#reede imperial

[sunset-peril]

I decided to be funny and make this

Based on this, and also this

Also a good visual for Link and Reede's scene in the first link.

[muffinlevelchicanery]

[cokiemace]

[mummer]

God the fucking punchline made it all so perfect. just crazy, crazy good. Messy messy messy MESSY season which didnt all work but: lol. lmao. And sally. Oh, my darling sally....... Main character sally

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[herpsandbirds]

Hi, could I mayhaps request your top ten funkiest/coolest/most interesting looking beetles? :]

10 Beetle is asking a lot... but I do love beetles...

Rainbow Weevil (Pachyrrhynchus congestus pavonius), family Curculionidae, SE Asia

photograph by Javier Rupérez

Rainbow Scarab (Phanaeus vindex), male, family Scarabaeidae, Pennsylvania, USA

a species of “true dung beetle”.

photograph by Michael Reed

Imperial Tortoise Beetle (Stolas imperialis), family Chrysomelidae, found in the Amazon and Atlantic Forests of Brazil

photograph by Sergio Monteiro Nature Photography

Purple Flower Beetle (Chlorocala africana oertzeni), EAT A TASTY BANANA!!!, family Scarabaeidae, found in Tanzania

Other subspecies are green.

photograph by Richard Nakamura (@richards_inverts)

Giant Flower Beetles (Genus Mecynorhina), family Scarabaeidae, from various parts of tropical Africa

M. savegei

M. torquata

M. polyphemus

M. obertheri

photograph by Ennis Fei (@ennisanna_fei)

Cloaked Warty Leaf Beetle (Chlamisus sp.), family Chrysomelidae, Curitiba, PR, Brasil

photograph by Sergio Monteiro

Great Diving Beetle (Dytiscus marginalis), male, family Dytiscidae, eastern Europe

photograph by Jan Hamrsky

[astrid-goes-for-a-spin]

something I do not understand is when we’re rightly complaining about Brian Reed’s Ms. Marvel run, why do we never mention the fucked up Monica Rambeau LMD stuff? Even in that run it stands out in its misogyny and disgust 

[specialagentartemis]

godddddd i have disliked becky chambers' work since long way to a small angry planet and I agree that that fish scene is SO much of what is wrong with contemporary SFF especially queer SFF. refreshing take, great review, thank you. would love to hear what authors or works you think of as the antidote to that sensibility.

The thing is, I enjoyed The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet when I first read it - it was a fun, light adventure, clearly a debut novel but I was excited to see where Chambers would go from there. And I actually really do think the sequel, A Closed and Common Orbit, was good! It did interesting things with AI personhood and identity.

... and then Chambers just kinda. Did not get better. She settled into a groove and has a set number of ideas that I feel like she hasn't broken out of, creatively. And they I M O kind of rest on an assumption that "human nature" = "how people act in suburban California."

As an antidote to that sensibility, I'd say... books where people have a real interrelationship with the land they inhabit, a sense of being present, and reciprocal obligations to that land; books that recognize that some things can never be taken back once done; books with well-drawn characters, where people have strong opinions deeply informed by their circumstances, that can't always be easily reconciled with others, and won't be brushed aside; books where these character choices matter, they impact each other, they cannot be easily gotten over, because people have obligations to each other and not-acting is a choice too.

And it's only fair that after all day of being a Hater I should rec some books I really did like.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke - A man lives alone in an infinite House, over an equally infinite ocean. Captures the feeling that I think Monk & Robot was aiming for. Breathtaking beauty, wonder at the world, philosophy of truth, all that good stuff, and actually sticks the landing. The main character's love, attention, and care to his fantasy environment shows through in every page. (Fantasy, short novel)

Imperial Radch by Ann Leckie - An AI, the one fragment remaining of a destroyed imperial spaceship, is on a quest for revenge. Leckie gets cultural differences and multiculturalism, and conversely, what the imposition of a homogeneous culture in the name of unity means. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

Machineries of Empire by Yoon Ha Lee - An army captain's insubordination is punished by giving her a near-impossible mission: to take down a rebelling, heretical sect holing up in a space fortress and defying imperial power. She gets a long dead brain-ghost of a notorious criminal downloaded into her head to help. Very, very good at making you feel like every doomed soldier was a person with a past, with a family, with feelings, with hopes and dreams and frustrations and favorites and preferences and reasons to live, right before they brutally die in a space war. Also very much about the imposition of homogeneity of culture as a force of imperialism. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

The Fortunate Fall by Cameron Reed - Maya Andreyevna is a VR journalist in high-tech dystopian future Russia, and she decides to investigate the truth that the government doesn't want her to. She might die trying. It's fine. Also has digital brain-sharing, this time in a gay way. It's bleak. It's sad. It feels real. Not making a choice is a choice. Backing out is a choice. And choices have consequences. Choices reverberate through history. About responsibility. (Cyberpunk, novel)

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez - Nia Imani is a spaceship captain, a woman out of time, a woman running from her past, and accidentally adopts a boy who has a strange power that could change the galaxy. Spaceship crew-as-found-family in the most heartbreaking of ways. Also about choices, how the choices you make and refuse to make shape you and shape the world around you. How the world is always changing around you, how the world does not stay still when you're gone, and when you come back you're the same but the world has moved on around you. About how relationships aren't always forever, and that doesn't mean they weren't important. About responsibility to others. It's a slow, sad book and does not let anyone rest on their laurels, ever. There is no end of history here. Everything is always changing, on large scales and small, and leaving you behind. (Space sci-fi, novel)

Dungeon Meshi / Delicious in Dungeon by Ryoko Kui - A D&D style fantasy dungeon crawl that stops to think deeply about why there are so many dungeons full of monsters and treasure just hanging around. Here because it's an example of an author thinking through her worldbuilding a lot, and it mattering. Also because of the characters' respect for the animals they are are killing and eating, their lives and their place in the ecosystem, and the ways that humans both fuck up ecosystems with extraction and tourism, but also the ways that you can have reciprocal relationships of responsibility and care with the ecosystem you live in, even if it's considered a dangerous one. (Fantasy, manga series)

Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang and How Long 'Til Black Future Month by N. K. Jemisin and Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel by Julian K. Jarboe - Short story anthologies that were SO good and SO weird and rewired the way I think. If you want the kind of stuff that is like, the opposite of easy-to-digest feel-good pap, these short stories will get into your brain and make you consider stuff and look at the world from new angles. Most of them aren't particularly upbeat, but there's a lot of variety in the moods.

"Homecoming is Just Another Word for the Sublimation of the Self," "Calf Cleaving in the Benthic Black," and "Termination Stories for the Cyberpunk Dystopia Protagonist" by Isabel J. Kim - Short stories, sci-fi mostly, that twist around in my head and make me think. Kim is very good at that. Also about choices and not-making-choices, about going and staying, about taking the easy route or the hard one, about controlling the narrative.

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells - Security robot with guns in its arms hacks itself free from its oppressive company, mostly wants to half-ass its job but gets sucked into drama, intrigue, and caring against its better judgement. This is on here because 1) I love it 2) I feel like it does for me what cozy sff so frequently fails to do - it makes me feel seen and comforted. It's hopeful and compassionate and about personal growth and finding community and finding one's place in the world, without brushing aside all problems or acting like "everybody effortlessly just gets along" is a meaningful proposal. also 3) because it is one of the few times I have yet seen characters from a hippie, pacifistic, eco-friendly, welcoming, utopian society actually act like people. The humans from Preservation are friendly, helpful, and motivated by truth and justice and compassion, because they come from a friendly, just, compassionate society, and they still actually act like real human beings with different personalities and conflicting opinions and poor reactions to stress and anger and frustration and fear and the whole range of human emotions rather than bland niceness. Also 4) I love it (space sci-fi, novella series mostly)

[serpentface]

Four culturally significant aquatic birds in Imperial Wardin- the skimmer gull, the albatross, the reed duck, and the hespaean.

The skimmer gull is a small seabird, distinguished by bright red beaks and a single, trailing tail plume. These are sacred and beloved animals with a long history of symbiosis with local fishers. They will intentionally attract the attention of fishermen, bringing them to shoals of fish that are too deep below the surface for the birds to reach. They then will snatch fish fleeing or caught in the nets, and will often be directly fed by their human assistants in an act of gratitude. They benefit tremendously from their sacred status and a taboo against killing or harming them, and can become absolute food-stealing menaces in seaside towns and cities.

The albatross is a seasonal visitor to the region, with this population migrating to small rocky islands in the White Sea to breed. The specific species occurring in this region is on the smaller side, and has a pale pink beak and soft orange legs. Albatrosses are common characters in regional animal folktales (usually as foolish, romantic types), and sometimes appear in tales as shapeshifters, usually turning into young women who have tumultuous affairs with lonely sailors.

