#to be clear none of this is a criticism i think it's very fun & chewy

[s1ithers]

wish i knew the forgotten realms lore better...how am i meant to make my little ocs in this state of ignorance

[lovelylogans]

lavender for luck: chapter one

see here for warnings

art by neil

next chapter

The day Uncle comes to their house for the first time, it’s so hot Virgil feels like a cookie left to burn in the oven. Not just cook, not like the soft and chewy ones with the melty chocolate that Mom made, no. Burn, like when Dad forgot he stuck a dozen store-bought bits of dough into the oven and then ended up taking Virgil and Mom out to dinner and they came back to the fire truck with the men in the big baggy suits who gave Virgil a plastic hat and helped get the big clouds of black smoke out of their kitchen.

“Hi, Uncle,” Virgil says dutifully, because Mom says that’s the polite thing to do, and yes he had to be polite, even when Uncle could care less about societal conventions, whatever those were.

“Boy,” Uncle says evenly. From this angle, it looks like Uncle is smiling. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a cat.” Virgil tells him and lets out his best meow. He’s very good at it. Mom usually tells him he sounds just like a kitten.

“That is how most cats climb trees,” Uncle agrees, and then he adds, “You are a most bizarre and exhausting child.”

“Thank you,” Virgil preens, swinging a little from where he’s hanging by his knees from a tree branch, blood long since rushed to his head. “You are a most bizarre and exhausting Uncle.”

His mouth twitches so it looks like he’s frowning, but it’s gone, and the smile is back in an instant.

“Virgil, you look like a tomato,” his father announces from where he’s stepped out on the porch. “Dee, you look like a butternut squash.”

His face looks like he’s trying be happy, but Virgil can tell he isn’t. Dad’s worried, and scared, and upset, and it’s clear through the smile he’s trying to put on.

Uncle clearly thinks the same thing.

“What’s brought me to the,” Uncle’s lip curls, “lovely suburbs?”

“Virge,” Dad says, again trying to sound happy but Virgil could see in his shadow that he really really really isn’t, “can you tell your uncle why you’re playing cat outside instead of inside today?”

Virgil swings a little more and secures his knees so he can point to the house with his free hand.

“There’s a bug,” Virgil says, pointing to the house. “Mom and Dad can’t hear it.” He clicks his tongue a few times in demonstration, and the frown that appeared on Uncle’s face when Dad stepped outside spins into a smile so fast it makes Virgil feel dizzy, makes him feel like his stomach’s dropped right out of him.

“Inside,” Dad says, before Uncle can say anything else, “now.”

He glances towards Virgil, and his voice softens. “Stay outside as long as you want, Virge, just wipe your feet off when you come in, okay?”

“Kay,” Virgil says, squinting up the tree, because he thinks he sees a squirrel.

“Usual boundaries, buddy. Don’t wander too far, okay?”

“Okay,” Virgil repeats, closing his eyes and watching the red bloom up behind his eyelids.

“Children are a delight,” Uncle says dryly, probably meaning for Virgil to not hear, but he does hear. And his dad snorts and swat his arm.

Eventually Virgil climbs down from the tree and has to sit for a while to make sure his head stops spinning, because there isn’t much to do hanging upside down from a tree other than just hanging upside down. So Virgil wanders into the backwoods, humming to himself as he hops into the shadows.

A familiar amber gleam shines out from the darkness, and Virgil grins, lowering himself to the ground, holding out his hand just so, keeping perfectly still.

“Hello, Virgil,” the voice rumbles out from the underbrush, and Virgil’s grin widens.

“Hallo, Maester Sprockets.”

Maester of the Five Streets Sprockets Mrr’ow is a bit uptight for a cat, but he’s all right, mostly. He reminds Virgil of Zazu in Lion King, except Sprockets is a gray house cat and not a hornbill.

“How’re you?” Virgil offers, wiggling his fingers a bit as Maester Sprockets leans forwards, sniffing his fingers.

“You smell of bacon,” Sprockets declares, whiskers twitching.

Virgil digs in his pocket obligingly, bringing out the three pieces of bacon he’d snagged from the breakfast table that morning, breaking them into bits and laying them on the ground. Cats were very particular about hand-feeding, and Sprockets declines it from everyone except the Marcy (the girl a grade above Virgil who actually housed Sprockets.)

Virgil, upon turning five, has been gifted Hunting Rights of all birds in two streets of his choice, as he was Wise and Fierce and An Asset To Protecting The Land. Virgil doesn’t quite know how to tell Sprockets that he gets all the food he needs from his parents, and wouldn’t know how to go about hunting birds anyways. But it’s a thoughtful gift, and anyways he just has to make sure that the sunning rocks are clear and that the cats of the neighborhood could wander around without trouble.

“What’s the business?” Virgil asks, once Sprockets has sat back, licking his paw and swiping at his whiskers.

He spends time until the sun grows big and orange in the sky, brushing against the pavement, listening to Sprockets list of the various grievances of the cats of the neighborhood. Most of them were Cat Politics (Virgil had long since learned not to poke his nose into those) but there were a couple things he could help with; snakes near the sunning rocks, a troublesome dog barking all day, kids that tended to yank on cat’s tails. Virgil promises to do what he can about it, allows Sprockets to rub his face against Virgil’s knees one more time (giving the gift of smelling like Sprockets) before he rises to his feet and ambles home.

He hears the shouting even from the back porch.

“—promise me, Dee, please,” his father says, and Virgil shrinks down so no one can see him from the windows. He sounds really upset—almost as upset than the time Mom got into a car accident, once, and broke her arm.

A pause. “The Aunts—”

“They love Virgil, of course,” Mom says, and her voice is gentle. “Of course they do. And they’ll pitch in, I’m sure. But you’re the closest relative. You’re the one in the will. If you don’t take him in—”

A pause, a sniffle, the clinking of—mugs, Virgil thinks? He can smell the tea Dad makes from the stuff in the garden. They’re almost noisy enough to cover up the clicking sound.

“You remember the story of great-aunt Seraphine, don’t you?” Dad says, after a long pause, and his voice is strained.

A snort, and Uncle says, “She was locked away in the cellar. If anyone would do that today—”

“Are you sure about that?” Dad says, quiet, a little dangerous. “You and I know better than anyone—the only people who understand Faes are Faes.” A pause, and then, “No offense, Vi.”

“None taken,” his mother sighs. “It’s been settled for a long time. You’re technically legally bound. Let us—just let us have some peace of mind about this, at least.”

“Violet—” Uncle began, uncomfortable.

“Please,” she says, and her voice breaks, and Virgil squirms from where he is. She sounds really, really sad. She probably needs a hug. “Please. We knew this was coming, we prepared for it. In a way, we’ve all known this was going to happen since we were his age. Right now, we just—we just need your word that he’ll be okay.”

“You’ve always been going after us about how he needs to be near the family’s roots,” Dad says. It sounds like he’s trying to joke. “And he will be, now. If you take him in.”

