#its fascinating to see how people design what they design when it comes to costume

[earlyspringtranscendence]

i think if you’re vain the side effect of that HAS to be that ur a little stupid bc if ur vain & ur smart you turn into a selfish vat of acid and then u start looking like jeffrey star. it’s like that boosh episode where vince goes ‘i like thick girls who like bright colours and soft fabrics’ and howard says ‘dont you want an equal?’ and vince goes ‘yeah!’

[rascalentertainments]

Wish Granted AU: Star: 🌟

Yeah, I finally got to the boy! Took long enough, huh? 😂 So I dud make a short character inspiration from a reblog chain a few weeks ago, so I'll go more into Star's character here:

So, much like the film itself, Star comes to Earth because of Asha's wish was so powerful, and aids her save Rosas. However, for "Wish Granted", he has no idea how to actually grant her wish. She basically fills him in on what's going on, and agrees to help. But he doesn't really understand why they need help. From his point of view, most of the humans on this part of Earth, and especially in Rosas look happy enough. He's just utterly fascinated with the animals, the trees, Asha, and just experiencing what humans see everyday.

But then he visits the Hamlet (in an animal disguise) when Asha wants to say goodbye to her Saba and mother. Star sees how sick Sabino has gotten, and the fear Sakina has for her daughter going back into danger. The Starboy sees that Asha's wish is entirely to help her family and community. (Its greatly emphasized once he gets to Rosas itself too) He partially understands and gladly accepts the task to help her. Asha can't believe this magical boy is a Star, it should be impossible. But just as her father said, the stars are there to believe in possibility. Star here is the impossible, made possible! Its no wonder his loveable and joyous personality leads her to falling for him! 😆

I took inspiration from this segment of the concept art book where they attempted to give plushie Star some kind of depth and character arc leftover from Starboy. They really tried to give Star something more than just being a toy, and Disney said "nah, a toy is good enough. Kids will love it." So Star's arc will be he starts off naive about the world and thinks everything is perfect. But once he starts seeing more of the people having other emotions other than happiness, he's processing how a human feels this. It hits harder when he actually feels a wish get destroyed, he feels their pain for a while after he connects with them. This is all going to connect to "At All Costs" when finally get that love confession scene! 😉

Now, my favorite part: POWERS!!! Star can shapeshift into different animals he sees, with his telltale sign of him being gold with white fur/hair. (Example image below) He's got a white six pointed star on his parts of his body that glow slightly, even in a human form, its just covered up by his black caped outfit.

I still kind of hate that Disney actually thought Star was too similar Genie just because he changes into animals. Like, what are you talking about? (I actually thought of MK or Beast Boy more than Genie.) Yeah, Genie could do that too, but he also changed costumes, size, shape, face, broke the 4th wall and did impersonations of movie actors of the time. Star didn't do all that. Besides, YOU MADE MAUI CHANGE INTO ANIMALS AND APPROVED OF IT!

Rant aside, He can change into any animal, but only has one human form. That's not only because there's way too many variations of people for him to adapt and he's not at that level of power yet. He mainly choose this particular human form because.... he thought Asha would like it. (He even gets the cape idea after he sees a picture of Magnifico. He just LOVED how that looked) Think of it as a boy trying make himself look better for the girl he has a crush on. 😂 His design is inspired by these three pieces of concept art combined with a dash of a superhero vibe. (Superheroes are hardwired into my brain, I tried my best NOT to do that! 😂)

Star can make animals talk, at least for a limited time, like when be has his big introduction song and the forest animals are his band. Animals are naturally attracted to Star, because he literally radiates pure joy and love. Those little critters just adore him! Think of this scene here:

One last thing to add is that once he's on Earth, and gets into Rosas, thus is when he gets the most attached to the planet. He has a big family with the stars, but he really wanted to be where the people are. He wants to see them dancing, ect...Meeting great people didn't just end with Asha, but also meeting the 7 Teens. He learns about their wishes as one desires, while confused on Simon's sleepiness/sadness. He actually attempts to heal Simon and can gain a new power. Star is not sure on how to react to Dahlia, who doesn't seem to have a wish. She seems happy cooking for the king (whom she has a crush on) and queen, no questions asked. Although, Dahlia does seem particularly curious about Star, even before finding out his magical side. She even tries to tell him to give up on granting Asha's wish, but he's definitely not doing that. 😂

When he meets the King and Queen, let's just say there's going to be a lot of angst/comedy with that. But when he has the mini stand off with Amaya. OH BOY, he's going to understand way more heavy emotions after meeting her...

(Star in this version is voiced by Jeremy Jordan, because he's a musical and VA legend! Plus he sounds so fun in every role he's in!)

Aaaand, that does it for Star! I mentioned in another post how when you look into his eyes, you can see microscopic galaxies or mini stars in eyes, like you can see the universe in his eyes! (When it gets to the At All Costs song, Asha can be seen in his eyes like she becomes part his universe) Any other bits will be revealed later, but I wanted to flesh the guy out here! He's a lot of fun to write and draw!

Now next up are the King, Queen and their ferocious yet spoiled pet Lynx! 😉

@signed-sapphire @oh-shtars @chillwildwave @lazytitans-world @emillyverse @annymation @kstarsarts @uva124

[mcmactictac]

it’s 2024 and every day I have to fight tooth and nail to keep my dsmp obsession from coming out of hibernation. Not even cc’s like I have no interest in going back and watching streams. But the lore?? The lore forever lives rent free in my head. This beautiful hybrid mix of canon and fanon shaped to tell a story that is actually incredibly nuanced and fascinating if you view it from that hybrid perspective.

Source material that was a little goofy at times and fanmade content that made it hyper realistic. That truly created a world that somehow manages to have multiple different canons? I love reading fics and seeing how everyone applies their different headcaons bc with how loose the backstory is? Anything could be true. I eat up every single version of c!sbi dynamics I read and every single person writes it differently. And yet they are all inherently the same characters, the same people at the heart of this narrative. And by focusing on different parts of the story you can take completely different meaning away from it. Like it’s the same story but because there are so many perspectives it’s so COMPLEX. Everyone (except for c!dream) has their own perspective and their own viewpoint and their own character wants and needs and desires that clash with others. It’s so intrinsically human. Characters that are not just created to fill a narrative space but fit themselves into the narrative instead. And because so many people watched so many streams from various perspectives you really get to see it in real time. The clash and the conflicts and the interpersonal connections leading to canonical decisions? It has so many building blocks to become whatever you want it to be and I fully believe that’s why the creativity of the fanbase was able to bloom so much. You could take what you liked and make it your own. Everyone has a slightly different way that they draw c!tommy. You see the devil hybrid, or the raccoon hybrid, or the blue cardigan or the green vs the red bandana, some of them do the white streak and some of them don’t but they are all still so clearly c!Tommy. The spirit is the same. And especially when it comes to costume design? OBSESSED with what artists and cosplayers created. Specifically for c! Dream, techno and Phil. Holy SHIT? The intricacies and details that go into those designs? The layers? people will literally draw anime boy techno or genuine pig hybrid techno and it’s still so clearly him?? It’s a fucking fascinating lesson on perception if you ask me. How all of us can look at something and objectively we all take in/have access to the same information but we all interpret it so differently?? Obsessed with the idea of a story shaped by its viewers, of flexible canon, and keeping themes universal. I can go read any sbi fic set after exile and they all follow the same generic format and yet every single one manages to be so different because of how they write the characters obviously, but also what sides of them they choose to show!! Obsessed with the different ways people write c!tommy PARTICULARLY post exile because even during those streams there was such an intense shift between the serious lore and cc!tommy just kinda fucking around? And seeing how people take bits of the cc’s and incorporate them into the characters? OBSESSED. Because it’s so improv based and it’s content made by people whose job is essentially to perform and entertain there are so many bits and genuine lighthearted moments. Especially back like. Pre Jan 6th id say? You were never stuck in lore mode the entire time.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the lore streams, and just watching for plot, but when it’s not mixed into the regular streams you lose so much of the cc! Mixed in with the character. Like after doomsday there were so many people creating such interesting and fascinating backstories that were like genuinley interesting stories but they just didn’t have the CONNECTION some of the OG server members did. It almost became like your lore character was an entirely separate person from you that you portrayed when the BEAUTY of it . That’s what made the relationships so compelling is having these people who were friends in real life create these characters that played and bounced off of each other. I think it was able to develop into what it was BECAUSE it was taken less seriously at the start. No shade whatsoever but these are not professional actors working from a script. The more they tried to script all of it (despite giving us some insanely cool streams, thank you Quackity) I feel like they lost some of the genuine connection that came from the back and forth banter and split second decisions. It was never a thing meant to be controlled or contained. Like I know that I sound like a broken record but I would genuinely LOVE to do a serious deep dive into it from a writing and/or character building, psychology, social media, covid perspective because all of those things had to mesh together to make it what it is that I don’t even know how I would start but I fully believe there is an opportunity for FASCINATING psychological research to be done there. How did a media source like this come about and raise to such popularity? How did it impact streaming in the future? How did it manage to provide a source of connection for thousands of people worldwide when the defining trait of that period was isolation? Were we drawn closer because of the isolation? Would it be replicable on a scale like that ever again? What worked about it and what didn’t? How can we learn from the positives and the negatives it provided us to shape us as people? Especially when so much of your audience were teenagers in critical development periods missing out on the social interaction with their peers that is CRITICAL for that time period. Because there was nothing like watching a lore stream and going on social media to see EVERYONE talking about it. There was so much physical distance and yet there was such an intrinsic connection with a group who was experiencing the same thing and found a way to cope with it and fill that social void. Did the lack of interpersonal relationships being developed (or even maintained) during covid impact how deeply people clung to the relationships of those characters? How the connection both between the audience and the character, the character and the streamer, the streamer and the audience all created that connection?

This is much much longer than I meant it to be and I will NOT be rereading it so I hope it’s somewhat coherent but like. Yeah.

TLDR: the Dsmp is fascinating both as a unique form of narrative and a massive social event and if I could analyze the impact of it more I Absolutely would

[paladin-of-nerd-fandom65]

Got some more! :D probably be it until a few days

1: as seen in Nightwing: a new order, Jake had a voltron robot in his room, most likely Dick introduced him to it, do you think dick showed him more of his childhood like how some parents do?

2: since Jake is a fan of basketball both fanon & canon, does he look up basketball stuff? I bet he likes the first space jam movie ;)

3: does the starburst duo like horror movies? If not, what’s their favorite costume to wear on Halloween?

4: if they can dye their hair what colors would they be?

5: when they are older, what would their favorite nostalgic moment between the two of them?

6: what’s their favorite superheroes? both in universe and maybe some heroes from different superhero comics.

7: does Chris have a crush on mar’i when they are older? I can totally see Jake and Chris becoming brother in laws

1. Oh very much he would. It’ll be all the works of what Dick grew up with as a kid. It further contributes to all those times of people, both Titans and Batfam, can look at those just once and make a remark about the Family Resemblance. All that’s missing is that Jake having blue eyes like Dick’s and as Dinah Lance once put it “It’s like Dick somehow became younger while we all got older”

2. Yes he would. Whether it be entire history articles about how the major league teams came to be, the records being held up, etc, It fills up his search engines on all of his devices like there’s no tomorrow. He would also like that movie, whether basketball related or not, at least for the sheer novelty of it, having a good laugh at its plot and select moments of it alongside his friends and loved ones on some movie nights.

3. They want to like them and they’re fascinated by them….the issue lies in the factor that no matter how much they’ve trained and seen all sort of actual in universe terrors throughout basically all their lives, one too many splattering moments and jump scares are enough to send them scurrying straight to their respective parents’ rooms.

As for their preferred costumes on All Hallow’s Eve; Chris designed a custom built rubber monster suit akin to all those Japanese monster movies Conner showed him once. His in particular is very influenced by Godzilla, only instead of dorsal plates and iguanodon arms, his monster design has a frill, velociraptor arms along with toe claws and Carnotaurus horns. Then there’s Jake who basically design a Pokémon trainer outfit with his superhero colors (Basically a Discowing colored version of say Red or even Satoshi/Ash)

4. As once suggested not too long ago by a friend of mine, @spider-jaysart , Chris would have a black streak in otherwise brown hair whilst Jake’s streak in turn would have a red one.

5. Maybe one of the favorite moments they look back in the most would be the time they performed as part of the band (Chris on Bass and Jake on Drums) for Bludhaven Academy’s Last Day of School Dance along with Thara and Meredith (who which they played Rhythm and Leas Guitar respectively) in front of all of those classmates, their parents, staff members, all the while not cracking under the pressure. They still keep photos of that performance and their band group shots in their albums to the very day

6. For the both of them in universe, they both agree on Superman being a strong favorite for many obvious reasons. As for other heroes besides the Big Blue Boyscout, Jake more or less bases his entire hero work on Robins from the past, primarily his Father and (the still current one in my personal preference though I digress) Uncle Tim. For Chris, he also looks up very greatly to Tim Drake as Robin and the only other hero that can come close to that appeal for him would be either Shazam (Billy) or Cyborg.

As for other heroes which aren’t native to the DCU, there’s principally two mains for the both of them: Invincible aka Mark Grayson and Peter Parker, The Amazing Spider-Man

7. Actually (and apologies if I end up disappointing you my friend, sincerely) but Chris Kent and Mar’i Grayson are an example of two friends, boy and girl, that don’t end up in a romance between them. For one thing, Chris is already crushing the aforementioned Thara Ak-Var (Long story Incredibly short, she’s much younger here as Chris’ contemporary, New Krypton coexists and she’s an exchange student at Chris and Jon’s school) while Mar’I, if she lands at date at all, would be with someone outside of the Graysons’ social circle, as in not within any one of the superhero community whatsoever, much to Dick’s overprotective nature of course. In fact, Mar’i actually helps Chris with his strategies for getting closer to Thara.

I how these answers are to your liking @gothicghost2000 . They’re really fun to do. If you have any questions, suggestions or otherwise, reblogging and/or replying would be greatly appreciated.

[little-acts-of-gratitude]

Recently someone complimented my take on Tetra's princess dress. As promised, here's a rant director's commentary about the design choices behind it!

If you've ever perused through Wind Waker's official concept art, you may recognise the dress as a relatively liberal redesign of this outfit:

No matter the fandom, concept artworks and other forms of visual exploration never fail to fascinate and inspire me, especially in a game as excellent in its character design as Wind Waker. In fact, Ganondorf's design for this AU was born from a concept art, too!

Many people enjoy and celebrate the saree-like silhouette of the concept art dress. However, as Hylian pre-flood culture is meant to be European, I chose to reinterpret the blue part of the dress as the riband of sorts, like the ones used to display the medals. Doesn't mean I'm getting rid of the saree idea fully, though - you'll see... sometime later.

I chose that old art of mine as an illustration for this post specifically because I'm still proud of how I did the transparency effect on the fabric. The concept art is kind of ambiguous in that regard - no idea if they imply that the whole dress is made out of this lightweight material or just the sleeves. I think it's fitting for the princess living in the Era of Winds to wear something breezy, maybe gauze or silk, unlike Link's Uncomfortably Warm™ Hero tunic.

