#you want pain dc? you want to make your characters suffer? you want dark depressing endings?

[inamindfarfaraway]

If we can’t have Batfamily movies and all Batman movies must be set in the early years before Robin, at least let us have one about the Gotham Justice Triumvirate. With Harvey Dent in the central role. Here’s my pitch:

Badass DA and wonderful person Harvey.

Harvey and Jim Gordon and Batman’s friendship. Jim and Harvey are friends! They’re two normal humans hanging out with a vigilante/living shadow cryptid who has no concept of normal human interaction! Think of the in-jokes they must have! Near the beginning, after Batman pulls his trademark disappearing act on them Harvey asks if Jim thinks he’ll ever say goodbye to them. Jim’s reply is some form of “when hell freezes over”, maybe even “Yeah - when he’s seeing you off to Arkham and me to Blackgate.” They laugh.

Harvey and Bruce Wayne’s friendship.

The fun and dramatic irony of writing Bruce and Batman as completely separate characters.

Depending on the timeline, possibly a cameo of newly fostered little Dick Grayson! To whom Harvey is like an uncle.

Gilda’s character being fleshed out. Exploring her side of the marriage and views on her husband’s career and mental decline and alliance with the Bat.

Harvey and Gilda’s relationship. And her and Two-Face’s relationship! He doesn’t care for Bruce, but he does love her equally while she apparently doesn’t even know he exists prior to him killing people. That’s an interesting dynamic.

Mafia intrigue and drama as the heroic trio finally bring down the previously untouchable Maroni empire.

Judicial, political and police force intrigue and drama as Harvey and to a less examined extent Jim fight to preserve their moral integrity in and reform their deeply corrupt institutions.

“For Gotham” is a key phrase, and may be the title. It’s said by each member of the triumvirate at different points when demonstrating or discussing how far they’re willing to go and how much hope they have for their city and its people.

Accurate, in-depth DID representation with Harvey and his protector alter not yet named Two-Face, who, reasserting himself after years if not decades of repression, resentment and ingratitude by the person he’s only ever wanted to protect slowly grows into a persecutor. Now Harvey’s wary, dismissive treatment of him is very understandable because of how terrifying DID can make life when you don’t understand it/your alter(s), and the need for control and excessive responsibility his childhood of abuse and neglect has cemented in him. But it’s still damaging. Other than lash out sometimes at people making Harvey feel threatened (Pre-)Two-Face hasn’t really done anything wrong before the events of the movie. They’re two sides of the same badly scarred coin each just trying to survive and make sense of their pain, equally sympathetic and valid… at least at the start. An element of the tragedy is that Two-Face could have healed and been a true friend to Harvey, if different choices were made and different chances were given. But the pressure of the Maroni case, a lifetime of unresolved trauma and post-traumatic stress from their father and each other, some plain bad luck and some mistakes lead to him becoming another abuser and a supervillain besides.

Music! Harvey has a theme, Two-Face has a theme. They hit opposite beats and parallel each other a lot yet never quite harmonize well. The coin (and the destruction and despair it represents) has a leitmotif that slowly rises to prominence in both. This motif is also associated with Christopher Dent. Harvey and Gilda have a love theme. Bruce and Batman have distinct themes that complement each other perfectly when played together, and when Bruce’s emotions shine through in Batman or Batman’s grimness peeks out of Bruce elements from the other piece are mixed in. The concept that Gotham’s ‘soul’ can be saved and humanity is worth fighting for has an uplifting theme, the main theme of movie and an antithesis to the coin’s, that has sections and elements woven into each member of the triumvirate’s themes and is repeatedly reprised in different tones.

Harvey’s external plot is making Gotham a better place, specifically via dismantling the Maroni crime family. The structure of most of the movie builds up to the climax of the trial of Salvatore Maroni himself. Maybe there are even recurring shots of Harvey’s calendar with an increasing number of days crossed out, to really drive the countdown home. To the main characters, it’s a beacon of confidence; a chance to prove law, and law for the good of the people, does hold power in Gotham, to send a message to everyone that things can and will get better. Nothing (and no one) is beyond redemption. To the audience, it’s a doomsday for Harvey we’re helpless to stop that taints every victory and happy moment on the path toward it.

His internal plot is grappling with his severe psychological issues rooted in his nightmarish childhood. He goes to therapy, he’s in a good place right before the start. But the first scene is… rough.

