#or is it more along the lines of the original «he has many clearly delineated cover identities» sort of deal?

[age-of-moonknight]

House of M: Avengers (Vol. 1/2007), #2.

Writer: Christos N. Gage; Penciler: Mike Perkins; Inkers: Drew Hennessey and Mike Perkins; Colorist: Raul Trevino; Letterer: Rus Wooton

[the-resurrection-3d]

so what was ever good about acotar anyway?

For some reason, I’ve been very tempted to reread ACOTAR lately, and so I’m going to just make a quick list of what I remember specifically endearing the book to me back when I first read it in 2016 so we can compare notes later. This will, however, also include some retroactive criticisms now that we’re four years on from ACOWAR ruining everything forever. 

Twigger warnings for discussions of abuse, csa and neglect, as well as me using my complimentary R Slur Pass.

For some context: 

>Be 18yr me in 2016. 

>Be in your first semester at college. 

>Be so fed up with YA romance that you avoid books just for hinting at them in the summary. 

>Be also brainstorming a series with your roommate called The Cuckmaster Saga. 

This is probably going to sound embarrassing, but I’m being completely sincere when I say that part of why this book excited me was simply the novelty of finding a YA romance book that I liked. 

I’d fallen out hard with YA in general by this point in my life, partially because of a string of fairy tale “retellings” that clearly gave zero fucks about the source material beyond using the iconography in its marketing. Folklore had been my special interest for a while, and my excitement for the series and all its little extra niche references coincided with finally getting to study folklore in a true academic setting.

Which leads me to point one:

I love the idea of combining BatB and the Tam Lin ballad. I know some people have complained about this, but honestly, I enjoyed finding a retelling that mimicked the mix-and-match structuring of a lot of folktales. ACOTAR isn’t even the messiest or least coherent mash-up by a huge margin. Unfortunately, this aspect of the series severely lessened as it went along — remember when we all thought ACOWAR was going to be a Snow White retelling and then there was just one scene with poisoned apples? Lmao.

[If anyone wants an author who does YA mash-ups that are actually YA, I’d recommend Rosamund Hodge, whose books are always interesting in their sheer weirdness even when the story itself slightly falters. I mean, I wrote a whole 20-page thesis on her Red Riding Hood/Maiden Without Hands retelling and still didn’t cover everything I had thoughts on. (Tragically, however, I must inform you all that she is a Catholic Reylo. Rest in pepperoni.)]

It is fucking hilarious in retrospect that SJM clearly knows a bunch of different folktales and folkloric creatures but thinks it’s believable for shadowsinger powers to have no theorized origin ��even [in] the rich lore of the warrior-people” (ACOFAS 65). Bro fuck outta here. 

But this leads into point two — Feyre and her family. It’s very obvious that SJM based Nesta and Elain’s dynamic with Feyre off the common folktale trope of having the youngest sibling be the only competent person in the room (and Katniss Everdeen). I thought it was honestly a lot of fun to see this trope done with some interiority; you can practically hear Feyre seethe about what useless hoes her sisters are between every line. I genuinely giggled through these parts on my initial readthrough. 

I’ve seen some people complain that Nesta and Elain’s behaviors aren’t realistic in this situation, but au contraire! Nesta and Elain’s actions in book one are (...almost) perfectly realistic. Without revealing too much, my grandmother grew up in poverty with a few older sisters, and yet my great-grandmother would make her do all the work and constantly force her to give up her possessions (like her car) to the older sisters whenever they wanted them. Even to this day, when they’re all in their 70s and 80s, one of these sisters still relies on my grandma to do basic shit like balancing her checkbooks. I’ve also observed similar dynamics play out plenty of times between an adult child and an overindulgent parent, with people literally ruining their lives and bodies all for the sake of sitting at home all day buying furry porn off the internet. 

Nesta and Elain are basically the psychology of this type of person split in two — Elain the soft, delicate, perpetually victimized front they put on for the world, and Nesta the ice-cold, bitter, and aggressive bitch they truly are. 

Honestly, the only thing I would change about this set-up is either keep Ma Archeron alive or give Papa Archeron more personality than a plank of damp wood. What’s truly missing here is a parental figure enforcing this fucked up dynamic — I don’t remember it being clear that Feyre’s always had this role, just that she took it on after her mom’s death. Making it clear that Feyre’s always been forced to be this way — alongside giving the mom more characterization — would have gone a long way towards making this dynamic feel more realized and less like the narrative using trauma and pity as a shortcut towards reader engagement. 

Then again, that would require SJM to have a female villain in this series who isn’t a rapist, and quotes I’ve seen floating around from ACOSF make it pretty clear SJM doesn’t know same-gender sexual abuse even exists. 

Anyway. 

Point Three (or rather 2B): Feyre realizing she doesn’t have to hang around her family just because she feels obligated to love them was a fucking banger. I loved it so much; having a story, especially a YA story, that showed you aren’t obligated to love a family that treats you like shit was so special to me. Especially since I was also leaving my family for the first time, and going home to visit them every other weekend felt like being hit point-blank with a Psyduck blast. 

Thankfully, my relationship with my family has gotten a lot better, but I’m still really disappointed that Nesta and Elain were forced back into the story, rather than them reaching out to Feyre and making amends because they wanted to do better.  The closest we got to this was the revelation that Nesta almost made it to the Border by herself after Feyre was taken, which was definitely badass, but also unfortunately the only Nesta scene I’ve liked in this entire fucking series. If SJM was going to force Feyre to regress into being Nesta and Elain’s tardwrangler again, then she should have followed up on Amren’s line in ACOWAR that Feyre treats Nesta and Elain the way Tamlin treated her. 

“I asked them to help once—and look what happened. I won’t risk them again.”

Amren snorted. “You sound exactly like Tamlin.”

[. . .] and I said, “She’s right.”  (169-170). 

But I’m sure everyone who’s read ACOSF knows how well that’s going. 

Point Four: the femindhjdfhfdh I can’t even write that with a straight face. I mean let’s be real, I too enjoy seeing female characters I like become queens and all that other stuff, but it was clear to me even on my initial reading of ACOMAF that it was all shallow and designed to help delineate good guys from bad guys without much in the way of nuance. It certainly took me out of the experience a little, but at least it ties into the books’ themes of recovering from abuse and shacking up with a Certified Women Respecter. 

My actual point four: Truthfully I only bought this series for the meme of having the first shitty love interest getting cucked in the second book. ACOWAR gave me some complicated feelings on Tamlin, and I honestly think he should have just stopped appearing in the series after that — BUT, having him be dragged back in once per book just to call him a cuck and cockslap him around a little bit is fucking hilarious. Pointless! But hilarious.

I also think that this kind of arc is a great critique of the standard “happily ever after,” acknowledging that in real life, you’re much more likely to just pass from one abusive household to another because you don’t know what healthy love, communication, and boundaries are. (Arguably many folktales are the fantasies of women who are well aware of this reality but want to imagine a world that’s otherwise). I definitely have a lot of problems with SJM’s claims of “sex positivity,” but acknowledging that Feylin used sex as a means of avoiding communication was another great touch.

I wish that this whole King of Hybern shit was completely cut just to focus on these themes more; it’s very clear SJM only included it because fantasy series = BIG EPIC WORLD-ENDING STAKES!! I've read maybe ten pages of Throne of Glass, so I can't speak for how she handles epic fantasy there, but I know for me and a lot of other stans, the Hybern plot had licherally nothing to do with what we liked and connected to in these books. 

But I must soften here, because I totally empathize with feeling like big stakes are “necessary” for a fantasy story and that no one would want to read your books without them. YA fantasy is the reason why TV Tropes coined the term “romantic plot tumor,” after all. (Source: I’m making shit up.) 

What else… what else… uhhhhh. I think that might be it, at least for substantial things I don’t have to qualify too much. I of course have plenty of little things I used to like but have now been tainted because ACOWAR ruined everything forever and ACOFAS danced on the graves (such as how I liked Lucien but everyone in the books shits on him now to the point it’s stopped being funny). But this post is too long anyway.

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight:  The First Encounter (Chapter 2)

a/n: A new chapter! Quicker than expected. I might do shorter chapters with more frequent updates. Thanks to everyone who’s reading! 

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

The First Encounter: 

They crossed the town line at just after ten thirty that morning. The sign was just as they remembered it, rising up on their right from the unfamiliarly dense forest. They held their breaths as it passed, waiting for an explosion, a crash, a flash of light. A barrier keeping them out. But there was nothing, and they exhaled in unison, exchanging bright grins, relaxing as they cruised on through the forest. That forest was… troubling, thought the man, taking proper notice of it for the first time only once they had crossed the line. It looked otherworldly, in a very exact sense of that word. This forest did not belong to this realm, to this land where magic was so scarce it was relegated to tales of fantasy. It sent a prickle crawling up the back of the man’s neck, a prickle with which he was all too familiar. That prickle had saved his life on many an occasion, and it did not come upon him without good reason. He smiled at the boy, not wishing to alarm him, and made a mental note to explore the forest as soon as he could. 

He wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she thought it unimportant. Or more worryingly, perhaps she hadn’t noticed. 

Soon the buildings of the town began to appear around them, both familiar and different, as is the way of things we know well but haven’t seen in a long while. More than two years had passed since they had stepped foot in this place, and while the man had not spent sufficient time there to have any real grasp of what may have changed or remained the same, the boy had called it home for the first eleven years of his life. 

“Anything stand out to you, lad?” asked the man.

“No…” the boy sounded uncertain. “It looks like I remember, but also… not? Like it’s right, but something’s off.” 

“That’s probably to be expected, if our theories are correct,” said the man. 

“Yeah…” 

“Do you see anything you think is cause for concern?” 

“Not yet.” 

They drove slowly along the main street. More slowly than necessary, perhaps, but the man was very conscious of the posted speed limit. The last thing he needed was to attract the attention of law enforcement by speeding, he thought. He would surely attract quite enough of it just by existing in this place. He had learnt a great deal over the past year about remaining inconspicuous, not an easy lesson for a man for whom reputation and renown had once been everything, but he knew that even with his newfound knack of blending in he would not be able to help standing out in a place like this. It was too small, too infrequently visited, and once the upright hero-types took notice of him they would naturally be suspicious. They always were. There was just something about him that triggered the ire of the morally sound.

He had no idea why that might be. 

Their navigational device directed them off the main thoroughfare and towards the water, down a quiet street to a building whose sturdy, square design and tall windows loudly proclaimed its industrual origins. Constructed of pale brown brick with a double row of darker bricks delineating each of its three storeys and with oddly elaborate decoration along its roof and cornices, the building was both entirely typical of what the man now knew was the industrial aesthetic of the 1930s, and also markedly different. 

Ordinary yet not, he thought. Like everything in this town. 

“Wow!” cried the boy, leaping from the truck and running to the door, his concerns forgotten as he was swept up in enthusiasm. “This is great! This’ll be perfect, don’t you think? Dad?”

“Aye, lad, it will certainly suffice,” the man agreed. Perhaps a bit too close to the docks for his personal taste, he thought with a very familiar pang, but the space was bright and the building had character, and he was already picturing what he wished to do with it. The ground floor for the shop, the one above for storage and an office. The top one would serve as their residence. He could picture it all in his mind’s eye, and despite himself he began to feel excited. It was a bloody relief to finally be doing something, after months of plotting. “Come, help me unload.” 

