sense that Batman would be a near silent warrior, but not being able to see Keaton’s expressive face holds this version back a bit.  

Meanwhile… The Joker.  Before I rented the film again, I was looking through some old reviews - and many of them mentioned that this film seemed to be more about The Joker than Batman.  And I was a bit taken aback.  I hadn’t remembered it that way.  However, it wasn’t like I was paying that much attention as a kid.  But yes, it’s true, this film really is not Batman’s film.  It’s The Joker’s.  And I understand why - The Joker is possibly one of the most intriguing characters and villains in all of literature.  He’s a character who merges tragedy, comedy, and psychopathy all in one - and yes all three are in this film.  I’m sure there are hundreds of think-pieces on The Joker as a character - understandably so.  So, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at how much of the film he takes up.  

I’m not invested enough to say who played The Joker the best, I hardly think comparisons are necessary (even if inevitable), but I really like Jack Nicholson in the role.  More so now than what I remembered.  Nicholson really embodies that whole crazed-lunatic pretty well, and I think he’s captivating enough that he does steal the show from Batman himself.  I feel like there are so many people who discuss The Joker, much better than I can, that I won’t elaborate much more.  But yes, Jack Nicholson’s Joker is pretty amazing, and I think it holds up relatively well.  

Rounding out the limited cast is Kim Basinger’s Vicki Vale.  And, well, she’s… there.  Despite being the literal stand-in for the audience during most of the craziness - an outsider coming into Gotham and being a conduit between Batman and The Joker.  She doesn’t get much to do and is the pretty standard obligatory love interest.  Keaton and Basinger don’t have that much chemistry - but I don’t blame them, they really only have one big scene to sell the romance, and for me, that’s just not enough.  You just really aren’t given any reason why these people would like each other more than they’re supposed to.  

Meanwhile - during the scene where The Joker is dancing around with Vicki - I kept think about that one test where if the woman is replaced with a lamp, would it change the scene?  And no - no it really wouldn’t.  I get the time period of the film, and how the ‘romance’ angle is kind of beat by beat what you would find in most films around this time, so I’m not judging too harshly.  But still, she’s almost third wheel to the more entertaining and layered dance Batman and The Joker are having throughout the film.  

Smaller Thoughts: 

Prince was the official artist of this films’ soundtrack - and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.  The film has such a 40s-esque feel about it that when something slams it into the modern 80s, it feels a little jarring.  At the same time, the dirtiness of 80s New York, and the cultural materialism is all over this film, so the Prince songs fit nicely in.  It’s a weird dichotomy.  

Music, in general, is also what sells this film - and keeps it at ‘Classic’ level.  Danny Elfman (Tim Burton’s go to director, and a personal favorite of mine) does amazing things with the score - and helps deliver the atmosphere Burton is going for.  

I have a soft spot for Alfred - even if he weirdly decides to bring Vicki to the Batcave unannounced.   She’ll disappear next film anyway - so ultimately it won’t matter. 

I kind of enjoy the fact that Jack Nicholson insisted the actor who played Bob be in the film - and that Bob is unceremoniously and somewhat randomly killed off.  

This film is very murdery - even Batman is murdery.  He tries to kill off The Joker whenever he gets the chance.  

Billy Dee Williams is here as Harvey Dent - so that’s a super interesting thread that was never pulled on again.  

Most of the government/police force was kind of meh - and I couldn’t even really tell who Commissioner Gordon was.  

I did really like the flashback to Bruce Wayne’s parents’ deaths.  That guy who they had play a young Jack Nicholson? Spot on.  

There’s a lot of mask symbolism throughout the film.  Again, I’m impressed by Burton as an artist - and as someone who’s willing to tell a more layered film within a superhero film.   

Things that scared me as a kid: The mimes, the parade floats, The Joker’s girlfriend wearing that mask, the two dead models, the dead mob guy being burnt to a crisp, The Joker’s grin, The Joker’s laugh, really every time Jack Nicholson was on screen, and that laugh box that kept going after The Joker had died.  This film really did use to scare me.  

Final Thoughts: This film was incredibly interesting and enjoyable to come back to as an adult.  I don’t think it’s entirely rewatchable - it’s plodding along at a snail’s pace during some sequences, and I don’t think the plot is that engaging.  But I do think there’s a lot of artistry here given to us by Burton, and worth coming back to every now and then to see a film that would inspire superhero films for decades to come.  

[funkymbtifiction]

QuickTypes: Assassins (musical)

UNOFFICIAL TYPING BY: ancientseaofnightandstars 

**Note: these typings are for the characters as presented in the musical only, and are not intended to be a reflection on the real people**

**Also, SPOILERS, in a way. It’s history, and so pretty much foregone conclusions, but the ways of getting there could be considered unique to the show.**

John Wilkes Booth [ESTP]

Before his death, Booth’s expensive lifestyle was noted by the Balladeer– his “rings and fancy silks”. He got David Herold to help him take down his diary entry through intimidation, and was quick to take what chance he could to defend himself and his actions. After his death, in the plot of the show, he often pushes his fellow assassins to action, even just to make something happen, (encouraging Zangara to try to kill FDR, trying to provoke Czolgosz to break the bottle, pushing Lee to shoot Kennedy). He’s very aware of everything going on and the opportunities he has to apply said pressure, and can often be reckless with it (Se). When trying to convince people to do things, (the Balladeer, Lee, etc.), Booth’s first tact is usually to appeal to emotions, (in contrast to the Balladeer’s Te logic). He often displays a group mentality and has plenty of superficial charm to win people to his side (Fe). However, if that doesn’t work quickly, Booth’s charm breaks down, revealing a blunt and calculating mind, with highly personalized logic (Ti). During his flashback, we see him caught in the grip of inferior Ni, fearfully, mournfully, and incorrectly seeing only one possible outcome for the country in the wake of the Civil War. (Plenty of low Fe in this scene as well, out of control and mourning in the wake of the war, spurring him to reckless action.) In most of the rest of the show, his inferior Ni is better developed, giving him a vision into the future and the social impact all the assassins have in it.

Charles Guiteau [ENFJ]

Guiteau has an extremely cheery demeanor, and exudes warmth. He says how he feels, though sometimes the emotion is forced, such as in the flashback to his execution. He enjoys attention and is very focused on the people around him. He wants others to be impressed with him and often looks for their approval (Fe). Guiteau believes that God has a purpose for his life, and often hints that it’s his goal to become President. He tends to see a metaphorical vision of something before he sees the thing for itself, (the office of president is representative of the endless possibilities of life, execution is “going to the Lordy”, etc.) He has confidence in his own impressions of what the future will hold (Ni). Guiteau likes niceties, wine lists– the finer things. He’s also quick to jump on opportunities in his environment, (approaching Garfield, trying to steal a kiss from Sara Jane Moore), though they’re not his focus (Se). Guiteau’s inferior Ti isn’t well-developed in the show, as he often doesn’t see the logical flaws in his own attempts to move closer to his goals. However, he can occasionally sum things up in logical, rather than emotional, fashion. (“I think you should get another job.”)

Leon Czolgosz [INFP]

Czolgosz has a lot of emotion inside, but isn’t highly expressive of it. He loves Emma Goldman, but when pressed about it, it’s either a quiet, simple “I am in love with you” or a way for him to show his love through action, (protecting her, following her on her tour, walking her to the station and carrying her bag). His motivation to kill McKinley comes from identification with the plight of the poor (Fi). Czolgosz adopts Emma’s view of the world quickly, making it his own. In killing McKinley, he hopes to make a philosophical statement about the oppression of the poor (Ne). Overall, Czolgosz sees his life through his personal experience, but filtered through his adopted philosophy (Ne-Si). His act of killing McKinley at the Exposition is decisive and simple, with the aforementioned goal of making a nationwide statement (Ne-Te).

Giuseppe Zangara [ISTJ]

Over his life, Zangara has developed a personal mythology about the world based solely on his subjective experiences– the smart and the rich rode by him without a glance, and now he has this pain in his stomach, and so the pain must be caused by those who have wronged him (Si). He’s practical in his assassination attempt, (avoiding the cold, and so changing from Hoover to FDR, etc.), and is often very blunt and brash in communication (Te). Zangara is adamant about his American identity, refusing to be seen as something he’s not. In the end, he doesn’t care who he kills, so long as his victim is one of the “kings”– the oppressors (Fi). His fears come from irrational thoughts of conspiracies and connections, but at times he is capable of intensely poetic and metaphorical language, such as when speaking in Italian to convince Lee (inferior Ne). 

Samuel Byck [ESFJ]

Sam is constantly sharing his emotions, positive or negative. He’s quick to assure Leonard Bernstein of his great talent, his wonderful music. He loves the warmth of love songs, the joy they bring. He’s also quick to shout at “Lenny” for ignoring him, or yell at Nixon that he feels betrayed by him (Fe). Sam’s primary concern is the immediate reality around him, or his impression of it. He feels betrayed by Nixon because he voted for him. He talks often of the way things are compared to how they were (Si). Sam’s primary concern is concrete reality, but when he does venture into metaphors, they’re remarkably profound and apt, (likening warring political parties to warring parents, and the public to a scared child). He’s not afraid to delve into theory or consider the bigger picture (Ne). He has trouble extricating his strong emotions from his analysis of events, but does feel the need to explain his case for posterity (inferior Ti).

Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme [ESFP]

Lynette is quick to act, and stresses the need for tangible evidence of love and relationships, (dismissing John Hinckley Jr.’s love for Jodie Foster because he’s never kissed or had sex with her). Her ideas of how to prove her love to Charles Manson are all intensely physical (Se). All of Lynette’s decisions are based in her love for “Charlie”, and she doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of it (Fi). She doesn’t get angry easily, but if someone crosses her personal line in the sand, (insulting Charlie), her emotions come out in reckless action (Se-Fi). Her analysis of situations is usually very blunt and matter-of-fact, remarking on the logic or lack thereof (Se-Te). All of her displayed sense of metaphor and theory is taken nearly verbatim from Charles Manson, adopted by Lynette with no further speculation (inferior Ni).