There’s a long pause, and more clinking. Virgil can smell the chamomile on the air, hear the splash—someone’s refilling their cup.

“A swap?” His Dad says at last, after a break. “For old time’s sake.”

“Of course.”

Virgil figures that’s a good a time as any to stomp aggressively up the stairs, trying to rid the clumps of dirt from his shoes, before just giving up and leaving his shoes on the porch, plodding into the house in socked feet.

“Hi, baby,” his mom says, sinking to her knees. Virgil smacks a noisy kiss to her cheek, and she lifts him up in her arms. “Out a bit late, aren’t we?”

Virgil wraps his arms around her neck, pressing his cheek into her shoulder, inhaling her grown-up flowery perfumey smell. “Sprockets says there’s snakes near the sunning rocks.”

“Ah, it all makes sense now,” his Dad says, and Virgil glances over to see him turning a mug over in his hands. “Cat politics,” he says to Uncle, by a way of explanation.

“Snakes, you say?” Uncle muses. “I can handle that.”

Virgil perks up. “Really?” Good. He really doesn’t know what to do with the snakes whenever the cats complain; he doesn’t want them to die, or anything.

“Dee can talk to snakes the way you can talk to cats, Virge,” Dad explains. “Since we were little kids.”

“Really?” Virgil asks, fascinated. He’s never met anyone who can talk to an animal like he can.

“Mm,” Uncle hums as he frowns at the mug, and deliberately sets it down with a delicate clink. “Misunderstood creatures.”

“D’you want cocoa, Virgil?” his Mom asks, setting him down at last, and Virgil squirms happily and nods.

“What do we say,” she prompts, smoothing his hair with a hand, and he tries not to sigh too loudly.

“Yes, please.”

“No tea?” Uncle asks mildly.

Virgil wrinkles his nose. “Tea is gross.”

The offended look on Uncle’s face makes his Dad laugh so hard he chokes on his own spit.

The rest of the night is kinda fun, if a bit weird. They play a new kind of game where Virgil points where he hears the clicking the loudest, and Mom and Dad roll back the rug and Uncle and Dad pry up the floorboards to see if there’s something under there. But Mom swaps between helping roll back the rug and experimenting in the kitchen, so Virgil gets to lick the batter spoons and try whatever Mom’s decided to try to make. The butterscotch cookies are pretty good; the jelly-and-mint, not quite so much.

“Not my best, huh?” Mom says, examining the jelly and mint creation critically.

Virgil pauses, and says nicely, “Maybe not with… this kind of jelly.”

His mom laughs a bit, puts it aside. “You’re right. A nice strawberry, maybe. Citrus. But probably not black currant.”

“Virgil, is it still clicking?” Dad calls.

“Yep,” Virgil calls back, snapping off a piece of lemon drop cookie and popping it into his mouth.

Dad says a naughty word.

“That’s a dollar,” Mom calls without looking, and Dad grumbles a bit more.

It keeps going. Virgil likes the cinnamon roll cookies, the almond and raspberry ones, and the brownie cookies—the chocolate-pistachio ones and the pretzel, peanut and beer ones are just kinda weird. By the end of the night, Virgil thinks Uncle and Dad pry up every floorboard in the house, Mom has filled up just about every tupperware in the house with her various experiments, and Dad owes seven dollars to the naughty word jar.

When Uncle sees the tupperware, he smiles. Just a little.

“I know, I know,” Mom says. “You can take the girl from the diner, and so on.”

Virgil tilts his head, and he’s about to ask, before hands close under his armpits and lift him in the air, making him squeal with equal parts indignation and laughter.

“Time to get ready for bed!” Dad sing-songs.

“Noooooooo,” Virgil groans, flopping his head onto Dad’s shoulder.

“Yeeeess, kiddo, it is way past your bedtime,” Dad declares, and starts walking up the stairs with enough time to see Mom and Uncle leaning over the counter under the sole light still on, the pair of them staring at each other, the kitchen doused in shadows around them. Mom’s face is devoid of a smile, and Uncle’s bowler hat makes it so Virgil can’t see his face.

“Teeth brushing time, teeth brushing time,” Dad sings, depositing Virgil at the sink. “Full two minutes, buddy, I’ll be counting—”

Virgil groans, but reaches for his toothbrush and bubblegum toothpaste of lies, because whoever thinks that tastes like bubblegum is a liar.

He gets ready for bed (teeth brushed, pajamas on, so on and so on) and eventually, both parents are sitting on his bed, as his Mom reads three storybooks, and Virgil’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

“When the son came home that night, he stood for a long time at the top of the stairs. Then he went into the room where his very new baby daughter was sleeping. He picked her up in his arms and very slowly rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while he rocked her he sang,” and his mother drew a breath, and Virgil murmured sleepily along with her soft sing-song voice.

“I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.”

She leans forwards and kisses his forehead, before she takes a breath, smoothing the covers over his chest with one hand, and tries to smile.

“Virgil, I know you’re sleepy,” she says, voice soft, “but I want you to listen, okay? And remember.”

Virgil blinks the sleep out of his eyes, and nods. It’s important. He can feel it.

She takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and begins to talk.

“When I was a little younger than you are now, my parents died. And I moved to Loch Ligerion to live with my Auntie Cora and my Uncle Virgil.”

“Like me?” Virgil asks, and she smiles, realer this time, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Yes, exactly like you. We named you after him. I moved to Ligerion, to live with my uncle, and his sisters, and his wife. And I thought my life was never gonna be the same. I was really sad, as I should have been, because I was a kid, and I lost my parents. I was so scared of Loch Ligerion, and I was convinced I’d never be happy again.”

Dad, a sad look on his face, reaches over to grip her shoulder, and she puts her hand on his for a moment, before taking a deep breath.

“But not long after that, I started kindergarten. And do you know who I met there?”

Virgil shakes his head.

“I met your dad,” she says, lifting his hand from her shoulder and kissing it, before lowering it, so they were holding hands. “I met your dad, and your uncle, and some other people too, but no one quite as important as your dad. And I am never, ever going to regret going to Loch Ligerion. Because that’s where I met your dad. And if I didn’t meet your dad, I wouldn’t have had you. And you…” she takes a wobby breath, smooths back his hair again.

“You’re the most important thing in my life, Virgil,” she says. “You and your dad. Some people didn’t like that I was in love with your dad at all, let alone the fact that we had you. But I’m always going to ignore them. Because you two… you two have made me so, so happy, Virgil. The happiest day of my life was the day you were born. I have loved seeing you grow into the smart, brave, funny little boy you are today, and the handsome, talented, loving young man I’m sure you’re going to be. I have loved every single day.”

“Even the day I brought all the stray cats into the house during that thunderstorm?” Virgil asks in a small voice, and his mother and father both laugh.

“Even that day,” she says. “Even when we were running around making sure soaking tomcats weren’t getting into fights and clawing up my carpets. Even the day you and your dad had the flu, and you were both puking everywhere, and I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Every single day.”

