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tcm · 4 years ago

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In Memory of Brian, Fred and Jerry by Susan King

I mourn the loss of Hollywood legends, especially those I have interviewed over the years. I broke into tears when Debbie Reynolds died four years ago, recalling our last chat together in 2016 when we did a duet of “Moses Supposes.” And I still haven’t watched TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD (’62) since Gregory Peck died in 2003. I had the opportunity to interview the handsome Oscar-winner at his now torn down home in 1997 and 1999. He was everything you’d hope he would be – sweet, intelligent and funny. He also loved Bob Dylan. His last words to me as he walked me to my car were: “You are a most interesting young lady.”

In 2020 alone, I lost over 20 former interviewees including Kirk Douglas, whom I interviewed eight times between 1986-2017, and my beloved Olivia de Havilland, who I found to be delightful and a bit ribald in the two interviews I did with her. I got more than a little misty when Brian Dennehy, Fred Willard and Jerry Stiller died this year. They were supremely talented and made our lives a little brighter with their performances. And, they all were great guys and fun interviews.

Brian Dennehy

I interviewed Brian Dennehy, who died in April at the age of 81, several times in the early 1990s when I was at the L.A. Times. The former U.S. Marine and football player was intimidating at first sight. He was tall, burly and barrel-chested. He had a no-nonsense quality about him, and he spoke his mind. But he also was funny.

In 1991, discussing how hard it was for some actors to land parts after starring in a TV series, he noted “coming off a TV series is a tough deal, and you go into limbo land for a while, if not forever. Most actors go immediately to the ‘Island of Lost Actors’ and stay there. Troy Donahue is the mayor.” Dennehy never went to that island. Not with the complex and often memorable performances he gave in such films as FIRST BLOOD (’82), SILVERADO (’85), COCOON (’85), PRESUMED INNOCENT (’90) and as Big Tom in the comedy TOMMY BOY (’95).

He was nominated for five Emmys, including one for his chilling turn as serial killer John Wayne Gacy in the miniseries To Catch a Killer (’92).

I had one of the most extraordinary evenings at the theater in 2000 when Dennehy reprised his Tony Award-winning role as the tragic Willy Loman at the Ahmanson Theatre in Los Angeles in the lauded revival of Arthur Miller’s masterpiece Death of a Salesman. It was a gut-wrenching performance that left me emotionally exhausted. He earned another Tony in 2003 as James Tyrone in the revival of Eugene O’Neill’s superb Long Day’s Journey into Night. And he never stopped working.

Shortly after his death, the drama DRIVEWAYS (2020) was released on streaming platforms. And it could be Dennehy’s greatest performance. He plays Del, an elderly widower and Korean War vet who sparks a warm friendship with Cody, the young boy next door. The reviews for the film (it’s at 100% fresh on Rotten Tomatoes) and Dennehy have been glowing. The L.A. Times’ Justin Chang wrote that Dennehy’s Del is as “forceful and tender a creation as any in this great actor’s body of work.” And Jeannette Catsoulis of The New York Times stated: “What we might remember most, perhaps appropriately, are Dennehy’s warm, weary features and rich line readings. In a lovely final monologue, Del advises Cody to avoid rushing past the experiences in life that matter, as they pass so quickly on their own. Much like the careers of beloved actors.”

Fred Willard

I first encountered Fred Willard as the clueless sidekick of sleazy talk show host Barth Gimble (Martin Mull) in the late 1970s on the syndicated comedy series Fernwood Tonight and its continuation America 2-Night. I quickly became a fan, and that admiration grew when he became a member of Christopher Guest’s stock company of zanies in such comedies as WAITING FOR GUFFMAN (’96) and BEST IN SHOW (2000). In the latter, he played the equally clueless dog show announcer Buck Laughlin who quipped in his color commentary, “And to think that in some counties these dogs are eaten.”

Willard told me in a 2012 L.A. Times interview that he didn’t think he was funny until he was an adult. “I always loved comedy growing up – Bob Hope, Red Skelton and Danny Kaye,” said Willard, who died in May at the age of 86.

Willard got a serious part in Tennessee Williams’ one-act in a summer theater group when he was in his 20s. “I was getting laughs on all the lines,” he noted. “The director got upset because the audiences were always laughing. I didn’t try to do it deliberately. Then I realized I would say things around people, and they would laugh. I didn’t mean to be funny. I have always been relaxed around comedy.”

Just as Dennehy, Willard kept working. In fact, he received an Emmy nomination posthumously for his hilarious turn as Ty Burrell’s goofball dad on ABC’s Modern Family. He told me he wished he could try to do more dramatic fare like in Clint Eastwood’s World War II drama Flags of Our Fathers (2006). Willard even called his agent to see if he could get a role in the movie. “Clint Eastwood’s people called back and said, ‘We love Fred, but we are afraid if he appeared on the screen, they might start to laugh.’’’

Jerry Stiller

Jerry Stiller was a real sweetie and also very thoughtful. He sent me a lovely thank you note when I interviewed him and his wife, Anne Meara, in the early 1990s. When I talked to him for his son Ben Stiller’s remake of THE HEARTBREAK KID (2007), Stiller sent me a lovely bouquet of flowers. Ditto in 2010 when I interviewed the couple for a Yahoo! Web series Stiller & Meara: A Show About Everything. I also received Christmas cards until Meara died in 2015.

Baby boomers remember Stiller, who died at 92 in May, and Meara for their smart and sophisticated comedy act, in which the majority of the humor came from the fact that he was Jewish and she was born Irish Catholic. They recorded albums, were popular on the nightclub circuit and did The Ed Sullivan Show three dozen times. They split up their act when musical variety series went away.

Both were terrific dramatic actors. In fact, I saw Stiller in the 1984 Broadway production of Hurlyburly, David Rabe’s scathing look at Hollywood, and he did a 1997 production of Chekhov’s The Three Sisters. Of course, Stiller garnered even more success in his Emmy-nominated role as Frank Costanza, the caustic father of George (Jason Alexander) on NBC’s Seinfeld (1993-98) and was the best reason to watch CBS’ sitcom The King of Queens (1998-2007) as Kevin James’ acerbic father-in-law

But I most remember that 2010 interview where Stiller and Meara bantered back and forth much to my enjoyment. Here they talk about Ed Sullivan:

Anne: I never liked him.

Jerry: You are out of your mind. You never liked him?

Anne: He scared stuff out of me. I am talking about Mr. Sullivan himself. I wasn’t the only one. There were international favorites throwing up in the wings—singers and tenors and guys who spin plates. It was live. We were scared.

Jerry: Ed Sullivan brought us up to the level that we knew we never could get to – him standing there on the right side of the wings laughing, tears coming out of his eyes and then calling us over and saying, ‘You know, we got a lot of mail on that last show you did.’ I said, ‘From Catholic or Jewish people?’ He said, ‘The Lutherans.’”

#Jerry Stiller #brian dennehy #in memoriam #Fred Williard #Ben Stiller #TCM Classic Film Festival #LA Times #Susan King #TCM #Turner Classic Movies #comedians #actors

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georgefancys · 4 years ago

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police violence and propaganda in ITV’s Endeavour

“That’s not what my dad says... he says you’re all bastards.” - Tommy Cork, Endeavour, ‘Neverland’.

- first of all, I’m white, so if any black people or other poc want to weigh in, please please do. this isn’t going to be a post about race specifically (mostly because there’s barely anything to talk about, Russell Lewis loves him some white characters) but obviously since a hugely disproportionate amount of police violence in real life is towards black people, that has to be a part of the conversation.

- second of all, all cops are bastards. yes, in the uk too.

- it’s not like i’ve seen anyone in the fandom defending fictional police officers or anything (unlike, say, some people in the brooklyn 99 fandom), so this isn’t a response to anything i’ve seen, but if we’re all going to be stanning a cop show i think this needs to be addressed.

- i’m not any kind of expert, i’m just taking information i’ve learnt elsewhere and applying it to Endeavour.

- i’m very willing to debate on stuff, but read the whole post before you do.

Police corruption

so, the overarching plot in Endeavour, from the pilot to the season 6 finale, is police corruption. However, the corrupting influence is not the police force itself. Instead, it’s the Freemasons, a “secret” society. All the corrupt police officers in Endeavour, from ACC Deare to DS Chard to DS Lott are either Masons themselves, have Masonic connections, or are being bribed/blackmailed by Masons. The point of the corruption plotline is that the police are not corrupt themselves, it’s an external influence that is causing the police force problems. Our main characters are the good police officers!! They hate corruption!!

Fred Thursday

Fred Thursday is a narrative foil for Morse. His family life is a reflection of what Morse doesn’t have. This is a large part of season 1, mostly in Fugue and Home. However, he also does morally ambiguous things that Morse doesn’t agree with. For example, in the season 1 episode Rocket, Thursday is xenophobic towards a German engineer, which Morse is vocal about disagreeing with. We the viewers aren’t supposed to agree with Thursday about this, but there’s never a point where Thursday goes ‘oh yeah I probably shouldn’t hate this German dude who obviously isn’t a nazi’. He keeps his views, and this is never addressed again.