Sara Jane Moore [ESTJ]

Sara Jane is very matter-of-fact and blunt, and doesn’t tend to look past what’s in front of her (Te). She often relates events and facts to her past, and is fairly grounded in the sensory world (Si). However, her memories can be scattered, and she’s prone to jumping topics frequently in conversation (Ne). Her inferior Fi isn’t well-developed, however it’s hinted at in “Another National Anthem”, when she mentions trying to kill Ford so that she’d “know where she was coming from”, or have a sense of identity and beliefs.

John Hinckley Jr. [ISFJ]

John focuses on tangible ways to win Jodie Foster’s affections, (visiting her dorm, calling her up, etc.), but when that fails, he builds up his own personal mythology of what’s going on, based on his subjective impressions. When planning to assassinate Reagan, he studies up on Lee Harvey Oswald (Si). John is shy, but still fairly open about his emotions, good or bad. He desperately wants validation from Jodie, (Fe). His logic is very subjective and personal, (if he kills the President, he’ll be of equal standing with Jodie, and she’ll pay attention to him), but isn’t very well-developed (Ti). John expresses his love creatively through music, and dabbles in metaphor in his songs (Ne).

Lee Harvey Oswald [ISTJ]

Lee is very grounded, expects what’s happened before to happen again, (assuming Booth was with the FBI), and doesn’t jump on the philosophy train with Booth very easily (Si). He’s very up-front about what he thinks, wants practical instruction, and is based in observable logic (Te). (“Up here on the sixth floor, what would I do? Throw schoolbooks at him?”) His inner feelings of identity are fractured, which is partly how the assassins get to him– giving him an identity within a grander mythos (Si-Fi). Lee is fairly literal-minded and shows fear of future possibilities (inferior Ne).

The Balladeer [ISTJ]

The Balladeer often stresses the grander scope of history in analyzing the crimes of the assassins, and uses his knowledge of this to deem the assassins unsuccessful. (“Listen to the stories, hear it in the songs– angry men don’t write the rules and guns don’t right the wrongs…”) He’s internalized the traditional beliefs of America, (that any person can succeed if they try hard enough), and expresses that firmly in his songs. He emphasizes this, his own view of history, over the viewpoints of the assassins, because it’s what he himself knows and deems right (Si). His criticism of the assassins is often unsympathetic and matter-of fact, not allowing for much justification and simply declaring them wrong or crazy, (Te-Fi). However, he does take the time to explain the perspective of each assassin, even if this doesn’t change his moral judgment (Ne).

Note: These are based on the original off-Broadway show, which is why the Balladeer and Lee Harvey Oswald are mentioned separately. Later shows may have changed certain things that render pieces of this invalid, and certain actors may add different touches. Also, pretty much all of these people are very unhealthy examples of the types, with perhaps the exception of the Balladeer.

[vinayv224]

Mobsters, Teamsters, history, guilt, and salvation: Martin Scorsese’s terrific The Irishman

Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro in The Irishman. | Niko Tavernise / NETFLIX

Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci headline a long, winding movie that’s well worth the watch.

Late in The Irishman, Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) says that “you don’t know how fast time goes by until you get there,” and there’s just a twinkle of irony mixed into the melancholy. After all, by then, the movie is past the three-hour mark. (It ultimately tops out at 209 minutes.)

But that’s sort of the point. Time telescopes in Martin Scorsese’s newest movie, shifting back and forth through decades as old, wistful Frank narrates the tale of his life as a hitman for crime syndicate boss Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) and then for Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino, who has somehow never worked with Scorsese before now). Which of course means the film rightfully will be compared to earlier Scorsese movies, like 1973’s Mean Streets and 1990’s Goodfellas, and not just because of the subject matter; in The Irishman, the director reunites with some of his longest-running collaborators from those films, including De Niro, Pesci, and Harvey Keitel.

Like those two movies — and all of Scorsese’s work, really — The Irishman is also about guilt, sin, and redemption. But with its lengthy runtime, this one has space to lean in two different tonal directions. The Irishman has both the frenetic swagger of his mob movies and the more contemplative gut wrench of his most spiritual films, like 1988’s The Last Temptation of Christ and his most recent film, 2016’s Silence.

And the movie has the maturity of an older man’s perspective, an eye cast backward on a full life. It is lively and wry and very funny, but at times it also feels like a confession, a plea for grace, not just from its protagonist but from the filmmaker himself.

Frank’s story is long and packed full of anecdotes that are always terribly fun, if sometimes aimless. This isn’t one coherent narrative as much as the recounting of a life, with the twists and turns life takes that defy tidy storytelling. It’s crowded with the figures who occupied his attention ever since he was a young man finding his way into Bufalino’s good graces. That happens partly as a result of a chance encounter with his union attorney (Ray Romano), who turns out to be Bufalino’s cousin. His work as a hitman and a fixer with Bufalino becomes a gig as one of Hoffa’s most trusted friends and aides, and Frank’s life is intertwined with both men. For a while, they’re on top of the world. And then — thanks largely to the machinations of history — things start changing for them.

There’s a lot in The Irishman that evokes Scorsese’s earlier work, from the way characters talk and act and dress to the occasional bursts of bloody violence. (Steven Zaillian’s screenplay is based on Charles Brandt’s 2004 book I Heard You Paint Houses, which details what the real-life Frank told Brandt about Hoffa’s infamous 1975 disappearance; Hoffa was pronounced dead seven years later when his body failed to materialize. The titular “paint” on houses is not, well, paint — though it’s certainly red.)

Niko Tavernise / NETFLIX

Lots of excitement.

In its first act, the film can be tedious, because it gives very little indication of why exactly we’re watching these men do their thing other than Scorsese thinks we should be. (The purpose does become clear, but in a way that will only reward the patient.) The long runtime — clearly part of the appeal of the film’s eventual home being Netflix, where a movie can be as long or as short as you want, especially if you’re Martin Scorsese — means that scenes have more breathing room than we’re accustomed to seeing. Technically, they could be “tightened” up, perhaps by trimming out some of the dialogue or reaction shots, or removing parts that don’t fit into a more streamlined plot.

But the near-bagginess of the film is part of its initial charm. And by the end, it becomes important. The Irishman’s long arc (which involves the use of largely unobtrusive de-aging technology) means the film follows Frank and his associates long past when the movie usually ends, with triumph or failure. The film instead takes a distinct turn away from rat-a-tat plotting and revenge toward a frankly stunning, contemplative movement. The bluster and scheming of middle-aged men eventually gives way to age, to losing people one by one, and to consequences for life’s choices.

Suddenly, it becomes very important to realize we’ve been listening to Frank narrate his story.

The Irishman is Frank’s version of his life’s story — until the movie reinvents itself

For much of The Irishman, the women are at the margins — wives and daughters, always around, rarely saying anything. This isn’t atypical in Scorsese’s work, which rarely centers on women. The worlds he makes movies about are built by men, for men. They see women as beloved and beautiful accessories, maybe tangentially helpful, sometimes irrational irritations. Sometimes, the woman is just the nuisance who makes you pull the car over every hour on a road trip for a smoke break.

But The Irishman uses Frank’s perspective on the women in his life to remind us that his myopia has blinded him to the truth about himself. One of the stranger parts of Frank’s story is the barely glancing interest — just a line or two — that he gives to leaving his wife for a waitress, and a shrugging explanation he gives to Russell for why his divorce couldn’t possibly be affecting his children. (The two women get along like gangbusters, he says; there’s no problem there at all, see?)

Similarly, the role that Frank’s daughter Peggy (played as a child by Lucy Gallina and an adult by Anna Paquin) plays in the film feels weird, for a while. She’s only one of several daughters, but she’s also the one most important to him. She mistrusts Russell, but she loves Jimmy. Scorsese makes a point of directing our attention toward how Peggy watches her father and his associates, taking in what they’re doing and quietly making her own decisions. But she never, at least in Frank’s memory, tells him what she’s thinking.

Netflix

Robert De Niro in The Irishman.

So late in the film, when Peggy has stopped talking to her father altogether, Frank asks another daughter (Marin Ireland) to help him reach her. And it’s an eye-opening moment, both for Frank and for us in the audience, who have been watching the story through Frank’s perspective. “You don’t know what it was like for us,” she tells him, visible frustration on her face and tears in her eyes. When he thought he was protecting his daughters, they were afraid to tell him about anything that happened to them lest he mete out swift and excessively violent judgment. And so they were less protected. His perception of himself and of what he was doing for his family didn’t match reality. It was just that: his perception of himself.

That realization, with others, starts to nudge Frank toward something like self-examination. And given Scorsese’s long proclivity toward looking for meaning in Catholic symbolism, Frank’s own Catholicism starts to resurface. The movie’s other unofficial theme might be the Biblical injunction that the wages of sin is death — frequently we’re introduced to a person just long enough for their date and means of death to flash on screen — and when your life is defined by helping others meet their death, you start to get thoughtful when you approach your own. The older Frank gets, the more people he loses, the more he watches the men he once idolized fading away, the more he struggles to understand how his life of murder and extortion squares with the possibility of an afterlife.

He breaks bread and drinks grape juice with Russell (in a scene that’s also reminiscent of a famous Goodfellas scene). He tells a priest that he’s not sure if he’s sorry for anything he’s done, and the priest gently reminds him that we can feel sorry or we can choose to feel sorry. We see the rare flicker of his self-doubt and the guilt he feels for acts of betrayal. And when the priest prays with Frank that God will “help us see ourselves as you see us,” there’s a lot riding on that prayer.