Skimmer gulls and albatross are the most sacred animals of Pelennaumache, the face of God which looks upon the ocean, the winds, storms, maritime trade, fisheries, and broader concepts of luck and the infliction and deflection of curses. Killing either of these birds is considered to bring about disastrous bad luck (unless in the context of a proper sacrifice, most commonly in rites to bless ships and/or sailors with good winds and against ill fortune). The eggs of skimmer-gulls are free game and considered delicacies, while the preciousness of the albatross' single egg clutch is recognized and their consumption is generally discouraged (this isn't to say it doesn't happen).

Feathers of rightly sacrificed albatross and skimmer gulls are minor holy relics (ESPECIALLY gull tail plumes), and considered to be the ultimate good luck charm. The fortuitous find of a shed feather can also impart good luck and can be very valuable (the birds are sometimes poached for their feathers, though fears of the consequences are enough that this poaching is limited in scope). You will often see wealthier people wearing the feathers in hats and headdress, and any seafaring vessel worth its salt should have at least one aboard.

Both birds are evoked in the apotropaic Skimmer-Woman motif (in practice it generally has albatross characteristics, though is sometimes depicted with the tail plume of the gull).

The hespaean is a very unusual bird with two distinct species native to the region, one found exclusively in the western Black river system and its estuaries, and one found in the eastern Brilla and Kannethod river systems. They have very small pointed teeth in their bills, a trait virtually unknown outside of the flightless, beakless classes of birds (most prominently qilik). Their wings are vestigial and virtually nonexistent (with only two bony spurs remaining). These birds are almost exclusively aquatic and do not normally emerge onto land (they cannot walk upright at all, and must push themselves on their bellies). The legs of the Black river hespean develop blue pigmentation from their diet (the brighter the blue, the better fed and healthier the bird), which are waved above the surface during elaborate courtship displays. Both species are known for their haunting, warbling cries (very much like a loon, but more of a howling noise that develops into a shrill warble).

Hespaean build their nests in dense beds of reeds or small, vegetation-heavy river islands that provide some protection from predators. They raise their young during the height of the dry season (when more nesting surfaces are available and they can feed their young with more concentrated fish populations), which is an image of hope and resiliency during harsh dry times and the promise of the river's eventual bounty.

It is known that hespaean used to be caught as chicks and raised to help people catch fish (with ropes around their necks to prevent them from swallowing their catch). This practice is now very rare in the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere (mostly still practiced by the Wogan people along the Kannethod river, to whom these birds are also venerated animals) and has been largely replaced with the import of domesticated cormorants from the Lowlands to the southeast (which are more easily trained and can Usually be trusted not to attempt to swallow their catch).

These birds require large rivers that flow year round and have healthy, dense fish stocks. The population is in decline and they are now relatively rare, largely due to development and overfishing around rivers (and on a much larger timescale, the region becoming drier and water levels more irregular, and their competition with more versatile freshwater tiviit).

The reed duck is a migratory freshwater duck whose coming heralds the beginning of the wet season. They come to mate along rivers and wetlands during the final stretches of the dry season, timing their eggs to hatch with the rise in water levels and growth of the vegetation and insects they feed on. They have striking red-brown and gray plumage and very little sexual dimorphism (though the male is somewhat brighter in color and the flesh around the bill turns bright red during the breeding season).

Reed ducks are not domesticated, but some populations are semi-tamed and encouraged to return to certain sites to breed (the riverside temple to Anaemache in Ephennos attracts a massive flock of the ducks every wet season, continually blessing it with their presence and coating its grounds in droppings), and these stocks are the primary source of sacrificial ducks and coveted shed feathers.

Hespaean and reed ducks are the most sacred animals of Anaemache, the Face of God which looks upon freshwater (particularly rivers), rains, seasonal flooding, fertile earth/seasonal fertility, and wild plant life.

The hespaean is representative of Anaemache as the River Itself and the river as a provider of fish. This association comes down to their all-seasons presence in the rivers, and their population density being a signal of a healthy, well-flowing river with good fish stocks. Lands adjacent to hespean territory is often the most reliable and bountiful for human subsistence.

The reed duck in particular is the most venerated sacred animal of Anaemache, as representatives of Anaemache as a Face of seasonal fertility. Its coming announces the return of the rains and seasonal flooding that the region's agriculture relies on, and their cycle of fertility closely matches the cycles of the rivers and that of the earth itself (with their new life emerging with rains, flooding, and new vegetation in the wet season). There is no prohibition on hunting reed ducks (though proper rites and respect are expected for a sacred animal), and their meat and eggs is said to support female fertility and a healthy pregnancy.

[ltwilliammowett]

The Mast

One of the most important elements of a ship are the masts, because this is where the sails are attached that serve to propel the ship.

History

The oldest evidence for the use of one solid masts comes from the Ubaid site H3 in Kuwait, which dates back to the second half of the sixth millennium BC. There, a clay disc was recovered from a sherd that appears to depict a reed boat with two masts.

A painted clay disc with a diameter of 6.5 cm from site H3 with a design reminiscent of a boat with two masts, second half of the sixth millennium BC

In the West, the concept of a vessel with more than one mast to increase speed under sail and improve sailing characteristics developed in the northern waters of the Mediterranean: the earliest foremast was identified on an Etruscan pyxis from Caere (Italy) from the middle of the 7th century BC: A warship with a furled mainsail attacks an enemy ship and sets a foresail. An Etruscan tomb painting from the period between 475 and 450 BC depicts a two-masted merchant ship with a large foresail on a slightly inclined foremast.

Tomb of the Ship, mid-5th century BC

An artemon (Greek for foresail), which is almost as large as the main sail of the galley, is found on a Corinthian krater as early as the late 6th century BC; otherwise, Greek longships are uniformly depicted without this sail until the 4th century BC. In the East, ancient Indian kingdoms such as the Kalinga are thought to have been built in the 2nd century BC. One of the earliest documented evidence of Indian sail construction is the mural of a three-masted ship in the caves of Ajanta, which is dated to 400-500 AD.

This Ajanta mural depicts an ancient Indian ship with high stem and stern and three oblong sails attached to three masts. Steering-oars can also be seen. Location: Cave No. 2, Ajanta Caves, Aurangabad District, Maharashtra state, India, 400-500 AD

The foremast was used quite frequently on Roman galleys, where, tilted at a 45° angle, it was more like a bowsprit, and the scaled-down foresail attached to it was apparently used as a steering aid rather than for propulsion. While most ancient evidence is iconographic in nature, the existence of foremasts can also be inferred archaeologically from slots in the foremast feet, which were too close to the bow for a mainsail.

Fragment of mosaic depicting "navis tesseraria", a messenger and police boat of the African fleet, 2nd century AD

The artemon, together with the mainsail and the topsail, developed into the standard rigging of seagoing vessels in the Imperial period, which was supplemented by a mizzen on the largest cargo ships. The first recorded three-masters were the huge Syracusia, a prestigious object commissioned by King Hiero II of Syracuse and developed by the polymath Archimedes around 240 BC, as well as other Syracusan merchant ships of the time. The imperial grain freighters that travelled on the routes between Alexandria and Rome also included three-masted ships. A mosaic in Ostia (around 200 AD) shows a freighter with a three-masted rig entering the harbour of Rome. Specialised ships could carry many more masts: Theophrastus (Hist. Plant. 5.8.2) reports that the Romans brought in Corsican timber on a huge raft propelled by up to fifty masts and sails.

Throughout antiquity, both the foresail and the mizzen were secondary in terms of sail size, although they were large enough to require full rigging. In late antiquity, the foremast lost most of its tilt and stood almost upright on some ships.

By the beginning of the early Middle Ages, rigging in Mediterranean shipping had changed fundamentally: The spars, which had long since developed on smaller Greco-Roman ships, replaced the square sail, the most important type of sail in antiquity, which had virtually disappeared from the records by the fourteenth century (while remaining predominant in northern Europe). The dromon, the rowed bireme of the Byzantine fleet, almost certainly had two masts, a larger foremast and one amidships. Their length is estimated at 12 metres and 8 metres respectively, somewhat less than that of the Sicilian war galleys of the time.

Multi-masted sailing ships were reintroduced to the Mediterranean in the late Middle Ages. Large ships became more common and the need for additional masts to steer these ships appropriately grew with the increase in tonnage. Unlike in antiquity, the mizzen mast was introduced on medieval two-masted ships earlier than the foremast, a process that can be traced back to the mid-14th century based on visual material from Venice and Barcelona. To equalise the sail plan, the next obvious step was the addition of a mast in front of the main mast, which first appears in a Catalan ink drawing from 1409. With the establishment of the three-masted ship, propelled by square sails and battens and steered by the pivot-and-piston rudder, all the advanced ship technology required for the great transoceanic voyages was in place by the early 15th century.

In the 16th century, the cross-section of the masts was made up of several pieces of wood and held together with ropes and iron rings.

A lower mast with sections from 1773 to 1800

In order to achieve a greater height, the lower mast is extended, so that a total length of up to 60 metres can be achieved, measured from the keel. From lowest to highest, these were called: lower, top, topgallant, and royal masts. Giving the lower sections sufficient thickness necessitated building them up from separate pieces of wood. Such a section was known as a made mast, as opposed to sections formed from single pieces of timber, which were known as pole masts.

