#who knew a medical drama would be mostly dramatically medical content

[laurrelise]

i am so so interested in house for the doctors and their personal lives and the medical stuff is cool and all but this feels like the slowest slow burn of all time

me when i’m trudging through the mud (actual medical drama plot) to find what i’m seeking out (the 5 minutes worth of plot surrounding house, wilson, cuddy, and all the other doctors per episode)

[etherealwaifgoddess]

More Time - Chpt.13

Summary: Bucky, Emma, and Steve have a night at the guy’s apartment where Emma learns a little bit more about Bucky.  Master list can be found HERE.

Warnings / Content: A moment of slight angst featuring a sweet slightly insecure Bucky.

Word Count: 2.4k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! As promised, a new day and a new chapter! I don’t if anyone saw, I have a new stand alone fic I posted earlier (Love, In Any Form). I wanted to get that out there despite having this series going. It’s night and day different from this, but if anyone needs some nonbinary!Bucky in their life, check it out! I’m going to be popping up a one shot related to this fic in a little while too. Three new posts in one day... ya’ll are gonna get spoiled ;) The one shot is going to dive into the origin of Bucky’s rainbow pants and I think ya’ll will enjoy the little head cannon as much as I do. XOXO - Ash

Chapter Thirteen

It was ten days before their schedules synced up again and the guys made good on their promise of pizza and Netflix. They had both visited Emma at work since Bucky’s birthday but it was a poor excuse for quality time and they were all anxious to see each other outside of the bar again. Emma brought along her bottle of Two Buck Chuck, mostly as a joke but also so as not to show up empty handed. Bucky answered the door dressed in a pair of low hanging grey sweatpants that made Emma’s mouth go dry. He was still towel drying his hair and hadn’t gotten around to putting on a shirt yet.

“Sorry, I was running late.” Bucky told her, moving aside so she could come in. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and the woodsy, slight spicy scent of him made her toes want to curl. “I’ll be right back.” he assured her before going back to the bathroom to finish drying off. 

Steve called out a hello from the kitchen where he was getting out plates and Emma headed over to him. He was in blue sweatpants and a baggy white tee shirt she suspected he had stolen from Bucky. Everything about him screamed soft, and comfortable, and home. Emma greeted him with a lingering kiss, finding it easier to be a little bold with him. She helped him gather up everything and take it out to the living room while Bucky finished up. He joined them just as she was setting the second box of pizza on the coffee table. 

“Thank you, god, for leggings.” Bucky whistled from the doorway. 

Emma snapped upright and pulled down the hem of her shirt, realizing he must have had quite a view of her backside. “Be nice, dirty old man.” she teased. 

“Guilty as charged, ma’am.”  Bucky nodded. He’d put on a black a-line tank and his hair damp hair fell around his shoulders. Emma thought it was unfair how attractive he looked standing there leering at her. The man was walking talking sex appeal and he damn well knew it.

“I was just wearing what I would at home. That’s what you said tonight was for. Lazy day clothes, movies, and pizza.”

“And it is. Your lazy day clothes just happen to be what dreams are made of.” 

Emma huffed, unable to come up with a witty response. She didn’t have to though as Steve joined them with the opened bottle of wine. “If it makes you feel any better, Bucky is cheating.” he informed her.

“Am not” Bucky sputtered at the same time Emma asked “What do you mean?” 

Steve’s smile was cheshire. “Those are not Bucky’s around the house clothes. Those are his gym clothes.” 

“Steve…” Bucky’s voice was a low warning sound.

“And what does the illustrious James Buchanan Barnes wear around the house?” Emma had a feeling this game was going to get good. 

“Steve, no.” Bucky growled. 

Steve tried to slyly motion to the bedroom room door and Emma caught his intention. “Alpaca pants!” Steve cried and bolted to the bedroom with Emma quick on his heels giggling. “What the heck are alpaca pants?!” she asked between giggles. 

Bucky was diving after them and caught Emma around the waist barely inside the bedroom door. Steve was already rooting through a dresser drawer when Bucky tossed Emma onto the bed and went after him. He held up the pajama pants in question and threw them to Emma before being tackled by Bucky who tickled him mercilessly on the floor. 

“Oh my god, what even are these?” Emma howled as she looked at the fleecy materials print. 

Bucky left Steve panting on the floor to pounce on the bed and wrestle the pants from Emma. 

“I hate you both.” he grumbled petulantly, holding the pants close to his chest protectively. Emma noticed his eyes were actually wary as he clung to the pants, his cheeks pink from more than just exertion.

Steve joined them on the bed, still flushed from being tickled. “Oh come on, Buck. She’d have seen them eventually.” 

Emma gave Bucky shrug, “They’re actually pretty fantastic.” she admitted. 

“I know they’re… colorful.” Bucky agreed, his tone still hesitant.

“Why wouldn’t you wear these tonight?” Emma asked, “They seem so cozy.”

“I don’t know. They’re kinda private. I love my ‘paca pants but... they’re a little feminine... and over the top.” 

“Bucky, hey, no.” Emma moved so she was right up against him, both of them laying on their sides. She wasn’t used to seeing this shy side of him. “I don’t care what you wear. You could have on a leather jacket or a My Little Pony sweater, you’re still you.” 

Bucky nodded, knowing she was right but still unsure. He tested the waters a little more, “I have rainbow pants too. And a matching fluffy robe.” 

“They sound cute too.” she assured him. 

“I know it’s silly but those kinds of things remind me I’m safe, ya know?” Emma nodded encouragingly and Bucky took a breath and continued, “When I got away, it was hard sometimes to remember where I was. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and it was… yeah. It wasn’t great. There was this fuzzy kids blanket that someone left in the apartment I rented and it was so cold that I started sleeping with it. After that I didn’t have trouble waking up at night, I could feel the blanket on me and I knew I was safe. No way HYDRA would ever give me something so nice and soft.” Bucky paused to look at Emma and the understanding in her eyes made him push on. “I’m better about that now, but I still like having things like that around. Shuri gave me the rainbow pants when I was living in Wakanda and it just became a thing. Steve’s gotten me a few things and I have a pretty nice collection now.” Bucky let out a heavy breath. He hated sharing things that he struggled with but he cared for Emma and wanted to start trusting her with more pieces of himself.

Emma gave him a small smile and a kiss. “You’re allowed to like having nice things. It doesn’t make me think any less of you. But I will take a little offense if you don’t think you can be yourself around me. This is supposed to be a relationship, right?” 

Bucky nodded, “Yeah, it is.”

