Can you talk about how fight club is the story of a deeply closedeted gay man the wake of the aids crisis? How do his anxieties about hiv manifest?
yeah sure! i feel like i've talked about it in bits and pieces in a few different posts which I'll link here but I'll also type up a little summary. Not operating on 100% so forgive me if it's a bit all over the place.
On the narrator and Marla wrt sexuality
On the Lou scene of the movie
The central obvious joke yet not really comparison
Anyway so. I'm going to focus on the book as always but lots still generally applies to the movie and in the above links you can see a bit about the Lou scene from the movie if that's your interest.
So first I think it's important to acknowledge the narrator meets Tyler on an empty nude beach. This has a lot of connotations for a lot of reasons. Nude beaches/beaches in general have long been a gay male hookup spot. The beach is empty — it's the 90s. Many, many people have died. The narrator chose to go there — an interesting one. Stepping out of bounds a little only to be reminded of the constant threat, by how no one is there. He just watches Tyler do his thing, doesn't engage. He keeps his foot, with the AIDS-like rash on it, buried in the sand so he doesn't start dying in people's eyes (and presumably so if he ever got the gumption, he could tap it). Even if you assume the nude beach isn't specifically gay, all these things still apply, and it's still his idealized man he hallucinated all sweaty and tan.
Kind of discussed in the Marla related link above but he's like, horrifically repressed, even if he WAS straight. He can't imagine himself having sex. But when he has Tyler have straight sex (see above link for detailed thoughts on that), it's Marla he's jealous of. It is literally written that way. He is jealous of Marla stealing Tyler's attention and ruining the vibe they had with just the two of them.
Something, something, elaborate rituals for the touch of another man. Getting a big rubbery one in response to Bob. Arguably it's about him getting off on misery but it's not like it was written with regard to Chloe. And Chloe— amyl nitrite/poppers are commonly used in gay bathhouses and stuff. Used in straight sex too but yeah pretty common... Back to Bob though, this mimicry of closeness with another human being another man in particular, staring down the gun at a man who can't functional have sex like society expects him to anymore.
He invents a club that word for word could be swapped with gay sex for a large portion of its introduction. He is desperate for the touch of another man even if violence is the only way he can get it. Sex would be violence, in an age of being terrified of AIDS.
The constant underlying sharing of blood and spit and contaminating food etc. All these other ways HIV is spread. But at least it wouldn't be That way. If that's his destined way to die then at least it wouldn't be like that. Dark, but.
The fucking scene about his birthmark holy shit man. Essentially, the doctors thought his birthmark was a sign of, pretty much, Kaposi's sarcoma. The cancer overwhelmingly associated with AIDS, and he's a medical marvel. Because he'd be dying from an unknown horrific disease. Now he hides the birthmark, because that unknown disease is everywhere now. <-bastardization of a line from the book. And when people see that birthmark, he starts dying in their eyes. If he was openly gay in any fashion, he'd start dying in their eyes too. The same way.
There is, distinctly, a sense of a complete lack of actual functional future. There is a sense of complete lack of role models from the past.
The environmentalist turn even in this sense. The burden of history. He was not the one who spread the virus. There's a lot of deep, deep self hate and internalized homophobia in that. In the single time the narrator mentions gay men, too — as gay men wanting children being the cause for why all the single mothers in the clinic Marla goes to are dying of AIDS. But that's not true. Gay men, overwhelmingly, are not the reason it went from gay men to eventually reaching women. But what he repeats is part of the societal curse upon them, and what he repeats is a chastisement, look what happens when you dare desire anything. If you actually want to act on those perversions. You curse everything and everyone. Stay repressed, or you'll die and kill everyone.
He invents Tyler. "Perfectly handsome and an angel in his everything-blond way." He invents the perfect man, who also can never infect him. Who also pisses and spits in soups, god what a conundrum — society assumes you're evil, sick, and damned, but you're still their responsibility. How do they like it. I am not glamorizing the willful spread of disease lol I don't think it's ever a sane response but in fiction it hits that like... vindictive anguish.