An aging filmmaker with a long, rich, full history of examining crime and sin and death might rightly land on these themes at this point in his career. The final minutes of The Irishman contrast starkly with the start of the film, because that is how our lives play out. What matters at the end is who we loved and how we loved them, and whether we treated them like they mattered. And the film leaves open the question we all face: If we messed that part up, what, in the end, was life really worth?

The Irishman premiered at the New York Film Festival on September 27. It will open in limited theaters on November 1 and premiere on Netflix on November 27.

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[movieswithkevin27]

You Can’t Take It With You

Often epitomizing feel good sentimentality, family, and nostalgia, the works of Frank Capra's are also unavoidably dreamy. Occurring in this seemingly alter-universe where everybody is kind to one another or tries their best to help one another, his film have an unmistakably human quality to them as they try to plea their case to the audience. It is quite easy to watch these films, be a curmudgeon, and write them off as sentimental nonsense. To some degree, they certainly are. His works consistently embody this sentimentality and try to make the audience feel good and if there was ever a disenfranchised feeling in cinema, it is the ability of a film to make the viewer for feel good. Inherently, it is looked down upon as being lesser for avoiding the seriousness and tragic nature of the world in which we live. Yet, Capra's films such as You Can't Take It With You do not avoid this essential nature. Instead, it shows what could be in our world. If we all disavowed greed, celebrated our family unit, and instead focused on our own self-defined personal growth, our world could be like the one in the film and, if only we were willing to dream, it could all become true. However, as a result, the solemn realization and nagging feeling that none of this could happen in our cynical and cold world remains ever present, even in Capra's own mind. Yet, if he were not willing to dream for the rest of us, then this clear vision of what could be would never even be offered. In the end, all it takes is one pioneer to lead the way and wait for the rest to follow suit. Abandoning all fear and walking straight into this dream-like world-that-could-be, You Can't Take It With You once more offers a classic Capra story of innocence triumphing over greed tale, but does so while answering one of the eternal questions of our world.

This question is one that will nag all of us until the day that we die. Should I sacrifice everything to follow my dreams or take the safe route to provide for myself and, later, my family? For most, the former would mean they are happier and more fulfilled. The latter would allow them to feel as though they are doing their duty and are a benefit to society. Juxtaposing the Vanderhoff family with the Kirby family, You Can't Take It With You shows the results of both. For the Vanderhoff family, led by Grandpa (Lionel Barrymore) and including granddaughter Alice (Jean Arthur), they have cast aside material wealth. In its place, they have provided a haven for their family and some friends to follow their dreams, no matter how attainable or purposeful that dream may be. Happy and joyous all the time, the Vanderhoff family certainly represents innocence in a world of cynics, given their openness to just about anything and willingness to cast aside money in the name of human connection.

In stark contrast, the Kirby family pursues material wealth. Father Anthony Kirby (Edward Arnold) runs a bank and seeks to establish a monopoly on the munitions industry by buying up a 12-block area of the town, including the Vanderhoff home, to box in his main competitor and force the man into bankruptcy. Seeking the same for his son Tony (James Stewart), Anthony's world is thrown into disarray when Tony rejects the material wealth he offers him in the name of pursuing whatever he actually wants to do and be with Alice. With a stiff and proper wife (Mary Forbes) at his side, the Kirby's are so focused on their reputation in the community that they have lost sight of the fact that their son is discontent with his life as a banker and wants something more. Furthermore, they immediately write off Alice because she is beneath the Kirby name in their mind and part of the "scum" that dominates the world. The loose and free Vanderhoff family that Alice is a part of hardly assuages their concerns, given their own rigid and proper demeanor. Cold and cruel, the Kirby's worship at the alter of greed and will burn any bridge that does not lead to profit.

Despite the wide berth between the families, the two have a lot in common beyond the fact that their children love one another. For one, and perhaps most importantly, both are incredibly wealthy. The Kirby's run a large bank, have a monolopy, and Mr. Kirby pays four different lawyers a handsome sum to defend him in court when both families are arrested. The lawyers, who are paid to be there, and the media, who only want to destroy the family, are the ones in attendance on behalf of the Kirby family. The Vanderhoff's have no lawyers, but the entire seating area is overflowing with their friends who quickly mobilize to pay the $100 fine for the family once the judge hands it down. Hell, even the judge chips in some money. Once the court case is settled, the Vanderhoff's still have the undying love of Alice. The Kirby's, however, quickly lose Tony who wants to not be so focused on material wealth. Now, who is really wealthy? In reality, men like Kirby will reap much of the benefits in the world, no matter how alone and morally bankrupt they may be. Yet, it is men like Grandpa Vanderhoff and his family who are truly wealthy in the world of Capra and, ideally, in the minds of everyone who watches the film. Constantly surrounded by people who love them and allowing their family to be exactly who they want to be without putting on some sort of show for others, the Vanderhoff family may not have much financial wherewithal, but are billionaires in the game of life and have the kind of wealth that everybody should strive to possess.

As with any work by Frank Capra, the biggest problem facing the film is its heavy-handedness with characters coming right out and telling the audience what it all means. Yet, Capra makes this work. Transforming the film into one expressly focused on its moral, Capra makes this one feel like a classic work by Aesop or anybody else who worked mainly with moral tales. Summing up the film's moral into a maxim via the title of "You Can't Take It With You", Capra's film seeks to teach those who watch it that, in the end, material wealth cannot go with you to the afterlife. Once we die, our bank accounts are cleared out and our currency is not accepted in Heaven. What stays with us is love, camaraderie, and experience. Being fulfilled in all three with family at our sides is, at the end of our lives, the only thing that will matter. Should we sell our soul for material wealth, a lonely and isolated death we experience will prove to be the only thing waiting for us.

Pairing together James Stewart and Jean Arthur a year before they were reunited in another work by Capra, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, You Can't Take It With You benefits greatly from both their chemistry and respective individual talent. Though just beginning their careers as stars, both Stewart and Arthur had easily identifiable charm and stage personas. For his part, Stewart plays the unfulfilled dreamer role of Tony with considerable charm, but nonetheless retaining the stiffness of his upbringing. He loosens up to be sure, but only when around Arthur's Alice. Otherwise, he is deathly serious and acutely aware of his own personal appearance and actions. Afraid to speak out against his parents and weary of how they will respond to the Vanderhoff's, he is often quite reserved and sheepish in this film. Yet, Stewart's personal charisma and exuberance that he would later become a legend for in other comedies really comes to light in moments with Arthur. Far less jaded and retaining innocence in the face of the insatiable guilt of his parents, Stewart's Tony feels a bit child-like (especially regarding his ability to scream to get his way) in his innocence, but it is this innocent and idealistic that Stewart often plays so well. Right in line with his work in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life, or Harvey, Tony Kirby is a man who may be a bit rough on the edges at times and a fair bit timid, but is always dreaming and embracing the simple pleasures of life once it is brought out in him by something/somebody he loves. Here, that just so happens to be Alice.

As always, Jean Arthur is a spitfire in the film, filling the screen with life and energy in every moment. While Lionel Barrymore contributes much of the same, it is Arthur who often looms large in this film as she enters the room by sliding down the banister or bursts into dancing with her sister or Tony at any odd moment. Getting lost in herself and entirely unwilling to compromise herself to the wills of others, Alice is a woman who is certainly becoming more jaded. Just as Tony becomes less aware of himself and concerned about how he looks, Alice goes in the opposite direction as a result of her interactions with the Kirby's of the world. Once she overcomes this, however, and becomes her usual self, Arthur's boisterous and energetic performance once again is able to shine and the film is better off for this. In pairing together Stewart and Arthur as lovers, the film finds two actors who are a perfect match for one another. Both incredibly charismatic with different approaches and characters - Stewart being more innocent and reserved, while Arthur being more attuned to the ills of the world and outgoing - the two play off of one another impeccably well, stepping beat-for-beat with one another in both comedic and dramatic moments. As a result, the film not only benefits from their individual presences and performances, but how well they work together and are able to play off one another. Selling their romance entirely, the two's unspoken chemistry is what truly gives this film the pulse every film needs.

Earnest, sentimental, and made in celebration of following one's dreams, You Can't Take It With You urges audience members to do what makes them happy. No matter what it may be, if it makes you happy, then it is worth doing. Should it pay very little or should it pay a lot, the warmth one feels from doing what they love and being surrounded by whom they love is more valuable than any amount of riches. Quintessential Capra in its feel good approach and message, You Can't Take It With You is a film with great acting from Stewart, Arthur, and Barrymore, and a fantastic moral that speaks to one of life's toughest questions: should one follow their dreams and be broke or go the safe route and be rich? Sadly, the answer may not be as easy as the film makes it look, but it is nonetheless a truly great film that really strikes a nerve in its handling of this question and, above all, is a terrifically funny work (thanks to Lionel Barrymore, mostly).

[breakingthecrown]

The Sick, Dumb & Happy by The Charm The Fury, Review

By Dan #d

(view my personal tumblr here)

Album Title: The Sick, Dumb & Happy

Band: The Charm The Fury

Genre: Melodic Death Metal, Metalcore, Groove Metal, Pop, Rock

Label:  Arising Empire / Nuclear Blast

Release Date:  March 17, 2017

When I read Metal Hammer or Revolver magazine, I usually just stick to reading about bands that I’m familiar with. Occasionally I’ll read a random article. But in the most recent Metal Hammer, I decided to do some more exploring and pay attention to the ads and new band articles. The Charm The Fury are one of the bands I saw an ad for, and I am glad I did. This album is something else, plus I’m all about female fronted bands. Yeah yeah Floor Jansen, I know it’s not a genre.