Speaking of the fabric: I tend to think of this dress as the "praying dress", i.e. the equivalent of the white ceremonial robes worn by BoTW/SkSw Zeldas, rather than something worn in court - mostly because it's too breezy and too simple for the latter, even if it's vaguely Imperial. I do have a design for Tetra's hypothetical court dress in mind, though! Which is also based on the concept artwork! I never drew it properly, because it's never going to come up in any capacity, but let's throw it in here for posterity:

But if it's the ceremonial dress, why isn't it white? Good question! Remember how in SkSw, Zelda's pink dress is not her everyday wear, but a costume of the Goddess she puts on for the Wing Ceremony? The oral tradition of Skyloft embellished the outfit according to their aesthetic standarts, regardless of what the actual dress Zelda later dons after reawakening as Hylia really looked like. Tetra's case is similar to that: her praying dress was made at the very end of the Era of the Hero of Time™, and I tend to headcanon the pre-flood period to be a time of relative prosperity for Hyrule, something of a silver era, so it's no wonder that even this religious outfit turned out a little bougie.

I promise I'll go over the backstory of that dress in the comic a bit more. It's an interesting character bit.

And the dagger. We'll get to it when we'll get to it.

P.S. And now I'm kind of curious what Mila would say if she ever saw Tetra wearing this. How does a regular Great Sea dweller interpret this (quite literally) antediluvian outfit? Is it classy and elegant or tacky and stuffy in their eyes?

Local pirate princess found a Moblin spear down in the castle and decided to repurpose its' blade as a dagger (dirk?) in case a certain evil demon king dude comes to take her; after all, Link's busy dungeon crawling, so she can't count on him, can she.

[driftward]

Title: Why do we hurt Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Klynt Gohtawyn Rating: Teen Summary: The Witness comes to All Saint’s Wake, and shows the Vanguard of Light that which they hide away Notes: A collaboration, written alongside @saesama. Inspired by this uquiz

It was All Saint’s Wake in Revenant’s Toll, and Zoissette was enjoying the festivities, for the most part. The holiday passed quite a bit differently than how she remembered it being observed in Ishgard. In Ishgard, it was a celebratory affair, with feats and speeches and fêtes to be certain, but it centered around the Saints from the history of the Holy See.

Less so, here in the South. The Saints were recognized, to be sure, but the celebration also seemed to be of treats and costumes, with a mythos of tricking voidsent and much about the thinning of the veil between what was and what was not. It was fascinating, in a way, and she had tried to learn what she could of it, and considered entertaining what it might mean for aetheric experiments during this time of year.

But that was of little matter right this moment. She had not fully considered that the thinning of the veil might be a real phenomenon, and had not prepared for it. So this year she had barely had time to set up some instruments to take measurements, but hopefully that would help to inform some experiments next year. For now, she idly walked past food booths and tchotchke stands, and watched the Doman children run past, celebrating this new and unusual tradition from a culture more foreign to them than it was to her.

She smiled faintly at them, and stepped quietly to one side, deciding to celebrate the event in her own way, if only for a moment. She bowed her head low and closed her eyes, and clasped her hand shut a few ilms from her face, and offered up a silent prayer to Saint Thea.

When she opened her eyes again, she was startled to see a black Miqo’te standing a few fulms away.

“Fury -,” she began, but then let her breath out as she looked closer at the person. They looked eerily familiar. “Blackmoon? Is that you? What happened to your eye?”

Nyx looked at her, and she assumed it was Nyx Blackmoon, with their characteristic blank expression. However, normally they had one eye that was silver, and the other eye dark. What was unusual right now was that both eyes were dark, and Nyx had shown up without the white warpaint that typically made up the half of their face on the same side as the eye that was dark. Actually, until just that moment, Zoissette hadn’t actually been sure it was warpaint and not just an interesting design choice on the part of whoever had made them.

“Vauban. Follow me,” said Nyx, and now Zoissette was certain it was definitely Nyx, nobody had quite her vocal affect. Nyx turned, and immediately began walking away.

“Wait - what - okay, uhm, sure,” said Zoissette, bemused, hurrying after them. “Is something the matter? Hippogryph attack? Garlean patrol spotted?”

Nyx did not answer her, but instead just walked quickly through the crowds, somehow avoiding touching anyone while not breaking stride. Zoissette was light on her feet, but quite a lot larger, and not nearly so willing to be as rude as she thought Nyx was being, so she smiled and nodded quickly to people as she passed them.

At last, they found themselves in the back of a small group of tents that had been set up in a corner of Revenant’s Toll. They were housing a traveling mummer’s troupe of some sort, as far as Zoissette was aware. Nyx stopped in front of one tent in particular, and Zoissette found it quite peculiar. She was not sure how she had noticed when she had wandered through here earlier. The other tents were made of a light cream-colored cloth of some sort, but this one’s coloration was more of a dusky gray, and as she looked at it, she saw faint geometric patterns painted on its cloth that flowed across it like constellations in a night sky.

It was quite the impressive piece of art, as well as being a place of lodging.

Nyx pulled back a tent flap, and gestured inside. “Talk to her,” they said.

Zoissette looked at Nyx, giving her an odd look, but after a moment ducked inside. She did trust Nyx, after all, and Nyx had their odd little ways about them. This was probably just their way of trying to show her something that they had found interesting, and Zoissette was inclined to oblige.

It was brightly lit in the tent, and the enchantments on her glasses dimmed her view a bit so her eyes would have time to adjust. The tent seemed oddly larger on the inside, but not by very much. Enough to make space for four oil lamps on top of four pedestals. There was a round table in the middle of the room, and atop the middle of that table was a black tablecloth, and on top of the tablecloth was an orb in its holder. The orb appeared to have some sort of dark liquid in it, swirling with a fine silvery glittering material.

There were two chairs on either side of the table. One was closer to her, and was empty. The other was on the opposite side of the table, and in it sat a pale gray Miqo’te, with black freckles across her cheeks that looked perhaps like they were a way of dark stars across her face. Her hair was silver, and as Zoissette walked closer, she could see the slits of her purple eyes that identified her as a Seeker of the Sun. Her pupils had the cloudy gray of cataracts, but she must have still been able to see, as her eyes locked onto Zoissette’s face and did not leave from there.

“Zoissette Vauban, Inheritor of Atlas, Foreseer of Light,” the Miqo’te intoned, and her voice was gravelly and deep. And, blessedly, strangely in this strange land, she actually pronounced her name correctly, Swah-set, unlike the common habit of the locals to pronounce it Zoey-say.

Zoissette smiled warmly at her. “I take it you have spent time in Ishgard. But, uhm, if you please, it is just Zoissette. Foreseer is just an honorary rank they keep for me back at Maelstrom Command. And… I’ve no idea who or what Atlas is. But, uhm, I am glad to meet you, lady…?”

“I am the Witness,” she said, simply. “Take a seat.”

Zoissette looked to the seat, and sat down in it slowly, feeling cautious. She noted the feeling, and turned it in her mind, thinking it odd. She was in no danger here, and surely the Witness did not feel threatened by her in turn.

“You are here for a reading,” the Witness said. It was not a question.

“...sure,” said Zoissette, deciding to play along. “How much?”

The Witness smiled at her thinly. “The cost is not in gil. But do not worry, I know what you mean. No charge. This is merely a service I am providing for your star.”

Zoissette was not sure what to make of that, but just nodded, as the Witness waved a hand over the orb. The fluids in it seemed to shift, and the Witness settled into her seat, and began to shuffle a thin deck of cards. "Sing yourself a song, child."

“Pardon?” asked Zoissette.

The cards slipped from hand to table like silk, doled out in a neat line. "You need not tell me the words. But sing yourself a song to fight to. To take your life into your own hands." Her smoky eyes crinkled into the faintest smile. "To prove you'll be fine, if only to yourself."

For once, Zoissette was at a complete loss for words. The Witness did not notice her bafflement, or, more likely, meant for it. “Read the cards,” the Witness said. “Imagine that you can only keep one. The rest, you will never have again.”

Zoissette frowned at her, but scooted forward in her seat, and looked over the cards. They had simple labels. Love, courage, reliability, sensation, freedom. She picked up freedom, and turned it over, curiously.

On the back, a single sentence. A day where it doesn't feel like drowning anymore.

She looked up and over at the Witness, but found their expression unreadable. She looked down at the card again for a moment, before turning it back over and setting it back down.

Well, her days were not all that bad, but the ones that were, she had endured well enough. She could endure them forever more, she thought.

She looked to love, and her hand reached out to it, and hovered over it. Love, she thought, and she closed her eyes, and let out a slow breath. To love and be loved.

It was a nice thought.

She moved on, and reached for the card labeled courage, and flipped it over.

Courage when you need it the most, to look what you are afraid of in the eye, it read.

She closed her eyes again, and thought of the challenges she had faced thus far, and the ones she would face in the future. She had been brave enough, it was true, but should that ever falter, should she ever fall short, well.

She opened her eyes, and looked across the table, deliberately locking her gaze with that of the Witness as she placed the card in front of the other woman.

The Witness simply nodded, and took the card, tucking it away before also taking the others and whispering them out of sight elsewhere.

The witness set out a new set of cards, each one looking like a stained glass window that would not be out of place in one of the holy sites of Coerthas. The first showed a beam of sunlight, cast in yellow and gold, streaming from the clouds. Another showed roaring flames, in red and orange glass, rimmed with black. There was one that was all shades of blue, with a single brilliant sapphire in the middle, held in silver. The next, each glass piece formed part of a puzzle, and the puzzle was of myriad colors, forming no picture at all. The last one looked rather like a leve token, showing a farmer’s plow in shades of brown representing the earth, and a dark gray pane for sky, with little pale blue panels for rain.

“Choose,” the Witness said.

Zoissette almost reached for the one that looked to be a jigsaw puzzle in glass relief, but stopped. She liked puzzles, to be sure, but the ones she was interested in often showed something for the effort. And, in a way, was not all stained glass a kind of puzzle, made of pieces that comprised the whole? Changing her mind, she picked up the one that looked like streaming sunlight, and as she turned it towards her, it was as though it came to life. It suddenly looked not like a card, but rather like she was actually holding a complete stained glass window in miniature. She turned it, and watched as light played through it and around it. It was no heavier than she would expect a card to be despite that, and she looked up at the Witness questioningly.

The Witness simply nodded, however, and reached out and took the card from her, and as it passed hands, it suddenly was just a card again. It and the rest were quickly shuffled out of sight.

Zoissette marveled at her for a moment, but then sat back and laughed nervously. “I thought these sorts of things were supposed to be talking to the ghosts of relatives, or, you know, answering questions about one’s love interests.”

The Witness threw her head back and laughed, and Zoissette was surprised to hear not a hollow mocking, but instead warmth, and also, somehow, an edge of sadness that she wasn’t quite sure how she had identified as such.

“Ah, love, to be sure,” she said. “You will have to learn acceptance, first, before you will let yourself find love.” Zoissette looked around the tent, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“Uhm. I like to think I am pretty accepting,” she said.

“Are you?” said the Witness, standing up and reaching across the table to thump her in the middle of her chest with a finger. “Are you truly?”

Zoissette leaned back and rubbed at where she’d been hit. “Uhm. Well. Same as everything else, I guess it is just… something else I will need to work on.”

The Witness sighed, and sat back down in her chair.

“Well. A lesson you will have to learn the hard way, I suppose,” she said.

Zoissette shifted in her seat uncomfortably, trying to think of who or what the woman could be talking about.

“I suppose,” said Zoissette, reluctantly.

“Let us continue on,” the Witness said. “You are onboard an airship. There are four other passengers with you, and you know nought of any of them; five people onboard in total. There are only four parachutes. A malfunction has occurred, and if you stay onboard, you will surely die. What do you do?” Zoissette felt a bit off balance with the tone and way the evening was going. “I would attempt to save the airship, which would keep all of us aboard safe. And if any were not confident in my ability to do so, well, then, they could take a parachute.”

The Witness nodded. “Eager to keep your fellow man safe, even at substantial personal risk,” she said.

“...someone should be,” said Zoissette. “I am someone.”

“Very well then. Someone asks you for help. By any and all tests you could possibly devise, they deserve the help, and they will need help from somewhere. What do you do?” “Well, I help them, of course,” said Zoissette. “Is this even a question?”

The Witness smiled thinly. “You would be surprised.”

Zoissette grimaced at that, but shrugged again. “I think you might be surprised yourself.”

“Ah, such boundless faith in your fellow man,” said the Witness.

“It hasn’t let me down yet,” said Zoissette. “...much.”

The Witness laughed, and Zoissette smiled wanly at her. After a moment, though, the Witness sobered.

“Keep in mind your fellow man, and think of the people of your home as you do so,” she said. “And consider my words carefully. Are you more afraid of being a reflection, or a mirror? Are you them, or are they you?”

Zoissette frowned. She clasped her hands in front of her, and shivered, feeling suddenly cold. It was dimming in the tent, she noticed, but she ignored that for the moment in favour of pondering the question. She looked down at the tablecloth, and thought of the Holy See. Of the unfortunates in the Brume. Of the Temple Ward. Of the common soldiers, who fought and bled for Ishgard. Of the High Houses and their lesser cousins.

Of the Inquisition.

And of the power she herself could wield.

“Reflection,” she said quietly. “I am afraid I reflect their values. That I - I am no better than them. Imposing my will through force of arms. A petty tyrant with a pretty title and a cold sword to my name.”

The Witness reached across the table, and patted her hands. “You are more shield than sword,” she said, “But I suspect you know that already. Here. We are nearly done. One more.”

Zoissette nodded, and she looked up, and she was startled by what she saw. The ceiling and walls of the tent seemed to have grown thin, somehow. It was as though she could just barely see beyond them, if she tried, but outside of its cover was not the comforting stone walls of Revenant’s Toll, but instead, the swirl of hidden geometries and void. Or perhaps the patterns of the aetherial sea itself.

“Focus,” said the Witness, and Zoissette blinked, and looked back to her, to see she had laid out three cards, each one with the same back, unlabelled.

“Show me what your dreams are about,” the Witness said, gesturing a hand over the cards.

Zoissette glanced between them and her, and then looked upwards again. The ceiling of the tent was still there, but it was much the same as the walls, thin and seemingly translucent. The Witness cleared her throat, and Zoissette turned her attention back to the cards, before reaching for one and flipping it over.

Less, it said on its back, and she frowned at it, not understanding. She gave the Witness a questioning glance, but if there was an answer there, it was not forthcoming as the Witness took her card from her, and the two others beside, and quickly placed them all out of sight.

“I am ready to tell you why you hurt,” said the Witness, her voice hoarse, and barely a whisper. The tent seemed to grow even colder, and the walls thinner, and it was all Zoissette could do to not look around wildly, to try to ascertain the exact nature of the space she had found herself in.

“But before I do, would you like to hear my advice?”

Zoissette nodded, dumbly.

“Build yourself as beautiful as you want your world to be. Wrap yourself in light then give yourself away with your heart, your brush, your march, your art, your poetry, your play. And for every day you paint the war, take a week and paint the beauty, the color, the shape of the landscape you’re marching towards. Everyone knows what you’re against; show them what you’re for.

“...are you ready?”

“...yes,” said Zoissette quietly.

“Then touch the orb,” the Witness said.

Zoissette looked at her, and then at the orb, and carefully reached a hand out towards it, before placing her hand solidly on top of it. The tent seemed to vanish, and around her swirled colors and patterns and shapes, and she closed her eyes as she heard a voice, that she somehow just knew to be impossibly old, echo around her.