In the season 5 episode Quartet, Thursday covers up for a woman who pushed her abusive husband down the stairs, saying that he must have tripped. Morse also vocally disagrees with this. However, I think the writer intended Thursday’s actions here to be more sympathetic. Which yeah, fair enough, right? The wife doesn’t deserve to go to jail for defending herself. But the problem here is Thursday’s interpretation of justice. At no point, even after seeing evidence of domestic abuse towards the wife twice (and it’s implied that there was more that occurred prior to the episode that he knew about) does he arrest or question the husband. He thinks that because the husband died, that’s justice done. He didn’t actually try to carry out justice using the legal system. And I know that legally domestic abuse can be a tricky thing, especially in the 60s, but Thursday essentially ignores his duty as a police officer to intervene in the obvious domestic abuse situation, and then covers up for the wife. And the line that genuinely bothers me so much, and is what makes me think we’re meant to interpret his actions as good:

Thursday: God was out, he left me in charge

Like, no, Thursday, you’re a police officer and it’s your job to carry out the law, not allow an abuse situation to escalate to the point where the wife is forced to kill her husband in self-defence and then lie about it. And i’m positive that this was a quote featured on the official Endeavour Twitter page when the episode aired, so I think we’re meant to be like ‘oh yeah, that’s reasonable’, not ‘uhhhhhh wtf’.

Another, more recent example: season 7. During episode 1, ‘Oracle’, Thursday believes that Carl Sturgis is guilty of the murder of Molly Andrews - his girlfriend - on the towpath. He is questioned. He says he is innocent, and also has an alibi for the murder. Morse believes that Sturgis is innocent; Thursday believes he is guilty.

[SEASON 7 SPOILERS]

Thursday then spends the rest of the season following Sturgis around, trying to find evidence that he’s the towpath killer. Morse finds out about this and tells him to stop. He doesn’t stop. A different man is caught in the act at the towpath, and after being chased by a group of young women, is hit by a car and dies. It’s decided that he was the towpath killer.

Then, Strange searches a house that turns out to be owned by Sturgis. During this search, Strange finds a kidnapped woman, Jenny Tate, in an upstairs room. It turns out that Sturgis did kill Molly Andrews, and all of the other young women at the towpath, and that the man who died at the towpath was a copycat killer. Thursday’s actions here - stalking Carl Sturgis - are justified by the narrative because Sturgis was guilty all along, despite there being evidence to the contrary, and lawfully Thursday should not have been pursuing Sturgis after he was released from police custody.

But the worst thing Thursday does is literal police violence - and on quite a few occasions.

The “Good” Police officers

Now, I’m going to talk about two instances within the show where Thursday uses unlawful violence, and people within the CID cover up for him.

1. Coda.

(disclaimer: i haven’t watched this episode in ages, so if i get a fact wrong i’m sorry but i know the general gist is right)

Thursday is interrogating Bernie Waters, a young man with connections to the Matthews gang. He wants information about... something, I think it might be regarding a possible power struggle within the gang, or a crime somewhere. Morse is waiting outside, unaware of what Thursday is doing. He goes into the warehouse where Thursday and Waters are, to find Thursday... it’s unclear what he’s doing, honestly, the scene is framed so we can’t see properly, but it’s enough to cause Waters pain, and when Thursday lets go, Waters is bending over and breathing heavily.

Now, Morse doesn’t agree with this, and tells Thursday so. Morse: ‘I don’t remember anything about that in the Sergeant’s training manual’. He knows that Thursday isn’t above iffy conduct (he punches Teddy Samuels in the face in the pilot, and pays a newspaper salesman for information in Home). But in the end, out of loyalty to Thursday, Morse doesn’t mention it to Bright. (Similarly, in the pilot, Morse is outright asked by the CS if Thursday punched Samuels, and Morse says no, he didn’t.) Thursday gets away with it.

So, Morse is the so called “good” police officer. Telling Thursday he doesn’t agree with his methods isn’t going to get him to stop. He’s the one who people say, oh, but he doesn’t commit acts of violence towards members of the public. He just turns a blind eye to the officers that do do that.

And I don’t care that Waters is a criminal, or has connections to this gang. Police officers don’t beat up people so they give up information. That isn’t lawful.

2. Prey.

I had a conversation with another member of the fandom about this recently, and we both agreed that it really bothered us. For a large portion of the episode, the CID has in custody Mr Hodges, a park warden who offered a lift to Ingrid Hjort, a missing young woman. He’s also implicated in a similar case from around a year ago, in which a woman was sexually assaulted and left in a coma. He’s in custody for much of the episode, constantly changing his story about Hjort, but maintaining that they can’t prove his guilt. In a search of his property, Strange finds underwear belonging to the woman from a year ago, which would prove his guilt in that case. However, before Strange can return and present this evidence, Morse and Thursday are questioning Hodges again. Hodges says ‘I didn’t do it, and you can’t prove that I did’, while leering at Thursday. Thursday says ‘Can’t prove it, he says’, stands up and starts beating Hodges.

Again, this isn’t presented as a good thing. Morse attempts to pull Thursday off Hodges, and afterwards CS Bright yells at him, saying they’d just received evidence from Strange.

However, a plotline in this season is a bullet in Thursday’s lung, left from when he was shot at the end of the previous season’s finale, Neverland. This causes him pain and frequent coughing fits. And, you know, he’s dealing with a lot at home, like his son saying he wants to join the army. Bright understands this. Thursday is under a lot of pressure.

Then, Bright tells Thursday that he will write in his report that Hodges fell down the stairs on the way back to his cell.

So this time, instead of having a junior officer showing loyalty by not reporting an incident, we have a senior officer lying to protect his subordinate. And again, it’s framed like Bright is proving his loyalty to Thursday, but... police officers should not beat up people they’re questioning. Like Bright said, they had just gathered enough evidence to charge Hodges, so this was unnecessary.

Other incidents of note

There’s a lot to talk about in Inspector Morse and Lewis too, but I’m not going to elaborate on them in this post. If you want me to, drop me a reply or DM and I will. These include:

- Morse lying about his identity in order to gain entry to a suspect’s college rooms (Inspector Morse, ‘The Dead of Jericho’)

- Morse and Lewis entering a possible suspect’s flat without a warrant (Inspector Morse, ‘Last Seen Wearing’)

- Lewis entering a member of the public’s house and threatening her child by shouting in his face and grabbing his arms (Lewis, ‘Expiation’. This is called out in the episode by CS Innocent, however she doesn’t actually punish him in any way, and it’s framed as if Lewis’s actions were perfectly reasonable because the child was withholding information. It’s also worth noting that this child is black.)

- Hathaway threatening a teenager after he possibly is lying during a murder investigation (Lewis, ‘Intelligent Design’. The teenager commits suicide soon after, and it’s strongly implied that while the threats weren’t the sole cause of him killing himself, they were the breaking point for him.)

- Lewis and Hathaway hounding a suspect for the entirety of an episode despite him not being guilty of anything (Lewis, ‘The Mind Has Mountains’)

- Edit: Morse lying about a woman's involvement in several murders in order to get her a lesser sentence (Inspector Morse, 'Service of All the Dead')

General points

Often in police shows, the police officers commit actions which, while illegal, are framed within the show as being necessary evils. For example, two detectives have strong reason to believe a suspect is guilty. Instead of obtaining a search warrant, they enter the suspect’s house without one and search the place for evidence. They end up finding evidence that the suspect is guilty. Despite the fact that the detectives broke the law by illegally searching the house, they are justified by the fact that they found enough evidence to prosecute the guilty person. We, the viewers, are meant to find these illegal actions reasonable because they ultimately lead to justice being served; the ends justify the means. Well, no. In the case of police officers breaking the law, they don’t.

Conclusion

Endeavour is hardly the worst example of ‘copaganda’, i.e. propaganda specifically designed to paint the police force in a positive, rosy light. It’s set in the 1960s, it isn’t relevant in the 21st century. Nevertheless, I believe that any show where the main characters are police officers is a form of copaganda, even if unintentionally. We are meant to side with the protagonist in any media (unless they’re an antihero, which is not the case in Endeavour). In Endeavour, the protagonist is Morse, who is a police officer. The majority of the main characters are also police officers. No matter how morally grey Thursday is painted as, he is still a protagonist.

I’m not saying we should stop watching Endeavour. It’s one of my favourite shows. But, when a show incorporates police officer characters and police violence, we need to think critically about it. We need to challenge the ideas put forwards in the show instead of just accepting them. Yes, there are more important things to be worrying about right now, but I wanted to make this post because the murder of George Floyd and the ongoing riots in Minneapolis made me consider the implications of television shows which paint the police force as the good guys, because we live in a world where the police force are not the good guys. And when our media is telling us that they are, we need to stop, take a step back, and think about why that is.