“Then you gotta trust me. I’m not just here for a hot threesome, I really like you guys.” 

Bucky huffed a laugh. “We like you too, doll. It’s just going to take a little time.”

“Everyone has baggage, Buck.” 

“We have a cargo plane full of baggage at this point.” 

“Oh come on,” Steve protested, “It’s not that bad. I mean you have an ex brainwashed assassin, who’s only missing one limb, and is down to screaming in his sleep once every few months now. And a retired American icon who shrank and got a little chubby, lived two full lifetimes already, and has a list of medical issues a mile long.” 

“Well when you say it like that…” Bucky rolled his eyes dramatically. Leave it to Steve and his oversharing tendencies. 

“I think I’ll keep you.” Emma laughed, “Both of you.” She stretched so she could drag Steve closer to them and rolled on to her back so she was lying with them on either side of her. 

“I don’t know what we did to deserve you, doll.” Bucky said with adoration in his eyes.

“I don’t know either, but you better keep doing it ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.” 

Steve draped himself halfway over Emma, snuggling into her warmth and reaching out to Bucky to hold onto him as well. They lay for a minute, basking in the warm, tender moment, before Bucky hopped up and dropped his sweatpants to the floor with one quick motion. Steve and Emma both made surprised sounds but he waved them off, “I might as well get comfy.” he told them pulling on his pajama pants. 

Emma pulled herself up and hugged him tightly, “They look perfect.”

Steve got up too then, kissing Bucky lightly as he passed by. “Come on, you two. Pizza’s getting cold.” 

Bucky smiled gratefully at Emma and they followed Steve, hands linked together.

Bucky got the middle seat while Steve brought up the movie they’d queued earlier and Emma flopped large pizza slices on plates for everyone. His nerves were still a little raw from all the sharing and both Steve and Emma seemed to pick up on him needing a little more affection than usual. They made their way through a pizza and a half while the movie played, a SciFi drama with just a little romance thrown in. It was engrossing and they were all a little surprised when it ended and they realized how entangled they had become during the movie. Bucky had sprawled out in his seat, his back leaning on Emma’s chest, one of her arms wrapped around his middle being hugged by his arm, and her other hand playing idly in his hair. His feet were tucked in on Steve’s lap and Steve had been rubbing them lightly, stroking up along his calves too. Steve’s feet were tucked under Bucky’s thighs for warmth despite the blanket on his lap. 

“I never want to move.” Emma groaned as Steve turned off the movie which was just scrolling credits at that point. 

“I don’t think. I can move at this point.” Bucky said hugging Emma’s arm just a little tighter. 

Steve yawned and stretched as much as he could without disrupting Bucky’s feet, “It’s late.” 

Emma looked over at him in disbelief, “It’s barely after ten.”

“I know,” Steve half shrugged, “But we both have work in the morning.” 

“Ah yes, you who keep to relatively normal work hours. I get to sleep in as much as I want to.” 

“Braggart.” Bucky teased, and then more seriously, “Don’t leave, doll. Stay the night?”

Emma looked down at Bucky’s face, searching his expression, “What are you asking me, Bucky?”

“We don’t have to do anything but sleep, but we’re all tired and the bed is big enough to share.” 

“Tempting, so tempting. But I don’t have anything with me and I don’t want to be in the way tomorrow while you’re both trying to get to work. I definitely can’t sleep with my contact lenses in either.” 

Steve squeezed Bucky’s foot and gave him a look, he was disappointed too but it was just bad timing, not a rejection of them. “It’s okay, another night maybe?” Steve tried.

Emma nodded emphatically, “Yes, definitely. Maybe on a day that none of us have work in the morning. We can sleep in and get breakfast at the diner over on 5th.” 

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Bucky told her with a slow grin.

“I’ll look at the calendar tomorrow and figure it out.” Steve agreed.

“Kiss for the road?” Emma asked, looking from one to the other.

Bucky turned over so he was hovering above her and leaned down for a long, reverent kiss. Emma couldn't even breathe as his tongue danced along the seam of her lips, asking tenderly for permission. She opened her lips for him and shuddered when his tongue darted in. His hand stayed in PG-rated territory but the firm caresses of her shoulders and the back of her neck made it clear he was struggling to keep things from progressing further. Bucky was lost, barely reigning himself in after he got a taste of her mouth; all wine-sweet and perfectly her. Steve had moved so he could watch, rubbing a hand in small circles on Bucky’s lower back. It was with great reluctance that Bucky finally pulled back, “I’ll miss you.” He murmured against her mouth before moving away. 

Steve didn’t have to be told to slide over as Bucky moved away. He was painfully hard from watching Bucky and Emma kiss but he knew it wasn’t the time for that. He would take his goodbye kisses and be more than happy enough with them. Emma practically melted against Steve as his lips brushed across hers. Where Bucky was bright flame, Steve was glowing embers; patient and steady. Emma let him lead, enjoying the careful way his fingers combed through her hair. A soft sigh escaped her lips when he trailed a few feather light kisses along her neck. They were so soft but they absolutely ignited her body. Steve moved away and pulled himself up, extending a hand to help her up too. “You gotta get going before we start something we can’t finish.” He told her. 

“Well, you and I can’t finish. But you two could.” Emma motioned between the guys. 

“Uh, yeah… I mean we could but…” Steve stuttered, flustered.

Emma chuckled, “It’s okay, Steve. I know you two weren’t living like monks before you met me. I adore the way you guys are together and I wouldn’t dream of infringing on that. We’re all a little worked up; I don’t expect you two to go without a little fun once I leave.” 

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Bucky cooed, wrapping his arms around her. “We just don’t want you feeling left out.” 

“I’m far from it. And I don’t feel left out, I’m coming in new here and that’s okay.” 

 Emma was traded between her guys for a few more goodnight kisses until she was finally able to get her coat and head home. 

Bucky shut the door behind her and looked at Steve, his love-struck expression mirrored on Steve’s face. “We are in so deep here, Stevie.” 

Steve let Bucky envelop him in his arms, his head resting right under Bucky’s chin as he hugged him close. “We are.” He agreed, “But, god, we are lucky.”

“You feelin’ lucky, punk?” Bucky asked, quoting loosely from a movie Sam had made him watch.

Steve laughed lightly, “Yeah, jerk, I think I am.” 

Bucky grinned before dropping down to wrap his arms around the back of Steve’s thighs, picking him up with ease and carrying him off to show him just how lucky he was feeling.