The Sick, Dumb & Happy opens with the song, Down On The Ropes. I wasn’t entirely sure of the song’s message (which would happen more than once proceeding), however it was very pleasing upon first listen. Opening with some speedy guitars and awesome drum beats, it eventually transcended into some nice grooves. Which instantly reminded me of Pantera. When vocalist, Caroline Westendorp made her first appearance, I was instantly drawn in. These vocals are not your typical Halestorm or Evanescence. They’re dirty and raw. Kind of reminded me of Christine Maynard of Level C or Carla Harvey of Butcher Babies. The next song Echoes put me on a trip (in a good way). I had to read the lyrics like ten times to figure out the message of the song. I suspect it’s about believing that fighting yourself is dumb. The lyrics say “Step down, show respect, for the folly of man. Some things are better left unsaid”. Then continues to explain that pounding forces (presumably in her head) are not a war within, but just echoes. Explained by the lyric “This is not a war, this is who we are. I remember what I stand for. It echoes in my head”. On this lyric, the song sounded like Demi Lovato or some pop singer stole the mic for a second. I was very confused by the sudden mood change in the music, but I was cool with it.

Most people know that love is a huge risk. The third track, Weapoonized says “You barely even know that you’re ever going to die” and “You’re just a victim of love’s industry”. Well I knew love was risky but that’s a sad (but probably realistic) view on love. This song is cool in that it has what I like to call “battle of guitars”, in which high guitar riffs and low guitar riffs play interchangeably. Love it. I also like the low, gut wrenching vocals during the bridge. Reminds me of Marilyn Manson or Chris Motionless of Motionless In White. The later is probably a realistic influence, as she also says “Fuck!” at the end of the bridge in a similar manner to how Chris says “Ugghh!” in multiple songs.

When No End In Sight came on, I started to hear even more influences in Caroline’s voice. Her screaming vocals reminded me a lot of Angela Gossow, previously of Arch Enemy. She even reminded me of Jill Janus of Huntress at one point. Specifically because she was still screaming, but in a lower octave then I think Angela usually sung. I’m all about the instrumentation on The Future Need Us Not. There is an epic opening that reminded me of the intro music you hear before fighting a boss in a video game. Okay Okay I admit it, its another high and low contrast. But it almost sounds like during the low riffs, the guitarist is stroking the very bottom of the guitar strings to make a very warped sound. When the singing begins with “The future need us not. It will go unopposed”, there’s so many cool things going on. The low gut vocals are back, with a guitar riff that sounds like the strings are old and deteriorating. All with some awesome, deep drum beats in the background. This is all just within the first 30 seconds of the song

Towards the end of the album is Silent War; which marks the very first appearance of an acoustic guitar. The Demi Lovato pop vocals are totally high jacked, however there are some nice clean vocals here that kind of remind me of Storm Large or Lesley Roy. This is the only non-metal song on the album. It talks about a man who is being tortured by his own mind. The man is “using all of his strength, but still loosing. A war in his head”. Some of the reasons why he’s loosing may be because “the memories won’t show mercy”. Also towards the end is Songs of Obscenity, which I wonder if it’s about Avril Lavigne. The verse “We don’t wear brands. Don’t watch TV. Oh can you say, hypocrisy? We’re singing Woo oo oo, Woo oo oo. Straight to the bank we run this scene” makes me think so. I know Avril Lavigne was sported wearing Dickies in her “punk” days, but when I hear “Woo oo oo, Woo oo oo”, I instantly think Avril. Cause she sings it in a lot her songs. Is this song about her possibly? Probably not.

Overall I’d give this album a 3.5 out 5. While it is original and I applaud the many influences, it does get lost a bit. What exactly do they want their sound to be? Do they want to tour with Arch Enemy, or Motionless In White? Sorry, I went to school for Entertainment Management. I think about marketing shit and packaging bands. However their sound is original, and their lyrics are pretty intelligent. I applaud them for coming up with lyrics I didn’t understand upon first read. As Marilyn Manson says, “Art shouldn’t be answer, it should be a question mark”.

[genkidesurun]

I’m bored and have no story (or curhatan) to share... so it’s time to duel answer some questionnaire! Actually, the original post [here] got more than ninety questions, but I’ll just pick the ones I’m interested in and alter some of them a bit. 

1. If you had to be gay for a day, what celebrity would you most like to take on a date? 

It’s arduous to project the kind of girl that’ll draw my attention. But since I have the hots for nerdy guys (with fast-paced speech, silly gesticulations, and, of course, glasses!) like John and Hank Green, I’ll probably go for girls with such similitudes. Hmmm... Emily Graslie, perhaps? 

6. What are the top five most contrasting songs on your playlist? 

When you have both metals and nasyeeds in your playlist... It’s like what Wali called ‘tomat’ (red--tobat maksiat). All those fucking and shitting and hell, to praising The Lord and acknowledging your penitence and baper-ing; repeating over and over and over and over... 

8. If you could make just ONE change to this world, what would it be and why? 

Erase the notion of witches (wow, I’m feeling like Madoka; ups, spoiler alert). Can I wish for immortality? 

9. If you could wake up tomorrow and be fluent in three additional languages, which would you choose? 

Quenya, Parseltongue, aaaaannddd SIMLISH, YEAH! Have you listened to Katy Perry’s Last Friday Night sung in gibberish--I mean--Simlish? You really should! 

11. What are the top five movies to make you cry? 

Hello Ghost 

The Green Mile 

Hachi: A Dog’s Tale 

You’re the Apple of My Eye 

Miracles in Cell No. 7 

Yes, I’m such a crybaby. Hello Ghost and The Green Mile made me ugly the most. 

12. What’s the scariest nightmare you’ve ever had? Describe it in detail. 

Uh... overslept and missed exams. Good thing they were just dreams! 

13. Would you rather raise 25 children or have the chance of ever having children taken away? Why? 

WHY SHOULD I OPT FOR RAISING 25 CHILDREN?! AIN’T NOBODY HAD TIME (AND MONEY) FOR THAT. 

17. If you had to lose one of the five senses, which would you choose and why? 

Rather than senses, it’s probably better to discard emotions. 

21. If your life was about to become like Cheaper by the Dozen and you were going to be saddled with twelve children, what would you name six girls and six boys? 

Let’s say those children were orphans taken care by me. I’d happily give them the names of fictional characters! Before I familiarize you with my kids, let me introduce myself first: Karlisha “Kirun” Runa Niephaus, the caretaker and the custodian, along with Raine Virginia Sage and Damuron ‘Raven’ Schwann Oltorain. 

(Boy) Vandesdelca ‘Van’ Musto Fende The big brother of Tear. As the result of his upbringing as an orphan at early age, as well as being the oldest in the orphanage, he became precocious, looking after his sister in their parents’ absence and willing to help the caretakers attending the other children while also struggling on his study. He was an amiable fellow and well-respected throughout the orphanage. Currently in the last year of senior-high and busy preparing himself for a law school. 

(Girl) Mystearica ‘Tear’ Aura Fende  Van’s baby sister who adored him dearly. She had grown into somewhat a wallflower; a shrinking violet. Although shy around people, Tear was a girl with a strong moral compass, never quivered to defend her friends from bullies. Like her brother, she had a beautiful, melodious voice that had brought her to become a choir member in both the town’s church, alongside Van, and her school. Currently a seventh-grader. 

(Boy) Ffamran ‘Balthier’ mied Bunansa Both dashing and quick-witted, Balthier was the conspicious of all. His charm and eloquence could easily impress anyone he met, thus making him the most popular kid around. Albeit a bit self-centered at times, Balthier could show his altruitic side, especially when it came to his bestfriend’s affairs, Ramza. Currently a ninth-grader and a valuable player of his school’s basketball team. 

(Boy) Ramza Lugria Beoulve A boy who survived from a wildfire that burned an entire village, including his parents, his beloved sister Alma, and his bestfriend Delita Heiral. His meek and tender disposition clicked perfectly with Balthier’s smug and jaunty manner, therefore creating a bridge of trust between them. Ramza had an eye for world history, spending most of his time in the library to read books and write essays. Currently a ninth-grader and established a close relationship with the history teacher Goffard Gaffgarion. 

(Boy) Edgar Roni Figaro Sabin’s older twin brother who was an electronics hobbyist and a gamer. He was the technician around the house, repairing the appliances and, sometimes, modifying them. Knowing very well that he had insufficient funds to begin with, he befriended Cid Del Norte Marquez and worked at the latter’s workshop as a part-timer. Though a geek at heart, Edgar didn’t constrain himself as a mere geek; he was surprisingly flirtatious, but to no avail. Currently an eleventh-grader. 

(Boy) Sabin Rene Figaro   Edgar’s younger twin brother. Unlike his prudent and erudite twin, Sabin was quick-tempered and straightforward, and excelled at physical activities, particularly martial arts. Under the tutelage of his karate master Cyan Garamonde, Sabin achieved black-belt in a no-time and had won many tournaments. Of all their differences, he and his brother shared the same unflappable determination and ambitions. Currently an eleventh-grader.

(Girl) Estellise “Estelle” Sidos Heurassein Cute, courteous, and bright; Estelle clearly caught everyone’s attention, but still being humble as she looked up to Philia. She was one of those bibliophiles who could even recite various passages from heart. After the incident involving her two bestfriends, Yuri Lowell and Flynn Scifo, Estelle promised herself to become a splendid doctor, thus leading her to be studious, hoping to obtain a scholarship. Currently a tenth-grader, a model student, and a member of the science club. 

(Girl) Margarita “Rita” Blastia Mordio A curious prodigy with an IQ of 160; however, lacked of social competence. She liked to correct people whose perceptivity was wrong, which inadvertently annoyed them unbeknownst to her. Rita was close to Raine’s little brother Genis due to their similar level of intelligence and close age, and to Estelle who always welcomed her presence. Currently a fifth-grader. 