Resources:

Official George Floyd memorial fund: https://www.gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd

Minnesota Freedom Fund (raising money to pay bail for those arrested in the Minnesota riots): https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/donate

Change.org petitions to hold the police officer who murdered George Floyd accountable: https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd?utm_content=cl_sharecopy_22414602_en-US%3Av4&recruited_by_id=2b2e5010-a181-11ea-8693-a9223455fd7b&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf_combo_share_initial

https://www.change.org/p/minneapolis-police-dept-hold-minneapolis-police-accountable-for-killing-george-floyd-as-he-begs-don-t-kill-me

Black Lives Matter website: https://blacklivesmatter.com/

A report of the independent review of deaths and serious incidents in police custody. This is very long, and even so only a general overview, but I would recommend Trends in deaths in police custody and suicides following police custody and section 13, Police Misconduct: https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/655401/Report_of_Angiolini_Review_ISBN_Accessible.pdf

Some graphs showing deaths in police custody in England and Wales over the past decade: https://www.inquest.org.uk/deaths-in-police-custody

Article about increase in deaths in police custody in the UK: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/police-custody-deaths-uk-latest-increase-2017-a8462616.html

#endeavour #itv endeavour #lewis #itv lewis #inspector lewis #inspector morse #itv inspector morse #endeavour morse #fred thursday #robbie lewis #robert lewis #james hathaway

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ishy-man · 5 years ago

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IB REVIEW: THE IRISHMAN

Written by ishmael Mainoo

An ambitious comeback for a director that needs no introduction, Italian American film director Martin Scorsese’s cinematic adaptation of the Charles Brandt Biography: ’I heard you paint houses’ a detailing the life of Frank “The Irishman” Sheeran and his dealings with the Buffalino crime family, and Jimmy Hoffa head of the teamsters union. Can be described as enthralling. Informative and macabre as well as thoroughly enjoyable. Speaking as a man familiar with the filmography of the ‘new Hollywood’ icon, it was refreshing to see an auteur like Scorsese returning to his artistic roots. Reminiscent of such previous works as Casino and The mafia classic Goodfellas. And with the line-up of an all-star cast. Scorsese could well be likened to Marvel’s S.H.I.E.LD agent: Nick Fury as he assembles his avengers. Seeing him team up once again with the likes of Stout ‘tough guy’ Joe Pesci, The Ragin bull Robert De Niro, And of course Al Pacino. All of whom are no strangers to appearing in the odd gangster flick or two. All this along with the addition of British actor Stephen Graham who has indeed starred in his fair share of crime productions from Tommy in the guy Ritchie film ‘Snatch’ to Chicago mob boss Al Capone in the critically acclaimed HBO series ‘Boardwalk empire’, I think we can safely say this cast will take to any gangster role like a duck to water. And an appearance by Harvey Keitel as the respected Mob boss Angelo Bruno as well as a little something for the young people as new York rapper Action Bronson has a bit part as a coffin salesman, but I digress…

The Irishman is yet another biopic style film about an antihero in Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) who’s line of work lead to the slow and subtle dismantling of his family life especially his relationship with his daughter Peggy who witnesses certain sides to her father that she knows are less than pleasant and eventually her fear of him turns to hatred as she realises her father is a cold blooded killer. Within the opening shot we see our silver haired protagonist and humble narrator; Frank Sheeran sitting alone in his section of the cafeteria at a nursing home for the elderly. Almost held in captivity by his wheelchair. As he reminisces to us in the typical Scorsese fashion of breaking the fourth wall. About how life used to be. Treating the audience as an eager child hearing stories of the ‘the good ol’days’ from Grandpa. Showing muted attrition for his acts and almost a sense of self pity in his tone before even getting into the story. The elderly Irish American hitman still has an air of military philosophy in his character. That one could attribute to the character’s time in the second world war as he rationalises his acts as any quintessential soldier would, by stating he was only following orders.

From a technical standpoint the film’s cinematography was nothing short of trademark Scorsese, the tracking shot through the nursing home and into the room where frank sits, almost emulating the single take done by Henry and Karen Hill entering through the staff entrance at the Copacabana club in Goodfellas, or the quick cross cuts between Jo Hoffa (Welker white) turning on her ignition and an exploding car from another job. Indeed, it is the suspense created from the long pause of Jo anxiously awaiting to turn her engine on that transforms the scene alone into something of sheer brilliance. The Irishman to me was a testament to the scorcese cinematic mafia world. And will leave you either fascinated with the mafioso subculture or leave you ultimately disgusted with their heinous and nonchalant behaviour to murder. However unlike Goodfellas, casino or even the wolf of wall street, I found the film to be ‘an acquired taste’ if it so can be called, unlike it’s predecessors I found that the film was more dialogue driven than films before it and set at a slower pace. Compared to the aforementioned names. Well written though the film was and with the certain east coast lexical flair which all added to a believable and natural dialogue. I couldn’t help but feel that this came at the expense of momentum for the film. even the opening scenes of Scorsese’s films beforehand struck you with action from the very beginning. Whether it’s three guys driving at night with a halfdead body in the trunk. (Goodfellas). or a Casino boss leaving a restaurant ready to turn on the ignition in his car only to unknowingly detonate a car bomb (Casino). Or even a midget toss at an office party in the heart of New York’s financial district. (The Wolf of Wall Street). I feel that if the Irishman was a horse it is in no way shape or form a front runner and is a film that requires a viewer’s patience.

Which is probably why a handful of viewers (philistines) complained after it’s initial release stating it to be ‘boring’ and ‘too long’, I can empathise with these people on the ‘boring’ part, upon my first viewing even I had to wave my cursor to check the time marker to see how long I had left of this picture. However, to simply complain a film is ‘too long’ is in my mind nothing short of nonsense. Especially if you are familiar with Scorsese’s works: The runtime for the Wolf of Wall street is exactly three hours, Goodfellas two hours and twenty-eight minutes and Casino at Two hours and Fifty-eight. To conclude the runtime of a film should have no bearing on the quality of the film itself. And would not be a problem for most were the film more visually stimulating. Where the wolf of wall street, casino and Goodfellas featured frequent fast cuts and dynamic shots of abhorrent drug use, rampant sex, and/or poor bastards getting their brains blown out. All set to a multitude of complimenting soundtracks by artists such as Ray Charles, The rolling stones, Smokestack lighting or frank Sinatra etc. The Irishman had a distinct lack of all mentioned. However, this muted tone made for a more earnest watching. instead of relying on fast cuts and music sequences, it relied on the tension created by nuances in dialogue. The tension was even made sharper by the lack of non-diegetic sound. Seen multiple times especially when Tony Slaerno and Russel Buffalino (Joe Pesci) Tell Frank to persuade Jimmy (Al Pacino) to retire. (Essentially, ‘tell him to retire or we whack him’)

To the finish, the film’s story as a whole reminded me of Goodfellas in the sense of a character being indoctrinated into the mob life and showing the day to day stresses and moral dilemmas of working in such a career. Such as attempting to blow up a laundry place only to find out before the act that it belongs to your mob boss. And trying to prevent your hot-headed friend from getting killed by your employers. However I believe this picture goes a step further by showing how our protagonist got to work for the mafia - what life was like working for the mafia - and life after the mafia as an old man riddled with arthritis. Which leaves one to almost sympathise with this Irishman. As he sits alone in his nursing home. Isolated from the open world, with all his friend’s dead. Or in prison and a family that wants nothing to do with him because of who he was.

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florafaunaandeldritchhorrors · 5 years ago

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instead of a chapter this week, here’s my writeup of how the first session of DIE went with my group. (sorry) (hopefully this is as entertaining)

In 2007, Tomb of the Worm King, a high fantasy-in-space mmorpg, launched. Three months later, it closed before the Worm King raid was even released. During the beta, the developers grouped testers together into artificial guilds... and after the game fell apart, our group of testers tried to homebrew a trpg system in order to keep playing. Needless to say, it didn’t go well.

It’s 2027 now.

Below the cut: everything my players are not allowed to read. Starting with the DM prep I did, if you’re planning a game and just want to read that.

Prep:

It wasn’t feasible for me to bring my laptop to the space where we play, so I had to try to write down everything that I wanted to remember for the session that wasn’t already on the cheat sheets.

Things I ended up needing that I prepped: short versions of who to give the archetypes to, the long list of monster special abilities to create a custom fallen on the fly, rules for the Dictator targeting multiple people, melee/close/medium/far range rules.

Things I prepped and didn’t need this time, but probably will: God Debt rules, other ways to bring a Fallen back (taking memories sounds rad).

Things I forgot and wished I had written down: That the Neo’s systems coming online is supposed to be dramatic and have visual effects, that the book recommends offering a major miracle in the first encounter.