This is a section of HMS Victory's main mast

The forces of the sails on the mast construction are transferred to the hull construction by standing and running rigging, forwards and aft (stern) by stays, and laterally by shrouds or guys. In order to enable sailors to climb up into the rigging, which is particularly necessary for the operation of square riggers, rat lines are knotted into the shrouds like rungs of a ladder. The upper end of a ship's mast is called the masthead.

Mounting

The mast either stands in the mast track on the keel and is passed through the deck or it stands directly on deck. In the first case, the opening must be neatly sealed with a mast collar, otherwise water will penetrate into the living quarters. If the mast is on deck, it must be supported from below on the keel so that the loads do not bend the deck. Practically every sailing ship therefore has a more or less visible vertical support through the cabin.

Masts are usually supported by the standing rigging. The shrouds pull the mast downwards with several times its own weight and thus prevent it from tipping over.

Traditionally, when a sailing ship is built, one or more coins are placed under the mast as a lucky charm (according to my theory, the coins were also used as money to pay Charon the ferryman in the underworld if the ship sank); this custom is still practised today. Just as a horseshoe was nailed to the mast to bring good luck.

Mast types

For square-sail carrying ships, masts in their standard names in bow to stern (front to back) order, are:

Sprit topmast: a small mast set on the end of the bowsprit (discontinued after the early 18th century); not usually counted as a mast, however, when identifying a ship as "two-masted" or "three-masted"

Fore-mast: the mast nearest the bow, or the mast forward of the main-mast. As it is the furthest afore, it may be rigged to the bowsprit. Sections: fore-mast lower, fore topmast, fore topgallant mast

Main-mast: the tallest mast, usually located near the center of the ship Sections: main-mast lower, main topmast, main topgallant mast, royal mast (if fitted)

Mizzen-mast: the aft-most mast. Typically shorter than the fore-mast. Sections: mizzen-mast lower, mizzen topmast, mizzen topgallant mast

Some names given to masts in ships carrying other types of rig (where the naming is less standardised) are:

Bonaventure mizzen: the fourth mast on larger 16th-century galleons, typically lateen-rigged and shorter than the main mizzen.

Jigger-mast: typically, where it is the shortest, the aftmost mast on vessels with more than three masts. Sections: jigger-mast lower, jigger topmast, jigger topgallant mast

When a vessel has two masts, as a general rule, the main mast is the one setting the largest sail. Therefore, in a brig, the forward mast is the foremast and the after mast is the mainmast. In a schooner with two masts, even if the masts are of the same height, the after one usually carries a larger sail (because a longer boom can be used), so the after mast is the mainmast. This contrasts with a ketch or a yawl, where the after mast, and its principal sail, is clearly the smaller of the two, so the terminology is (from forward) mainmast and mizzen. (In a yawl, the term "jigger" is occasionally used for the aftermast.)

Some two-masted luggers have a fore-mast and a mizzen-mast – there is no main-mast. This is because these traditional types used to have three masts, but it was found convenient to dispense with the main-mast and carry larger sails on the remaining masts. This gave more working room, particularly on fishing vessels.

Cock, John. A treatise on mast-making , 1840.

Fincham, John. A Treatise on Masting Ships and Mast Making , 1854. Kipping, Robert. Rudimentary treatise on masting, mast-making, and rigging of ships , 1864.

Steel, David The Elements and Practice of Rigging, Seamanship, and Naval Tactics, Including Sail Making, Mast Making, and Gunnery , 1821.

Steel, David. Steel's Elements Of Mast-making, Sail-making and Rigging , 1794.

Layton, Cyril Walter Thomas, Peter Clissold, and A. G. W. Miller. Dictionary of nautical words and terms. Brown, Son & Ferguson, 1973.

Harland, John. Seamanship in the Age of Sail,1992

Marquardt, Karl Heinz, Bemastung und Takelung von Schiffen des 18. Jahrhunderts, 1986

[yatagarasuhonyaku]

The Raven of the Empty Coffin: Prologue

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation japanese-english of the original novel. The events of this novel follow after what's already covered by the anime. For an easier understanding, I recommend first reading the few scenes of previous books I've already translated.

Blog version

⊛　　　　　⊛　　　　　 ⊛

As the outer(1) books say: you shall know of the unbending reed in a gale, learn of the perennial tree in the heavy frost, and observe the great mountain in the storm.

Understand the strength of the grass that will not bend when the gale blows, of the tree that will not yield even when the frost falls, of the mountain that will not collapse when the storm rages.

In a peaceful land, many are those whose loyalty is no more than empty words; and few are the ones who act to prove their fealty in times of upheaval. It is only in troubled times when those truly loyal first become apparent.

Hence, I shall concede this place the name of Unbending Reed Monastery, as it is to become the place of learning for those in possession of genuine loyalty.

“The Golden Raven(2) Bestowing Unbending Reed Monastery Its Name”, from “Chronicles of the Temples of Yamauchi”

Prologue

“Hey, have you heard? It sounds like an unbelievable ‘monster’ is joining us this year.”

The rumors first reached him in the morning, the very same day the new trainees were scheduled to arrive.

“What do you mean by ‘monster’?”

“As in someone strong?”

Faced with the questions of a skeptical breakfast-eating crowd, the rumormonger answered. “That much I can’t say, but he seems to be the son of a very distinguished family. He outranks everyone here at the Monastery for sure.”

Oh, no wonder then, was the immediate general consensus. Nobody around the haphazardly placed four-legged trays, filled with an assortment of food, seemed to question it any further.

“I was thinking that the people from the Center seemed weirdly nervous lately. So that was the reason, huh.”

“Well, if they mess things up, they're going to lose all their privileges to the newcomer.”

“Eh, not like they need to mess anything up for that, you know? There’s no way they’ll be able to push people around anymore, not like they did before at least.” After all, they didn't have any talent whatsoever beyond their social status. Assuming a student with a higher rank did actually arrive, it would force them into paying court to him instead. 

“Ridiculous,” Ichiryuu spat out in a low voice, in quite the contrast to his fellow students’ excitement. He had been listening with great interest at first, curious about this ‘unbelievable monster’, but in the end it was all complete rubbish. 

“What's wrong, Ichiryuu?” One of his friends, who had somehow heard him complain, turned to him and asked.

Ichiryuu made a show out of snorting.

“As far as we know, the only thing he has going for him is his rank. To call someone like that a ‘monster’? It makes me laugh. We are warriors,” he added, a frown on his face as he looked around the room, “no matter how high your birth, it means nothing if you lack the skill with a sword. We really should leave the ‘monster’ talk for when we see his performance at the dojo.”

The Unbending Reed Monastery, the institution Ichiryuu and the others belonged to, was the training facility for the Yamauchi Guard: the organization in charge of protecting the Imperial Family. 

The role of commanding the country and leading the Yatagarasu fell on the Golden Raven, who took residence in Central Mountain and the Imperial Court built inside of it, and protecting the Mountain and its surroundings from any harm was the job of the Feather Grove Heavenly Hosts(3).

Meanwhile, the Yamauchi Guard’s one and only job was to keep the Imperial Family—the Golden Raven's relatives—safe. Furthermore, while the Feather Grove had a Great General at the top, the Yamauchi Guard only took direct orders from the Imperial Family members they personally served.

The Guard was an elite organization; its warriors’ skill was leagues above the rest. As the position did of course come with matching privileges, it was stipulated that all members had to overcome the harsh training of the Unbending Reed Monastery. Your social status did not matter, only talent was required— at least in theory. A long time had passed since the last time that had actually been true.

Ichiryuu's words were born out of frustration towards his fellow trainees’ obsession with bloodlines. The other trainees, however, looked at him as if he had just grown three heads.

“What’s up with him? Did he eat something bad from the ground?”

“No, no, you got it wrong. He wants to be the cool senior, you see, so he's putting on airs already.”

“Just let him be,” people concluded in whispers, just loud enough for Ichiryuu to hear it all.

“You little—” Ichiryuu moved as if to stand up, but he was cut short by the rumormonger, who had just raised both his arms.

“Now, now, calm down, Ichiryuu. I wouldn't call someone a monster either just because they have high status. I have another good reason,” he said with a knowing smile. “Apparently, this newcomer was Wakamiya's close aide before this.”

“Wakamiya's close aide!?”

“Wait, is that true?”

“Now that's amazing!”

The trainees, their eyes wide open, started a ruckus. Wakamiya was the title of the Crown Prince, referring to the man that would one day shoulder all of Yamauchi. To be his close aide was a near guarantee to become one of the next Golven Raven's trusted vassals and hence seize power in the Imperial Court in the future. There was no mistaking it: this ‘monster' had one of the brightest futures possible for all Yatagarasu already promised to him.

“...... But, isn't that weird? He could have just joined the Imperial Court directly, why bother to come to the Monastery of all places?” someone said, skeptical.

