#just. constantly patrick's instinct to close the distance

[dixie12]

secret!sub!jonny, and pat finally finds out!

Jonny is acting weird. Like, really weird. They won the cup less than three weeks ago- Jonny should barely be sober, should be reaping the rewards of captaining the team to a second cup: free drinks, the admiration of the entire city, and the bevy of subs quite literally throwing themselves at his feet whenever he steps out of his front door. And sure, Jonny had seemed to enjoy it all for the first week or so, going out with the guys, letting them douse him in champagne, giving throaty victory speeches at the parade and chugging beers that adoring fans tossed at him. 

But the fun seemed to melt away pretty quickly after that, with Jonny getting tense and twitchy. He’d still go out with the team, probably because he knew Pat would physically drag him out if he tried to bow out this early in the celebrations. But he was distant, constantly checking his phone, eyes taking on a faraway look that was almost familiar to Pat, though he couldn’t figure out why. And despite the gorgeous men and women who approached Jonny every night, Pat didn’t think he’d picked up even once. 

It was one thing to hold off during the playoffs; Jonny was big on focusing and not being distracted, and “not wasting unnecessary energy, Pat.” Sure, planning a scene could take a little work sometimes, which Pat never minded, even during playoffs, but he understood that Jonny had always felt differently about that. But it was the off-season now, and they had weeks until they needed to start thinking about upping their training or even going to the convention. Now was the time to indulge. Pat certainly was; day-drinking, golf and baseball games during the hot summer days, a different sub in his bed most nights. 

Jonny had never really talked about his hook-ups in the locker room, not the way some guys did, visceral play-by-plays of all the paces they put their subs through, but Pat had always assumed he was just a gentleman, didn’t want to kiss and tell. Or, well, spank and tell, or whatever. But he’d never have predicted that Jonny would turn celibate when his popularity in the city had never been higher. Last night, an actual Playboy model, one who Pat recognized immediately, spent close to an hour hitting on Jonny, standing close, looking up at him adoringly through her lashes, stroking his shoulders and snuggling herself under his arm whenever Jonny moved. Instead of taking her up on the incredibly obvious come-on, Jonny looked even more awkward than usual. Pat watched as Jonny shifted himself away from her, putting distance between them, angling his body away from hers, eyes wary and back rigid. The girl gave it her all but finally realized it wasn’t going to happen tonight, walking away from Jonny in her four-inch heels and showing off an ass that nearly made Patrick cry with envy. 

Even from across the bar, Pat could see how tightly Jonny’s jaw was clenched, the tension radiating from his body. Pat watched as Jonny threw back the rest of his drink and turned, walking right past their table and out of the bar. He didn’t even throw a glance in their direction, heading straight into the street. Pat exchanged confused looks with the rest of the guys, but no one seemed to have an answer for Jonny’s behavior. Pat pulled out his phone, looking for a text from Jonny to at least say he was heading out. He had a lot of offers to party, and text threads with most of the team that just amounted to them texting “we won the cup!!!” back and forth every day, but nothing from Jonny. Pat sent him a quick “everything ok, man?” but then let himself be distracted by the boys.

In the morning, well, afternoon, to be honest, when Pat woke up, he still hadn’t heard anything from Jonny, and seriously, that was enough. Whatever was going on with him was getting worse instead of better, and Pat was sick of it. He had nothing on his schedule for the day, and he decided that he was going to drag the truth out of Jonny one way or another. He usually texted Jonny to let him know he was coming over, but at this point, he was worried Jon might actually throw the deadbolt on him. No, the element of surprise was definitely what he needed.

He thought about bringing food as a peace offering, but if Jon was already feeling off for whatever reason, he probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Providing like that was something that doms did for their subs, and while Pat and Jonny didn’t really let that stop them most of the time, Pat didn’t want to start things off on the wrong foot. Better to make sure Jonny felt comfortable in his own space before Pat started digging for answers. 