Together they detatched the tarpaulin that had been secured over the bed of the truck, revealing stacks of cardboard boxes and planks of wood wrapped in bubbled plastic. These they began to transfer into the main room of the building, stacking the boxes in a corner then assembling the planks into tall, wide bookshelves which they arranged artfully throughout the room. 

“We’ll need more,” said the man, surveying the results of their efforts with satisfaction. He tapped on his own small communication device —set to buzz and not to beep— making notes of what they had done and what they would need. “But this is a solid beginning. Would you mind getting on the book and placing an order for more shelving, and also ask them to deliver that inventory we have on hold?”

The boy nodded eagerly, too excited even to correct his terminology (“Why can’t you just say laptop? I know you know that’s what it’s called.” “It looks like a book, it opens like a book. It even says ‘Book’ right there upon the front, love,” “That’s the brand name, babe,” “Which only serves to emphasize how it is effectively an electronic book.”), and pulled a square, flat item from the leather satchel, placing it on a table before him and flipping it open. He sat down and began to tap energetically upon it, faster than the man could ever hope to do, even with all his practice. There were some things that just worked better when you had two hands. 

“Can we get that sofa too? The leather one? It would look great over there under that window, and people like to have a place to sit.” 

“Aye, go on then, lad. I believe you’re right.”

The boy tapped for a few moments longer, then shut the book with a satisfied click. “All done,” he said. “It should be here the day after tomorrow.” 

“Excellent.” The man looked around for further tasks, but the appeared to have come to a natural stopping point. 

“What time is it?” asked the boy. “I’m starving.”

“Aye, me too.” The man consulted his device. “It’s half past one. Let’s get a bit settled in upstairs then we’ll go rustle up some sustenance.”

They hauled the suitcase up the winding stairs along with several of the boxes. The third floor was one large, open space, airy and full of light from the wide windows. Kitchen units lined the wall on one side, and another corner had been walled off to form a toilet and bathing area. Along the wall opposite the door were two beds, each with a table alongside it and a chest of drawers. The beds were separated by a freestanding wooden divider, and each had a thick, heavy curtain strung between that divider and the wall, that if drawn would separate the sleeping space from the main living area and afford some privacy. Not a great deal of privacy, to be sure, but after weeks of living in each other’s pockets, they were both relieved to have at least some. At the centre of the room sat a generous sofa and a cabinet upon which sat a large, flat television. The floor was old, scarred wood, with colourful rugs scattered upon it, and the walls were the same bare brick of the building’s exterior.

“Cool,” said the boy. “I want that bed.” 

The man allowed him to drag the suitcase over to the bed of his choice. “Put your clothes away neatly,” he said firmly. “We can leave the boxes until later.” 

“Yes, Dad,” sighed the boy, opening the suitcase and beginning to pull clothing from inside it, tossing it onto the bed. The man retrieved his own clothing from the suitcase and took it over to the other sleeping space, arranging the trousers and underthings neatly in the chest of drawers and hanging the shirts on the metal bar attached to the wooden divider, which had clearly been installed for that purpose, and already had empty hangers waiting. 

“Hang up your shirts, lad,” he called, conscious of the boy’s propensity for shoving everything at once into the same drawer. “And use a separate drawer for your undergarments.”  

“I am, jeez,” came the grumbling response. 

A few moments later the man went to inspect the boy’s efforts, and finding them satisfactory clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

 “What do you say to some lunch, then, eh?”

The boy looked suddenly apprehensive as he grasped the full import of that question, but he nodded. “Might as well,” he said. 

They opted to walk, though the day was still damp and grey, to give themselves time to prepare and brace against what was coming. All too soon they arrived. The diner was achingly familiar to both, just as they remembered yet with the same air of not quite that pervaded the very air of this place. They walked slowly through the outdoor seating area then paused for a moment, just outside the door, letting the memories wash over them. 

“Ready, lad?” asked the man in a hearty voice. 

“Yeah.” The boy squared his shoulders. “Let’s go.” 

The bell jangled as they opened the door and every eye in the place turned upon them. The man nodded to the room at large, placing a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder as the tense moment stretched on. Finally the eyes began to turn away, and they relaxed. 

The place was packed, every booth and table occupied, so they headed for the stools at the counter. The man sat down but the boy hesitated. 

“I— think I’ll go to the bathroom first,” he said. 

The man sensed he needed a moment alone, and nodded. “Shall I order for you?”

“Yeah, I’ll have a grilled ch—” he broke off. “A burger,” he amended. “I’ll have a burger. And fries.” 

The man nodded his understanding and a minute or two later placed their order with the stern-faced, grey-haired woman behind the counter. She recorded it on a small notepad, then looked up and indicated something behind him with a nod of her head. “Booth’s just opened up back there, if you’d like it.” 

“Aye, thanks.” 

He stood, turning to move towards the offered booth when a female figure emerged suddenly from the rear door, colliding forcefully with him. His breath stalled in his throat as her familiar scent assailed him and her hair flew up to brush his face in a silky caress. Automatically he reached out and caught her in a steadying grip, fighting with every fiber of his being against the urge to pull her tightly into a fierce embrace and just hold her, just breathe her in, just feel the comfort of her body against his, solid and whole and real. 

“Whoa, I’m sorry,” she laughed, stepping back and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Wasn’t watching where I was going, there.” She looked up at him and the laughter faded from her face as their eyes met. He watched as her eyebrows snapped together and suspicion clouded her expression. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice cool and with no recognition whatsoever in her eyes. 

The man had tried to prepare himself for this, they both had, but it still shattered his heart. Those eyes he’d last seen smiling into his, hazy and replete and brimming with love, were now sharp and assessing as they raked over him. 

He summoned a smile from somewhere deep within, the polite, innocuous one he’d practiced meticulously in front of the mirror in New York until it was flawless, displaying no touch of warmth or humour, not a hint of provocation or innuendo. Not a hint of who he really was. “Killian Jones,” he replied, relieved that his voice was calm and steady. He held out his hand, ignoring the memories that engulfed him of the first time he’d introduced himself to her, spitting his name at her feet, all challenge and defiance, without the proffered handshake in that instance as his had been unfortunately tied to a tree. He’d wanted her even then, he recalled; even consumed with the need to avenge his lost love he’d been impressed by her toughness, intrigued by her defenses. Enticed by her beauty. 

She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his, giving it one quick shake then pulling back abruptly, forcefully, her scowl deepening. He glanced down in time to see her clench her fist against her thigh, her knuckles white. Killian knew her well enough to read the meaning behind the gesture and the excessive reaction to a simple handshake, and he felt a faint flutter of relief. She still felt the spark between them, even in her current state. There was hope. 

“I’m Emma Swan,” she said tightly. “Sheriff of Storybrooke.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff.” He kept his voice neutral, disinterested, the voice of a perfectly innocent, ordinary citizen going about his business.

“Hmmm. And what are you doing in my town, Killian Jones?”

“Moving to it, Sheriff Swan. I’ve purchased the old cannery on the harbour road. Planning to turn it into a bookshop.”

“A bookshop?” she repeated, unconsciously attempting to mimic his accent. “In Storybrooke.” 

“Indeed.” 

‘Hmmm,” she said again. 

“You think the endeavour unwise?” he queried. “Do Storybrooke residents not read?” He should let it go, he knew. It was too early to engage with her like this, but he had never been able to resist challenging her, and he didn’t want her to leave.

“Well, yeah, of course we read, it’s just we have the library.” She had her hands stuffed into the back pockets of her jeans, but her body was unconsciously angled towards him. He took a risk and stepped closer. 

“Aye, and a fine one it is too,” he replied, “but my bookshop will specialise in rare volumes, ones not easily found in even the most comprehensive public libraries.” 

“And you think we’ll need these rare volumes?” She leaned even closer, close enough for him to count the dark lashes that framed her green eyes. 

“I have it on excellent authority that you will find them most useful.” His voice was a low rumble, every muscle in his body rigid with the effort of holding himself back, of not threading his fingers through that damned spun-gold hair and pulling her mouth to his, kissing her as he hadn’t done in more than a year. The air between them grew thick with tension and Killian tried frantically to think of something to say to break it, before he snapped and did something unforgivable. 

“Dad?” He released the breath he’d been holding and turned to see the boy standing in the rear doorway, eyes fixed on Emma Swan, his young face full of the same yearning sadness that Killian felt in his own heart. 

Emma followed his gaze. “Who’s this?” she asked, looking back at Killian and missing the boy’s pained wince at her casual question. 

“My son. Henry,” he replied. “Come over, lad, and meet the sheriff, Emma Swan.” 

“Henry Jones, eh?” said, with a small smile. “Not Junior?”

“No,” replied Henry, his own smile tentative but quivering with hope. “Just Henry Jones. My dad hadn’t seen those movies when he named me.” 

“Does he at least call you Indy?” Emma was smiling now, and her eyes had warmed. 

“No, and he won’t let me wear the costume either, not even at Halloween,” said Henry indignantly. This was true. Killian may have been new to this realm and to parenting, but he was a man equipped with abundant common sense and one not easily manipulated, even by wide-eyed pleading.  

“I offered to buy you the ridiculous hat, and I’m sure the sheriff would agree that a bullwhip is not a wise accessory for a thirteen year old,” protested Killian. 

“I have to back up your dad here, kid,” laughed Emma. 

“That’s what everyone says,” grumbled Henry, just as the waitress —Ruby, he seemed to recall— delivered their food to the booth they’d yet to sit in. 

“I believe our meal has arrived. Henry, why don’t you get started, I’d like just another quick word with the sheriff.” 

“Sure, Dad. Nice to meet you, Sheriff Swan.” For a second Killian thought Henry would throw his arms around Emma, but the boy resisted, instead holding out his hand. Emma shook it solemnly. “Nice to meet you too, Indy, I mean Henry,” she said, and the boy beamed.  

“Cute kid,” remarked Emma, as Henry slid into the booth and attacked his burger. 

“Aye.” 

“How dumb did you feel when you realised you’d accidentally named him after a movie character?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” said Killian. “He’s named for his grandfather. On his mother’s side.” Another truth, if not precisely the truth it appeared to be.

“And his mother is…?” She attempted to sound casual, but Emma had never been great at subtlety. 

“Gone,” he replied gruffly. “For some time now.” 

She looked repentant. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry.” 

“It’s not a secret, and if we’re to live here you’ll naturally want to know about us. We hope to become active and involved members of your community, if you’ll permit it.” He smiled his bland smile again. “It will take a week or so to get the shop set up, but once we’re open I hope you’ll come by and take a look. I have a knack for helping people find books they’ll enjoy reading.” 

“That sounds nice, actually. The old cannery, you said?” 

“That’s right.” 

“I’ll remember that.” She smiled at him, the familiar, warm smile he loved so much, and for a moment his mask slipped and he knew that every one of his feelings were laid bare on his face. Emma recoiled, her walls slamming back into place with an almost audible thud. “But now I think you’d better eat your lunch before it gets cold,” she said, as he silently cursed his weakness. He’d never had any restraint around her.

“Aye—” he bit back the ‘love’ with effort. “Nice meeting you, Sheriff.” 