For Fair Gold, I tried to clean some pennies but ended up tarnishing them. Luckily, the person who’s condo complex we play at had some gold spray paint and we did that after the first session. For cheat tokens, I’m using popsicle sticks marked on one side, because the world’s oldest board game used them instead of dice, and Kieron says he like using weird dice but it gets confusing.

Oh, and we ended up making folded name thingies for our personas, like we were still in middle school. That was a good idea.

The Cast:

Franz Gibson, a volunteer firefighter who quit his job as an accountant after he found out his wife was cheating on him with his boss. Has twin 7-year old boys who he misses terribly, and only weekend visitation. Was 17 in 2007. Playing Whylock the Enlightened, a Godbinder. Core desire: feels out of place in real life, more out of place in the game.

Sophia Twist, a Dickensian orphan who was 12 in 2007 but pretended to be 17. Inspired by Tomb of the Worm King, went to school to become a computer scientist, but decided not to go into game dev and became a cyber security expert. Playing Intel, a Neo. Core desire: I’m guessing her parents.

AJ Bryant, a culture reporter by day and youtuber by... afternoon? Started as a Let’s Play channel, but came out as a trans man and started transitioning a few years into it, and ended up doing a lot of leftist reactions to current events. Was 16 in 2007. Broke up with his boyfriend of over 4 years just under a year ago, and spent six months completely out of it. Playing Jett, a Dictator. Core desire: wants the privacy he was denied when he became a minor internet celebrity young.

Thomas Bryant, an accountant who hates being called Tommy. Was 14 in 2007, which made him the group baby. Worked at Walmart for a long time, but eventually went back to school to get his current job. Has been on and off with his boyfriend Michael for four years, and was planning to break up again, except Michael’s mom just died. Ouch. Playing Genevieve, an Amazement Knight. Core desire: not sure, but maybe boredom? Boredom got him to go back to school, and he is playing a knight of surprise.

Tripp Declan, a skeezy used car salesman and former frat boy. Was 17 in 2007. The less said about his attitude towards women the better, but his core drive is a fear of getting older. Playing Flip, the magnificent Fool.

Elena Forbes, who in 2007 was 21 and secretly a developer monitoring the group’s dynamics. After Tomb of the Worm King shut down, revealed her true identity to the group. Recently laid off just before a game shipped, so her name won’t be in the credits, so she can’t claim the game on her resume. Many years ago, warned Sophia not to go into game dev. Artistically frustrated. The Master, of course.

Yes, I named my persona by mashing up two characters from The Vampire Diaries, knowing no one else at the table had ever watched it.

(setting it in 2027 turned out to be a mistake, because whenever I prod people for popular culture they get vague because we don’t know what people in 2027 will be watching/reading/playing. but also, most of our players were 10 years old in 2007, and pushing back our teenage years back too far would be weird. and I wanted that where-did-my-life-go feeling from the comic.)

The Session:

During persona generation, I make sure to say Elena lives in a place with a space like the room we were playing in. I also take the hit as the person who falls prey to the Geek Social Fallacies enough not to kick Tripp out for being a creep. There’s an interesting divide between the players who work out their personas aloud and the ones who want to have a nearly-finished product before they say anything.

During character creation, when Tripp reads the beginning of the Fool’s character sheet aloud everyone groans at “their friends have to deal with the consequences”. This will probably happen with a lot of groups, if you give the Fool to the obvious candidate.

We ordered food in between persona generation and character creation, but we actually ate it in between character creation and getting sucked into the game world. This worked out great because doing character creation entirely in character was a bit much for me, so we ended up eating dinner as our personas instead. Turns out Franz has the same nut allergy as his player, but his sons love peanut butter. A modern tragedy.

After being sucked into the fantasy world, Elena transforms into Vesuvia, High Priestess of the Worm King and recognizable NPC from the old game. I don’t highlight that she transforms after grabbing her die hard enough, and have to make the other dice glow in order to prompt my players. Thomas tries to grab Tripp’s die when they’re the only two left, and I almost want to let it happen, but then I imagine running Tripp as an Amazement Knight and... nope.

Before the fighting starts, Thomas’s sword tells him to look at the door opposite the one the Fallen use to enter, ensuring that he’s surprised. I don’t give him a disadvantage on initiative, but when he ties with someone, I make him go second.

The first encounter reskins the Fallen as the Xenomorph ripoffs from Tomb of the Worm King’s starting zone, except they’re cybernetic in a way they weren’t before. After the first round of combat, a knockoff Xenomorph queen appears—the final boss of the only raid that the game launched with. Elena’s sent it as part of the first encounter to demonstrate that she’s done with old content. It’s time to get to newer things.

The Neo hasn’t read her character sheet completely and is very surprised when I tell her she has a slot in the back of her neck. Her AI System is more fun to act as than the Knight’s “aggressive” sword. The Lady of Ashes—the Godbinder’s fire god—is more fun than either. (Luckily he only casts fire spells this session, so I get some time to think about his other two gods: Brightbearer and the Master of Windows.)

After they defeat the Fallen, Thomas opens the door his sword pointed out to him earlier revealing... the Academy, part of the game’s starting zone. End of session. We go spray paint some coins.

Plans:

Give Sophia a chance to save her parents. Give Franz a chance to one-up James. Tempt Tripp with beautiful women. Unsettle AJ with the fact that as a Dictator, he doesn’t have any more privacy here than in the real world.

Tomb of the Worm King didn’t give the players spaceships, just teleportation pads for jumping between planets. Give players a choice between hopping between pads to get to the final encounter or going overland to find and defeat those guarding the pad that brings them straight there. They’ll encounter similar encounters, but with different texture.

During the final encounter, Elena reveals that Vesuvia was always supposed to defect and help the players defeat the Worm King. All they need to do is agree to stay, and they can finish the raid, and then keep playing. Keep playing forever. Oh, and she’s not going to agree to leave.

#broken silence #diecomic #dierpg #?#sorry about no chapter this week but this is what i've been doing #my writing

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the-firebird69 · 2 years ago

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I wouldn't cars are selling like hotcakes and yes where your legs are and stuff that's where we use them there's they're smaller but they're real lightsabers is kind of a Jason size lightsaber terrific it's going to send us not knows big fat ass woman little chocolate starfish reference to The suicide squad 2 movie can't wait to get a wooden stuff all these wood threats wouldn't thrown wooden toilet seats

We use all the scrap too and for all sorts of things we make all these wooden little planes they're drones and we use them for little missiles also stuff we make missiles out of wood yeah it's hard to see them on scans and we radar proof them

So what about a wooden robot I made a bunch of those so you kind of suck a bunch of flamers

Thor Freya

Oh my God I said that several times during testing is very rude

Zig Zag

What the hell what the hell that was me and yes I was imitating. Thrym. No nobody talk to me it was in the field that's why

Zues Hera

I still want to do that pancake place nobody let us do anything so if I can make a wooden car and sell it you think that I could have a pancake place CAA ads you think so you think so you would really think so Preston has no idea how to get it going or Justin you people are supposed to be in business and you can't do anything now it's hiding with black people now and you can't even do a pancake place with Aunt Jemima what the hell is wrong with you what about you Mike too you have money well Tommy f comes and ruins it

Thrym

We have a lot of people like me at Carpenters and try to get them to join the Army would be nice and I don't know if we have Carpenters off but really it's a skill it's a trade and some passion for a lot I want to start unfinished furniture business and I want to make the trucks and the cars out of wood they deliver it and leave it with the grain as a clear coat you know the protective gel that doesn't yellow also I'm starting to think of something that's so dumb I got a salesperson we got a sales people Mac for unfinished furniture and you drive up with your wooden car and it's going to be flame resistant of course the fire treat the wood and you put a metal enclosure on the inside and it goes into the car standard because if you're an accident you get splintered to death but we're accepting salesman applications for our unfinished furniture store Thor Freya say it's a great idea because we'll employ tons of hours tons of people want to do it and they can finish it themselves and they all want to buy this furniture stuff for some reason and we also can offer to finish it but really people need furniture and it blows you can't get it you can't get it anywhere nowhere and we can make it make all the pieces to assemble fast we have new methods huge machines and pump 7, 000 tabletops out in about 10 minutes so they want to do it and they're getting ready our people are getting ready for a huge furniture push just basic furniture nothing crazy and it's a division but really can make sofas too and love see it's because it's all wood frame and beds and we're going to do that now it's terrible nobody can do anything and I saw an RTA as well huge huge denial by tons of people here I got to be real cheap

I said that last part Thor Freya okay we did

Who said the rest of it it's a great idea Zeus Hera we're moving on we can get this done today Olympus it explained why inflation stops

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yourfavouritetragedy · 2 years ago

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I started in the tags but it got too long. All I have to say is OP please don’t block me.

“Will. Hey Wil what’s that.”

*mildly pretentious/nasally voice* “Well you see Tommy, it’s a sort of thingamajig. a kind of whatchamacallit. a gizmo. a widget, even.” *Tommy nods* “I’m trying to turn it into a weapon. For hurting people.”