Virgil wiggles so his arms are out of the blankets, and reaches up to hug her around the neck, squeezing tight.

“I love you too,” he promises. “I love you every single day too.”

Dad’s arms wrap around them then, big and strong and tight, protective and warm. Virgil’s all squished up in between them, and Mom’s elbow is jabbing a little into his stomach, and they’re all hunched over a little awkward, but it’s the best hug ever. In the history of the world.

A pointed throat-clearing noise.

“Oh!” Dad says hastily, and there’s a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, I love you both every day too.”

They untangle, just a little, enough that they can all see each other’s faces, arms all still around each other.

“Love your Dad, but he’s a bit slow on the uptake,” Mom says, elbowing him playfully.

Dad turns to her, a joking offended look on his face, but she tilts her head at him.

“Who proposed? Asked for the first date?”

“Momma did,” Virgil says, and Mom shoots Dad a smug look.

“That’s ri-ight,” she sing-songs. “That’s right! Momma did!”

“Oh, I see how it goes,” Dad says, reaching over to tousle Virgil’s hair. “The pair of you teaming up against me, huh?”

“It’s not teaming up if we’re right,” Mom says smugly.

Dad laughs, leans over to kiss her forehead, smooths her hair back. “Yeah, okay. I’m a bit slow on the uptake. It runs in the family.” He pokes Virgil playfully in the belly. “So you’re in trouble, mister.”

Virgil wrinkles his nose, pokes him back. It kind of devolves into all of them poking each other, tickling each other, at one point Dad sweeping him up in his arms as Virgil squeals and yells as Mom chases them around the room.

“Okay,” Dad grunts at last, when all the laughter’s died down. “Okay! It’s really time for bed, now, for everyone.”

“Not yet, though,” Mom protests, “everyone’s all energized, now. It is time for cookies.”

“Cookies,” Virgil agrees, from where he’s flopped over on Dad’s back, looking at Mom upside-down, ignoring the click-click-click as he’s been doing since that early morning.

“Yeah, cookies,” Dad agrees.

“Cookies?” A voice purrs from the dark, and Virgil nearly falls from where he’s laying on Dad’s shoulder, jumping from surprise.

“Dee,” Mom laughs a little, settling Virgil with a hand. “Didn’t see you there. Warn a gal next time, would you?”

He simply inclines his head, asks “Tea?” and Dad sets Virgil down.

“Run and grab us four mugs, Virge?”

“Hot chocolate too,” Virgil checks, and Dad chuckles, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah, hot cocoa too.”

With a flick of his hand, the stove snaps on, and Virgil carefully selects four mugs from their vast, mismatched selection, setting them carefully in front of each person. The kettle settles on the stove at the same time the milk comes out from the fridge, the tea and cocoa emerging from the cupboard.

“What kind of tea, do you think?” Dad muses, tilting his head towards Mom, who’s collecting cookie-filled tupperware by hand and ducking flying items with practiced ease.

“Dealer’s choice,” Mom says, and glances ruefully at the tupperware. “There isn’t exactly a unified theme, here.”

“Black tea it is, then,” Dad says, glancing towards Uncle. “Earl grey?”

He hums and accepts the empty mug from Virgil.

“Okay, so,” Mom says, setting down the tupperware. “Being entirely honest here, I barely remember which type of cookie I put in each tupperware, so beware your choices.”

Uncle snorts, opens the tupperware nearest to him, and squints. Then he shrugs and lifts one free, snapping it in half.

Virgil’s still staring at him. Uncle’s the equivalent of Halloween; Virgil usually sees him once a year, and both are spooky in some way. Halloween because of course. Uncle, with his odd smiles and frowns, and the scales spanning the left side of his face, the snakey yellow eye—

Which flicks over to him, and the side of his mouth lifts in a smile. But not the kind of smile Mom or Dad give him; this was the kind of smile that Disney villains smiled. A Scar smile, an Ursula smile.

Virgil looks quickly towards the cookies, and shoves one into his mouth.

“Virgil, smaller bites, bud,” Dad says, setting down the hot chocolate. “Tea’s on in a second, all right?”

“Mkay,” Virgil mumbles, trying his hardest not to spew crumbs all over the table.

The kettle floats through the air and pours it, and Virgil blinks. The tea isn’t in bags, like they usually make; it’s just little bits of stuff in something.

“Loose leaf?” Uncle asks, lifting an eyebrow, and Dad gives a too-casual shrug.

“For old time’s sake,” he offers, and they both look at each other, in a way that’s too loaded for even Virgil to unparse, before they both take a sip from their mugs as Mom stirs her tea with the spoon handle, the soft clink-clink-clink just off-beat with the click-click-click that still sounds in the living room.

Virgil grabs a too-big handful of marshmallows and dumps it into his cocoa, avoiding the way Uncle’s gaze slid back to him.

The only sounds are sipping, quiet chewing, the occasional clink of a spoon, and the click of the mysterious beetle. Once Uncle and Dad both basically upend their mugs at the same time, wordlessly, they reach out and take the others and huddle over it.

From this angle, they’re just mirror images of each other. Dad is maybe a bit more muscular than Uncle; but without the scales or the eye in view, they look like the same person, just copied twice.

Virgil wonders what it’s like, to have a sibling like that. Dad and Uncle call each other once a week, plus the occasional weekend trip Dad and Mom take down to Ligerion to see family members while Virgil’s at a friend’s house. It’s just Mom and Dad and Virgil and the cats, here. Virgil wonders sometimes, what it’d be like to have a little brother, or a little sister. Someone to follow after you, someone who had your back, someone to share toys with. Babies are kind of noisy and smelly, though. He thinks he’s fine for now.

But sometimes, when he sees people with their siblings, he can’t help but think about it.

Because he’s supposed to have one. It’s a thing. Faes are supposed to have at least one sibling. Biological counterbalance, he thinks one of his older cousins said—magic divvying itself up along a family line. But there’s just him.

He can’t help but think about that too.

“What’s it look like?” Dad prompts, and Uncle wrinkles his nose, sets it aside deliberately.

“Nothing we know,” Uncle says. “Mine? We both know whose strengths lie in the divinatory arts.”

Dad sighs, runs the tip of his pinky over the rim of the mug. “House,” he says. “Big one. Which means change, likely related to family. Dashes, for travel, for which you should be cautious. A wheel—strong indicators of inevitable change, a series of events. Responsibility.”

Virgil blinks, tugs at Dad’s wrist. “How’s there a wheel in his tea?”

Uncle blinks too, first at Virgil, then at Dad. “He doesn’t know tasseography?”

Dad sighs a little. “We told you last time—we’re waiting until he’s ready.”

“How will he be ready if you never let him try?” Uncle says, and nods to Virgil. “When we were his age, we read leaves daily. Go on. Take the mug. Tell me what you see.”

Virgil blinks, first at Dad, then at the mug, before tugging it carefully from his father’s hands, turning it and squinting.

“I don’t see a wheel,” he says, glancing to Dad.

