#theaterism

[magickedhat]

                              @theaterism​​   /    continued.

wren couldn’t say what their dream had been about.   it had dispersed like smoke parts for a swinging hand, yet they knew bits of reality had slipped into it as well, a fleeting dream that had started wren into wakefulness, bleary and disoriented.   something moved beside them, twisted and groaned.

wren was on their feet in moments.   light spilled across the room as they flicked a lamp, allowing themself to take in foxtrot’s shape: tangled in blankets like an acrobat with no grace, he jerked and gasped in ways that sent wren’s heart pounding.   they reached for him, an unrestrained instinct, calling his name---only realizing their mistake when tearful eyes stared right through them and trembling hands smacked them away.   wren’s heart skipped a beat, but they remained, and his apologies fell on deaf ears.

“it’s okay!   it didn’t hurt, it’s okay.   god, i---  are you okay?”

their entire body ran on electricity.   a million thoughts raced through their mind at once, of things they ought to do or say on top of things they should not do or say, but at last they climbed onto the tumbled sheets to brush his cheek.   it was sleek with sweat; he was drenched, drowning.  “d’you want me to get you anything?   water, or tea, or---?” 

[aintitfierce]

“immortality” for the drabble meme, for vanya!

drabbles | accepting

‘Immortal’ fits the Pretty Vanya Creature like a dress that is three sizes too big. It’s roomy, too much so, with an unfortunate and absurd amount of space for him to try to fill. And try to fill it, he will, through any means he can think up in the moment. He packs the collar with blooms, pins the skirt in place with heavy silver needles so that its abundant folds fall about his feet instead of engulfing them, and stuffs whatever catches his eye into the generous layers of fabric to make it all seem less comically empty.

The Pretty Vanya Creature is not immortal, the more resentful will grumble, he is lamentably resilient. Stubborn.

There is a memory he has still, or perhaps several memories which have bled together, of sitting perched so complaisantly before Dima in her little abode. She tells him story after story from the security of her stack of hay, tirelessly imparting upon him history and fictions and lies and the occasional gossip (as she does hear everything, after all), and when she is done he kisses her upon her little gaunt cheek and covers her up with her quilt again.

“You will have to go one day, too, Pretty Vanya,” she had said.

Vanya, curled beside her with his legs tucked up neatly to his chest, feeling the wind whistle through the wispy fur of his ears, had only smiled and sighed contentedly.

“Pretty Vanya will go when he wants to.”

[rhpsdys]

@theaterism / plotted starter !

perhaps it's the peaceful calm that seems to roll over the town like fog over grassy hilltops that draws you there, or perhaps it's something else / a sensation unidentifiable to most, but sharp, like the crisp air on a cold spring morning, to keen senses.

it's a tingle on skin / the prick of pointed ears ; THERE IS MAGIC HERE.

with only a fiddle on your back, a satchel over your shoulder, && a small dancing light in your palm, you make your way through the cobblestone streets && over a bridge, && down, down, down a winding path. the pull of magic is strong here, growing stronger.

&& then you find it, the source. if you'd been looking, really looking, you might not have noticed it at all, but sure as the rapidly vanishing daylight, it's there.

a building — a theatre.

you close your hand around the light, extinguishing it, && raise the same fist to knock on the door.

[dis--parity]

“it’s, ah… for your dogs.” brilliant start to a conversation. foxtrot rubbed the back of his neck as he offered the man a lumpy present wrapped in paw-print paper, unable to meet the stranger’s gaze. he found it much easier to look at his dogs instead.

they weren’t completely strangers, right? yes, foxtrot didn’t even know the man’s name and had only seen him a few times, but they both liked apple cider and flannel and dogs. that meant something, didn’t it?

regardless, foxtrot had gotten him — or his dogs, rather — a gift, and he’d been fortunate enough to encounter him again to deliver it. the package held two dog toys shaped like bones — soft, yet durable, meant to be chewed on. one was red plaid; the other was green plaid. they were also, according to the label still attached to them, bacon-flavored.

(for souji agdgdggdgdgd)

『🥐』 Well, if this wasn’t a lovely way to start his day! All he had done was direct the young man he had so recently met to his bakery, and here he was having found him not so long afterwards, a stone’s throw away from the building! Confident as he is that he’s more than had his fill of the canine companions that called the bakery home, he can’t say he was expecting an active contribution to the store!

Well, ‘tis the season for giving, he supposed - but still!

“Well, ain’t that generous of ya!” With a grin, he takes the two bones - plaid, just like the shirt he had been so eager to bond with him over. He does nothing to stop that smile that creeps onto his face the moment he holds each bone in his hand - before transferring one to the other, putting two fingers in his mouth, and letting out a loud, bellowing whistle into the air.

