#pinter deserves his share of blame

[cantsayidont]

SLEUTH (1972): Inventive, deliciously sardonic thriller, adapted by Anthony Shaffer from his stage play and starring Sir Laurence Olivier as wealthy, snobbish mystery writer Andrew Wyke and Michael Caine as Milo Tindle, an Anglo-Italian hairdresser who is having an affair with Wyke's wife. Wyke invites Milo to his country estate to offer him an unusual proposition, which turns into a far more sinister game.

Ably directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz (his last feature), it often feels like an elongated COLUMBO episode: a playfully acidic, class-conscious game of cat and mouse centered on an arrogant aristocratic prick who's confident that he's clever enough to get away with murder. To say more than that would be spoiling things.

The film's chief weakness is its extreme length — 138 minutes — but even if you find yourself getting a bit restless, it remains many orders of magnitude better than the appalling 2007 remake by Kenneth Branagh. The remake features a typically fine performance by Caine (this time as Wyke), but Jude Law is badly out of his depth as Milo, and it's made almost unendurable by Branagh's exhaustingly heavy-handed direction, singularly off-putting production design, and a dreadful Harold Pinter script that retains precisely none of the 1972 film's sublime dialogue. The 2007 version is much shorter, at just 88 minutes, but Pinter guts the story so severely that it barely makes sense unless you're familiar with the earlier version, and it's mean in all the wrong ways. (It's viciously homophobic, too.)

CONTAINS LESBIANS? This would first require the story to have female characters. VERDICT: The 1972 version is marvelous, especially if you're a COLUMBO fan, but you may long for an intermission. The 2007 version is an indefensible cinematic atrocity from which only Caine emerges with any honor intact; in a more just world, it would have ended Branagh and Pinter's careers.

[bellesque]

EEP! I’ve been waiting for reqs to open since I syarted following you a few weeks ago! HOORAY! How about a one-shot where Tom is nervous about his first show of Betrayal but his gf helps him and supports him through it? And maybe they can celebrate after the show with some fluff and smut? Gracias and happy b-day 😄

Opening Night

(Tom Hiddleston x Reader)

Read on my AO3.

Summary:

Tom’s a little nervous about Betrayal’s opening night, and as his girlfriend, you’re more than happy to help him through it - and celebrate with him at the end.

Rating: Mature (wow a first, not E)

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings/Tags: FLUFF, Pillow Talk, Smut, Tom Hiddleston yes he gets his own warning

A/N: The theatre enthusiast in me will always be a little sad that I never got to see this show but hey that’s what fanfiction is for right? Enjoy! (and again in case people get confused my birthday was a WHILE ago hehe)

TOM’S RUNNING LATE.

Not that you’re worried. Or that you blame him. From what your boyfriend’s told you, tech week has been significantly stressful and hectic. As Betrayal’s opening night inches closer, Tom has been all kinds of all over the place as of late.

It’s heartwarming to see him put so much love and effort into the production. Just as he does in every other aspect of his life.

You check the wall clock in the kitchen, wondering if it’s a better idea to leave dinner out on the table or keep it for the meantime. You know he’ll be hungry when he gets home, and you don’t exactly want to serve him cold chicken. You send him a quick text asking where he is, and hear his text notification from outside the door.

It opens with a quiet click, and Tom grins at you as he steps inside. “Just arrived,” he says, holding up his phone. “Sorry, darling, we were running late tonight. There were a few points we really needed to get right.” He gives you a chaste peck on the lips and then another on your forehead.

“I figured.” You head back into the kitchen and take out two plates as Tom makes for the bedroom. “Rehearsal was okay?”

“Alright,” he calls. “We hit a few snags with the sound, but that’s what tech week is for, isn’t it?” He’s pulling on a white shirt when he steps into the kitchen with you. As you set his place at the table, he wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Come shower with me,” he whispers.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach and you can’t help the giddy smile that spreads across your lips. You giggle as he presses a kiss to the base of your neck. Just when you’re about to turn around, his stomach rumbles loudly, and you laugh at his sheepish expression. “Someone’s hungry,” you tease.

Tom gets a teasing glint in his eye. “For—”

“Some chicken, I hope,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. Tom laughs, that adorable peal with his eyes crinkling and his tongue poking out between his teeth.

After dinner and clean-up, you and Tom take a shower—together, as he so kindly asked. Once you settle in your pajamas, the pair of you climb into bed.

You expect him to fall asleep right away; after all, it’s been a long day for him. So it surprises you when he falls back against his pillows, wiping a hand down his face and sighing.

You know that sigh. It’s the one that comes out when his mind is running a mile a minute. When he’s got a lot of thoughts, but somehow nothing to say. You study his face and you prop yourself on your side, your head resting on your elbows. “Hey.”

Tom glances at you. “Hi, darling.” He smiles briefly.

A pause. You reach out and pluck his hand that fiddles with his beard away from his face. “Penny for your thoughts, mister?”

He laces your fingers together and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, brushing them against your knuckles. “Just about the show,” he answers, resting your hand on the spot above his heart.