“It will come with practice,” Uncle says, and the gleam of his eye is sharp and bright. “Just say what you feel from the mug, Virgil.”

Virgil turns the mug over and over in his hands, staring still. He licks his lips nervously.

“I… I think you need to be really careful,” he says, into the mug. “Something is coming. Something really big. It’s going to change for forever. And I…” Virgil swallows. He feels like the mug is leeching the heat from his hands, taking something away from him. There’s something bad about the leaves, something that makes his stomach squirm like it’s full of snakes. He sets the mug away from his as far as possible.

“I don’t like it,” he whispers, and rubs his hands together, trying to shake them of the feeling.

“That’s okay,” Dad says quickly, wrapping an arm over Virgil’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s okay. That was a really great first try, Virge. You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“It’s bad,” he says into Dad’s chest, and his arms tighten around Virgil.

“I know, bud,” Dad murmurs. “I know, I saw it too. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Virgil is eased out of his Dad’s arms, plied with butterscotch cookies and even more marshmallows in his cocoa. But he sticks close to his Dad’s side, pressing against him, how warm he is; it’s the only way the snakes calm down. The mug, somewhere between Virgil hiding his face in his Dad’s chest and leaning into his side, has been placed safely away from him, the leaves dumped down the sink.

They work their way through a tupperware-and-a-half of cookies, any attempts at conversation muted and quiet, fading in and out at random. Virgil thinks the leaves might have taken any kind of energy or excitement he had—he just wants to curl up in some warm blankets and sleep, now, not listen to the clicking beetle or Mom’s attempts at small talk.

Soon enough, when Virgil’s mug is empty and he’s full to bursting with cookies and he’s nodding off against Dad’s side, he’s getting lifted up into the air, into Dad’s arms. Virgil mumbles sleepily and lays his head on Dad’s shoulder, twisting his hand into Dad’s shirt.

He drifts off before he’s even put in bed.

He wakes up to rumbling. He’s aware he’s rising and lowering, very gently, as if he fell asleep at sea, and he’s very warm. Virgil hears a slow tha-thump, tha-thump under his ear, and at last blinks his eyes open.

Dad’s awake too, smiling fondly at Mom, as she keeps making the rumbling noises—snoring. The rising-lowering was where his head’s pillowed on Dad’s chest.

They’re all crammed into Virgil’s bed, the tiny twin, so Mom’s head’s pillowed on Dad’s chest too, Mom tucked between the wall and Dad, Virgil near the edge of the bed.

Virgil pats Dad’s chest, and nods towards Mom. Dad grins, rubbing a hand up and down Virgil’s back.

“Welcome to my world,” he whispers to Virgil. “Let’s try to not wake her up, huh? She needs sleep.”

Not waking up Mom involves wriggling very carefully off the bed, and helping Dad sneak a pillow under her head while he wriggles even more carefully out of the bed and helping tuck her in too. It is a lot of wiggling and trying not to laugh at each other and shushing each other whenever it seems like the other one is close to breaking the silence. Virgil even kisses her on the forehead the way she always does to him.

They wander downstairs, to where Uncle is already sitting, sipping from another mug of tea—no tea leaves, which makes Virgil shiver with relief.

Maybe he’s shivering because the clicking’s even louder today. Maybe that’s why. He can’t always tell.

“All right, well, I’ll make some breakfast,” Dad says, and adds, “Dee, how about Virgil shows you the sunning rocks, so you can talk to the snakes while we get a few things sorted out here?”

Uncle narrows his eyes at Dad, but Virgil is already going to put on his shoes.

“Careful, all right?” Dad tells Virgil. “Dee’s not used to walking with kids, you’re gonna have to show him the ropes.”

Uncle scoffs, but follows Virgil out onto the porch. Virgil, absentminded, reaches out and takes his gloved hand as they walk down the steps.

“What are you doing,” he says, in a flat, suspicious tone, practically recoiling, but not letting go of Virgil’s hand.

“I’m s’posed to hold hands whenever I have to cross streets,” Virgil says, and gestures to the land beyond the yard. “Street.”

Uncle shakes his head, seeming confused, but doesn’t let go of Virgil’s hand as Virgil leads him across the street, towards the sunning rock near the opening of the neighborhood, where the sign welcomes people to Russett Grove. The sign provides the only shadow—even now, there is a familiar cat lounging in the sun, opening a baleful yellow eye at Virgil, flicking her tail, before closing it again.

“Somewhere around here,” Virgil says at last, going to sit next to the cat. “There’s snakes.”

“Yes, I hear them,” Uncle says absentmindedly, crouching down. His tone’s changing; the s’s are getting longer, a bit more pronounced, and his snakey eye seems to flicker in the light.

“Hello, snakes,” Uncle rumbles, and even though it’s just as bright and sunny as the day before, Virgil could swear that there was a shadow dropping, curling around him, dousing the summer’s light, highlighting his scales. The familiar cat’s hackles rise; Virgil puts a hand into her ruff, as much comfort as it is caution.

Uncle smiles, wide and cutting, and Virgil’s hand tightens in the cat’s fur.

And then he hisses.

Seeming to emerge from the rocks themselves, tens, looking like hundreds of slimy, sinuous bodies writhed free, crawling from stone, through the grasses, from the trees, with silent, eerie speed. They wrestle, twist, break, but always come forth, to them, to the rocks. It’s like they’re a single, homogenous mass, but Virgil can see all the separate snakes making it up, and Virgil doesn’t even move as the cat yowls and sprints away. The snakes slip over pebbles, the road, converging all as one, twining together, to Uncle, to him alone. Virgil knows that it’s morning, that the sun around them is beating strong on their necks and backs, but it’s like they’re in the depth of a forest, in the depths of the sea, surrounded by great swathing shadows and the dark, and Virgil doesn’t know what’s there, what’s hiding in the dark—

“You,” Uncle murmurs, voice like wind rustling the grass, and all at once, the snakes fall still, and Virgil tries to stop shaking.

“My nephew has dominion over this land,” Uncle says, soft and dangerous all at once, and gestures to Virgil with a yellow glove. “The cats have territory upon this rock. Find elsewhere to warm your blood.”

At once, all the snakes hiss; to Virgil, it sounds like dissent, disagreement, and he sees a few triangular heads turn to him, show fangs gleaming with—with venom, he thinks, and curls tighter on the rock. He’s not running. He’s terrified but he’s not running. He thinks that would just make things worse.

“Elsewhere,” Uncle intones, and waves a dismissive hand; all at once, the mass disbands, separating into singular scaled bodies again, hissing as they slither away, back, down into the receding dark. Virgil can feel the sun heating the top of his head again. Good, he thinks distantly—he’s very cold all of a sudden.

Virgil looks up as Uncle steps, blocking the sun, face looming above him unreadable. He looks… otherworldly. Different. Like he’s something to be feared. Like he isn’t even human.

Virgil opens his mouth, and what comes out is “Did it hurt?”

Uncle’s snakey eye narrows.