“You are choking on how much you have to try. You have tried. You have carried the weight of the world on your shoulders and accepted more responsibilities than you have ever wanted, even intended to gain. It isn't crushing - you are strong enough to hold it - but you are choking. You don't know what to do with it. You don't know where it goes, how to move this weight everyone knows you can hold onto, and do you even want to get rid of it? Never. You would not give this to - force this on - anyone else. But you can’t. But you are choking on it. Your body will hold it up even when you lose all the air in your lungs, and your footing, and your courage. It does not mind choking you. It seems almost designed to do so. If you weren't wrung out you wouldn't be doing this thing properly.”

Zoissette’s eyes snapped open as the voice finished, and she pulled her hand back sharply from the orb, holding it to her chest and looking around herself, her eyes wild and her heart racing.

She was back in the tent. There were four pillars with four oil lamps on top of them, and the inside was well lit. The walls and ceiling of the tent were solid again, and the table was where she had left it, and she was seated where she had started at, sitting in a chair across from a gray-skinned Miqo’te with cataracts in her eyes and silver in her fur.

It was warm in the tent once more.

The Miqo’te simply sighed, and settled into her chair, her head coming down to rest against her chest.

“...I am so sorry,” she said, quietly. “I am afraid it will be much the same for your compatriot, but perhaps you will find comfort in knowing you do not hurt alone.”

“What just happened?” asked Zoissette, feeling dazed and disoriented.

“You will find out, in the sennights and moons and summers to come,” said the Witness. “But that is all I have for you tonight. You will need to find your own way from here, Foreseer of Light.” She pointed a finger behind Zoissette, at the way she had come in. “And now you must go. The pirate will find me next, I presume. Good night and good luck to you.”

Zoissette nodded dumbly, and she stood up from the chair slowly, looking around. She was certain of what she had seen and what she had heard, but none of it made sense. She opened up the flap to the tent, and stumbled outside.

Nyx was standing there waiting for her when she got outside, and took her hand as she came out of the tent.

“Come with me,” said Nyx, who began to lead her, and Zoissette was too flummoxed by the experience to protest as she was dragged through Revenant’s Toll, past the food booths and tchotchke stands and children and crowds, until she was led up the stairs to one of the parapets that surrounded the city.

“I believe it will help if you stand here and watch the stars for a while,” said Nyx, her voice as monotonal as always. “I need to find Gohtawyn. I suspect she will be here shortly to keep you company.” And without further explanation, Nyx let go of her hand, and spirited away back into the depths of the city.

Zoissette watched her go for a bit, bewildered, and then turned away and faced outward, looking out over the wilds around the city, the corrupted crystals sprouting out of the ground at irregular intervals, out over the wreckage of Garlean war machines and twisted landscape.

And then she heeded Nyx’s words, and looked up, up, at the stars.

-*-

"Pushy, tonight," Klynt teased, as Nyx led her through the crowded festival. "You got plans later, Blackmoon?"

"Yes," Nyx said, not even looking back at Klynt's exaggerated pout.

"You're no fun," Klynt groused. "Alw- is that Zo?"

Zoissette stood atop one of the sections of the wall, hugging her elbows close as she craned her neck to watch the stars. Klynt slowed, alarum in her throat because Zoissette was a good distance away but every line in the elezen's frame screamed of her discomfort. Nyx had to stop before Klynt lost her. "After," she said, looking back at Klynt. "She needs to be alone, now."

"What? Is she okay?" Klynt demanded, already eyeballing the distance to the top of the wall, calculating if a single jump could get her there.

"She's fine," Nyx intoned. "She has to think. You have to learn. Keep moving."

Klynt scowled but started after Nyx again. "This better be good," she grumbled, as Nyx led them towards the tents where the traveling troupes were staying.

"This one," Nyx said, opening a low-slung tent. "Be polite."

"Aren't I always?" Klynt shot back, ducking through the opening.

"Klynt Gohtawyn," hummed the miqo'te sitting at the table inside the dim tent. "Come, sit."

"Really, Nyx?" Klynt called out to through the tent flap. Nothing answered and she blew out an irritable huff. "Sorry, ma'am," she said. "I'll pay whatever fee is supposed to cover your time but my friend is-"

"-Is dealing with what she learned from me, yes," the miqo'te said. "Ser Vauban will be fine, Inheritor of Ceto."

Klynt felt her hackles rise. "And what did you teach her?" she asked, cool bordering on cold.

The woman smiled, thin and equally cool. "That is for her to tell you," she said. "I am to give you a reading. Sit."

Klynt curled her lip. "You can't keep me here,” she pointed out.

The miqo'te laughed, deep and genuine and rolling like thunder in the hills. "You wish for your freedom, child?" she asked. "Take it! The star entire shall live or die by the choices you and yours are free to make." She leaned forward, so much like one of the créchemothers that Klynt felt eight years old again. "But take it true, Pirate of Light; make your choices from your heart, not your spite. Your friend shall need long moments to regain herself, and the kit will take you to her when we are done here."

Klynt could leave. But the will of a créchemother was hard to ignore. "Fine," she said, dropping into the other chair.

The miqo'te busied herself with flattening a piece of silk on the table, so Klynt took a moment to look around. Low, smoky whale-oil lamps hung in each corner of the space, casting a dim, flickering light over the dull blue tent walls. It was an interesting effect, almost like being in a sea cave, and Klynt gave the miqo'te an odd look. "Are you a créchemother?" she asked.

"I am the Witness," she replied, then patted the silk. "Place your nhalisman here, child. I'll not touch it."

Klynt squinted suspiciously but pulled her nhalisman from its little pouch and spiraled it down on the silk. The influence beads rolled away from their heavier anchors, fanning out like a sketch of a nautilus shell, cleaner than if Klynt had done it on purpose.

The Witness traced her hand in the air a few ilms above the spiral of beads. "Pick an anchor, child," she said. "Imagine one strand, you may keep; the rest you can never see again. Which anchor do you chose?"

Klynt blinked and looked down at the collection of stones and silk. Each anchor was a different topic of interest, such as the Scions or the Empire, and each had its own individual influences dangling from it, but to limit herself to one? To never see, or hear from, or deal with the others again? Some, like the Empire, would be a relief, but to never see any of the Scions again?

As her eyes tripped from bead to bead, she realized there was only one real choice. "Primals," she said, tapping the rich malachite anchor.

The Witness raised a brow. "A bold choice," she pointed out.

"The only choice," Klynt countered. "The Alliance can handle the Empire. I like the Scions but they don't need me, nor I them. But as of right now, there's only a small few who can stand up to a Primal, and I'm one of them." She pressed her lips together into a thin line. "If I have to face them alone, so be it. But I'd do it."

"A brave choice, then," the Witness amended. "Think, then, of all of the Primals you know of; those you have fought, those you have here in your nhalisman as potential fights, those you only know legends of. You must give yourself over to one so that many may be spared. Which?"

Klynt huffed a short laugh. An easier choice, this one. "Leviathan," she said, tapping the tiny piece of coral strung beneath the malachite anchor. "If I'm to be enthralled, I'd rather spend the rest of my days in the ocean instead of the mountains or desert."

"I suppose with your heritage, that is to be expected," the Witness hummed. "A fire has broken out on your ship, many malms from land. There are not lifeboats enou-"

"I save the ship," Klynt interrupted. "Or I die trying."

The Witness huffed irritably. "You should let me finish my questions first," she groused. "How can you know what your options were?"

"If that wasn't an option, I'd make it an option," Klynt said. "A lifeboat is a coinflip chance at survival. A ship, even a crippled one, is a better shot for every soul on board."

"You are a very combative young woman," the Witness said. "It does not behoove one to make such decisions without knowing all of the information."

Klynt grinned. "Never been much of a thinker, you know? S'why I stick with people like Zo or Minfilia or even little Alphinaud."

"And if they were not around?" The Witness leaned forward, her hands on the table on either side of Klynt's nhalisman. "If my first query came true? What would you do, then?"

Klynt crossed her arms and looked away. The lamps must have started to burn low, as the walls were darker. And the wind must have picked up, because they were rippling. The tent had gone from a sea cave at low tide to a filled cavern at high tide. "I'd do my best," she spat. "I'd do what I could to keep moving forward, to keep helping people, as best I could."

"You wouldn't go back to sea? You've spoken more than enough about your love for the water."

Klynt drew in a slow breath and met those cloudy eyes again. "No," she said evenly. "Two seasons ago, maybe I would have. But not since Titan. There's too many people who need help, and I've too many gifts to not offer it."

"And your water-borne brethren do not approve of such charity," the Witness said, sitting back. It wasn't meant cruelly but Klynt flinched anyway. "Tell me, child, which do you fear more? That you carry their values out into the world, or that they have had your values all along? Are you them or are they you?"

"Swive me," Klynt groaned, dragging her hand over her face. "No wonder Zo is crying on top of a wall."

"She interrupted me much less," the Witness said primly.

Klynt couldn't help a sharp laugh. But this was another easy one, in its own horrid way; it was difficult to fear that which didn't exist, and had her sisters carried her values all along, she wouldn't be in gods-be-damned Mor Dhona of all places. "That I'm them," she said. "I joke about the whole 'Pirate of Light' thing, but I worry that I'm too much pirate, not enough Light."

"Another reason, perhaps, that you follow ser Vauban?" the Witness offered, doling three cards out onto the table. Klynt snorted but didn't answer, and the Witness waved her hand over the cards. "Show me what your dreams are about."

Klynt laughed again, though it felt like salt in her mouth, and didn't reach for a card. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "They're about drowning."

The walls of the tent crashed in, waves that slammed Klynt into the grotto walls. She tried to right herself, to find the surface but riptides tore at her weight and dragged at her clothes, and she opened her mouth and sobbed around brine. 

The Witness remained in her seat, unaffected by the currents Klynt desperately swam through. She was speaking, calm and collected, and Klynt tried to swim closer, tried to hear her words. "Picture a wave, child," she said, past the benthic roar in her ears. "In the ocean. You can see it, measure it. Picture its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it is there. You can see it. You know what it is. It is a wave." She smiled, so achingly gentle. "And then it crashes in the shore and it is gone."

Klynt slammed back into her chair, coughing up brine that didn't exist. She clutched the tabletop, her eyes squinched shut, and she started badly when knobby hands covered her own but she flipped her palms around to hold the Witness's hands. Créchemother hands, grandmother hands, hands that had done a lifetime of work and now held her like the lost child she was, her knobbly thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the backs of Klynt's calloused, murderous fingers.

"Impatient girl," the Witness murmured, without rancor. "You will hurt yourself, reaching for the answer before you are ready."

"Never been patient, either," Klynt croaked, earning a soft laugh.

Finally, with a deep breath that tasted of seaweed, Klynt released the Witness's hands and sat back, taking her nhalisman as she went. "I take it I wasn't supposed to drown until after you gave me my fortune, then? she asked.

"It is a dangerous thing," the Witness said, picking her cards back up, "looking at your own soul. ‘Tis easy to lose yourself. Or perhaps drown in the weight of the pain you carry."

"Little heavy for an All Saints mummer, isn't it?" Klynt pointed out as she stowed her nhalisman. "What's my fortune, then?"

"Combative child," the Witness smiled. "I am to tell you how you hurt."

Klynt froze. "Not 'why'?" The Witness nodded and Klynt sighed, sagging in her chair. "Fine. Let's hear it."

"You have always hurt." The Witness's voice was low and thrumming, deep-sea whalesong notes, and Klynt wondered how Zoissette had perceived the being. "You hold it carefully, and twist in such a way that other people don't have to see it. You don't choke on it. You don't drown. You just have it, the way some people have freckles, this is a thing that lives in your bones. You fold instead of fighting because you know how to make yourself small, tuck away the places where they have clawed at, swallow the bruises so you seem clean. Nobody needs to see it. You will live through this on your own. You know what you need, and relief isn't it. This doesn't mean you cannot reach out - it means it is not in your nature to do so." A smile, in the depths. "You should. Hiding does not mean you won't be seen."

Klynt held that ancient, ancient gaze for a long moment, then let out her breath in a slow sigh. The tent walls rippled but stayed in place.

"Go to your friend," the Witness said, eternity echoing behind her words. "Sit, and speak, and convince yourselves that the kit has played a wild trick on you this eve. And in the moons ahead, look to each other, and help each other stay strong. Ask for the help you offer so freely. Good luck, Pirate of Light." She leaned forward and squeezed Klynt's hand again. "And for what it is worth, I am sorry."

Klynt gently squeezed her fingers back and stood from her chair. Nyx - was it Nyx? What happened to their eye? - met her outside the tent and took her by the hand without a word. Klynt let herself be led along until they were climbing one of the stairs behind the city wall and Zoissette was blinking owlishly at them as they came up over the edge.

"...Klynt? Did you-" Zoissette started, then stopped.

"Yeah," Klynt said. "Shite, Nyx, was that necessary?"

"Yes," Nyx said simply, pressing an All Saints cookie into each of their hands. "Watching the stars will help. But more, you two know each other well enough.

“I will be going now. Trust one another.”

She turned, and went back towards the staircase, not sparing a glance back for either of them.

Zoissette stood and just sort of looked at Klynt for several long seconds. Klynt looked at the cookie in her hand, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth.

Zoissette’s eyes darted back and forth, watching Klynt’s face, carefully. She stepped closer, and placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Swive both of us, and Nyx too,” muttered Klynt.

“...are you okay?” asked Zoissette.

"Are you?" Klynt countered. "You haven't even eaten your cookie yet."

Zoissette looked down at the cookie in her hand, and, lifting it to her mouth with both hands, took a slow bite, and chewed on it thoughtfully. She looked at Klynt over the top of her glasses as she did so, quietly eating.

Klynt sighed and leaned on the parapet wall. "No," she admitted. "Not quite. And I don't think you are either, cookie or no." She huffed through her nose and leaned her head back, to look at the arching vault above. "...The stars do help, though."

Zoissette turned and looked up at the stars once more, and slowly finished her cookie, dusting its crumbs off her hands onto her pants when she was done.

“You are correct,” she said, quietly. “I am not. And… I do not think I have been for quite some time.” She looked down, and fidgeted with her glasses a bit. “What do you think any of it meant?”

"Hells if I know," said Klynt, with a frown.

Zoissette was quiet for a long moment, before she too turned to look up.

The lights in the sky shone brightly, and the two watched them for some time. If the stars had answers, however, they kept them to themselves.

[squidwen]

Match up #2:

🌹Riddle Rosehearts🌹

For the lovely @azulsartdump

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Capturing the heart of the Crimson Tyrant is no easy feat, but the Heartslabyul dorm leader finds himself playing ‘loves me, loves me not’ with a rose each time you come to mind.

Due to spending a majority of his childhood dedicated to studying, and appeasing his mother, activities such as ballroom dancing and costume design would be a welcome escape. He can’t help but be fascinated by your taste in clothing. Since you like to incorporate more punk and lolita accessories into your outfits, Riddle would be curious to try on what you put together since your aesthetics are a far cry from the formal, uniform-like garb he’s used to wearing. And don’t even get me started on the ballroom dancing! Duty called for him to learn how to do a waltz, but since you’re passionate about dancing (and your height is similar to his) he wouldn’t be against trying more dramatic moves such as dips and lifts. When you’re in his arms, letting him lead you across the dance floor, he feels ten feet tall.