He visits his alcoholic father Christopher in the cheap hotel Chris, reduced to a pathetic old man, is staying in. Though he still calls him Dad and wants to try to reconcile, it’s clear he understands his regular, brutal beatings and otherwise generally neglectful parenting style (at least half the time) were wrong and he’s uncomfortable and tense. Chris solemnly presents him with a coin. The coin he would flip every night to ‘decide’ to beat him or not, which always, always came up heads for punishment. He said it was fair and that paradigm - that that his desires and actions don’t matter, he was just always bad inside and always deserves to suffer, in short that Harvey’s fate isn’t in his control - shaped the system’s entire personalities and worldviews, Harvey striving to prove it wrong and over years of bearing trauma and triggering experiences, his much more cynical protector internalizing it. With trembling fingers Harvey picks up the coin and looks at both sides. Two heads. The music cuts out. Dolly zoom on him that makes the room appear to close in around him, as a boy’s pleas, cries and screams of agony echo and he dissociates. Two-Face, who always acknowledged the flip was rigged, switches in. He smiles ruefully and says in a calm, quiet voice, “I understand.” Then he lunges to his feet, punches Christopher to the ground, grabs him by the throat and slams him against the wall, right fist raised to strike. He is now anything but calm. “Why? Why did you do it? Not the beating, that was just because you’re a sick bastard and took your anger out on the person least able to do anything about it. But why use the coin, why make it a game? Why lie? To shift responsibility even more? Just for fun? Tell me! Why would you bother to put a little spark of hope into your son’s eyes only to crush it? Answer me!” Instead of answering, Chris notes he’s bleeding; his right fist is closed so tight his fingernails have punctured his skin and the coin inside it is cutting into his palm. The shock of seeing that damn coin literally, physically hurting him brings tears to Two-Face’s eyes. He looks back up at his father, full of only raw grief and sadness for himself and his alter. His voice breaks. “Why, Dad? Did you really… not feel anything good when you looked at me?” “Did you really believe every time?” is all his father can say. Two-Face’s expression hardens, his fists clench again and he squares his shoulders. “Only half of me did. Goodbye, Christopher,” he says bitterly. The second he slams the door his facade of strength crumbles. He falls to his knees, sobbing and heavily dissociating. Cradling his head in his hands and raking them through his hair smears blood on and in the right half of his face and hair. Cue title card!

So yeah, there are only a couple of months between that day and the Maroni trial. He can’t bring himself to throw away the coin despite knowing he probably should. Gilda can’t understand why and urges him to leave it behind. He says it’s “too important” and “a reminder”, although of what, he can’t verbalize. The coin eventually ends up being habitually fidgeted with and kept on his person like a lucky charm. He’s trying to ‘redeem’ his trauma, turn it into something good, by drawing on it to motivate him to fight for justice, but the coin in practice is just a trigger. His PTSD, guilt complex and self-worth and control issues are dragged to the forefront and he dissociates more frequently. He falls further and further into obsessive workaholism. Loses sleep. Misses therapy sessions. All that matters is giving the absolute most he can to his city. Rest can wait, quality time with his wife and friends can wait, Harvey Dent the person can wait until the case is closed. Until after the trial. Everything will be better after The Trial.

The Trial happens. Everything is not better.

Maroni unscrewing his flask occurs in the background of the shot out of focus. When the acid is thrown, it sprays through the air in slow motion. We see Harvey and the witnesses’ (including Gilda and Bruce) shock transitioning to panic and horror as he flinches away too slowly, the coin in his hand flung into midair revolution and a wayward drop of acid approaching it. With a last close-up on his wide left eye reflecting Maroni’s smirk, cut to black. The most tortured screams you can imagine ring in our ears. No music in any of this.

Harvey and Two-Face’s mental health sinks to rock bottom during their hospital stay. Gilda, Bruce and Jim’s visits comfort Harvey little, especially since Batman duty calls Bruce away at a critical point (remember, nowhere in the script does it say Bruce is Batman). They’re given the coin back and discuss that life isn’t fair, but it should be… if they played their dad’s game now, it would be fair. All that work, all the blood and sweat and tears Harvey put into Gotham and this is how Gotham thanks him. He was never going to change things. Not playing by the rules of a rigged game, at least. It was never up to him. He never had it in him to be good, to be someone not worthy of punishment, let alone to improve other people’s lives. Flipping the coin, Harvey whispers with shattered eyes, “I understand.” Of course, seeing their scars is the last straw. Two-Face switches in, literally locking an anxious Harvey in a dark repressed chamber in their inner world to stop him getting in his way, and escapes hospital. Gilda, on her way to his room, begs him to stop and he hesitates but, genuinely sorrowful, decides his quest for justice takes precedence and runs into the stormy night, the shadows and rain obscuring his trail. She calls him, phone in a death grip. Fade out to its continual ringing.

This might be too weird and artsy but what if from the Fuck My Life I’m Listening To A Coin Now toxic epiphany onward, the shot composition is roughly pretty much symmetrical? Within shots or with shots mirroring each other. Not perfectly, obviously, but like. Rewind looking for it and it’s there.

The penultimate scene is another rooftop rendezvous and this time Harvey isn’t present; we and his friends feel his absence. Batman regretfully tells Jim and shows him footage of a new criminal taking the underworld by storm: the fledgling Two-Face. Jim is first disbelieving, then devastated and turns his back so Batman won’t see him cry. He angrily tells Batman not to comfort him, and to leave now that he’s given him the shitty news, because that’s all he ever does for him. We pull back to show Batman is staying, pained, guilty and truly having no idea how to proceed. Jim assumes he’s already silently vanished. Once he collects himself and goes inside to inform his subordinates, Batman lingers in front of the Batsignal where they took their shared vow. “Goodbye, Harvey,” he says softly.