Pat walked the few blocks to Jonny’s apartment, rolling over possibilities in his mind on the way. Jonny definitely wasn’t seeing anyone, so relationship trouble wasn’t on the list. He’d just seen Jonny’s family when they were in town for the parade, and they were all doing great, his parents enjoying their retirement and David back in school studying sports management. They shared the same agent, and Jonny had been on fire during the playoffs, so their contracts shouldn’t be a concern, either. By the time Pat arrived at Jonny’s apartment, he was no closer to an answer than when he started, but starting to worry even more. If it wasn’t something obvious, but it was still stressing Jonny out this badly, maybe it was serious. Could Jonny be sick? A wave of horror washed over Pat as he remembered a few hard hits Jonny had taken over the six weeks of playoff hockey. Maybe the concussion was back? He hurried in the front door of Jonny’s building, unable to wait any longer. 

Jon’s doorman waved at him, asking if Pat wanted him to call up to Jon, but Pat shook his head, grateful when the doorman just nodded and pointed towards the elevator bank. Pat had to stop himself from pacing back and forth in the small space, focused on taking a few deep breaths, fighting his growing sense of panic.

He barely waited for the doors to open before he was off, half-jogging down the hallway to Jonny’s apartment. He grabbed his keyring, flipped to Jonny’s and unlocked the door, giving a quick knock as he walked in.

Jonny was sitting on his couch, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, head hanging between them. He looked… fragile, almost, like he was struggling to hold himself together. Small, in a way that Jonny never was. 

“Hey, man,” Pat started, and Jonny’s head bolted upright, clearly surprised. Jonny’s apparent shock made Pat even more uncomfortable; a dom should never be caught by surprise like that in his own space, should always be acutely aware of his surroundings, ready to defend them at a moment’s notice. Admittedly, Jonny’s high-rise, protected as it was by a 24/7 security desk and locked door, wasn’t exactly vulnerable, but Jon’s inattention still made Pat’s skin crawl with unease.

“Pat,” Jonny said, looking away quickly, and that, too, was unusual, the lack of eye contact a startling departure for Jonny. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company,” he continued, and his voice was quiet, projected towards the floor rather than Pat.

Pat was at a loss for words, unsure of what to say and unsettled at Jon’s behavior. He waited for Jonny to fill the silence, but Jon didn’t say anything else, didn’t even get up to offer Pat a bro-hug or a drink, just kept hanging his head, fidgeting with his hands so much that Pat longed to go over to him, grasp Jonny’s hands in his own and settle him down. He shook his head once, trying to get a handle on himself. Doms didn’t need “settling down,” not from other doms, at least, and Pat didn’t know where the urge had come from. Jonny just wasn’t acting much like a dom right now, and it was messing with Pat. 

The silence hung in the air for a few more moments, and then Jonny visibly gathered himself, taking a deep breath and looking up at Pat. 

“Sorry, man,” he said, voice flat but sounding a little more like himself. He gestured down at his phone and continued “just got a text from Dan. His grandfather died, and he has to go to France for a few weeks, handle the estate.” His voice trailed off at the end, eyes taking on that same familiar look Pat had been noticing recently. Pat waited for more of an explanation, but none came. He knew that Dan was Jonny’s childhood best friend, that they usually hung out when Jonny went back to the Peg over the summer, but he had no idea why his grandfather’s death was hitting Jonny so hard.

“Sucks, man. You guys were close, then?” Pat guessed, unable to come up with another reason why Jonny seemed so upset.

“No. I’d never actually met him, he moved back to France like thirty years ago.”

Pat was even more confused now, but he kept his mouth shut, waiting for an explanation. Jon’s shoulders hunched down even further, like he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up anymore.

“I just... usually, Dan and I..” Jonny was struggling, words forced out a few at a time, breath coming more quickly, “we.. he.. He helps me out,” Jonny finished, and his voice broke on the last word. He turned to look at Pat, then, and he looked impossibly young, expression crumpled and miserable. His eyes were wide and lost, filling with tears, and Pat saw fear there. Fear that he knew he would never see from a dom, but that his hindbrain recognized right away.