(Boy) Genis Kloitz Sage The genius younger brother of caretaker Raine whose brain power could disparage the grown-ups’. Even as a child, he could solve his sister’s undergraduate math problems and sometimes engaged in Edgar’s projects. Due to his superior intellect, he demonstrated repellent disposition and was cynical towards others, but would greatly respect everyone with the same intelligence as him. Currently a sixth-grader and had a crush on his P.E. teacher Presea Combatir. 

(Girl) Rutee Atwight Katrea An upbeat, tomboyish lass with misunderstandable attitude. Having a firm moral sense yet being irascible at the same time, Rutee could easily pick a fight with anyone she deemed erroneous. Despite this shrewish demeanor, she was in fact solicitous and attentive towards her close relations. Due to the hapless circumstances, Rutee became eager to earn money, working as anything as her employer wanted her to be. Currently an eighth-grader. 

(Girl) Philia Clemente Felice Like your everyday bespectacled girl, Philia was smart, genteel, and naive; pretty much a foil to Rutee. A devout Christian, she highly regarded her belief and attended the church every week. Through her science teacher Batista Diego, nature and chemical experiments had greatly interested her as she aimed to be a chemist in the future. Currently an eleventh-grader, a model student, and the chairwoman of the science club.

(Girl) Rydia Asura Mist The youngest and newest in the orphanage, being five years in age. She was rescued by the sailors Cecil Harvey and Kain Highwind from ship drowning, a disaster that killed her mother and developed her fear of waterbody. She loved animals dearly as she often visited the town’s farm and pet house with the company of one of the caretakers. 

25. What’s the most frightening thing you’ve ever seen in your life? 

Failures. 

26. Name five books you think everyone should read and give a brief synopsis for each. 

Too lazy for the synopsis. Just check them out on GoodReads: 

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (by Agatha Christie)  Lemme proudly present one of Christie’s masterpieces. I personally found this more exquisite than And Then There Were None. 

A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson)  I know Sagan’s Cosmos and Hawking’s The Brief History of Time are popular as hell, but hell... they were published in the 80′s (but still gold though, you really should check them out). We need newer ones and Bryson’s is certainly the best--for me, at least, at this time--in elaborating big history and the development of science. 

Why Evolution Is True (by Jerry A. Coyne)  A nifty allusion for Darwin’s The Origin of Species. No. Don’t protest. Dawkins probably produces more of this kind of books than Coyne does and, of course, is far more popular than any evolutionary biologists alive. Dawkins is a brilliant writer and all, but Coyne has the apt for making the theory easier to comprehend. 

Little Women (by Louisa M. Alcott)  Still the best bildungsroman. Ever. 

Speaker for the Dead (by Orson S. Card)  Sci-fi, philosopy, anthropology, politics, religion; all in one. Yes. I’m such a weirdo to enjoy the second book far more than the first one. 

27. Do you believe one can fall out of love? 

It’s a fact. Why bother asking anyway. 

28. What are your three favourite sounding words? 

Peculiar  Don’t you think the word ‘peculiar’ has such a peculiar pronunciation? 

Halcyon  Archaic one, yes. So old-fashioned that Kirun--who fancies classics--is indulged by its subliminal beauty. Moreover, it was used as the title of a Bleach’s chapter: ‘Goodbye, Halcyon Days’. Aren’t ya romantic, Orihime? 

Preposterous I like to shout out this word--in my solitude, of course--whenever expressing my disbelief. 

31. List the seven deadly sins in order of the one you feel you commit the most to the one you feel you commit the least. 

Pride, greed, wrath, envy, gluttony, sloth, then lust. 

32. What’s your current desktop picture? 

46. What’s your favourite ever television commercial? 

49. What’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you? 

“Kirun kan pacarnya aku.” -- by some girl 

51. Name five facts that the vast majority of people won’t know about you. 

I’m a girl (see? I knew you’d be surprised). 

Clearly not a fujoshi. What? You guys don’t believe me? Fine then. 

Though having [too] many guy friends, all of my bestfriends are girls; which are, of course, very few in numbers. 

Yes, I’m very aware that I love Gaara so dearly, but I’m still normal too, you know, since I had crushes in real life. And they were boys. I know, I know, I’m so gay, right? Wait, what am I exacly; male of female? 

Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually a piiiipp who wishes to openly express my opinions and matters without worrying any prejudice nor distressing the ones I love. 

54. Share five goals you want to complete in the next 30 days.

Sing Asterisk (of Orange Range’s) fluently. This one’s freaking hard. 

Read more than ten books. 

Write at least a short story. My imagination has been dormant these days. Inspirations, I summon thee! 

Survive without snacks and confectionaries. Kirun, you can do this! 

Yes. For one more time. Survive. 

58. State eight facts about your body.

I have all the necessities of human being. 

Oh, except my appendix had been removed. 

Thank goodness the tail remains vestigial. 

I’m getting fatter (don’t kill me, people). 

A bit taller than average. 

Pale as Suzanna-on-action. 

My nails aren’t neatly trimmed. 

I hate to admit this, but... my nose is... flat--annoyingly flat that even my cute, golden-hearted but veracious little sister pointed, “Sis, is your nose always that tabular?” WHY LIL SIS WHY?! 

60. Are you allergic to anything? If so, what? 

Romantic love. Sure I do not resist to read or watch romance, but if it happens directly to me... NO. PLEASE. STAY OUT OF THE LINE, MISTER/MISS. 

61. Describe yourself in one word/sentence? 

“Tetapi sesederhana-sederhana cerita yang ditulis, dia mewakili pribadi individu (...)“ -- Jejak Langkah (by Pramoedya A. Toer) 

63. Share five facts about your childhood. 

Can I write it in quotes?

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” 

“If you don’t imagine, nothing ever happens at all.” 

“We need never be ashamed of our tears.”

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” 

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” 

71. Name five people who are famous who you find attractive.

John and Hank Green (I really can’t choose between those two), 

Matthew Macfadyen (best Mr. Darcy ever!),  

Mark Ruffalo (husky voice and wistful countenance, how I love those combination), 

Kim Rae-won (probably the only Korean actor that I find cute), and 

Eddie Redmayne (HOW CAN YOU PLAY NEWT WITH SO MUCH CUTENESS?! HOW CAN YOUUUU!!!). 

81. Share five facts about your best friend(s). 

Most of them are humans. 

One is the embodiment of integrated-circuits. 

Some are ailurophile. 

Few are bibliophile. 

None is pedophile, gladly. 

82. What’s the most superficial characteristic you look for in a partner?

Has to be the opposite sex. Duh. 

83. Share five ways to instantly win your heart. 

Are you Gaara? If not, well... screw you.  

88. Give a description of the person you dislike the most. 

We share the same room. We share the same clothes. We share the same food. We share the same body. We share the same mind. 

91. If food was people, who would be your best friend, your life partner, your enemy, and your ex? 

Best friend: okonomiyaki and curry ramen. 

Life partner: mom’s seared, chilli scallops. 

Enemy: pare. 

Ex: instant noodles. 

[dannyreviews]

Dirk Bogarde vs. Laurence Harvey

About a year ago, I did a post comparing the acting abilities of Faye Dunaway and Jane Fonda, where I favored Dunaway for the spark she brought to her performances and shamed Fonda for being lackluster. This time, it’s two men of the 1950s/60s British cinema that like Dunaway and Fonda did similar roles and were probably in contention for the top films around. I find the cinema that came out of the whole of Britain during this time to be chock full of masterpieces. 95-97% of the leading actors and actresses gave all the gusto in the world to perfect their performances. One of these two men is among the lion’s share of legendary talents, while the other one was not only mediocre in my eyes, but in the eyes of his colleagues. 

I always found Dirk Bogarde to have the Anglo charm that could be served as a side dish to a meal of Shepherds pie and scones. It was that charm that made it possible for him to play different types of personas. He could be devious, shy, tortured, bewildered, regal or a mixture of one or more of these traits. The role that made it official that he would be among the best was Dr. Simon Sparrow in Ralph Thomas’ “Doctor In The House”, where his dry wit was a great contrast to co-star Kenneth More’s extravagant behavior. A year later, he did an about face in Lewis Gilbert’s “Cast A Dark Shadow” playing a heartless black widower. Going into the 60s and 70s, Bogarde’s roles became much more varied. In Joseph Losey’s “The Servant” and Liliana Cavani’s “The Night Porter”, Bogarde played men with mysterious pasts. His facial and bodily language tantalizes the crowd to the point where they want to know what he is capable of. Basil Drearden’s “Victim” has Bogarde as an empathetic character, where you feel his constant pain that was the consequence of vicious blackmailing. In Luchino Visconti’s “The Damned”, Bogarde’s aristocratic tyrant rules with an iron fist, where you would fear his presence. Fassbinder’s “Despair” shows a once successful businessman on the brink of insanity. Finally, in Jack Clayton’s “Our Mother’s House”, Bogarde plays a deadbeat dad returning into the lives of his 7 children after his estranged wife’s death. The extreme climatic scene is one that fills your entire body with goosebumps. Dirk Bogarde did it all, and left the acting world with people wanting more.