“And you.” 

He watched her until she disappeared through the front door, then slid into the booth across from Henry. 

“She seemed all right,” Henry said. His mouth was full of burger, but Killian felt too emotionally drained to chastise him. “Like herself, even though she doesn’t know us. Maybe this won’t be so bad.” 

Killian couldn’t agree. Emma may have retained her sense of humour and her love of Indiana Jones, but she wasn’t herself. She didn’t know them, and she didn’t love them, and beyond that there was just something off about her. It was to be expected, and he had expected it, but that didn’t make it hurt less. 

“Maybe not,” he said, to appease the lad, and Henry grinned. 

Despite his turmoil he managed to eat his lunch. He was hungry after the morning’s labour, and breakfast seemed ages ago. After they finished he allowed Henry to order a milkshake, even taking a few sips himself, amusing the lad with his exaggerated grimace at the excessive sweetness of the concoction, and they left the diner laughing, feeling relatively cheerful, all things considered. The worst was over, he thought. He’d seen her, and she was fine. As fine as she could be, given the circumstances. Their plan was underway and soon she’d be herself again. He merely needed to be patient, and he was a very patient man.

Henry skipped on ahead and Killian, distracted by the boy, turned out of the diner’s outdoor gate only to collide once more with slender limbs and silky hair. 

Really? he wanted to snarl. Again? 

The fates had always enjoyed mocking him, but this seemed excessive. 

“We’ve got to stop running into each other like this,” said Emma, and he managed a smile at the mild joke. 

“Indeed—” he began, when his attention was caught by the tall, slender man behind her. A very familiar tall, slender man. One who inspired nearly as much hatred in Killian as Rumplestiltskin himself. His face wanted to twist into a feral snarl, his hand wanted to ball into a fist. He wished fiercely for his hook, imagined sinking it into the man’s neck and ripping out his throat, even as he forced his features to remain calm and his body relaxed.

“Oh, babe,” Emma was saying, and Killian had a brief and terrible moment of confusion, thinking she was speaking to him. But her eyes were on the monster behind her and the words she spoke ripped Killian open more viciously than his hook ever could. “This is Killian Jones, he just moved here,” she said. “Killian, this is my husband, Walsh.” 

[antoine-roquentin]

Is the Vladimir the Great Balancer who has deftly mixed the carrot and the stick to maintain a tentative balance between the myriad regime, autonomous, and opposition elements that comprise Russia’s metastable politics losing his touch? I have noted several times in the past that Russian President Vladimir Putin is a soft authoritarian with a keen sense of how much repression is advisable to use in the mix of tools he deploys to maintain political stability and his own popularity. However, the crackdown on September 9th’s anti-pension reform demonstrations and other recent events seem to suggest that Putin is losing either that sense and turning to the types of repression that could help spark rebellion in Russia or, less likely, control over security organs who are demonstrating increased toughness enmeshed in a power struggle among themselves and with less traditionalist, more liberal elements. That the former seems to be the case, at least temporarily, is evident in measures other than the demonstration crackdown, including the recently adopted and increasingly implemented law that criminalizes the posting and re-posting of material as well as other activity on the Internet as well as the very pension reform proposal itself. Then there is the bizarre video message to opposition leader Alexei Navalnyi from National Guard commander and Putin associate Viktor Zolotov.

Although the marches in many cities went peacefully enough, Sunday’s crackdowns on the marchers in Moscow and St. Petersburg clearly went beyond the pale of propriety in police conduct. Some women and children were roughly handled and detained, and a few demonstrators were beaten by police and National Guardsmen. The detention of children is clearly not necessary in any case. Passers-by were often arrested along with alleged perpetrators of demonstration law violations. The targeting of women and children is a red line, which once crossed could likely lead to a public reaction against the regime. Should this practice continue it is certain to rile many in the mainstream who support Putin in lukewarm fashion or are largely indifferent to the president or politics. To be sure, Putin, Zolotov, and the police may have been led to the needlessly harsher than usual crackdown on the anti-pension reform demonstrators by a series of additional somewhat unusual attendant circumstances. There were clear attempts made to hijack the marches by increasingly radical opposition leader Alexei Navalny and others. They deployed children at the marches and in Moscow attempted to march on the Kremlin. In addition, Sunday was a countrywide election day, including voting in the Moscow mayoral election. The Kremlin is well aware of the color revolution pattern across numerous countries from Serbia to Ukraine to Kyrgyzstan of ‘regime-fatal demonstrations beginning on the eve or the day of elections, though usually the elections involved in such cases were presidential elections. In December 2011, Russia experienced a wave of anti-regime demonstrations that forced then-president Dmitrii Medvedev to institute a series of liberal election reforms. Given the much more tense and indeed dangerous international and even domestic economic situation, Putin is unlikely to be any more willing to risk such an outburst of unsanctioned popular will. This may be his pivotal mistake or lead to one that sparks anger that snowballs into rebellion.

The harshening of the regime towards Internet use bespeaks of general nervousness and tendency to overreact, also reflecting Putin’s fear of a color revolution, the success of which in other countries many attribute to the organizational and informational (propaganda) uses of the Internet. But it also seems another overreaction, something Putin has been successful in avoiding in domestic politics, if not always in foreign policy (witness: Crimea). Although the web is a valuable resource for terrorist, revolutionary and moderate opposition elements alike, with new restrictions on social web activity such as the posting, re-posting or even ‘liking’ of ‘extremist’ material will radicalize moderates and politicize the apolitical.

In what appears to have been another miscalculation — the one that sparked Sunday’s protests — the pension reform proposals themselves from the government clearly sparked a public backlash; witness the recent 12 point fall in Putin’s approval ratings and larger declines for Medvedev and political institutions. The backlash is proof of miscalculation, putting aside conspiracy theories, such as a plot to undermine Prime Minister Medvedev or boost Putin’s rating by his playing the ‘good tsar’ who reins in the government liberals. The backlash’s occurrence and Putin’s softening of the reform proposal this week by adjusting the suggested pension age raises downwards demonstrate that the original proposal overshot their political mark. Despite Putin’s initial separation from the proposal’s announcement and long-lasting distance from the debate in order to maintain deniability of involvement, everyone knows that in Russia the ruble stops at Putin’s desk on any important issue and many are inclined to reject his de facto ‘denial’ of responsibility. Indeed, this attempt to maintain his distance from the pension reform may constitute a fourth miscue in his loss of balance.

Then there is Zolotov’s undignified, crude, and threatening tirade. The National Guard leader was responding to corruption charges Navalnyi recently made against him and the National Guard. In the video Zolotov accuses Navalnyi and the entire opposition of being “rotten” and “decayed.” Navalnyi is “a product of the American test tube,” who “has been been waving his (Zolotov’s) income declaration around like a rag.   Zolotov even calls out Navalnyi to a fight: “I challenge you to a duel, where I promise to make from you a good juicy chop steak” (https://echo.msk.ru/blog/day_video/2275936-echo/). This kind of language in public is unprecedented for a Russian official. Whether Zolotov received Putin’s permission to issue this video or acted on his own is unclear. Perhaps, Putin thinks it useful to let vicious barking dogs off the leash now and then to support his own image as the prudent moderate. It’s impossible to tell. What is clear is that Zolotov gave a Trump-on-steroids kind of performance that only renders an image of the Kremlin as unprofessional, boorish, and, uncharacteristically, obviously nervous.

These four or five mistakes, coming in the wake of Putin’s easy re-election suggest that Putin the ‘great balancer’ may be losing some of his feel for the balance, may be getting tired and unable to keep up with the information digestion he needs to inform his balancing act, may be intentionally going beyond limits delineated by perspicacity which he previously honored because he is in greater fear of color revolution, or perhaps all three of these factors are working simultaneously to confound the previous level of metastability. Putin may be becoming complacent and/or delegating to much activity to subordinates given his inevitable aging. This and the heavy foreign policy agenda may be having a debilitating effect on Putin’s previous ability to sense the limits of his power and that of the other competing and allied forces around him. Whatever the causes, Putin and/or his regime appear to have let loose needlessly a ripple of instability. In politics, ripples sometimes grow into tidal waves. Putin and his allies would prefer to see still waters, as ice on a pound.

None of this means that Putin’s sense of balance has declined to such a level that he is fundamentally destabilizing the regime, no less that Putin is about to fall from power. It does, however, suggest that in addition to the objective difficulty of the challenge of fashioning an effective transition from his constitutionally legal second consecutive term to the 2024-2030 term, there will be an additional personal test. Being in his mid-60s and after nearly two decades in power, it will be increasingly difficult henceforward to be up to the enormous challenge already inherent in running a soft authoritarian regime in an era of increasingly globalization, ‘post-fact’ informational diffusion and disparity high-technology, and international system friction caused by the ongoing transition from unipolarity to multipolarity.

[gloriousgwendolinechristie]

Press: "Phasma" Excerpt: The First Order Captain's Journey Begins

StarWars.com READ AN EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT FROM THE UPCOMING NOVEL IN WHICH PHASMA FIRST ENCOUNTERS THE FIRST ORDER.

  Soon, Star Wars fans will see the rise of a legend.

  Delilah S. Dawson’s novel Phasma, coming on Force Friday II, September 1, as part of the Journey to Star Wars: The Last Jedi publishing program, will chart the journey of the deadly First Order captain. StarWars.com is excited to release a special excerpt from the book, offering our first glimpse at Phasma’s desolate homeworld of Parnassos and her initial encounter with the First Order.

  Phasma and her warriors began making preparations the moment they saw the explosion high overhead. As the ship’s remains streaked across the sky, Phasma tracked it with her quadnocs, taking careful note of the direction in which it fell. At the very least, ships like this could be pillaged; at most, there was always a hope that they could be salvaged and used to get offplanet. No one alive had seen such ships do anything but fall and crash, but they were evidence of the larger galaxy beyond Parnassos, of a future that had been denied them. It was painful, living on such a treacherous planet with so many re­minders of the ease and technology that had once been taken for granted. At the very least, there would be metal, tech, clothes, medi­cines, food, and possibly working blasters scattered around what was left of the ship. These were the greatest riches in Phasma’s world.

  But they had to hurry. Other groups in other territories would also be watching and preparing for the journey. Falling stars, as they called them, were rare, and this ship was the shiniest thing the Scyre had ever seen—so bright that they had to shield their eyes as it ar­rowed down toward the planet. Part of the ship popped off and floated down separately, headed for the area where the Scyre lands bordered the enemy Claw clan’s, which made it all the more impor­tant to hurry.

  When they reached the line of flags delineating the borderlands between the Scyre and the Claw, Phasma called a halt and pulled out her quadnocs. Five figures were being pulled up onto the plateau from the land below. Using the lenses, Phasma followed the foot­prints and drag marks back to where a metal machine waited, half submerged in the sand and beside a huge, crumpled piece of fabric. It was the part of the ship that had popped off and gently floated down. The Scyre had never seen so much fabric in one piece in all their lives, and it was clear why several Claw members were down there, busily cutting the long lines that held the fabric to the machine so that they might claim it for their own. The downed ship was nowhere in sight, but far, far away, across the sands and yet more rocks. Phasma tracked the thin line of white smoke that feathered up into the sky, marking the path to true riches.