“Coolcool Wil do you think [girl] likes me.” ([girl] stops mattering in the second half of the movie and only appears onscreen twice)

*keeps fiddling with thing that is possibly a bomb* “I don’t know, I’m no expert but I think that sitting next to me, chewing on your glasses isn’t doing you any favors.” (W is ace-coded by which I mean he just doesn’t show interest in anybody throughout the movie)

“What do you mean, sitting next to you? You’re so cool, Wil -- you’re the smartest guy I know. Everybody should want to be your brother.”

“Seriously? Look at me Tommy. I’m weirdo. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in. I don’t want to fit in. you ever seen me without

*they go on to discuss their absent alcholic father or whatever idk*

“Goddamnit, it’s so unfair that some people drive nice cars and eat nice food and have nice fathers and we’re stuck here in Losertown high school feeling lousy all the time.” (T)

“If you could be anywhere, where would you go?” (W)

“I dunno, Paris or something, probably. It’s just familiar enough but also exotic. Would steal a lot of good sht, and put the stupid French you made me take to good use.”

“I didn’t make you take French! I just said it’s a cooler language than Spanish and that as native English speakers, we ought to honor the original ‘lingua franca’--”

“Yeah, whatever. Your reasons were weirdheck then and they still are now. Where would you go?”

“Oh, Antarctica, of course. First of all, it’s got penguins, the objectively coolest animal. There’d be tons of interesting people down there, unlike the losers in our Losertown -- except for you of course, Tommy-- and then of course by going to Antarctic I must be a qualified individual......”

(probably a different scene) “God, Wil, Losertown is so boring. I don’t want to stay here my whole life.”

“Don’t worry Tommy, I have a plan to get us out of Losertown. It’s going to take all the free time you have, 50 dollars” -- this genre of movie is fairly American, I think, so American money-- “and seventy-eight cents, and a whole lot of heart. Do you have in it ya? You’re gonna have to prove yourself.”

(eagerly) “Ya, ya, I got all that, Wil. Well, maybe only 40 dollars, but I can get more.” (unclear if he works (is competent enough) or steals (is delinquent enough))

The movie goes through each of the plan’s 16 steps (”Well, I had 17 steps but 16 is a perfect square, you know, so I combined numbers 3, 7, and 5 and broke up number 8 and switched 11 and 13″) + each step has an average of 4 sub-steps. It’s written down extremely messily in a notebook that’s supposed to be for one of his classes. (He is a senior. He kinda has failed salesman vibes in the photo but I think it works better with Neapolitan Dynamite highschool languish vibes.)

There’s probably a scene after they Truly Bond where Wil takes him to the library and shows him the cool black and white French moves he watches in his free time. deffo show a clip of The 400 Blows.

Tommy sometimes kicks a soccer (football) ball around by himself in their driveway (or shoots hoops) because he has no friends to play with. Wil has asthma and complains about the downfall of like, the very early Internet or NASA or good dress sense or whatever. He’s got a funky shed/garage and they fk things up together. (there needs to be at least two onscreen explosions. 9/11 also needs to be mentioned at least once.)

W has “Are you listening Mr. Bike? What’s the answer?” *answers perfectly* vibes (midding student overall though) but T’s grades aren’t that good. He works on them for Wil’s plan though and there’s a wholesome scene where he comes home with a good report card. He’s a pretty smart kid though, just not an ace at school. (both possible ND swag lol idk)

Example deep conversation OP mentioned: “Do you ever think about how, in the timeline of your life, you’re only ever experiencing one point, one moment? You’re just sort of randomly situated in the timeline.” “What, you mean like, just you or just us or the whole world’s timeline?” “Ah, I think you’re right, actually, why is it that the world has a present moment? ..What if it’s not the same one? What if this conversation is in your past? How could we ever know?” “But I’m talking to you in my present. I know ‘cause-- well, I guess because I can feel this with my senses as it happens and all. How real do you think the past is?” “Oh, not at all. You only ever have the singular moment that you’re experiencing.” “I don’t think that’s quite true-- see, if it’s all in your head, than every memory is as real in the state it’s in as the current moment.”

If it’s a sad movie, one of them has to get rushed to the hospital at some point. If it’s a really sad movie, Tommy gets hurt in one of their experiments, but if it’s not that sad one of them has an allergic reaction or something (allergies aren’t usually taken that seriously but it’s my fake 2000s movie lol).

Anyways there’s some like town festival/celebration (school thing?) built up to at the end of the movie and either they sabotage it or they sneak off and light up fireworks themselves in the night.

zannolin has reminded me that we don't talk about those photos Tommy and Wilbur took during the bike riding vlog enough.

#my deepest apologies #I said this #ideas #wilbur #tommy #i guess lol

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Vanilla Ice Biopic with Dave Franco is a Go

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Collaborate and listen, because Ice is back with a brand new invention. And that invention is a biopic where Dave Franco slips into Vanilla Ice’s borrowed hammer pants. The news, which came late Wednesday, confirmed Franco will play the infamous rapper in To the Extreme.

Franco confirmed the news himself to Insider while also revealing the film is being imagined as a Disaster Artist and Ed Wood-like biopic about musician Robert Matthew Van Winkle’s life. That earlier 2017 film, which co-starred Franco, was written and directed by his brother James Franco, who also led the movie by playing Tommy Wiseau, the legendarily awful filmmaker behind cult classic train wreck, The Room.

Franco opened up about the project to Insider when he said, “We have been in development for a while but we are inching closer and closer to preproduction.” He went on to compare it to The Disaster Artist by adding, “”With that movie, people expected us to make a broad comedy where we make fun of Tommy Wiseau, but the more real we played it, the funnier and heartfelt it was — that’s the tone we want for this one as well.”

The project, which Franco has been rumored to have been attached to in the past, is built around a screenplay by Chris Goodwin and Phillip Van, whose script appeared on the 2018 Black List of most popular unproduced screenplays. Titled after the name of Ice’s 1990 album of the same name, To the Extreme is expected to track the man who would become Vanilla Ice in his unlikely rise from South Dallas high school dropout to young car salesman, and then hip-hop superstar thanks to his hit “Ice, Ice, Baby.” Some might even say that notorious track was written while under pressure.

Despite his early success, Ice suffered from the image of being a pop culture punchline to some, and an appropriator of Black culture to others. And even with early success, he quickly made questionable decisions that only hurt his career, like starring in the 1991 semi-biographical flop Cool as Ice. (Though there ain’t nothing wrong with “Go Ninja, Go Ninja, Go!” in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II.)

Drug abuse, a suicide attempt, and lawsuits for copyright infringement by David Bowie and Queen all provide a fertile soil from which To the Extreme can extract sordid drama and/or bizarre comedy. And Franco has certainly been on a roll as of late after starring in Neighbors, The Disaster Artist, and cult classic The Little Hours. Still, I just hope they can get the rights to those Jim Henson Turtles costumes for what could be a delightful movie-within-a-movie scene.

The post Vanilla Ice Biopic with Dave Franco is a Go appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3eOIXLT

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[HR] [MS] [TH] A Guest for Dinner

Food seems to bring people together. Most people can think of at least one moment in their lives where they have felt a connection with friends, family or colleagues due to a meal. That’s why I love to cook. Not only do I get to bond over mutual enjoyment of a dish, I also get the pride of creating it for my guests. I love putting in the effort to make something delectable, but that feeling pales in comparison to seeing that look on their face. That look that conveys one simple expression.

Damn, that’s good.

It was always a victory that was always welcome, and that only happened with either loved ones, people I want to impress, work associates or people who I have lost touch with. The guest tonight fell in the last category.

“Hey Tommy! How'sh it coming in there? Need a hand?”

I hear the voice of Geoffrey Boucher coming from the other room. I can hear the slight slur in his speech, which means he is really enjoying the drink I made for him. Maybe he would like another?

“It's almost done my friend. Do you need a refill?”

“You read my mind man!”

This was not a tough feat. I am pretty confident in my cocktail making skills. I grab the shaker from the rinsing basin and give it a quick rinse. I add the ice and various liquids and alcohols and give them a vigorous shake in the sealed container, exiting the fragrant kitchen to refill my guest's drink. As I turn the corner, I see him in his seat, head lolling lazily from side to side.

“One Abernathy Special!”

I smile at my seated guest as I pour the concoction into his nearly empty glass, the dark amber liquid slowly filtering through the ice and swelling into the glass.

“You're the besht, always have been, alwaysh will be!”

He beams up at me as his hand finds his drink, eyes crinkling through the lenses of his glasses as he does so.

“You are way too kind. I just want to make sure my guests and friends have the best experience possible when they come over.”

I start towards the kitchen once again, tossing the shaker into the sink as I enter. I am greeted by the aromas of meats roasting in butter and rosemary, wine reducing into a cherry glaze, along with the garlic mixing into the potatoes. I take a deep inhale, savouring every scent.

“I have to admit, I was surprised to get your call last week.”