I also think Riddle would prioritise trust and devotion in a relationship with you, seeing as his own parents aren’t close. He’d probably invite you to come and care for the hedgehogs, and go horse riding, so that he can introduce you to parts of his life that he enjoys and cherishes the most. He hopes that if you do grow to like the same things as him (and he to you in turn) that you can bond over it. Plus, if the hedgehogs show a liking to you, it’d give you both a brilliant edge in croquet tournaments!

You’re a baker? ��YES! Is he under a spell, or is it normal for two of the closest people in his life (you and Trey) to be good at baking? Either way, he’s counting his lucky stars he met you. Since strawberry tarts are his favourite food, you can rest assured there would be no end to his gratitude if you were to offer him a slice of whatever you’ve made. Sampling delicacies from your home country/personal favourites would be something he’d be excited for, too. Don’t be surprised if he comes to you one day, sleeves rolled-up, asking you to teach him how to make your favourite treats. Not only would it be a perfect way for him to spend time with you - without the nervousness of officially asking you on a date - but now he can surprise you whenever you’re feeling down or need a recharge with something sweet.

However, your relationship may not be completely plain-sailing. After his overblot, Riddle may have started making a conscious effort to be more lenient with those who break rules, but your tendency to procrastinate does deeply irritate him. He’s mostly frustrated for you, rather than at you. But, the fact you want to adopt a better work ethic is a step in the right direction. He’s proud of you for wanting to improve, and he wants to help however he can. It’s likely he’d coordinate your study schedule with his so that you can take breaks together. The last thing he wants is for his work to be a reason he neglects you, and there would probably be a tea party set up for the two of you so that you can enjoy a well-deserved break.

And finally, I would definitely say your motherly side is something he’d be slow to accept in the beginning, but then learns to love it. After all, his only experience of someone ‘motherly’ was for them to be overbearing and hellbent on micromanaging his life. But you’re the opposite. He’s impressed that you always come prepared with plasters and hairbands in your bag. It’s something he considers to start doing himself. A magic-nullifying collar can only do him so many favours, especially with Ace and Deuce always making a mess wherever they go, with or without magic. With you two as a couple, Heartslabyul has a truly powerful pairing at its helm. And secretly, I think the other dorm members would sing your praises. You seem to have tamed the heart of their tyrannical dorm leader, and Heartslabyul is a far better place for everyone because of you.

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Thank you for commissioning me!! I’m really enjoying making these :3

My commission info can be found here

[a-mellowtea]

Let’s talk about character design.

Specifically, let’s discuss how an incongruous element of design, with the intention of it being incongruous, can lead to a problematic display of narrative decision-making.

As an anecdote, I’m a theatre undergrad with a focus on production, and costuming fascinates me. And, just as every element of costume design -- from fabric, to color, to era -- is a choice, character design is a choice, and one more often than not informed by the text in question. It falls on quite a few people to ensure these aspects work in tandem, and it is difficult and good work. However, if the text is -- for lack of a less melodramatic term -- spoilt at its core, then the design likely will be as well. In that vein, I find myself put off by both aspects of this particular choice -- the actual design itself, and the intention behind it.

If you hadn’t already guessed by who’s making this post and my as-recently typical subject matter, we’re going to be focusing on James Ironwood’s Volume 8 prosthetic.

I ought to preface this by mentioning that the conclusions I come to here are my own opinion, and those of an able-bodied woman. I cannot speak for the dehumanizing experiences disabled people (or persons with disabilities, if preferred) endure. I am mostly examining the design itself, but the intention and implication behind that are not things that can go unstated.

So, let’s begin with the design and that aforementioned incongruity; both with the character and the established look of technology in the show’s world. On its own, in a vacuum, it is a good one; I called it creative and unique when it was first, albeit accidentally, released to the public, and I stand by that. I’d expect no less from Alexander Juarez by now. However, that uniqueness is a double-edged sword in this instance, as this design is very distinct. To this point, replacement prosthetics in RWBY were uniformly shades of greys and blues (until and unless painted, see: Yang), noticeably complete and, even when purposefully visible, fit the designs of the characters themselves. Examples of this are Yang, Mercury, Maria, and even James’ own pre-Volume 8 prosthetics.

Oh. Yes, a moment on that. It’s worth mentioning that James does already have prosthetics, replacing or supporting the entire right side of his body, for which it is noted that the arm is a modified AK200 model.

The Volume 8 addition, meanwhile, is remarkably incomplete, with exposed wiring that can be cleanly seen through. Its core colors are also black and grey, which clashes directly with the blues and whites of the rest of the character design, as the only other instance of those colors on him is his hair. It’s heavy and eye-catching, throwing off the balance of the design.

Moreover? It's visible, and this is where incongruity of character comes in. James' prosthetics have always been hidden, bar extenuating circumstances (see, Battle of Beacon), and that is implied through both design and narrative to be a character choice based on how he himself views those prosthetics. The one he is given in Volume 8, however, is fully displayed, yet there is nothing to indicate that this particular character aversion has changed.

What did change, then? With a pre-established source of reference for James’ prosthetics being the AK200, why was this design choice made? His new arm is meant to be noticed. It's meant to contrast with the rest of the design, be visible, and visibly incomplete. Why?

Remember: character design is a choice that is typically informed by the text.

I don't like making big claims about CRWBY's intentions with things, because I’m not involved in the industry or production, and it’s generally rude to assume beyond that. With this, though, I don't have to, because they said it themselves.

Kerry Shawcross: "And then of course Ironwood now losing another part of his humanity. [pause] Get it?" Paula Decanini: [chuckles]

If you wish to check the context, this is taken from the Volume 7 DVD director’s commentary on Chapter 11, “Gravity”, and is a comment on the moment James loses his arm. It would be uncomfortable enough on its own, but discomfort isn’t very well the point of noting this as much as it is the answer to that question.

The design choices of the prosthetic were made as a visible reminder of a loss of humanity and his new status as a villain in that light. It is, certainly no pun intended, a narrative shorthand, meant to carry implication and impossible to ignore when he is on screen.

Perhaps a little more distressing is the fact that it worked. Still visible in a thread on the r/RWBY subReddit and several threads on Twitter, when it was revealed, people immediately associated the prosthetic and extension of James’ disability to a loss of humanity, despite the character actively having prosthetics for the entirety of his tenure in the show and it only previously being raised in regards to his Tin Woodsman allusion.

You may ask, so what? Why is this problematic? James is a villain in Volume 8, what should it matter that his design echoes that?

All I have to say is that that’s unfortunate. It’s unfortunate that we aren’t at a point yet where this kind of shorthand isn’t something immediately frowned upon in media, and especially in how characters are designed. James could have been a villain without the creative team pointedly using his disability as a neon “Now A Bad Guy” sign. They could have designed it in a way that fell in line with the character and the aesthetic designs of the world, and still had the loss be acknowledged as a stressful circumstance that informed how he was behaving in a way that wasn’t a silent visual.

Disability being used as such a signifier for some sort of absence of humanity is not a good thing in media in general, whether RWBY or otherwise. I’m still hopeful we’ll get to a point where that isn’t the case -- RWBY itself did quite well with Yang, all things considered -- but its as-yet unquestioned acceptance when characters are anti-heroic/villainous or, god forbid, “deserve” it, both in the design process of media and the minds of audiences, is disheartening, to put it mildly.

[fiftysevenacademics]

Warrior

By chance, I learned about a show called “Warrior,” originally on Cinemax and now streaming on HBOMax. The basic premise is that a martial arts prodigy immigrates to San Francisco Chinatown in 1878 and is quickly sold to a tong that is on the verge of going to war with a rival tong. The dearth of movies or TV shows set in pre-earthquake (1906) San Francisco always baffles me, given how incredibly socially diverse, violent, raunchy, crime-ridden, wealthy, and often lawless the city was. Portions of the waterfront were even built in abandoned ships. Imagine the amazing sets you could design! I’ll watch anything set in pre-quake San Francisco, especially if it’s going to tell the story of characters, such as Chinese immigrants, that we almost never see in Westerns or other films set in this era.

So I was already in before I saw that the show is based on an 8-page treatment by Bruce Lee and related notes his daughter, Shannon Lee, found. She is also an executive producer, along with Justin Lin. I’m not a huge fan of martial arts movies in general, but this one had a lot of potential so I checked it out and got immediately sucked in.

I’m not going to spoil the plot but it gets convoluted quickly. Probably about 2/3 of the scenes end up with fighting and there is plenty of sex, too. Is it a little trashy with all that sex and violence? Yes, but GOOD trashy, with characters that are multi-dimensional, well-written, directed, and acted, though the costuming leaves a lot to be desired and, somewhat stereotypically for the Western genre, most scenes occur in brothels or barrooms and there are a few historically improbable relationships. But OK, this is borderline pulp fiction and the story is exciting so whatever.

What I love most about the show, however, is how well it portrays a totally neglected aspect of California and American history: How virulent anti-Chinese racism shaped white working class politics in the West. It is the only show I’ve ever seen that directly addresses the cultural climate and politics leading up to the Chinese Exclusion Act from a Chinese point of view. One of the central conflicts in the show depicts how white laborers brutally intimidated and assaulted Chinese workers and their white employers, and how politicians used the “they’re taking our jobs” rhetoric for political gain. One of the main antagonists is a ruthless Irish labor boss called Dylan Leary, who is obviously a fictionalized version of Denis Kearney. 

The show mostly accurately depicts how Chinese were sequestered in Chinatown by a combination of laws that prevented them from owning property or becoming citizens and a campaign of terror led by white vigilantes, making it easy for white business owners to extract grueling labor for hardly any pay. The combination of exploitation and exclusion the Chinese immigrants face in American society intensifies a “get rich quick and get out” mentality among some Chinese immigrants, who are more than willing to do anything they must to their own people in order to send money home, make enough money to go home, or to become the most powerful people in Chinatown. Limited opportunities for economic and social advancement outside of Chinatown drive some to organized crime gangs called tongs that have turned this ethnic enclave into a haven for opium, gambling, and prostitution. While the show is set in this sensationalistic criminal underworld, it’s clearly contextualized-- If these guys had the same opportunities as white people, they’d become industrialist tycoons, too. You just don’t see stuff like this on TV!

The ghost of the Civil War is never far from the action, either. The irony of people who held strong views and fought against slavery going West and then oppressing Chinese workers, many of whom were also enslaved by debt bondage, is not lost on this show. 

It’s tempting to think that the show is retroactively putting contemporary anti-immigrant policies into the past to make a point. But the point is actually that things really were like this in the 1870s and remain to this day at the heart of American politics. As a show that fits into TVs “Western” genre, it is unique in its point of view and how much detail it goes into about actual racial politics of the era as well as the hopes, dreams, and disappointments of people who have to build their own community in a society that hates everything about them except their strong arms and backs.

Speaking of which, part of the show’s appeal is how generous it is to viewers of its many very hot actors and actresses! It manages to have sweaty, shirtless martial arts sequences and exotic, langorous, opium-enhanced brothel sequences that don’t feel exploitative or one-dimensional because they are just parts of a much bigger, well-rounded world the characters inhabit.

And I totally lost my shit when there was a scene set inside a business inside an abandoned ship in San Francisco’s infamous, utterly lawless Barbary Coast. I don’t honestly know how many businesses continued to be operated out of abandoned ships in the 1870s but surely there were some and I don’t even really care because I was just so excited to see something like that come to life.

One review wrote, The vibe is very much “What if Peaky Blinders was racially diverse and half the characters could roundhouse kick you in the face?”

Another review wrote: There’s a lot about the show that will be recognizable to fans of today’s dark antihero dramas: The gangster storyline feels like a plot from Boardwalk Empire or Peaky Blinders, the frontier fable of capitalism resembles Deadwood, and warring factions vying for power recall similar conflicts on Game of Thrones. But what sets Warrior apart is its focus on a fascinating chapter in the American story that’s often treated like an afterthought in history books. And it wraps that history lesson in an enticing action-thriller package with nods to spaghetti Westerns, the kung fu cinema of Hong Kong, gangster flicks, and exploitation films, as well as other grindhouse genres.

I discovered Warrior thanks to this essay by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Here’s a quote: The real issue here isn’t just adding more Asian American characters, it’s about the kind of characters portrayed. Two important areas that are deliberately overlooked by Hollywood are Asian Americans as romantic leads and as heroic leads. Few series dare to have an Asian American man as the object of romantic desire, especially by a white woman (are you listening, Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise?). Fewer have Asian American women as leads prized for their intelligence and outspoken strength rather than their svelte figure and flirty smile. There are exceptions: the wonderful Cinemax series Warrior, based on a Bruce Lee treatment, focuses mostly on tough and sexy Chinese men and women fighting for survival in San Francisco’s Chinatown in the 1870s. 

“Warrior” currently has two seasons. It was canceled when Cinemax ceased producing original content. But Shannon Lee and Justin Lin are hoping that with enough fan support, HBOMax will agree to make more seasons. Check it out!

[goldinavonlea]

So let’s talk about Prissy Andrews and That Scene. 

What I’m fascinated by with Prissy’s storyline the first two seasons is that it’s almost an anti-coming-of-age tale and you don’t (or at least I didn’t) realise quite what they were doing or how well they were doing it until the scene where she runs out of the wedding.

Right from the off Prissy is framed apart from the other girls. One of the first things Diana says to Anne on her first day of school is that they can sit together because “Jane and Ruby may sit together, now that Prissy’s studying for Queen’s academy entrance exams and needs to sit with the older students.”. Notably however we never really see any of these supposed other Queen’s prospectives, certainly not in any detail. Prissy sits at the back of the class, she’s taller than the other girls, she looks older, and we almost never see her specifically with the other girls.

Our first real introduction to her is when Diana and Anne see her and Phillips through the supply room window. Now when Anne asks if they’re married, Diana does respond “Of course not! She’s a student and he’s old”, but the real impact of that age gap is overshadowed both by how Diana’s line is played—there’s a childishness to it, she says old like she means ancient when he clearly isn’t, the same sort of way that as a small child your friends’ older siblings seem like Grown Ups even when they’re definitely not—and by Anne’s immediate following comment of “They must be making a baby” which again they very clearly aren’t. The scene isn’t really about Prissy and Phillips—it’s about Anne and Diana’s innocence, and a clear set up for how the limits of that innocence in Anne compared to her peers are going to get her into trouble. Even the way we see them—blurred through the window, the most obviously charged moment a shot of their hands that excludes their faces—is nebulous, unsharp, tinged with the childlike comprehension of the scene that Anne and Diana have. The way the scene is framed and where the focus is draws attention away from what’s happening: an adult man in a position of authority is conducting a romantic (or supposedly romantic) relationship with a teenage student. 

The visual indicators we see of her youth—the shorter dresses and pinafores, the hair worn down—are things which are used consistently through the show, so we Know, but they also don’t resonate to the modern audience with the immediacy they would at the time. We see as viewers that young girls wear their hair down and adult women wear their’s up, but we don’t immediate see Prissy wearing her hair down and think ‘This is obviously a child’ because that’s not the case in the modern world.