  A cheer went up from the gathered Claw as the first strange figure was dragged to standing on top of the plateau. It was a man, and for Parnassos, he wore very little, just finely woven clothes of a smooth, uniform black and tall, shiny boots speckled with sand. He was the oldest person the Scyre folk had ever seen, with pale-white skin and red hair going gray at the edges. Although his limbs were slender enough, his belly was big, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He smiled blandly at the whoops and whistles of the Claw folk but was clearly not celebrating, personally.

  Without a word, Phasma urged her people forward, motioning for them to be quiet and quick. When they stood on the edge of the pla­teau, behind the crowd of Claw folk so mesmerized that they hadn’t even noticed the interlopers, Phasma and her people finally saw the miracle occurring.

  The Claw’s leader had pushed the man gently aside and reached for the next figure, a warrior wearing white armor streaked with gray sand over a thin suit of black. A gasp went over the Claw folk, and Phasma’s warriors, too—such armor would’ve given anyone on Parnassos a huge advantage over the elements, and the solid helmet seemed an improvement over their light leather masks. Two more white-armored soldiers fol­lowed, and lastly came a droid. It was shaped vaguely like a human and made of matte-black metal, and it took the longest to haul up, due, most likely, to its weight and its inability to climb. The people of Parnassos had seen the component parts of hundreds of droids and even used droid metal for their weapons, but no one living had seen a droid stand of its own volition and hold up an indignant hand, as this black droid did when the Claw attempted to touch it.

  The droid spoke to the man in black with a mechanized voice. It was hard to hear on the plateau, surrounded by whispering and the sudden gusts of wind, but the language seemed both familiar and different. The man in black spoke back to the droid, and the droid spoke again, this time much louder, its voice projected by some sort of strange machinery.

  “My name is Brendol Hux, and I’m afraid my starship was shot down by an automated defense system over your world. My language is a little different from yours, so this droid will translate to your more primitive dialect.

  “My emergency pod has landed very far from my ship. I have lost several of my own people in this horrible tragedy. But if you are willing to help me, I can offer you the kind of technology and sup­plies that your world has lost. I come from a powerful band called the First Order that brings peace to the galaxy. I am tasked with scouring the stars for the greatest warriors, that they might join our cause. Our people are well cared for and well trained. Ask my soldiers, here. Troopers, is that not so?”

  The three soldiers in white nodded and barked, “Yes, sir!”

  “Each of these warriors was selected from a distant planet and trained to fight for the First Order. If your people help return us to our ship, I will take whoever wishes to join me back to our fleet. These soldiers will live in glory and wealth, never suffering for want again. Now, who will help me?”

  The Claw people stood to cheer, but a new figure appeared beside Brendol Hux, a warrior wearing a fierce red mask.

  “I am Phasma, and I am the greatest warrior of Parnassos.” Re­moving her mask, Phasma faced Brendol and waited for the robot to translate. “I will help you find your ship.”

Press: “Phasma” Excerpt: The First Order Captain’s Journey Begins was originally published on Glorious Gwendoline | Gwendoline Christie Fansite

[cargopantsman]

Back to Germania

Disclaimers and Table Of Contents

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Knowing where I am, and when, is a good start. It does bring to light the fact that I really have no firm idea of what all was going on at the time. I'm aware that Caesar had conquered Gaul and is now full of holes. There is a certain fun little side game here though; wherein I have access to a translated contemporary text, footnotes from the translator from a century ago, and now access to modern theories on what was going on at the time. Which is part of why I'm getting sidetracked so often because I like trying to corroborate these things.

To continue: "2.) The people of Germany appear to me indigenous, and free from intermixture with foreigners, either as settlers or casual visitants." Oh did the Nazis have fun with that. (Actually, they had an obsession with the whole text and I probably need to give a read to "A Most Dangerous Book: Tacitus’s Germania from the Roman Empire to the Third Reich" by Christopher B Krebs).

Skipping a paragraph, this is later expounded on. "4. I concur in opinion with those who deem the Germans never to have intermarried with other nations; but to be a race, pure, unmixed, and stamped with a distinct character. Hence a family likeness pervades the whole, though their numbers are so great: eyes stern and blue; ruddy hair; large bodies, powerful in sudden exertions, but impatient of toil and labor, least of all capable of sustaining thirst and heat. Cold and hunger they are accustomed by their climate and soil to endure."

This is where I went scrambling for two things, a Latin transcription of the text (not that I know Latin, but I can be patient enough to look up each and word and cobble enough meaning to figure out if the translation is faithful) and a biography of the translator (where I previously settled on Edward Brooks Jr being Anglo-American and probably not a 19th century German Nationalist).

So stop and think. This is a text written 1,850 years before the events that make these sentences cringe-worthy occurred. Written by a Roman concerning tribes that have been and will be a threat to the Roman Empire since the Cimbrian Wars of 113-101 BCE up to the Sack of Rome in 546.

The footnote for paragraph claims "12. The ancient writers called all nations indigenae (i.e. inde geniti), or autochthones, "sprung from the soil," of whose origin they were ignorant."

The commentary on "a race, pure, unmixed," after considerable effort to disassociate it from modern connotation, might more clearly read as "a race, isolated, just coming into historical record." I doubt it would be far off the mark to think of many Romans saying "They all look the same, they don't look like us, and there's a lot of them."

The next thing my brain wandered off and pondered on were the Gauls. "The Gauls are tall of body, with rippling muscles, and white of skin, and their hair is blond, and not only naturally so, but they also make it their practice by artificial means to increase the distinguishing colour which nature has given it. For they are always washing their hair in lime-water, and they pull it back from the forehead to the top of the head and back to the nape of the neck, with the result that their appearance is like that of Satyrs and Pans, since the treatment of their hair makes it so heavy and coarse that it differs in no respect from the mane of horses. Some of them shave the beard, but others let it grow a little; and the nobles shave their cheeks, but they let the moustache grow until it covers the mouth." [Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca Historica, book 5, chapter 28, trans. CH Oldfather]

Looking at the geographical coverage of Hallstatt and La Tène culture archaeology, the people we would call Celts covered most of Europe north of the Alps with particular cores right in the heart of Germania (this covers a date range of 800-450 BCE for Hallstatt and up to 1 CE for La Tène giving way to Roman conquest). Meanwhile, in Denmark/Jutland and the Scandinavian lands beyond the North and Baltic seas, from 1700-500 BCE, the Germanic ancestors were having a lot of fun with bronze. From 500 BCE to the current era covers a period called the Jastorf Culture where the Germani migrated south from Scandinavia and filled in a gap in the north of Europe until they came into contact with La Tène cultures, and presumably picked up a membership to the Iron Age.

My learning of this little migration at this time lines up pretty well with Tacitus. Jumping back to paragraph 2: "- and free from intermixture with foreigners, either as settlers or casual visitants. For the emigrants of former ages performed their expeditions not by land, but by water; [13] and that immense, and, if I may so call it, hostile ocean, is rarely navigated by ships from our world." What made me laugh is the associated footnote that reads "It is, however, well established that the ancestors of the Germans migrated by land from Asia. Tacitus here falls into a very common kind of error, in assuming a local fact (viz. the manner in which migrations took place in the basin of the Mediterranean) to be the expression of a general law.—ED."

I couldn't help but imagine the editor reading Snorri's Forward in the Prose Edda and just rolling with it. (Granted, this may refer to an even earlier migration I haven't looked into regarding Proto-Indo-Europeans moving in from Scythia, but that’s a digression I don’t want to go into right now.)

Back to the Celts, particularly the Gauls; Rome had spent the last 400 years securing a border against Gallic invaders starting with Brennus of the Senones successfully sacking Rome in 390 BCE. Celtic tribes at this time were also pushing into the Carpathian region of Dacia to the east and Pannonia to the west. An advance that lead to (a different) Brennus nearly sacking Delphi. (They wisely waited until Alexander the Great had died before trying this.) This general southern push of Celtic/Gallic peoples from ~400-250 BCE ties in neatly with the southern expansion of Jastorf culture findings in the same time frame.

Generally speaking, migrations and invasions are rarely so cut and dry that peoples A are wholly displaced and dispersed by peoples B. Lacking information on what actually happened at the borders between Jastorf and La Tene cultures, how they interacted as both Germani and Celt moved southward, I'll for the moment assume a median model of trade, warfare, raids and, contrary to Tacitus' opinion, an intermixing of Celtic and Germanic bloodlines.

The Germanic Cimbri tribe offers a glimpse of this probable cultural blending. Having swept southeast from Jutland-Denmark through Germania and first clashing with Rome in Noricum to kick off the Cimbrian War from 113-101 BCE. While Caesar, Pliny, Tacitus, and Strabo consider the Cimbri to be Germanic, at least one ancient scholar, Appian in his Civil Wars, consider the Cimbri to be Celtic. The main Cimbrian chief from the wars, Boiorix, has a heavily Celtic name with the "-rix" suffix. The name translates to "King of the Boii" that signifies him as a leader of a Celtic tribe even though he is leading a Germanic tribe. (Dat Boii being one of the Gallic tribes pushed out of Cisalpine Gaul into Bohemia [Boiohaemum] back around the 193 BCE).

Fifty years later, Julius Caesar declared a delineation between Celtic and Germanic tribes being the Rhine river, but the Rhine does not appear to have been as much a blockade against Jastorf expansion as the Danube (and Roman presence along it) did. The Rhine line seems to be more politically and militarily motivated in that Caesar wasn't interested in taking his legions east of the Rhine. It is said that the Romans were rather indiscriminant in labeling Transalpine tribes as Gallic, Celtic or Germanic as it was. Grouping the barbarian tribes as Gallic, Celtic or Germanic may well have been more an issue of geography than ethnography.

I would venture to take this viewpoint positively in figuring what Tacitus might mean in his use of the phrase "intermarried with other nations," in particularly what the Roman concept of a nation is. For if the Romans considered the Germanic and Celtic tribes to be close enough to be careless with their labels of them, a collection of large, muscular peoples with reddish-blond hair and beards might be sufficient to call "unmixed."

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[sfjazz]

SFJAZZ Collective Miles Davis CD review - All About Jazz

https://www.allaboutjazz.com/live-sfjazz-center-2016-music-of-miles-davis-and-original-compositions-review-by-john-kelman.php

By JOHN KELMAN

June 13, 2017

710 Views

In the thirteen years since the SFJAZZ Collective first came together in February 2004, this revolving door octet of "cream of the crop" US-based jazz musicians has, most years, followed a consistent modus operandi: select a well-known jazz (and, in two cases, beyond jazz) musician and pay tribute through innovative arrangements of his/her music, alongside a set of new original compositions—in almost every case, one each contributed by every member of the Collective.

In the ensuing years since its 2004 debut, which set an initial high bar by paying tribute to free jazz progenitor Ornette Coleman, the Collective has delivered additional homages to everyone from John Coltrane,Herbie Hancock, Thelonious Monk, Wayne Shorter and McCoy Tyner toHorace Silver, Chick Corea, Joe Henderson, Stevie Wonder andMichael Jackson.

