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wallbeatjournal · 5 months ago

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Are true riverdale fans of the opinion it is a very good and nearly flawless show or does being a true riverdale fan mean being able to mock writing choices

it's long-running serial television plotted a season/half at a time so definitely not even "nearly" flawless.

BUT. i'm not doing combat with the writing team. i'm not actively reading against the text the way i have to in order to enjoy something like supernatural or the 90s robin comics or the fucking sopranos, which are patriarchal christiancore copworld rapeworld white supremacist horrorshows that hate their minority audiences, with like 2 good creatives involved and martyring themselves to fight the good fight on sparse rare installments if you try to approach them sincerely.

riverdale writing staff are like a favorite smart problematic tumblr mutual to me. I don't always like what's on their blog or who they're referencing. but we're in the same community and i'm interested and inspired and i trust their agenda overall, even when i see shit i wouldn't have fucking posted. but bc i'm not being condescended to or actively spited i'm not gonna condescend to or spite them, you know?

i expect rvd to age like twin peaks (another very uneven, highly referential serial juggling a couple of intensely cool metanarratives on top of its core story). and twin peaks fandom mocks twin peaks all the time. twin peaks includes some CLUNKY shit. it's kitsch. it's camp. it has a second season that is largely ASS. james is there. and on top of that it also includes some genuinely offputting-to-me stuff that just bothers me to sit through, even though i feel like i understand and respect what they're going for with it. i just don't want to watch someone sweep the fucking bar for minutes and minutes as entertainment. OK!!?

...so yeah. mock riverdale but in the right spirit. is that an answer? do i sound like i'm chugging the flavoraid koolaid fresh-aid? probably.

#i like the way people mock the flop parts of twin peaks and i enjoy it when people mock the flop parts of riverdale in the same tone #but rvd NOT one of those shows where the fandom is the thing that makes it good by appropriating and rearranging it. like some listed above #riverdale isn't dumb. it's not thoughtless. it's a lowbrow postmodern love letter to trash media and it takes a lot of big risky swings.#and its juggling act does NOT always work in practice. i don't always agree with the tradeoffs it takes to balance like.#the mainline text AND the queer subtext AND the fanfictiony iterative media riffs AND the genre meta AND the actual canonical metaplot #but it really does reward curiosity and close-reading. it's like a little puzzle cube you have to turn over a few times sometimes to solve #i feel judgmental about people who hit 'post' on what's obviously like a very surface level reaction without much thought put into it #ohhh the show challenged you? the show folded continuity over on itself and you can't hang anymore? you didn't get what you expected?#and now you're being dismissive instead of sitting with it? ok. dork.#riverdale #(it's not really that serious. but you asked and i'm feeling so so very earnest about Posting today. love you thanks for asking)#(would love to know what parts you most want to mock. i have my own list. eNdGaMe is at the top of it. jughead's mommy issues era too)

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gerbiloftriumph · 18 hours ago

Text

Lost and Found (ao3):

Grandpa’s story of the goblin caves started out familiarly enough, but as he spoke, the story started to twist and change. New friends, new conversations, and new ways to use old items transformed the tale, and the young king discovered new ways to be brave in the dark tunnels beneath Daventry.

(8/?)

~*~

“This has to be good enough. It has to be. Tonight is the night. I’m not putting everyone through any more suffering.”

Graham had quietly tested the key when he was sure no one was watching. It didn’t do anything for individual prisoner cells, but it did seem to lead to the main entrance of the prison. He hoped the little goblin who had dropped this key wasn’t getting in trouble for losing it. Still. This was what he needed. Well, almost all of what he needed: it still had two levers, still needed multiple people pressing on it to open it.

And Graham would take them all.

Yes, he and Acorn and Whisper could probably escape now, with Acorn’s solo strength on one lever and Whisper and Graham on the other. But he had no guarantee that the rest of the villagers would be safe while they were gone. That the goblins wouldn’t act in retribution. That something else wouldn’t go wrong while his back was turned. He was going to take every villager with him as he escaped. He had to.

