#i feel like its a mix of linda being more emotional and expressive with her grief vs bob who went through something that was presumably

[br1ghtestlight]

btw i think its extremely funny that there's a bobs burgers episode about somebody grieving for their dead loved one and holding onto reminders of them, how they died too young and talking about how they never got to meet gene louise or tina and how they wouldve loved them so much etc etc and somehow its NOT about bob's mom, who is like the only character where that plot would make sense

[dweemeister]

Flower Drum Song (1961)

M*A*S*H and Star Trek: The Next Generation have long been television favorites of mine. My parents introduced me to both shows – fixtures in American entertainment as Vietnamese refugee families fled to and renewed their lives in the United States. The writers of M*A*S*H, a show set during the Korean War, did not make it a secret that the show mirrored American involvement in the Vietnam War. M*A*S*H understandably focused its attention on its mostly white doctors, nurses, and non-coms. But from time to time, the show railed against war’s horrible effects on the local populace, on whose land such bloodshed is waged. In these episodes, M*A*S*H always cast Asian-American actors of varying ethnicities to play the Koreans (the value of these depictions of Koreans varies, but it is evident the all-white writing staff gave their best effort to portray Koreans in their full humanity). For a show that aired from 1971-1983, this was a radical decision as yellowface was still a widely-accepted practice in Hollywood. Star Trek, in its various incarnations, has espoused “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations” from its inception. Numerous Asian-American recurring actors and guest stars of these shows have appeared in these shows I cherish (and many others) for decades. My memory flows with many of their faces and voices, even if I do not recall their names.

Adapted from C.Y. Lee’s novel of the same name, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II’s musical Flower Drum Song debuted on Broadway in 1958. The musical resembled nothing currently on the Great White Way, with an almost entirely all-Asian cast. Yet this musical still caused consternation. Some Asian-Americans expressed their rightful disapproval towards Rodgers and Hammerstein’s patronizing dialogue and racially insensitive characterizations. For this film adaptation by Universal (this is the only Rodgers and Hammerstein film adaptation without 20th Century Fox’s involvement), screenwriter Joseph Fields – who collaborated with Hammerstein on Flower Drum Song’s book – made major adjustments in order to stem controversy. Fields rearranged the plot and soundtrack and, most importantly, rewrote more than half of Flower Drum Song’s dialogue in order to accomplish a more respectful (if still imperfect) portrayal of all the musical’s characters.

The reworked Flower Drum Song attracted a star-studded Asian-American cast. So many in this cast are actors and actresses I have known only through their guest or recurring television roles, maybe the odd extra in a movie. To see them act in non-denigrating roles, sing, and dance in a major Hollywood studio feature film was revelatory. I admit, while viewing Flower Drum Song, feeling pangs of frustration over how Hollywood’s structural racism precluded too many in this cast from stardom. But that frustration was overcome by joy – a joy in seeing these Asian-American actors display their talents in a fashion I, even in 2020, long to witness. Though still constrained by Rodgers and Hammerstein’s stereotypical views towards people of Asian descent, Flower Drum Song is a unique cinematic experience.

Mei Li (Miyoshi Umeki) and her father, Dr. Han Li (Kam Tong) have stowed away on a ship carrying them from their home in China to San Francisco. The Lis are here to complete Sammy Fong’s (Jack Soo) request for a mail-order bride. Sammy is the slick-talking owner of the Celestial Gardens nightclub, who just so happens to be in a relationship with his principal showgirl, Linda Low (Nancy Kwan). So when the Lis arrive at the nightclub, Sammy realizes the pickle he has put himself in. In his attempts to dissolve the marriage contract, he has the Lis take up residence with the Wang family – including patriarch Wang Chi-Yang (Benson Fong), Master Wang’s sister-in-law Madame Liang (Juanita Hall, a mixed-race actor of African-American and Irish descent, in yellowface), eldest son Wang Ta (James Shigeta), and younger son Wang San (Patrick Adiarte). Secretly, Sammy has convinced Madame Liang to allow Mei Li to fall naturally in love with Wang Ta. Meanwhile, Linda is flustered with Sammy after learning of his mail-order bride plans. They separate, and she soon begins to start dating Wang Ta. Wang Ta is also the object of affection of childhood friend and seamstress, Helen Chao (Reiko Sato). If you could not guess by now, the plot of Flower Drum Song revolves around complicated relationship polygons.

Actors also appearing in this film are Victor Sen Yung as the Celestial Gardens’ emcee, Soo Yong as Madame Yen Fong (Sammy’s mother; this role was to be played Anna May Wong, but she died before production began), and James Hong as the head waiter at the Celestial Gardens. Virginia Ann Lee and Cherylene Lee play Wang San’s girlfriend and the Wang family’s youngest daughter, respectively.

In this rewriting of Flower Drum Song, screenwriter Joseph Fields, there is a greater focus on generational conflict. This film adaptation is unclear when the story takes place. But by looking at some of the technology and mannerisms, I will guess sometime after World War II, probably the 1950s. In this rendition of San Francisco’s Chinatown, first-generation Chinese immigrants live alongside the second and third generations. This mix creates a tension that permeates across the film – from how characters dress, behave in public (if they even go out in public) and private settings, and most notably romantic expectations.

The depiction of this tension is simplistic: those are not American-born uphold as many traditions as they can; those who are American-born are “Chinese” to some extent, but mostly do not think much about Chinese traditions. You are either assimilated into American society or not, says Flower Drum Song – a troublesome generalization that persists in Asian-American subgroups whose history in the U.S. is not as long as Chinese-Americans. But, in a rare instance for a Golden Age Hollywood film, Fields assures that this adaptation does not mock the first generation for not being as “American” as they could possibly be. Assimilation is on the terms of the characters, not contrived societal norms. Another anomaly in Flower Drum Song: the younger generations are assertively American, rather than offshoots of their elders. The younger generations’ unaccented English, wide range of characterizations, and their incidental Asianness (in that they do not feel the need to announce their Asian or Chinese heritage to others or to the audience) is unusual for the time in which this film was released. At the very minimum, Flower Drum Song tries to normalize Asian-American personhood. When the film fails to uphold that, it is mostly because of preexisting issues. In those instances, Fields cannot write his way outside how Rodgers and Hammerstein had already presented Flower Drum Song on the Broadway stage without compromising the duo’s artistic intent.

Many of the actors involved are not Chinese-American, but the performances are sincere, whether comedic or dramatic*. Having seen only a few of his works, I now wonder whether James Shigeta was just so naturally charming. As the go-to Asian-American romantic lead in Hollywood (not that he was cast in such a role often), his performance is seamless, appearing almost effortless. The same could also be said for Nancy Kwan, fresh off her well-publicized cinematic debut in The World of Suzie Wong (1960). An alumnus of the Royal Ballet School in London, Kwan also shows off her fancy footwork multiple times. Kwan’s dancing mastery is without question and, paired with choreographer Hermes Pan (best remembered as Fred Astaire’s principal choreographic collaborator), showcases her talents. As Mei Li, Miyoshi Umeki is slightly hamstrung by her role’s characterization. Yet as one of two actors who reprised the role they originated on the Broadway stage (along with Juanita Hall as Madame Liang; Jack Soo also appeared on Broadway, but switched roles), I was convinced by Umeki’s emotional fragility and shyness – all this for a character who has just arrived in a foreign land, bewildered by what she sees.

For the M*A*S*H fan in me, there is a special delight seeing Jack Soo and Patrick Adiarte here. Soo, best known as Det. Nick Yemana in the sitcom Barney Miller and for his distinctive face, is the natural comedian in the cast. His delivery – physically, verbally – is fantastic in this film. Adiarte, who also starred as Prince Chulalongkorn in The King and I (1956; I had not made the M*A*S*H connection when I watched that film four years ago) has a solo dance number (“The Other Generation”) in Flower Drum Song that I was floored by due to his athleticism.