“Did it hurt,” Virgil repeats, and gestures to the left side of his own face—where the scales sit on Uncle’s face.

Uncle smiles. “That’s not what normal people usually ask.”

“We’re not normal people,” Virgil points out. “Did it?”

He smiles wider. “Not at all,” he says, and offers Virgil his hand.

Virgil stares a bit longer, before he takes it, and they make their way back to the yellow house, where Dad is whistling as he plates up eggs and bacon.

“How’s the rock?” Dad asks, nudging a plate of two sunny-side up eggs and bacon shaped into a frown towards Uncle, who frowns at it.

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents,” Uncle says, stabbing at the yolk of one of the eggs, so the runny yellow leaks all down the plate. “We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.”

Virgil tilts his head; he gets toast, cheesy scrambled eggs, and bacon set in front of him as Dad asks, “Do I have to guess why you’re quoting H.P. Lovecraft at my five-year-old son?”

“Who’s H.P. Lovecraft?” Virgil asks, picking up his fork and nudging at the little toast triangles.

“An author,” Dad says, distractedly ruffling Virgil’s hair. “What, did something go wrong with the snakes? Should I be worried you’re going to try to call Cthulhu upon my neighborhood?”

Uncle smiles, all pointy teeth, and shoves most of an egg into his mouth; Dad scowls and flicks at his bowler hat, so it sits crooked on top of his head.

“Snakes left,” Virgil offers, because he doesn’t really know how else to describe the temporary eclipse that happened. “I think they know the sunning rock’s for cats now.”

“Well, that’s something,” Dad says. “Apple juice or OJ, Virge?”

“Apple, please,” Virgil says dutifully. The further he is from the rock, the easier it is to believe that it was just that simple; the snakes understood, the snakes left. Uncle doesn’t look nearly so threatening with his bowler hat crooked on his head and a bit of egg yolk smeared on his cheek.

A Lion King cup full of apple juice gets set in front of him, and Mom wanders in, sleepily tugging her hair back into a braid.

“Hi, lovey,” Mom says, bending down to smack a kiss to Virgil’s cheek, and she straightens, smiling, as Dad approaches swiftly. He’s twisting his hands all together, looking at her rapturously.

“Hi, lovey,” she tells him, a bit more teasing, and he leans in, cupping her cheek, and kisses her.

Usually their kisses are quick little things, whenever they think Virgil’s watching; but right now, they’re doing a long kiss, a movie kind of kiss, where their heads are tilting and stuff, and Mom’s hand comes up to his neck before they break apart. Virgil realizes he’s probably supposed to say “Gross!” or cover his eyes or something, but it’s just… nice, he guesses. That they love each other.

“Well,” Mom says, flustered. “Good morning.”

“Hi,” he says, then, “Sorry, um, your toast might be a bit burnt, I’ll eat it instead if you want—”

He bustles over to the stove, and Mom sits down, stealing a sip from Virgil’s cup even as Virgil squawks in protest.

Soon enough, Dad and Mom are sitting next to each other, stealing bites off each others’ plates and sipping from each other’s cups. Virgil defends his apple juice from all sides, and even manages to take one of Mom’s precious bits of bacon. Dad does eat the more-burnt bits of toast, like he promised.

“So,” Uncle says idly, once everyone’s plates are cleared, “what are we to do today?”

Dad and Mom look between each other, and they both shrug.

“Honestly,” Dad says, “we didn’t really expect to get this far, so.”

Uncle lets out a put-upon sigh. “Well, what do you usually do for an idyllic summer day, in the lovely suburbs?”

Dad smiles. It is not a particularly nice smile. It is the kind of smile he gets whenever he has put glitter into the laundry detergent or dye in the shampoo. “So, you want a nice little slice of suburban life, right? That’s what you’re saying?”

Uncle had the distinct expression of someone who had wandered directly into a trap and had no way out of it.

Virgil thinks the day is really nice, even if Uncle is dragging his feet and sighing loudly in the background of everything they do that day. They go to the park, and have a picnic lunch, and Dad and Mom even play a game of tennis even though they’re both really bad at tennis, and Virgil gets this weird iced drink from Starbucks, and Mom is wearing this weird matching sweatsuit thing Virgil’s never seen her wear and Dad is wearing an eyesearing teal shirt and cargo shorts.

“It’s a shame we’re not in the middle of the school year, we could have taken you to a PTA meeting,” Mom chirps happily at Uncle as they pull up to a Sonic, and Uncle gives her a halfhearted glare from where he’s also stationed in the backseat.

“You’ve made your point.”

“Have we?” Mom asks, amused, turning to look at Dad, who is perusing the menu. “I’m not sure if we have.”

“Can I get a grape slushie?” Virgil asks.

“What do you say?” Dad prompts.

Virgil sighs, and says, “Can I get a grape slushie, please?”

“You sure can,” Dad declares. “What kind do you want, wifey?”

“Oh, I’m not sure, hubby,” Mom says, wiggling around to see the menu better.

That’s a thing that’s been happening today too. The really ridiculous pet names. They haven’t repeated one yet.

Eventually, everyone gets a slushie, even Uncle, and they go home, where Virgil and Dad play soccer in the yard as Mom makes lemonade from scratch, over a stove with lemons and sugar, sticky and sweet. Virgil can taste it on the air.

“Do you usually play soccer?” Uncle asks idly, and Virgil shakes his head even has he chases after Dad, who is dribbling the ball back and forth.

“Nah,” Virgil says easily.

Dad flashes a grin at Uncle, and adds, “Just figured we’d round out the whole experience, right?”

Mom comes out then, with glasses of lemonade and sections of oranges, along with last of the many tupperware containers of cookies. She’s since changed out of the sweatsuit and more into her normal attire, a button-down tucked into a pair of jean shorts, the ones Virgil helped cut the hem; he can see from how crooked they are.

Uncle sighs but takes his glass, and a cookie. “The pair of you are unsufferable as ever.”

“Aw, we love you too,” Mom says. “Virge, show me your hands.”

Virgil does, and she hands him a wet wipe to get rid of the dirt before he can grab a cookie, too.

Uncle sticks the orange piece in his mouth, looking kinda silly with the orange skin covering his teeth, giving him a big, uniform smile. Virgil does the same, enjoying the sharp-sweet taste of it.

“And, uh, sweetheart,” Mom says, and tugs lightly at Dad’s sleeve. “We… we have a kitchen issue.”

He blinks. “That’s usually more your area than mine.”

“I should rephrase,” she says. “We have a kitchen issue that’s more aligned with your side of the family’s expertise.”

Uncle stands, then, and Virgil trails after, grabbing another orange slice, and coming to a stop in the doorway.

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK, the beetle shrieks, it’s loud, it’s louder than it’s ever been, louder and faster.

Mom, only semi-calmly, opens up the fridge door and brings out a bag.

“Marinating chicken for dinner,” Mom says. “Already rotted.” She gestured, vague. “Rotted meat, spoiled milk, rotted fruits and vegetables. Thought about making eggs for dinner, but, well. We only had a couple. Cracked one to see.” She holds up a bowl.