Throughout both the first and second seasons the majority of the interactions we witness Prissy having are with adults, and though these are clearly not equal interactions—between her mother and her, between her and Phillips—the fact that these adults are the people we see her interacting with frames her subconsciously in the minds of the viewers as one of them. Even in the scene between Prissy and her mother Prissy is clearly the taller of the two—all of these things which despite our again Knowing that she isn’t suggest that even if she’s not quite on the same level as, in the same position of power as, these adults we see her interacting with, she is closer to being one of them than she is one of the other girls.

Which is precisely how Prissy sees herself: “not a child”.

And because of all this careful positioning I think we, as an audience, kind of buy it. We’re placed into that sort of dazed, half-cognisant view of the situation that Diana and Anne have through the window: of course we know that it’s ENTIRELY not alright for an adult teacher to be pursuing a student, a child, romantically (’romantically’ in descriptor only: it’s not romantic, obviously, its horrific and predatory), but we’re prevented from ever really feeling the full horror of it because we never really see Prissy as a child.

Until. UNTIL that moment at the end of the aisle where she starts to look around. We see a shot of her face, then a shot of Anne. A shot of her face, and then a shot of Diana and Minnie May. A shot of her face, and then a shot of her mother’s. She’s stood there in this elaborate grown-up wedding dress with her hair all up at the end of the church aisle, and it’s in that EXACT moment that the full-fledged wrongness of the whole situation is truly presented to us as viewers. She looks at this audience, at these people, looks at Anne and Diana, and at her mother, and realises herself which of those two groups she belongs too. Suddenly there’s something almost grotesquely farcical about the wedding dress, the hair—it looks wrong, she looks like she doesn’t know how she got there. It isn’t until she’s right there at the end of the aisle that the show really, violently hits us with the appallingness of the situation—she’s vulnerable, frightened, and being married off to an adult man who was able to manipulate her because he had power over her and it hits us exactly when it hits Prissy.

When she runs out of the church it isn’t any of the adults who follow her: it’s the other girls. And then we get those fantastic shots of them all running through the snow—all these bright, candy-coloured girls running after Prissy who’s stumbling through the snow in her mother’s veil and a dress she has to hike up because it’s so long (too long for her—she shouldn’t be in that dress, she’s not ready for it), a dress you don’t realise is actually just a little off-white until it’s contrasted against not just the snow but her bright white petticoats. The white of a wedding dress is supposed to represent purity, innocence, and the contrast here of the dress itself and the petticoats—the cloak of greater experience, of age, even perhaps of complicity in the situation over this underlayer of absolute innocence and youth and vulnerability (costume designer marry me when?)—it’s all this sort of horrifying realisation, this sudden sharp sharp focus of how Not At All Okay this situation has been the entire time as she falls over and collapses into the snow, the other girls gathering round her. 

And then she sits up and you realise she’s laughing.

That’s the anti-coming of age moment. That’s the first moment that we’re encouraged to really look at Prissy and go ‘She’s a child’. We’re given all the moments before of that We Know This Isn’t Right feeling that never quite materialises fully, that awful sick horror in the church, this huge sadness for her as she’s running through the snow, but then this sudden glorious, boundless, childlike joy as she starts laughing with the other girls—suddenly they are the other girls, suddenly she is entirely, obviously one of them—as she throws her arms up in the air, and the other girls link arms around her, literally gather her into her circle, start dancing around her. 

Prissy Andrews, in a dress that’s too long for her, that suddenly looks like a costume, giggling with friends, dancing in the snow, miraculously and finally a child.

There’s something almost painfully miraculous about it: this girl who was so nearly lured into adulthood much too soon finding joy and fulfilment and the hope and possibility of a future not in becoming an adult, but in reclaiming her childhood—not in growing up, really, but in growing back down again and finding friends waiting for her with open arms and excitement and a love that doesn’t ask her to give up anything at all.

Prissy Andrews, ‘a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free’.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Trickster: an Ethari theory

I've had yea many Ethari headcanons, and I hope I live to have yea many more. Most of them are probably wrong, or incomplete at best. But boy are they fun.

I love to wonder what Ethari will really be like in canon when we get to know him for more than 3 minutes, but whoever he really is on his own, he will have an effect on Runaan , Rayla, and everyone who loves him, because they love him.

The first headcanon I can remember having for "Tinker" was that he could be like Leonardo da Vinci: a genius, creative, surrounded by beautiful ideas given shape by his hands, but also capable of creating deadly weapons, enchantments, and devices with equal beauty, and perhaps not really seeing where the line between them was. It was fun, but Ethari has ended up far softer than my headcanon, and I love and support him in his softness!

After a nice string of Ethari headcanons, this year I've started poking at the Trickster archetype and seeing if it applies to him. And I think it absolutely does!

Tricksters often seem like Chaos. But they're not. They're just Difference. "Chaos" is subjective. Like the "divergent" in "neurodivergent." Who says? Divergent from what, exactly? Perspective matters, and Tricksters have a very broad take on things which allows them to think outside any box people might try to invite them into.

My enjoyment of Loki has brought all kinds of ideas to my dash with the arrival of the Loki show. I've got a copy of the Edda, and I highlighted the hell out of it a couple of years ago as I searched for the roots of Loki's origin story. (It's truly fascinating reading and the symbolic language hidden inside their poetry is dazzlingly amazing and I'm super using it sometime just so you know)

Loki is a Trickster, and he's far from alone in myth and legend. Anansi, Coyote, and Sun Wukong are some you may have heard of. Aaravos is another, of course. Tricksters can be called upon to lend aid and wisdom when the rules don't have an answer for some extraordinary circumstance which the Trickster's people find themselves in. But that's not because they are truly outside the rule of order. They are actually a part of it. They are the catch-all for when the everyday ordinary rules fail people, and something "unthinkable"--in the literal sense--might just hold the answer.

This post crossed my dash today, and something finally clicked in my head, and all of this coalesced from what felt like separate places. But they're not separate, not anymore! Serotonin, baby. It's basically upped my headcanon to a full-blown theory.

What caught my eye was an answer to why Ethari's clothing is so determinedly asymmetrical, compared to Runaan's specifically, but Moonshadows in general. It's because of this:

Long protective sleeves below patterns on shoulders. A high collar paired with a bright and noticeable swoop around the neck. Fine detailing and graceful taste. Asymmetrical tunic point on the left, below broad strappy leather. Knee high boots with stylish protective gaiters.

And let's not forget the curling horns! In some comics, Loki has a broken horn. So does Ethari.

Yes, there is a lot of similarity here, but I'm not focused so much on the visuals as the reason they were chosen. Feel free to consider other aspects of Ethari's personality and how they might be similar to certain parts of Loki's. I did! But I wouldn't be me if I didn't go deeper than that.

My favorite book in the universe (so far) is Lois McMaster Bujold's The Curse of Chalion, and one of the many reasons why is because of her pantheon. It holds five gods, represented by a hand: Father, Mother, Son, Daughter, and Bastard. The first four all have their roles and places. The Bastard--the thumb--inherits everything else. He is the god of all things that do not belong to any other gods, and that includes self-sacrificing vengeance and queerness. He is a Trickster, and his influence on Cazaril's life is far deeper than at first glance. Chaos has its place. It belongs, and so do the Tricksters who engender it. God, I love this book. Please read it if you haven't. Bujold's work is amazing.

If you've seen or read any version of MDZS/Untamed, you know that Wei WuXian is a trickster. Competent and badass in battle, but playful and teasing to the point where sometimes even he isn't sure what he truly wants, he can bring a massive amount of power and focus when he wants to. It's always a matter of "but is it important to me?"

I love WWX so much. The Trickster vibe is very apparent in his character, and in a way you just don't get in Western media. We see him on his own, and we see him with family and loved ones. And he's always feeling something so intensely! He's driven by his emotions, for good or ill. He vibes with chaos, and he will create it if it doesn't exist yet. But he will also create family from nothing, and that's something you don't see enough of! WWX is a Trickster with an emotional preference for joy.

In TDP, Ethari doesn't have a lot of lore yet. It's being Moonshadowed because spoilers for future seasons, and I respect that. The longer the wait for S4, the more ideas I will just amuse myself with in the meantime--and yeah, this is one of them, so what? :))) But we do know a little about him.

He loves music. He loves to read. He leaves his mark on things in swirly form. He works very hard, even through headaches, because what he's doing is that important to him, even though he would much rather be making jewelry. He loves taking the time to polish rough stones into brilliant jewels, and he adores big pretty flowers and had them at his wedding.

Ethari has a temper, but he also loves puns. The weapons he crafts are exquisite: "light, elegant, strong, and clever." And he knew darn well that Runaan was trying to flirt with him, but why return a sentiment he may or may not feel yet when he can play with the overly earnest assassin just a little bit first?

Okay, just... A "simple craftsman" deciding that it's going to be fun to toy for a bit with a broody assassin's feelings? Would you risk that? Ethari got balls the size of the moon, and a brain to match. When he has to make weaponry, he does not half-ass it. Ethari's stabby creations nearly have a life of their own. His creations are literally called "trick weapons." This elf is a lot, okay. And it's possible that he doesn't even know how "a lot" he is. Yet.

We're meeting Ethari after he's found something that is, in fact, genuinely important to him: Runaan, and Rayla, and Laindrin too. Ethari has found a relatively stable place to settle and find a role to adopt. I say adopt, though, because making weaponry for his loved ones is not what he grew up wanting to do. It's what he had to do to keep them safe, once he found a place to bestow his heart.

But in the show, Ethari has lost his family, one by one. First Lain and Tiadrin, ghosted. Then Runaan, supposedly fallen on his mission. Then Rayla, ghosted for abandoning Runaan. He and Rayla have reconnected now, but the rest of his family is still out of his reach. If Rayla has indeed told him, by S4, what she learned at the Moonhenge in TTM, then Ethari may parallel Rayla's journey to seek answers. But even if he doesn't know yet, and gets pulled into some other story arc first, we will be seeing Ethari without his family.

Remember the ATLA episode "Zuko Alone"? Consider: "Ethari Alone."

Ethari has chosen, for love, to fit himself into a box that wasn't of his own making. And now that box has broken. His family doesn't need him to be their craftsman anymore. Perhaps others will need him to be other things to them. Or perhaps he will know that his family does need him, but to be far more than just a maker of pretty swords. A rescuer, perhaps. A healer, a guide? An avenger?

A trickster. Capable of taking many shapes, because he understands them all. Ethari works with form and function. If he needs to transform himself, he will.

That's what Tricksters do. It's delightfully queer and delightfully neurodivergent. Ancient peoples accepted and revered the different among them and actively sought their help with things they themselves struggled with.

Tricksters are Difference. Sometimes that manifests as chaos, sometimes as genius. But if you do not love and appreciate your chaos, it will absolutely turn on you. Wei Wuxian did. Loki certainly has, many times. Perhaps Aaravos is doing so as well.

I cannot wait to see what Ethari does with his difference. I have something very specific that I hope he goes and breaks.

All this from a picture of Tom Hiddleston in his Avengers 1 Loki costume? Yeah. Because Ethari was designed to wear asymmetrical clothing, in a Moonshadow culture that prides itself on balance. Sure, there are some other Moonshadows who wear this or that asymmetrical item, and I do love to see it. But Ethari has the most asymmetrical lines of them all. The meta glee I feel knowing that Moonshadow elves are designed to hold many layers of meaning in their appearances--that the writers, creators, and character designers just flexed with them--is truly a delight.

Ethari is asymmetrical. The full and practical application of that is a glass casket, and I hope it becomes a gift that keeps on giving, because boy do I want to keep receiving it. But right now, I'm genuinely seeing evidence of the Trickster archetype in him. And I really hope it gets to come out and play.

[mostlymovieswithmax]

Movies I watched in March

Thought I’d chronicle the films I’ve been watching over the March period, from the 1st to the 31st, and how I’d rate them. If you’re looking for something to watch, perhaps this will help. A lot of these movies are available on streaming services also.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) - 10/10

I hadn’t watched this in a couple of years but I was blown away. Peak Scorsese.

Rushmore (1998) - 7/10

Not the best Wes Anderson movie for me but still fun.

Lion (2016) - 8/10

I discussed this at length on my podcast: The Sunday Movie Marathon. Great movie!

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) - 10/10

Now this is one of the best Wes Anderson movies. I discuss this more on The Sunday Movie Marathon. Fantastic, funny and I watched it twice because it’s so much fun.

Inception (2010) - 10/10

Discussed on The Sunday Movie Marathon. Best Christopher Nolan movie for me, Inception is just breathtaking.

The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (2004) - 5/10

This might be Anderson’s weakest film (at least from what I’ve seen) but it’s still not as bad as a lot of directors at their worst.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) - 10/10

I was really on an Anderson binge in March. The Royal Tenenbaums is one of the most wholesome movies I’ve seen and certainly one of his best films.

Rome, Open City (1945) - 4/10

This was filmed in Nazi-occupied Italy and from that premise, the film enticed me. Despite having some interesting qualities, I do feel that initial pull is most of what the movie has going for it.

The Prestige (2006) - 7/10

I showed this to my brother and for what it’s worth, he enjoyed it. I do think this is one of Nolan’s weaker efforts but considering how much I like it, that speaks a lot to Nolan’s filmography as a whole.

Nostalgia (1983) - 10/10

I watched Nostalgia three times in the space of a week and reviewed it on The Sunday Movie Marathon. It’s phenomenal.

Kangaroo Jack (2003) - 1/10

Another one I watched for the podcast. Kangaroo Jack is truly terrible and it upset me a great deal. Avoid this movie.

Stalker (1979) - 10/10

Another Andrei Tarkovsky movie (director of Nostalgia). I watched this again during the day before my second watch of Nostalgia and while it’s hard to compare such different movies, I enjoy Stalker more. It’s a staple of Russian cinema for a reason.

Four Lions (2010) - 5/10

Watched for the podcast. I didn’t really gel with this comedy but it would certainly appeal to someone who enjoys the humour, as my co-hosts did.

Revolutionary Road (2008) - 6/10

This Sam Mendes joint was a tad too melodramatic but still boasted some great performances from Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

Metropolis (1927) - 6/10

This silent film is a staple in cinematic history. Its themes are as painfully relevant today as they were in the 20’s, yet despite that I found a lot of it to be intensely boring. After it hit the hour mark, I started playing it at 1.5x speed.

Crimson Peak (2015) - 4/10

A lot of great set design and costumes and colours, yet the story itself was madly uninteresting.

Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind (2004) - 10/10

Who doesn’t love a good movie written by Charlie Kaufman? I reviewed this on The Sunday Movie Marathon and after a third watch, it is as fascinating as it is gut-wrenching.

Godzilla (2014) - 3/10

If you wanted to see Godzilla fight a bunch of monsters for two hours, then this is not the movie for you. There’s maybe about ten minutes total of on-screen Godzilla action and considering that’s really all anyone’s watching this for, it’s amazing the titular sea lizard occupies so little of the movie.

Prisoners (2013) - 10/10

Brilliant mystery thriller by my favourite director, Denis Villeneuve. Discussed on the podcast.

Eraserhead (1977) - 7/10

David Lynch’s debut feature film went down in my estimations this time around. You can listen to why on The Sunday Movie Marathon. Still, Eraserhead is a very good movie.

Raiders of The Lost Ark (1981) - 6/10

The first Indiana Jones movie proved to be a fun romp and Harrison Ford plays the character beautifully. I’m just not a big fan of Spielberg and his average verging on pretty good but rarely ever great movies. Perhaps on a second watch, I may enjoy this more.