While there are more than enough artists to keep the Collective going in perpetuity, the above list of largely iconic jazz artists is missing one obvious entry: Miles Davis. It's curious, in fact, that it took the Collective so long to get to the late trumpeter, bandleader and stylistic redefiner; but perhaps it's the particularly broad scope of Davis' career that led to the Collective holding off until it could figure out how to best cover the farthest reaches of a musician who moved effortlessly—and in just four decades, from the 1950s through early '90s—from bebop to cool jazz, from modal jazz to free bop, and from the densely electrified fusion of the 1970s through a more eminently accessible and star power-driven final chapter of pop-informed jazz.

Thirteen years may have been a long time to wait for an SFJAZZ Collective tour and album dedicated to the music of Davis, along with a host of new original compositions from the current octet, but with Live: SFJAZZ Center 2016—Music of Miles Davis & Original Compositions, it's clearly been worth the wait.

A two-disc set, with one dedicated to the Davis arrangements and the other featuring the original compositions, Music of Miles Davis manages to cover considerable Davis territory with a compelling and creative blend of reverence and reinvention. Bassist Matt Penman contributes a reshuffled look at the title track to Milestones (Columbia, 1958), while trumpeter Sean Jones creates a semi-faithful reconstruction of "So What" and pianist Edward Simon metrically rejigs "All Blues," both from Kind of Blue (Columbia, 1959). Alto saxophonistMiguel Zenon refracts "Nardis"—a composition written, but never actually performed, by Davis for then-Davis sextet altoistJulian "Cannonball" Adderley's Portrait of Cannonball (Riverside, 1958)—through a folkloric and Eastern European-tinged prism, while vibraphonistWarren Wolf contributes a hard-swinging "Joshua," first heard on the transitional Seven Steps to Heaven (Columbia, 1963), and tenor saxophonistDavid Sanchez presents a more outré yet still rhythmically propulsive look at "Teo," from Someday My Prince Will Come (Columbia, 1961). And, representing Davis' electric years, drummer Obed Calvaire deconstructs the title track to Davis' seminal fusion masterpiece Bitches Brew (Columbia, 1970), resulting in an even more open-ended take, while trombonistRobin Eubanks builds a fragment-driven and groove- heavy deconstruction of the title track to 1986's Tutu (Davis' Warner Brothers debut and first deep collaboration with bassist Marcus Miller).

This is the Collective's longest-lasting lineup—with the exception of Jones replacing Avishai Cohen, this incarnation has remained consistent since 2015'sLive: SFJAZZ Center 2014 -The Music of Joe Henderson & Original Compositions (SFJAZZ, 2015). And, while only Zenón remains from the Collective's 2004 incarnation—but with trombonist Robin Eubanks coming a relatively close second, having joined the group for its Fifth Annual Concert Tour in 2008—it's significant that the engine driving the Collective has remained stable since Live: SFJAZZ Center 2013—The Music of Chick Corea & New Compositions (SFJAZZ, 2014), with Simon, Penman and Calvaire. In many ways, it's the ideal confluence of the Collective's ongoing introduction of fresh ideas from new members and an adherence to the old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

This constant refreshing of the Collective's lineup has led to a group united in concept if not by specific sound or chemistry, though both can be found in abundance with each lineup...including thus current one. That said, if the group must be placed in a box, the term "modern mainstream" best fits: largely acoustic, with a clear reverence for the jazz tradition while, at the same time, continually introducing ideas from farther afield, often the result of each of its members' work outside the Collective (with every member a leader in his own right), and plenty of the more sophisticated harmonic and rhythmic developments that have earmarked a considerable amount of the music coming from the post-'60s generations.

In recent years the Collective has also begun introducing a little electricity into the picture, with Cohen and Eubanks' tasteful effects first heard on Live in New York Season 8—Music of Stevie Wonder (SFJAZZ, 2011). Here, while still focusing largely on acoustic piano, Simon also adds a chiming Fender Rhodes to "Bitches Brew" and midway through "Tutu," while contributing synthesizer to two originals: Calvaires's numerically driven, polyrhythmic and densely contrapuntal "111"; and Eubanks' relatively (and uncharacteristically) simple yet still far from without its challenges composition, "Shields Green."

Every Davis arrangement, every new original composition, provides plenty of solo space, though the Collective rarely resorts to straight "head-solo-head" formats, instead couching improvisational work without the context of detailed compositional forms. With only two tracks dropping below the seven- minute mark and most tracks more than comfortably breaking the eight-minute threshold, there's a plethora of opportunities for delineated soloing, in-tandem trade-offs, extemporizations bolstered by appealing, four- part horn passages, breakdowns of the Collective into smaller subsets, unfettered free play and full-on octet blowing.

There's an embarrassment of riches to be found across Live: SFJAZZ Center 2016—Music of Miles Davis & Original Compositions' 140-minute program. One of the more intriguing Davis arrangements is Calvaire's "Bitches Brew"—a reading that flirts, at the start, with Joe Zawinul's title track to the trumpeter's similarly groundbreaking record from the previous year, In a Silent Way(Columbia, 1969), before opening up to greater freedom that remains predicated on the many simple but memorable fragments that Calvaire found while researching Davis' many live versions of the tune. The drummer discovered there were no consistent theme(s) across performances and so, he chose a few and arranged around them...most notably Davis' single-note staccato shots. As the track unfolds, what becomes clear is that Calvaire has fashioned a new, more considered arrangement; one that shifts from temporally unfettered free play to a more complexly constructed collection of time-driven brass lines, snaking through the drummer's frenetic playing before a brief but impressive bass solo leads to a near-free-for-all, with only Penman holding down the rhythm as even more frenzied lines emerge, as Calvaire both mirrors their rhythms and fills with reckless abandon before the group finally coalesces with the original track's seven-note ostinato. It's an exhilarating version; one which deconstructs the original's collage construction by producer Teo Macero and reconstructs it into a new form that Davis would never have been able to conceive at the time, based on his recording approach at that juncture in his career.

Calvaire's deconstruction/reconstruction is one of the Collective's approaches to creating 21st century arrangements of timeless classics, as Zenón demonstrated in his arrangement of "Superstition," from the Stevie Wonderset. Still, that shouldn't be taken as a suggestion of predictability; if anything the Collective has demonstrated, year after year, that it has the capacity to breathe new life into well-known material, even when its approach is more literal.

Jones' arrangement of "So What," the opening track to Davis' classic Kind of Blue, may begin with a brief, tightly arranged eight-second ensemble figure before turning more literally to the original's opening bass and piano duo (faithfully transcribed) and what has become one of the most instantly recognizable call-and-response themes in jazz history. Taken at a particular fast clip, re-harmonized and gradually morphing into a newly minted theme that finally comes back to its initial section, it opens up to a fast-swinging solo section for Eubanks. As he signals the end of his solo with a quote of Davis' familiar bass line, Simon picks up the baton for an equally impressive turn: another example of how, bolstered by Penman and Calvaire's unshakable anchor, the pianist constructs motif-driven improvisations that, like Eubanks, possess a clear sense of form, even as they are predicated upon in-the-moment spontaneity.

Zenón, a recipient of both the Guggenheim Fellowship and MacArthur ("Genius Grant") Fellowships—and a writer capable of bridging the gap between knotty complexity and folkloric innocence/simplicity—delivers a characteristically challenging chart for "Nardis," a modal tune that became much better known through pianist Bill Evans' many recordings. It's also taken at an uncharacteristically bright tempo, with a combination of serpentine lines and stop/start rhythms; a revision of the original melody to include some brief Eastern-tinged tonalities; and enough freedom to allow for a thrilling series of trade-offs (over a more complex form) between Zenón and Wolf before leading to an equally electrifying solo from Calvaire and a breathtaking ensemble conclusion that seems to challenge everyone— players and audience—to keep up.

Eubanks' "Tutu" reshuffles and alters the emphases on familiar but considerably re-harmonized changes, with Simon, Penman and Calvaire's metrically challenging support anchoring a set-defining solo of staggering virtuosity from the trombonist, before the tune finally shifts to the familiar, greasy bass line, muted trumpet theme...and a more atmospheric undercurrent, as Simon switches to Fender Rhodes.

Amongst one of the best sets of new original compositions since the Collective first formed, Penman's metrically challenging "Your Turn" is as worthy of attention as any, as the bassist jokingly describes the composition, in the liner notes, as "a poorly disguised attempt at revenge for many years of hard rhythm parts thrown at me." The first two minutes is a brass chorale of the most contemporary kind, with rhythmic twists and turns, shifting harmonies and staggered interactions leading to a gradually emerging theme and, finally, an extended bass solo of captivating invention, a band reiteration of the introduction and, finally, a series of impressive solos by Zenón, Wolf (who seems to get paradoxically more muscular and lithe with every passing year) and Eubanks.

Despite being a masterful player of frightening virtuosity, Wolf's "In the Heat of the Night" is, instead, a soulful ballad, with a drum groove culled from D'Angelo's chart-topping "Untitled (How Does It Feel)" creating a gentle but groove-heavy foundation for Jones' brief, blues-drenched solo and a lengthier feature for the vibraphonist that slowly builds to a powerful climax.

Elsewhere, Jones' own "Hutcherson Hug" is another extended feature for the vibraphonist; alluding to the affectionate hugs with whom the late vibraphonist met every member of the Collective when he was in the group from 2004 through 2007, it is, indeed, a soft, warm waltz that may feature lush horn arrangements but is, more often than not, a piece that breaks down into smaller group subsets, such as during Penman's solo, where he is supported only by Simon and a brush and cymbal-driven Calvaire. That the composition is not a feature for its composer only points to another characteristic of the Collective: a generous group of musicians who must also, as described by SFJAZZ Founder and Executive Artistic Director Randall Kline, be "good people." Everybody shines, of course, but this is clearly a group with egos checked at the door.

Equally, Sánchez's chant-driven "Canto" may have originally been written for another project and substituted here for the new tune first written by the saxophonist for the tour but, filled as it is with the space and simplicity that often earmarked Davis' work, it's a perfect choice. Filled with burnished brass harmonies, a soft, hand-driven pulse and one of Sanchez's most restrained yet effective solos on record, it's a perfect personal homage to the late trumpeter.

The set closes with Simon's "Feel the Groove." A pianist often associated (as is true of some of his other band mates, most notably Zenón) with music of a more cerebral nature, the composition is driven by a repetitive vibraphone figure and irresistible, loosely played rhythm. Calvaire's combination of cajón and drum kit, a stellar solo from Zenón and then, after an ensemble interlude, Simon's most thought-provoking improvisational turn of the set makes "Feel the Groove" a perfect closer that can be taken as a salve for the soul,while, at the same time, providing plenty of compositional substance for the mind to absorb.

The beauty of SFJAZZ Collective's privately released two and sometimes three-CD sets—which contain performances of all eight arrangements and original compositions—is that while no single live performance can include all sixteen tracks, the albums always provide a sampling of a particular year's full repertoire. While there are no dates currently up on the SFJAZZ site, it suggests that the Collective is continuing to tour these imaginative re-works of Miles Davis tunes alongside the group's new original music. Who the next musician up for tribute is still to be announced, but in the meantime, the SFJAZZ Collective has finally brought the music of Miles Davis into its ever-expanding repertoire, and with Live: SFJAZZ Center 2016—Music of Miles Davis & Original Compositions, released a live document that continues to position the group at the forefront of the modern mainstream...in the broadest, most accomplished fashion possible.