“No yolk,” Dad says, hushed, and exchanges glances with Uncle. He reaches out, takes another one, and cracks it.

Same thing. White and runny, no yolk.

“We went on a grocery run three days ago, this shouldn’t—” Mom begins, and rubs a hand over her eyes.

“It’s starving us out,” Uncle murmurs. “Wants us to leave.”

“Delivery,” Dad suggests, and Uncle shoots him a Look.

“You think you can outsmart it?”

“I’m not suggesting—” he began heatedly, before he cut himself off, and took a breath. “I’m not suggesting outsmarting it,” he says, calmer. “I’m considering just—ignoring it. So, we’re out of food. We’ll order a pizza. Chinese. Whatever.”

Uncle pauses, and nods, putting up his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Fine, fine. Order food in. I’m sure nothing will happen.”

They end up ordering Chinese. Waiting for the food to come, they throw out the spoiled food, and Uncle shows Virgil how to make a quarter appear and disappear in his hands, just a quick bit of sleight of hand. Trickery, instead of actual magic. Virgil thinks it’s kind of funny, but his hands aren’t quite big enough to get away with it yet.

Uncle pulls a quarter from behind his ear and flicks his fingers, making it vanish yet again. “As with all things, it never takes practice,” he says, before twisting the quarter into thin air.

Virgil nods, and soon after, the doorbell rings.

It’s another quiet meal; Mom and Dad split a huge plate of General Tso’s, while Virgil eats his honey chicken and white rice, and Uncle eats lo mein.

“Oh,” Mom says, and, “Honey, did you order cookies? We’ve still got the last of a Tupperware to get through.”

Dad blinks, peeking in. “Nope,” he says. “Must be a complimentary kind of thing. Replaces the fortune cookies, I guess. Dee, you won’t want any of these—almond and coconut.”

Uncle’s face twists, and he sticks his nose into the air in disgust.

“Have we got any chocolate?” Virgil asks, and sacrifices his almond-and-coconut restaurant cookie for extra of Mom’s, because Mom’s cookies are the best cookies.

He ignores the clicking, like he’s done for the past couple days. It gives him the same bad feeling the tea leaves had, except worse, and all Virgil can do is try to tune it out.

“Okay,” Dad says, and checks the time. “Virge, bud, it’s getting to be that time. Can I trust you to brush your teeth by yourself?”

Virgil sighs, but nods, getting up from the ground and plodding grudgingly to the bathroom. He does brush his teeth, if a bit more carelessly than he would if Dad had been watching, and changes into pajamas.

Mom and Dad come in again, this time Mom reading Guess How Much I Love You.

“Do you like your Uncle, Virgil?” Dad asks, after the story, and Virgil blinks at him.

“He’s weird,” Virgil decides. “But funny.”

Dad smiles, and smooths Virgil’s blanket over his chest. “Weird but funny,” he says. “That’s a pretty decent review, I guess. We’re twins, you know?”

“Mhm.”

“Growing up, I just had him. My Dad—” he pauses, fiddles more with the blanket’s edge, before Mom’s hand closes over his fingers. “Our father died when I was little, y’see, and our mother was never really the same after that. It was me and Dee, against the world. And your Mom, of course, but—but not quite in the same way, you know? He’s… yeah, okay, he’s weird. And a lot of people don’t really get that about him. They see the eye, and the scales, and he treats people… not quite the best, sometimes. But he really cares about me—and your Mom, though that took a bit of time, and you, of course. In his own special, weird, funny way. It’s hard to spot sometimes. But it’s still there.”

“Okay,” Virgil says.

“He kind of speaks his own language, and it takes a while to get it. Even I’m not sure I’ve got him right a hundred percent of the time. And he can be kind of… unnerving, I know. I saw your face when you got back from sunning rock this morning. I guess—” He pauses, and swallows. “I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes when someone loves you, they want the best for you. You and the person that loves you might disagree on what that is.”

“Like how?” Virgil asks, and Mom and Dad glance between each other.

“Well,” Dad says, “Like your Mom. Dee really, really didn’t want me to even date your Mom, let alone marry her.”

“What?” Virgil asks, scandalized. “But you two love each other!”

“And he sees that now,” Dad promises. “He might not… understand, but he understands. Does that make sense?”

“Nope,” Virgil says.

“What your Dad’s saying is, your Uncle’s heart’s usually in the right place, he just goes about things in a really unusual way, most of the time. And sometimes he’s really wrong about it, and you have to do what’s right for you anyways.” Mom says. “And by sometimes, I mean just sometimes. He might not show he loves you like we do, or take care of you like we do, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Right?”

“Right,” Virgil says, mostly just deciding to go along with it.

“And, okay, look,” Dad adds, “Most of the time, I was the one taking care of him. Dee… well, he doesn’t really quite know how to handle people. He’s not very good with people. But he still—”

“Loves me,” Virgil says. “Right.”

Dad looks… relieved? He smiles, and smooths back Virgil’s hair, leaning forwards to kiss him on the forehead.

“And I love you too,” he says. “So much.”

“Didn’t even have to prompt you into it today,” Mom teases, nudging him with her elbow so she can kiss Virgil on the forehead too. “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you both too,” Virgil says.

Years and years later, Virgil will be incredibly grateful that that’s the last thing he says to the pair of them that night.

Because in the midst of the night, he’s shaken awake by rough hands.

“What’s happening?” Virgil mumbles.

“It’s me,” Uncle says, gruff, and Virgil squeaks as Uncle lifts him clumsily out of bed, before sometimes scratchy’s draped over his head.

“What’s going on?”

“Do not take that off,” Uncle says sharply, and Virgil feels himself getting jostled as Uncle walks down the hallway, down the stairs.

“Why, what’s happening?” Virgil asks, anxious. “What’s going on, what’s—?”

There’s more fumbling with Virgil, a word that gets a dollar for the naughty jar, and then a blast of warm summer’s night air as Virgil is brought out, set down on the sidewalk, and at last the scratchy thing is removed from his face—

Virgil squints, bringing up a hand to avoid the wash of blue and red, the cars, the ambulance.

“What’s happened,” Virgil asks, tugging at Uncle’s pantleg, a lump growing in his throat, making his voice scratchy and desperate. “What’s going on, I don’t—”

Uncle crouches, opens up Virgil’s fist, and drops something into it.

Virgil squints, and holds his hand flat open.

It’s a beetle.

A dead one.

Virgil, all at once, understands what it means—the red and blue lights, the ambulance outside, why Uncle didn’t let him look, the beetle, the beetle, the beetle—

And Virgil—

Virgil screams.

[thedungeonra]

My thoughts on THE LAST JEDI

It’s Christmas Eve-eve and I’m working 2nd shift.   It’s finally calmed down a bit so this seems a good time to talk about my difficult relationship with STAR WARS: THE LAST JEDI.