(“That’s a lot of people to take with you, Grandpa. Your last story seemed more thought-out.”

“Yes, it was, in both regards. But this version’s different, you know. I suppose the goblins couldn’t be as cruel as I was imagining, but everyone still had so much more to say. I had to bring them all!”)

The goblin alarms were part of the problem. Graham remembered how, when he’d given Amaya various weapons over the last few days to clear her room and get some items, some alarm had been triggered and the mushrooms had pulsed bizarrely. The same sort of thing had happened at the top of the spiral stairs, when he’d trapped the goblin guard with the sticky spider web (the goblin was still there, actually, stuck and annoyed and the other goblins kept him stocked with gross goblin snacks that Graham couldn’t imagine eating himself).

(“Now, Muriel and I had been looking at those alarms,” Grandpa said. “We had determined that each mushroom alarm had a discolored square on the base, like a door, but no amount of clawing with my fingernails could do anything to open it. All I did was get mushroomy hands, which did not make me more of a fun-gi to be around.”

“Ew.”

“It did suggest they were somehow mechanical in nature. Now, if you traced the mushrooms by their lights, they seemed to all connect to a single point at the top of Acorn’s Jack and the Beanstalk tower, a command mushroom alarm, which, if deactivated, should turn off all the rest. I found this point without too much trouble—it made sense that the place where they’d put all my contraband was also the control point for the prison. There was a groove beside it which seemed like the perfect place for a lever. Of course, the lever had been removed by the guards to ensure the alarms stayed active. I didn’t have a way to make my own lever—until I’d gone into that dark basement and gathered the right items!”

“Nice. I knew we could handle that sticky problem.”

The little mirror king pulled out the mop with the sticky spiderwebby strings clinging to the mop fibers. He carefully slotted it into the groove beside the alarm mushroom. The lever did the job, and the little hatch popped open on the mushroom itself, revealing:

“This reminds me of a puzzle,” Grandpa said. “Look, a sliding block puzzle, to deactivate the alarm, how droll.” The two storytellers watched the mirror king work, moving little glowing fungi blocks here and there to connect the correct mushroomy circuit.

“You know,” Grandpa said, “I think this also seems like it could be a wonderful metaphor for something. Sliding block puzzles. Perhaps a metaphor for how tricky it is to rule a kingdom. Like, a metaphor for, oh, how challenging it is to listen to everyone and make decisions, and—”

“Grandpa, please, don’t,” Gwendolyn groaned. “That sounds like the worst idea ever.”

“I don’t know about that,” Grandpa mused. “I’ll think on it. Maybe I’ll use it later.” The mirror king, unaware as always about his chatty narrators, successfully deactivated the alarm.)

He tried pulling on the lever to remove it from the groove, but the sticky spiderwebs held it in place. The mop was no longer functional as a mop, although he didn’t have any plans to do any more chores anyway. No, he had bigger things in mind. Escape, for example.

Amaya was lying on her bed, ignoring him. “If I wasn’t in peak physical condition, I would not survive this,” she informed the ceiling.

(Grandpa hesitated. “Oh. I forgot something. Hang on.”

“Forgot something?”

“I was supposed to have bolt cutters by now. Let me just...um. They were lying on the floor and I tripped over them and found them and that’s that.”

“I think that’s cheating, Grandpa.”

“You heard this story a couple nights ago, you already know where and how I found them. We don’t need to retread that squishy moldy porridge ground. It’s fine. We’re moving on.”)

“Oh. I forgot I had these,” Graham said, pulling bolt cutters out of his pocket.

“Amazing,” Amaya agreed flatly. “Hurry up and get me outta here.”

The door swung open, and, happily, the alarms did not go off. Graham exhaled half the tension he’d hardly known he’d been holding. Amaya stepped out, brushing grime off her skirt (which remained as dirty as before she’d brushed her hands against it).