Later, he was so incredibly thankful that he moved on instinct, ignoring six years of etiquette, decorum and careful boundaries. Ignoring all of it in his haste to get his hands on Jonny. At the time, it felt impossible to do anything else. He was at Jonnys’s side in just a few steps, dropping onto the couch next to him, cupping the back of his neck with one hand and pulling Jonny down into his chest. Soothe, his mind insisted. Make it better. Make him safe. And Pat did, holding Jonny close, stroking his hair with one hand while the other rubbed circles on his back.

“It’s ok, baby, I’ve got you,” Pat whispered. He didn’t know what exactly he was expecting, for Jonny to fight him, maybe, jerk away and ask what the fuck Pat thought he was doing. Pat felt the strong muscles of Jonny’s back tense under his hand for just a few seconds before his entire body melted, letting Pat take his weight. 

Pat kept them there, pet names and praise falling easily from his lips, as he felt the world snap into place. It almost made sense, now. Jonny rarely picked up, never talked about his hook-ups. He flushed red in the locker room sometimes, and darted his gaze away when reporters complimented him. He was unusually touchy with his family, letting his mother muss his hair and kiss his forehead, letting David push him around. Taken together like that, and stripping away the underlying assumption that Jonny had to be a dom, it painted a pretty clear picture of what Jonny had desperately been trying to hide all of these years.

Fuck.

A sub. Jonny was a sub. A sub who was desperate for a kind touch and a sweet word right now. Pat remembered that strange phone call from last summer, when Jonny sounded so fucked out, calling him ‘Patrick’ before Dan took the phone away, and the last piece slotted into place. Dan must be Jonny’s dom, or at least a dom that Jonny felt comfortable submitting to, probably the only one. It explained why he always disappeared to Winnipeg right after the season, virtually unreachable for a week. And it explained why Jonny was so upset that Dan would be out of the country. Pat figured Jonny had been getting by on sheer determination, willing himself to just make it back to Winnipeg where he could finally let go, finally be himself, and finding out today that that wouldn’t happen must have broken him.

Shit, judging by how easily Jonny was accepting his touch, he probably hadn’t submitted for close to a year now. Pat couldn’t imagine getting up every day, making it through four brutal rounds of the Stanley Cup playoffs, playing his heart out and leaving it all on the ice the way that Jonny had done while fighting down the instinct and desire to submit. Never being able to let go the way his body would have been demanding, yearning for. Never being able to let his guard down for an instant, always vigilant against people finding out. Pat was filled with pride at Jonny’s strength, but there was an unfamiliar feeling of shame, as well. Unfamiliar, but not unknown, and Pat recognized it as the feeling he got when he’d let his sub down. When someone had put their complete trust in him and he was found undeserving of it. Jonny wasn’t his sub, but Pat still felt responsible for him now. He knew Jonny better than anyone, and he’d been blind to this secret that seemed so obvious now.

Jonny stirred against his chest, and Pat stroked a hand under his chin, tilted his head up to look at him. Jon’s pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy, cheeks a rosy, delicious pink. Pat had never seen a sub look more beautiful in his submission. 

He wanted Jonny to get whatever he needed out of this, knew it was what was right for Jon’s physical and mental wellbeing to let him stay in subspace, but the couch was getting uncomfortable. He looked around for a kneeler for Jon before realizing that there weren’t any. Weren’t any accessories, actually- no cushions, no cuffs strewn around, no paddles or crops, and his heart broke again at what Jonny was depriving himself of for hockey. For the team. For Pat.

Pat reached behind him, hands grabbing for a pillow from the back of the couch. He found one, dropping it on the floor, and nudged Jonny gently. Jon’s eyes opened slowly, eyelids fluttering like he was dragging them against a heavy weight, and his breathing was slow and deep. His brow creased as he looked up at Pat.

“Patrick?” he asked, and that one word came out in such a honey-sweet reverent tone that Pat knew immediately he never wanted to hear anyone else say it again.

“Yea, baby, I’m right here. Just want you to be comfortable,” Pat answered, gesturing down at the pillow at his feet.

“Is,” Jonny cleared his throat, “is this ok?”