The epilogue is Two-Face’s confrontation with Maroni. Several months later, the Mafia don’s out of prison already thanks to the, again, incredibly corrupt legal system. Two-Face acts venomously calm and civil while holding him at gunpoint. He remarks how long and hard Harvey worked just to bring Maroni to court, and how now with some broken laws and spilt blood here Maroni is in front of him in a fraction of the time. Helpless, like he was in that courtroom. He explains his “fair” game to kill him or not in a speech clearly quoted from Christopher, shows him both sides of the coin, tosses it and stares at the unseen outcome in his hand. “Lucky,” he announces, making Maroni slightly relax - a little spark of hope put into his eyes, you could say. Suddenly Two-Face shoots him twice in the heart. “For Gotham, not you.” Harvey switches in (implicitly his alter’s guilt is a positive trigger for him as his anger is for Two-Face) to find his alter has committed murder, with a smoking gun in his right hand and flecks of blood on that hand and his suit. He staggers back in horror and drops the gun and coin. A pang of practically physical pain interrupts his calling Jim to turn himself in, because he can’t choose that, can he? He falls to his knees. With trembling fingers he picks up the coin and, pleading under his breath to just have this one chance, flips it. It comes up scarred. Two-Face resumes control. He smashes the phone under his heel and stands. The final shot is him walking purposefully toward the camera so it zooms in on the vertical divide of his suit jacket.

[thoughtfuldreamercreatorduck]

Underapreciated Yang Fact

Yang is by far my favorite character in RWBY (Yang stan till the day i die) but something i really Love about her is something i dont think anyone has ever Really discussed so far. So i am going to Talk about it.

The fact that Yang is Not a villain.

Okay i can understand why that may doesnt seem all that great to you or just confuses you maybe so Let me explain. And I ask of you to Take a Moment of your Time and Read the Post completely so you understand my opinion and dont Make any forgone conclusions.

It is painfully obvious that Yang has been through quite a Lot over the course of the series. Abandonment, mutiliation, PTSD and the list goes on.

In fact it is easy to View the series and EXPECT her to turn evil.

In fact it would fit the trope of the older sibling going evil and the younger sibling who is the "protagonist" Holding on to Hope and having to Stop them.

From the very Moment we found out that Yang is Rubys sister some could have ended up Thinking Yang will be her sisters final boss.

Going along with that something that we often get confronted with in Media is the idea that evil is Made. That the Most horrible People have Been put through the Most horrible acts. And the character of the "tortured badass" is so common at this point it is sort of what de have grown to expect when a character, especially One who started out Kind and loving, is put through suffering. How many times have there Been examples in fiction where a character has suffered and uses this suffering as an excuse for their own evil?

Something that goes Hand in Hand with that is the character being dissapointed or betrayed in a way by people they love.

It is very easy to view RWBY and come to the conclusion that Yang has Been failed by everyone and Everything she ever counted on and cared about.

Her birthmother Raven abandoned her at birth.

Qrow is a drunk shell of a huntsman who likely has rarely Been there for her.

Summer the only real mother figure in her life died and left her, not volunteraily but it still happened.

Taiyang became secluded and in his depression Left Yang to become a mother figure while still being a Child herself.

Ruby her sister who she raised abandoned her in Patch while going out and chasing some villain.

Weiss A treasured friend was just taken away.

Blake her Love interest (Deal with it haters) pretty much abandoned her After she received the biggest defeat of her life.

The law and state itself failed her through Ironwood and believing her to be guilty of attacking an Innocent boy.

Ozpins war affected Yang the Most out of all of Team RWBY and she Made it clear that she has no Trust left for her headmaster.

This is in some cases heavily oversimplified, for example that the reason Blake left we're more complicated, but at its core...

Every Authority figure failed Yang.

Everyone she loved failed Yang.

The World failed Yang.

With this Setup it would have Been very easy to turn Yang into a villain.

All that was needed was One last Step to have her get a Start of darkness. It would have perfectly fit with the cliche of every Bad person being Hurt and Been even somewhat believable with the requirements.

But IT DOESNT HAPPEN.

Yangs entire existence completely defies the trope that suffering makes a person evil.

Look at all the villains who Take something that happened to them as a excuse to Make others suffer.

One of the biggest examples would be The Joker from DC whos Core philosophy in 'the killing joke' is all it takes is One Bad day to turn any man and woman into monsters. He tries to prove it in said story with gordon and the series Injustice is all but build on proving the Joker right with the seemingly incoruptable SUPERMAN turning into a tyrannical dictator and using what the Joker did to him as an excuse for all the suffering he causes.

Yang basically looks ALL of them in the eye and tells them: "Youre full of shit!"

Yang proves that People like Joker are WRONG.

In the end being evil is a Choice!

No One forced Superman to kill an entire Planet.

People using their suffering as an excuse to harm others are just Bad people. Thats it! No tearful backstory justifies that kid you bullied til he cried, the Innocent cop you gunned down or that civilization you massacred!

Being Evil is a Choice weakwilled People Make because they cant Deal with shit happening to them.

But Not Yang.

Yang is the example of a character starring into the abyss and forcing the abyss to run back where it came from. She choses to Not Let what happened to her define her. She makes the Choice to Not become a Monster and to Not Let her pain out on others.

She immediatly hugs Ruby and tells her she loves her as Ruby stutters out panicked excuses.

She never blames Blake for losing her arm and has the heart to accept her back in her life.