“Hey, you did good,” she admitted, jostling his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, king.”

Whisper applauded at Graham’s side.

“You really need to try to keep it quiet,” Amaya said, glancing at him.

“But how will our enemy know their doom is coming?” Whisper asked, and he struck a pose as though he held a sword, ready to strike some invisible goblin foe.

“Your moxie is already overwhelmingly apparent without the noise.”

“Whisper is just so happy to be free! We must celebrate our victory!”

“We’re not done yet, you know that,” Amaya said, starting to leave the room. “To start, we’ve got to get the others.”

“Yes, but we should celebrate the little victories anyway,” Whisper insisted, following close on her heels, his mane of excellence drooping a bit at her lack of excitement.

“Well...sure...and how do you propose we do that?” she asked.

Whisper paused, then flung his hand into the air dramatically with: “A jumping-up-and-down hug?”

Graham held his breath again, sure Amaya was going to thump the knight and walk away, and yet, she frowned, and said, in the most world-weary voice he’d ever heard from he: “Ugh, fine.”

“Huzzah!” Whisper cheered. “Smash and flash, making it happen!” He grabbed her, pinning her arms to her side, and bounced up and down. His cloak fluttered around them.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” she said after a second, and pushed him away, though there was just the hint of a laugh in her voice. “You’re ridiculous.”

“...ly good looking,” Whisper corrected.

The king, knights, and blacksmith hurried down the tunnel, aiming for the Feys next. Behind him, Graham heard Whisper still trying to connect with his blacksmith beau: “So, come here often?”

Amaya seemed taken aback. “What, to this dark cave where we were imprisoned?”

“Um, yes?”

“Nope, this is a first.”

“Oh. Well, me too. Sooooo....”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Oooh, so we can do this later?”

“Whisper.”

“I should have started with the Hobblepots,” Graham groaned.

“No, we can leave the Hobblepots,” Acorn growled. “Chester can just stay there.”

“Acorn, be nice.”

“I don’t want to.”

The Feys were just as easy to free as Amaya had been, and Wente carefully held his wife’s hand as he guided her through the cell door to freedom. Again, no alarms went off, and all seemed well.

“Oh, Graham, it’s wonderful to see you without bars in the way,” Bramble said, grabbing him in a tight hug. “And you’ve got some friends with you this time!” She smiled at the two knights.

Whisper was too distracted fawning over Amaya to notice, but Acorn bowed to Bramble. “Why, Mrs. Bramble Fey. Always a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” she said. She had one hand over her belly protectively, and Acorn noticed.

“That’s right. How’s the little one doing down here?”

“Good now, thanks to our king.” She put her other hand on Graham’s arm, reassuringly, beaming up at him.

“Have you found out if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

“Oh, we want to be surprised. But either way, we like the name Taylor,” she said, and Wente nodded.

“Hmm, now I don’t know which color to pick for the baby booties. Obviously, I’d never go pink or blue, traditional is blah, but. Taylor. I don’t know what fits that name best. Maybe a warm linen color, but what embroidery...” He stared off into the distance, muttering options.

“No need to knit us anything!” Bramble laughed.

“But ya know I wanna,” Acorn said. “You Feys always manage to soothe the bull with those nice sweet treats, I gotta return the favor somehow.”

“Oh, you’re much too sweet, even for us bakers!”

“Guys, this isn’t exactly the time for a cell-abration,” Graham interrupted, glancing at the hall as though a crowd of spear-carrying goblins were already marching along it. “We really do have to get moving. I don’t want us caught out here.”

As he hurried down the next tunnel toward the Hobblepots, the pack of villagers behind him, he heard Acorn and Bramble still quietly chatting together:

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Acorn said, “I’ve always wondered. What’s it like to carry a baby in your belly?”

Bramble said, “Oh, it’s probably about the same as carrying a squirrel in your belly.”

“Oh, ahah, yeah, Princess Madeline loves how squishy it is.” He thumped a hand hard against it, and it rang dully as his gauntlet hit armor.