The one shot is up now! The Origin of the Rainbow Pants

Tag list lovelies: @godofplumsandthunder​ @remilupin22​ @supraveng​ @hiddles-rose​

If anyone wants added or removed please lmk!

[beckytailweaver]

Avatar: The Last Airbender (fic stuff)

Since I’m trying to work on something (ANYTHING!) and I seem to be in an Avatar mood of late, I’ll throw this up here.

These are fics, potential fics, and mostly-concrete ideas that have existed in the back of my closet for a very long time, since the good old days of watching ATLA when it was shiny and new and cool. Most of them are also so old that LOK didn’t exist yet or was in its infancy.

Note: These are mostly gen fic. If pairings come up they are not the central goal of the piece; they will be mainly canon as it existed at the time the fic was outlined. Treat them like the scenery (no ship war drama allowed in my workroom, that’s what stopped me participating in the fandom years ago).

I’d kinda like to put some feelers out and see what folks think would be most interesting to work on.

Read on:

The End of the Circle Post-canon continuation, my oldest ATLA fic, conceived and outlined before comics or LOK existed. Does some headcanon worldbuilding based on what was available at the time of the original series. Dragons and spirits and legends coming to life, oh my!

Status: outlined, some scenes written, firm endpoint, world built.

Summary: Roku warned Aang that he could not die in the Avatar State, or the cycle would end. Azula’s lightning killed Aang in the Avatar State. To their good fortune, Katara’s spirit water was able to bring Aang back to life, but there are Consequences—for the Avatar and for the world.

Wild Fire Canon AU/semi-rewrite. Also born before LOK was a thing so Druk doesn’t exist. It borrows some concepts from the idea of Toph and her badgermole family. It breaks some TLA canon around the edges but it’s all in good fun.

Status: outlined, many scenes, ending fully plotted.

Summary: The young Fire Prince was burned and disowned by the Fire Lord, cast away and abandoned on the hostile shores of the Earth Kingdom before his kindly uncle could aid him. Disfigured, angry, and lost, young Zuko finds solace in the wilderness when he is taken in by a most unusual protector: A dragon.

Phoenix Legacy Not-a-time-travel “time travel” fic. It was born after seeing Season 1 of Avatar LOK and...kinda liking it but not? (I mostly lost interest in LOK after S1.) And wanting to add some more classic feel to the season. No information from subsequent seasons was used to outline it (thus there is no Druk) but recently I have gone back and “fixed” Zuko’s daughter (giving her the correct name and appearance), and added her nameless daughter (Iroh II’s sister) for lulz. Basically a rewrite of LOK Season 1 with a TLA character along for the ride to shake everything up, because at the time I was disappointed that there was only Katara and no other Gaang members out there kicking the new Avatar into shape.

Status: outlined, a few scenes written, ending plotted; not to be a rehash.

Summary: A phoenix cannot die by fire—it can only be reborn. When Ozai claimed the title of Phoenix King, he had no idea what sort of spirit he might be invoking. When he lost his ancestor’s war and his crown, the spirit’s blessings were unknowingly conferred upon his heir: The hapless Fire Lord Zuko, determined to bring his nation to peace. Seventy years later, there’s a tragic explosion in a tea shop in Republic City, and exiled traitor Fire Prince Zuko wakes up to an unfamiliar world full of unfamiliar faces. The last thing he remembers is an Agni Kai under a Comet, catching lightning to protect a friend.

The Prince’s Prisoner Another ficling born before the comics or LOK were really a big deal and/or I didn’t know about them. Basically during TLA S1, rather than fleeing Prince Zuko’s clutches, Aang decides to remain his prisoner. The original reasoning for this was a kind of modified Peggy Sue: Aang effed up his final battle with Ozai for reasons, his soul is sorta sent back in time to do-over from his iceberg wakeup. The problem is that this is not a perfect process and he doesn’t actually remember everything, only some very important faces, feelings, and concepts. The idea of Zuko as a dear friend/teacher/trusted person is one of these things. Thus, in defiance of all visible logic, Aang trusts S1!Zuko with his life and keeps his promise to go with him. In spite of his Water Tribe friends continuously trying to rescue him, Zhao continuously trying to capture him, and Zuko himself continuously trying to avoid being befriended by his ticket home. (”I’m your prisoner, not anyone else’s.”)  Intended to be a funny and heartwarming friendship/journey story taking a different angle at the series.

Status: tentatively outlined with very few scenes skeleton’d out, season 1 definite, endpoint undecided but can continue throughout the series. The premise mechanic is a bit flimsy; it’s less concrete since it’s supposed to be fluff, angst, and friendship.

dragon!Zuko AU fic Everybody has to write one of these, it’s like a law. Here’s mine: Ozai’s cruelty during the Agni Kai with his young son invoked the wrath of Agni, bringing down a magic from a time before memory and no one knows if it’s a blessing or a curse. When Zuko’s face burned, the fire didn’t stop there, and when the flames went out a young dragon was left on the floor of the arena. Uncle Iroh came to his rescue before the rest of Court could gather their wits, and then had to get him on a boat and out of the Fire Nation before Ozai could decide whether to make him into a pet or a trophy. Part 1: Rather than going on a mission to hunt the Avatar, Zuko and Iroh are on a road trip to keep Zuko alive and secret from the world (Ozai wants to usurp his brother’s title of Dragon). Iroh and his crew end up raising this stubborn angsty dragon prince; since he can’t turn back into a human he has to come to terms with being a dragon most of the time (which can’t talk), and he can often be Very Dramatic about it. Part 2: Years later, there’s rumors of the Avatar’s return and Zuko (who has sort of learned to take a human shape again) sees an opportunity to spare his own life and go home by offering his father a bigger prize than a dragon’s head...

Status: very general outline, some scenes conceived and a general plot/endpoint. Part 1 is in the 3 years pre-canon, Part 2 is during canon, including the grumpy dragon hiding out in Ba Sing Se.