As lead choreographer on Flower Drum Song, Hermes Pan directs several dancing segments for the film, each one markedly different from the other. The three most notable dance numbers are “Grant Avenue”; “Fan Tan Fannie”, “Love, Look Away” (the first two include Nancy Kwan; the other includes Reiko Sato and James Shigeta). Alongside the production design by Alexander Golitzen (1940’s Foreign Correspondent, 1960’s Spartacus); Joseph C. Wright (1942’s My Gal Sal, 1953’s Gentlemen Prefer Blondes); and Howard Bristol (1940’s Rebecca, 1959’s Anatomy of a Murder) and the costume design by Irene Sharaff (1951’s An American in Paris, The King and I), the dances are built for Technicolor – even though the film’s Chinatown looks too obviously like a soundstage construction. The abstractions in “Love, Look Away” offer the best example of this choreographic-production design-costuming collaboration. The use of empty space, props suggesting physical divisions and other people, and the enormous dreamlike atmosphere position the scene to be a cinematic manifestation of Helen’s unrequited love for Wang Ta (notably, the dancing segment uses the melody of a song not sung for Helen, but for another). In its ethereal beauty, “Love, Look Away” is a marvelous several minutes of cinematic dance – appearing in a decade where such scenes would only become more rare.

The order of the Rodgers and Hammerstein songs has been rearranged drastically from the original Broadway production; one song (“Like a God”) was dropped entirely because Universal’s executives, “feared that a number in which a Chinese American man compares himself to a god might offend audiences in the American South.” Whatever. The exclusion of “Like a God” does not affect the film much, as this adaptation of Flower Drum Song is a substantially different creature than the stage version. Owing to the performances, the two most notable songs of the musical carry over to the movie. The self-assured anthem “I Enjoy Being a Girl” (Nancy Kwan dubbed by B.J. Baker; Kwan did not protest the dubbing, despite the fact she could sing) may not contain Kwan’s singing voice, but it does boast her charismatic performance.  In the film’s second half, “You Are Beautiful” has Shigeta’s and Umeki’s acting complement the former’s tender singing. But most of the songs – including two of the dance numbers when not considering the choreography (“Grant Avenue” and “Fan Tan Fannie”) – fail to leave an impression. Having Juanita Hall sing “Chop Suey” (an American Chinese dish) underlines the irony of having a non-white actor play someone of Asian descent.

In the Rodgers and Hammerstein repertoire, Flower Drum Song is among the least performed of their musicals. A 2002 revival with copious revisions remains the only production outside the musical’s Broadway and West End debuts – Flower Drum Song has not been on tour since the 1960s. It may not compare well musically, lyrically, and dramatically to Carousel, The King and I, or South Pacific, but it is miles better than the likes of State Fair. But the original production of Flower Drum Song, as written, is now considered offensive to contemporary sensibilities. As the preeminent musical theater compositional duo of their day (I would argue that they are the best in the medium’s history), Rodgers and Hammerstein – through The King and I and South Pacific and Flower Drum Song – intended through their stage musicals to break down the racial barriers that they abhorred. All three of these musicals incorporate ethnic and racial stereotypes that can never be stricken entirely from their film adaptations and subsequent musical revivals. Rodgers and Hammerstein’s intentions are well-meaning in their advocacy for cross-racial understanding, but their messages are muddled. Their work reflects a lack of racial sensitivity, at best.

The 1961 film adaptation of Flower Drum Song is the first major Hollywood studio movie to have a significant number of Asian-Americans as credited cast members since Go for Broke! (1951; a WWII film dramatizing the service of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team). Flower Drum Song ups the ante over Go for Broke! as it has an almost all-Asian cast – a feat not replicated again until The Joy Luck Club (1993) and then Crazy Rich Asians (2018). The environment in 1950s and ‘60s Hollywood excluded Asian-Americans in front of and behind the camera, so I can understand why there are only two films from that era with a majority-Asian cast. But I grade on a temporal curve. There is no excuse in modern Hollywood for the twenty-five-year separation between almost all-Asian casts. Are we to expect that the only Hollywood movies with nearly all-Asian casts/majority Asian casts in the future will be the sequels to Crazy Rich Asians?

For the longest time, Flower Drum Song was the one major Rodgers and Hammerstein musical I knew least about. I suspect, of the duo’s musicals that have been revived, it is the one in their repertoire that even self-professed theater buffs are least aware of. Being the only Rodgers and Hammerstein musical not distributed by 20th Century Fox does not help. Nor does the fact that its last home media release was on DVD in the 2000s. In 2008, Henry Koster’s Flower Drum Song was inducted into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry. That honor marks the film as integral to the history of American cinema. As the constant writing of American cinematic history continues, as audiences become attuned to the history of non-white individuals in Hollywood, perhaps more people will see the importance of this movie. What would have happened if James Shigeta, Nancy Kwan, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo, and their other co-stars were offered the same quality of opportunities of their white colleagues? We will never know. But Flower Drum Song can help the viewer envision the answer.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* My sister will tell you that she does not believe that anyone in this film’s love polygon has a genuine mutual love. I agree. Mei Li’s love for Wang Ta appears genuine, but that is the extent of it.

[catvampire]

All on The Prince’s Seal / Ch. II

[ Masterlist ]

The news had arrived to Matt a minute late, the lining of the hallway blocking network signal until he was back in his own room, leaving him time to do nothing else but to redress himself in the suit he’d worn the previous day sans the tie, and head out of his room to face the disarray, phone constantly in communication with anyone he could get contact to. The second he’d gotten out of his door, Mr. Rossi, the late king’s personal bodyguard and one of the senior members of the security, had already tacked along with him, needed to know if Matt had talked with Luke yet, and commanded him down to the dining room they’d turned into a conference room for the occasion. The now king-to-be needed security, and Luke a friend down there.

The small dining room was filled with people by the time Matt got down there: security detail, staff of the palace, politicians… Everyone who had been invited to the coronation and everyone whose immediate work day was affected by the events was present, and going by the tone of the chatter in the room, not there to offer support.

Luke should be grieving, not dealing with this.

Matt pushed himself through the crowd, spotting a small circle of empty space the rest of the people mass seemed to have centred around. As suspected, Luke sat in the middle of it, eyes focused far away, surrounded by other heads of the country, clearly not hearing much of it. A wave of grief struck through Matt at the sight, the way Luke’s shoulders slumped and how he was only barely keeping his expression check an exact replica of how he’d received the news of his father’s passing---only this time, the tears ready to gather in his eyes were even more visible.

Luke raised his gaze to him, their eyes met, and Matt had to fight back the urge to embrace him, lower himself down to Luke’s level and hold him while the other let his emotions run. He could see the exact same thought flash through Luke’s eyes, the initiative in how Luke repositioned himself as if to stand up before checking himself.

Later, Matt promised, a small nod to Luke accompanying the thought. As soon as we’re alone.

“Your Majesty---,” foreign minister Emily Prentiss started, the title startling them both, and Matt could easily see the annoyance and denial Luke as he turned to her.

“No. Highness. I’m not A King before a coronation.”

Prentiss sighed; Matt could see she didn't want to be doing this either. Matt put down a hand on Luke’s shoulder, knowingly inching on the border of what would be seen as platonic affection and what romantic. Luke’s grief was palpable. Another thing seemed to reach Luke’s mind, and he turned to Matt again.

“Where’s Phil?”

“He was brought straight from the crash site to the hospital,” Jareau replied.

“What---exactly happened?”

Matt felt Jennifer’s---JJ’s, really---eyes on him, took an intake of breath. He wished he wasn’t the one bringing the news, wished he could be holding Luke through it---in a room with dozens of people, with the press and the nation’s eyes right outside waiting for a word, that wasn’t possible---but could understand why Rossi had given him the brief to deliver to the prince.

“There was an explosion on the street.” He could feel the room tense up, hear the simultaneous intakes of breaths. “We don’t know if it was intentional or not. It hit the back of the car behind Teresa, and the force pushed it to the back of her car.”

The room was dead quiet in the pause Matt held. Luke was shaking under Matt’s hand.

“Two dead. Four injured. Phil is in intensive care. Luke… Teresa died instantly. We don't know about Phil yet.”

Silence---the tentative, fearful kind---dominated the room. Luke’s eyes had developed a stare to infinity once again, and the stressed chatter had died to a terrifying quiet, with the sun still shining through the large windows, reminding of what the day was supposed to be about.