“Sweetheart, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

[procrastinatingfeminist]

We as a species are social animals, but as a modern society that tends to live overpopulated cities, that encourages individualistic traits we also are taught from early on to be very cognizant of personal space. When you are in a full elevator or a subway and can't avoid touching other people bodies, you at least try to preserve the illusion of distance by not making eye contact. While the greeting formalities differ from country to country - whether you give someone you are not very familiar with a handwave, shake a hand or kiss someone on their cheeks - they are usually very ritualised so that everyone knows what level of body contact to expect (well, as long as the group has a shared cultural background, at least.)

Now, imagine you work a job that constantly pushes you to go against your instinct for keeping boundaries, that constantly expects you to act in ways that are low-key rubbing against the grain. And it's not just a week or a month, no, when you are successful you will need to do it for several years in a row, with at best a couple weeks breaks between filming seasons. Because you are an actor who plays half of a happy couple with a very prominent PDA presence in the series.

It doesn't even matter all that much whether you like that person or not - though it probably helps very much if you do - or what your sexual orientation or relationship status is. Just by the virtue of having to share breathing space, having to gaze into their eyes, kissing and hugging them for years builds up a level of intimacy that wouldn't have built on its own.

Sometimes the dissonance between act and reality leads to resentment or flash fire affairs; sometimes it leads to better understanding your own self and trying to transform the intimacy (no matter the source, I think it is still a great gift) into real life relationships that you both can maintain beyond the fake relationship on screen - like staying close friends. And it makes me inordinately happy to see those actors still be comfortable in each others space, still subconsciously lean just a little bit closer into each other than coworkers in, say, an office, would; still keeping in contact and meeting up regularly years after the shared project was finished.

Don't get me wrong - I am not harping on actors who we find out later couldn't stand each other once the filming was wrapped up. No one owes anyone more intimacy than they are comfortable with giving; and especially in the hetero couples there is much more potential for their working relationship to turn ugly - not because I think that queer people aren't just as capable of abuse as hets, but because we are so steeped in heteronormativity that actors who play heterosexual couples are simultaneously pushed that much harder to comply with the illusion and are much less equipped to recognise the signs when their coworker relationship turns sour. Like, remember how everyone was suddenly cheering for Brangelina when he was still in a relationship with Jennifer Aniston? Just because they had chemistry. How do you take a step back and think about whether you should act on that chemistry or not, when your job is to act on it?

But I keep thinking back to The Hobbit actors loudly declaring to fans that they would follow Richard Armitage - not Thorin Oakenshield, Armitage - to the end of the world, full of souldeep conviction - and believing them. I remember the LOTR actors getting fellowship tattoos to put a visual reminder of a bond that they developed. I think about Ackles and Collins taking vacations together, as well as the cast of Schitts Creek after finishing the finale; and how easy Noah Reid's arm slides around Dan Levy in the video when they take a look at the billboard in NY. The way that they say without words 'I trust you to still know me, my hidden self, because we spent so much time and effort building something beautiful together'. Because even if what they built only exists in the flimsy world of makebelieve, it still can be true. What does it matter that the romantic and sexual love between David and Patrick translates into friendship between Noah and Dan? Love is transcendental - it is still love. It would be a poor world indeed if the moment you stopped having sex with your spouse your love for them ended as well.

[ivegotsomethingtosay]

A Series of Unfortunate Events (opinion piece)

From Page to Screen to Screen... Again...

Normally, this would be the point in the week where I’d post a movie review, but seeing as nothing very interesting came out this weekend, I decided to try something new. Today, I’ll be looking at both the 2004 movie and recent Netflix TV adaptations of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, and seeing how they each hold up against the books on which they’re based. Sure, there’s about a dozen other articles/video essays that I can think of off the top of my head that deal with the same question of “which is better,” but being that I’m such a big fan of the books, I figured I’d throw my hat into the ring, an expression which here means: “write a big long think piece for my blog that nobody reads because I’m bored at work.”