Years Gone/Avatar kids AU S1/pre-canon rewrite. Some whim of fate cracks open Aang’s iceberg three years early (a storm, a passing boat, pure chance?) and he tumbles out into the world in the same year that Prince Zuko was banished. Despite befriending some Water Tribe children who would love to go adventuring with him, he’s got to get home to the Southern Air Temple and that’s where he runs into young, angry, raw-wounded Prince Zuko on his first visit. The tiny chase ensues up and down the entire temple. Aang will of course be friendly but escape. And this begins a probably-ill-advised adventure with a lot of kids who are entirely too young to be camping across the world on a bison (but it’s exciting!), chased by another kid entirely too young to be leading a manhunt. The Comet is three years away so there’s plenty of time for adults to tear their hair out over this. Zuko is a tiny ball of determination, rage, and tears. Aang feels bad for him and tries to make with the befriending even as he’s dodging the fire tantrums. Occasionally during adventures Zuko just gets scooped along for the ride in Appa’s saddle, no one’s sure how these weird truces get called, but Iroh sips tea and directs the crew on a new heading and they’ll pick up their prince at the bison’s next stopover most likely after the kid pendulums back the other way and remembers he’s trying to nab the Avatar again. So Zuko spends 50% of the time yelling and chasing the Avatar and 50% of the time sitting in Appa’s saddle learning tentative smiles and being offered berries and seal jerky, all the way from the South Pole to the North. (It’s slightly terrifying to realize that Aang and Zuko are currently the oldest kids in the party and are actually in charge of this terribly irresponsible expedition.)

Status: general outline, a couple of scenes written, particular S1 plot points, no endpoint yet. Possible bonus content: Toph and/or Suki come along for the ride because why not.

The Blacksmith of Ba Sing Se This is a very old Lu Ten Lives! story. Lu Ten always knew Uncle Ozai envied him, but secure in his position he didn’t really care about it until he took an arrow in the back during the final battle of the Siege of Ba Sing Se. With unknown assassins among his own ranks and no safe place to retreat in the melee, the wounded prince decides to fake his own death by hiding in the rubble, and then swapping clothes with a slain Earth Kingdom soldier half crushed in the ruin. At first, it’s only to get to safety until he can get to the bottom of this. But Lu Ten is picked up by the EK medic teams after the surprising withdrawal of the Fire Nation troops, and ends up spirited away into the heart of Ba Sing Se—where he discovers that it’s hard to escape. He also discovers a whole new world, and a whole new perspective, and, keeping out of the authorities’ notice, eventually manages to make a life for himself as Chang the Blacksmith, a humble craftsman with a wife and kids. This...is much nicer than war, death, and Court politics. Years later: refugee Zuko walking home from his job at Pao Family Tea Shop runs across a little boy crying over his broken toy in the dusty street...

Status: nebulous outline with a few particular sketched scenes. Takes place mostly in Ba Sing Se, outcome indeterminate. It could be mixed with the Lineages concept from below.

Lineages / not Ozai’s kid AU Not really a concrete plot so much as a campy idea from long before the Avatar comics blundered through Ursa’s backstory. There was a phase in the fandom (I think the Search comics drew off of that) where it was popular to imagine almost anyone else than Ozai as Zuko’s Secret Real Dad (the boy deserves a better father) and Iroh was often selected as primary candidate. (I know, Iroh is already the real dad and stepped into Ozai’s cold empty shoes like a pro.) Me, deciding that I had to be different, decided to offer up Lu Ten on that altar. Justifications: Iroh and Ozai looked to have a pretty extreme age difference and there was no solid age for Lu Ten at the time of his death, but his picture looks mature enough. Deals with family secrets and the political issues of muddying the lines of inheritance in the middle of a war. Also takes a crack at Ursa having a clever hand with Azulon’s last will and testament on Ozai’s behalf, with provisos.

Status: nothing really more than a vague concept without enough plot to stand on its own. Without a viable framework, it could work better/well folded into The Blacksmith story, above.

I’m open to opinions and/or asks about these. Trying to get a spark going! (I need to be working in a fandom, ANY fandom at this point! ^_^;; )

[20thcentutygeek]

5 Haunting Horror films based on true stories (aside from Amityville Horror).

When I started researching this I was expecting to find a glut of films that would fit this category in the 70s and 80s. There were a couple but they were a bit tenuous (The Exorcist). It seemed more like a nugget of a real-life event was taken and then turned into something completely different. I suppose this way no one extra had to be paid. This changes in the early 2000’s and from 2005 onwards we have had a continual stream of Horror Movies based on ‘real events’. This has culminated in the Conjuring films, based on the accounts of the Warrens.

Below is a list of 5 films that are based on alleged real paranormal events:

1.       An American Haunting (2005)

Events: in 1817 the Bell family started to suffer an alleged haunting by a ghostly witch. It started when the head of the family, John Bell, came across a strange animal in his corn field. Shocked by the animal’s appearance he opened fire, the animal vanished. That night for the first time, the family were bombarded by a beating sound on the side of their home. From that point on the haunting got worse.

The noises continued. Sometimes outside the house, other times in the same room as members of the Bell family. Many people as well as the family reporting the sounds as well as seeing and feeling things within the house over several years.

Whatever the entity was that was haunting the family it made its final attack in 1820, when it allegedly poisoned and killed John Bell. Laughing loudly as he took his final breathes. It is said that the ghost returned in 1828 for a short time but was not heard of again after that.

This is regarded as one of the earliest and most wide spread hauntings in American History.

Film: The film has got an interesting cast with Donald Sutherland and Sissy Spacek and several up and coming actors at the time. It has an interesting modern wrap around mechanism as access into the period setting. It also maintains the actual, relative down beat, ending of the legend but condenses the haunting period of years to what feels like months. While the film maintains the haunted happenings the scares and tension never really amount to much, it was only a 12 (PG-13).

It was an interesting exercise in period drama horror, however I think this would have been better if it had either been more stylised (ala Sleepy Hollow) or tried for some harder edged scares and content (ala Annabelle Creation).

2.       The exorcism of Emily Rose (2005)

Events: The film is based on the tragic events that lead to the death of German woman Anneliese Michel. She dies in 1976 suffering from malnourishment and dehydration after months of being subjected to exorcist practices.

After suffering a seizure at the age of 16 Anneliese began to suffer increasing periods of depression. These low points and neuroses began to become focused on religious artefacts. A huge concern for a girl that came from such a religiously devoted family. Soon both she and her family became convinced that she was possessed by something evil. After several attempts the family convinced two priests that she needed intervention.

This started the exorcisms that eventually led to her death. Following her death her parents and the two priests were prosecuted for murder. They were found guilty of negligent homicide. This also forced the Catholic church to distance itself from the case and change its stance to state that she had been mentally ill and not in fact possessed by an evil force.

Film: They take a leap with this film as the story is told in retrospect, dealing with the court case that follows the death of Emily Rose. This is not a film about whether they can save the possessed girl, we know the answer is no. The film spends more time dealing with the question of whether she was possessed at all. It’s an interesting conceit and that isn’t fully explored. If they had had the confidence in the audience, it would have been a better film. However, they never want to completely condemn the priest.