None of these things would have Been done by weakerminded characters like injustice!superman.

Because the idea of evil makes you evil is an pathetic excuse People Make to Not feel like they are doing anything wrong.

It is also why i believe Yang in particular has so many haters. Those haters are likely people who have Been through MUCH less than PTSD and loss of limb. Yet whatever happened to them they use as an excuse to be assholes in real Life. Thats why they hate Yang. They can Not Deal with the fact that there is someone SO MUCH BETTER THAN THEM. They want her to be as pathetic as they are because than they dont have to feel like what they do is wrong. Yangs very existence violates that idea and they cant stand it!

If you hate Yang (in which Case why are you Reading this i publish this in the Yang tag) youre Most likely an asshole who cant accept that Yang is capable of being a good person.

Yang is just so much better than Most of us are in real Life. I am completely okay with admitting that she is a better person than me. I dont Think i would be capable of even half of the Things she did.

Yang is the Kind of character i Aspire to be. And if everyone would feel the same than Maybe this World wouldnt be this fucked up.

Yang is One gigantic example of just why that entire trope is bullshit. Another reason as to why I believe it is so meaningful she is the One to bring Adam down with Blake.

Adam is this trope to an Extreme. He makes the World suffer for what it did to him. And his Fans obviously latch on to that. They use the Brand as an excuse as to why he can be allowed to do all the Bad things. That is also why so many Adam stans hate Yang (One of many stupid reasons). They See Yang and See that she is better than Adam in any possible way and LOATHE that.

Yang DESTROYS this overrated trope.

And its One of the many reasons why i stan this woman till the day i die.

[survivalspecialist]

Bedside Manner

Sooo. I felt like writing fic. Apologies to any Claire rpers out there, I probably butchered her character but I tried! Probably the longest thing I’ve written in a long time and inspired by an old fic I remember reading.

No warnings. Under a cut for length.

-x-

The plane had touched down only an hour ago but already he was stood outside the bland and unassuming door that led into what he knew to be a cosy, clean apartment. The bedroom would be a mess, it always was but the apartment itself wouldn’t be.

His hesitation came from the late hour, in the small hours of the morning when the apartment’s lights were off and there was only silence from within.

She’d given him the key knowing full well the hours he could be keeping; kept a stocked medical kit knowing the kind of state he could be in and yet that night, seven months after the events in DC with Arias, he stopped at her apartment door and didn’t let himself in.

Was he sure that he wanted to burden her? She’d invited it, left him an open invitation but was he really sure that he didn’t want to just go home to his empty apartment where he’d be bothering no-one, where he had a bottle of good whiskey waiting for him to drown in?

Yes.

It was selfish. It was unlike him to put his own needs above those of others but right then, with a hole in his leg, tears in his shirt and the chasm of depression yawning before him; waiting to swallow him whole with the futility of it all, he needed to see her. He needed to see a familiar face- someone who wouldn’t ply him with questions, debriefing him even before he was out of his bloodied clothes. He needed to see her.

He could let himself in, it was why she’d left him a key but he didn’t want to steal in under the cover of darkness like a thief. So he knocked.

And knocked again.

“Alright, hold your horses,” Claire grumbled, voice thick with sleep as she approached the door. Who in all the hells was knocking at that hour and why couldn’t it wait until morning? “Who is it?” she called, cursing the lack of a peep-hole the way she always did when someone was at the door. The gun in her hand ensured that she didn’t need to know who was on the other side in order to be confident in her own safety though.

“Leon,” the agent answered smoothly.

He could literally hear all traces of sleep leaving her in an instant once she heard his soft assertion and the soft thump as she dumped the gun on the side table before hurriedly opening the door to him meant that he was wearing a small, tired smile when she was revealed to him.

As soon as he saw her, framed in the doorway and shielding her eyes from the harsh glare of the hallway lighting, he felt his breath leave him. She was stunning, even with her auburn hair tousled with sleep. Especially with her hair tousled like that.

He didn’t have time to admire her further though, because she laid eyes on his reasons for being there, her eyes widening in alarm as she reached to pull him inside.

“You’re going to bleed all over my doorstep, get in here already,” she berated lightly, tugging him by the hand through to the lounge and flipping the light on as she went. “Take a seat- I’m going to get the supplies. And don’t bleed all over my couch!” she ordered with slightly worried smirk over her shoulder as she moved off down the hall.

Just hearing her voice was like music to his ears as he was tugged inside and he gingerly lowered himself onto the couch, mindful of his myriad wounds. They were all bandaged- his employers wouldn’t let him bleed out in the middle of debriefing- but after the travelling he’d been doing and the length of time it had been since he’d first received medical aid, they were in dire need of changing.

He was already rolling his shirt up to get a better look at the place where claws had raked across his chest, the bandages beneath the ragged holes in his shirt darkened with blood, when Claire returned with the first aid kit and he spied the look of pained sympathy on her face before she was all business once more.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assured her, to a disbelieving scoff from the redhead.

“Sure it isn’t. What did you get yourself into this time?”

“The usual,” he replied blandly, earning himself another scolding look from her as she reached to touch the edge of the bandages. He watched her as she took up the end to begin unwinding them, unaware of how her focus was divided between the bloodied material and the contours of his abs.