I yell this in the direction of the dining room as I open the oven, bathing myself in the pungent steam fermenting inside. I look at the meats cooking, turning them over once more before they are done.

“Well when I shaw your name in the paper I had to get in touch. It'sh been too long shince we've sheen each other.”

“Yeah, it has been too long. College, right?"

I close the oven and seal in the fragrance once again.

“College? Man, have you been enjoying these drinksh more than I have? High shchool! I never went to college!”

I can hear his laughter coming from the other room. Loud, boisterous, and annoyingly squeaky. I turn towards the prep table and grab my masher, turning my attention to the potatoes and garlic.

“My mistake, I was focusing in on the final touches on the food. That's right, high school. Feels like ages ago.”

“It totally wash! Right after the new millennia!”

I start mashing the tender chunks of potato in with the garlic, adding in copious amounts of butter and milk as I do so.

“Nineteen years eh? Wow... That's why your call was so surprising then.”

“Well like I shaid, I shaw your name in the paper! I knew you left, but I had no idea what you ended up doing. Other than some shtuff to do with 'putersh. But the paper shaid you were coming back here to 'shtart where you shtarted' and make your own company. Kudosh to you!”

I continue to mash the creamy concoction in front of me, checking for the perfect consistency. The spice of the garlic reaches my nostrils and the excitement builds for when I can consume this delicious meal.

“Thank you. It was a slow climb after I finished university, but i guess some people liked the hardware I was tinkering with and decided to move my life onto easy street.”

Perfect, the potatoes are done. I put the lid on them and move the pot onto the warming section.

“You were alwaysh tinkering with shomething! I'm glad you ended up going to univershity though. Not a place for moi though. I had shome big plansh, had to get shtarted on those right away!”

“From what I remember, you always had plans, Geoff.”

I check on the cherry wine reduction. The sweet perfume of it greets me as soon as I take the lid off. As soon as I smell it, I can feel my mouth salivate slightly. I give it a few slow stirs as I hear the glass in the other room firmly hit the table.

“Damn shtraight!! Alwaysh wanting to make my mark. Good memory, Tommy Boy!”

I cringe when he says that. I knew this was going to be cringey, but this was a little too much for me.

“Well what plans did you have after high school? Was it anything to do with the t-shirt making business? Or maybe the music production you did?”

“Nah, thoshe all shmoked out. Can't count on anyone back then, or these daysh either. Way to only mention my endeavoursh that you helped me out with, you know I alwaysh had shomething going on. Actually, after high shchool, I tried shelling carsh.

I can't help but smile at this. Totally fitting that Greasy Geoff was a car salesman, he always thought he could sell ketchup to a woman in white. I tap the spoon on the edge of the pot as I put the lid back on and take it off of the burner.

“So I'm guessing that turned out okay? You said on the phone that you were selling cars currently.”

I hear a sigh from the other room, faint enough to be a whisper into my ear. The sigh was a preview into the solemn tone that was to follow. “Yea... I'm shelling cars. I tried getting out of the bizz a few times. More than a few timesh actually. I can't seem to fully pull myshelf out of it. It's okay, but I know that I'm deshtined for bigger things.”

“Yea, you always used to say that.”

I can't help the semi-sarcastic tone that comes out of my mouth as I say that. As I grab the plates and set them on the counter, preparing for the plating, I can't help but think how much of a failure this guy is. He thinks he is destined for greatness, yet he is only trying for short-term, get rich quick schemes. How could anyone be friends with this loser?

“Damn right! I say it because it'sh true! I wasn't made for this small-assh life. I was meant to make it to the big top! To the big city in a penthouse! But people keep letting me down. Even you Tommy.”

I almost fumble a plate at this, which would be a real shame. I set the offset glass circle down gingerly on the table.

“How did I let you down Geoff?"

I hear something hit the table, possibly his fists. Not too hard, but hard enough to make a noise. That struck a nerve. I was prepared for some yelling from the other room. I really couldn't care less, but I didn't want to deal with it, not during the artistic plating I was about to do.

“You let me down by not shticking with me. We were supposed to be partners with making those shirtsh, and you bailed on me when things were getting tough. Everyone did. No one could stick around and continue onto greatness."

I really have to hold my tongue here. So many things I could say, but now is not the time. It will come soon, but not yet.

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, and I open up the oven to take out the meats. The smell is nearly overwhelming, and it takes some mental fortitude to keep myself from tasting it right then and there. I start carving the meat, watching as the juices seep out as I slice it into medallions. I separate the meats, putting the white meat on one plate, and the red on another.

“You ignoring me in there, man? Ignoring your dear guest?”

My brow becomes furrowed at the annoyance in his voice. My grip tightens around the carving knife and carving fork, whitening my knuckles. I take a breath so my voice doesn't sound angered.

“Not at all, sorry! I was just taking the food out and plating it. I'll be in there in a moment or two.”

“Ah, my bad. It really does smell good!”

I know this. It has to be some of my best work. I put the mashed potatoes on the plate, a neat scoop and a half on each. I finish the plates off with drizzling on the reduction. Technically, this wouldn't go with the white meat, but this is a favourite sauce of mine and I know it would be delicious. I take a look at the plates and smile to myself at my latest culinary accomplishment.

I take my phone out and take two pictures. The first is of the white meat plate, and I save that to my 'Meal' folder. The second is of the red meat plate. That one I send in a text message with the caption, “Bon Appetit”.

I pick up the plates and bring them to the dining room. The melancholy expression on Geoff Boucher's face drops immediately when he sees the dinner come in. I put the red meat plate in front of him and I sit across from him with my plate.

“Dinner is served.”

I say as I grab my fork and sample the mashed potatoes. They are everything I thought they would be. Geoff just stares slack-jawed at the meal in front of him. It dawns on me in that moment that he might not have ever had a meal like this before.

“Holy shit Tom, this looks amazing.”

He greedily grabs his fork and knife, and slices off a chuck of the meat, stuffing it in his mouth. I can see the look of savoury satisfaction spread on his face and a smirk appears on mine.

“Well it looks like you are enjoying this. Hopefully this makes up for me letting you down in the past.”

He forks a large dollop of mashed potatoes in his mouth as I carve a slice of my meat and smear the sauce on it. It tastes absolutely heavenly. He begins to open his mouth to speak and I just wish he would have swallowed first.

“Mmmmmm. This really is next level. This definitely helps, but I did have something else in mind though, to make up for the past. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Of course this wannabe con-artist has something else in mind. He finally swallows his mouthful before shoving another large hunk of meat into his mouth. Perhaps he will choke on the large pieces and I will be saved this conversation? I on the other hand, actually swallow my food before I reply.

“I had no choice but to cook for myself in college. After a couple years I started throwing little dinner parties for my friends and teachers. But what was this something else you had in mind?”

He pauses for a brief moment, and actually swallows his mouthful before speaking, thank God.

“I thought you said you went to university?” “Oh, that's what I meant. I actually got in the habit of just saying post-secondary education because I do that often.”

The bastard is actually sharp. Unexpectedly so. I look at his drink and notice that it's only half empty. I also notice that I forgot to get myself a drink.

“It seems that I forgot to get myself a drink. Do you want a top up at all?”

I rise from my seat and walk towards the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge. A delicious Chardonnay.

“No, I'm okay. I rarely drink when I eat, gives me heartburn.”

I shrug at this. I would rather him intoxicated, but it really doesn't matter, especially at this point. I pour myself a glass before putting the wine back into the fridge and walking back to my seat.

“I'm serious though, this might be one of the best things I have ever eaten? What is it? And why is yours different than mine?"

“Yes it is. Red meat doesn't really agree with me too much, so I tend to make myself chicken or pheasant. But yours is a special type of pork.”

I retake my seat, and take a sip of the wine before I put the glass down.

“So please, what is this idea you had?”

Geoff puts his cutlery down excitedly.

“Ah yes. I had an idea recently and I think it would be a great business venture. People love vintage cars right? Its the classic look, the American Dream. What if there was a service to rent them for a nice night out? I know there are rental services for luxury cars like Lamborghini's and Ferrari's, but there isn't anything if you wanted to take out a '67 Impala or a '40 Mustang.”

Half of me wants to roll my eyes and the other half wants to burst out laughing. Fortunately I can keep those impulses at bay. I take another sip of wine, washing down my mouthful. I take a moment to appreciate the mixture before I reply.

“Seems like not a bad idea. Sounds like you would be great at that, with all your experience selling cars.”

He looks at me with an expression of victory on his face as he throws his arms up in the air.

“Exactly!! I would be great at it.”

I glance at both our plates, which are almost finished. I cut my last piece of meat into thirds as I respond to him.

“So, what is my part to play in all of this? I'm guessing you want some financial backing?”

His expression of victory turns to one of hurt, as if I just slapped him. I take a piece of meat, savouring it before I continue.

“Don't look so shocked. We haven't spoken in over a decade, and you see me in the paper in an article saying I was wealthy and coming back to my hometown. As soon as I got your call I figured you wanted money.”