The steady beat of it doesn’t fool you, though. It’s not unlike him to try and brush off his nerves, make it seem like it’s no big deal so that it doesn’t worry you. “You know you can talk to me,” you say gently. “Safe space. Always. We can share the burden, Tom.”

He sighs, his thumb drawing circles over your hand. “Opening nights are always… you know, the critics will be there, you don’t know how the audience will react, generally speaking. You can only guess how people will like it. If people will like it.”

“They will,” you reassure him.

“I hope so.” He exhales again. “There’s also the concern of whether or not they’ll be able to follow it, if we’ve presented it in a clear way.”

“I’m sure everyone knows it’s in reverse chronological order.”

Tom glances at you with a reminiscent grin on his face. “Remember when we watched The Last Five Years?”

You give him a playful shove. “That’s different. You’re telling two stories in reverse order from each other.”

“Not as different as you might think.”

You hum. “Well, it’s very likely people who are coming to the show have a good idea of what to expect. Done their research and all that. And hey, that’s not your problem, right? If they don’t get it. You’re there to perform, to bring Robert to life.”

“Darling, you know—ah, but that’s actually another thing, see. Robert. His character. You know with Pinter, there’s a lot said in the unsaid. Got to make sure the pauses, silences, it all has to speak without speaking. If the tone isn’t right, even in those pauses, the integrity of the scene is, well, in a way, compromised. There’s not much to go on, so it’s a big job for the actor. Everything needs to have that emotional weight. Purposeful, you know? Even if it’s Charlie and Zawe’s scene. Can’t lose that emotional momentum, or else those big impactful moments don’t land right. Er—darling?”

You’ve gone quiet beside him, letting him speak so freely from the heart. Seeing his passion, the depth of his thought for this role, fills you with admiration and affection. “I’m listening,” you promise, at the same time he says, “I should stop talking about it.”

“No!” You tighten your grip on his hand. Tom squeezes back. “No, please, I love that you can share this with me. I love hearing you talk about theatre like this. I do,” you reassure, laughing goodnaturedly at his half-skeptical face. “I’m glad you’re talking to me about it. Things are always less daunting after you say them out loud.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” His eyes are soft when they’re locked on yours. He shifts, lying on his side to face you, and you lay your head back down against your pillow, arm tucked under your chin. “You do know how to cure a man’s stage fright.”

“You? Stage fright?” He chuckles when you wrinkle your nose. “Impossible.”

“More likely than you think, love.”

You shift forward to kiss him sweetly; just a short one, you think, only he deepens it and pulls you closer by the nape of your neck. You pull away slightly breathless, see Tom’s eyes scanning every inch of your face, and you stroke his cheek. “Okay. Bedtime. Tech week isn’t over, in case you forgot.”

Tom groans as he rolls onto his back, and you pat his pectoral. “Absolutely grueling,” he mutters.

“You’ll be fine, big booty.”

Tom twists to face you, hand sliding over your waist. “Now if you say it like that, I don’t think sleep is in the cards for the both of us—”

“Sleep.”

 --

“Hey. You’ve got this, okay?”

You cup a hand around your boyfriend’s jaw, tiptoeing to reach up and plant a kiss on the opposite cheek. “You’re ready. You’re gonna do great.”

He takes your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist. “Meet me at the stage door?”

“As your number one fan amongst your many other number one fans,” you grin. “Now go. Do your thing. Break a leg, big booty.”

Tom leans down to plant a real kiss on your lips. “I love you,” he murmurs when he pulls away. “I don’t know where I’d be without you, darling.”

“Backstage doing pre-show ritual things, now go!”

Giving him a gentle push and with his pleasant, uplifting laughter ringing in your ears, you watch Tom disappear into the theatre.

You’re so proud of him. Always have been, always will be. Everything you’ve said to him, every encouragement, affirmation—you meant it every single time. He’s talented at the same time extremely grounded, and he deserves to be reminded of his capabilities when he’s unable to remind himself.

You take your seat, Playbill in hand, and after a few idle minutes of scanning its contents and watching people file into the theatre, the lights dim and the curtain rises.

All throughout the performance, you watch in rapt attention. Only after the show is over and curtain call starts do you realize your brows have been knit the entire time. Tom takes his bow with a splitting grin on his face, and a few tears spring to your eyes. You’re so proud of him and the cast. The success of the night. Opening night. You cheer.

When you go out to stage door, you don’t come up front; instead you hang back, a little ways away from the crowd, and watch as the cast wave, sign Playbills, and take photos. You love seeing Tom in his element. Riding the silent high of a great performance.

His eyes scan the crowd until they land on you, and there’s an unmistakable twinkle in those baby blues. You light up, giving him a wide grin and a thumbs up, and he smiles back at you.

A private smile that seems to say, We’ll celebrate later.

 --

Dinner with the cast and crew is nice. Zawe and Charlie are welcoming and warm, and it’s not awkward for you to hang back and observe while Tom floats from circle to circle like a social butterfly.

But every so often, he casts a burning, wanting look your way.

No one else notices. No one else can see the clandestine and seductive I want you he says so loudly with his eyes. It’s reserved for you, and only you—and a thrill shoots down your spine.