Ichiryuu found himself frowning. As the Imperial Court stood at the moment, the On'i System was there to guarantee a rank fitting to their birthright for any noble. If Wakamiya had grown fond of someone with a low enough status then, yes, it would make some sense to send him to the Monastery so he could get a promotion through official means. However, this rumored ‘monster’ was supposed to be from the high nobility.

“Apparently, His Highness said that using the On'i System would be a waste of his talents, or something like that.”

“Really? It’s not like there’s any guarantee he'll even manage to graduate from the Monastery.”

The trainees, who knew better than anyone how brutal training at the Unbending Reed Monastery was, all exchanged glances at once.

“Well, there’s no way for us to know right now. No matter how talented they say he is, that's just by the standards of a Central Noble, am I wrong?”

“But, if the rumors are true and he has both the physical strength and the status, then that's truly a total monster.”

“Whatever, we should be fine as long as he isn't some snotty ass brat.”

While Ichiryuu's fellow trainees were all busy discussing the news animatedly, he stayed silent, too busy ruminating on the information he had just been given. The young son of an important noble family, and Wakamiya's close aide. He could have been given a high rank at the Court with no effort whatsoever, yet he still chose to come to Unbending Reed Monastery. Plus, he was young enough to join in the first place.

With a soft thump, the face of a certain boy came to mind.

——No. It couldn't be him, right?

After a moment, Ichiryuu shook his head. It was impossible. He made a point to take that image, that devious smile hiding under an airheaded facade, off his mind. After all, that guy had said so, hadn't he? That there was no way he was attending the Monastery, that he had no plans to enter the Imperial Court. It was the exact reason Ichiryuu had chosen to become a trainee.

As if to shake off the terrible feeling that had just overcome him, Ichiryuu scarfed down the white rice that remained in his bowl.

After breakfast, his entire group went to the dojo. Spring Break was yet to end, so morning training wasn't mandatory. And so, after a few light drills between those who had come on their own, they all set off to the nearby watering hole to clean off their sweat.

Then, at that precise moment—

“Hey, a newcomer has already arrived!” A fellow trainee, who had gone slightly ahead of the rest, called to them. Ichiryuu's group raised their voices in excitement.

“He sure is fast.”

“Is he truly a newcomer?”

“Most likely yes, and he's coming by flying carriage.”

A mode of transportation only available to the high nobility, it was kept in the air by huge horses. This had to be it. The so-called ‘monster’ that had everyone talking in the morning. Upon this realization, the group started to rush over there. Ichiryuu was in less of a hurry, still incapable of shaking off that bad feeling about the ‘monster'. His steps were heavy as he took his time with each one.

By the time he, the very last one to arrive, finally caught up with the rest, his friends were all crammed behind the azalea bushes, getting a look at their junior.

“I see. He arrived early to move all his furniture.”

“Look at that, he’s bringing so much luggage. I only brought a wrapping cloth worth of stuff with me.”

“And look where he's going too, isn't that the newest dormitory room?”

“The instructors must have gone out of their way to keep him happy.”

As his friends kept on with the half-mocking, half-joking remarks, Ichiryuu was busy thinking. As far as he knew, the person he thought of as the potential ‘monster’ was not the kind to enjoy luxury. Yet, still with fear in his heart, Ichiryuu took a look over the others’ shoulders at the teenager in question.

He first saw his back, his shoulder raised all high and mighty under the cherry blossoms in full bloom. His outfit shined impressively under the sunlight: it was a deep red, covered in white embroidery.

The servants kept on carrying his luggage, but the boy didn't move: he simply stood there imposingly. Instead, he gave them instructions with his folding fan, dyed into a light purple gradient with gold leaf speckles all over. His hair was a glossy reddish brown and neatly brushed.

The boy then turned around to talk with the servants, and Ichiryuu finally caught sight of his face. He was handsome, more than anyone he had ever seen before. His skin was the color of newly blossomed white peonies under dusk, his big eyes shone like reflections on a pond, and his face was soft like that of a woman. The boy was not only beautiful, but also had clear charisma. He was the kind that drew people in naturally, overflowing with pride and confidence.

If one of those poets from the Court had been here, his beauty would have called for a poem or two.

Not like any of that mattered to Ichiryuu, who was too busy experiencing relief. The so-called ‘close aide’ standing there wasn't that guy. Thank goodness, it wasn't him! The second he realized, his mood immediately lifted as if it had never dropped in the first place. 

“What a face.”

“Well, nobles only take beauties as concubines, you see.”

“Dammit, wouldn’t it be nice if he fell on his face or something.”

Meanwhile, his friends were still watching the boy and whispering to each other. In stark contrast to them, however, Ichiryuu left the place behind with the lightest of hearts.

Once he had cleaned himself, Ichiryuu went on to his newly assigned dormitory room in the second building, tenth room. It would be his castle for the following year.

The trainees at Unbending Reed Monastery had to overcome three trials, one per year, through their education there. There was a proverb preserved in ancient documents that said as such: ‘you shall know of the unbending reed in a gale, learn of the perennial tree in the heavy frost, and observe the great mountain in the storm.’

It’s when the gales blow that the sturdy grass proves itself. The trees too prove their resilience by surviving the harsh frost, and so it's in times of genuine struggle that the truly strong become clear. The monastery based its trials on it, and thus they were referred to as the Trial of Gale, the Trial of Frost, and the Trial of Storm.

During their first year, trainees were referred to as Seeds(4), as they still had yet to even germinate. It was once they passed the Trial of Gale at the end of the year that they transitioned to Saplings. The Trial of Frost awaited them a year later, and those who managed to pass it would reach their last year and become Evergreens.

Although plenty of seeds sprout, few get to become fully grown trees. In this manner, very few trainees ever became Evergreens. On top of that, those Evergreens also had to overcome the harshest of the tests, the Trial of Storm, and get good enough results to even qualify for the Yamauchi Guard.

Of the three trainee categories, only Evergreens had their own individual rooms. Seeds and Saplings had to share one single tiny room in groups of three. In most cases, this meant one Sapling and two Seeds, with the Sapling in charge of the room, overseeing his juniors, and mentoring them about the fundamentals of life at the Monastery.

For the Seeds, this was a massive problem.

About half of the Seeds resigned every year without ever becoming Saplings and, while a part of the reason was the brutality of the Trial of Gale, social dynamics were often the actual cause. Ichiryuu considered himself fortunate in that regard, but even he struggled with it. To become a Sapling and not have to worry about the seniors’ mood had been a relief, and he was also looking forward to having juniors.

Being told he was ‘playing up the cool senior’ may have pissed him off, but thinking about it, there was some truth to it. Very soon, it would be time for his juniors to arrive in their shared room.

His nerves were fried, but in an attempt to look a bit more imposing to the newcomers, he chose to sit behind the desk at the back of the room. Finally, the surroundings became more lively, and he soon started to hear the rumble of anxiously chattering boys from the nearby rooms. Just as he was thinking about it, he sensed someone standing in front of the door.

“Excuse me, but is the senior of the tenth room already in the room?” someone said with a clear and booming voice. It was as if he had come to ask for a duel instead.

That caught Ichiryuu by surprise. He had expected a shaky, timid voice at the other side.

“Come in.” 

“Excuse me then,” the voice answered as soon as he gave permission.

And, at the same time, the door opened with a loud thud. On the other side, there was an oonyuudou(5)-like giant, barely even fitting within the door's frame. He paid no mind to a dumbfounded Ichiryuu and immediately attempted to enter the room, proceeding to slam his head against the lintel. The giant stood there wincing in pain for a second, but his expression quickly shifted to a shy smile as he knelt in front of Ichiryuu.

“It's an honor to meet you. My name is Shigemaru, and I'll be under your care here in the tenth room.”

Despite Shigemaru's flawless politeness, he was so big Ichiryuu still found himself looking up. He had healthy tanned skin, and his thick unkempt eyebrows looked like massive caterpillars. His imposing face was somehow countered by a round button nose and jet black eyes, which gave him a very gentle aura instead. He looked like a bear that had everything intimidating taken away from him and was, indeed, a perfectly pleasing young man.

“...... How old are you exactly?”

“Ah, I'll be 18 in two months.”

“Eight… teen.”

To enter the Unbending Reed Monastery, and to become a trainee, you had to be between 15 and 17 years old when joining. For the most part, the children of nobility joined as soon as they reached the minimum age possible, as if they had been waiting for the chance to do so. Those who joined at 17 were nearly always commoners.

Ichiryuu was the son of rural aristocracy so, like most others, he became a Seed at 15. Which put him in a strange situation: he was a senior to an older, much bigger junior. And, just like that, his initial dream of being the confident and dependable mentor to a nervous youth was utterly shattered.

Shigemaru was at least very polite and respectful, a small blessing, but, how to put it… he had something different in mind, something more innocent and pure.