Honestly, even the section I just mentioned. Where Tyler rants to the union boss. You don't actually give a single shit about me and better yet you probably hate the living shit out of me. But I am still your responsibility. You have sucked me dry til I have nothing to love, and you have everything. And the narrator says he says the same thing Tyler said, but about contaminated food. The parallels, with how that would apply to people with HIV, especially gay men. There is so, so much emphasis on the narrator's blood and how it gets all over the Pressman hotel's manager.
Fight Club, Project Mayhem — they're the designs of someone who doesn't expect to live long. The home of people who don't expect to live long. Whether that's because medical care is too expensive or because you catch a blood infection or because the cops shoot you.
And at the end, after everything has happened, after his manic pixie dream boy helped him martyr himself, what does he really get? Idk man. Drugs that will kill his sex drive. A deep fear of himself that now has evidence for how far he can fall. A deep disillusionment. No hate, but no love either. Still just empty, now knowing he has opened pandora's box, whether he intended to or not. He can't put it back. He tried.
Idk. something to be said about all that. Probably a lot more as well but that's just off the top of my head.
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Yknow, I think this passage really captures how Ouyang views Esen, especially in contrast with how Baoxiang views Esen. Ouyang geuinely believes the best of Esen, he genuinely belives that Esen is good and pure and kind and that it's himslef that is taining him into being otherwise. And while Ouyang is right in that he's technically responsible for Esen’s current emotional state (he did very much kill Esen’s dad and frame his brother for it, that is very much a thing he just did), for once it isn't his fault for the everything else going on with Esen?
I do think Esen is generally good-natured, and tries to be kind and generous to those he loves, but it's very clear that Ouyang has reduced him to JUST that in his head. He only sees Esen’s best qualities as inherent to him, and all the bad ones are Ouyang's fault somehow. He blames himself for Esen not understanding him (because there's something wrong with him, and even when he's mad at Esen for not caring enough to notice certain things he justifies it in his head by making it about his own unmanliness or whatever and Esen is just to perfect for that), for any failure in battle (yeah you're the general but Esen also approved this hes your boss dude), and generally for any moment where Esen exhibits less than stellar behaviour/capacity/etc. When in reality, we have a lot of moments where Esen is just sort of a dick, many of which are pre-ouyang (courtesy of HWDtW wbx flashbacks, which, granted, are also biased but my point still stands). We see Esen's constant and usually unjustified frustration with wbx and sometimes Ouyang, we see him be dismissive of the things they tell him, in the pre-order reward its pretty much stated that he makes a habit of dumping Ouyang outside brothels for hours while he goes inside to get laid, in one of his first scenes we see how much he enjoys it when Ouyang spends the whole morning tormenting Altan (altho tbf he kinda deserved it, altan suuuccckkss), and in general Esen just kinda treats people like crap sometimes. He's snapish and short-tempered and stubborn and imperious, loves whining about stuff, and is a shitty brother and best friend. He's got a lot of good qualities too, like how he's one of the few people that treats Ouyang with respect and tries to treat him as an equal, how his first reaction when wbx is insulted is to come to his defense (even if wbx usually foils his attempts by immediately clapping back and storming off), how we see him recognize he gets frustrated witj wbx too easily and tries to hold his temper back, how he immediately self-sacrifices to save Ouyang from his dad, how even after thinking wbx killed their dad he does really want to forgive him.