I overall dislike the film, both as the 8th episode of the Star Wars Saga/9th film overall in the entire franchise and as a film on its own merit. But there was a lot I liked about the film.  A lot I LOVED about the film.  Which perhaps makes it more frustrating.  Were TLJ as categorically bad as say, HIGHLANDER 2: The one where they’re from the Planet Zeist, I would actually have a much easier time disliking it.

But first, what exactly is my history with Star Wars?

EMPIRE STRIKES BACK was the first film I ever saw in a theater.   My older brother took me.  I was all of 4.   I saw STAR WARS on TV later on and it was not until RETURN OF THE JEDI that I connected the dots that it was the same film.  You gotta remember that for my generation, what you call, “Episode IV: A NEW HOPE,” was just STAR WARS to us.   I loved ESB.  And collected what little merchandise was available in early 80s rural Indiana.

I’ve seen EMPIRE STRIKES BACK more than any other film.   I have a son, college-age right now, who grew up with the prequels.    We had our various lightsaber battles, and played the video games together and bought the toys.  It was great!

I don’t hate the prequels in the en vogue way that GenXers seem to hate them.  Jar Jar doesn’t bother me all that much.  Nor does Jake Lloyd’s Anakin.  I still fire up the DVD from time to time for the Podrace and Darth Maul duels.  And Qui-Gon is one of my favorite SW characters.  

I really enjoyed ATTACK OF THE CLONES because it feels like Ewan really had fun playing Obi-Wan.  And SITH… well… it’s not great.    I think the last two minutes of ROGUE ONE makes up a lot for the last two minutes of SITH.  It’s the Darth Vader we’ve wanted to see for decades.

And I loved FORCE AWAKENS. I really dig all four new leads. I was bummed that Luke had nothing to do and I felt Han got a really bittersweet ending (as did Harrison Ford finally get the exit he wanted from the franchise).  I thought the structural similarities between IV and VII were a feature, not a bug.   And I’ve been all for VIII since.

 Until.  The trailers for VIII began.  Something felt… not quite right.  And yeah, feel free to insert your, “I feel a great disturbance in the Force) joke here.  I couldn’t get excited for anything I was seeing in the trailers.  

Even seeing Luke in the cockpit of the Falcon felt like the grapes of Han’s, “Chewie, we’re home” to prunes in my mouth.   I assumed Luke would die in this film.  And after we lost Carrie Fisher much too soon, it was hard accepting that IX would be without Luke, Han and Leia.  I waited for the crowds to thin a bit and saw TLJ on Tuesday after opening weekend. 70mm IMAX at the Indiana State Museum, if knowing that of trivia is fun for you.

Now, then.  I’m not a film critic and this is not a film review. I’m just a middle aged Star Wars lover and film nerd.  

 But before we get into what I disliked about it, let’s start off on a positive note!  Firstly, I do understand and respect that Rian Johnson had essentially 4 basic audiences for this film, none of whom view Star Wars the same way.  Baby Boomers what saw STAR WARS in college; we GenXers what grew up with the movies; Millennials who grew up with the Preqs; and kids today whose first Star Wars theater experience was THE FORCE AWAKENS.  That’s a heavy burden and if anything, I feel like they failed in trying to appease to these 4 quadrants of the fandom.

I loved the opening battle sequence.  It’s maybe the best star war in Star Wars.  It looks and sounds great.  There is great conflict and drama.  It has this amazing gut punch with the last bomber.  Just superb.

I still really just love the four new leads.  Those are all rich characters.

I’ve seen a lot of people grousing about Rose and specifically, the entire casino sub-plot.  Rose was great!  In a movie where people are all over the place on the emotional spectrum, Rose felt like really the only person whose emotional responses actually made sense in their given contexts.  And she delivers the theme of the film at the end, which I did enjoy.  

And the space casino heist? Are you kidding me?  James Bond in space.  Loved it.  I felt the animal cruelty and slavery beats a bit too on the nose, but that’s just a taste thing.  I think my very first reaction on the twitters was something to the effect of, “a great space casino heist film wrapped in a shitty Star Wars story.” Beneicio Del Toro was certainly memorable.  I thought they were teasing a new Han Solo-ish scoundrel but instead, he’s this great foil to Finn.  I DJ shows back up again either in IX or in Rian Johnson’s spinoff films.    

My only real quibble with the casino scene was that Justin Theroux’s high stakes gambler/slicers should have been Lando, right?  You can’t put Billy Dee Williams at a Sabacc table for 30 seconds?  Also seeing how the owner of the ship DJ stole sells to the Resistance and the 1st Order, having him still Lando’s ship would have been a nice touch.   In the absence of the Rebellion and Han, Lando is not the best version of his self. Anyway, I’m not here to write a different movie.

I also really liked Laura Dern’s Admiral Holdo and I enjoyed how she shut down Poe’s mansplaining.   I don’t understand some of the choices made with Holdo, but  more on that in a bit.   Holdo crashing the Mon Cal cruiser into the 1st Order fleet while at lightspeed was insanely cool.  That’s the stuff we only ever imagined in the old Star Wars RPG; never thought I’d see something like that on screen.

Didn’t mind the Yoda cameo. Don’t understand people who say, “bro, that should have been Obi-Wan, bro.”  I don’t agree, but whatever.  Yoda seemed perfect to me.  

I don’t think it’s the best lightsaber fight in Star Wars, but seeing Kylo Ren and Rey fight together was really cool.  Was great to see the combat training the actors have done get a few minutes to shine.

BB-8.  Big fan.  I don’t understand why BB-8 didn’t get a moment to take out BB-9e while in that 1st Order Chicken Walker.  Would have been a quick scene and very satisfying.  Oh well.

The big ground assault on the rebel base at the end was great. That’s the ground battle I expected from the trailer of ROGUE ONE that didn’t seem to be in the movie.  I wonder if there’s a connection?

All of the performances were superb.  Carrie Fisher especially.  

The film was a series of several, often disconnected moments, that I thought were really good.

Now the bad stuff.  I find it insanely annoying and not a little condescending to allege that people who do not like THE LAST JEDI are obsessive fanboys who cannot let go of the past.   Or that we don’t understand the goals and themes of the film.  I get it.  Conceptually, I’m on board.  I’m VERY ready for the formula of STAR WARS to be reinvented.   I don’t need to see rehashes of Sith vs Jedi, Empire vs Rebellion, Skywalker vs Skywalker.  It’s tired. I know.   Dudes wanna fly off half-cocked into conflict when they should listen to the counsel of wiser women.  I KNOW.

Just… be good at doing those things.

So here’s what I hated:

The film doesn’t actually move the story forward.  The movie ends with the same status quo as the beginning:  

the 1st Order has the New Republic Resistance on the ropes and is assaulting their base.

Rey doesn’t have a teacher.

The 1st Order is exactly as effective with Snoke cut into pieces as it was when he was alive.

The Resistance is exactly as effective when a demoted Commander leads a mutiny against a Vice Admiral as it was with General Leia in charge.  