“You might be more comfortable if you just took that off, Leon,” she observed, nodding to how he was holding his shirt in place. “The pants are gonna have to come off too if you want me to sort out your leg.”

“You’re a real charmer,” he replied wryly, carefully pulling the shirt over his head, teeth gritted as raising his arms pulled on the tears across his chest. Claire made a soft noise of sympathetic pain on seeing the ragged wounds, thin though they were and Leon peered down at them with her, inspecting them as best he could. They were a little red around the edges and fresh blood wept from the bottom edges, evidence of how he’d pushed himself a little too hard.

With characteristic gentleness, Claire dabbed the blood from his chest, disinfected the wounds and then bandaged him back up, the pair of them quiet while she concentrated. She apologised for hurting him when he hissed as she used the disinfectant but otherwise he bore the pain in silence. He had to admit that once she was done, he felt a lot more comfortable, some of the pained tension leaking from his shoulders and she smiled when she noticed.

“Okay tough guy, pants off,” she ordered with a smirk, standing over him with her arms folded and hip cocked. “Don’t be shy now.”

Raising a brow in weary amusement, Leon kept his hands right where they were for a moment. “Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired. What happened to ‘please’?”

“Leon Kennedy if you don’t want me to rip those pants off you right now, consequences be damned, you’ll take them off yourself right now,” she replied, holding his disbelieving stare for several moments before snickering and reaching forward to smack him upside the head. “Get your mind outta the gutter right now mister. Do you want my help or not?”

“If it’s going to carry on being at the cost of my dignity, I’m not so sure anymore,” he replied, still chuckling gently after the cuff he’d taken.

Claire shook her head in exasperation, placated only when the wounded agent unbuckled his belt and undid the ruined cargo pants to push them down. It would be a lie to say she was unaware of the unresolved sexual tension in the air but she was trying so hard to keep things friendly between them.

An argument could be made for Leon being married to his job, seeing as he seemed to put his work ahead of everything else in his life- to his detriment, so she’d heard- but Claire knew that it was more than that.

The minor legend sitting on her couch was keeping secrets and while she knew the government expected as much, those secrets, the apparent futility of the job and no doubt a host of other things were driving the agent to the bottle. Hard. Her brother had let slip to her the way Leon had been found out in Colorado when he and Rebecca enlisted his help. Honestly she was a little surprised that he’d not asked for a drink since coming in.

“Earth to Redfield, are you there? Earth to-”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” she replied, looking away. “Spaced out a bit while you were making a big deal out of taking your pants off.”

“And there was me thinking that you were enjoying the show,” he quipped back with a fake sigh of disappointment.

Rolling her eyes, she moved closer once more, kneeling before him to begin unwinding the bandage from around his thigh. “If bleeding all over my couch is your idea of wooing a girl, you’ve got more screws loose than I thought.”

Chuckling softly, Leon relaxed and watched her work. She was no nurse but she’d definitely picked up a few things over the years and it was deftly that she cleaned and disinfected the puncture in his leg before wrapping it in fresh bandages. Once more he was quiet while she worked to let her concentrate and he focused instead on how at ease he felt while around her. The stresses of work just seemed to fall away for a while and he could just be himself. The smart-mouthing was a part of him though, he couldn’t stop that.

“There, all done,” Claire announced, patting his knee before rising to get rid of the soiled bandages. “I suppose you’ll want feeding too? And painkillers, and something to drink and somewhere to stay,” she listed off on her fingers with a brow raised.

“Please?” he replied with a helpless grin.

“You’re worse than a stray,” she grumbled affectionately before leaving the lounge with a long-suffering sigh to fetch the things he’d need.

Meanwhile Leon stretched carefully on the couch and sighed softly, leaning into the cushions and closing his eyes. Going to Claire’s apartment instead of his own home might not have been the right decision, but he was glad that he’d not overthought it and talked himself out of it.

On her return, Claire paused in the doorway to look over the weary agent. He looked as tired as he probably felt and her heart went out to him. What she wouldn’t give to have him share even some of the burden he carried but he had changed so much, even since Harvardville. He’d put on a brave face and insist that there was nothing wrong despite all evidence to the contrary. Or as she’d heard from Chris, go to great lengths to just be left alone. His turning up on her doorstep was unlike him, those days.

With leftover cold pizza, a large glass of water and some strong painkillers all loaded onto a tray, she moved back into her lounge to hand it all over. “If you need anything else, give me a shout. I’m gonna go change the bedsheets for you,” she announced, smiling gently. He may never let her in but she would help where she could and ask nothing of him if she could help it, since he’d obviously given so much of himself to others already- willingly or not.

“Ah, Claire no, I can’t take your bed.”

“You can, and you will. Honestly Leon, you’re wounded, you’re allowed to not be so much of a gentleman.”

“But-”

“No buts! None!”

No further argument was forthcoming so Claire smirked and turned away, moving off down the hall to the linen closet to fetch a change of sheets and the spare blanket and pillow for the couch.

Some twenty minutes later, the sheets were changed and the bed was ready for her guest. However on returning to the lounge, she had to sigh and shake her head in exasperation. The agent was already practically dropping off on the couch, his plate and glass empty, the painkillers gone.