Luke still hadn't said a word.

He needed time, he needed solitude, and most of all he needed half of these people to disappear into thin air so he could process this. Not two hours ago he and Matt had lived in a world where Teresa would be the queen for more or less the rest of their lives---now, they’d been thrown into a position neither of them had genuinely considered a possibility for years.

Matt could see Luke wasn’t processing this well.

“Everybody out.”

It received confused looks, even (especially) from Luke. The door opened, and Rossi slipped inside just in time for Matt to repeat himself: “Everybody who doesn’t need to be here, out. Jareau, Prentiss, Seger, Barnes---you can stay. Everyone else, out. You’ll be notified of developments when we have them.”

His words were still being unheard. No, not unheard, just ignored. Matt’s eyes linked with Rossi, who was quick to get the hint.

“Well, you heard the man.” Rossi opened the door, almost pushing the person closest to him to it. “Don’t you all have jobs to do?”

Finally, the message went through, and the mass of people started to move towards the door and Matt could breathe a little. It hadn’t technically been his call to make: as the only one in the room without an officially appointed title, everyone he’d just thrown out outranked him. Living in the palace, his military career, his closeness to Luke earned him some footing within the staff--he just wasn’t sure it was enough for what he just did.

He’d find out in a few hours.

Finally, the door closed again, and left inside were him, Luke, and the four women he’d requested stay: Emily Prentiss, the foreign minister; Clara Seger, the UN representative; Linda Barnes, the prime minister, and Jennifer Jareau, the press secretary---the people he’d made a rough estimate would be the ones needed to get information out. Prentiss had sat down on the table, Clara on the chair by her side, Barnes on the other side of the table, and JJ had walked to him and Luke. The mood of the room had changed from panic to a mix on anticipation and sympathy. Luke looked more like a human in grief now, rather than king incapable of decisions---exactly what Matt had intended.

As eyes turned one by one to Luke, he finally took an intake of breath, lifted his gaze to meet Barnes’s, the JJ’s. “I need to go to the hospital. To meet the people who got hurt---not just Phil. But him too.”

JJ gave a nod. “What are we going to tell the press?”

“That I’m visiting the hospital. We’ll celebrate Day of the Roses like any other year.”

“We’ll just close off the gardens closest to the palace,” Matt added, “we’ll say it’s to give the remaining Royal family privacy during their loss.”

“Your Highness… It’s the Day of the Roses. It’s a coronation day. Both of those sacred things have been torn with tragedy. The public will want to see you give a statement,” Barnes spoke.

“Yes. When I---...umh. Later. After we’ve visited the hospital.”

“We’ll give an early report to the press from there,” JJ followed, gaze focused on Matt for long enough to relay the message he was part of the ‘we’ before moving back to Barnes and Prentiss, “it’ll do good for them to see how this is affecting their future King.”

Matt gave a solemn nod, not entirely able to keep his discomfort off his face: he understood what she meant, and why this was important… but understanding it and accepting it enough to not feel the need to clench his jaw for how Luke must be feeling at the death of his sister being discussed as a PR event were two completely different things. Matt dropped his eyes to the floor, straightened his posture to keep himself in check. Not well enough, apparently: JJ took a step away from him as soon as he raised his eyes up to Emily and Clara.

“We’ll coordinate the international response for now,” Clara stated, standing up in sync with Prentiss, both women readying themselves to leave. The room’s attention moved to Barnes, who followed up with her own assessment:

“The law enforcement will give its info to the press. The chief of staff will be notified that the holiday will proceed. Prince Lucas---we’ll speak before your appearance.”

Matt shared a look with JJ---now, to the hospital---before turning to Luke.

“I’ll drive you.”

[antarestyl]

PTA Sans - The one with Azzy

So, Azzy it is now. There is a lot of mess to clean up, a lot of talks to be had and Sans is just... really tired.

AO3 Link

Warnings: Uhm... not that many, just some spoilers for the game and talking about the messed up stuff Flowey had done. Also it gets really emotional for Sans there, poor skeleton really needs a break.

I am very sorry it took me so long again to produce a new chapter but I moved countries, got a new job, had a lot of RL stuff going on AND had focused more on TBS with my co-author there. BUT this story is still dear to me so I will continue writing for it. January will be hell for me RL so I try and get some work done now. X.x

Anyway, have fun with this chapter and love all of you who were so patient with me. :D

Things after getting Azzy went... strange. Not bad, mind you but... strange.

The first thing Sans did when he got home was to fall down face-first and waking up much later in his and Toriel's bed. It was early morning when he woke and Toriel was laying with him in bed, her big fuzzy arms wrapped around his smaller form. Sans snuggled a bit more to her, chuckling only slightly when her fur got between his rips, and tried to form a mental check-list.

After the newly named Azzy had gotten used to having limbs again and worked through his minor identity crisis rather quickly they had decided that it would be best if he stayed at Asgore's for now. Sans was sure that Grillby would have volunteered to house the little monster again (bless the soul and core of this monster and Sans knew he and his two partners could never refuse small children) but on the other hand...

Yeah he still felt bad for ranting at Asgore and saying some stuff that was rather unfair to the king, even if he had made mistakes. It really hadn't been the time and place. Besides, it would be good for Azzy to stay with Asgore and re-bound a bit with him. Things would be awkward first but even after all this time, Azzy was just a little kid and Asgore was his dad on more than one level. They could both work on their past and what had happened on their pace. It would probably do them a lot of good too, not just mental-wise. Boss-monster needed the nurture of their parent's love and even with Azzy being a brand-new soul (and probably a plant elemental now come to think about it) Sans really wants to play this safe.  

The rest of them could deal with the rest of this mess.

They had talked about how and when to tell Toriel. They should after all. As soon as possible. Sans really didn't look forward to this but the longer they put it off, the more it would get messy and ugly. But they decided that they should do it together and maybe leave out some of the details Azzy did as Flowey... welp, now he had to find a way to explain to her that Asriel really was gone, that Azzy was like... what did the humans call it... reincarnation? Welp, no, that wasn't it either, it worked completely different... Humans believed that it was still the same soul.

Asriels soul had been green. Azzy's soul was purple.

Instead of losing all his memories with the same soul, Azzy was all of Asriels (and Flowey's) memories but with a new soul. A soul made of Asgore's love for his son, Frisk's compassion to safe him and magic of the machine, bound together by just a tiny drop of determination and a whole lot of other magical stuff Sans had to do to make the machine work again.

The same machine that gave birth to him and Papyrus and that made Gaster go... away. What killed their father thou was a whole different story... it seems that Determination was very very dangerous, even more so seeing how Alphy's experiments turned out.

Stars he should just stop thinking about that.

Point was, Azzy was his own monster, not Asriel, not Flowey but something new. And they had to tell Toriel.

This was going to be hard.

After... THAT was out of the way they had to think long-term. Where should Azzy stay for good, would they enroll him in school to or home teach him, what will become out of the little monster now... Frisk would want him joining school, they loved that little flower boy.

Sans kinda wanted to go back to sleep again. Maybe apologize to everybody involved a few times too.

He kinda missed the days where he just dunked Linda. Maybe he should do that again. She kinda got better these last week but still...

So mental checklist.

Tell Toriel, tell all the others, figure out if Azzy was fit for school... maybe get more sleep. Also he really should sit down with Azzy at one point too. He had talked with Flowey before their little deal was struck but Sans still had some things to hash out with him.

Also, something else had to be done was quick as possible: Destroy the machine. It did its part and Sans would rather not have the reminder of so much pain in the past standing around anywhere. Not to mention all the illegal crap he had to do to get some parts of it and how dangerous it could be if the wrong persons got it.

So... Tell Toriel, destroy the machine, everything else next. Sounds good.

Toriel let out a soft snore, nuzzling at the base of his skull and Sans felt himself flush with magic. Well... maybe he could rest just a little bit longer... Just a little bit.

Azzy in the meantime was... adjusting. It was strange feeling again, it was strange WALKING again. Well, walking in his own body, not one he stole. Yeah that... that was really bad what he did there... Wow he was a jerk. To a lot of people.