My point is, Esen is trying, but he's a very flawed human being, and Ouyang just can't seem to grasp that. He looks at him with rose-colored glasses. And it's so interesting that amongst all the shitty things Ouyang has done (and this duology really just is Ouyang and WBX fuck up yuan dynasty china to truly Epic proportions), the one he feels worst about is the one that isn't actually his fault (sorta). He may have killed Chaghan and been the catalyst for Esen's emotional blow up, but he isn't responsible for Esen having the capacity to burn WBX's books. That was Esen's decision. He hasn't somehow manipulated Esen into an eviler, crueler version of himself by virtue of existing evil-y and eunuch-y and revengefully im his vicinity. Esen was always capable of this, even if we take out Ouyang's actual manipulations, and I think this whole I-tainted-hin mentality really encapsulates how fucked up their relationship and Ouyang's mental state are in general. After all, Ouyang doesn't feel bad about the murder, or the framing, and he feels guilt about causing Esen pain, but most of all, he feels absolutely terrible that he's shattered what he sees as Esen’s purity, which in reality is mostly just the pedestal he himslef put him on. Man, what a fucked up little guy.
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I thought Lucy saying that dress is a bore was the popular take, at least here? That it goes against her mainstream depitions? idk at least in my experience here. I think popular culture (like... looking at you, Netflix Dracula 2020 and NBC Draula 2013) make her not just a Fashion Girl but also obsessed wth her appearance, on the other hand. Which I agree, she says the exact opposite of that. I've seen even her looking at the mirror in those depictions as a Vanity thing,, when she very much is STYDYING herself. Anyway yea. Mina being more fashion-conscious makes more sense to me too.
idk i feel like i only ever see the frillier, more fashion conscious take on her here, serving as a girly gal in contrast to a plainer mina which is NO bad interpretation in itself, but idk. not my personal lucy, i guess? i do think this is fuelled a lot by the film and tv adaptations and despite the fandom disregard for them, they've still managed to Influence The Blueprint in certain regards, even on here.
i do think that popular interpretation here differs from pop culture in how lucy treats others - she's not depicted as self-obsessed and shallow as the way she is in adaptations, whereas obviously a more selfless and loving lucy takes precedence here (thank god) but either way, most interpretations seem to agree she's a girl's girl, from what i've seen.
i agree absolutely with the mirror thing though - when she says this:
He has a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do.
it makes me INSANE how similar jack and lucy are in this regard: lucy's mirror-staring, to me, reflects (ha) jack's usage of renfield as a kind of psychological mirror. they're both preoccupied with self-examination, both concerned deeply with fitting in the right way, about being liked, and what makes me the joker is how jack is afforded a depth of character he deserves yet, as you point out, in the hands of pop culture, lucy's similar introspection is reduced to just. well. plain vanity. she is a transgressive character for what's acceptable for her position in late victorian society, but screenwriters (incapable of imagining an actual woman) say well. surely that means she's sexy. right. that's what transgressive means, right????? yeah guys?? sexy???
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The Butterfly Too, Will Follow
Twin island of black and red, swimming in seas of milky white. Santi had never really liked the eyes they were born with. Neither have they ever liked the rest of their body. Sickly pale and frail – they have always stood out, being so unlike the rest of their peers. Santi saw the unspoken words, and the looks they were given tasted like ash on their tongue. But that was all fine. It really was. Because someone understood.
“You in there, Santi?”
“Y-Yeah. Sorry. Be right there.”
-
Two dark, hollow pits of a shadowy grey, swimming in an ocean of cloth. Santi had always found the featureless mask covering the entirety of their face, head, and neck to be comforting. Much like they did with the 3-piece suit covering the rest of their body. Dark grey and sleek – it didn’t make them stand out, but was fashionable regardless. Santi could always divert the curious gazes, and the whispered words dispersed like steam if they wished it. It was all fine. It really was. But no one-
“Ah, there you are, Santi”
“So I am.”
-
Santi swallowed thickly, doing their best not to let the stress get to them – and failing. They followed Gabriele closely, holding their friend’s hand as the two of them approached the mansion’s doors. They had never even seen such a... beautifully grand building. They felt out of place in front of such opulence – feeling almost measly compared to it. Still, Gabriele went on and grabbed the large metal knocker on the dark oak door.