The Seventh Seal (1957) - 9/10

Watching this movie again was so much fun. So far, it’s my favourite Ingmar Bergman film. It’s a celebration of life and love, with an underlying sense of dread as death looms ever-present.

Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom (1984) - 5/10

I can tell why this generally looked on as the weakest in the trilogy. Harrison Ford is still great but the movie dragged a lot and felt more like a bunch of things happening for the sake of it rather than a fun action/adventure.

Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade (1989) - 7/10

The Last Crusade was a lot of fun and maybe it was Sean Connery’s inclusion, or perhaps the bottle of wine I drank through the movie elevated my enjoyment. But alcohol aside, I still believe this to be the best in the series.

Justice League (2017) - 2/10

People really weren’t kidding when they said this was bad. I watched this in preparation for the Snyder cut and I was not happy. This took years off my life.

Zack Snyder’s Justice League (2021) - 3/10

Barely any better and double the run-time of the original. I discussed this on The Sunday Movie Marathon and I was certainly not impressed. Better luck next time, Zack!

The Truman Show (1998) - 10/10

Brilliant movie and one I would highly recommend for a stellar Jim Carrey performance. This was another recommendation for the podcast.

Eighth Grade (2018) - 7/10

I was impressed with Bo Burnham’s debut feature. This is a coming of age story centred around a young girl growing up in the modern world and how it can affect the youth of today. Burnham shows a deep understanding of youth culture and a real knack for filmmaking.

Bad Education (2019) - 8/10

A real “yikes!” movie. If you want to learn a bit about the embezzlement that took place in an American school back in the early 2000’s, you need not look further than this tight drama with fantastic performances from Hugh Jackman and Allison Janney.

Twelve Monkeys (1995) - 8/10

One of the only movies where the time travel makes sense. I recommended this for The Sunday Movie Marathon and it’s pretty great.

Ready Or Not (2019) - 7/10

Despite a premise that is not wholly original and a super goofy third act, Ready Or Not is gory, violent fun with a lot of stylish art direction.

Dead Man (1995) - 3/10

Recommended on the podcast. I really did not get a lot out of Dead Man. It’s a very slow movie about Johnny Depp going through the woods and killing some people on the way, but it’s two hours long and hugely metaphorical and sadly it just didn’t connect.

Misbehaviour (2020) - 6/10

A big draw for me in Misbehaviour is Keira Knightley; I think she’s a great actor and I’m basically on board with anything she does. I’d been wanting to see this for a while and I was shocked to see just how relevant it is (being set in 1970) to the world we find ourselves in today, where women are still fighting to be heard and to be treated equally. While the film is not spectacular, I still got a lot from its themes, so recently after the murder of Sarah Everard and how women are being treated in their protest.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love The Bomb (1964) - 7/10

I was surprised at just how hilarious this early Kubrick movie is. While I can’t say it floored me or took any top spots, it’s still a great examination of the military and how they respond to threats or try to solve problems and the side of war we don’t often see in films: the people in the background sitting in a room making crucial decisions.

Taxi Driver (1976) - 10/10

Wow! I can’t believe I’d never seen this before but I’d never really had access to it. Taxi Driver is a beautifully made movie with so much colour and vibrancy. De Niro puts on perhaps his best performance and Paul Schrader’s timeless script works miracles.

Sleepy Hollow (1999) - 5/10

Classic Tim Burton aesthetics in a pretty by the numbers, almost Supernatural-esque story eked out over an hour and forty minutes.

Seaspiracy (2021) - 6/10

Everyone’s going crazy over this documentary and I agree it tackles important issues we’re facing today surrounding the commercialization of the fishing industry, but a lot of what’s presented here is information already available to the public. The editing feels misplaced at times and the tone is all over the place. Nonetheless, it’s still quite fascinating to see good journalism being done in a way that exposes this side of the industry.

Pirates of The Carribean: The Curse of The Black Pearl (2003) - 8/10

Super fun and a great first instalment in a franchise that sadly seems to have peaked at the first hurdle.

My Octopus Teacher (2020) - 8/10

Great cinematography and a lovely premise, this documentary has garnered an Oscar nomination and I can see why.

The Sisters Brothers (2018) - 8/10

A really solid western I was happy to watch again. It’s a shame no one really talks about this movie because it is excellent with stunning visuals and great performances.

Pirates of The Carribean: Dead Man’s Chest (2006) - 5/10

A strangely massive drop in quality from the original. If I didn’t like the whole concept of this franchise so much, I might have had a worse time.

Reservoir Dogs (1992) - 8/10

On a second watch, Tarantino’s first feature is still wildly impressive.

Life of Brian (1979) - 7/10

This is perhaps my third time watching Monty Python’s Life of Brian and it’s still incredibly funny, however it never manages to measure up to its predecessor (and one of my all time favourites), Monty Python and The Holy Grail.

[og-danny-dorito]

{ Some SFW Tamaki Headcanons For Your Daily Dose Of Somft™}

OKAY hi hello, I know I've been gone for a while but I'm kinda back now since ive had a burst of inspiration lately for no reason in particular. This is partially cause I actually just finished watching BNHA and good lord, let me tell you bro- I have WAY too many thoughts about this dude for it to be a normal infatuation so here we go! -w-;

- FIRST of all, I'm like 90% sure this dude listens to like really soft cute music like Lofi remixes or those rlly cute anime openings that give off Soft Boy vibes???

- he's like a soft person in general already so its kindof a given. he really likes pastel colors a whole lot for that reason cause they're more muted and subtle and aren't completely overbearing

- he actually owns like, 40 oversized pastel sweaters with various prints and designs on them for that reason. that and oversized soft sweaters are year-round

- most of his clothes are kinda oversized though?? like if you've watched the anime and can see how his shirt fits him I'm like 90% sure it's like a size bigger than it should be (his natural size is a medium in men's, I'm assuming, since he's like canonically 5'9" and not really muscular). his hero costume is also a little bigger than it should be in some areas and it fits around him like a big blanket

- there are MULTIPLE reasons for this imo, but the main two are that he's A) self conscious and therefore less confident in things that fit him better, and B) likes feeling like things aren't constricting him like tight shirts do

- on the self-conscious point, he already has issues with about like 500 other things that concern himself, so why not physical???

- let me explain- his form is naturally slim, which means that he hasn't really ever been as physically muscular as the other heroes (mostly cause his quirk burns up most of his calories and he has a naturally fast metabolism), and is consistently reminded of it

- he doesn't want other people to think of him as less or weaker in the general public because he doesn't look as physically strong as the other heroes, so he wears clothes that aren't very form fitting to hide this fact and therefore avoid the possibility of criticism of is physical features

- also, you're on tumblr, the land of people who are or have been physically self conscious for whatever reason, so it's pretty safe to assume that you've worn/wear oversized clothing. do you know how comfy they are??? it's like being wrapped in a formless blanket that makes it feel as if you arent able to be subject to criticism from others. it's literally the BEST

- his closet really just consists of things that are bigger than him really, but he does have some skinny jeans and a few formal outfits that fit him properly. his figure is actually kind of cute in a way since he's more on the slim/muscular side but if you EVER tell him he looks handsome in something that's more fitting than he ususally wears he will have a slightly boosted self confidence but amplified anxiety, no exceptions

- but he doesnt really like receiving compliments to be honest, and there's a few reasons for that

- as a kid not many people talked to him so he would occasionally be subject to being outcast by others. as a child he knew that when the teachers were being too nice to him by complimenting his work or talking too him too much that it was out of pity. he felt like he was being patronized out of personal obligation to be inclusive and not in personal interest, so he still has some remnants of that mentality due to having grow up with that

- being given a serious and genuine compliment isn't something he's used to and quite frankly he might be a little uncomfortable if he doesn't know you very well

- if, however, he knows you well and trusts that your comments aren't out of spite or ill-intent, his face usually turns a bright shade of red as he either A) stutters out a nervous thank you or B) hides his face in his hands and refuses to say anything until it's subsided

- he'll usually try to compliment you back, even though its hard to hear over his incredibly soft voice. it's usually something about how nice you are or how he doesn't understand how someone like you can think that way about him, but he secretly really likes feeling like someone cares and appreciates him

- speaking of soft voices, I'm almost entirely convinced that he can sing. since he doesn't really go out with friends in his spare time since he basically only has two close ones, he usually either trains or, alternatively, sings

- its more of a subconscious thing to him to sing along when his favorite song is on, but he only does it when he's alone. the thing is that he thinks his voice is horrible since he hasn't had any extensive formal education in music and generally doesn't try that much to refine his skills manually but his singing voice is like, literally angelic

- seriously, if you get this man to sing 'Heather' by Conan Grey its like listening to some sort of ethereal being trying to lull you to sleep

- its not like he'd ever do this in public because of his anxiety and insecurities, but asking him nicely and swearing you won't tell anyone about it usually gets him to do it, albeit kinds shyly at first. it takes some working up to really, from him nervously singing gently to a song while his back is turned to you to just starting to hum along to songs by habit while you're around

- the only time he really does it to his own violation can be when you're sick (he cant say no to someone who's injured, it makes him feel terrible), when you're about to fall asleep, or even when he forgets that he's around other people and is doing some sort of chore or task around the house

- mentioning it to others makes him even more embarrassed than physically possible, and he usually covers his ears to mask the sounds of your praise about him. he hates drawing attention to himself and simply cannot Deal™ with the compliments he's receiving

- this is amplified if you're in a romantic relationship with him since, lets be completely honest here, he's literally never been in a relationship before

- I mean like, if that one girl who was with him for a week in 5th grade counts for anything, then I guess he's been in one before but other than that he has no experience

- how does he accept compliments? how do you genuinely love him?? should he dress better when around you???? oh god, do you secretly hate a bunch of things about him and only like him because he's a good hero????

- there's literal pages in his search history dedicated to is panicked questioning about what he should do if you haven't told him you love him in more than a week, what he should do if he accidentally calls you the wrong name while making out/having sex, when it's acceptable to talk about getting a plant together without seeming like he wants to get married in that instant, etc.

- for this it doesn't matter whether or not you're experienced since its good both ways! someone who isn't experienced could help ease his nerves a bit since hey, you might not really know what you're doing ether, so you're both gonna mess up. if you're a little more experienced then you can help show him the ropes and probably might help him improve in future relationships if you ever decide you don't want him anymore. both win-win situations basically

-  it also doesn't really matter if you're male, female, or anything else since he's demisexual panromantic. your personality is basically the most important aspect to him, even though he still thinks you have the face of a god/goddess

- the first few weeks of the relationship are basically him figuring out when its okay to touch you and/or ask for you to touch him since he doesn't want to scare you off with how affectionate he can be

- and when I say affectionate, I mean like a full out cuddle-bug

- Tamaki is straight up touch starved so like jot that down. like high key he really didn't have much physical affection as a child and even now can’t really figure out how to do it since he doesn't have any experience with it. he still craves physical affection though, and consistently

- a good way to tell that he wants affection is that he sticks a little bit closer to you during the day. not exactly under your feet, but still in your space when he knows its appropriate. usually just giving him a long hug or hdoling his hand in private helps to alleviate it a little bit, but his favorite way to get affection is to sit down and either sit in your lap or have you sit in his lap

- the reason I say private though is because PDA makes him nervous. it already kinda draws attention to the two of you since the act of PDA is basically outing a relationship on display and that alone makes him nervous, so he usually avoids it unless its in a barely populated park, a quiet cafe, etc.

- so in public he's probably gonna stick close but not outwardly hold your hand by himself, but behind closed doors he's basically hanging on you wherever and however he can

- can you really blame him for liking you as much as you do? I mean you're patient with him, you genuinely like him, and you're so sweet that he doesn't even know what to do with himself. that, and you're super fascinating to observe

- not,,,- he doesn't mean that in a creepy way I swear. he means it like- he means that he likes watching you work because the way you move around catches his interest. part of his training is observing others and he already does it a lot due to being more of that type of person by default, so he can tell a lot about you just by watching you do simple tasks such as cleaning the floor or doing some work you need to get done

- his observance makes him a great partner when it comes to remembering small things about you like your favorite color, how you do your hair in the mornings, what your favorite band(s) is/are, and more! expect him to bring you small gifts that reminded him of you because of something you said four months ago at a very specific time and a very specific date and a very specific location

- this applies to anyone that he really knows or pays special attention to really, but you're one of those people that he subconsciously has encyclopedic knowledge of because he thinks about you so much all the time

- anyway, we're getting to the end so lets get to my favorite part of the list- miscellaneous headcanons! :

he really likes Conan Grey and Lofi remixes of songs that he likes since they're more on the calming side and less intense and help his nerves go down if he's feeling anxious

when he does get severely anxious he curls into a ball and pulls at his ears and cries. he's unresponsive for this time but usually just letting him calm down after a little bit on his own or telling him softly to listen to you helps

he likes insectariums a while lot, specifically the butterfly rooms where you can walk through and let them fly around you. for some reason they tend to be more prone to lighting on him than anyone else, even though he only really wears dark colors and doesn't make an effort to get them around him

he has some purple fairy lights set up above his bed in his room that look like glowing butterflies cause he thought they were cute

he's incredibly good at cooking complex and simple dishes since he usually has to eat large amounts of certain things for his ability, and almost always cooks for the two of you if you're staying long enough to eat with him. he's arguably one of the best home-taught chefs at UA besides Bakugo even though they specialize i different areas of cooking basically

- well, it looks like thats the end for this list! Tamaki is such a sweet dude, really. being his friend or lover is like having a cheerleader, an endlessly loyal supporter, and an eternally loving partner (and more) all rolled into one. once you've been nice to him like once he's automatically favoring you over others. it may be hard to try to help him get more comfortable with the things he's anxious with, but he's a fast learner and if it makes you happy it makes him happy too

- Be careful with him, and you've got a friend for life!

[ ~Thank You For Reading, and if you think I missed anything please let me know in the notes or in my inbox. Any feedback is heavily appreciated!~ ]

[passionate-reply]

Great Albums is kicking off Pride Month with a special feature on one of the weirdest and wildest queer artists of the New Wave era: the one and only Klaus Nomi! Combining glam, synth-pop, and opera, of all things, Nomi’s tragically short career is nothing short of mystifying. Check out the video or read the full transcript, below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! In this installment, I’ll be looking at the self-titled debut album of one of the most unique, incomparable, and unforgettable artists in music history: the one and only Klaus Nomi. What is it that makes Nomi so noteworthy? Perhaps the most obvious thing is his background as a classically trained opera singer. While a lot of pop vocalists have some degree of classical training, it’s rare to find one who worked so hard to bring ultra-mannered, literally operatic lead vocals into an otherwise pop context.

The other thing I should mention is that Nomi’s voice part was the “countertenor,” giving his vocals an even more unusual dimension. Countertenors are men who sing in a high range usually covered by women, and even in the operatic tradition, they weren’t necessarily all that common, particularly since the rise of opera coincided with that of the infamous castrati--male singers who were castrated to preserve their prepubescent voices. The combination of partially electronic, New Wave compositions with these bizarre, but ultimately “traditional” vocals results in something that sounds simply otherworldly.