Especially Sans thou. Azzy could understand his reasoning at the time. Sans was the only one who remembered some of what was happening and was so interesting to watch react different every time. But wow he did screwed that poor guy up for no reason at all. Sans really wasn't a part of anything, only having a connection to the guy who worked out the foundation for what Alphys did to do the things that resulted in Flowey and yeah, there was no way to justify any of the stuff he did.

He... he really should apologize one day. Especially after he gave him a shot at, you know, caring again.

He wondered a bit why Sans did this for him. It could just be to make sure he wouldn't cause any trouble anymore or make Frisk happy... so they wouldn't reset anymore. But on the other hand, Sans had done stuff he didn't had to do get to this point. Like the time Azzy had spend with the flames was rather nice all things considered. The yellow one had even watered him and Azzy knew that flames usually stayed away from any kinds of water.

Maybe he should ask Asgore... dad... (uh, that was complicated still) to go with him to Grillby's at some point in the future. He really should thank them...  

Anyway, Azzy was... kinda content now? He was laying in a bed Asgore made for him. It was really just a nest of blankets on the couch but Azzy was kinda small still, standing on his hind legs at maybe Frisk's height. He still kinda preferred walking on all four of his pawns but he should maybe practice walking on two legs these next days. He really wanted to have his arms free to do stuff with them. Would make some things a lot easier anyway.

Otherwise he was okay with himself. His body felt like a mix between his old one and the flower one but better. His magic shifted, his soul was different and he might have to relearn everything about magic he knew before but it was alright.

He was a bit upset that his ability to use healing magic was now gone for good.

All Boss monster could do a little bit healing magic and Asriel, with his green soul, had the potential to do greater healing magic. He never got very far in his studies of such of course but it was enough to save Chara that faithful day when they fell into the Underground.

Wherever they were now, Azzy really hoped they were alright. Looking back the plan really was terrible and Chara really wasn't the nicest person... but Chara also was just a child and hurting a lot and there was no doubt they had loved Asriel and all the monster.

But LOVE and hate were terrible things for a soul and Azzy knew first hand how it could corrupt you. Thanks to the new soul his LV was back to 1, a clean slate but he still remembered how it felt. He shuttered.

… maybe that was a reason more to talk to the flames... Grillby was a known war-veteran and Azzy had felt his LOVE while staying with him. He was rather baffled how he could even LIVE with all of that. Maybe there was some kind of secret as how it would not corrupt a monster?

“Azzy? Son, are you alright?”

Asgore's voice pulled Azzy out of his thoughts. He turned and saw the old king in a fluffy pajama and night cap with little ducks on it, a worried expression on his face.

“Yeah, uhm... dad.”, said Azzy. “Just... couldn't sleep.”

“Ah... I know just the thing for that... I'll make you some tea that will calm you right down...”

“No golden Flower tea please!”

Asgore halted at the request, a painful expression on his face and Azzy almost regretted his request. “It just... got a lot of bad memories.”, he mumbled.

“... would a peppermint tea with honey be good?”

“Yeah... yeah that would be alright.”, mumbled Azzy as his father walked away to make tea.

Yeah he hadn't missed THAT so much, feeling bad about stuff like this. But on the other hand he took it any day over not feeling at all. Still, it was strange and awkward and not at all like he remembered being Asriel. He was sure his father felt the same.

Asgore returned with two mugs full of fresh smelling tea later, adding a drop of honey into Azzy's cup just before giving it over to him.

Azzy took a sip and smiled slightly as he felt the tea warming up his body and soul.

“Thanks... dad.”, he mumbled. “... I can call you dad, right?”

“Of course, my...”, Asgore hesitated and Azzy waved with one hand.

“It's alright, you can call me son or... stuff like that. Just don't call me Asriel.”

“Alright, Son.”, Asgore answered with a nod but Azzy did saw the slight hurt in his eyes. “I am sorry, I am just... getting used to this.”

“Yeah I... I don't blame you.”, mumbled Azzy. “This... this is all new. I had months to prepare for it but honestly, I barely thought about it because I thought it was impossible.”

“Well... Sans had proven to manage impossible things quite well.”, said Asgore lightly. “But... I understand your hesitation.” He put his tea down, voice dropping his usual lightness. “I couldn't believe it quite for myself when he told me about... about what he had done.” He sighted deeply and for a moment Azzy thought that his father really did look as old as at least 1500 years.

“I made a lot of mistakes, my son.”, Asgore said softly. “I guess I didn't want to face a lot of them... So I choose to be a coward and look away but just because you don't look at it doesn't mean it's gone.”

“Uh... it's alright.”, mumbled Azzy. “You know, I did a lot of... really bad things to. I could say I only did it because I had no soul and couldn't care but... still...”

A big pawn stilled him and Azzy looked to Asgore who moved in for a gentle hug.

“Hush my son.”, he said softly. “I can't remember what you did and all is well now. I have nothing you need forgiveness for. There are people you have to make amends with but it is not me. And I am here for you. And I love you.”

Azzy sniffled softly at that, tears he hadn't shed for so long finally coming to his eyes. He hugged back his father and cried in his fur, feeling so much and loving and hating it but also somehow feeling it would be okay.

Well, looks like he was still a crybaby but all in all, it was what he was. Even so he thought that Chara would have let this one slide just this once.

Time kinda... ran away from that point. They sat together the next day, Toriel, Asgore, Sans and Papyrus, Frisk and Azzy together with Alphys and Undyne. Sans had kinda wanted Grillby to be there too but he had declined, saying softly that he understood that he wasn't really part of this but ready to offer any help should it be needed.

Sans was so glad to have a friend like this.

The explanation went on long and it hurt a LOT seeing Toriel looked betrayed and hurt and horrified and angry and sad. But they had to do this and in a way it felt freeing too to just talk. They explained as good as they could what happened. Asriel's and Chara's plan, what had happened that day when they died. Gaster's and Alphy's experiments and the creation of Flowey. They all knew already about the resets but Azzy filled in some thing he did while being Flowey, but he left out  a lot of details. Sans was kinda thankful for that to be honest.

After that their talk turned to Frisk's determination and how they saved not only all the monster but for a brief moment Asriel too so he could finally let go. Sans took over and explained his fears and his plan to give Flowey a happy ending too. How he took him from the Underground, how Grillby took care of him and how he started working on the machine together with Alphys.  He did left out how he stole many parts for it thou, no point in worrying anybody. (also it would be better if nobody knew anything in case somebody did came knocking at the doors.)

Alphys and Asgore explained how they made Flowey a new soul. And Azzy explained how he wasn't Asriel still, not really. That he was dead and gone but went without regrets and that he was ready to start a new life.

There were some tears and hugs and apologies but in the end it was... strangely okay.

Toriel did... better than expected, honestly. She requested some time alone and Sans gave it. The others bid their goodbye and even Papyrus announced that he would take Frisk to stay the night at Mettaton's. Sans nodded, told his brother no glitter after midnight and... well then they were alone.

Toriel in their bedroom and Sans in the living room. Time tickled slowly. He wanted to go to her and talk to her but he had no clue what to say.

Sorry I lied. Sorry about your son. Sorry we didn't told you. Sorry I was so messed up these last days. Sorry that I probably committed a lot of crimes and hopefully no human will ever link it to me.

Sorry I made you upset.

So he stayed in the living room, waiting for... something. He wasn't sure what.

Toriel did came down to him later, close to 11 pm. It had gotten dark outside a while ago already at that time. Sans hadn't bothered to turn on the lights... or move at all. He didn't even notice her until she stepped into his view, the moon shining on her soft fur, making her look a bit like a ghost. Sans risked a look at her face and for the first time since a really long time he couldn't say what she was thinking.

That was almost worse than anything he had imagined.

“I am very disappointed.”, she said after a stretch of silence.

“I know.”, said Sans quietly. “I... I am really sorry.”

“... did you had a reason for leaving me out of it?”

“... I... I thought so.”, said Sans. “... I didn't want to... get your hopes up. I didn't know it would even work... I just... couldn't put you through that.”

“I don't like somebody making decisions for me.”

“I know.”, said Sans, very very softly. “I know and I am sorry.”