Track Listing: CD1: So What; Nardis; Milestones; Tutu; Bitches Brew; All Blues; Joshua; Teo. CD2: Tribe; Canto; Your Turn; 111; In the Heat of the Night; Shields Green; Hutcherson Hug; Feel the Groove.

Personnel: Miguel Zenón: alto saxophone; David Sánchez: tenor saxophone; Sean Jones: trumpet; Robin Eubanks: trombone; Warren Wolf: vibraphone, marimba; Edward Simon: piano, Fender Rhodes (CD-#4-5), synthesizer (CD2#4-5); Matt Penman: bass; Obed Calvaire: drums.

Title: Live: SFJAZZ Center 2016 - Music of Miles Davis & Original Compositions| Year Released: 2017 | Record Label: SFJAZZ

[ciathyzareposts]

Day of the Tentacle

Although they didn’t know one another at the time, Dave Grossman and Tim Schafer both found themselves at a similar place in life in the summer of 1989: just out of university and uncertain what to do next. Both saw the same unusual advertisement in the newspaper: an advertisement for programmers who could also write. Both applied, both were shocked when they were called out to George Lucas’s beautiful Skywalker Ranch for an interview, and both were fortunate enough to be hired to work for a division of Lucas’s empire that was still known at the time as Lucasfilm Games rather than LucasArts. It was quite a stroke of luck for two innately funny and creative souls who had never before seriously considered applying their talents to game development. “If I hadn’t seen that job listing,” says Schafer, “I would have ended up a database engineer, I think.” Similar in age, background, and personality as they were, Grossman and Schafer would remain all but inseparable for the next four years.

They spent the first weeks of that time working intermittently as player testers while they also attended what their new colleagues had dubbed “SCUMM University,” a combination technical boot camp and creative proving ground for potential adventure-game designers. Schafer:

A group of us were thrown into SCUMM University, because all of the LucasArts games used SCUMM [Script Creation Utility for Maniac Mansion]. The four of us were messing around with it, writing our own dialogue. They gave us some old art to work with, so we were just writing goofy stuff and joking around, trying to make each other laugh. I think LucasArts was watching us the whole time, and they picked me and [Grossman] out and said that they liked the writing.

Grossman and Schafer were assigned to work as understudies to Ron Gilbert on the first two Monkey Island games. Here they got to hone their writing and puzzle-making chops, even as they absorbed the LucasArts philosophy of saner, fairer adventure-game design from the man most responsible for codifying and promoting it. In early 1992, shortly after the completion of Monkey Island 2, Gilbert announced that he was quitting LucasArts to start a company of his own specializing in children’s software. He left behind as a parting gift an outline of what would have been his next project had he stayed: the long-awaited, much-asked-for sequel to his very first adventure game, 1987’s Maniac Mansion. The understudies now got to step into the role of the stars; Maniac Mansion: Day of the Tentacle became Grossman and Schafer’s baby.

Times were changing quickly inside LucasArts, keeping pace with changes in the industry around them. After first conceiving of Day of the Tentacle as a floppy-disk-based game without voice acting, LucasArts’s management decided midway through its development that it should be a real technological showpiece in all respects — the first adventure game to be released simultaneously on floppy disk and CD-ROM. Along with X-Wing, the first actual Star Wars game LucasArts had ever been allowed to make, it would be one of their two really big, high-profile releases for 1993.

It was a lot of responsibility to heap on two young pairs of shoulders, but the end result  demonstrates that Grossman and Schafer had learned their craft well as understudies. Day of the Tentacle is a spectacularly good adventure game; if not the undisputed cream of the LucasArts crop, it’s certainly in the conversation for the crown of their best single game ever. It achieves what it sets out to do so thoroughly that it can be very difficult for a diligent critic like yours truly to identify any weaknesses at all that don’t sound like the pettiest of nitpicking. The graphics are as good as any ever created under the limitations of VGA; the voice acting is simply superb; the puzzle design is airtight; the writing is sharp and genuinely, consistently laugh-out-loud funny; and the whole thing is polished to a meticulous sheen seldom seen in the games of today, much less those of 1993. It’s a piece of work which makes it hard for a critic to avoid gushing like a moon-eyed fanboy, as Evan Dickens of Adventure Gamers did when that site declared it to be the best game of its genre ever made:

The 1993 CD “talkie” version of Day of the Tentacle is a perfectly flawless adventure, the rarest of rare games, that which did nothing wrong. Nothing. There is no weakness in this game, no sieve. Stop waiting for the “but” because it won’t come. This is the perfect adventure game, the one adventure that brought every aspect of great adventures together and created such an enjoyable masterpiece, it almost seems to transcend the level of computer games.

Of course, there’s no accounting for taste. If you loathe cartoons, perhaps you might not like this game. If you prefer more serious plots or more rigorously cerebral puzzles, perhaps you won’t love it. Still, it’s hard for me to imagine very many people not being charmed by its gloriously cracked introductory movie and wanting to play further.

https://www.filfre.net/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/dott.mp4

One of the few negative things I can say about Day of the Tentacle is that it’s more fun than it is truly innovative; it doesn’t break any new formal or thematic ground, being content to work entirely within a template which LucasArts and others had long since established by the point of its release. It remains at the end of the day a slapstick cartoon comedy, always the lowest-hanging fruit for an adventure-game design. Within that template, though, it executes everything so well that it’s almost annoying. This is the cartoon-comedy graphic adventure perfected, serving as the ultimate proof that much of what is sometimes forgiven or dismissed as “just the way adventure games are” is really the product of poor adventure-game design. Most of the problems that so many players consider to be intractable ones for the genre simply don’t exist here. The puzzles are goofy but always soluble, the dreaded sudden deaths and dead ends are nonexistent, and pixel hunts aren’t a problem amidst the game’s bright, clearly delineated scenes.

Day of the Tentacle‘s predecessor Maniac Mansion stood out from other adventure games in 1987, as it still does today, for allowing the player to select her own “party” of three characters, each with his or her own special skills, from a total of seven possibilities. The result was an unusual amount of replayability for the adventure-game genre; every possible combination of characters was capable of solving the game, but each would have to do so in a different way. Although this made Maniac Mansion a much more interesting game than it might otherwise have been, it was all nightmarishly complex for the game’s designer Dave Gilbert to map out. He would later state that only sheer naivete could ever have prompted him to expose himself to such pain — and, indeed, his first statement after finishing the game was, “I’m never doing anything like that again!” He held to that resolution throughout the rest of his time at LucasArts; his 1990 game The Secret of Monkey Island was at least as good as Maniac Mansion, but it owed its goodness to its writing, humor, art direction, and puzzle design, not to a similar formal ambition.

Against Gilbert’s advice, Grossman and Schafer first envisioned Day of the Tentacle operating along the same lines as Maniac Mansion, with another group of a half-dozen or so kids from which to choose a team. But the escalating cost of art and sound in the multimedia age played as big a role in nixing those plans as did the additional design complications; the two soon settled for giving the player control of a fixed group of three characters — which, they didn’t hesitate to point out, was still two more than most adventure games.

As this anecdote illustrates, Day of the Tentacle was never overly concerned with aping the details of its predecessor. Certainly if you play it without having played Maniac Mansion before, you’ll hardly be lost. Grossman:

We really couldn’t imitate the style of the original in the way you normally would with a sequel. Too much time had passed and the state of the art was radically different. We stopped thinking of it as a sequel almost immediately and just did our own thing, slathering our own personalities on top of that of Maniac Mansion.

Grossman and Schafer did reuse those elements of the earlier game that amused them most: the mad scientist Doctor Fred and his equally insane wife and son; the rambling old mansion where they all live; a memorable gag involving a hamster and a microwave; a pair of wise-cracking sentient tentacles, one of whom became the centerpiece of their plot and provided their sequel with its name. But of the kids the player got to control in Maniac Mansion, only Bernard, the über-nerd of the bunch, shows up again here. (Not coincidentally, Bernard had always been the favorite of the original game’s players, perhaps because of his range of unusual technical skills, perhaps because — if we’re being totally honest here — he was the teenage archetype who most resembled the typical young player.) Notably, Dave, the oddly bland default protagonist of the earlier game — he’s the only one you have to take with you, even though he’s the dullest of the lot — doesn’t show up at all here. In the place of Dave and the other kids, Grossman and Schafer augmented Bernard with two new creations of their own: a bro-dude “MegaBreth” roadie named Hoagie and a terminally nervous medical student named Laverne.

The story here does follow up on that of Maniac Mansion, but, once again, it doesn’t really matter whether you realize it or not. Five years after his previous adventure, Bernard receives a plea for help from Green Tentacle, informing him that Purple Tentacle has drunk some toxic sludge, which has instilled in him superhuman (supertentacle?) intelligence and a burning desire to enslave the world. Now, Doctor Fred has decided to deal with the problem by killing both tentacles; this is an obviously problematic plan from Green Tentacle’s perspective. Bernard convinces his two reluctant pals Hoagie and Laverne to head out to Doctor Fred’s mansion and stage an intervention. In attempting to do so, they unwittingly help Purple Tentacle to escape, and he sets out to take over the world. And so, just like that, we’re off to save the world.

It doesn’t take Day of the Tentacle long to introduce its secret puzzling weapon: time travel. Doctor Fred, you see, just happens to have some time machines handy; known as “Chron-O-Johns,” they’re made from outdoor port-a-potties. With his plan for summary tentacle execution having failed, he hatches an alternative plan: to send the kids one day back in time, where they’ll prevent Purple Tentacle from ever drinking the toxic waste in the first place. But the time machines turn out to work about as well as most of Doctor Fred’s inventions. One sends Hoagie back 200 years instead of one day into the past, where he finds Ben Franklin and other Founding Fathers in the midst of writing the American Constitution in what will someday become Doctor Fred’s mansion; another sends Laverne 200 years into the future, when Purple Tentacle has in fact taken over the world and the mansion is serving as the dictatorial palace for him, his tentacle minions, and their human slaves; and the last time machine leaves Bernard right where (when?) he started.

You can switch between the kids at any time, and many of the more elaborate puzzles require you to make changes in one time to pave the way for solving them in another. In some instances, the kids can “flush” objects through time to one another using the Chron-O-John. On other occasions, a kid must find a way to hide objects inside the mansion, to be collected by another kid two or four centuries further down the time stream. “It was really fun to think about the effects of large amounts of time on things like wine bottles and sweaters in dryers,” remembers Grossman, “and to imagine how altering fundamentals of history like the Constitution and the flag could be used to accomplish petty, selfish goals like the acquisition of a vacuum and a tentacle costume.” Of course, just like in Maniac Mansion, it doesn’t pay to question how the kids are communicating their intentions to one another over such gulfs. Just go with it! This is, after all, a cartoon adventure.

Hoagie’s part of the plot coincidentally shares a setting and to some extent a tone with another clever and funny time-traveling adventure game that was released in 1993: Sierra’s Pepper’s Adventures in TIme. Both games even feature a cartoon Ben Franklin in important roles. Yet it must be said that LucasArts’s effort is even sharper and funnier, its wit and gameplay polished to a fine sheen, with none of the wooliness that tends to cling even to Sierra’s best games. The inability to die or get yourself irrevocably stuck means that you’re free to just enjoy the ride — free, for instance, to choose the funniest line of dialog in any conversation without hesitation, safe in the knowledge that you’ll be able to do it over again if it all goes horribly wrong. “The player is never, ever punished for doing something funny,” wrote Charles Ardai, the best writer ever to work for Computer Gaming World magazine, in his typically perceptive review of the game. “Doing funny things is the whole point of Day of the Tentacle.”