You’ll have him later. Right now, you want him to bask in his moment to kick off Betrayal’s run right.

But damn, the way he looks at you weakens your resolve bit by bit.

He’s posing for a photo with his cast mates, and after the camera clicks Tom politely excuses himself and makes his way towards you.

“There’s my lady.” He kisses you on both cheeks. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” you respond. He’s always been subtle with his emotions, but to you, it’s clear as day how excited and elated he is. “But you should get back.”

“Come with me,” he says, keeping your hand in his.

“I couldn’t—it’s your night—”

“And I’m celebrating it with the woman I love together with everyone else here. Ah, Peter—”

Tom moves to shake a crew member’s hand, tugging you along by your intertwined fingers. He doesn’t let go of you the rest of the night. Instead you find yourself linked at his side. When you occasionally pull away his hand rests on the small of your back. You’re a part of his world; he actively makes sure of it.

“Are you coming to the after party?” a portly woman asks the pair of you.

You look at Tom in confusion—isn’t this the after party?—but he gives her an apologetic smile. “I’ve got plans with this one.” He raises your entwined hands.

You’re not exactly comfortable keeping him from the festivities when he should be a part of it, so you open your mouth to protest. “Tom—”

The woman chuckles, cutting you off. “Must be nice to be in love, hmm? See you tomorrow then!”

You poke his side. “Why’d you say no to the after party?”

“There’s only one after party I want to attend.” He leans in conspiratorially. “And there’s only one woman I want in attendance.”

He pulls away, eyes darkening at your flushed cheeks. He glances at your lips. “Do you want to come?”

And like a switch, your dirty brain turns on.

“When?”

“Now.”

You and Tom rush through your goodbyes as respectfully and as fast as two aroused humans possibly can. After a few more photos and a couple final victory hugs, you and he are finally on the way home.

Part of you expects that as soon as the front door closes, you’d get straight to it, kissing and groping like your lives depended on it. You’re ushered in first, and Tom quietly closes the door behind him.

And you both stand there.

“What a night, huh?” you say as you shuck off your coat. Bundling it up in your arms, you beam at him. “Happy opening, love.”

He strides towards you, and when he reaches you his hands run up and down your bare shoulders. “Thank you. Truly, darling. For always believing in me. Supporting me. Loving me. I mean it when I say I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

And then he’s kissing you. Delicately, slowly, like he has all the time to explore your mouth. The coat in your arms falls to the floor as your fingers find their way into his hair. The heat that once simmered underneath the surface begins to bubble and boil, your kisses becoming more frantic.

He trails his lips down your neck, and then he’s planting a line of kisses around your jaw. You manage to find your lost voice and gasp out, “Bedroom?”

He lifts you up and you squeal in surprise, his large hand cupping your butt. He lays you on the bed with a strong sort of tenderness and his mouth closes over yours again. The feel of his hard length against your stomach has you all types of flustered, and you sloppily try to take off his sweater.

Tom takes over, peeling off his clothing and sliding down the straps of your camisole. You sigh when you feel his mouth over your nipple, giving a tug at his hair that makes him growl. As soon as you’re both naked, bared to each other, he slides a hand between your legs, slipping a finger into you with ease.

“You don’t know how hard it was for me to control myself,” he husks, hitting a spot inside you that makes you inhale sharply. “All I wanted to do was bring you home, party be damned.”

“Tom,” you sigh, eyelids fluttering as you fold around him. “Well, we—hah—we’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, kissing your throat, “the perfect celebration. Oh, darling, I love you.”

Your hand somehow finds its way down and you begin stroking him. Both your hips move into each other’s hands in sync, breathing becoming labored, as he whispers against your neck and your fingers tangle in his hair. His fingers find your clit and you moan.

You wanted to be patient, draw this out—but you can’t. You need him. To feel him fill you, your every space and secret corner.

You guide Tom into you. Your pace is slow, controlled and measured, until you begin the crescendo to release. Tom kisses you fiercely, his hands roaming every inch of your skin, as he pounds into you until your bodies meld as one.

He thrusts a few more times, hard and purposeful, and you explode in shattering release.

He follows soon after, one hand braced above you, his eyes shut as he chases after his own pleasure. You rock your hips against his, coaxing, and them he cums with a shuddering breath.

There are no words that can articulate your adoration and affection for this man looming above you, his face slack with the pleasure of release, so you attempt to convey it with a searing kiss. He responds with equal fervor, his hands brushing your hair as you both come down from your high.

Moments later, you’re curled up at his side, slightly panting but entirely satisfied. Tom’s fingertips trail over your spine absently, pressing his nose into your hair from time to time.

“I am,” you start to say, breaking the comfortable silence, “so proud of you. You were great tonight. Everyone loved it.”

“Thank you, love. For your undying fidelity,” he says, switching his voice to the familiar antihero you love. You laugh against him, sitting up.

“The night is still young, you know.”

He strokes your arm. “Is it?” he teases.

“Mmhmm.” You swing a leg over him, your lips latching onto his throat before you whisper, “If you think the afterparty’s over, you’re wrong, my love—we’re just getting started.”