“... would you do it again?”

Sans looked up at her and she looked down to him. He swallowed. “I... I don't know.”, he whispered. “I... I really don't.”

“Why not?”

There was absolutely no emotions in Toriel's voice or there was and Sans had no idea what to make out of it.

“I....”, he started but stopped. This was... hard. He just wanted to get away, teleport far far away but he couldn't. He wouldn't. How to explain something like that? How to explain he knew he was a hypocrite but still couldn't help acting like one?

“... I really only wanted to... to make you happy.”, mumbled Sans. “I just... I was the... the guy behind the door, remember? You told me everything, I knew how much this... all of this hurt you. Flowey even told me about the timelines he went to you and Asgore and told you two who he were. You suffered so much Toriel and... and it really isn't Asriel. I knew that from the start that he wouldn't be Asriel ever again, he would be somebody new... and I really just... just wanted to talk to you about it when I had all the facts.” He sighed. “I... it isn't all about you, I admit it. I was not ready myself. And it's messed up and stuff but... at least like this I... thought I had some sort of control over the situation? I just... I couldn't Toriel...”

He was looking away from her now, not having the strength to look at her. And Toriel herself stayed silent too.

They must have sat like this for a while before Toriel moved, fabric rustling as he leaned towards Sans and wrapped her arms around him. Sans was shaking, only now noticing just how worked up about this he was. His bones were rattling, now muffled by Toriel's fur.

He still held on to her like a lifeline.

“I am not happy.”, said Toriel after a while, still holding Sans. “But... I think I can forgive you.”

Sans thought for a moment he would pass out at these words. There were definitely tears now in his eyes. He buried his face into Toriels arm.

“I love you so much.”, he mumbled out, earning a humm from Toriel.

“I love you too.”, said said. “I... it will take some... adjustment. But I do think I... we all can come to terms with this.”

There might have been some more they talked but honestly, Sans couldn't remember. The rest of the night was a blurr but they spend it together.

The days after that were a blurr too. They had to register Azzy, make sure he was listed as Asgore's son and all the other things that required lots of paper work. There was debate about how old Azzy was now but they did decide on the age Asriel had died: Around twelve years old, the same age as Frisk was now.

They even made a room for Azzy in Asgore's little house, cleaning out one of the guest rooms and letting Azzy choose his furniture and decorations for himself. The room looked quite nice in the end, painted yellow and green, a deep blue carped on the ground. There was a soft bed, a desk, a chair a big closet with a mirror.

Azzy had chosen the mirror for himself and every morning he would look at himself in it just to prove that there was not a flower and not a goat looking at him but a plant elemental. Just Azzy.

They did talked to him too about school and, as Sans had expected, Azzy really wanted to go to school with Frisk. And because Asgore is still a big fuzzy pushover and Sans had no resistance against Frisk's puppy eyes, Azzy start going to Frisk's school soon after.

There would be time to prepare of course and Azzy was still getting the hang out of doing stuff with his little pawns but it would happen. That means that Azzy would join in a few weeks and THAT meant they would have to tell the school, the teachers and, of course, the parents of Frisk's class.

Sans was kinda looking forward and dreaded the next PTA at the same time.

And in the void, there was something now that wasn't there. A cluster of broken pieces that begun assembling itself like a puzzle. And as one bright white piece clicked together with another, there was suddenly something else.

The sound of a gentle beat of a soul and a spark of magic as a memory completed itself in it. The being felt a spark of joy or at least what could be considered as such at their current broken state. But there was some sort of awareness now, some sort of intent. The memory of a smiling face, some tiny hands and the warmth of love made the being hurry even more.  

The void, for the first time, was not silent anymore and hope let the fragments of the broken soul shine brighter and brighter in the darkness.

So thank you all for still reading this, commenting, liking and reblogging.

Also I got some fanart:

This wonderful Azzy! XD It wasn't like I imagined him at first but I liked the design so much, I pretty much made it canon now. Many many thanks to @amannartblog for this! I am sorry this chapter came out so late now.

[broadwaybydesign]

Lady in Red: Linda Cho’s “Anastasia” Pièce de Résistance

I was going to wait a little bit before doing a piece on one specific outfit, especially since I’ve blogged about it a couple times, but inspiration has struck and I want to try and go in-depth on one of my absolute favorite costumes of the 2016-2017 season today.

As those who follow my other blog ( @overheardinwod ) already know, I am a huge fan of the musical Anastasia and have eagerly anticipated its debut for years. Linda Cho, in doing her research for the costumes for the stage musical, clearly took some inspiration from the 1997 animated Don Bluth classic upon which the musical is partially based, but instead of doing a shot-for-shot remake of Anya’s costumes, she chose to adapt them or create entirely new designs.

One of those designs is Anastasia’s Royal Red gown, sumptuously decorated with gold filigree, beadwork, and some of the most impressive gem work I have seen on Broadway this season. It’s a showstopping gown, and the one in which Christy Altomare took her very well-deserved bow on opening night, which is where many of the stills for this review have come from. Fortunately for me, this is an eye-catching gown, and so there are a lot of high-quality stills to choose from.

So, without further ado, let’s take a look at what I believe to truly be Linda Cho’s greatest accomplishment from the production:

(Photo credit: JustJared)

I’d be emotional in something this fine too, so I completely understand the expression on Christy Altomare’s face (okay, it’s because of the wild reception to her performance from the crowd, but I had to). The dress is absolutely fantastic on her figure, which is both petite and slender--in some ways, that made Linda Cho’s job designing a little easier because (while a bit on the short side), Christy Altomare has a “classical” figure for a leading lady on Broadway.

The dress itself is in two parts: a rust-red and gold brocade underskirt (presumably with some kind of corsetry or petticoats beneath to provide additional body), with an outer satiny, silky red body that is richly enhanced by gold filigree, beadwork, and truly impressive beadwork. At first glance, it positively screams royalty, even without the tiara (it’s not quite a kokoshnik this time because of the lack of a solid band!) on the head of the wearer. It’s a gown that is meant to impress the audience, not only in the scene but out in the crowd as observers of the musical. It has presence and helps to make Anastasia stand out in a positive way.

Look at the background of the scene (where this dress appears, even if this is a still from the bows). The scenery is a blend of black, white, and gray, and the other figured onstage are clad either in white or in much more muted colors. The bright, vibrant red of the outer portion of the dress and the bust are designed to command the attention of the viewer; they make clear that not only is Anastasia the central character here, she is the most important figure in the building. Even from a distance, one can see how important this costume is: it’s heavy, it’s rich, it’s colorful (and in shades not seen elsewhere in the musical), and it has body that gives it substance. But beyond all of that, the detail hops out even from afar.

From afar, we can see the patterning in rough form. The fold filigree forms a geometric, almost feather-like design on the gown, while the bust sports a pattern that should be familiar to students of Russian history: it’s an homage to the Romanovs’ double-headed eagle, a symbol of Imperial Russia, the Romanov family, and the empire itself. But while typically a quite masculine symbol, here it takes on an airier, more feminine tone as befits the character. Even in a heavy dress like this, the light touch with the gold means that we are reminded that this is a princess, with all the soft connotations that word tends to conjure in our minds.

Let’s go in a bit closer, with a Broadway.com still from Christy Altomare’s dressing room (which I also first saw on @anyasdimitry‘s blog):

Up close, it’s easy to see the sheer beauty and mastery of the detail work, and the lighting lets us look even closer. We see that Linda Cho has chosen to accent the dress not only with gold filigree detailing, but with beadwork and with gem work. The way the light falls in this image, we can see that the jewels are quite a bit darker than the outer gown, but also more bright and “pure” red than the brocade that forms the inner body of the gown. That is a clever and intentional design decision; whenever you are stacking colors atop one another, you need to find ways to distinguish them. Usually you will do that by one of two means: variations in shade, or variations in texture. Linda Cho has taken both options here: she varied the texture of the brocade, silk or satin, and jewels, all the while finding complementary but quite different shades of red.