“Come on you can make it to the bedroom, wounded or not. I’m not leaving you on the couch,” she called gently, moving closer to help him up. He waved her away with a soft mumble and tentatively eased himself upright, yawning widely as she watched just to be sure that he was okay.

“Thanks, Claire,” he said quietly as he moved to be level with her. They were close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the strappy top she was wearing (a girly contrast to the sweatpants she also had on) and he swore her breath caught for a moment as their eyes met. He was the first to look away though, taking another tired step past her.

Before he could progress too far down the hall and away from her she reached out to him, grabbing his hand and making him look back at her, a question in his weary eyes. “You’re welcome Leon. Anytime.” She let his hand slip from hers then and if his hand hovered for a moment, if there was just a hint of longing in those beautiful blue eyes of his, she didn’t call him on it.

It was only once Leon had disappeared into the darkness of her room that she finally turned away, quietly wishing him a good night before getting settled for what remained of it.

[tessatechaitea]

Dark Nights: Batman the Drowned #1

I can't wait to find out how Bruce Wayne got such a fantastic pair of tits.

"This is my wish! And I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back!"

The explanation for Bruce Wayne having magnificent tits occurs in a brief Narration Box where Aquabat thinks, "The gender roles are reversed here." I used the word "explanation" incorrectly in the last sentence. By saying the gender roles are reversed, does he mean the people who are women on Earth-Negative-Guys-With-Awesome-Tits are men on Earth-Main-Earth? Does that explain why he's a woman named Bruce? Or is he a man but men on Earth-Negative-Guys-With-Awesome-Tits would be considered women on Earth-Main-Earth? Am I using the correct pronoun for Aquabat? I can't tell because is being a woman actually considered being a man from his Dark Earth? Is that what he means by the gender roles being reversed"? My boner is super confused right now! Oh! Everything becomes clear when the flashback happens and this is taking place on Earth-Negative-Eleven and also when I check back to the panel I scanned to see that Bruce Wayne is actually called Bryce Wayne. Is Bryce a non-gender specific name? Is any name, in this day and age, non-gender specific?! Down with parental labels that force a person (and others!) into seeing them as a specific gender! That's the fight we should be fighting! Also maybe the fight against circumcision. Can that be a major fight too? Hello? Anybody? Babies being mutilated here! Anyway, now I have a question. If the Batman on Earth-Main-Earth is the Batman that Barbatos is obsessed with, why are all these Dark Earths, created by Earth-Main-Earth Batman's dark thoughts, not versions of Earth-Main-Earth? Oh wait! I have an answer to my question! Because Batjoker is actually the Dark Version of Earth-Main-Earth Batman. He just happened to recruit other versions of Dark Multiverse Batman before coming to the main universe. So Aquabat wasn't created from a stray thought of Earth-Main-Earth Batman. She was created by a stray thought from gender bent Earth-11 Batman! Okay, everything is straight now! Oh, I didn't mean that to sound like a micro-aggression! I just meant everything was back to normal! Oh man. That was a micro-aggression too, wasn't it? I just reiterated my implication that straight is normal! Batwoman on Earth-Negative-Eleven decided to kill all the bad guys just like the Batperson on all the other negative Earths. Apparently that's Batman's constant dark thought on every world in which he exists. He just goes around thinking, "Why don't I just kill all of these assholes? Stupid Bat-Rules." On this world, he killed them all because they killed his lover Catman. Not that Catman! Differently gendered Selina Kyle! His name was Sylvester Kyle and my boner is disappointed that Catwoman had to get the gender bent treatment. I want to see Bryce and Selina make out. And yes that means I want to co-opt their lesbianism for my own heterosexual turn-ons! We can't all be saints!

Is the trident regarded as a phallic weapon or am I picturing dicks incorrectly?