“Ah, well, yes. I'm Ichiryuu, a Sapling. We'll be sharing a room this year, it's nice to meet you,” Ichiryuu said in a panic. He had completely forgotten to introduce himself until just then.

“Ah, yes, I know that much,” Shigemaru replied with a carefree smile, “I'm from Shimaki Township(6), you see. Rumors about the third son of our Lord have reached me before. You have become such a wonderful young man. As one of your subjects, I'm filled with pride.”

So he was from his homeland, which made things even harder for him.

As Ichiryuu was struggling to find a good answer, Shigemaru suddenly turned around to look at something behind him.

“You know him too, don't you?”

It was then that Ichiryuu finally realized the other newcomer was already there too, hidden behind Shigemaru's massive frame. He seemed to be quite tiny. Ichiryuu proceeded to try to fix his pose in a desperate attempt to look imposing, at least for this other one. That’s when he realized.

“Yes, of course.”

——That voice sounded terribly familiar for some reason.

“Of course we know each other, Ichiryuu and I are what one could even call childhood friends. Although, it may be impossible to treat him like before, now that he is our senior. I'm still glad I get to share a room with someone I can trust,” the boy said with a carefree laugh.

Just like that, as soon as he heard his voice, those memories—that he couldn’t forget despite himself—came back to haunt him. The pain ruthlessly inflicted onto him, the endless verbal abuse he went through. And, at the same time, an unflinching smile as if painted on his face and the shrill of that crazed laugh.

All of a sudden, the source of his nightmares leaned out of Shigemaru’s shadow.

His brown, soft-looking hair was held up in a ponytail. His face was quite nondescript, with nothing that truly struck one as characteristic. He looked completely harmless, but those terrifying, cunning eyes betrayed his true nature.

“Long time no see, Ichiryuu. Let me introduce myself again, I am Yukiya of Taruhi. Let’s get along from now on too,” the boy said with a bright smile on his lips.

Ichiryuu screamed in horror.

Next: Chapter 1 "Shigemaru" Part 1

---------------------

1: The original term for Outer Books is 外書, which originally refers to ‘foreign books’ or non-buddhist books. Within the context of the setting and given similar terms used elsewhere, this refers to books written by humans outside Yamauchi.

2: After some consideration and for the sake of narrative clarity later on, all the Raven titles will be fully translated from now on. Those already introduced at this point in the novels are the Golden Raven (Emperor, Kin’u), Scarlet Raven (Empress, Seki’u) and White Raven (Head Priest, Haku’u).

3: The Feather Grove Heavenly Hosts (羽林天軍, read Urin Tengun) are very briefly referred to in The Golden Raven. They’re the Center Army and don’t concern themselves with imperial matters. Their General is always the Northern Lord, so they’re at present controlled by Yukiya’s grandfather: he is the one to send them out in reconnaissance during the Monkeys’ attack.

4: The original terms for Seed, Sapling and Evergreen are as follows: 荳児, using the kanji for bean and child; 草牙, grass and fang (it itself being one radical away from 芽, meaning bud); and 貞木, which is a word to refer to evergreen trees.

5: Oonyuudou are youkai from Japanese folklore, traditionally giants who look like buddhist monks. Given the setting, they may as well truly exist.

6: After much consideration, I’ve switched the term Village as the anime uses it with Township. Townships (郷) in Yamauchi are provinces within a specific Region. Every Region is divided into a total of three Townships, and the Township Lord governs and controls all villages within their territory. The Townships in the North are Shimaki, Taruhi and Shigure.

[sunset-peril]

I booted up my copy of Breath of the Wild to wander around for an hour (since I actually finished my homework before 9pm)

And of course, being who I am, I was immediately slapped with a BotW-era HFS story about the first time Link enters Hateno Village.

Because I don't know if I ever mentioned: Reede and his family (Clavia and Karin) are the descendants of Link's sister, which makes them descendants of Link himself. They call him Grandpa/Grandpaw post-BotW once they learn who he is. (Zelda is just "Miss Zelda", so they're literally "Miss Zelda and Grandpaw"... but I digress)

ANYWAY

Karin, obviously quite young at this time (and probably not understanding the concept of a "lifespan"), recognizes Link from her great-grandmother's pre-Calamity photos and rushes to tell her mom and dad that Grandpa's finally returned home.

Of course, Reede (not having met Link) dismisses the idea like we all would. After all, Grandpa died 100 years ago. It's just a traveler.

But Karin's torn between the photos and Link. She knows that she knows him, even if her father doesn't believe her.

And then Reede meets Link.

And the seeds his daughter planted in his brain nearly consume him. There's no way that's him, but how could it not be?

[fibula-rasa]

Cosplay the Classics: Alida Valli in Walk Softly, Stranger (1950)

My closet cosplay of Alida Valli in Walk Softly, Stranger

The Star

When Alida Valli arrived in America, she arrived with ten years of screen experience under her belt and thirty credits—a substantial resume for a twenty-six-year-old. By the 2000s, Valli had committed over one hundred roles to film, on top of her television and theatrical work. In her seven-decade film career, Valli demonstrated outstanding versatility as genres shifted and styles evolved. In a half dozen countries, a bevy of heavy hitters directed her: Alfred Hitchcock, Pier Paolo Passolini, Luchino Visconti, Carol Reed, Mario Bava, Georges Franju, Margarethe von Trotta, Dario Argento, Bernardo Bertolucci, Michelangelo Antonioni, and Claude Chabrol, to name just a few.

She became one of the most accomplished performers to ever emerge from Italian cinema, though Alida Valli’s American period seems like a footnote to her rich biography and filmography. (With the exception, of course, of the British-American production, The Third Man (1949)). How did Hollywood stardom evade such a talented, experienced young actor with a face that photographed beautifully from every angle? Well, let’s begin at the beginning.

Alida Altenburger, later Valli, was born in what was Pola, Italy—and is now Pula, Croatia—to a noble family that would soon relocate to Como in the north of Italy. When Alida was in her teens, she enrolled in the Centro sperimentale di cinematografia in Rome to study screen acting. The young Alida must have displayed some natural talent because her first film credit came just a year or so later.

Valli quickly became a popular star—primarily in telefoni bianchi (White Telephone) films. Telefoni bianchi was a film genre/stylistic movement aesthetically characterized by art deco. The films often depicted luxurious and/or bourgeois lifestyles; as a white telephone was a symbol of status, it in turn became a symbol of the genre. Telefoni bianchi films are typically comedic or light in tone and they avoid suggestions of intellectual depth or addressing social issues. As you probably already know, to consciously avoid “politics” is always a political decision. This movement was part of a broader push under Mussolini’s National Fascist Party to cultivate an aspirational fiction of affluent urbanity and to forge a new ideal of Italian-ness based largely on consumerism and consumer goods. The relatively carefree lifestyles depicted in the telefoni bianchi films was far removed from the lived reality of the majority of Italians during the global depression of the 1930s.

(Oversimplified-but-probably-necessary historical notes here: Italy as a single, unified nation was only about sixty-years-old at this point; meaning a unified sense of Italian-ness was kinda new. Then, in the first half of the twentieth century, Europe saw huge cultural and social changes engendered by industrialization, imperialism, and war. Use of mass media was a key factor in the nationalist goals of Mussolini’s government to shape a new new definition of modern Italian-ness.)

The rise of telefoni bianchi films was in large part due to Italy cutting down on importing American movies in the 1930s. Telefoni bianchi were one way to fill that gap, not simply by reflecting the polish and sheen of Hollywood productions but also by retooling American-style propaganda for Italian audiences. The emphasis on simplified narratives in telefoni bianchi stories, where any problem can be faced with good, traditional values and hard work, is a direct descendant of similar American films of the period. [1]

Alida Valli in the telefoni bianchi film Ore 9: lezione di chimica (1941)

Likewise, up-and-coming stars, like Alida Valli, were built up to replace (and hopefully surpass) American stars who were popular in Italy. One fan magazine somewhat superficially compared Valli to Loretta Young. They were both fresh-faced starlets who started to work professionally from a very young age, but their typical roles and styles of characterization were very different. However, I do think it’s worth noting that both actresses were often paired with older male leads early in their careers. The teen-aged Valli made multiple films with Amadeo Nazzari, who was fourteen years her senior. Teen-aged Young had some of her first major roles opposite Lon Chaney (thirty years older), Conway Tearle (thirty-five (!!!) years older), Ronald Colman (twenty-two years older), and John Barrymore (thirty-one years older). Additionally, in my opinion, playing in adult roles so young had the unintended consequence of both actresses playing more mature roles sooner than seems logical.

Of this period in Valli’s career, in his book Mussolini’s Dream Factory, Stephen Gundle wrote:

“Valli was predominantly an ingénue. She played fiancées, schoolgirls, daughters of industrialists and taxi drivers, dancers, secretaries and students. She was one of the many new faces that lent their countenances to a gallery of female types that corresponded to roles available to young women at the time.”