This film sets on fires many dangling plot points set-up by JJ in VII only to return the story to the same position.

And so on.  You get it.  It’s the illusion of change.  

I hated every scene with Luke Skywalker.    Man, just one huge bummer after another.   And again, conceptually, I can by that he’s at least a Grey Jedi now and believes both the Sith and Jedi are wrong in the possessive perspectives on the Force.  I can buy that he went off to Ach-To to cut himself off from the Force and die.  I can buy that he, in a moment of weakness, could not figure out how to save Ben Solo from the Dark Side and was tempted himself to take the quick and easy path.  He did, after all, cut Darth Vader’s hand off in the Death Star II Throne room.

But all of those things were executed in a clumsy way that seemed to have little regard for the character. It was a gigantic bummer.  Would have also been nice if someone had bothered to tell Luke that his best friend died at the hands of his own son.  Maybe that’s what Chewie told him?  Or Artoo?  But I dunno.  It’s not clear and they gave Mark Hamill nothing to work with in those moments.  

I absolutely hated his hero moment at the end.  Why set up Old Logan Luke who doesn’t want to face down the entire 1st Order with a laser sword in the 1st Act if he does it but not really in the 3rd Act?  There’s a wishy-washy desire to have things both ways in this film that drives me nuts.

Also, Luke on Denouement Planet was the clunkiest “misdirect” of the entire film.  I’ve only seen the film once and at my first viewing, it was obvious to me that this was not actually Luke.  

A) We’ve just seen three different flashbacks of Jedi Master Luke from his New Jedi Academy days after RotJ. And Denouement Luke looks exactly like Jedi Master Luke and not the Wild Man of Borneo from the first two Acts.

B)  the movie makes a big deal of showing us that the slightest disturbance to the surface crust of that salt pan will reveal the red dust underneath (which was a rad visual element).   And when Kylo Ren sets his foot in Sith Action Pose, we see the red underneath.  Whereas Luke is clearly NOT disrupting anything.  

C) How dumb is Kylo Ren that even though he just destroyed Anakin Skywalker’s blue lightsaber 10 minutes before landing, Luke is somehow wielding it?  I think there’s an argument to be made that Luke intentionally chooses a younger visage of himself (of the last time Ben Solo saw him) and is also using his own legacy against him (Anakin’s lightsaber) to put him off balance. But the film does not convey this.

All combined, these three elements rob all the underlying drama tension from that conflict because it’s obvious he isn’t there.

The dialogue was troublesome for me.  I legit sat there, stunned, at the end looking for a Diablo Cody writing credit. Remember how I loved the opening battle? Everything but that bit with Poe and Hux.  It was funny the first time.  The, “Holding for Hux” part after Hux did his nefarious monologue.  But they kept hitting that same beat.  Over and over.  I would have not batted an eye had Poe called Hux, “homeslice” in that moment. Thus, Diablo Cody.  

Also, Snoke’s “spunk.” line. Lolwut?  Though I had a chuckle and thought to myself, “… and wriggling” after Andy Serkis said, “raw.”

Why do they keep wasting Gwendoline Christie as Phasma?  Have they not seen GAME OF THRONES?  Are they unaware of the jewel in their crown?

The editing.  This film needs a good once-over to trim about 20 minutes out.  Do we need to see Luke milking a Watto-Cow or spearfishing?  Did we need to see Luke’s X-Wing parked underwater when it’s just an unnecessary head-fake?  As much as I did enjoy the casino bit, it felt over-stuffed.  

The wishy-washiness. Oh man.  This is the ultimate dealbreaker for me.  Look, I don’t mind Rey is the daughter of a couple Trump voters from Jakku with no connection to the Skywalkers.  The scene where Kylo Ren tells her, “You don’t even belong here. No one cares about you but me.” is fantastic.  I loved it. I love their relationship and I hope to all the cinema gods they stick to their guns and don’t reveal that Ben and Rey are just Jacen and Jaina Solo lite.  

Don’t waste our precious film time in VII making a huge mystery deal out of who Rey is and who her parents are in VII just to reveal in VIII that she’s nobody from nowhere one-hundredth of her name.  And don’t especially get pissy at me because I’m frustrated that you wasted my time on a non-mysterious mystery.  That’s false drama, breh.  And a really hacky way to “deconstruct” a story.

If you’re going to really deconstruct what we know about this story and these characters, then do it.  “Flip you. Flip you, for real.”  Don’t try to have your space cake and eat it too.    

Luke is done with this mess and isn’t going to show up and play the hero.  Until he does.  But not really.  

Kylo Ren has good in him, but not really.

Rey has darkness in her, but not really.

Now, this is not the same thing as a character arc.  I don’t lump this in with Poe being a brash self-centered pilot at the beginning but a real leader by the end.  I’m for that.  

I’m talking about if LAST JEDI were broken into numerical values, for every 1 there is a -1 and the story of the movie feels like a sum of 0.

Now, there are a lot of nitpicky things I’ve shared with the people in my life (most of whom are glad I’ve turned my focus to the internet).  Like, “what’s the deal with Snoke?  Who is he and what does he want?”  That’s just subjective, “season-to-taste” stuff that grates on me but I don’t feel objectively bad.   “Who is Snoke and what does he want?” was not a focal point of the previous film.  

Samey-same with Holdo not sharing her plan.  Finn’s plan actually not accomplishing anything.  If they knew they were being tracked and had two jumps left and a 6 minute window, why not prepare the transports, jump the old rebel base, unload the transport and jump again in 5 minutes?  That kind of thing.  You know, things people call, “plot holes” on the internet that are not actually plot holes.

Leia Force Flying through space after the bridge exploded.  Just looked dumb.  If there was any excuse for Leia to bust out a lightsaber, this was the moment.  That would have been choice.    Tangential to this: the unceremonious death of Admiral Ackbar.

But those are digressions.

I would probably like this story much more if it were the last half of FORCE AWAKENS rather than a movie all unto itself.

That said, I think this petition to remove TLJ from the canon of SW films is idiotic.  This film is going to make a billion dollars by New Years and Disney appears to be giving Rian Johnson his own spinoff franchise. So yeah, this movie isn’t going anywhere.  

I also think its real low class to jump on twitter and be a raging dickmunch to Rian Johnson.  I’ll never understand why people punish creators for being easily accessible.   Or to people who loved the movie.  I’m not here to convince you that you shouldn’t love THE LAST JEDI or tell you you’re a dumb-dumb if you did.  I simply find it difficult to like for Star Wars movie reasons and movie-movie reasons.

I actually look forward to Johnson’s spinoff film because he seems much more comfortable with new characters.  I think he’s a person like Zahn who will add a lot of new hated and loved characters. But unlike Zahn, I don’t think he has a steady hand with legacy characters.

So that’s it.  6 pages on a Word document later (assuming you stuck around).  Feel free to hit me back on the twitterbox to tell me how both right and wrong I am!

May the Force be something or other.  But probably not.