Laurence Harvey was always the dull presence in some of the most fascinating films of the era. Whenever he was on screen, his characters just seem unlikable and his acting was not convincing to say the least. To begin with his Oscar nominated performance in Jack Clayton’s “Room At The Top”, the angry young man persona that made Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Alan Bates, Tom Courtenay and Albert Finney stand out was nowhere to be seen in Harvey. I would have dubbed him "the stoic young man" because there was no legitimate angry characteristic traits evident. Why Harvey was even recognized by AMPAS for such a nothing role is a mystery, but at least it was his only nomination. Harvey’s performances only got more irritating. In Carol Reed’s “The Running Man”, in order to allude capture, Harvey’s Rex puts on an Australian accent that seemed so fake that it was just ridiculous that anyone would believe the facade. John Frankenheimer’s “The Manchurian Candidate” had excellent performances from Angela Lansbury and James Gregory, but Harvey (and Frank Sinatra) weakened things. His staleness may have been appropriate for his hypnotized character but Harvey hammed it up when he played drunk and frustrated. In John Schlesinger’s “Darling” (with Bogarde and Julie Christie in the first photo) Harvey’s lowlife character was empty inside, as if he had no personality. It made him all the more to loathe his presence, but not for the right reasons. His worst performance was in Anthony Harvey’s “A Dandy In Aspic”. The protagonist in any spy film is supposed to be an animated spectacle. Harvey’s Eberlin spoke with a monotone voice that got annoying after 10 minutes and his visible character flaws made you want him to fail. Even sharing scenes with Tom Courtenay and Per Oscarsson couldn’t help alleviate Harvey’s bad acting. Then again, being in the same room as Olivier or Gielgud wouldn't have helped either.

Great acting and a classy personality is always a prerequisite to allow your audience and colleagues to embrace your craft. Dirk Bogarde got a huge “This Is Your Life” like tribute held by BAFTA in 1988 where his co-stars and friends feted a legend who was loved by all. The day before he died, Bogarde spent the day with close friend Lauren Bacall. It just shows that people were still close with him and enjoyed his company even to the end. Harvey’s legacy: being hated by people he once worked with. Robert Stephens said “he was an appalling man and even more unforgivably, an appalling actor. ” Co-stars Sid James, Sarah Miles, Lee Remick, Barbara Stanwyck, Kim Novak and Jane Fonda, were either turned off by his bad acting, his arrogance or both. It’s no shock that by the time of his death in 1973, Harvey was a washed up has-been that alienated everyone (except Elizabeth Taylor and a handful of others) in mainstream Hollywood and Britain with his bad acting, alcoholism and unruliness. 

[fashiontrendin-blog]

Phoebe Waller-Bridge on the *must-watch* fierce and fearless feminist drama, 'Killing Eve'

http://fashion-trendin.com/phoebe-waller-bridge-on-the-must-watch-fierce-and-fearless-feminist-drama-killing-eve/

Phoebe Waller-Bridge on the *must-watch* fierce and fearless feminist drama, 'Killing Eve'

The term ‘girl crush’ is thrown around so liberally but there seems to be no other phrase that sums up Phoebe Waller-Bridge so perfectly. Sat alongside me on the chicest of couches in the most Haute Hotel, I found her to be the funniest and most real celebrity this side of Clapham.

Whilst she animatedly attacks our interview with full force, I find myself imagining Phoebe slotting nicely into my life: as the perfect WhatsApp warrior when a f**k boy has done me over, my shots sister for knocking back Jaeger Bombs to get over said lad and the ultimate sounding board for debating the deep and meaningful topics of our time (more on that later!).

What makes Waller-Bridge so god damn amazing? Phoebe’s ability to encapsulate all of us with one surprising move after another – even when playing a droid in Han Solo: A Star Wars Story.

Talking about the moment she realised the gal who pitched a show to BBC3 on a shoestring budget was going to star in a Star Wars sanctified film, she says, “it only really hit me two weeks after we wrapped the film. I was just on a bus home and it hit, ‘OMG I was just on a Star Wars film, I was just in a Star Wars film for the last few months!’ I called my sister and said, ‘I’ve just been in Star Wars!’ and she was like, ‘yeah mate… we know!’”

You can always rely on a sibling for a reality check, accessorised with an eye roll, and for a bus journey to produce the ultimate epiphany. A best friend’s loo can equally be a grounding space, apparently: “I was in my friend’s loo when I found out I had the part. I got the call and then walked in really slowly, with a really red face. Shocked, she said, ‘WHAT happened in there?!’” See, I told you; Phoebe is a red-faced piece of us, just humbly making her way through Hollywood.

In a world, practically another galaxy away from her pal’s lav, the corridors that surround her normality are, for today, currently the stomping ground for her co-stars, Donald Glover, Emilia Clarke and the army of publicists that come along for the Star Wars ride. Phoebe, in stark contrast to the circus that encircles her, is the definition of #grounded with the Oyster card to prove it.

Discussing her first meeting with Chewbacca, she said: “you feel so safe in his arms. You’re also slightly frightened and a bit aroused.” It’s her friendship with said co-stars that will last well into the future.

I personally spent the grand total of 1.2 seconds in the company of Donald Glover and nearly fainted, so one can only imagine the effects filming with the chap for months on end would have: “I mean, THERE’S the force. The force is trying to prevent people falling at Donald’s feet – he’s incredible. He’s so cool, funny and he’s such a big thinker. He’s got a really cool perspective on the world. I think he’s going to be king of the world!” A forceful statement but indeed, true.

“He will talk about unbelievable high concept things in the space of ten seconds in a completely unpretentious and fun way. Then he will just leave, and you are like, ‘what’s happened?’ A friend of mine called him, ‘a Philosopher King,’ after meeting him, which is so cute!”

However, the Princess to her Leia, Emilia Clarke, became the person she sought advice from, explaining: “it’s like talking to THE Google, when you are talking to Donald about philosophical conversations, so I would go to Emilia for advice on how to interpret those intense chats!”

The bond between these two ladies – who come in at wildly different comedic heights, “I am four times the size of her,” Phoebe comedically comments – doesn’t stop at the philosophical. “It was my birthday during filming and I spent weeks telling everyone. When it came to the day, no one gave me any attention and then I walked into my trailer where Emilia had this enormous cake baked especially for me. It was the most incredible thing I had ever seen, it was piled so high, it was bigger than my robot head! She’s just a giver of love and I’d like to keep her!” Now that is a pairing that is out of this world.

Imagining Phoebe, “clumping around on set,” with her aforementioned over-sized robot head is something which could easily be lifted from her comedy sketch show, Flea Bag. The image alone could garner enough comedy gold for another BAFTA win, “I wore a really flattering skin-tight lime green body sock topped off with a full heavy droid head with two tiny little eye holes and a little tiny straw hole that they would occasionally feed me peanuts through. On top of that, they’d attach metal arms and legs – basically what you see in the film, I had on me at all times!”

At least joining Star Wars means you get paid to weightlift and you can pie your gym membership, then? “I was like, ‘maybe if you just give me a trainer and then I just become really, really hot.’ I had images of becoming this hot droid. Instead, the producers said, ‘no, no, no the kind of awkward, weird, ridiculous walk you do naturally suits L-3 perfectly.” Phoebe’s comedic charm goes right to her very wires.

By this point we are both collapsed into each other, laughing away as if we have been on the Jaegers for hours but it’s only 10am when the young queen of British Comedy hits me with the punchline: “I had to have a special seat to fit my droid ass in because it was so wide!” You can take the girl out of Flea Bag, but you can’t take Flea Bag out of the girl.

If you haven’t watched the show, which peppers this piece and forged Phoebe’s golden path to Star Wars, you are seriously missing out. Every beat of Flea Bag’s narrative – which stars PWB and is written by her – strikes a cutting chord with anyone who’s mumbled through an awkward chat with a chap you have been salivating over since last summer. Ultimately, the show tackles female sexuality through the canon of comedy and presents it on a very relatable platter. It’s worthwhile noting that IRL, Phoebe is actually happily married.

But in a post-#metoo world, I am intrigued to know if there is room for freely making jokes about female sexuality in TV series. Phoebe, ever the educated one woman-wonder, pauses to find the exact words, “I feel like it was a different conversation when it (Fleabag) came out. I think the tension and the pressure-cooker feeling of needing to talk about the complexities of female sexuality and the feelings around it was at a different stage then.”

Artfully articulated in the most approachable way, she continues, “being able to talk about female sexuality openly with a sense of humour outside of the political shift that happened afterwards with the ‘Me Too’ movementand all those horrible exposés was the relief at the beginning. But now the conversation is rightfully serious and there isn’t so much room for that. I think there’s always room for humour, but we were all in such shock, especially about the Harvey allegations and everything that was exposed about the pay gaps all across the industries. It suddenly stopped being funny and I felt like I couldn’t write jokes as easily around the topic of female sexuality.”

Ultimately, Phoebe professes, “you don’t want to risk sounding like you are taking the p*ss out of something that could really be an agent for change and all these conversations could really be changing things.” Word.

Rest assured, Phoebe isn’t totally put off from tackling tricky subject matters as her latest writing project, Killing Eve, starring Jodie Comer as an security operative hunting down a badass assassin played by Grey’s Anatomy‘s Sandra Oh, is set to hit the BBC this summer. Doing her best QVC pitch for the show, Phoebe in full endearing saleswoman mode, exclaims, “I was so excited about the performances and I was so excited by the fearlessness of those two lead performances and how well they orbit each other because they are so well-balanced and FIERCE!”

Just like the droid she plays in Han Solo – who the actress says, “starts a rebellion by mistake and goes, ‘oh look I smashed that!’” – Phoebe may have accidently started a revolution in the way television deals with female sexuality, redefining our galaxy from within.

This is the feminist revolution and this your captain, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, speaking. Over and out.

‘Han Solo: A Star Wars Story’ is released on 24th May 2018.

[carolina-albumdesign-blog]

Coldplay - A Head Full Of Dreams

Coldplay is a British band that was formed in 1996 by Chris Martin (lead singer & keyboardist) and Johnny Buckland (lead guitarist). The band is made of two other members besides Chris and Johnny: Guy Berryman (bassist) and Will Champion (drummer and backup vocalist). The band went by the names of Pectoralz and Starfish before landing on Coldplay in 1998. The group likes to consider Phil Harvey, their creative director, as the fifth member of the band and I definitely agree because, when it comes to Coldplay, the artwork has been equally as important as the music for portraying their ideas and stories.