The two most cited films of Valli’s telefoni bianchi era are Mille lire al mese / A Thousand Lire per Month (1939) and Ore 9: lezione di chimica / Schoolgirl Diary (1941). I have yet to track down a copy of Mille lire, but, if Ore 9 is a representative indication of Valli’s telefoni-bianchi work, the reason for her massive popularity is clear: Valli’s Anna has youthful exuberance tempered with an acerbic and headstrong edge. From a technical perspective, Valli displays sharp comedic timing and perfectly executed control over her voice, facial expressions, and body language. (These are skills I knew Valli had from her later work, but it is a revelation to see that she already had them at only 19-20 years old!)

Though she was a staple star of telefoni bianchi, Valli branched out into more dramatic roles by the end of the decade; making a mark especially in period dramas. The characterization that first proved Valli’s dramatic chops was Luisa in Piccolo mondo antico / Old-Fashioned World (1941). Piccolo mondo was part of yet another emergent, albeit short-lived, Italian cinematographic movement: calligrafismo. This movement was more stylistically diverse than telefoni bianchi, but has likewise been criticised for avoiding deeper themes or social commentary. Calligrafismo films focused on formal sophistication—meant to emphasize film as art and Italian technical prowess—and literary source material—usually from the 19th century. Piccolo mondo is a lauded representative of calligrafismo and its director, Mario Soldati, is considered one of the movement’s premiere practitioners.

Alida Valli in Piccolo mondo antico (1941)

Valli’s character Luisa is a woman of bourgeois status who marries a nobleman for love and has to suffer the consequences. The events of Piccolo mondo take place over the course of a decade and so the then twenty-year-old Valli had to play Luisa as: a hopeful but anxious young bride, a faithful and self-possessed wife and mother, and many stages of extreme grief over the loss of a child and estrangement from her husband. Giving such a role to a performer that young, I think, could easily result in histrionics, but Valli genuinely pulls it off. Valli managed to give Luisa dignity and melancholy that belied her performer’s age. Her work particularly in the last third of the film is very strong and effectively heart-rending.

At the start of the decade, Valli firmly established the breadth of her technical abilities as an actor, but, in 1943, Mussolini’s fascist regime collapsed. Reflecting later in 1965 on her work in the 1930s and early ‘40s, Valli stated:

“I was a young girl, 16, 17, 18 years old and I was successful and privileged. Everything was easy and when things come to you easily you do not stop to ask if things are right or not. I made films as automatically as a secretary types a letter. If no one explains to you what evil is, how do you know what is evil? … I never thought that a cinema like that [i.e. white telephone films] was wrong or that it would end, because no one thought that Fascism would end.” [2]

Valli’s candor here is appreciated; highlighting the ignorance that privilege can breed. It’s a strange position for a teenager to be in, not formally tied or allegiant to Fascism, but still part of the corporatist machine that props it up.

The new government of Italy signed an armistice with the Allies, but then Nazi Germany invaded and occupied the north of Italy. The majority of professionals in the film industry, which was centered almost exclusively in Rome at the time, refused to collaborate with the invaders. Some filmmakers fled to Venice to establish a film colony there. Valli made the decision to “retire” from acting. Her refusal to work on films for the occupiers made Valli a target, but, with the help of friends, she was able to stay in her beloved Rome, albeit in hiding. It was while Valli was in hiding that she met and married her husband, musician Oscar de Mejo.

Valli’s “retirement” ended in 1945, though she had not been absent from Italian screens in the interim, as her earlier films were still circulating. Valli soon had an especially well-regarded turn in Eugenia Grandet (1946) as the long-suffering daughter of a wealthy miser. Valli’s performance as the title character displays all of the variety and depth she had cultivated in her first decade in film—and it was captured beautifully by cinematographer Václav Vích. Returning to the screen after the war, and contending with your star image potentially being associated with a fallen fascist regime, must have been massively challenging for the twenty-five-year-old. Despite her success in Eugenia Grandet, the potential of a fresh start in America must have seemed promising for Valli—with her husband and baby in tow, of course.

Alida Valli in Eugenia Grandet (1946)

Unfortunately, the notorious David O. Selznick was the one who scouted Valli.

The first film she made for Selznick was The Paradine Case (1947), directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Valli was still learning English while the film was in production and, as a result, had to study her lines phonetically. You would never guess that watching the film as Valli gives a layered performance with intriguing nuance in much of her line delivery. The Paradine Case had a troubled production and it is understandably regarded as a lesser film of Hitchcock’s, Valli’s work is the strongest aspect of the film.

Selznick’s plans for Valli lacked forethought and were in no way based on her versatility or unique skills as a performer. Selznick’s marketing for the star harped on her becoming the next Bergman or Garbo, rather than the first Alida Valli. Starting with Valli’s very first Selznick production, rather than getting a typical title card for her credit, she was represented solely as “Valli” with a cursive namemark. Selznick explained this odd decision as a way to evoke Garbo-ness. (Although, it was actually Nazimova who originated the namemark gimmick in the US.) The “Valli” gimmick did not offer the mystique Selznick had imagined. Alida Valli herself recounted how foolish the marketing was if for no other reason than that there was an established, popular star called Rudy Vallée around. Having David O. thoughtlessly micromanaging her star image meant that Valli’s adjustment to the Hollywood system of filmmaking was the equivalent of playing on hard mode.

“‘In Europe, actors are just people. We have to do things for ourselves,’ she explained. ‘But suddenly, I sign the American contract, and everything is done for me as if by magic. I am no longer a person—I am a Thing.’” —Valli quoted in “Double Life” by Inez Robb in Modern Screen, June 1948

Valli’s second American film was the forgettable The Miracle of the Bells (1948). However, while The Third Man would be Valli’s next release, the film I’m cosplaying here, Walk Softly, Stranger, was already in the can. Selznick disliked the original ending of WSS and demanded re-writes and re-shoots. Selznick’s ending satisfied no one. Howard Hughes, whose distribution company, RKO, was handling the film’s release, reportedly chose to shelve WSS. But, after the success of The Third Man, Hughes wished to capitalize on the pairing of Joseph Cotten and Valli. WSS was un-shelved nearly two years after it was produced; unfortunately retaining its egregious, tacked-on “happy” ending (which I’ll talk more about later).

Portrait of Alida Valli from Modern Screen, June 1948

After her fifth film, The White Tower (1950), Valli bought herself out of her contract and returned to Europe. Why Valli left so abruptly is likely a mix of personal and professional issues. While filming The White Tower, Valli was having marital issues and she was pregnant with her second child. According to Valli, Selznick did not want his star to be pregnant. Working under Selznick seemed nightmarish. In addition to the ridiculous constraints on how she was meant to conduct her personal life, it must have been clear to Valli by 1950 that she would never have the opportunities to build a career with the same range that she had proven herself capable of in Italy.

Why Valli left Hollywood is maybe not such a great mystery. Regardless, it’s also clear that if the rigid studio system had thoughtfully cast Valli in higher quality material and/or allowed her to do comedy—something she brought up multiple times in the press while she was in the US—the American viewing public might have had a better chance to appreciate her skill. Selznick instead took a stellar actress and limited her to a knock-off Bergman. What a massive waste.

Valli’s American period was inarguably difficult, but it seemed to galvanize her for her return to Europe. Despite a rather large hiccup in her personal life that affected her career in the early 1950s, Valli found international acclaim. Valli not only worked in her native Italy, but also Spain, France, Britain, Mexico, and, yes, even the United States again. From the 1950s to the 2000s, Valli traversed new genres, styles, and movements freely and with dauntless creativity. If you mostly know Alida Valli for The Third Man (or perhaps for her supporting roles in giallo classics like Suspiria (1977) or Lisa and the Devil (1973)), take this essay as a prompt to check out more of her work! I plan to as well because I’ve seen her in over a dozen films and still feel like I’ve only scratched the surface!

——— ——— ———

[1] I’ve seen the work of Sicilian-born American director Frank Capra listed as a primary influence on these films—something I’d like to research further to be perfectly honest!

[2] from O. Fallaci, ‘Lo specchio del passato’, L’Europeo, 14 January 1965. but cited from Gundle’s Mussolini’s Dream Factory. Gundle doesn’t specify, but I assume this is his own translation from the original Italian.

——— ——— ———

The Film

Joseph Cotten and Valli in Walk Softly, Stranger

To defer to Eddie Muller: Walk Softly, Stranger is a noir “near miss.” Rather than a proper film noir, it’s a romantic melodrama with a little noir seasoning, marred by studio interference. But, WSS’s complicated romantic storyline and noir-ish subplot, not to mention great performances by the leads and support, stick with you—even if the aforementioned tacked-on ending spoils the final effect.

My closet cosplay of Alida Valli in Walk Softly, Stranger

A Mysterious Stranger (Cotten) arrives in Ashton, a picture-postcard of small-town America—down to the big factory owning practically everything in said small town. With a touch of recon, the stranger ingratiates himself to a magnanimous local widow, Mrs. Brentman (Spring Byington). She even helpfully produces his pseudonym for him: Chris Hale, the boy child of the family who lived in her house before her. In this opening sequence, Chris is established as an adept wheeler dealer.