By having darker jewels on the dress, I noted earlier that there is an almost fiery effect. The jewels allow the dress to shimmer, looking like “sparks” over the more sustained flame of the satin surface of the outer body. It also means that the light will never catch on the dress the same way twice. Remember that jewels, when of a high quality (and while almost certainly rhinestones here, they will be of unmatched quality for a first-run Broadway production), jewels refract light and offer a little bit of “glow” when used in costumery.

For a better idea, Playbill provides us with a shot of Anastasia’s gown from the rear (I believe this still is from the Hartford production, but the gown itself did not change between tryouts and Broadway as near as I have been able to discern from my research):

Take a look at the sparkle and shine of the jewels on the bustle (which is the term generally used for the part of the rear of the dress that pops out a bit, offering a contrast to a woman’s bust in the front; traditionally this provided her with a bit more “personal space” on a ballroom floor, as well as flattered her figure). The darkness compared with the rich red color of the fabric gives the gown a whole new feel: the light catching on the stones almost gives a crackling effect. The gold filigree, in some ways, even takes a backseat to the interplay between the jewels and the fabric of the dress itself--but it also provides a contrast that is important.

There’s more than just color-matching at work here. Balancing a primary color with a metallic color has been a standard practice in design since the age of heraldry; colors (red, blue, yellow, and combinations thereof) and metals (gold and silver) could be mixed, but you always wanted to have a buffer between them, especially when using two different shades of the same color or tones of the same metal. Linda Cho has obeyed that relatively ancient rule by surrounding the ruby-red jewels with the gold filigree. In so doing, the jewels “pop” more and become much more noticeable than if they had merely been laid against the red body of the gown.

Another Broadway.com still offers us a better example of just how well this design works, this time as Ms Altomare emerges offstage:

Once again, we’re able to see the balance of the red tones from the brocade (the V-shape at the bottom of the frame), the silk/satin of the gown itself, and the jewels. In this light, the jewels on the bodice/bust appear dark and rich, almost crimson in color and tone, while those on the body of the dress, flaring out to the sides, are a lighter color that is just a bit offset from the red of the fabric beneath. This is one of the two images I have seen of this dress that really made me think of the phoenix idea I mentioned in another post. The other comes from my all-time favorite picture of the dress, from the New York Post’s “Page Six” blog:

Take these two previous pictures together and you can see some of what I mean by phoenix-like. The myth of the phoenix is that it is an immortal bird which ends its life in a bright explosion of flame and color, only to rise from the ashes reborn; it’s a classic mythological trope and one that I can’t help but think Linda Cho was trying to harness in this gown. Recall what I said earlier about the design elements of the gown: on the body of the dress, we see the almost feather-like filigree and jewel-work (accented with some gold beadwork), while the bust is covered with an homage to the Romanov double-headed eagle.

Doesn’t it look a tiny bit like the eagle has “shed” the feathers that float down the sides of the gown? Look at the way the eagle design “drips” down towards the open seam that reveals the brocade, jewels in every inch of the “tail.” To my mind, it’s a little like a phoenix that has shed its old feathers, burst into flame, and risen again up the bust of the gown as a new being. In many ways, that’s a great metaphor for Anastasia herself: she had an identity as the Grand Duchess, lost it, found it again, and then decided to renounce it in favor of another identity. Like the mythical firebird, she undergoes a cycle of birth and renewal over and over throughout the course of the musical.

I don’t know for certain that this is the effect Linda Cho was trying to harness with this gown, but it certainly seems plausible given how richly designed it is and how keen an eye for detail she possesses as a costume designer. This dress is rightfully the showpiece of the end of the musical, and the one that is designed to leave the audience with a key visual to take away from their enjoyment of the performance. It’s rich, heavy, and gorgeous from bust to floor and all points in between, and sits perfectly on the wearer.

Simply put, this is Linda Cho’s 2016-2017 pièce de résistance, a masterwork to end all masterworks, and one that deserves to be studied by fans of classic and modern design, the theatre, and the way in which these art forms intersect. It’s a joy to look at and a joy to analyze.

And that’s what costumery is about: bringing a sense of emotion and wonder to the viewer to complement their feelings regarding the performance onstage. In that regard, the royal red gown from Anastasia is a complete and total success.

[curtaincallwithcarlgregory]

REVIEW: Bed

Presented By: Pencil Case Productions Season: February 22 – February 26 Venue: The Royal Exchange (34 Bolton St, Newcastle) Booking: http://bit.ly/2kTndam Director: John Wood Writer: Brendan Cowell

Cast:

Michael Byrne as Phil

Katy Carruthers as Flo

Oliver MacFadyen as Kane

Pearl Nunn as Daisy

Linda Read as Grace

Benjamin Louttit as Drew

Synopsis: The emotionally caustic Phil journeys through the five most important sexual relationships of his life: his youthful entanglements with schoolmate Kane, the tumultuous infatuation of university student Daisy, the constant negotiations of his unwilling housewife Grace, the pointed teasing of his party-boy partner Drew, and the gentle support of sweet septuagenarian Flo. As Phil and his partners pillow talk, we see his views on masculinity, sexuality, family, friendship, and love being shaped by them all.

Director John Wood returns to The Royal Exchange after 2016’s brief and brutal S-27, replacing Orwellian despair with the modern struggles of sexual relationships and love. While the subject and tone is undeniably less grim, the dramatic techniques are similar – the show revolves around a character being visited (and revisited) by a wider ensemble, and production design is deliberately minimalized to better favour Bed’s performances. Where the two productions diverge is in examining their effects as a whole; though Bed features some knockout performances and a script that balances quick wit with honest drama, the production lacks the emphatic full stop that made S-27 such a sucker punch.

Michael Byrne has always shown clear strength in portraying emotionally compromised characters, and wonderfully realises the more ‘prickly’ parts of Bed’s pained protagonist. Though his Phil is often rebellious, self-aggrandising, and outright insincere, Byrne’s high-energy delivery and expressive physicality ensures that he is never dull to watch. These efforts crystallise in what is undoubtedly the actor’s best scene, where he is left to bitterly monologue in loops around the silent presence of his toy-boy partner Drew; here, Byrne’s indignity and ‘manic panic’ is fully realised, and proves utterly engrossing.

Interestingly enough, it is Byrne’s total believability as the emotionally unavailable Phil that proves to be Bed’s biggest hurdle: the actor so convincingly executes his character’s initial setup that his emotional transition in Bed’s later scenes rings comparatively false. Byrne simply doesn’t occupy Phil’s reflection, regret, and earnestness as comfortably and credibly as he showcased his flaws, which makes Bed feeling somewhat incomplete. 

Oliver MacFadyen displays an admirable sense of vulnerability as schoolboy Kane, easing into his scenes with a believable hesitance – his burgeoning understanding of what he and Phil are doing together is pitiably endearing. Pearl Nunn proved to be an audience favourite as the changeable and flirty student Daisy, displaying an obvious chemistry with Byrne that made their scenes together a pleasure to watch. 

Linda Read capably balances drama and comedy as the unfulfilled Grace (though her American accent often caused issues with projection and clarity), and I think I enjoyed Ben Louttit’s sardonically playful Drew almost as much as he did; his simpering back-and-forth scenes with the jaded Phil were thoroughly engaging, and a source of easy laughs.

However, it was Katy Carruthers’ turn as the sweetly supporting Flo that stole the show for me – such was the strength and conviction behind her performance. Though Carruthers’ character doesn’t have the same emotional peaks and troughs with Phil that the other partners have, she so convincingly occupies her character’s adoration that by the conclusion of Bed, she had me in tears. After such a strong showing in 2016’s Other Desert Cities, I’m glad to see Carruthers’ continuing to put in solid performances in 2017.

Though the limits of The Royal Exchange result in a relatively Spartan set (the titular bed is the only mainstay), Bed manages to gently reinforce character journeys through design and staging. Obvious decisions (slowly separating the bed’s halves, or placing them at literal odds with each other during partner conflict) work fine to keep the set novel, but what I most appreciated was the gradual build-up of partner belongings as Bed went on – by show’s end, Phil is literally surrounded by relics of his chequered past.