The reason why I chose to review an album by Coldplay is because I personally love their music and the artwork that comes with it. I admire how much the band was involved in the artwork created for each one of their seven albums. I truly enjoy reading the stories behind every album design and since A Head Full of Dreams is their newest album, I decided to talk a little about how it all came together.

Pilar Zeta was the designer that got to work with the group on this project. She is originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina. When she moved to L.A., Pilar started working for MAAVVEN, an agency that represented a few artists. For their launch, the agency would send GIFs in emails to different people. Each week, a different artist. Somehow Pilar’s GIF got to Phil Harvey and he showed it to Chris Martin. They both saw the future album artwork in there and agreed on needing to meet Pilar.

Behind every meeting, Pilar and Chris were super in sync regarding the concept that they were going for. Coldplay invited Pilar to London for a week to go to their studio as they recorded. They decided to do a huge collage, just for fun, whenever they took breaks. They used old photos of each member, some of them did paintings (including Pilar and some of the band members’ children) and they mainly just had fun with it. When it was finished, they all fell in love with the result and the first thing Chris said was “this needs to be the artwork for the cover.” And that is definitely what it became. You can see it multiplied around the edges of the cover, and the “Flower of Life” stands in the middle (a concept that Pilar and Chris played with before coming up with the collage).

I love how the collage portrays a very surrealist feeling, matching perfectly with the songs on the album and with their alternative rock style. There is a lot of colors on the edges but they contrast nicely with the stark black from the center, making the “Flower of Life” be the center of attention, despite all the details on the edge. I believe it is a great, very well done, design and I do definitely think that, the fact that is so personal to all the members, it adds a certain charm to the artwork.

-Carolina.

[glenngaylord]

THE PAWN OF COMEDY - My Review of THE COMEDIAN (2 Stars)

Almost like clockwork, we’ve been able to count on Liam Neeson to kill someone in January.  I guess he decided to play a tree in the wonderful A MONSTER CALLS instead. Good idea. So now we have the new tradition of Robert DeNiro starring in a terrible film at the start of the new year.  First we endured DIRTY GRANDPA (unless you were smart enough to skip) and now a veritable committee of writers and one truly bored director have bestowed upon us THE COMEDIAN, and unlike Liam Neeson, it does not kill.  

Back in 1983, a time before he said “yes” to every movie offer, DeNiro starred in THE KING OF COMEDY, one of my favorite Martin Scorsese films.  As the indelible Rupert Pupkin, DeNiro played a terrible comic who, through some hilariously illegal methods, managed to soar to great heights.  It was fresh, subversive filmmaking.  By contrast, DeNiro plays Jackie, a pretty great insult comic who struggles to live down his inane image from a terrible sitcom, yet the whole enterprise feels beyond stale.  

Taylor Hackford has had a spotty career, but did well with AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN and especially the classic DOLORES CLAIBORNE.  Directing a script written by talented people (Art Linson and Richard LaGravenese, both accomplished filmmakers, with Jeffrey Ross and Lewis Friedman from the comedy world) Hackford very clearly does not seem inspired by the material.  A rom-com disguised as a comedian’s journey, Jackie meets and falls for Harmony (Leslie Mann) while performing community service after beating up a heckler one night.  In between his many stand-up sequences, we follow Jackie as he learns to appreciate other people?  Become a better person?  Well, kinda sorta, but, in fact, he learns to destroy everything in his path because the inevitable cell phone footage will likely go viral and make him a bigger star.  Think of this film as a way to welcome older generations to the YOUTUBE era.

Hackford directs this tiresome film on auto-pilot.  He and cinematographer Oliver Stapleton, who has done stellar work in the past, favor uncluttered frames and repeated motifs.  To say it’s a drab approach would be putting things mildly.  In one endless wedding sequence, the transition of tilting down from a chandelier gets used so often, I couldn’t help but feel that the filmmakers gave up.  Or maybe they sat out that day.  It’s happened before.  

This potentially interesting story of a self-sabotaging comic seeking redemption has promise, but Hackford phones it in, undermining the work of some great actors.  DeNiro and Mann have charming chemistry, and several supporting actors, including Danny DeVito, Cloris Leachman, Harvey Keitel, Edie Falco, Charles Grodin, and especially Patti Lupone, manage to shine.  

I admit, this movie made me laugh here and there, with DeNiro barreling through his routines with the bluster of a Don Rickles or Lisa Lampanelli, and the final scene sticks its landing with a laugh-out-loud moment.  Like DIRTY GRANDPA, the comedy supposedly comes from seeing DeNiro go very very blue.  Ok, fine….and at least he isn’t caught jacking off in this one. But, ugh, this thing just keeps going and going and going.  I used to think that if a comedy made me laugh, then mission accomplished.  Other genres require different skills, but comedy seemed pretty cut and dry.  I was wrong.  Comedy requires great direction, especially an appreciation for comic timing.  Too often, THE COMEDIAN feels like old school mush, and it’s a shame, because I loved seeing all of these fantastic, aging actors get the spotlight for a change.  Come back, Rupert Pupkin!  Come back!

[vinayv224]

Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro in The Irishman. | Niko Tavernise / NETFLIX

Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci headline a long, winding movie that’s well worth the watch.

Late in The Irishman, Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) says that “you don’t know how fast time goes by until you get there,” and there’s just a twinkle of irony mixed into the melancholy. After all, by then, the movie is past the three-hour mark. (It ultimately tops out at 209 minutes.)

But that’s sort of the point. Time telescopes in Martin Scorsese’s newest movie, shifting back and forth through decades as old, wistful Frank narrates the tale of his life as a hitman for crime syndicate boss Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) and then for Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino, who has somehow never worked with Scorsese before now). Which of course means the film rightfully will be compared to earlier Scorsese movies, like 1973’s Mean Streets and 1990’s Goodfellas, and not just because of the subject matter; in The Irishman, the director reunites with some of his longest-running collaborators from those films, including De Niro, Pesci, and Harvey Keitel.

Like those two movies — and all of Scorsese’s work, really — The Irishman is also about guilt, sin, and redemption. But with its lengthy runtime, this one has space to lean in two different tonal directions. The Irishman has both the frenetic swagger of his mob movies and the more contemplative gut wrench of his most spiritual films, like 1988’s The Last Temptation of Christ and his most recent film, 2016’s Silence.

And the movie has the maturity of an older man’s perspective, an eye cast backward on a full life. It is lively and wry and very funny, but at times it also feels like a confession, a plea for grace, not just from its protagonist but from the filmmaker himself.

Frank’s story is long and packed full of anecdotes that are always terribly fun, if sometimes aimless. This isn’t one coherent narrative as much as the recounting of a life, with the twists and turns life takes that defy tidy storytelling. It’s crowded with the figures who occupied his attention ever since he was a young man finding his way into Bufalino’s good graces. That happens partly as a result of a chance encounter with his union attorney (Ray Romano), who turns out to be Bufalino’s cousin. His work as a hitman and a fixer with Bufalino becomes a gig as one of Hoffa’s most trusted friends and aides, and Frank’s life is intertwined with both men. For a while, they’re on top of the world. And then — thanks largely to the machinations of history — things start changing for them.

There’s a lot in The Irishman that evokes Scorsese’s earlier work, from the way characters talk and act and dress to the occasional bursts of bloody violence. (Steven Zaillian’s screenplay is based on Charles Brandt’s 2004 book I Heard You Paint Houses, which details what the real-life Frank told Brandt about Hoffa’s infamous 1975 disappearance; Hoffa was pronounced dead seven years later when his body failed to materialize. The titular “paint” on houses is not, well, paint — though it’s certainly red.)

Niko Tavernise / NETFLIX

Lots of excitement.

In its first act, the film can be tedious, because it gives very little indication of why exactly we’re watching these men do their thing other than Scorsese thinks we should be. (The purpose does become clear, but in a way that will only reward the patient.) The long runtime — clearly part of the appeal of the film’s eventual home being Netflix, where a movie can be as long or as short as you want, especially if you’re Martin Scorsese — means that scenes have more breathing room than we’re accustomed to seeing. Technically, they could be “tightened” up, perhaps by trimming out some of the dialogue or reaction shots, or removing parts that don’t fit into a more streamlined plot.

But the near-bagginess of the film is part of its initial charm. And by the end, it becomes important. The Irishman’s long arc (which involves the use of largely unobtrusive de-aging technology) means the film follows Frank and his associates long past when the movie usually ends, with triumph or failure. The film instead takes a distinct turn away from rat-a-tat plotting and revenge toward a frankly stunning, contemplative movement. The bluster and scheming of middle-aged men eventually gives way to age, to losing people one by one, and to consequences for life’s choices.

Suddenly, it becomes very important to realize we’ve been listening to Frank narrate his story.

The Irishman is Frank’s version of his life’s story — until the movie reinvents itself

For much of The Irishman, the women are at the margins — wives and daughters, always around, rarely saying anything. This isn’t atypical in Scorsese’s work, which rarely centers on women. The worlds he makes movies about are built by men, for men. They see women as beloved and beautiful accessories, maybe tangentially helpful, sometimes irrational irritations. Sometimes, the woman is just the nuisance who makes you pull the car over every hour on a road trip for a smoke break.

But The Irishman uses Frank’s perspective on the women in his life to remind us that his myopia has blinded him to the truth about himself. One of the stranger parts of Frank’s story is the barely glancing interest — just a line or two — that he gives to leaving his wife for a waitress, and a shrugging explanation he gives to Russell for why his divorce couldn’t possibly be affecting his children. (The two women get along like gangbusters, he says; there’s no problem there at all, see?)