“Speaking of that, where is Princess Madeline? Did she escape the clutches of these hoarders?”

“Who knows. She had trumpet practice tonight.”

Bramble lowered her voice, and Graham barely heard her next words: “King Graham’s doing the best he can, of course, the dear, but I wonder if Princess Madeline could come and help us too. She’s so good at getting out of little scrapes like this.” Then, with passion: “Even though a compassionate lady like herself should not involve herself with racketeering!”

“That was just one time!” Acorn changed the subject: “Hey, maybe we should meet up for belly day. How’s your Thursday looking?”

“Much better than it was an hour ago, if we get out of this.”

“I know we will,” Acorn reassured her. “Graham’s got this. And so do we. ...oh, except.” His voice dropped two octaves and thirty degrees, and he said, “Chester.”

“Sir Cumference,” Chester said, just as chilly.

“Did I miss something?” Amaya asked, looking between the knight and the alchemist.

“Don’t ask,” Graham muttered, lining up the bolt cutters with the padlock on the cell door.

Acorn leaned against the tree trunk bars, arms crossed, glaring at Chester. “Soooo, I hear your lease is almost up,” he muttered, almost but not quite casually.

“What did you say?” Chester said.

“Oh, nothing.” He paused, then: “How old are you, again?”

“I still have many more snacks left to hit my belly. You needn’t worry.”

“Oh good, I’m a worrier,” Acorn grumbled, as the Hobblepots tripped out of the cell to freedom. Of a sort. Freedom from their cell, at the very least.

Chester shook Graham’s hand. “I saw my life flash before my eyes. Now I’m hungry again. I’ve eaten a lot of delicious things. Thanks, Graham.”

“Well! We’re all here!” Muriel looked at the crowd of people.

“Yeah, all of us,” Amaya said. “And there’s a lot of us. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Which way, Your Highness?” Bramble asked, bobbling forward in a nervous little half bow.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Graham said distractedly, shoving the bolt cutters back in his cloak.

"Of course, Gumdrop.” She eyed the crown, her face distorted in its shiny curves. “But, again, where to now? I don’t think we should just be standing here like this.”

“Ummm.”

Graham stared at the group. The group blinked back. And only now did he realize just how many of them there were, jostling each other and muttering and wondering and worrying and standing in the open and watching and waiting and....

There were two knights, two bakers, two alchemists, one blacksmith, and one very ragged king, all out of their various cells but by no means safe. This...this was a terrible plan.

No, more than that, he had no plan. Not really. Not faced with all of them. How was he going to get them out? How could he possibly manage this quietly? Carefully? This had been a terrible idea. There were too many people, they were going to be caught, and who knew what the goblins would do to them this time, and...

(“I froze up,” Grandpa admitted, as every single mirror villager stared at the mirror king. “Paralyzed by the decision. Perhaps I had pulled the final rabbit out of my hat. No, it was worse than that—I didn’t even have a cap anymore! Just a crown, and all that a shiny hat entailed.”)

Amaya lightly punched his shoulder. “Hey. You’re thinking way too much, Graham. Your gut has led us this far; let’s not second guess it now. Come on! Let’s go!”

He rubbed his arm. “R-right. Um. This way. But, quietly. Let me lead.” He wished he could shove them all in his cloak pockets, but it topped out at two people and was near tearing anyway, and then he wouldn’t be able to carry anything at all. This was just going to have to work as it was. They were going to all have to be brave and clever and kind and…and…oh, boy.

“You are the king, Sire,” Muriel chirped at his side. “We’ll do what you tell us to.”

“Mmmostly,” Chester said under his breath.

#fic'ing #it's practically all dialogue but then i remind myself that the reason this fic exists at all is to put back as many lines as i can #because it's challenging to read the slurry of subtitles and no one really wants to do that #so of course it's very dialogue heavy #can i juggle this many characters successfully time will tell

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