In a better film, he would have been played as a more unreliable narrator. There would have been more uncertainty about whether she was possessed or if the priest hadn’t been obsessed due to his religious zeal.

That said, the film is good fun and the core cast are mostly good. This is a solid possession horror film with an interesting concept. The frustration is that this had the potential to be something more and elevate the genre and story into a classic.

3.       The Haunting in Connecticut (2009)

Events: of all the ‘True Events’ on this list, this is the one that has the most holes. This is the first but not the last appearance of the Warrens on this list and their paws are all over this.  The haunting was alleged to have focused around the House and son of the Snedecker family, who was suffering from a form of Cancer. Minor events were reported but nothing of great note. That is when the Warrens got involved and the story became ‘clearer’.

The entity harassing the family was supposed to have been linked to the previous use of the house as a mortuary. It was stated that there were several employees of the mortuary that practiced necromancy and necrophilia. It was the spirits of these people that were returning at the heart of the events.

This did lead to several grander events. This included the son attacking his cousin and being held in a mental health ward for a period. However, following Ed Warren’s death in … several people linked with the investigation and the documenting of the events admitted that Ed told them to embellish what they knew in any way they could think of to make it scary.

The House is still occupied and the current occupants have frequently stated that they have never experienced any paranormal activity.

Film: The movie has a couple of well-placed scares and some moments of tension, however the overall film is very pedestrian. The facts from the true events are close enough regarding the house and its history. However, elements of the family are changed for safety. The focus on the main son having cancer is reduced.

There is little to say about this film really. It’s competently made, the acting is sufficient and its creepy at times but it just feels very run of the mill and safe for this genre. It’s a shame really because again, like the Exorcism of Emily Rose, this has the potential to add an element of ambiguity and tension with a just a few changes. Could the son’s illness have been at the root of the events? Could it be suggested in the film that this was a hoax to raise money to cover medical costs.

It’s worth checking out if you are a fan of the genre but there are better films on this list.

4.       The Conjuring (2013)

Events: Ah the Warrens. The couple that have now become synonymous with modern haunted house movies, thanks mostly to this film. As is usually the case, the story the Warren’s tell is very different from the truth the family have sated. The Perron family lived in the house at the heart of the story of a decade and the hauntings were spread over this while period.

The haunting was centred around the spirit of an alleged witch called Bathsheba Sherman who died in 1885. There is little evidence that she was in fact a witch, however it was alleged that she killed several infants as sacrifices to the devil. The haunting took on several aspects for the different inhabitants. Some saw apparitions, others were physically attacked but all the heard the noises and voices.

The haunting was never fully resolved. The case may have been closed by the Warren’s however after the Perron’s sold the house in 1980 there were further reports of ghostly activity. This is an event that I think deserves a more attention and possibly a closer adaptation of the story.

Film: Forgetting the alterations of the history this was a return to form for haunted house films. I really enjoyed the tone and feel of the film. It’s has an excellent sense of creepiness and uneasiness running through it. There are some incredibly well placed and paced scares that are incredibly effective.

The strength of the film is in the first two thirds. The build-up of the family dynamic and the relationship that grows with the Warrens. This investment in characters underlines the tension and scares. However, this is partially undone by a clichéd and overly dramatic finale. This will most likely be regarded as a milestone in horror history however it just falls shy of becoming a horror classic. I won’t even go into the dreadful sequel and Annabelle spin-offs. This Franchise has such potential but is being squandered on cheap jump scares and poorly written and preposterous characters.

5.       Deliver us form Evil (2014)

Events: The book ‘Deliver us from evil’ written by Lisa Collier Cool, chronicles the supernatural cases of former New York Police officer Ralph Sarchie. It is set up to be like the real life X-files. It covers a number of cases of possession and ghostly attacks that are alleged to be related to crimes that were left unsolved. Of course, they have been solved by Sarchie but the truth would not be accepted by the public.

Sarchie has appeared on several podcasts, radio and TV shows to promote the book and Film, telling his tales of the supernatural that lives in the Bronx. Demon neighbours, ghostly vengeful brides and the exorcisms that were carried out to save the people involved. Its sounds like he was a busy guy, maybe the Bronx is over a hell mouth and they would have been better off with Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Film: Eric Bana is a New York cop that starts to uncover a conspiracy of soldiers possessed by demons from the middle east. The plot is a little daft and the direction is not subtle in anyway however this odd combination of horror and cop drama is fun if not scary. Bana is committed to the role and is sufficiently brooding and earnest about it all. It does all fall a part in the finale, as they usually do. If these events are alleged to have happened I am sure that someone in the media would have noticed.

A fun film for Halloween or with a few beers but not a solid recommend.

[bpdbiscuitblog-blog]

How Many Did You Take? How Many, My Angel? ***TRIGGER WARNING***

Woohoo is one of my oldest friends. She’s an ordained Wiccan priestess and performed the marriage ceremony for my second husband and me. She’s been my spiritual advisor and counselor since before I was old enough to drink, and I’m 34 now.

Before I was diagnosed with BPD, back when I hit the Big Red Button (the one that says - DO NOT TOUCH because the consequences are catastrophic) on my life, Woohoo was still there for me. I was obviously going insane, up and leaving my 13-year marriage with my then 35-year-old husband and my 14-year-old daughter, Moon, and my house and my entire existence to move in with Gypsy, a 33-year-old failed musician-turned-gamer who lived with his mother and had no job, education, hope for his future, or even basic social skills, where I immediately began a life of weird, unsatisfying, and infrequent sex, binge drinking, and running from past and present trauma-drama. On a positive note, I became a teacher again, a fulfilling experience speaking to my soul, as I am a teacher in more than just career, but completely mentally incapable of taking care of myself, much less a group of 17 8-year-olds, and became overworked, exhausted, and an emotional hurricane in a matter of months.

But between the Big Red Button and the hurricane was a time of destruction and devastation where I used the fires of my own personal hell to burn every possible bridge to my old life that I could, many of them badly in need of burning, as I would never return to walk them again, but others, like the Bridge to Woohoo, one of the few structures still anchoring my rapidly deteriorating mind in reality. Woohoo never traumatized me. She never hurt me. She never sought to control me. But the night I lost my daughter Moon and what remained of my ability to cope with the pain I was experiencing, in my grief and despair, she became just another representation of that trauma, and in the days that followed surviving my suicide attempt (notice I did not say my first suicide attempt) she became one of several targets of my BPD-strengthened rage at that long-buried trauma, a casualty of Hurricane Biscuit, although I was still more of a Tropical Storm back then.