At the risk of sounding like a Nutri-Grain box, you’ll likely get out of Bed what you put in. The topics at the heart of Brendan Cowell’s script are so intensely personal and subjective that the broad spectrum presented will undoubtedly produce mixed results – no two people I’ve spoken to have ranked the show or its performers the same. Ultimately, Pencil Case Production’s Bed is an intimately transgressive look at love and relationships that boasts a strong ensemble, a sharp script, and a breezy run-time; while it doesn’t quite stick its landing, the production is definitely worth getting out of bed for.

[mrmichaelchadler]

A Tribute to Olivia, the Scene-Stealing Dog of Widows

There’s a moment, toward the end of “Widows,” right before the climactic heist, when we check in on the members of our titular crew before they don their black masks and holster their Glock .9mms. It’s that quintessential pre-heist montage of the players saying goodbye to their loved ones, just in case the job goes bad: Linda (Michelle Rodriguez) and Belle (Cynthia Erivo) kneel before an altar with Linda’s children, lighting candles to the Blessed Virgin. We’ve already seen Belle bid her daughter farewell, and Alice (Elizabeth Debicki) have one final drink with her kinda-sorta boyfriend/definite Sugar Daddy. So, the montage ends with Veronica Rawlings (Viola Davis) standing in front of a doggy daycare, preparing to drop off her beloved Westie terrier, Olivia (Olivia the dog, continuing the tail-wagging charm offensive from her debut in “Game Night”). Director Steve McQueen lingers on this moment far longer than the other farewells—he pulls his camera back wide, and in the dark of the evening, Veronica’s body becomes a knife-blade of a silhouette: She lifts Olivia up in her arms and holds her with a tenderness that is more poignant, for its openness, its earnestness. 

This image of a hard-edged woman cradling her little dog, perhaps for the last time, is one of the rare pure moments of emotional unguardedness in a twisty film that is preoccupied with power: who has it, who wants it, and who gets to take it, against all odds. It’s also one of the few and precious instances I’ve ever seen, on-screen, where a woman’s relationship with her pet, especially her dog, is regarded with the emotional depth and intensity as her bond with child or spouse. Veronica is very much a woman alone, and angry about it—arguably, even before her husband is exploded off this mortal coil (or, at least, when he seems to have exploded off this mortal coil)—yet, her bond with Olivia isn’t a low blow of a portrayal, meant to show how sad and pathetic she is.

Olivia is her pampered, cherished, and oh-so-adorable companion; more than this, though, Olivia is Veronica’s connection to the parts of herself that long for love and connection—even though her life experience has taught her that love and connection can be the double edges of the sword that pierces her breast and lances her heart. Olivia is not just “the dog,” a fluffy entity for the audience to fret over, or a cuddly convenient way to thaw out an arctic woman and make her “more likeable”: “Widows” uses Olivia to tell a deeper, more nuanced story about loneliness and longing, a story that feels achingly familiar to people like me, who have turned to our pets to ameliorate both.

Tova

I am, to quote the kids in my neighborhood, “that dog lady.” I’ve lived alone for the better part of my adult life (since my mid-twenties), save for a German Shepherd named Tova (pictured above), who I adopted just after I finished grad school and started the I-guess-I’m-a-grown-up-so-what-now phase of my life, and, after Tova passed away, a wily Lab-mix named Mina, whose need for training helped me concentrate my grief. Tova was a gorgeous, martial-looking dog with a gorgeous, martial spirit. She was a pinnacle of her breed in solemn protectiveness—I remember how she dismissed one particularly tedious and callous beau of mine when he left my apartment for the last time; she stood with the length of her body pressed against my legs, blocking him from a final embrace, as if to say, “time’s up, cowboy”—but I cherished her, mostly (and among so many other things) as a constant presence, as silent and consistent as a pulse. She was my first “good morning��� when I woke up; my last “good night,” every day.  

In "Widows," McQueen and Davis evoke this most powerful element of the human and canine bond, that quiet confidence that comes in sharing a space and performing the daily rituals of life, not through broadly emotive displays like the goodbye outside of doggy daycare (which is more impactful because it is so strategically deployed), but in treating Olivia as a fixture in Veronica’s life. Olivia is there, burrowed into Harry’s (Liam Neeson) side of the bed, when Veronica breaks down before Harry’s funeral, her meticulously-arranged face cracking, for just a moment, in an expression of raw grief. Olivia is there, nestled in her dog bed, as Veronica reads through Harry’s notebook of jobs, and begins to plot the job that will get her and her fellow widows out of debt. If the Rawlings’ penthouse magnifies and reflects Veronica’s loneliness and vulnerability—rendered in cool, distant colors that feel catalogue-ready; overlong corridors that seem to mock her sudden singledom with their dramatic excess of space; and broad-paneled windows that all but scream “go ahead and look inside, she’s all alone”—then Olivia is the affectionate, inquisitive figure of comfort who brings sloppy, puppy-kissing life into the void.

Veronica’s insistence on bringing Olivia nearly everywhere with her may seem, initially, like a defensive display of rich bitch posturing—but even this posturing is a form of well-sculpted emotional armor. I’m terrible with strangers, fumbling-tongued and desperately uncertain; talking about my dogs isn’t even a back-up, it’s often my first, second, and third plan of approach whenever I’m meeting someone new: Telling that story about how Tova almost won the pet costume contest, or how Mina came in top of her class at obedience school (not that I’m bragging), feels so much safer than offering something starker about myself, something that could be weaponized—but it doesn’t feel entirely like hiding, either, because these stories matter to me, as much as anything I’ve done in my career or any film I’ve ever loved. Being a devoted dog guardian means assuming a complex, multilayered identity—one that all the “Dog Mommy” merchandise tries to flatten into something both cutesy and sad. 

Olivia doesn’t just allow Veronica to cosplay ladies who lunch (a pure-bred Westie puppy can cost upwards of 3,000 dollars, easily), which does, in and of itself, give this abrupt, awkward woman a role to play, a way to steady herself and stay focused and sane—she’s also a source of silent comfort, a ballast against the tenuousness of Veronica’s connection with the other women. It’s telling, for instance, that Veronica doesn’t bring Olivia with her when she rushes to Alice’s apartment after the Manning crime family murders Bash (Garret Dillahunt), the original getaway driver: Veronica is blisteringly open with Alice, releasing the full ugliness of her anger and her terror, sneering at the younger woman for taking a man into her bed when “your husband hasn’t even been dead a month,” slapping her and taking a hard slap in return, a slap that finally, mercifully, allows her to break down and cry. Alice is the most nakedly vulnerable of the widows—a battered bride, truly down and out, who thinks she has no smarts or skills to speak of—and it makes sense that Veronica, who must expend the constant energy of projecting an impenetrable guardedness, would feel some degree of subterranean interest in, even attraction to, her. The last scene in the entire film is Veronica, also sans dog, catching Alice outside of a bustling diner and slowly, genuinely, smiling at her, asking her how she’s been. 

But this is not to suggest that Olivia is a mere mollifier, a puppy placeholder until Veronica can graduate into real relationships—indeed, the film demonstrates, with a diamond-sharp, blood-culling clarity, that Olivia is a far better companion than Harry was (Olivia would never start a secret second family, fake her own death, and try to abscond with Veronica’s hard-earned ill-gotten gains). Olivia functions as an extension of Veronica’s feelings, so attuned to her guardian’s moods that she’ll act on them before Veronica is even consciously aware of them—Olivia is the one who first sniffs Harry out, in hiding at his paramour’s home, clawing and whining at the door in way that evokes the grasping need and desperation of Veronica’s grief.

Some of that immediate grief is about Harry, of course; however, Veronica has been shaped by a deeper grief, the murder of her son at the hands of a trigger-happy Chicago cop. This death is so obliterating, that it isn’t even mentioned until it is shown, in full—it’s like some fanged, thunder-hooved deity whose name must not be spoken until it’s offered a blood sacrifice—and yet, McQueen, Davis, and screenwriter Gillian Flynn have already allowed it to echo through everything that we’ve seen before it, which yes, includes Veronica’s relationship with Olivia. We sense a wordless history: Harry gifting Veronica with an extensive puppy as a reason to get out of bed, to go outside, every day, until the routine starts to feel something like normalcy, until the dog can ease her calcified heart open, even a little. That puppy steadily becoming Veronica’s little sweetheart, her comfort, as Harry begins to pull away, emotionally, at first, and then toward the arms of a woman whose baby won’t be targeted by the bigots who still rule this world. 