Music: “Total Eclipse”

“Total Eclipse” is probably Nomi’s best known track, due in part to being featured in the seminal concert film Urgh! A Music War, which sought to capture the diversity of the early 80s New Wave scene. Like a lot of classic songs of this era, it tackles the subject of nuclear annihilation, albeit with a nearly depraved, gleeful tone, that makes it feel like more of a party. For the verses, Nomi adopts a sort of rhythmic speak-singing, which was much more par for the course for “New Wave” music, only to shockingly explode into a powerful operatic rendition of the refrain. It reminds me a bit of how, in musical theatre, tension builds through spoken dialogue, before characters are so emotional they feel compelled to burst into song--or, of course, how recitative blossoms into arias in opera. In the context of this particular track, it’s easy to interpret it as an embodiment of how “cold wars” can suddenly burst into flame. While “Total Eclipse” was a new composition, written specifically for Nomi by Kristian Hoffman, this album also features several covers of past hits, such as “You Don’t Own Me.”

Music: “You Don’t Own Me”

Nomi’s covers of the Midcentury pop ditties “Lightning Strikes” and “You Don’t Own Me” repeat the structure of “Total Eclipse,” showing that this signature pattern of increasing tension leading to increasingly mannered vocals is just as effective when retroactively applied to pre-existing compositions. What’s also significant about “You Don’t Own Me” is that it was originally written for a woman, Lesley Gore, and its defiant assertion of self-confidence has long been associated with women’s liberation. Being openly gay, Nomi sees fit to leave the lyric “play with other boys” just as it is, and could be interpreted to be deliberately emphasizing that last word, intentionally queering his rendition of the song. Nomi’s ability to sing in a traditionally female voice range, combined with his eccentric, gender-bending personal aesthetic, makes the interrogation of traditional concepts of gender an integral part of his art. Some of the other covers on the album are even older than the Midcentury, coming from the golden age of opera, such as “The Cold Song.”

Music: “The Cold Song”

Also known by its opening lyrics, “What power art thou?”, “The Cold Song” is a rare operatic aria that was actually designed for the countertenor voice part. It was written by the English composer William Purcell, a noted fan of countertenors who lived outside the influence of the Italian castrati, for his 1691 opera King Arthur. Well, King Arthur is actually what’s sometimes called a “semi-opera”: not all characters sing, and those who do often tend to be supernatural entities. “The Cold Song” is sung by a winter spirit called the Cold Genius, when reluctantly awakened from icy slumber by Cupid. His lines are sung so as to stutter, as he shivers from the freezing cold of his surrounds. Unlike the pop covers on the album, the arias are actually played pretty straight, almost as if they serve as evidence of Nomi’s actual chops doing traditional opera the old-fashioned way. “The Cold Song” is certainly a great fit for Nomi’s unique stage persona, which presented him as a fey or elfin non-human visitor from some mythical Otherworld, or perhaps an extraterrestrial from outer space. This theme is addressed most directly by the one track on this album composed entirely by Nomi himself: “Keys of Life.”

Music: “Keys of Life”

“Keys of Life” is the album’s opening track, and perhaps serves as Nomi’s personal introduction to the people of our realm--a sort of musical “we come in peace” message. Its lyrics seem to portray Nomi as a benevolent visitor, but one with a dire warning for mankind: we need to get our act together soon, for our actions now are of great import, as we humans “hold the keys of life.” Perhaps Nomi’s mission is to prevent climate catastrophe on Earth, or, given the context of “Total Eclipse,” a nuclear apocalypse. With its warbling synthesiser backdrop, and Nomi singing fully in the operatic style throughout, “Keys of Life” is arguably the most experimental piece to be had on the album, and putting it as the very first track certainly pulls no punches.

It is, of course, difficult to fully address the significance of Nomi’s persona without getting into his visual identity. The cover of Nomi’s self-titled debut features his most iconic outfit: an oversized plastic tuxedo, with hugely exaggerated shoulders, and a pointed hairstyle with a bit of Streamline Moderne flair. I mentioned earlier that Nomi’s work seems concerned with gender, and in that context, I’ve often interpreted this look as a sort of caricature of masculinity, parodying men’s formalwear and calling attention to Nomi’s receding hairline. There is certainly something absurd about a high-pitched, perhaps feminine-coded voice emerging from a ludicrously masculine sort of character. The use of thin, shiny, reflective plastic, and the aforementioned Midcentury feel of the hairstyle, make me also consider interpreting it as less of a parody, and more of an alien’s bad attempt at adopting the appearance of an “ordinary,” upstanding, conservative human male in attire, using space-age materials to cobble it together.

The oversized, geometric appearance of Nomi’s garb reminds me of the great Dada poet, Hugo Ball, founder of the legendary Cabaret Voltaire. Ball was the inventor of what he called “sound poetry,” and enacted lively readings of poetry that consisted of entirely nonsensical words. He did this while wearing a strange, cylindrical-shaped cardboard suit, said to restrict his movements so much that Ball needed to be ceremoniously carried off stage when he was finished reciting. Given their shared German heritage and cabaret avant-gardism, I can’t help but wonder if Ball’s striking costume was something of an influence on Nomi here.

This album is, of course, self-titled, but that, too, is an artistic choice that can be analyzed. The artist was born Klaus Sperber, but adopted the stage name “Nomi” for his creative endeavours. In the context of the track “The Nomi Song,” the name is often used punningly in comparison with the English phrase “know me.” Nomi’s choice of stage name is almost a dare or a challenge, a request for us to attempt to know and understand this seemingly inscrutable being before us. As with many other portrayals of queerness as alien or otherworldly, the messaging here seems to be that Nomi may seem different at first, but his intent is ultimately benign, should mere mortals like ourselves be kind enough to give him a chance.

Nomi’s follow-up to this debut album was 1982’s Simple Man, an album which is much more similar to its predecessor than different. It has a wider variety of contributing musicians and different instruments employed, but it’s got a similar overall feel, and mix of tracks. You’ll find more covers, like “Falling In Love Again” and even “Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead,” more original compositions, like the Hoffman-penned sequel to “Total Eclipse,” entitled “After the Fall,” and even some more arias, like this stunning rendition of another work of Purcell’s. Referred to here as simply “Death,” it comes from Purcell’s Dido & Aeneas, and is sung by the titular Carthaginian queen, Dido, as she prepares to commit suicide. Also called “Dido’s Lament” or “Thy hand, Belinda,” its darkly descending melody is as captivatingly ominous today as it was when it was written, over three centuries ago.

Music: “Death”

Sadly, Nomi became gravely ill at around this time, and his own untimely death was just around the corner. He died of complications of AIDS in 1983, at the age of just 44, leaving behind an unfinished opera of his own creation, Za Bakdaz, which would go unreleased until 2008. That, and a posthumous live album released in 1986, would be the only other works under Nomi’s name. As with all artists who die tragically young, we will always be left wondering what else Klaus Nomi might’ve accomplished in the ensuing decades. I find it hard to imagine a timeline in which this sound ever became particularly mainstream, but anything else Nomi came up with would have undoubtedly been fascinating.

My favourite track on Nomi’s debut is “The Twist.” Yes, this is indeed Chubby Checker’s “The Twist,” another one of those Midcentury covers that Nomi was so fond of. But compared to the rest of Nomi’s covers, this one is much more of a deconstruction, perhaps even a “piss take,” featuring a sparse instrumentation, centered around a lethargic bass guitar, and the overall pace is slowed to a crawl. Add in Nomi’s piercing vocals and some nearly demonic, chittering laughter, and you’ve got a track that turns a fun, light-hearted dance craze into a surreal nightmare. As difficult as it is to be the strangest track on an album like this, I have to give that honour to “The Twist.” That’s all for today--thanks for watching!

Music: “The Twist”

[ladydarklord]

The Mighty Boosh on the business of being silly

The Times, November 15 2008

What began as a cult cocktail of daft poems, surreal characters and fantastical storylines has turned into the comedy juggernaut that is the Mighty Boosh. Janice Turner hangs out with creators Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt and the extended Boosh family to discuss the serious business of being silly

In the thin drizzle of a Monday night in Sheffield, a crowd of young women are waiting for the Mighty Boosh or, more precisely, one half of it. Big-boned Yorkshire lasses, jacketless and unshivering despite the autumn nip, they look ready to devour the object of their desire, the fey, androgynous Noel Fielding, if he puts a lamé boot outside the stage door. “Ooh, I do love a man in eyeliner,” sighs Natalie from Rotherham. She’ll be throwing sickies at work to see the Boosh show 13 times on their tour, plus attend the Boosh after-show parties and Boosh book signings. “My life is dead dull without them,” she says.

Nearby, mobiles primed, a pair of sixth-formers trade favourite Boosh lines. “What is your name?” asks Jessica. “I go by many names, sir,” Victoria replies portentously. A prison warden called Davena survives long days with high-security villains intoning, “It’s an outrage!” in the gravelly voice of Boosh character Tony Harrison, a being whose head is a testicle.

Apart from Fielding, what they all love most about the Boosh is that half their mates don’t get it. They see a bloke in a gorilla suit, a shaman called Naboo, silly rhymes about soup, stories involving shipwrecked men seducing coconuts “and they’re like, ‘This is bloody rubbish,’” says Jessica. “So you feel special because you do get it. You’re part of a club.”

Except the Mighty Boosh club is now more like a movement. What began as an Edinburgh fringe show starring Fielding and his partner Julian Barratt and later became an obscure BBC3 series has grown into a box-set flogging, mega-merchandising, 80-date touring Boosh inc. There was a Boosh festival last summer, now talk of a Boosh movie and Boosh in America. An impasse seems to have been reached: either the Boosh will expand globally or, like other mass comedy cults before it – Vic and Bob, Newman and Baddiel – slowly begin to deflate.

But for the moment, the fans still wait in the rain for heroes who’ve already left the building. I find the Boosh gang gathered in their hotel bar, high on post-gig adrenalin. Barratt, blokishly handsome with his ring-master moustache, if a tad paunchy these days, blends in with the crew. But Fielding is never truly “off”. All day he has been channelling A Clockwork Orange in thick black eyeliner (now smudged into panda rings) and a bowler hat, which he wears with polka-dot leggings, gold boots and a long, neon-green fur-collared PVC trenchcoat. He has, as those women outside put it, “something about him”: a carefully-wrought rock-god danger mixed with an amiable sweetness. Sexy yet approachable. Which is why, perched on a barstool, is a great slab of security called Danny.

“He stops people getting in our faces,” says Fielding. “He does massive stars like P. Diddy and Madonna and he says that considering how we’re viewed in the media as a cult phenomenon, we get much more attention in the street than, say, Girls Aloud. Danny says we’re on the same level as Russell Brand, who can’t walk from the door to the car without ten people speaking to him.”

This barometer of fame appears to fascinate and thrill Fielding. Although he complains he can’t eat dinner with his girlfriend (Dee Plume from the band Robots in Disguise) unmolested, he parties hard and publicly with paparazzi-magnets like Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse. He claims he’s tried wearing a baseball cap but fans still recognise him. Hearing this, Julian Barratt smiles wryly: “Noel is never going to dress down.”

It is clear on meeting them that their Boosh characters Vince Noir (Fielding), the narcissistic extrovert, and Howard Moon (Barratt), the serious, socially awkward jazz obsessive, are comic exaggerations of their own personalities. At the afternoon photo shoot, Fielding breaks free of the hair and make-up lady, sprays most of a can of Elnett on to his Bolan feather-cut and teases it to his satisfaction. Very Vince. “It is an art-life crossover,” says Barratt.

At 40, five years older than Fielding, Barratt exhibits the profound weariness of a man trying to balance a five-month national tour with new-fatherhood. After every Saturday night show he returns home to his 18-month-old twins, Arthur and Walter, and his partner Julia Davis (the creator-star of Nighty Night) and today he was up at 5am pushing a pram on Hampstead Heath before taking the train north to rejoin the Boosh. “I go back so the boys remember who I am. But it’s harder to leave them every time,” he says. “It is totally schizophrenic, totally opposite mental states: all this self-obsession and then them.”

About two nights a week on tour, Fielding doesn’t go to bed, parties through the night and performs the next evening having not slept at all. Barratt often retreats to his room to plough through box sets of The Wire. “It’s a bit gritty, but that is in itself an escape, because what we do is so fantastical.”

But mostly it is hard to resist the instant party provided by a large cast, crew and band. Indeed, drinking with them, it appears Fielding and Barratt are but the most famous members of a close collective of artists, musicians and old mates. Fielding’s brother Michael, who previously worked in a bowling alley, plays Naboo the shaman. “He is late every single day,” complains Noel. “He’s mad and useless, but I’m quite protective of him, quite parental.” Michael is always arguing with Bollo the gorilla, aka Fielding’s best mate, Dave Brown, a graphic artist relieved to remove his costume – “It’s so hot in there I fear I may never father children” – to design the Boosh book. One of the lighting crew worked as male nanny to Barratt’s twins and was in Michael’s class at school: “The first time I met you,” he says to Noel, “you gave me a dead arm.” “You were 9,” Fielding replies. “And you were messing with my stuff.”

This gang aren’t hangers-on but the wellspring of the Boosh’s originality and its strange, homespun, degree-show aesthetic: a character called Mr Susan is made out of chamois leathers, the Hitcher has a giant Polo Mint for an eye. When they need a tour poster they ignore the promoter’s suggestions and call in their old mate, Nige.

Fielding and Barratt met ten years ago at a comedy night in a North London pub. The former had just left Croydon Art College, the latter had dropped out of an American Studies degree at Reading to try stand-up, although he was so terrified at his first gig that he ran off stage and had to be dragged back by the compere.

While superficially different, their childhoods have a common theme: both had artistic, bohemian parents who exercised benign neglect. Fielding’s folks were only 17 when he was born: “They were just kids really. Hippies. Though more into Black Sabbath and Led Zep. There were lots of parties and crazy times. They loved dressing up. And there was a big gap between me and my brother – about nine years – so I was an only child for a long time, hanging out with them, lots of weird stuff going on.

“The great thing about my mum and dad is they let me do anything I wanted as a kid as long as I wasn’t misbehaving. I could eat and go to bed when I liked. I used to spend a lot of time drawing and painting and reading. In my own world, I guess.”

Growing up in Mitcham, South London, his father was a postmaster, while his mother now works for the Home Office. Work was merely the means to fund a good time. “When your dad is into David Bowie, how do you rebel against that? You can’t really. They come to all the gigs. They’ve been in America for the past three weeks. I’m ringing my mum really excited because we’re hanging out with Jim Sheridan, who directed In the Name of the Father, and the Edge from U2, and she said, ‘We’re hanging with Jack White,’ whom they met through a friend of mine. Trumped again!”

Barratt’s father was a Leeds art teacher, his mother an artist later turned businesswoman. “Dad was a bit more strict and academic. Mum would let me do anything I wanted, didn’t mind whether I went to school.” Through his father he became obsessed with Monty Python, went to jazz and Spike Milligan gigs, learnt about sex from his dad’s leatherbound volumes of Penthouse.

Barratt joined bands and assumed he would become a musician (he does all the Boosh’s musical arrangements); Fielding hoped to become an artist (he designed the Boosh book cover and throughout our interview sketches obsessively). Instead they threw their talents into comedy. Barratt: “It is a great means of getting your ideas over instantly.” Fielding: “Yes, it is quite punk in that way.”