Similarly, the role that Frank’s daughter Peggy (played as a child by Lucy Gallina and an adult by Anna Paquin) plays in the film feels weird, for a while. She’s only one of several daughters, but she’s also the one most important to him. She mistrusts Russell, but she loves Jimmy. Scorsese makes a point of directing our attention toward how Peggy watches her father and his associates, taking in what they’re doing and quietly making her own decisions. But she never, at least in Frank’s memory, tells him what she’s thinking.

Netflix

Robert De Niro in The Irishman.

So late in the film, when Peggy has stopped talking to her father altogether, Frank asks another daughter (Marin Ireland) to help him reach her. And it’s an eye-opening moment, both for Frank and for us in the audience, who have been watching the story through Frank’s perspective. “You don’t know what it was like for us,” she tells him, visible frustration on her face and tears in her eyes. When he thought he was protecting his daughters, they were afraid to tell him about anything that happened to them lest he mete out swift and excessively violent judgment. And so they were less protected. His perception of himself and of what he was doing for his family didn’t match reality. It was just that: his perception of himself.

That realization, with others, starts to nudge Frank toward something like self-examination. And given Scorsese’s long proclivity toward looking for meaning in Catholic symbolism, Frank’s own Catholicism starts to resurface. The movie’s other unofficial theme might be the Biblical injunction that the wages of sin is death — frequently we’re introduced to a person just long enough for their date and means of death to flash on screen — and when your life is defined by helping others meet their death, you start to get thoughtful when you approach your own. The older Frank gets, the more people he loses, the more he watches the men he once idolized fading away, the more he struggles to understand how his life of murder and extortion squares with the possibility of an afterlife.

He breaks bread and drinks grape juice with Russell (in a scene that’s also reminiscent of a famous Goodfellas scene). He tells a priest that he’s not sure if he’s sorry for anything he’s done, and the priest gently reminds him that we can feel sorry or we can choose to feel sorry. We see the rare flicker of his self-doubt and the guilt he feels for acts of betrayal. And when the priest prays with Frank that God will “help us see ourselves as you see us,” there’s a lot riding on that prayer.

An aging filmmaker with a long, rich, full history of examining crime and sin and death might rightly land on these themes at this point in his career. The final minutes of The Irishman contrast starkly with the start of the film, because that is how our lives play out. What matters at the end is who we loved and how we loved them, and whether we treated them like they mattered. And the film leaves open the question we all face: If we messed that part up, what, in the end, was life really worth?

The Irishman premiered at the New York Film Festival on September 27. It will open in limited theaters on November 1 and premiere on Netflix on November 27.

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[fashiontrendin-blog]

Star Wars star Phoebe Waller-Bridge on her close bond with Emilia Clarke and why she still takes the bus

http://fashion-trendin.com/star-wars-star-phoebe-waller-bridge-on-her-close-bond-with-emilia-clarke-and-why-she-still-takes-the-bus/

Star Wars star Phoebe Waller-Bridge on her close bond with Emilia Clarke and why she still takes the bus

The term ‘girl crush’ is thrown around so liberally but there seems to be no other phrase that sums up Phoebe Waller-Bridge so perfectly. Sat alongside me on the chicest of couches in the most Haute Hotel, I found her to be the funniest and most real celebrity this side of Clapham.

Whilst she animatedly attacks our interview with full force, I find myself imagining Phoebe slotting nicely into my life: as the perfect WhatsApp warrior when a f**k boy has done me over, my shots sister for knocking back Jaeger Bombs to get over said lad and the ultimate sounding board for debating the deep and meaningful topics of our time (more on that later!).

What makes Waller-Bridge so god damn amazing? Phoebe’s ability to encapsulate all of us with one surprising move after another – even when playing a droid in Han Solo: A Star Wars Story.

Talking about the moment she realised the gal who pitched a show to BBC3 on a shoestring budget was going to star in a Star Wars sanctified film, she says, “it only really hit me two weeks after we wrapped the film. I was just on a bus home and it hit, ‘OMG I was just on a Star Wars film, I was just in a Star Wars film for the last few months!’ I called my sister and said, ‘I’ve just been in Star Wars!’ and she was like, ‘yeah mate… we know!’”

You can always rely on a sibling for a reality check, accessorised with an eye roll, and for a bus journey to produce the ultimate epiphany. A best friend’s loo can equally be a grounding space, apparently: “I was in my friend’s loo when I found out I had the part. I got the call and then walked in really slowly, with a really red face. Shocked, she said, ‘WHAT happened in there?!’” See, I told you; Phoebe is a red-faced piece of us, just humbly making her way through Hollywood.

In a world, practically another galaxy away from her pal’s lav, the corridors that surround her normality are, for today, currently the stomping ground for her co-stars, Donald Glover, Emilia Clarke and the army of publicists that come along for the Star Wars ride. Phoebe, in stark contrast to the circus that encircles her, is the definition of #grounded with the Oyster card to prove it.

Discussing her first meeting with Chewbacca, she said: “you feel so safe in his arms. You’re also slightly frightened and a bit aroused.” It’s her friendship with said co-stars that will last well into the future.

I personally spent the grand total of 1.2 seconds in the company of Donald Glover and nearly fainted, so one can only imagine the effects filming with the chap for months on end would have: “I mean, THERE’S the force. The force is trying to prevent people falling at Donald’s feet – he’s incredible. He’s so cool, funny and he’s such a big thinker. He’s got a really cool perspective on the world. I think he’s going to be king of the world!” A forceful statement but indeed, true.

“He will talk about unbelievable high concept things in the space of ten seconds in a completely unpretentious and fun way. Then he will just leave, and you are like, ‘what’s happened?’ A friend of mine called him, ‘a Philosopher King,’ after meeting him, which is so cute!”

However, the Princess to her Leia, Emilia Clarke, became the person she sought advice from, explaining: “it’s like talking to THE Google, when you are talking to Donald about philosophical conversations, so I would go to Emilia for advice on how to interpret those intense chats!”

The bond between these two ladies – who come in at wildly different comedic heights, “I am four times the size of her,” Phoebe comedically comments – doesn’t stop at the philosophical. “It was my birthday during filming and I spent weeks telling everyone. When it came to the day, no one gave me any attention and then I walked into my trailer where Emilia had this enormous cake baked especially for me. It was the most incredible thing I had ever seen, it was piled so high, it was bigger than my robot head! She’s just a giver of love and I’d like to keep her!” Now that is a pairing that is out of this world.

Imagining Phoebe, “clumping around on set,” with her aforementioned over-sized robot head is something which could easily be lifted from her comedy sketch show, Flea Bag. The image alone could garner enough comedy gold for another BAFTA win, “I wore a really flattering skin-tight lime green body sock topped off with a full heavy droid head with two tiny little eye holes and a little tiny straw hole that they would occasionally feed me peanuts through. On top of that, they’d attach metal arms and legs – basically what you see in the film, I had on me at all times!”

At least joining Star Wars means you get paid to weightlift and you can pie your gym membership, then? “I was like, ‘maybe if you just give me a trainer and then I just become really, really hot.’ I had images of becoming this hot droid. Instead, the producers said, ‘no, no, no the kind of awkward, weird, ridiculous walk you do naturally suits L-3 perfectly.” Phoebe’s comedic charm goes right to her very wires.

By this point we are both collapsed into each other, laughing away as if we have been on the Jaegers for hours but it’s only 10am when the young queen of British Comedy hits me with the punchline: “I had to have a special seat to fit my droid ass in because it was so wide!” You can take the girl out of Flea Bag, but you can’t take Flea Bag out of the girl.

If you haven’t watched the show, which peppers this piece and forged Phoebe’s golden path to Star Wars, you are seriously missing out. Every beat of Flea Bag’s narrative – which stars PWB and is written by her – strikes a cutting chord with anyone who’s mumbled through an awkward chat with a chap you have been salivating over since last summer. Ultimately, the show tackles female sexuality through the canon of comedy and presents it on a very relatable platter. It’s worthwhile noting that IRL, Phoebe is actually happily married.

But in a post-#metoo world, I am intrigued to know if there is room for freely making jokes about female sexuality. Phoebe, ever the educated one woman-wonder, pauses to find the exact words, “I feel like it was a different conversation when it (Fleabag) came out. I think the tension and the pressure-cooker feeling of needing to talk about the complexities of female sexuality and the feelings around it was at a different stage then.”

Artfully articulated in the most approachable way, she continues, “being able to talk about female sexuality openly with a sense of humour outside of the political shift that happened afterwards with the ‘Me Too’ movementand all those horrible exposés was the relief at the beginning. But now the conversation is rightfully serious and there isn’t so much room for that. I think there’s always room for humour, but we were all in such shock, especially about the Harvey allegations and everything that was exposed about the pay gaps all across the industries. It suddenly stopped being funny and I felt like I couldn’t write jokes as easily around the topic of female sexuality.”

Ultimately, Phoebe professes, “you don’t want to risk sounding like you are taking the p*ss out of something that could really be an agent for change and all these conversations could really be changing things.” Word.

Rest assured, Phoebe isn’t totally put off from tackling tricky subject matters as her latest writing project, Killing Eve, starring Jodie Comer as an security operative hunting down a badass assassin played by Grey’s Anatomy‘s Sandra Oh, is set to hit the BBC this summer. Doing her best QVC pitch for the show, Phoebe in full endearing saleswoman mode, exclaims, “I was so excited about the performances and I was so excited by the fearlessness of those two lead performances and how well they orbit each other because they are so well-balanced and FIERCE!”

Just like the droid she plays in Han Solo – who the actress says, “starts a rebellion by mistake and goes, ‘oh look I smashed that!’” – Phoebe may have accidently started a revolution in the way television deals with female sexuality, redefining our galaxy from within.

This is the feminist revolution and this your captain, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, speaking. Over and out.

‘Han Solo: A Star Wars Story’ is released on 24th May 2018.