Mina

I’d never equate the loss of my Tova dog with the loss of a child, especially a child so cruelly taken. But I can say that her death devastated me, that my apartment became a whistling void. When I adopted Mina two weeks later, I willfully ignored her foster mom’s warning about how intensely she would “miss her people” when they left. That separation anxiety, manifest in clawing and scratching up the doors, the floors, the windowsills; howling in sorrow when I locked the door behind me; and drooling puddles everywhere, seemed to reflect the intractability of my own grief, a steady heartbeat gone frantic, erratic around one core need: Come back.  

Like Veronica, although in my own, less grandiose way, I had to move through my pain, I had to have “the balls to pull this off”—only the “this” was no heist, simply training my unruly girl to calm down, to recognize that she was not abandoned and I would, in fact, come back. A training that, through its meticulous consistency, gave me a purpose, a reason to get out of bed each day, to go outside—until finally, I found a new normal, a new, and no less special, love, to greet with “good morning” and end the day with “good night.” Two years later, she’s my darling; that sweet, happy face in the window; that gentle heft climbing onto the sofa beside me. It’s a powerful, even transformative, thing, to see that kind of bond enacted without mockery or condescension—given dignity, in fact—by filmmakers who understand that the magnificent spectrum of human pain and tenderness has room for canine companionship.   

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[indigonation]

okay, so I attended the march on washington and first and foremost it was definitely an amazing thing in its essence and its spread worldwide which created a large sense of unity and support, was unlike anything before. in its essence it was an amazing accomplishment across the globe anddid a lot of good. However, I would like to speak about some aspects of the march that have been greatly bothering me upon reflection, and especially in the moments in which it happened. 

Firstly, A LOT of white women, I mean A LOT. which! is not to say I am disappointed in POC, on the contrary, I am disappointed in white women for making their main issue of the march their “pussies” and said “pussies” being pink (aka really only white vaginas are pink...). I am also disappointed that such an amazingly diverse group of people created this march, and such an amazingly diverse group of people spoke, yet, the march itself was essentially hijacked by white women who found themselves to be the epitome of oppressed. Obviously, in this time of Trump, we are all in danger now, (except for rich white men) and now more than ever is not the time to fight, it is a time to band together. However, this is not what I observed within the march; not exactly. I, being white, definitely felt a sense of unity and was very inspired, however, it was impossible not to notice how unwelcoming or terrifying a large percentage of this crowd could be to POC. I myself, was holding a sign that said “women of color deserve better.” I saw endless amounts of white women complimenting other white women’s signs about their pussies and reproductive rights etc. but upon white women reading my sign, it was met with silence and sometimes confusion which seemed to be something like “but why? who cares?” One very kind black woman asked to take a picture of me with my sign and she said to me “we do deserve better, thank you for this.” It made me upset that she seemed surprised to have found a sign which spoke for her.

A few moments that really upset me:

1) when Muslim, Palestinian-american activist, Linda Sarsour, spoke about how muslims have been facing these same issues for YEARS, specifically the last 15 and how even under obama, muslims were left behind. An air of discomfort settled over the crowd upon the truth that even under someone as amazing as Obama, Muslims were largely forgotten and felt just as terrified. Everyone got very quiet, as if this was not the truth they wanted to face that day

2) I felt an underwhelming lack of mention and/or support for the issues with DAPL, so I shouted as loud as I could into the sea of silent people “WATER IS LIFE! NO DAPL!” What I received was nothing but looks. A few encouraging, but not one person said anything back. Yet, endless “pussy” shouts and the like received ripples of incessant WOO’s

3) People started to get very antsy for about the last hour of speeches because we had been standing there completely still for nearly 6 hours, which I understood, I was antsy too. But what upset me, was the lack of maturity everyone displayed. People started to yell MARCH MARCH MARCH between every speech, hoping that that was the last speech. But upon realizing the speeches weren’t over, people would very noticeably and very very audibly groan, complain, and continue to yell march as the person began their speech.

4) During said antsy period, when people REALLY started to be done with it all, Janelle Monae did a piece on stage with the mothers of the movement who, if some of you don’t know, are a few of the mothers who’s sons have been murdered by police, mothers of children such as Trayvon Martin and Eric Garner. During this people completely lost interest and started complaining even more. I get it okay, you’re tired and your feet hurt and you came here to march, but fucking suck it up. If 6 hours of standing and listening to amazing speeches from people who gave their time to be here, is all it takes to derail you, then what in the hell makes you think you’re ready for 4 years of trump? What makes you think you’re ready for a black lives matter march where police are actually threatening? well I guess most of you won’t have to worry about that, because you probably won’t attend one of their marches because you don’t give a shit about them. I started shouting things similar to this into the crowd, but much more toned down for white sensitivity’s sake.

5) Basically no inclusion of alternate genders (other than biological male, or biological female) except in speeches, none really within the crowd. It was not a place where I felt comfortable expressing that I’m not actually a woman, I’m just your local agender who happens to have a vagina. No chants about trans woman being real women and deserving rights, just about cis women and their precious pussies. (however, the beautiful and eloquent Janet Mock, a trans woman of color, gave a wonderful speech that involved gender issues and it was met with a lot of support and cheers, but still. other than that....?)

Now. This march is complicated. It has left me feeling mixed emotions about the whole thing.There are more moments which upset me, and also moments more moments which inspired me, but for sake of brevity I will just leave this where it is. Ultimately, I say : yes this is a great thing we accomplished across the nation, but I say also: take it with a grain of salt. I say, where were we during Ferguson? Where were we during Flint (which is still going on and which Trump just quietly closed the case on, look into it)? Where have we been the last 15 years when Muslims have needed us? I say, where were we, marching across the globe, when Trayvon Martin was murdered? Or when Eric Garner TOLD police he was dying and they didn’t care? Where were we when police were breaking the jaws of young black girls, or throwing them out of their desks? WHERE WERE WE WHEN SANDRA BLAND WAS MURDERED IN POLICE CUSTODY?

And I say to the beautiful POC who somehow may stumble across this post that most likely will receive little to no attention: I am sorry I did not get involved sooner. I am sorry this march did not feel open to you, because in reality, white women made it so. I am sorry, endlessly I am sorry. I am ready to use my privilege any way that I can to help. I am researching, I am calling my representatives, and I will do anything you tell me may help. 

And to the wonderful people of standing rock: I am sorry you received so many ignorant comments at the march. I am sorry people still refuse to listen to you. I am sorry a sacred time with your ancestors was infringed upon by white ignorance and entitlement. And I am coming to protest with you as soon as I can.

And to any people of the Islamic faith: I say I am sorry this country has turned so blatantly against you, and I am sorry that it really always has been and we have either not noticed or not cared. I am sorry so many crimes that have nothing to do with you, get blamed on you, and i am sorry that 20 million of you banned together to march against isis, and no one reported it in mainstream media. I am sorry you have become so demonized and every day face harassment, and threat of registration. You deserve so much better, all minority groups do. I am dedicating my life to you now. You deserve so better and I intend to use my privilege to stand along side you and help make it so.

To the white women at the march, specifically those non-inclusive, terf women etc: please. just listen to people. stop yelling over them, and listen. LISTEN. do not be offended by a POC telling you you’re doing something wrong, apologize and learn from it. Educate yourselves, learn to be inclusive, because dividing ourselves even in a time of supposed togetherness, will ruin us all. It will destroy the cause. Please. 

To the wonderful, inclusive, open, people who participated in the march, who helped organize the march, who spoke at the march: THANK YOU. Thank you thank you thank you. more. more more more. We must all do more from here on out, this was a beautiful beginning and we must not let it be just a beginning with no continuation. We have a strong foundation, but we need to fill some holes and actually build. 

It is okay to be inspired by this march and proud of this march, but it is also important to recognize the privilege it had and the problems it had too. Enjoy and revel, but do so cautiously and while still improving and moving forward.