Woohoo is a force of nature herself at times. Just as crazy, just as sarcastic, just as devastating a wit as myself, Woohoo brings with her a kind of controlled chaos, a tornado-in-a-bottle personality, ready to let loose a barrage of her own hellfire if the mood strikes her, but mostly just fun, easy-going, patient, a breeze that could whip up into a frenzied tornado if the mood strikes, but content at the moment just to enjoy the current. Voluptuous, sex-driven, raven-haired, loud-mouthed, and profane could all be used to describe her accurately, as accurately as kind, generous, soulful, and motherly.

I no longer believe in soulmates, but I do believe we have, say, connected souls, and as much as anyone I’ve ever met, she is one of my connected souls. And yet, when she stepped up to do what needed to be done to save my life, I turned my back on her.

She warned me about Gypsy. Told me there was something “not right ‘bout that boy,” in her Oklahoma twang. They had an immediate dislike of each other, Gypsy and Woohoo. Gypsy called her a man-hating feminist. Woohoo called him a lazy, worthless piece of shit, among other things. Neither of them were wrong.

My response to her warnings, over and over again, like a love-struck teenager fawning over a, well, a worthless piece of shit, was a protesting, “But, I love him, Woohoo! He’s my one and only.” (I am now picturing myself striking a dramatic pose, forearm to my forehead, turning away and looking plaintively out the window into a setting sun, while declaring that she just wouldn’t understand.)

I blatantly ignored the mounting evidence that this pairing would only leave me broken and broke, and continued blissfully unaware along my journey of self-destruction, orchestrating a series of events that would leave me running from my home, my marriage, my family. I’m not saying I should have been leaving these things, at least the marriage and the home, but I shouldn’t have been running towards Gypsy, of all people. Woohoo would have been a better choice. She did offer me a place to live, a chance to “get my shit together” in a relatively peaceful environment, free for a few months at least from financial worry, a safe haven to start anew. Meanwhile, I waved merrily from my car window as I drove away, hollering, “Nah, I got this!” as I hauled ass down her driveway, blaring Gypsy’s music at full blast and heading back to the city, to his mother’s house and the tiny 10x10 room that was to be my new prison of my own making for the next several months.

Meanwhile, still unable to communicate the massive amount of emotional stress and pain I was under to anyone, my mind began bringing all my fears and the traumas of my past to bear, forcing me to deal with them however I could. Financially, I was surviving, barely, in no small part to Woohoo herself, who kept my business running mostly smoothly as the day-to-day operations manager, supplying me with a steady income even when I wasn’t actively working.

My ex-husband meanwhile had no intention of patiently waiting out my midlife crisis, immediately replacing the vacated space in our marriage bed with the first woman who would tumble into it. He convinced Moon that my mental state was due to the fact that I was a bad person who did not love her, and therefore she had no need to further associate herself with me.

The day I received that smug text message from him, superior in his position as head of a new family to control, I gave up. Oh, not without setting a few more fires of course, screaming and stamping my foot and using whatever means I could to manipulate my ex-husband into returning my daughter to me, letting me hear her voice, even if it meant terrifying a complete stranger, his new bed buddy, into thinking I was going to share photos of her in lingerie with the world. And where did I get these photos? Oh, Mr. Manipulation himself had provided those just days before when he was so very interested in seeing if I would join them for a threesome. But, that’s another story for another day.

After several hours of realizing that torturing Mr. M and and the future Mrs. M was not going to get me my daughter, my emotions spiraled me into a well of despair that I was not capable of pulling myself out of. I seized upon a bottle of pills, a prescription Mr. M procured from his doctor that I had been told was for helping me with anxiety from my ADHD, but in fact were mood-altering antidepressants that, when prescribed incorrectly, could lead to suicidal ideation.

Google is a useful source for immediate access to the LD50 of literally anything. LD50 is the amount of a medication that will, when consumed, lead to death in 50% of the population of those who take it. The LD50 for this particular medication was 15 pills. I had 30. While texting Woohoo, Mr. M, and the future Mrs. M., telling them my intentions unless they returned my daughter to me, I began counting out 15 pills. I continued the threats as I used the Everclear under Gypsy's bed (where he was currently snoring after taking a dose of Benadryl after a long weekend of my emotional drama), to swallow them one by one. At eight pills, Woohoo warned me that she was calling the police. Hours away from my location, she would never arrive in time herself to stop me. She did the only the she could to prevent my death at my own hands - she narced on me.

At ten pills, for some reason, Gypsy stirred in his allergy-med-induced coma, and seeing me swallow the tenth, realized what was happening. He took the pills away as I screamed at him, “Just five more, please, just five more!” while he screamed back at me, “How many did you take? How many, my Angel?” (Gypsy didn’t call me Biscuit. No one did at this time, actually.) After counting and recounting, doing his own internet search, and counting once more, he sighed with relief, realizing I’d only taken enough to give myself a stomach ache.

My sobs had subsided at this point, and I sat in stony silence as Gypsy stared at me, seemingly in shock at how close I had come to leaving his life, and my own, at my own hand. Then one of those loud knocks that apparently policemen are trained in, one that can echo through a house to the back of a bedroom and enter into even the fevered dreams of a hallucinating woman who just wanted to be happy, smoke weed, and eat a chocolate bar in peace, sounded through the house, setting Gypsy's mom’s chocolate labs off in a frenzied bark as well as my wails of panic.

“Tell them I’m okay, Gypsy. Please, tell them I’m okay. Tell them she lied. Tell them they lied. Can I stay here? I’m so scared, Gypsy.” With an irritated sigh, he put his khaki shorts on over his boxers, pulled me gently to my feet, and guided me to the door. “No, you’ve got to talk to them. They’re going to want to see you.”

As if I was a frightened toddler meeting Santa for the first time, he guided me to the front door. In my head, I was psyching myself up. “You can do this, Biscuit. Just act normal. Act normal. Be angry. If you’re angry, you can’t be sad. If you’re angry, you won’t cry.”

After a heated discussion between me and the cops, a worried discussion between the cops and Gypsy, and phone calls and screenshots of my texts to Woohoo and Mr. and Mrs. M. between the cops and Woohoo, it was decided that it would be in my best interest if I was detained involuntarily at a mental institution for a three-day psych hold.