Their 1998 Edinburgh Fringe show called The Mighty Boosh was named, obscurely, after a friend’s description of Michael Fielding’s huge childhood Afro: “A mighty bush.” While their double-act banter has an old-fashioned dynamic, redolent of Morecambe and Wise, the show threw in weird characters and a fantasy storyline in which they played a pair of zookeepers. They are very serious about their influences. “Magritte, Rousseau...” says Fielding. “I like Rousseau’s made-up worlds: his jungle has all the things you’d want in a jungle, even though he’d never been in one so it was an imaginary place.”

Eclectic, weird and, crucially, unprepared to compromise their aesthetic sensibilities, it was 2004 before, championed by Steve Coogan’s Baby Cow production company, their first series aired on BBC3. Through repeats and DVD sales the second series, in which the pair have left the zoo and are living above Naboo’s shop, found a bigger audience. Last year the first episode of series three had one million viewers. But perhaps the Boosh’s true breakthrough into mainstream came in June when George Bush visited Belfast and a child presented him with a plant labelled “The Mighty Bush”. Assuming it was a tribute to his greatness, the president proudly displayed it for the cameras, while the rest of Britain tittered.

A Boosh audience these days is quite a mix. In Sheffield the front row is rammed with teenage indie girls, heavy on the eyeliner, who fancy Fielding. But there are children, too: my own sons can recite whole “crimps” (the Boosh’s silly, very English version of rap) word for word. And there are older, respectable types who, when I interview them, all apologise for having such boring jobs. They’re accountants, IT workers, human resources officers and civil servants. But probe deeper and you find ten years ago they excelled at art A level or played in a band, and now puzzle how their lives turned out so square. For them, the Boosh embody their former dreams. And their DIY comedy, shambolic air, the slightly crap costumes, the melding of fantasy with the everyday, feels like something they could still knock up at home.

Indeed, many fans come to gigs in costume. At the Mighty Boosh Festival 15,000 people came dressed up to watch bands and absurdity in a Kent field. And in Sheffield I meet a father-and-son combo dressed as Howard Moon and Bob Fossil – general manager of the zoo – plus a gang of thirty-something parents elaborately attired as Crack Fox, Spirit of Jazz, a granny called Nanageddon, and Amy Housemouse. “I love the Boosh because it’s total escapism,” says Laura Hargreaves, an employment manager dressed as an Electro Fairy. “It’s not all perfect and people these days worry too much that things aren’t perfect. It’s just pure fun.”

But how to retain that appealingly amateur art-school quality now that the Boosh is a mega comedy brand? Noel Fielding is adamant that they haven’t grown cynical, that The Mighty Book of Boosh was a long-term project, not a money-spinner chucked out for Christmas: “There is a lot of heart in what we do,” he says. Barratt adds: “It’s been hard this year to do everything we’ve wanted, to a standard we’re proud of... Which is why we’re worn to shreds.”

Comedy is most powerful in intimate spaces, but the Boosh show, with its huge set, requires major venues. “We’ve lost money every day on the tour,” says Fielding. “The crew and the props and what it costs to take them on the road – it’s ridiculous. Small gigs would lose millions of pounds.”

The live show is a kind of Mighty Boosh panto, with old favourites – Bob Fossil, Bollo, Tony Harrison, etc – coming on to cheers of recognition. But it lacks the escapism to the perfectly conceived world of the TV show. They have told the BBC they don’t want a fourth series: they want a movie. They would also, as with Little Britain USA, like a crack at the States, where they run on BBC America. Clearly the Boosh needs to keep evolving or it will die.

Already other artists are telling Fielding and Barratt to make their money now: “They say this is our time, which is quite frightening.” I recall Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, who dominated the Nineties with Big Night Out and Shooting Stars. “Yes, they were massive,” says Fielding. “A number one record...” And now Reeves presents Brainiac. “If you have longer-term goals, it’s not scary,” says Barratt. “To me, I’m heading somewhere else – to direct, make films, write stuff – and at the moment it’s all gone mental. I’m sort of enjoying this as an outsider. It was Noel who had this desire to reach more people.”

Indeed, the old cliché that comedy is the new rock’n’roll is closest to being realised in Noel Fielding. Watching him perform the thrash metal numbers in the Boosh live show, he is half ironic comic performer, half frustrated rock god. His heroes weren’t comics but androgynous musicians: Jagger, Bowie, Syd Barrett. (Although he liked Peter Cook’s style and looks.)

“I like clothes and make-up, I like the transformation,” he says. Does it puzzle him that women find this so sexually attractive? “I was reading a book the other day about the New York Dolls and David Johansen was saying that none of them were gay or even bisexual, and that when they started dressing in stilettos and leather pants, women got it straight away with no explanation. But a lot of men had problems. It’s one of those strange things. A man will go, ‘You f***ing queer.’ And you just think, ‘Well, your girlfriend fancies me.’”

The Boosh stopped signing autographs outside stage doors when it started taking two hours a night. At recent book signings up to 1,500 people have shown up, some sleeping overnight in the queue. And on this tour, the Boosh took control of the after-show parties, once run as money-spinners by the promoters, and now show up in person to do DJ slots. I ask if they like to meet their fans, and they laugh nervously.

Fielding: “We have to be behind a fence.”

Barratt: “They try to rip your clothes off your body.”

Fielding: “The other day my girlfriend gave me this ring. And, doing the rock numbers at the end, I held out my hands and the crowd just ripped it off.”

Barratt: “I see it as a thing which is going to go away. A moment when people are really excited about you. And it can’t last.”

He recalls a man in York grabbing him for a photo, saying, “I’d love to be you, it must be so amazing.” And Barratt says he thought, “Yes, it is. But all the while I was trying to duck into this doorway to avoid the next person.” He’s trying to enjoy the Boosh’s moment, knows it will pass, but all the same?

In the hotel bar, a young woman fan has dodged past Danny and comes brazenly over to Fielding. Head cocked attentively like a glossy bird, he chats, signs various items, submits to photos, speaks to her mate on her phone. The rest of the Boosh crew eye her steelily. They know how it will end. “You have five minutes then you go,” hisses one. “I feel really stupid now,” says the girl. It is hard not to squirm at the awful obeisance of fandom. But still she milks the encounter, demands Fielding come outside to meet her friend. When he demurs she is outraged, and Danny intercedes. Fielding returns to his seat slightly unsettled. “What more does she want?” he mutters, reaching for his wine glass. “A skin sample?”

[mintaka14]

Coryphée

A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter Six – Coda

“I heard,” one of the seamstresses said from her workstation, “that the results of the concours are going out today.”

And of course, the backstage staff knew before the dancers themselves had even received the letters of offer or rejection. Marinette shifted on her stool and frowned down in concentration at the old costume she was unpicking, one laborious stitch at a time.

The names of the new premiére danseuses and premier danseurs were tossed around, and Marinette only paid them half a mind, until someone asked, “What about the new sujet? Who got that one?”

“Oh, Mireille Caquet got the promotion,” someone else said, and Marinette put down the seam ripper in surprise.

“Not Lila Rossi?” she asked, and the girl across from her started laughing.

“Not in a month of Sundays,” Nicolette snorted. “That one’s never going to make it out of quadrilles, I can tell you that, and bad luck to her. Always so rude, and I don’t envy anyone who ever gets her for fittings.” She giggled. “We always make sure Mlle Rossi gets the last pick of the gowns and wigs, the one that’s always just a little bit too tight or a colour she doesn’t like much.”

Marinette couldn’t help the gasp of laughter that escaped her.

“Did you know her?” someone else asked Marinette.

“Of course she did,” Nicolette said. “Marinette was in the corps until she grew a brain and got out.”

Marinette just smiled and picked up the seam ripper again.

“Besides, I heard there’ve been discussions going on,” Pascal said from his workstation as he concentrated on the placement of another sequin. “Lila Rossi pissed off the wrong person, and the Director of the Conservatory himself got involved. They’re not going to renew her season’s contract when it finishes soon.”

That provoked an uproar in the atelier, and Marinette’s seam picker fell from her fingers to bounce on the floor.

“But… she was a permanent contract! She said she was permanent.”

Pascal was shaking his head gleefully. “No, no, chérie. She was a seasonal.”

There was a knock on the atelier door, and a ripple of excited murmuring ran through the room.

“Marinette,” one of the seamstresses said in a singsong voice. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

And Luka was leaning against the doorframe, his gorgeous blue eyes only on her.

“Ready to go, melody?” he asked, and Eloise Marchand waved her off with an indulgent smile.

“There’s nothing that can’t be done tomorrow,” the costume director told her. “We’ll all be packing up soon anyway. You go and enjoy your evening.”

Marinette ignored the giggles and sighs as she carefully put away the costume she’d been working on and gathered up her things. It was all good-humoured, and Nicolette whispered, “You’re so lucky” as Marinette passed her.

“I know,” she whispered back, and then Luka took her hand, his smile lighting up, and she followed him out the door. All the way down from the sixth floor they talked about inconsequential things, and how his search for an apartment was going.

“I mean, I love the Liberty,” Luka sighed, “and I’m going to miss Ma and Jules, but I’m really not going to miss Jules banging on the wall or making comments any time you come round.”

Juleka had been having way too much fun with playing spoilsport lately. Marinette felt the embarrassed fire rising in her face, and changed the subject. She eyed Luka thoughtfully, and brought up a suspicion that she’d had since Pascal had shared his piece of gossip.

“I heard a rumour today that Lila’s seasonal contract with the company is getting cancelled, and that the Director of the Conservatory of Music was involved. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?” she asked, and he cast his eyes up.

“I may have had a conversation with my mother’s ex-boyfriend who just happens to be the Director of the Conservatory,” he said with feigned innocence. “The subject of Lila may have come up.”

“Luka!” She shoved his arm gently, and then sighed. “I could almost feel sorry for her. She was never going to get ahead in the company, and I think she knew it.”

“She put glass in your shoes,” Luka said, and she shouldn’t have found that rumbling growl in his voice as sexy as she did. Distracted by that thought, it took her a moment to realise that he was watching her.

“Do you wish I hadn’t said anything?” he asked her, and she subjected that to some consideration.

“No, I think I’m glad you did. If she’s done things like that to me to get what she wants, she’ll do it again to someone else if she’s left unchecked,” Marinette said. They’d reached the entrance hall, and Luka held the door open for her. “That recording was only going to hold her back for so long.”

He took her hand again as they crossed the courtyard and passed under the huge and embellished stone archway, and steered her in the opposite direction when she started to turn towards the metro.

“How do you feel about dinner at Midi12 tonight?” She gave him a startled glance, and he shrugged self-consciously. “I finished my thesis today, and I feel like celebrating, and galette.”

Marinette stopped and flung her arms around him. “Luka! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I still have to edit a couple of things, and get my supervisor’s okay on it, but… it’ll be ready to hand to her when she gets back from Madrid in a few weeks. The research component’s all done.”

She glowed up at him. “We definitely need to celebrate.”

Palais Garnier loomed majestically behind them. The sky above the streets was still waiting for sunset, but the late afternoon air was starting to grow heavy and the golden light from the cafes and restaurants spilled over the grey slabs of concrete under their feet. It was starting to turn cooler, and the figures around them were hurrying a little now. Marinette leaned into Luka’s warmth, and he put an arm around her as they walked.

Marinette shot him a mischievous look. “You do know Papa does much better galette than Midi12?”

“Tom does better pastries than anyone,” Luka agreed, then his grin became a little wry. “I’d just kind of like you all to myself for a little while before we have to head home.”

“I like the sound of that.”

The umbrellas outside the Palais Garnier restaurant were furled behind the stone balustrade and hedge, but they could hear the distant clink of china and cutlery, and the soft hum of voices from the early patrons. Classical statues gazed down indifferently from their perches along the balustrade, and the huge iron streetlamps weren’t lit yet. They made dark, spiky silhouettes against the thick blue sky.

“So how did things go for you today?” Luka asked, running his thumb along the edge of her hand.

“Well, it wasn’t finished the thesis exciting, but Mme Marchand has me going through the costume archives right now, and I’ve been unpicking some of the old costumes to try and match fabrics. It’s fascinating, the way it was constructed. I’m learning so much, and so much of what I did when I was on stage makes a lot more sense now. She said she’ll take me to the fabric warehouses with her the next time she has to source something.” Luka grinned at the little skip of enthusiasm that she couldn’t suppress. “It’s going to be exhausting once my course gets underway, trying to juggle that and the residency program, but it’ll be worth it. I’ll get to work on the next season costumes – Adrien said his father’s sponsoring again, so they’re going to be stunning.”

Luka was watching her with a half-smile. “You saw Adrien?”

“I caught up with some of the company for lunch today, and Adrien was there.”

“How is he?”

Marinette giggled. “He’s started sneaking out to date the daughter of one of his father’s business associates, so he’s happy.”

“Sneaking out? Does his father disapprove or something?”

“I don’t think so,” Marinette said with a  shrug. “I think Adrien’s just developed a taste for sneaking around. He’s got a lot of years of rebellion to catch up on, apparently.”

Luka laughed. “You’re a bad influence, melody.”

“He’s heard a rumour that next season is going to be La Bayadère, and I love the costumes for that. The colours are just glorious, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what M. Agreste’s take on it is.”

“Any regrets that it won’t be you wearing those costumes?” he asked.

“Not really. No. I mean, I have the odd moment when I miss that feeling, but I’d much rather be making them than dancing in them.”

They turned away from the Palais Garnier in its opulent grandeur, an isolated island of magnificence, into the noisier streets where the rumble and honk of traffic was overlaid with voices and conversation and laughter. Buildings and shops crowded above Marinette and Luka as they strolled towards the crêperie, lost in their own world.

“So, no regrets?” he repeated quietly, and Marinette knew he was asking about more than just costumes. She couldn’t help laughing.

“I got away with the heist without going to prison, I got into a course that I’m loving for a career that I’m excited about, and Mme Marchand got me into a residency that most people in theatre design would kill for, even though I haven’t got my qualifications yet.”

She lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips along the line of his jaw, loving the feel of his breath on her palm as he leaned into her touch.

“And I get to go home with the man I adore,” she said softly. “No regrets. Not ever.”

There was something in the way that Luka was looking at her that brought a blush to her cheeks and left her heart stumbling in her chest.

“What are you thinking?”

He ducked his head until the blue tips of his hair shadowed his eyes, but she could see the soft smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“I can’t tell you, because you didn’t want me to get too far ahead of myself. Ask me again when you’ve finished your degree.”

Her eyes widened.

“Oh,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Oh. Okay.”

They walked a little further. Marinette glanced up at him.

“That’s a whole three years away,” she said pensively, and his eyes were back on her now. “Would you tell me if I asked when I’ve completed my residency?”

There was that quality of stillness in the way he was holding himself, as if he didn’t quite dare to believe what he thought he was hearing. “That’s... June. End of June.”

“Is that too soon?” she asked, and gave a faint squeak as Luka kissed her hard, and kissed her again, and again until they melted into softer kisses, heedless of the people passing by. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, and his arms were around her, pulling her close while life moved on around them. Perhaps there were a few frowns, or a few indulgent smiles, thrown their way, but neither of them noticed.

“June, tomorrow, today, whenever you want,” he breathed when they finally came up for air, his voice a little husky. “I’m yours, melody.”

And Marinette pulled him down for another kiss, too happy to speak.