After securing lodging, Chris’s next target becomes Elaine Corelli (Valli), the daughter of the factory’s owner. Chris lays it on thick, but he’s missing a key bit of information: Elaine is now in a wheelchair. A few months prior to their meeting, Elaine took a bad fall on a ski jump and took permanent damage. So begins a fraught love story between Chris and Elaine.

Chris starts getting comfortable in his new identity. He has a home, a job, friends, a doting auntie, and is dating the richest girl in town. What’s initially meant to be a chance to lie low starts to seem like a genuine second chance at a normal life. The suspense kicks in when this unexpected peace is put in jeopardy as a character from Chris’s old life shows up in town unannounced. When Chris is eventually cornered by his criminal former cohorts, it results in Chris getting ventilated, a massive car accident, and then, unexpectedly, Chris still alive and headed to prison.

Collage of the hair and makeup reference photos of Valli I used for this cosplay

WSS is a languidly paced movie, matching the sleepy-but-contented nature of Ashton. It’s an unsung example of one of my favorite narrative devices: the city as a character. Personally, I think this is a key reason why WSS’s ending is so jarring. Ashton is socially stratified, but it’s still a town with communal spirit. It’s exactly this spirit that gives Chris the false hope of a fresh start—a nostalgic yearning not for what-was but for what-could-have-been. In the original script’s ending, Chris’ death is implied and Mrs. Brentman passes along the poem “John Brown’s Body” to Elaine. It’s a melancholic ending that both matches the Sehnsucht-ish tone of the film and taps into the film’s theme of alienation within an idyllic image of the American Dream. The re-worked ending has a rambunctious energy, nonsensical Will-Hayes-ian logic, and a troubling continuation of Chris and Elaine’s relationship.

In addition to the regrettable ending, I also feel that WSS missed an opportunity to examine Elaine’s character arc thoughtfully. Elaine first appears alone on the patio of the Ashton country club while there’s a lively party going on inside. We get to know Elaine along with Chris; as we share his perspective for the whole of the film. It’s clear that her recent disabling event has left her in a well of self-pity. There’s not much time devoted to Elaine’s new quotidian reality, because the film is really Chris’ story. So, a lot of what we learn about Elaine is indirect. For example, we learn how long it’s been since Elaine’s accident via a social column. From the way Elaine speaks and the micro-expressions and reactions that Valli registers, it can be inferred that Elaine was a social butterfly before her St. Moritz accident—but also that her social circle was composed of fair-weather friends. Elaine is almost always by herself when we (and Chris) encounter her. This makes her seem not only chronically isolated, but vulnerable. And, since we know Chris is not exactly on the level, this creates an interesting tension that the filmmakers seem only mildly aware of.

Much of Elaine’s dialogue about herself is rife with internalized ableism. She even goes so far as to liken her current state to death. Of course, Elaine is still new to her disability and the grief experienced during the adjustment period from able-bodied to disabled in an ableist society is real and common. WSS would be a stronger film if this element had been examined with a bit more perspective. The film does, however, touch on a complicating factor to Elaine’s experience of disability: the privileges she’s afforded as a wealthy person. Even though Elaine is often reliant on others to compensate for the lack of accessibility you would expect in 1940s America, she has the resources and capacity to take long trips and go out and socialize. There’s certainly no hint of trouble in paying medical bills—she’s literally the richest girl in town. Addressing Elaine’s social and economic privilege is not very thoughtfully done however, as Chris’ challenge to Elaine’s self-pity is flattened into patronizing abled savior type stuff.

That said, to Chris, Elaine is neither a target of pity nor someone who needs to be taken care of. She’s simply a very pretty, very rich girl that he’s very attracted to. Her disability is not coupled with any infantilization or inherent character defect—both all too common tropes in Hollywood films. I’ll admit, for a film to admit that a woman being disabled doesn’t make her less desirable is nice to see (and unfortunately is still a novelty), but how WSS handles it leaves a lot to be desired.

Alida Valli in Walk Softly, Stranger

There’s more depth to Elaine than we usually get for disabled women on film—particularly women with visible disabilities—even though she’s not a fully-developed lead. Valli’s performance imbues Elaine with intellect, dignity, and complex, layered emotions. There’s a scene shortly before the climax of the film where Elaine and Chris have an earnest conversation about where they stand with one another. It’s revealed that Elaine has known Chris was a phony from their very first meeting when he slipped up with one of his lies. Through this one reveal, we learn by implication that Elaine was never a dupe and that in those situations where she seemed vulnerable to him, she wasn’t. Regardless of how many windows Chris entered by unbidden, Elaine had more control of the situation than we, and Chris, realized.

Chris’ and Elaine’s arcs in the film align in that both learn to accept a new way of life. For Chris, it’s about recognizing that he can, in fact, lead an honest life and that he’s entitled to one (after righting his past wrongs of course). For Elaine, it’s recognizing that St. Moritz was not the end of her life and that her future will be different but still full of potential. This theme of new life is sublimated in the scene where Chris and Elaine lay their respective cards on the table—this discussion doesn’t take place in the library, where they normally hang out, but in a solarium surrounded by lush plants.

WSS careens disjointedly into its final sequence. Chris has survived an encounter with a gambling kingpin and he’s serving time. (For which crime though? And under his assumed name?) Elaine is there to meet him as he’s transferred from the hospital ward to the penitentiary. Elaine explains that she’s going to wait for him. This revelation is couched in a self-hating, ableist monologue. Where it seemed just a few scenes ago that Elaine was making progress, suddenly she thinks that she and Chris will “deserve” one another more when he’s an ex-convict, broken by the system. (???) Her own estimation of herself should have transformed by this point in the story. In what’s supposed to be a hopeful coda, any suggestion of character development for Elaine is summarily wiped out.

All that said, I still recommend checking out WSS. It’s a nuanced, affecting melodrama and a complicated entry in the evolution of disability representation in Hollywood films. The dialogue is snappy and it has an interesting story structure; buffeting between the relative peace of Ashton life and Chris’ criminal undertakings. Alida Valli and Joseph Cotten are always worth watching and Spring Byington is as delightful as ever as the lonely and sweet landlady.

If you’d like a noir-inspired double feature with Walk Softly, Stranger, Out of the Past (1947) also features a former criminal who tries to find a new life on the straight and narrow, which turns out to be too narrow. Or watch it with Hollow Triumph (1948), where a criminal tries to hide out in a small town by taking over a local’s identity. (An added benefit to HT is that it has some entertainingly off-the-wall plot devices.)

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Further Reading/Viewing

Mussolini’s Dream Factory: Film Stardom in Fascist Italy by Stephen Gundle

Spellbound by Beauty: Alfred HItchcock and His Leading Ladies by Donald Spoto

Il romanzo di Alida Valli by Lorenzo Pellizzari and Claudio M. Valentinetti

The RKO Story by Richard B. Jewell and Vernon Harbin

Alida / Alida Valli: In Her Own Words (2021)

[whencyclopedia]

Ninigi

Ninigi-no-Mikoto, or simply Ninigi, is the grandson of the supreme Shinto deity Amaterasu, the sun goddess. He is the son of Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi and, descending to earth as the first just ruler, he brought with him gifts from Amaterasu as symbols of his authority which remain part of the Japanese imperial regalia today. Ninigi became the great-grandfather of Japan's first emperor, the semi-legendary Emperor Jimmu, and so established a divine link between all subsequent emperors and the gods.

Ninigi Descends from the Heavens

In Japanese mythology, the sun goddess Amaterasu Omikami asked her son Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi to descend from the heavens to rule the world of the mortals. Twice refusing this honour after seeing the general chaos that prevailed in the world, Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi nominated his son Ninigi-no-Mikoto (full name: Ame-Nigishi-Kuninigishi-Amatsu-hiko-no-ninigi-no-mikoto) to go in his place. To this Amaterasu finally agreed, and she gave Ningi three gifts to help him on his way. These were the Yasakani, a fabulous jewel (or pearls or magatama beads), source of the ancient quarrel between Amaterasu and her brother Susanoo, the storm god; the Yata, the mirror which had been made by the gods and successfully used to tempt Amaterasu out of the cave which she hid in following some typical bad behaviour from Susanoo; and Kusanagi, the great sword Susanoo had plucked from a monster's tail. These would become the three emblems of Ninigi's power (sanshu no jingi), and they became the imperial regalia of his descendants, the emperors of Japan, starting with his great-grandson Emperor Jimmu (r. 660-585 BCE). Thus, all subsequent emperors were able to claim a direct descent from the gods and so legitimise their authority to rule Japan.

The celebrated 7th-century CE poet Kakinomoto Hitomaro composed this poem on Ninigi's descent to govern humanity:

At the beginning of heaven and earth

The eight hundred, the thousand myriads of gods

Assembled in high council

On the shining beach of the Heavenly River,

Consigned the Government of the Heavens

Unto the Goddess Hirume , the Heaven-

Illuminating One,

And the government for all time,

As long as heaven and earth endured,

Of the Rice-abounding Land of Reed Plains

Unto her divine offspring,

Who, parting the eightfold clouds of the sky,

Made his godly descent upon the earth.