“I-I’m not... I’m not sure about this, Gabriele...” Santi said, a hesitant tremble shaking at their words.
“Oh, Santi, don’t be like that now! My parents and I went through so much trouble to prepare all this for you! Surely, you wouldn’t want our effort to go to waste?” Gabriele replied, pouting, though her eyes were twisted in a smile.
“I... suppose not.”
“Good answer,” she cooed sweetly, with what Santi thought might be a condescending smirk twisting her features for just a second before melting into a smile instead. Gabriele rapped at the door with the heavy-looking knocker, the vibrations of metal against wood rattling Santi to their core.
-
Santi sighed deeply, hoping to release their stress along with their breath – and failing. They followed Gabriele cautiously, keeping in mind where her hands were as the two of them approached the limousine’s doors. They had never seen a car so grossly grand. They felt sick, standing in front of such disgusting opulence – everything around it feeling measly and dirty in comparison. Still, Gabriele approached it with almost-glee, looking back at Santi facelessly.
“You coming?” she trilled, her voice muffled a surprisingly small amount. Santi didn’t reply, not increasing the slow pace of their stride towards the vehicle.
Gabriele continued, “Oh, Santi, don’t be like that, now! I went through so much trouble to arrange this all for us. We both know how busy it can get for the other, no?”
“I’m sure that you do,” Santi said with all the calmness they could muster, finally having come up to the car. Gabriele flexed her jaw and scoffed quietly enough that the usual person would not be able to hear. But Santi did. Regardless, Gabriele grasped the door handle on the side of the limousine and knocked on the window – likely signalling for something – the dull sound of knuckles against glass making Santi clench their gloved fists.
-
“Do you like it?” asked Gabriele, wildly gesturing across the entire dining hall with her arm.
“It’s... pretty,” Santi said cautiously, eyeing Gabriele’s reaction. At Gabriele’s satisfactory hum, Santi let themself actually inspect the room. Orange lights danced across an assortment of dark woods and black stone, pouring from the lit fireplace in the far wall. The ceiling was incredibly high, with an assortment of metallic chandeliers hanging from it. Impressive though it all was, Santi’s attention was drawn to the long, tall table – it was like from a fairy tale Santi’s mother would read to them. It was beautiful – fit for a king or queen. Fit for royalty.
“So,” Gabriele exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight, “you wanted me to show you... Magic. To teach you.”
“Y-yes.”
“You want to be like me?”
“Yes. Yes... please.”
“Then you will have to promise to do as I say, okay?”
“...Okay. I promise.”
-
“Do you like it?” asked Gabriele, wildly gesturing with her hand at the car’s interior, as she sat comfortably opposite to Santi.
“That’s irrelevant.”
“So dismissive,” Gabriele said with a huff, removing the brimmed hat previously casting shade over the blank layer of skin stretched over her actual face. Then, she took her sunglasses off, though her eyes were still clad in shadow – visible only due to the holes torn into that second layer of skin. Grotesque though it all was, Santi’s attention was still drawn to Gabriele’s hungry, arrogant gaze – it was like from a fairy tale Santi’s mother would read to them. It was sickeningly cocky – fit for a king or queen. Fit for royalty.
“I assume you’re not going to be removing that ridiculous thing?” Gabriele asked, though she didn’t wait for an answer before scoffing and continuing, “So, you really want to know about... them?”
“Yes.”
“Then I expect you to cooperate.”
“Sure.”
“Really cooperate.”
“Sure.”
-
Santi’s eyes were wide with wonder. Drops of liquid perspiration trickled down Gabriele’s face, and her eyes were squeezed almost completely shut. However, that was not where Santi’s attention was drawn. Instead, their eyes were glued to the small – no taller than half a metre – figure, standing on the table. It was dressed up in fancy clothing, almost resembling a doll. Its lack of a face, however, quickly shattered that illusion. Regardless, the blank, faceless figure moved around gracefully, its movements fluid, yet not natural.