Although Grossman and Schafer were and are bright, funny guys, their game’s sparkle didn’t come from its designers’ innate brilliance alone. By 1993, LucasArts had claimed Infocom’s old place as makers of the most consistently excellent adventure games you could buy. And as with the Infocom of old, their games’ quality was largely down to a commitment to process, including a willingness to work through the hard, unfun aspects of game development which so many of their peers tended to neglect. Throughout the development of Day of the Tentacle, Grossman and Schafer hosted periodic “pizza orgies,” first for LucasArts’s in-house employees, later for people they quite literally nabbed off the street. They watched these people play their game — always a humbling and useful experience for any designer — and solicited as much feedback thereafter as their guinea pigs could be convinced to give. Which parts of the game were most fun? Which parts were less fun? Which puzzles felt too trivial? Which puzzles felt too hard? They asked their focus groups what they had tried to do that hadn’t worked, and made sure to code in responses to these actions. As Bob Bates, another superb adventure-game designer, put it to me recently, most of what the player tries to do in an adventure game is wrong in terms of advancing her toward victory. A game’s handling of these situations — the elses in the “if, then, else” model of game logic — can make or break it. It can spell the difference between a lively, “juicy” game that feels engaging and interesting and a stubbornly inscrutable blank wall — the sort of game that tells you things don’t work but never tells you why. And of course these else scenarios are a great place to embed subtle hints as to the correct course of action.

Indeed, Grossman and Schafer continually asked themselves the same question in the context of every single puzzle in the game: “How is the player supposed to figure this out?” Grossman:

That [question] has stuck with me as a hallmark of good versus bad adventure-game design. Lots of people design games that make the designer seem clever — or they’re doing it to make themselves feel clever. They’ve forgotten that they’re in the entertainment business. The player should be involved in this thing too. We always went to great lengths to make sure all the information was in there. At these “pizza orgies,” one of the things we were always looking for was, are people getting stuck? And why?

The use of three different characters in three completely different environments also helps the game to avoid that sensation every adventurer dreads: that of being absolutely stuck, unable to jog anything lose because of one stubborn roadblock of a puzzle. If a puzzle stumps you in Day of the Tentacle, there’s almost always another one to go work on instead while the old one is relegated to the brain’s background processing, as it were.

And yet, as in everything, there is a balance to strike here as well: gating in adventure design is an art in itself. Grossman:

We were very focused on making things non-linear, but what we weren’t thinking about was that it’s possible to take that too far. Then you get a paralysis of choice. There’s kind of a sweet spot in the middle between the player being lost because they have too much to do and the player feeling railroaded because you’re telling them what to do. People don’t like either of those extremes very much, but somewhere in the middle, it’s like, “I’ve got enough stuff to think about, and I’m accomplishing some things, and I’ve got some new challenges.” That’s the right spot.

Day of the Tentacle nails this particular sweet spot, as it does so many others. It could never have done so absent extensive testing and — just as importantly — an open-mindedness on the part of its designers about what the testers were saying. It’s due to a lack of these two things that the adventure games of LucasArts’s rivals tended to go off the rails more often than not.

In addition to the superb puzzle design, Day of the Tentacle looks and sounds great — even today, even in its non-remastered version. The graphics are not only technically excellent but also evince an aesthetic sophistication rare in games of this era. The art department was greatly inspired by the classic Warner Bros. cartoons of Chuck Jones — Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Wile. E. Coyote and the Road Runner, etc. One day near the beginning of the project, the entire team made a field trip to sit at the feet of the 80-year-old Jones for a day and absorb some of his wisdom. Warner Bros. cartoons were always more visually skewed, more manic, and more deviously subversive than the straighter, more wholesome reels of Disney, and both the visuals and writing in Day of the Tentacle consciously mimic their style. Just as in the cartoons, there isn’t a straight line or right angle to be seen anywhere in the game. Everything, right down to the font in which text is printed, is bent, leaning, crooked, a fun-house world viewed through a fish-eye lens.

The art team, the unsung heroes of Day of the Tentacle. Standing from left to right are Lela Dowling, Sean Turner, Larry Ahern, and Peter Chan. Kneeling in front are Jesse Clark and Purple Tentacle. One additional artist, Kyle Balda, wasn’t present for this photograph.

Peter Chan, one of the artists on the team, notes that Grossman and Schafer “really trusted us and just let us go to town with what we believed would look best. If anybody on the art team had a good idea or suggestion, it was considered.” Here’s Schafer, speaking in an interview at the time of the game’s release, and obviously somewhat in awe himself at what LucasArts’s animators have come up with:

The kids have all kinds of grimaces and gestures and facial twists and contortions while they’re talking. They smile and their mouths open bigger than their heads and their tongues can hang out. They don’t just stand there. They blink, tap their feet, sigh, and even scratch their butts.

As soon as a character appears, you laugh, and that’s really important. You stare at the main characters for about thirty hours when you play the game, so they’d better be entertaining. With Bernard, as soon as you see him walking around for the first time, before he even says or does anything, you laugh. He walks goofy, he talks goofy, he’s even entertaining when he stands still. Walking Hoagie around is like piloting a blimp through a china shop, and Laverne is fun just to walk around because she seems to have a mind of her own — like she might do something dangerous at any moment.

The sound effects are drawn from the same well of classic animation. LucasArts actually bought many of them from a “major cartoon house,” resulting in all of the good old “boings” and “ka-pows” you might expect.

Tamlynn Bara in the production booth at Studio 222.

And the voice acting too is strikingly good. LucasArts was better equipped than almost any of the other game studios to adapt to the brave new world of CD-ROM audio, thanks to the connections which went along with being a subsidiary of a major film-production company. The actors’ dialog, totaling more than 4500 lines in all, was recorded at Hollywood’s Studio 222 under the supervision of a LucasArts associate producer named Tamlynn Barra. Although still in her twenties at the time, she had previously worked with many stage and video productions. She was thus experienced enough to recognize and find ways to counteract the most fundamental challenge of recording voice work for a computer game: the fact that the actors are expected to voice their lines alone in a production box, with no other actors to play off of and, too often, little notion of the real nature of the scene being voiced. “Getting the actors into character is very difficult,” she acknowledged. “Half the studio [time] is spent cueing up the actor for the scene.” And yet the fact that she knew she had to do this cueing was in a way half the battle. In contrast to many other computer-game productions — even those featuring a stellar cast of experienced actors, such as Interplay’s two contemporaneous Star Trek adventures — Day of the Tentacle has an auditory liveliness to it. It rarely feels as if the actor is merely reading lines off a page in a sound-proof booth, even if that’s exactly what she’s doing in reality.

Jane Jacobs, who voiced the Irish maid found inside the present-day mansion, performs before the microphone.

Unsurprisingly given LucasArts’s connections, the voice actors, while not household names, were seasoned professionals who arrived with their union cards in hand. The most recognizable among them was Richard Sanders, best known for playing the lovable but inept newscaster Les Nessman on the classic television sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati. During their initial discussions with Barra, Grossman and Schafer had actually suggested Les as the specific role model for Bernard, whereupon Barra made inquiries and found that Sanders was in fact available. He really was a perfect fit for Bernard; the character was “a bit of a stretch” for him, he said with a wink, because he was used to playing “more manly sorts of roles.”

Barra found the other voice talent using a process typical of television and radio productions but not so much of computer games: she sent sketches and descriptions of the characters out to Hollywood agents, who called their clients in to record audition tapes of their impressions. Then she and the rest of the development team chose their favorites. Many another game studio, by contrast, was recruiting its voice talent from its secretarial pool.

All of it led to an end result that feels today like it’s come unstuck from the time which spawned it. Certainly my own feeling upon firing up Day of the Tentacle for the first time in preparation for this article was that I had crossed some threshold into modernity after living in the ancient past for all of the years I’d previously been writing this blog. This impression is undoubtedly aided by the way that LucasArts steered clear of the approaches that generally date a game indelibly to the mid-1990s. Just to name the most obvious dubious trend they managed to resist: there are no digitized images of real actors shoehorned into this game via once cutting-edge, now aesthetically disastrous full-motion-video sequences.

Yet the impression of modernity encompasses more than the game’s audiovisual qualities; it really does encompass the sum total of the experience of playing it. The interface too just works the way a modern player would expect it to; no need to pick up a manual here to figure out how to play, even if you’ve never played an adventure game before. (The sole exception to this rule is the save system, which still requires you to know to press the F5 key in order to access it. On the other hand, keeping it hidden away does allow the game to avoid cluttering up its carefully honed aesthetic impression with a big old disk icon or the like.) Polish is a difficult quality to quantify, but I nevertheless feel fairly confident in calling Day of the Tentacle the most polished computer game made up to its release date of mid-1993. It looks and feels like a professional media production in every way.

The most telling sign in Day of the Tentacle of how far computer gaming had come in a very short time is found on an in-game computer in the present-day mansion. There you’ll find a complete and fully functional version of the original Maniac Mansion in all its blocky, pixelated, bobble-headed glory. This game within a game was inspired by an off-hand comment which Grossman and Schafer had heard Ron Gilbert make during the Monkey Island 2 project: that the entirety of Maniac Mansion had been smaller than some of the individual animation sequences in this, LucasArts’s latest game. Placed in such direct proximity to its progeny, Maniac Mansion did indeed look “downright primitive,” wrote Charles Ardai in his review of Day of the Tentacle. “Only nostalgia or curiosity will permit today’s gamers to suffer through what was once state-of-the-art but is by today’s standards crude.” And yet it had only been six years…

Ardai concluded his review by writing that “it may not hold up for fifty years, like the cartoons that inspired it, but I expect that this game will keep entertaining people for quite some time to come.” And it’s here that I must beg to differ with his otherwise perceptive review. From the perspective of today, halfway already to the game’s 50th anniversary, Day of the Tentacle still holds up perfectly well as one of the finest examples ever of the subtle art of the adventure game. I see no reason why that should change in the next quarter-century and beyond.

(Sources: Computer Gaming World of July 1993 and September 1993; LucasArts’s newsletter The Adventurer of Fall 1992 and Spring 1993; Play of April 2005; Retro Gamer 22 and 81; Video Games and Computer Entertainment of July 1993. Online sources include Dev Game Club podcast 19; Celia Pearce’s conversation with Tim Schafer for Game Studies; 1Up‘s interview with Tim Schafer; The Dig Museum‘s interview with Dave Grossman; Adventure Gamers‘s interview with Dave Grossman.

A remastered version of Day of the Tentacle is available for purchase on GOG.com.)