He just stares at me for a couple moments. I take this time to finish my plate, thoroughly enjoying every last bite. He looks down at his plate and finishes his meat, leaving only the bone left.

“I mean, that wasn't the only reason I called, but it was part of it. I have the skills, and even a lead on a place, but I don't have the cars. I was hoping you could get me started, and you would get a huge return.”

I stand up as he finishes. I grab my plate, and walk towards him to grab his plate. He looks at me with pleading eyes behind his stylish frames. I stare back at him, unblinking and focused.

“Huge return, eh? Just like all those times before?”

As I walk away I can see that same slapped expression again.

“What do you mean by that? We were partners before, you know that. We worked together.”

I just walk to the kitchen and put the plates in the sink, rinsing any big particle off before leaving them to soak.

“By the way, what happened to your face, Tom? You have a pretty long scar there.”

I run my fingertips over the scar on my face. I goes from my brow to my lip on the right side.

“I got into a fight a while back. It was just a graze but it left a mark I guess.”

I shut the water off before I walk back into the room. Geoff stares at me with a slightly puzzled look on his face as I walk towards my glass of wine and pick it up.

“But, you and I never worked together. You begged and swindled me out of my money, saying you would pay me back and we would be partners. But you never had any skill with anything you did. Sure, you had the silk screening machine and the mixing boards, but you never knew what to do with them, and you were always to lazy to learn how to.”

His mouth falls open as he stares at me. I stare back, intensely and unflinching.

“You conned so many people out of money in high school, and it sounds like you are still up to to your old tricks now. You aren't getting a cent of my money.”

I finish the last little bit of my wine, and head back to the kitchen to wash it. Geoff's eyes follow me as I walk by him. Unfortunately though, I don't see his arm reach up and grab my collar, pulling me towards him, jerking me down.

“I need to get this thing up and running, you hear me? You're going to fund me, just like you did back then. Don't embarrass yourself like before, I will kick your ass if you make me."

The smirk on his face is sickening to me. He thinks he has so much power, he is used to being able to intimidate people.

Not me.

I grab his wrist, as twist it off of my collar, twisting it and his elbow to an obtuse angle, eliciting a cry of pain as I release. He stares at me, bewildered.

“Don't you fucking touch me, you little piece of shit.”

I walk to the kitchen, rinse out the glass and put it in the dish washer.

“Looks like you finally grew a pair, Tommy Boy. If only you got them sooner, maybe you wouldn't have gotten your face slashed and had to get it put back together. Maybe, if you got them in high school, Lindsay would have fucked you, instead of me.”

There it was. The first hat dropped. Honestly, it took a while for that to come out, but none the less, it did. I walk out of the kitchen and sit back down at the table, but this time, beside him. The cocky expression on his face changes to one of fear as soon as I sit there.

“Right, I was too much of a pussy, so my girlfriend fucked you on prom. That's what happened, right?”

He sees the rage in my eyes, as his shift from side to side, sweat starting to form on his forehead.

“Well, I never said you were a pussy, but yea, that's how I remember it. You took too long and she wanted something real.”

I can't hold back anymore. I slap him across the face, swiftly. He looks at me, more shocked than before. His cheek starts turning a shade of pink as his eyes start looking glossy. I start to wonder if anyone had ever hit him before now.

“See, it went a bit differently. She was in love, but you had a crush on her. You tried making a pass at her in her hotel room, and she turned you down. You didn't like rejection, never handled it well, so you forced her to do what you wanted. Maybe in your state, it was consensual, but it wasn't.”

“What the hell are you saying? I never ra-”

I smack him again, same hand, same side. His cheek is now closer to red, and I see a tear escape his eye.

“She left shortly after that, went home and didn't say anything to anyone, not even her boyfriend. She broke things off and ran away from home. None of her family or friends saw her again.”

“I... I had no idea. I thought you and her went off to university togeth.... Wait a second.”

I cant help but to smile now. I see the cogs turning in his head as the pieces fall together, painting a picture.

“You never went to college or university. In that article, it said that you created some big time tech and took it to several companies, and they were fighting over you. In that article, you didn't have that scar on your face either.”

He frantically pulls up both of his sleeves.

“The scar on my left arm is from beginning of high school, wiped up on my skate board. The one on my right is from a few years ago, cut myself repairing my car.”

The scar on his left arm is small and white, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. The one on his right was still pink. He looks at me, eyes big and full of fear. The sweat on his forehead was starting to drip down his brow and into his eyes, stinging them I would imagine. Still, his eyes are locked on me.

“No way in hell is that scar new.”

Any self imposed toughness in Geoffrey Boucher is now gone. I stand up from my seat and he shrinks in fear.

“Who are you? What have you done to Tommy?”

His voice is dripping in fear. The second hat has dropped. I start circling around the table. Its a bit of a power move, but I love seeing it in his eyes. He is not in control, and he is starting to see that he never was.

“You know Lindsay breaking up and running away broke him. He thought about killing himself after she ran away, but an idea sprouted, one that drove him. He thought that if he got rich enough, famous enough, that she would come back to him. He really loved her, with all of his heart. There never was any closure, not until a few months ago.”

I'm halfway around the table. Geoff's eyes are still locked on me. I don't think he could tear his eyes away if there was an explosion beside him. This is exactly where I want him.

“Mr. Abernathy hires private detectives to look for her. They never did though, only where she was buried. She lived for a little longer after that night, but she never lived to see her 20th birthday. A big piece of her died that night, and you caused it. He never forgave you, and after he found out, he found me.”

“WHO THE FUCK ARE TYOU?!”

This isn't yelling out of anger, he wants to know because he thinks it will make him feel better. It wont. I straighten up and crack my neck and knuckles.

“You can call me Mick. Mr. Abernathy hired me to... take care of you.”

By this time I'm fairly close to him which makes him extremely uneasy, I can see it in his eyes. Before he can get up, I dash to him and force him to remain seated, pushing his shoulders down into the chair.

“Now now Geoff, you don't want to get up and spoil all the fun, now do you?”

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!!”

I release my hands from his shoulders and swiftly clap both of his ears. He lets out a scream of pain and terror as his hands go to his ears, almost by instinct. I force his hands away and pin them to his side. He needs to hear all of this.

“No Geoff, you really need to know this. Maybe you can understand, and if you can understand, maybe you can repent. You see, you have stolen a lot from people through the years, and you have hurt people. I know what you did to Lindsay, and I hope she is the only one. But regardless, you still did that to some one.”

I tip him back in his seat, so he is looking up at my face. He just wants it to be over, and he is scared of what might come next. My eyes can't help but be drawn to the dark spot in his lap too.

This is true terror, which is good.

“I have been hired to make you feel scared and helpless. To take away all of your power. It inflict as much pain and terror on you as I wish, to make you feel as small and fragile as you made her feel.”

I throw him to the ground. He hits it hard and roughly. Groaning as he does. After a couple moments, he tries to stand up, but he stumbles down.

The third and final hat drops.

“What the hell?”

He looks at his legs, and now he finally sees what I did. His right leg has been amputated from the knee down. The stump is sewn and bandaged to prevent infection and bleeding. He might have noticed it if I cut off the thigh, or if I didn't pump him up with pain killers.

“Where is my leg? WHERE IS MY FUCKING LEG?!”

Tears are streaming down his face as he yells. I jump on top of him, sitting on his chest, keeping him down, with my knees on his arms. Another groan escapes his mouth before I cover it with my hand.

“You know, you might have discovered this sooner, if I didn't drug your drink. It makes you highly suggestible, which made it easy for me. Don't worry though, I have total faith that you would have figured it out fairly quickly. But be honest, did you really think that was special pork you were eating?”

His eyebrows and eyes convey a confused look to me as his body eases up for a moment.

“Technically I didn't lie to you. It was a type of pig. Long pig, to be exact.”

The confused look becomes more prominent now, he really doesn't get it.

“You might not know what that is, which is fine. I just need to know, how did you taste? Did I flavour you right?”

His eyes instantly widen. His body tenses as he starts to try and flail me off of him. That's not going to work. A for effort though. I grab a handful of his hair, tightening his scalp, and thrust his head into the floor.

SMASH

I do it once more, just to make sure.

CRACK

With that, the movement stops. I get off of him and look down. What a piece of scum. I take out my phone and take a picture of him, which I send as a text, with the caption, “What's next?”

I immediately get a reply from Thomas Abernathy, two words.

“Phase 2”

I smile as I put my phone back into my pocket.

“Phase 2 it is.”

-CS

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how2to18 · 7 years ago

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LAST AUGUST, upon getting a new job at a small university in Wisconsin, I started a daily hour-long commute. Every morning I jet out of Madison’s east side, meandering down I-90, and halfway to Chicago, I exit onto a network of county roads that wend through cornfields and prairie, a landscape whose only saliences are the oxidized rectitude of grain silos or the pylons for the town’s electricity. Most of the other vehicles out here are semi-trucks or SUVs towing fishing boats with names like SEADUCTION and GROUPER THERAPY.