“It’s... it’s amazing! Can I do this too, Gabs?” Santi praised and asked in an almost-shout, still not looking away from the figure.
Gabriele smiled widely, before saying, “It’s called a Puppet. And of course, you can, Santi. You just have to do exactly as I say! Especially for this next part.”
-
Santi’s eyes were narrowed with focus. Drops of liquid red dripped down Gabriele’s real face, and her eyes were half-lidded, staring at Santi in a challenging manner. However, that was not where Santi’s attention really was. Instead, they were focusing on channelling Magic into their hands – as they took their glove’s hem and stretched the glove further onto their hand – performing their Gesture. Feelings of doubt and uncertainty – Santi’s Magic – flooded the interior of the limousine, the intensity making Gabriele flinch – and drop the knife she had used to ‘unmask’ herself.
“How in the...?” Gabriele muttered with her – now fully revealed – eyes wide, before speaking more loudly, “Right, Santi is all grown up now... This is how you want to play this, is it?”
“With effort, to answer your previous question. And no. This is how I have to play it, Gabs,” retorted Santi, poison seeping into their usually neutral demeanour.
“What was it that we said about cooperating?” Gabriele hissed in response, her face – paler than the rest of her deep brown skin and slick with blood – twisted in a scowl.
“I was just levelling the playing field. This is cooperating – in the sense that we’re both playing the same game, on the same board, for once. Now, give me what I came for.”
-
“Don’t look at me like that, Santi! You wanted this, remember?”
Santi stared at the slab of meat wordlessly. The flesh hadn’t even been stripped of the skin. It was still raw and red – with blood pooling under it, staining the gleaming, white plate.
“Dig in, Santi. You wanted Magic? You wanted to be like me? Then eat it.”
“P-please... do I have to?” they pleaded meekly, their vision spinning and bile threatening to climb up their throat.
“Don’t be ridiculous Santi! You promised!” Gabriele snapped, though her enraged voice had a hint of an odd elation in it, “This is all for you! For your own good! Don’t you want to be better? Like me? Don’t you want to change – climb into a chrysalis and emerge a beautiful butterfly?”
-
“Don’t look at me like that, Santi! You wanted this, remember?”
Santi stared at the images wordlessly.
“Why so down, Santi? You wanted to know what happened to your family? Your parents? Now you know.”
“Sh-shut up,” Santi growled weakly, their vision spinning and bile threatening to climb up their throat.
“’Same game’... Don’t make me laugh. You don’t know my game,“ Gabriele said condescendingly, before chuckling and continuing, “I have to admit, you had me scared, there, for a second. I thought the old Santi was gone... but no, my pure little butterfly was just hiding. You never changed, no... I didn’t let you, after all...”
-
“I’ve always adored the saying ‘like a moth to a flame’. Imagine loving something so much that you are willing to die for it, to sacrifice everything else. But I think that such a person would also need to have nothing else – for the flame to be its only love, the only thing it needs. So that it is willing to get burnt,” Gabriele said, the skin of her jaw stretching oddly as she spoke. Hearing barely a slurred string of somethings – only somewhat resembling words – as Gabriele spoke, Santi stared at what seemed to be a short flap of skin stretching across the edges of her face, ending perfectly evenly – looking almost cut. “Don’t you think so as well, Santi?” Gabriele questioned, before suddenly – with the slightest gentleness – cupping their chin and wiping the mix of blood and saliva coating it with her thumb. Meeting Santi’s unfocused eyes, she continued, “Because if it has nothing else, can it even tell that the burning of its wings is not love? Does it even care? Still, it will fly to the flame.”
-
“I don’t think you quite understand, Santi,” said Gabriele, a strained, almost incredulous guffaw quickly dying on her lips. “Like a moth to a flame, like a lamb to a slaughter, I want the beautiful butterfly too, to follow.”
--
“And if it doesn’t?” she continued both times, two snarling voices melding to one, “I will make it.”
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