So anyway, there seemed to be a general sigh of relief when Netflix dropped their long-awaited adaptation of the classic 21st century children’s series, which was seen by many as a sort of apology for the crimes committed by the 2004 Jim Carey version. “UGH,” said the collective millennial public, “FINALLY we get a proper adaptation of these books I haven’t picked up in over a decade!” The whole thing felt eerily similar to the reaction against the Star Wars prequels when The Force Awakens came out almost two years ago (holy shit, it’s been almost two years hasn’t it?) The fact is, no matter which side of either debate you stand on, it’s impossible to deny that we’ve backed ourselves into something of a corner when it comes to judging movies/television on its own merits. Save for the occasional original gem, the vast majority of modern entertainment is comprised of re-workings and re-hashes of material that’s previously existed in some form or another, meaning it’s impossible to analyze said material without at least discussing its fidelity to the original source, and close to impossible to not let that influence how you think about it on its own. No, you CAN’T like Episode I because Jar-Jar isn’t nearly as funny a Chewbacca. No, you CAN’T say Game of Thrones is better than the books because Daario’s hair isn’t blue in the TV series (seriously, this is the shit people argue about now-a-days).

And now, it appears not even A Series of Unfortunate Events is safe, which is really *ahem* unfortunate, considering Dan Handler’s 13-part YA saga might be one of the best things to happen to children’s literature since… ever. No, seriously, go back an pick up one of those books. Dust it off and shower yourself with some of with wittiest, most (literally) devastatingly brilliant writing this side of Oscar Wilde. For those who grew up with the Baudelaire orphans, these books were a watershed. Not only did they accomplish the insurmountable task of actually getting us to read on our own when we were 9-years old, but they taught us all the hard lessons about life, death, and morality that the adults were too scared to mention even amongst themselves.

So yeah, of course we were going to get a movie with a $150 million budget once they were selling in the same leagues as Harry Potter. And yeah, of course we were going to get a Netflix series once streaming gave us the opportunity to do long-form storytelling on a large canvas without spending $150 million. Which one of them is better? Neither, if you ask me, but I’d argue that bashing them in relation to each-other and/or in relation to the books isn’t going to get us anywhere. A “Cinema Sins” video is going to take us nowhere on the journey to analyzing great art, or even appreciating it. And if there’s anything to come out of the zeitgeist in the last couple of decades that could clarify as great art, it’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.

To start, I want to talk about what each of these adaptations do right. I’ll come right off the bat and say that I love both the show and the movie for many different reasons, and that even though the books will always hold the top spot in my mind, they hold that spot for reasons that go beyond some bullshit like whether Klaus wears glasses or not.

The show, for one, covers a lot of ground. I really despise judging an adaptation on how much they cut out of the source material (more on that later), but there’s something to admire about how closely Netflix’s A Series of Unfortunate Events sticks to the books. Four novels in and it seems like everything on the page has ended up on screen and then some. Adapting for long form television has given the showrunners (one of whom is Handler himself) to actually expand on the story, something rarely seen even in our Game of Thrones age. The argument of whether or not the show “gets the books right” is rendered almost completely irrelevant because it IS the books, just with Neil Patrick Harris. We get to witness all the stuff we’ve been picturing in our mind for years, we get to see the Lucky Smells Lumber Mill come to life, we get to experience going to the movies with Uncle Monty. I think a lot of the reason fans responded so well to the show was because it reflected the books so slavishly, giving us exactly what we asked for by giving us everything we asked for, all at once. It reminded me a lot of the PBS Pride and Prejudice in that it was difficult not to be a fan of the book and not be a fan of the show for no other reason than the show treated the book as a Bible.

The film, on the other hand, is two hours long. Not only that, but it spends those two hours going through the first three novels in the series, something that takes close to six hours in Netflix land. Our automatic instinct is to see this as a fault, but when was the last time you actually watched the movie? Rather, when was the last time you read the first three books? They’re fantastic, sure, but they’re also fantastic books. What enjoys and pleases us sitting with a bulk of paper by a crackling fireplace might not bring us the same joy when sitting in a dark, stuffy room with dozens of other people. One of the big faux pas in all these “which one is better” conversations is a misunderstanding of what different mediums can do and what can be achieved in each. The 2004 film might compress the books, but it illustrates them beautifully. The detail isn’t in how well we get to know each member of Olaf’s troupe, it’s in the little, subtle ways in which they express themselves onscreen. Sure we don’t get to spend hours and hours with Uncle Monty like we would watching the show or reading the books, but with Billy Connolly’s exceptional performance, we feel like we’ve spent hours with him.