Before long, the two stars of the show come running - with a faster pace than usual, as a certain, almost imperceptible scent wafts through the air. It takes a while to get them to sit still, but the moment they do, he leans down and gives them a bone each - the red plaid is Fujin’s, and the green’s is Mamesuke’s, and they take to them like a panda would take to a generous stalk of bamboo. Within minutes, the two of them are completely pacified, sitting quietly as they gnaw on the toys.

“... well, I’ll be. This is the quietest i’ve ever seen ‘em without ‘em sleeping!” He laughs, looking down at the young man with glee - to think that someone so young, so fresh in his life, could change so much for the better... but, then again, this isn’t exactly the first time that’s happened. “You keep this up, they’ll start thinkin’ of you like an uncle, boy. Thank ya kindly!”

[yeehawpim]

a comic about different types of storytellers

[wormy-wizard]

I work at a movie theater.

And personally? To be in the tickets booth, and see young girls, teenagers, adult women, coming in to see Barbie,

the most highlighter pink outfits, some of them coming in with the dolls they’re dressed as, laughing to each other, cheering for each other,

to see the men they’re coming to see it with, dressed in pink, cheering them on, taking their pictures with smiles and cheers in the lobby at the photo op

touches something so deep in me

I can’t say any nuances of the movie that haven’t already been said, but like, fuck man, love is so deep and so kind and to be able to see glimpses of it from behind my little ticket desk makes me a little less nihilistic.

[charlesoberonn]

[hagnanimous]

[magnetostits]

the barbenheimer experience i had was so funny i saw oppenheimer first and in a quiet scene we could literally hear ken singing in the theater next to us and then during barbie it when was quiet we could hear a fucking explosion coming from the oppenheimer screening

[spongebobssquarepants]

[audible-smiles]

My memory of The Birdcage (1996) is always that it's more dated and more difficult to watch than it actually is. You hear "drag-themed comedy from the 90s based on a musical from the 80s based on a play from the 70s" and you brace yourself just a little, right? But the film has a strong gay perspective, so the fruity fag jokes mostly come off as warmly affectionate. There is a surprising amount of poignancy in Robin Williams' portrayal of Armand, grudgingly agreeing to his beloved son's request that he go back into the closet for an evening ("do me a favor and don't talk to me for a while"). The drag club's staff attempting to redecorate the apartment with stuff straight people might like (a taxidermy moose head, an enormous crucifix, and Playboy magazine) is extremely funny. Albert's histrionics are a point of tension because he does often come off as a stereotypically pathetic/comic figure, but towards the end of the movie he makes it very clear that he's aware of how people see him, and asserts that trying to copy a stoic masculinity he doesn't possess for the sake of social approval would be more pathetic. In the 1983 musical adaptation, they give "Albert" (Albin) the only good song in the whole show, "I Am What I Am", which Gloria Gaynor covered to the delight of gays everywhere. Apparently Nathan Lane wasn't (publicly) out yet in 1996, which is amazing because it means that at one point in this movie you're watching a gay man playing a straight man playing a gay man playing a straight man, in a movie about how it's important to be yourself, an absurdity that does seem to encapsulate the state of gay America in the 90s.

[magickedhat]

@theaterism​

wren wouldn’t describe themself as a coward.

selfish, however, would fit them like a golden-striped glove.

they’d evaded foxtrot for days.   hidden behind and in-between mirrors, their reflection veiled in the blind corners they’d invented through trial and error and need;  disappearing in the shadow-clad circus paths foxtrot had yet to memorize;  spending long hours hopping between tents, breaking a game or entering a sword fight with a zanni, the harmless metal providing only a breadth of release. 

finding little things from him.   gifts, unsaid messages from his nimble fingers.   stitching their story together until they were sound enough to tell it.

they knew foxtrot was helping in the upcoming play.   as much as they avoided him, the tight-knit circus was no place for secrets, and within a day everyone knew about the new stagehand.   (wren’s boyfriend, but they aren’t seeing each other a lot, have you noticed?---do you think...?---i’m surprised wren has lasted this long.)   they entered the dream palace like slipping into a memory, and they inhaled deeply before finding fox in the grand, impossible auditorium.

“hey,” they said to him, as though they hadn’t seen him in years or in minutes.   they stood between the sheets, the marble wall splitting in half around them.  “can i-- talk to you?   can we go outside?”

[aintitfierce]

@theaterism​: !! your rambling is wonderful absolutely no need to apologize!! all the little details u share abt vanya and his story are iconic and i adore learning abt it agdgd it’s rlly clear how much care u put into it!!

whispers thank you for this ;-; i’ve just been feeling very lonely and inconsequential the past few days, aha ;; and the radio silence kinda brought it to a head, i think ;; i’m very sorry for that, but i am also beyond grateful for the reassurance. thank you again 

[brainrotcharacters]

That's that shit eating grin that practically screams "Harder! HARDER!" except the homoerotic subtext is a tripwire they're crash landing through

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price at the opening of The Tingler (1959)