Manyoshi (Keene, 104-105)

Amaterasu also gave Ninigi some specific instructions regarding the Yata mirror: "Consider this mirror as thou wast wont to consider my soul, and honour it as myself" (Hackin, 395). Eventually, the mirror would indeed become an object of worship or shintai and end up in the Ise Grand Shrine in the Mie Prefecture, dedicated to Amaterasu and still today Japan's most important Shinto shrine.

Ninigi, carrying his three precious goods, and accompanied by three gods (including Ame-no-uzume, the dawn goddess, and Sarutahiko-no-kami, the god of crossroads) and five chiefs, landed on earth at the top of Mt. Takachiho, in the south of Kyushu. From there, after first building himself a palace, he went to the temple of Kasasa in Satsuma province where the five chiefs set about laying down the principles of the Shinto religion, creating a priesthood and organising the building of temples. The chiefs would pacify the land and establish the clans which would dominate Japanese government for centuries to come such as the Fujiwara clan. In this capacity, the five became the ancestral deities of these clans, the ujigami.

Continue reading...

[hooked-on-elvis]

"It's Still Here" (1973)

Recorded on May 19, 1971 at RCA’s Studio B, Nashville, TN. Released on July 16, 1973. Album: Elvis (Fool)

MUSICIANS Piano: Elvis Presley, Bass: Norbert Putnam. * The complete recording of “It’s Still Here” runs 4:40, including a breakdown in the middle of the take; it was edited down to 2:05 for the initial master.

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RECORDING SESSION Studio Session for RCA May 15–21, 1971: RCA’s Studio B, Nashville On the night of May 15 RCA’s Studio B had been decorated for an early Christmas. A tree with beautifully wrapped empty boxes stood in the center of the room, but Elvis brought real gifts for the musicians and his own associates — gold bracelets engraved “Elvis '71.” All the players from the June 1970 sessions were back, and again there were no backup singers present. With no personnel changes and as few distractions as possible, Felton expected to be able to get all of Elvis’s recording done in short order and save all the sweetening for later. BACKSTORY: The studio was decorated for Christmas in May most likely to create the right mood for the musicians - specially to inspire Elvis himself, since everybody knew how much of a Christmas enthusiast he was. During that session they would cut songs that would be release in the same year, 1971, on the then upcoming album "Elvis Sings The Wonderful World Of Christmas", as well as begin to record songs for the following albums - a contemporary music album and a gospel album. The Christmas decoration might have helped but fact is Elvis was in a great mood during those May recording sessions, cheerfully joking with everybody in the studio, even showing off his karate skills, while keeping himself seriously engaged in doing his best work, specially with the religious songs. His light mood is quite intriguing since what happened to him a little time prior to that recording session. During a recording session on March 15-16th 1971, Elvis felt a striking pain on his eye and left to see a doctor, ending up being diagnosed with glaucoma.

Excerpt from book "Elvis What Happened" by Red West, Dave Hebler and Sonny West as told to Steve Dunleavy (1977).

Elvis leaving an eye doctor's office in Beverly Hills sometime in late 1971.

That year, 1971, was the beginning for the dark sunglasses era. Elvis took it all lightly, joking around with people about his serious health condition. One of those people was Kathy Westmoreland, to whom Elvis said, after showing her his collection of sun glasses:

"If I have to wear the damn things," Elvis smiled, making fun of himself, "I'm gonna have one in every color." Excerpt from "Elvis and Kathy" by Kathy Westmoreland (1987).

After the brief hospitalization and the emergency eye treatment, Elvis got right back into the recording studio in Nashville considerably fast.

— A LITTLE BIT OF THE RECORDING SESSION ON MAY 19, 1971 WHEN "IT’S STILL HERE" WAS RECORDED: During the day Elvis slept, but for most of the members of the band it was business as usual—sessions all morning and afternoon. When they came back to work nights with Elvis, Felton had an unwritten rule prohibiting anyone from yawning in the studio—for fear that it might “bring down” his star—and he insisted that the musicians take their breaks in the parking lot. And even Elvis made a trip to their “outdoor lounge” when he became bogged down in “Seeing Is Believing,” a new tune Red West had just frantically completed. Otherwise, though, he kept focused throughout the evening, actively directing the band, patiently discussing the backing parts with the female singers. Jerry Reed’s “A Thing Called Love” was completed with an elaborate vocal arrangement that featured bass singer Armond Morales in a unison part with Elvis throughout the song. References to the previous evening’s gunplay were flying, and after a while Elvis noticed how upset the Imperials became whenever he struck a karate pose. It was another night of good-humored ad-libbing. “He left the splendor of RCA—of Victor,” he sang self-referentially after one verse of “Listen To The Bells”; “went back to Sun Records. …” The next take of “A Thing Called Love” collapsed, and Felton as always deflected blame from Elvis onto the newcomer, Joe Moscheo. But Elvis, ever gracious when he was in good spirits, just changed the opening line of the song from “Six foot six, he stood on the ground” to “Three foot four …” and dedicated the song to Charlie Hodge. After the meal break the atmosphere changed. Determined to capture the mood he achieved while performing at home, Elvis sat down at the piano for an impassioned yet unassuming solo set. Two of the three songs he chose had been favorites as far back as his days in Germany: “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen” and Ivory Joe Hunter’s “I Will Be True,” both of which he’d recorded on his home equipment in Bad Nauheim. This old material was hardly what Felton or RCA were looking for in an Elvis session, but Al Pachucki was ready with the tapes rolling just the same. The most moving of the three was another Ivory Joe Hunter song, “It’s Still Here,” but later Felton excitedly reported to the Colonel that with overdubs they all would make “great tunes,” keen to convince both Elvis and his manager of their commercial potential.

Excerpt: "Elvis Presley, A Life in Music: The Complete Recording Sessions" by Ernst Jorgensen. Foreword by Peter Guralnick (1998)

AFTERMATH Five albums were out a while before the "Elvis (Fool)" album could be released in 1973. Following the 1971 Christmas album was the contemporary music album, "Elvis Now", and then the gospel album "He Touched Me" preceding two live record releases, the "Elvis: As Recorded At Madison Square Garden" (1972) and the "Aloha From Hawaii Via Satellite" (1973) albums, and just then the "Elvis (Fool)" album was made by putting together songs recorded during the May 1971 recording session as well as songs taped during recording sessions in February-March 1972.

"IT'S STILL HERE" — LYRICS Songwriter: Ivory Joe Hunter The day you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart You had the nerve to tell me I would soon forget Now you've been gone away one year And I have not forgotten dear The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-oh It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through Now you've been gone away one year And I have not forgotten dear The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-oh It's here, it's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-ow It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here Oh yeah

UNEDITED MASTER (4:45)

ORIGINAL RECORDING Ivory Joe Hunter (1968)

[bitter69uk]

“Mary Woronov burned herself into my brain when, as a college student in 1966, I first saw her smouldering, imperious performance in Andy Warhol’s epic film Chelsea Girls. She was one of the most original, stylish and articulate sexual personae of the royal House of Warhol. I never forgot her, and I followed her subsequent movie career with great fascination … Warholism, which is my philosophy as a critic, merged the visual and performing arts and closed the gap between high and popular culture. Thirty years later, it can be clearly seen that the Warhol Factory, with all its riveting decadent excesses, was as seminal an avant-garde circle as that of the Dadaists and Surrealists after World War I in Paris.”

/ Camille Paglia from the back cover blurb on Mary Woronov’s 1995 autobiography Swimming Underground: My Years in the Warhol Factory /

Born on this day (8 December 1943): insolent Warhol Superstar turned queen of cult movies, actress, writer, visual artist and recovered amphetamine enthusiast … Mary Woronov! I love the strikingly angular Woronov’s deadpan performances, resting bitch face and witheringly contemptuous voice in Silent Night, Bloody Night (1972) (recommended Christmas viewing), Death Race 2000 (1975), Rock’n’Roll High School (1979), Eating Raoul (1982) and Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills (1989). (I just recently caught Woronov in the apex of lurid 1980s exploitation cinema, Hellhole (1985) (tagline: “CAPTIVES … stripped naked. Forced to submit to the ultimate experiment … pray they don’t succeed!”). Even in a cast including Edy Beyond the Valley of the Dolls Williams and Dyanne Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS Thorne, Woronov totally dominates as – what else? – the sadistic villainess). But hell, Woronov is even great value doing guest spots on episodes of Charlie’s Angels (1976) and Murder, She Wrote (1985). One of the best things she ever did was play the mother in punk band Suicidal Tendencies' 1983 video “Institutionalized” (“All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me”). Pictured: cute couple! Woronov with Lou Reed, when she was one of the Exploding Plastic Inevitable stage dancers.