In the front yard of a house I had only recently moved into, in front of people I barely knew, in front of my beloved Gypsy, I was handcuffed, crying and scared. As the cuffs clicked into place, I could see Gypsy at the front door, watching behind the glass, mouthing, “I love you,” across the void separating me from the only vaguely familiar thing left in my life. Physically, I was being kept safe, but I was being traumatized all over again, my hands behind my back all over again, forced to do something I didn’t want to do all over again.

But what else could Woohoo do? Physical safety trumped mental safety. I could never be mentally safe again unless I was kept physically safe now. At the time, I couldn’t see that. At the time, all I felt was fear and anger. For someone with BPD, fear and anger are terror and rage.

By the time I was released from my prison 48 hours later (instead of 72, as apparently I wasn’t that crazy), my mind had been fueled by this terror and rage for days, consuming my thoughts completely. Unable to turn that rage onto the people who had hurt me, I instead hurled it at Woohoo, now the sole symbol remaining of that night. I stripped her from the business, allowing Gypsy to spew venom through social media as the new voice of the company, coming to my defense as Woohoo tried to warn our contractors that there was something seriously wrong with my mental stability now.

In my gathering momentum of destruction, I decided to strike one more blow against my former friend, business partner, and soul sister: I refused to pay her. I kept her final paycheck, using it instead to shower Gypsy with books and games, gifts for his loyalty perhaps. Meanwhile, Woohoo, still in shock over my behavior thus far, now had to figure out how to make ends meet without the money she was owed, how to provide for my own godchildren, her sweet son and daughter, now just that much shorter of being able to cover expenses.

The only wise decision I made in those days was enrolling in counseling. But of course, showing up to the first session did not instantly make me see what I had done and was continuing to do. That would take time, more self-destruction, more mistakes, more trauma, and finally, finally -- partly due to that first step and the hard work of a southern Biscuit, partly due to the luck of finding her Gravy -- peace.

[frustratedcastingdirector]

New York Magazine review of “The Price”

By Jesse Green

We are used to thinking of Arthur Miller as a restless moralist: an American superego salesman with a big territory to cover. But being a playwright, he is also, of course, a sensualist; his dialogue has great mouthfeel. The pleasure it gives is at its plainest and fullest in characters like Gregory Solomon, the 89-year-old Russian-Jewish furniture dealer played by Danny DeVito in Roundabout Theatre Company’s gripping — if slightly muddy — revival of Miller’s 1968 drama The Price. Arriving in the attic of a Manhattan brownstone to evaluate the thicket of breakfronts, chiffoniers, tables, chairs, carpets, and whatnots packing every inch of space, DeVito as Solomon delivers himself of such shtetl-cut judgments as, “Anything Spanish-Jacobean, you’ll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis,” and, “If they would build old hotels, I could sell that, but they only build new hotels.” As character writing, it’s dead-on; Miller knew the patois inside out. But DeVito also makes clear — between hailstorms of phlegm, in a crafty and totally delightful performance — that such lines are not merely for comic effect. It’s really Miller’s struggle to squeeze philosophy out of the chaos of living that gives his dialogue, and thus his plays, their superb chewiness. And in The Price, that struggle is not just the method, but the story.

It’s a story Miller knew too well. Like his own family, the Franzes in The Price were wealthy enough to employ a chauffeur (and collect nice furniture) before the Depression ruined them. The mother quickly died and the father, booted upstairs after losing the rest of the brownstone, went into a trance of miserly regret for the rest of his life. Their two college-age sons took radically different paths trying to get past the disaster. Victor, the younger, gave up his studies in order to provide for himself and his father, both of whom were reduced to eating “the outer leaves of lettuce from the Greek restaurant on the corner.” Eventually, with no funds to resume his training, he swallowed his dreams of becoming a scientist and took a job as a cop instead. Meanwhile, his older brother, Walter, looked after himself exclusively. He completed college and medical school, becoming a wealthy surgeon: “an instrument,” he says, “that cuts money out of people.” He sent his father only $5 a month; his struggling kid brother, nothing.

The play takes place half a lifetime later — “today,” Miller wrote, presumably meaning 1968. Victor (Mark Ruffalo) is now turning 50 and, with the brownstone about to be torn down, needs to sell the attic’s contents. He reaches out to Walter (Tony Shalhoub), with whom he has not spoken in 16 years, to see if he might like to keep anything for himself. But once the two of them reunite in that unhappy room, along with Victor’s frustrated wife, Esther (Jessica Hecht), the present collapses into the hole of the past. Who did what, and why, and what it meant are questions they evaluate as keenly as Solomon does their mother’s cracked harp. For Victor the cop, the upshot, naturally, is guilt: How could his brother have left him to eat garbage? For Walter, denial is at the heart of the matter: Victor, he feels, threw away his life not because he had to, but because he refused to believe the painful truth about their family. (“We invent ourselves, Vic, to wipe out what we know.”) As for Esther, who thought she was marrying a like-minded nonconformist but ended up stuck in the rat race anyway, the issue is regret and the solution is money. She can’t help admiring Walter, or at least his fine camel-hair coat, which, he says, cost “two gallstones.” For the pragmatic, which is to say the selfish man, everything is fungible, including family.

That the play’s real action has all taken place long in the past is a dramatic sacrifice Miller was apparently willing to make, in order to force his characters to struggle with questions of interpretation. How do we shape our lives from what we believe? He keeps the plot twisting with ideas instead of events; The Price doesn’t so much advance as it turns like a screw, deeper and deeper into the soft wood of memory. At some point in the second half — the play was originally done in one act, but Terry Kinney, the director of this revival, has divided it neatly in two — it becomes difficult to keep track of the box score of grievance, and you feel that Miller was not quite able, or willing, to clarify something that was naturally fuzzy. In any case, Kinney’s production slightly compounds the problem by leaving too much of the argumentation unshaped; the actors, too — though already powerful and moving — sometimes look as if they need more time to figure out where they are. Of the three Franzes, Shalhoub as Walter is furthest along, but then Walter has the upper hand and the sharpest lines. Ruffalo, who is heartbreakingly sincere onstage, and Hecht, a live wire in a perfect, pink-sherbet suit by Sarah J. Holden, still seem like they are working it out in real time, which is exciting, if occasionally baffling. Of course, DeVito, as the clown cleaning up after the elephants and their memories, walks off with the show.