I know I have a lot of fun attacking bad writers and artists in a hyperbolic way but whenever I hear Jim Lee give an interview, I feel bad about complaining about his scribbles all over the art he does. I genuinely like Jim Lee so much that it makes me hate myself for every time I critiqued a piece of his art that I didn't care for. Even though my hyperbolic rants are meant to be taken as the over-the-top ridiculous rantings of a rabid comic book fan, I know many people take this shit seriously instead of absorbing the whimsical feeling I have while while writing it. And since I like Jim Lee so much, I have to confront the fact that I might even like Scott Lobdell or (God forbid!) Cullen Bunn! Maybe I should stop being so mean? I mean so directly mean! I can be indirectly mean by making fun of the comic book and specific pieces of art that I scan because there's something wrong with them (like the way every colorist always fucks up the stripes in the American flag)! What I'm trying to say is this: "Jim Lee, I love you and I wish you were my father." So Bryce transformed herself into Aquabat to defeat all of the Atlanteans on Earth-Negative-Eleven. You know the story from the past Dark Nights books. Batperson wins but still can't save the world. Batjoker arrives with the shuttle to Earth-Main-Earth. Everybody rides the train to funkytown. Earth-Main-Earth suffers horribly because the Justice League are terrible at saving the lives of people who don't get to be characters in the comic book. It seems it's okay to kill thousands of people nowadays and still finish the story with the idea that the good guys somehow won. Aquabat turns Mera into one of its drowned henchman and then Doctor Fate saves Aquaman. Couldn't he have gotten there a bit sooner and saved Mera too? Or just saved Mera, really. Nobody cares about Aquaman. Dark Nights: Batman the Drowned #1 Rating: Apparently I'm reading a different comic book than all of the comic book review sites on the Internet. According to the advertisement for Metal in this issue, other reviewers are saying embarrassing things like "Like a good guitar lick, it'll melt your face off." Who writes that and thinks it's clever? Worse, who reads that and thinks it's clever enough to be used as a review blurb?! Here's another good one because it shows they know all about the metal music genre: "Just hold on tight and ride the lightning." Since it's an Internet quote, I'm surprised they weren't asking us to ride the "lightening." It's as if these reviewers heard about the concept of this comic series and wrote their reviews on that! Because I agree with the review that said "one of the most viscerally exciting comics series to kick off this year." But I only agreed with it before I read all of these tie-in Dark Nights books! And I only agreed with it before I had to actually think about most of Scott Snyder's plot points! I mean, I still agree with it in that I love this kind of comic book shit! And I'll love it even when it's not as good as I was hoping it would be. It's just that I can't bring myself to laud something in this way simply because it gets the comic book nerd inside me erect. I expect the writing to give me that same visceral feeling! It's just that it never does. Especially these fucking Dark Knight Origin Stories that are all basically the same. I think to write the kind of glowing reviews that Internet comic book lovers write, I need to just read the comic book without writing about it, not think about it while I'm not writing about it, somehow maintain a boner through whatever means necessary while reading it (to, you know, keep my interest and keep some of the blood out of my brain), and then talk about it with a really stupid friend who can't get enough of all the comic books. Then maybe I'd walk away thinking, "That was fucking awesome!" It's also possible I'm simply dead inside.

[directorscutandsomeotherstuff]

Somewhere In Time (for real, this time.)

(So, a few months ago, I decided to write a Director’s Cut on a Phantom of the Opera fanfic called Somewhere in Time, about a girl who’s totally in love with the Phantom. I then decided to completely go off the rails and just spend a bunch of paragraphs railing on how dumb the Phantom was, as a character. That was fun, but now it’s time to actually do it, for real. I mean, there’s not any overriding reason why, but heck, it’s my blog, so why not?)

(For those of you who were privileged enough to not be teenagers during the height of the musical’s popularity, Phantom of the Opera is an Andrew Lloyd Webber piece. Originally based on a book in which a budding soprano is kidnapped by a terrible skull-faced monstrosity whose hobbies included ligature strangulation and hellish dungeon construction, Webber decided to make a few key changes. Said changes included turning the skull-faced monstrosity into a hot guy with a bit of a face scar, and to also turn him into a thinly veiled metaphor for sex in the process. As you can imagine, he’s super popular among horny teenage girls.)

(I’m gonna stop describing it, now, or I’m just gonna do a repeat performance of the last DC. Let’s go to the fic.)

(Among his legion of fans, we have PhantomsPandora, who decided to write a story in which a teen-aged writer and poetry enthusiast is suffering from depression, brought on by a maniacal infatuation with a character that doesn’t exist. Let me just say, I’m glad this girl’s probably somewhere in her late-twenties, by now. Tearing into somebody’s complex sexual power fantasy isn’t as fun, when they’re currently having it. All right, enough chatter.)