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/day-of-the-tentacle/

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New Post has been published on http://www.buildercar.com/2017-lincoln-continental-reserve-vs-1940-lincoln-zephyr-continental-cabriolet/

2017 Lincoln Continental Reserve vs. 1940 Lincoln-Zephyr Continental Cabriolet

Sitting alongside the leaf-strewn footsteps of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Palmer House, the 1940 Lincoln Continental soaks in this moment of belonging. More than 75 years have rolled past since Wright proclaimed Edsel Ford’s pet project “the most beautiful car ever designed.” Yet, in the shadow of one of Wright’s homes, the car still pulls his world-famous ideals of style and form clearly into the present.

A 2017 Lincoln Continental, parked next to one of the architect’s trademark carports, looks somewhat uncomfortable in this otherwise harmonious continuum. Where the 1940 Continental is brassy and exuberant, today’s David Woodhouse-designed car is subtle and reserved. Gone is the split-wing grille Lincoln tried to resurrect on more recent sedans, replaced by a squared-off, Bentley-like nose. The ruby-red sedan’s short overhangs and otherwise orderly appearance stand in stark contrast against the original Continental’s sweeping, confident lines. Palmer House’s sprawling geometric layout, boldly integrated into the knoll-dotted landscape of suburban Ann Arbor, Michigan, certainly seems a more fitting home for the old car than the new.

But those who have ever visited a Frank Lloyd Wright building, be it a large-scale structure like the Guggenheim Museum in New York or a more intimate home such as Fallingwater outside of Pittsburgh, know that the experience of a Wright design is what makes it special. Lincoln points to an experience of “quiet luxury” as a guiding philosophy behind the development of the 2017 Continental, one that echoes Wright’s own views on automotive design as well as architectural design. “The car is architecture,” said Wright. “I am interested in buildings, in the quiet beauty of environment.” Perhaps by spending a few nights in Palmer House with both Continentals on hand, we’ll be able to make out the invisible strings that tie the car and architecture together.

“Complete mobilization of our American people is one natural asset of the machine, fast approaching.”

Wright, who bought both a 1940 Continental cabriolet as well as a ’41 coupe in his signature Cherokee Red paint, was one of the original Continental’s most high-profile owners. (He idiosyncratically redesigned his cabrio’s rear section after a dramatic crash.) Big names like Rita Hayworth, Babe Ruth, Jackie Cooper, and fellow designer Raymond Loewy were also among the early adopters. (Now there’s just Matthew McConaughey.) These magnates of the early 1940s were all drawn to the Continental’s undeniable presence and style.

Based on a modified Lincoln-Zephyr body with a design penned by E.T. “Bob” Gregorie, the prototype for the first Continental was built originally as a one-off, European-style cabriolet for the aging Edsel Ford’s personal use. Edsel’s friends, however, quickly started clamoring for one of their own after seeing it strut around his Florida vacation home in 1939.

Art Deco design and a hand-built interior still dazzle after all these years. Every moment behind the wheel of the 1940 Lincoln-Zephyr is like a night at the opera.

The 1940 Lincoln-Zephyr Continental was 3 inches lower than the Lincoln-Zephyr, with a hood that was 7 inches longer and featured unique cues ranging from the hood ornament to the instrument panel, dials, and gauges. Mechanically, it relied on the Zephyr’s 4.8-liter flathead V-12, which made 120 horsepower and 220 lb-ft of torque directed to the rear wheels using a column-shifted three-speed manual transmission. Lincoln built just 25 units in 1939, with 400 following the next year. By 1941 the car would simply become known as the Lincoln Continental and continue as its own model line. Lincoln had struggled to keep pace with its competition at the time, and the niche Continental became a critical halo for the brand, one with hand-built elegance and luxurious character that defined the nameplate for decades to come.

While best known for his love of the Continental, Wright’s appreciation for and fascination with the automobile was broad reaching and career defining. He was born in 1867, and by the early 1900s his architectural career was blossoming in parallel with the auto industry’s growth. Many of his clients were weal-thy progressives with the means to buy a car, and his designs can now be seen as artifacts of the automobile’s arrival and integration into American society.

Chicago’s famous Robie House of 1909 features one of the earliest documented uses of an attached garage, and Wright’s own Oak Park home incorporated a gas pump into the garage. Later designs for car dealerships, gas stations, and even the parking structure-style ramp of the Guggenheim show how deeply the automobile influenced Wright’s view of the American architectural landscape. For much of his later life he bet so heavily on the automobile’s proliferation that in the 1930s he devised ambitious plans for the so-called Broadacre City, an urban concept centered on people owning cars.

“Complete mobilization of our American people is one natural asset of the machine, fast approaching,” said Wright in 1943. “As a consequence of the motor car … the horizon of the individual has immeasurably widened. … If he has the means to go, he goes. And he has his means: the car.”

Wright had been exercising those means himself as early as 1909, menacing his Oak Park neighborhood with regular top-speed runs in his first car, a yellow Stoddard-Dayton roadster that could hit 60 mph. His love affair with the automobile was so deep-seated that his own son suspected that its promise of freedom inspired Wright to leave his family for Germany in 1909 to have a real-life affair with another woman. While he would eventually return to the States, his obsession with the car was far from over, amassing a collection that included a Cadillac, a Packard, two Dodges, a Ford, a Phaeton, a Cord, and a Knox Roadster.

The carport (a term Wright coined) would remain a frequent player in his designs over the years, as it does in Palmer House, finished in 1952. Palmer House is one of his so-called Usonian homes, which is what he dubbed his approach to the affordable and utilitarian design ethos of American homes in the years after World War II, when houses were being quickly and cheaply built for returning soldiers. Wright wanted to show that good design could be simple and practical while maintaining a personal, human, and organic aesthetic.

Like most Wright houses, Palmer House isn’t without quirks. Chairs that tip forward and oddly shaped beds are, after all, part of the experience.

That sense of warmth and welcoming so essential to Wright’s homes starts with the driveway. Palmer House itself is hidden from view until you pull up the snaking path toward its carport. Park on the terra-cotta-colored concrete slab and follow it to a series of gentle steps, leading you past a pair of brick walls that guide you to the front door. Upon entering you notice the concrete floor continues seamlessly through the glass entryway, smoothing the transition between interior and exterior space. The sensation is again reflected in floor-to-ceiling living room windows along the back wall, which during the day serve up a living wallpaper of sunlight, birds, and forest.

Look around and you’ll find the house doesn’t contain a single right angle, giving it a very natural sort of harmony compared to the harsh regularity of most interiors. The house’s basic motif is the equilateral triangle, appearing everywhere from the floor to the built-in furniture to the origami crane-shaped interior windows that invite natural light throughout the house. Oil-finished cypress is used on the walls and ceiling. As unique and complex as it all feels initially, you warm quickly to its clever delineations of space and intended use. The kitchen is almost entirely separated from the central living space and its gigantic fireplace with a wall; a narrow hallway lined with books takes you to the bedrooms and study, intentionally offset from the more open, social part of the house.

Each room is designed with practicality in mind as well as thoughtful consideration for the people that lived there, providing a special and unmistakably personal touch. “Human use and comfort should not be taxed to pay dividends on any designer’s idiosyncracy,” said Wright. Original owners Mary and Billy Palmer agreed, and the sensation was not lost on their granddaughter: “There was so much to be discovered everywhere. Every single room held a little surprise. … Nothing about it was normal, nothing was conventional … the different angles and the different furniture.”

“The sensibilities change over time, but the Continental is rooted in a real American-ness, a certain exuberance.”

When you step outside and approach the 2017 Lincoln Continental, the car’s similarly human-centric virtues start to take shape. A sequence of LEDs flows from the lower fascia to the headlights, while the taillights glow like neon through a tube. An illuminated welcome mat appears by the front doors, projecting the Lincoln logo as the interior softly lights up. Gimmicky? Absolutely. Effective? You bet. At the end of a long day, there is something satisfying and endearing about the Continental inviting you to relax and take a drive.

Helping smooth the transition from exterior to interior are the Continental’s new electronic-latch door handles, neatly integrated into the beltline. A light press is all it takes for the doors to quietly pop open, and a power-cinch system takes care of closing with a friendly electronic thrum. Once inside, flip on the massage function included with Lincoln’s optional 30-way “Perfect Position” seats; for long road trips you’ll love the individual thigh adjustments, which stave off nasty leg cramps. The standard leather and open-pore wood trim are handsome, enjoyed best in the cavernous back seat. A full-length panoramic sunroof helps dissolve the separation between cabin and sky.

In the mind of Lincoln design chief David Woodhouse, the Continental through the ages has always been a reflection of the zeitgeist of its time. “The sensibilities change over time, but the Continental is rooted in a real American-ness, a certain exuberance,” he notes. He points to the brightwork—a brassy tone for the 1940 car’s interior compared to generous chrome on the new Continental—as an expression of how an American flagship should set itself apart from German luxury.

Whether it’s the old car or the new, the Continental’s personality is bolstered by a sense of length and substance. “We actually had photos of Wright’s Fallingwater hanging all around the design studio,” Woodhouse continues. “Both in architecture and automobiles, there’s something in the American psyche about the horizon, about life in widescreen.”

On the road, the Continental is exactly the kind of cruiser Wright would have relished on his frequent journeys between Taliesin East in Spring Green, Wisconsin, and Taliesin West in Scottsdale, Arizona. Like the 1940 car, it’s comfortable and composed at speed and is unconcerned with brute performance, despite its top-spec, 400-horsepower, twin-turbo 3.0-liter V-6. Only the overly boosted electric steering distances you from the calm fluidity of the Continental driving experience. But with a warm personal approach distinct from its rivals, the new Continental should meet the needs and tastes of its intended clientele, many of whom are in China as well as in the United States.

More so than any Lincoln available, the Continental wrests free from the clutches of Ford badge engineering.

Would Wright, who died in 1959 at the age of 91, love the 2017 Lincoln Continental? On the surface probably not, owing to his famous vanity and flamboyant tastes. The modern sedan would most likely be too plain and unoriginal for him. After all, his affection for the 1940 Continental had quite a bit to do with what being seen in one represented. If he drove the new car, though, we bet he’d be impressed.

Either way, Wright’s legacy as bannerman for and an avid enthusiast of the automobile live on. His predictions that the automobile would become more integrated and connected with everyday life came true, likely beyond his wildest imagination. As for Lincoln and its new Continental flagship? These next few years will tell us whether the world thinks of Lincoln as any old house or a place to call home.

1940 Lincoln-Zephyr Continental Cabriolet Specifications

On Sale: Now Price When New: $2,840 Engine: 4.8L SV 24-valve V-12/120 hp @ 3,500 rpm, 220 lb-ft @ 2,000 rpm Transmission: 8-speed automatic Layout: 2-door, 4-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA: N/A L x W x H: 209.8 x 73.4 x 62.0 in Wheelbase: 125.0 in Weight: 3,615 lb 0-60 MPH: N/A Top Speed: N/A

2017 Lincoln Continental Reserve Specifications

On Sale: Now Price: $56,840/$75,320 (base/as tested) Engine: 3.0L twin-turbo DOHC 24-valve V-6/400 hp @ 5,750 rpm, 400 lb-ft @ 2,750 rpm Transmission: 6-speed automatic Layout:  4-door, 5-passenger, front-engine, AWD sedan EPA: 16/24 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H: 201.4 x 82.3 x 58.5 in Wheelbase: 117.9 in Weight: 4,547 lb 0-60 MPH: 5.4 sec Top Speed: N/A

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