That was generous of Miller, and maybe unavoidable. If you set out to write a philosophical mystery, it’s probably going to be mysterious. I like that unresolved quality in The Price —the way the puzzle pieces not only don’t fit, but seem to be from different boxes. Perhaps the play’s shifting sympathies, and its vigorous support for opposing points of view, arises from Miller’s autobiography: When the Depression exiled his family from Harlem to Gravesend, he sold bread to help the family make ends meet, but made sure he finished college. He was both Victor and Walter: disgusted by the fact that there’s “just no respect for anything but money” in the world, and yet, by 1968, a man who had a lot of silk-stocking (or camel-hair) problems. No wonder, after the great plays about community that earned him those silk stockings, Miller turned in his 50s back to the family, leaving the world mostly out of the picture. (Derek McLane’s marvelous set merely hints at it, with baleful clouds in the background.) The Priceis almost abstract in its argumentation, as if in a Socratic treatise. You’d think that a play so wordy and rangy would be unwelcome in today’s theatrical environment, which favors large, uncomplicated, single-minded action. But that’s why it’s so needed: It’s an old hotel, the kind they don’t build anymore. — Jesse Green

[frustratedcastingdirector]

Theater Review: A Rich Revival of Arthur Miller’s The Price

By Jesse Green - Vulture   

March 16, 2017 10:05 p.m. 

We are used to thinking of Arthur Miller as a restless moralist: an American superego salesman with a big territory to cover. But being a playwright, he is also of course a sensualist; his dialogue has great mouthfeel. The pleasure it gives is at its plainest and fullest in characters like Gregory Solomon, the 89-year-old Russian–Jewish furniture dealer played by Danny DeVito in the Roundabout’s gripping if slightly muddy revival of Miller’s 1968 drama The Price. Arriving in the attic of a Manhattan brownstone to evaluate the thicket of breakfronts, chiffoniers, tables, chairs, carpets, and whatnots packing every inch of space, DeVito as Solomon delivers himself of such shtetl-cut judgments as “anything Spanish–Jacobean, you’ll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis” and “if they would build old hotels, I could sell that, but they only build new hotels.” As character writing, it’s dead-on — Miller knew the patois inside out — but DeVito also makes clear, between hailstorms of phlegm in a crafty and totally delightful performance, that such lines are not merely for comic effect. It’s really Miller’s struggle to squeeze philosophy out of the chaos of living that gives his dialogue, and thus his plays, their superb chewiness. And in The Price, that struggle is not just the method but the story. It’s a story Miller knew too well. Like his own family, the Franzes in The Price were wealthy enough to employ a chauffeur (and collect nice furniture) before the Depression ruined them. The mother quickly died and the father, booted upstairs after losing the rest of the brownstone, went into a trance of miserly regret for the rest of his life. Their two college-age sons took radically different paths trying to get past the disaster. Victor, the younger, gave up his studies in order to provide for himself and his father, both of whom were reduced to eating “the outer leaves of lettuce from the Greek restaurant on the corner.” Eventually, with no funds to resume his training, he swallowed his dreams of becoming a scientist and took a job as a cop instead. Meanwhile, his older brother, Walter, looked after himself exclusively. He completed college and medical school, becoming a wealthy surgeon: “an instrument,” he says, “that cuts money out of people.” He sent his father only five dollars a month; his struggling kid brother, nothing. The play takes place half a lifetime later: “Today,” Miller wrote, presumably meaning 1968. Victor (Mark Ruffalo) is now turning 50 and, with the brownstone about to be torn down, needs to sell the attic’s contents. He reaches out to Walter (Tony Shalhoub), with whom he has not spoken in 16 years, to see if he might like to keep anything for himself. But once the two of them reunite in that unhappy room, along with Victor’s frustrated wife, Esther (Jessica Hecht), the present collapses into the hole of the past. Who did what, and why, and what it meant are questions they evaluate as keenly as Solomon does their mother’s cracked harp. For Victor the cop, the upshot, naturally, is guilt: How could his brother have left him to eat garbage? For Walter, denial is at the heart of the matter: Victor, he feels, threw away his life not because he had to but because he refused to believe the painful truth about their family. (“We invent ourselves, Vic, to wipe out what we know.”) As for Esther, who thought she was marrying a like-minded nonconformist but ended up stuck in the rat race anyway, the issue is regret and the solution is money. She can’t help admiring Walter, or at least his fine camel’s-hair coat, which, he says, cost “two gallstones.” For the pragmatic, which is to say the selfish man, everything is fungible, including family. That the play’s real action has all taken place long in the past is a dramatic sacrifice Miller was apparently willing to make in order to force his characters to struggle with questions of interpretation. How do we shape our lives from what we believe? He thus keeps the plot twisting with ideas instead of events; The Price doesn’t so much advance as turn like a screw, deeper and deeper into the soft wood of memory. At some point in the second half — the play was originally done in one act but Terry Kinney, the director of this revival, has divided it neatly in two — it becomes difficult to keep track of the box score of grievance, and you feel that Miller was not quite able, or was perhaps unwilling, to clarify something that was naturally fuzzy. In any case, Kinney’s production slightly compounds the problem by leaving too much of the argumentation unshaped; the actors, too, though already powerful and moving, sometimes look as if they need more time to figure out where they are. Of the three Franzes, Shalhoub as Walter is furthest along, but then Walter has the upper hand and the sharpest lines. Ruffalo, who is heartbreakingly sincere onstage, and Hecht, a live wire in a perfect pink sherbet suit by Sarah J. Holden, still seem like they are working it out in real time, which is exciting if occasionally baffling. Of course, DeVito, as the clown cleaning up after the elephants and their memories, walks off with the show. That was generous of Miller, and maybe unavoidable. If you set out to write a philosophical mystery, it’s probably going to be mysterious. I like that unresolved quality in The Price, the way the puzzle pieces not only don’t fit but seem to be from different boxes. Perhaps the play’s shifting sympathies, and its vigorous support for opposing points of view, arises from Miller’s autobiography: When the Depression exiled his family from Harlem to Gravesend, he sold bread to help the family make ends meet, but made sure he finished college. He was both Victor and Walter, disgusted by the fact that there’s “just no respect for anything but money” in the world, and yet a man who by 1968 had a lot of silk-stocking (or camel’s-hair) problems. No wonder, after the great plays about community that earned him those silk stockings, Miller turned in his 50s back to the family, leaving the world mostly out of the picture. (Derek McLane’s marvelous set merely hints at it with baleful clouds in the background.) The Price is almost abstract in its argumentation, as if in a Socratic treatise. You’d think that a play so wordy and rangy would be unwelcome in today’s theatrical environment, which favors large, uncomplicated, single-minded action. But that’s why it’s so much needed. It’s an old hotel, the kind they don’t build anymore.