In some sense, a commute is an ontological problem. Confined to one’s car or the seat of a train, there is only so much you can do. It is a prickly non-hour during which you are unaccountable to your family or friends and are thus unburdened from the onuses of home or the tug of productivity. Of course, some of us push back against this inertia. So conditioned are we to “maximize our time,” we view the bus or train as a makeshift office and convert our business calls into public soliloquies. From my college days in Chicago I can still recall voyages during which neatly barbered executives held onto the train car railing and shouted into their cell phones things like, “Jesus Christ, Marty: not today, Monday!” or, “Just send me the goddamned spreadsheets!” One wonders why anyone buys theater tickets when, on public transport, you can see Death of a Salesman for free as a daily matinee.

Even those of us who drive still attempt to escape our limitations. We outfit our bodies with a couture of electronic gadgets with the hope of transcending time and space. With our bluetooths (blueteeth?) and smartwatches, we return phone calls and eschew idleness, striving to stay one step ahead of the competition. My cousin, a financial advisor, tells me that during his commute he often video-chats with customers through a small dashboard camera. Occasionally they’ll remark upon the whine of a proximate car horn or the image of cattle ranch framed in his rearview window.

From this vantage, the commute seems to reify a basic American covenant: the promise of social mobility. With nothing more than your pluck and intuition, you’re free to hoist up those bootstraps and bloodhound around for your share of the pie. I have the sensation almost every morning that to join the puttering multitude is to bolster the ranks of Americans who still believe in the Horatio Alger myth, who think we can transcend our disappointments through hustle and toil, who believe the trajectory of our fate is commensurate to our willingness to stay on the move. Very often on the highway I hear in my inner ear two pop songs from the 1980s, “Working for the Weekend” by Loverboy and “Workin’ for a Livin’” by Huey Lewis & The News: songs whose carbonated optimism makes it easy for me to imagine myself as Michael J. Fox in The Secret of My Success, a fair-haired golden boy who can climb the professional ladder with nothing more than winks and roguish charm.

Which is to say that a commute is an occasion for self-delusion. It is an hour of preening and exhortation during which we psych ourselves up for the day’s demands. When I was in my early 20s, during the first decade of the century, I lived in a dingy apartment on the north side of Chicago and interned for a certain big-eared senator who harbored presidential ambitions. Three days a week, I spent an hour on the El, jouncing toward the Loop, wearing a suit that didn’t fit me and an ill-advised goatee. I had grown up in small-town Wisconsin and pegged myself as a wide-eyed Huckleberry unfit for national politics. During my commute, I tried to compensate by watching, on my laptop, episodes from Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing, modeling my persona on the role of Josh Lyman, the deputy chief of staff who blustered and quipped his way across the Capitol, deactivating political foes with unction and blandishment. Within the span of an hour, Lyman’s serrated wit gave me a stencil for my workday sensibility, even though my own tasks in the senator’s office never went beyond typing correspondence or fielding constituents’ complaints.

Of course, a commute is a circular journey, a coming and going, so whatever varnish we apply to our psyches in the morning invariably wears off by the hour of return. At no time is this more apparent than on evening buses and trains, when the despair of fellow passengers can so thoroughly darken your mood that you find yourself getting off several stops before your exit. The apparition of these faces in a crowd, Ezra Pound wrote of a subway station in 1913, petals on a wet, black bough.

Back in Chicago, my boss was forecasting a season of hope and change, but it was not uncommon for my commute to wear the symptoms of the prevailing anomie: barefoot transients muttering preachments to no one or teens in billowing parkas toking joints with impunity. I remember once, on the Red Line toward Evanston, a cohort of drunken students from Northwestern bellowing Disney songs from their youth: “A Whole New World” and “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King.” That these tunes were so roaringly incongruous to the train’s interior — that they operated as a callow taunt to our less fortunate fellow travelers — seemed never to have occurred to them. Instead, the students held fast to the talismanic powers of a commute, a vessel hurtling toward their own enchanted destinies.

Such optimism seems more prevalent among the young. For those of us who are now on the cusp of middle age, a commute isn’t so much a journey of progress as a footpath around regrets and deferred ambitions. By the time they were my age, Emily Brontë had penned Wuthering Heights and the Buddha had renounced all worldly possessions, but all I have to my name are a handful of publications and one year toward tenure at a small Midwestern university. Whereas a commute was once a screen upon which I could project a montage of future achievements — a widely feted novel, the label of wunderkind, a house in the country — it now functions as a yawning chasm of time in which, if I’m not careful, I can lose myself to ruefulness and dispassion.

I suppose this is why, wherever I grumble about my commute, my friends are quick to offer a menu of dubious advice. Adamantly they suggest the downloading of audiobooks or podcasts, anything to lure the mind away from the jaws of self-critique. In order to lessen the burdens of the journey, they seem to suggest, you must forget where you are and why you’re there. You must take up the avenues of self-erasure.

Such recommendations seem of a piece with the most popular injunctions of our time. Constantly we are told to stay busy, to dodge overthinking, lest we court long jags of depression and the arrival of bad moods. Under the banner of self-care, we are exhorted to go ahead and binge-watch that TV show, to scarf that chocolate cake, to delight in the unbridled consumption of the widely practiced “cheat day.” Steeped in the nonthought of yoga, we fold our bodies into the postures of infants and corpses, aiming for a kind of self-obliteration, paying drop-in rates for mental fatality. This points out another etymological declension of commuting: before the word came to connote soul-crippling drives to the workplace, to “commute” was to lessen the severity of a punishment, as when a judge offers a guilty party the balm of a lesser sentence.

And yet part of the sadness I feel during my commute stems from the realization that I have spent too much time absenting myself from my life, that I haven’t appreciated each moment as it came. Throughout my 20s, I believed my days were following the logic of a sitcom, with new characters wandering across the set and interacting with the central players, but the plot was strung loosely together, never building toward some overarching narrative, never orchestrating some final theme. When I was in grad school, I would spend barren hours drinking on the union patio, smoking cigarettes with friends in the seventh year of writing their dissertations, and it never dawned on me that this tipsy chatter would be on the record, that this was time I’d never get back.

That I suffered from this delusion becomes most obvious to me when I finally arrive at school and teach my classes. These college students are nearly 15 years my junior, and yet lately they’ve entered the lecture hall in the apparel of my childhood. In particular, the Massimo hats and Tommy Hilfiger hoodies, which were so popular in the 1990s, now have the power to summon Proustian levels of nostalgia in me. It is a strange mirror. Last week, during office hours, one boy told me how desperately he wanted to tell his story, how badly he wants to be a writer, how badly he wanted this, he said, throwing an arm into the air, as though the cramped precinct of my office were some sort of holy relic, the site of all creation. I would have found his earnestness charming if it weren’t such faithful reflection of my own college-aged hungers. Which is why I found myself fighting back tears. To grow old is to encounter on a daily basis an interminable parade of previous selves, miniature incarnations of your delusions, your wild hopes, your mistakes.

In these habits of mind, I seem to share a bloodline with Leopold Bloom and Clarissa Dalloway, those sullen nostalgists for whom a routine errand — a trip to the florist, a jaunt to the post — became a juncture to reflect upon the errancies of one’s life: a squandered dalliance, a neglected son, the aftereffects of a ravaging addiction. No wonder we bristle at the idle hours of our commute. For it is then that we see how choosing Chicago over Berkeley kept us from a life of sunshine, how a graduate degree in fiction ruled out a job in the West Wing, how our moneyless lifestyle as aspiring novelists prevented us from having children.

These days, during the hour of my commute, I am trying to sit more easily with my disappointments, trying to remember more fondly the places I have been. For that is what we risk losing amid all those dissected evenings in thrall to self-abstention, all those slack-jawed hours with TV shows and podcasts. We are distancing ourselves from the fact of our inevitable transformation: that we are always getting older, that things are no longer as they once had been. In this sense, we are always in commute, always traveling inexorably between those “two eternities of darkness,” as Nabokov called them, the one toward which we are heading and the one from which we came.

“I thought it would last, my time,” writes Philip Larkin, that bard of resignation. “The sense that, beyond the town, there would always be fields and farms.” On my journey home, the road is long, and out across the gathering dusk, a hem of leafless trees stands frayed against the mauvish horizon. For half an hour, I drive through swaths of undulant prairie, unaccompanied by fellow travelers, and every so often the fecal reek of soil pervades the window, a vestige of the forgotten summer. Atop a faraway hill, two cows graze in lazy contention, and even in the twilight, I can see that they’re breathing steam. For a while, I lose myself to the hum of the interstate, but when I come out of the fog, it seems, impossibly, that I’m already near my exit. Always, it comes quicker than we expect.

Barrett Swanson was the 2016–2017 Halls Emerging Artist Fellow at the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing.

Banner image by Alan Light.

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