The fact is, taken on its own merits, the 2004 Series of Unfortunate Events is a great movie. The aesthetic, the visual storytelling, the writing, and the performances are all so universally fantastic that comparing it to the books feels oddly irrelevant. The word “adaptation” implies some level of interpretation. It implies a level of taking what’s on the page and filtering it through our own personal beliefs and opinions. For all the talk about which one of these versions is “better,” little has been said about the different contexts in which they were made. The general attitude towards the concept of “evil,” which is a big theme in the Series books, was vastly different in 2004 than it is (was?) in 2016. In 2004, the United States had just invaded Iraq. We were still reeling from the single most devastating terrorist attack in human history, and our enemies seemed, at least at the time, very concrete. In the film, there’s a lot more of an emphasis on the idea of “fire” as a weapon. The wreckage of the Baudelaire mansion is shot and treated with the sobriety of a lot of post-911 photography. Jim Carey’s Olaf is significantly more insidious than Neil Patrick Harris’. He gets what we wants through fear mongering and cunning, often fooling nice, reasonably intelligent adults through a series of carefully planned and lethal actions. Much like… you know… a terrorist.  

In the Netflix series, however, the enemy isn’t so much “evil” as it is stupidity. Olaf in the show is treated like a complete idiot who just so happens to get his way because literally everyone else is too stupid to know what’s going on. One could argue that while Olaf is the source of the conflict, the real antagonist of the show is Mr. Poe, who, despite “seeming” to care about the kids, constantly places them in harmful, potentially life threatening situations because he thinks he knows better. There isn’t a set enemy here. The enemy, if you can call it that, is ourselves, our own blindness to the reality of our present situation. If that sounds familiar, it’s because it’s one of the many excuses we gave for electing a fucking James Bond villain into one of the most powerful positions in the world. Donald Trump is an idiot, sure, but he’s an idiot with access to nukes, and *apparently* that’s somehow our fault.

You see what I’m getting at here? Whether intentionally or not, art is always in some way reflecting the world in which its produced, and that’s especially true of Series. One could argue that, simply by consequence of the time it was born into, the Netflix show is closer in tone and aim to what Handler originally intended, but I’m not sure I’d agree with that. Sure, the show is significantly more ironic than the movie, much like the books. It contains much more references to pop culture, classic literature, and the world in which it was written, much like the books. But unlike the books, everything I just said comes off as funny, surreal, and at times even distancing. Watching the Netflix show is like watching an eight-hour long Wes Anderson film. It’s fun, colorful, and WAY more educated than you are, but for those very reasons, its harder to identify with what’s going on up on screen. The books, on the other hand, are deeply involving, deeply dark, and deeply funny. It’s a swirl of contradictions that can really only work properly when you’re reading it off a page. Postmodernism works differently on film than it does in literature. Translating directly from one to the other causes a kind of whiplash that the show suffered from on multiple occasions.

See, this is why I’ll always treasure the books. Specifically the Snicket books, because while I’ve gotten emotionally attached to characters in other stories and novels, Series was able to ignite the imagination in such a specific way, that literally taking it and putting it up on screen automatically lessens the effect. When I was ten, I had no idea what the Squalors’ endlessly large penthouse in Eratz Elevator actually looked like. I had no clue what it would be like to see Hector’s hot-air home in Vile Village. I have only the vivid, mysterious pictures that were painted in my mind, and nothing Netflix or Nickelodeon can conjure up will ever compare to that.

I envy all the kids who are going to grow up watching the Netflix series. I envy all of them who are going to go back and experience the movie as a result. What I do not envy is missing out on one of the better reading experiences of a lifetime in favor of either of those things, or vice versa. There’s an important lesson to be learned from all this: when we pit up art against itself, we rob ourselves of the opportunity to appreciate it on a deeper level. When we breathe a sigh of relief when we get the adaptation we always wanted, we miss out on the chance to challenge, and possibly refine our own points of view. Sometimes, we loose sight of what makes these things so lovable in the first place, and that’s unfortunate.