Christine sighed softly to herself. There was nothing left, was there? (Nope. Turns out there was... sorry.) She was dying, she felt. Of a broken heart, by a man who didn't even know her. Just another night in her room, locked away from her parents, long nights writing into her journal thinking morbidly. (She had been glad her parents had gotten her a journal thinking morbidly for her birthday, last week. She couldn’t imagine she’d have survived this ordeal by just writing into a normal journal.) She sat in front of her mirror and turned up her CD player, paying no mind to anyone else who might care. (Her despair was stronger than noise violation ordinances.) Erik was singing to her again, her beloved. There was something in the way he sung that called to her, and drew her there. The world begun to ebb away, as she closed her eyes, tears falling to her dark green carpet. (She had reason to cry; that carpet was ugly as sin, and did nothing to match her salmon pink walls and neon orange trim.) She sat Indian style, her dark-blonde hair falling around her face. Her parents never should have allowed her friends to take her to that performance a year ago, with the actors. (They should have sent her to that performance with the tax accountants, or the one with the meter maids.) It became all too much real to her, and she remembered that night, scrambling backstage, only to find an actor without make up. No Erik at all, just a man who was more than happy to hug her and get a picture, even though she was still crying. She knew that in her heart, he existed. He was there in her dreams, whether they were ones of simply singing, or a lover's embrace. His face did not bother her, with its rough textures; his eyes said that he was full of love and longing for her. (Also murderous intent. Lots of murderous intent.) And it was in his home that they loved, for all time. Only the cruel beep of the alarm clock reminded her that she had a life outside of the phantom. She sighed, trying not to sob again, trying to find energy somewhere. (Unfortunately, she had no doubt scrounged up the last E-tank from under her bed.) She wished she were dead, for this torture was too much to bear. To be without him in the dream world in which he existed, was too horrible. Every night of his singing to her, every night of him touching her, so real. (There was going to be a ribald comment, here, but I’m better than that. Also, she’s underage, and that’s gross.) To bounce back to earth.what a cruel existence. She had a hard life, Christine. Kept back from most things that would have really allowed her to grow up, by her family, and by her most sorrowful past. (You would think, ironically, that growing up during the Kosovo Wars would have forced her to grow up quickly. Having lost her brother and boyfriend to air strikes... oh, who are we kidding? Christine had no past worth mentioning.) She doubted her sanity, almost. She would lapse in to long periods of daydreaming of when she could be away from this world. Someday soon, she thought. Of my own making. (A homemade cake. From scratch. Chocolate.) Her body was weakening from its loss of food, her eyes were becoming darker and darker with the loss of sleep (as the Sharingan began to manifest), and everything about her was breaking down. Yet it didn't matter to her. She would test him. Surely, he would notice, if she thought he was real. In dreams, he noticed everything new about her. (Methinks this Erik fellow’s looking a bit too closely at an underage girl. Has anyone told Christine’s dad about this?) Maybe this time, he would see the condition that she was in. No one else so far had taken the trouble. Friends hadn't called or visited in days, and it no longer mattered to her as much as it had before. Now she could go back to her room after long hours of acting like she was just tired, but happy, to others, then she would writing in her journal and then crying herself to sleep. At times, she was proud that no one could tell, and at others, deeply hurt. Shouldn't someone be able to notice, other than the one who couldn't really help her? (I mean, at this point, the guidance counselor would surely “writing” something in her notebook about the sudden weight loss and the darkening eyes.) Her hand stilled at the page and instead she decided that she would try and sing along with Erik, smiling softly. The actor who played him was superb, but it was not really Erik. Erik had such a powerful voice, dark and sensual, and at times so soft that it felt like the voice was wrapping itself around her. (Yeah. Clearly, she hadn’t watched the movie. That’s not Gerard Butler, at all.) So now, she sung as the phantom commanded, higher, and higher, until she felt dizzy and had to stop.

(”She’s singing again,” said Christine’s mom.

(”Yes, dear,” said Christine’s dad, with a sigh. “I can hear her. The whole neighborhood can hear her.”

(”Should we do something about it?”

(”We’re parents in a fanfiction, honey. We’re not supposed to be competent.”

(Christine’s mom could only shrug. “Fair enough. You wanna go over to the guest bedroom, where it’s quieter?”

(”God, yes. At least, somebody around here should be getting laid.”) The tremors that came didn't bother her as they had before, she noticed. They almost stole her breath away, but she calmed herself long enough to blow out the candle at her side, aiding her in her writing that she was doing before. She would write in the dark quite often, and play classical music, sitting long after her legs began to cramp, neglecting other needs, such as food (and pooping. It was like sitting with a bag of charcoal briquettes in her, most nights). It no longer mattered, her hands flew from page to page in a blind passion, dark stories flying from her fingers onto the notebook paper. But now she just wanted to look at her reflection in the mirror next to her, until she could no longer feel this world, but feel a blurred daydream. (She saw nothing, for it was pitch black.) She warmed at that, and it had been so long since her body had warmed at the thought of something, even her heart felt warm. The daydream was beautiful, elaborate.until it suddenly seemed too real. "Christine." A voice softly whispered, a male voice so soft that no one could notice.

(A few minutes later, it spoke up again, this time more loudly. “Christine! Yo! I’m over here, girl!”)

She looked up from her spot, to notice a man standing in front of her, beginning to crouch to her level. His cloak folded behind him, his hands finding hers, she could barely hold back the tears in her eyes, noticing that the ones dropped on her fingers, were not of her own tears. (No, these tears were not formed of her own tears, but instead they were formed of... I dunno, a combination of pea soup and dollar store aftershave.)

"My love.I've waited a life time.it seemed so long without you." (”I hope you’re okay with me being an old man, now. I mean, I was an adult in the 1900′s, so... hope you like your men wrinkly!”)

She shuddered, the tremors in her chest becoming stronger, more powerful, and she had to strain to whisper, falling into his arms. It was her Erik, but no longer with his mask, or his deformed face. He had a face of an angel now, (specifically, that kid Angel from math class that she always had the hots for, but could never really gather the courage to talk to.) his eyes were the same golden beautiful color, and his beautiful black hair slicked back and shining in the (snuffed-out) candlelight of Christine's room. "Oh.Erik.You didn't leave me! You love me!" She clutched on to him, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him.

"I've loved you before, Christine. I can't help but love you as I do. We're one in soul and in mind. How can I forget my little angel?" His arms were warm and welcoming, as was his hot breath on her neck, holding her tightly to him. His soft cologne was soothing, alluring her.

"Is this real? Or am I dreaming.Erik.you're so beautiful."

(”Oh, Angel-I mean Erik! Erik. I’m in love with an elusive fictional character and absolutely nobody else. Now, shut up and neck me!”) She sighed, growing weaker and weaker in that embrace, the pains in her chest growing. As intense as they were, they were nothing compared to the soaring of her soul.

"Where I've waited for you, I no longer look as I did then. I came with that face in your dreams, speaking to you, singing with you to make you remember. Yes, those dreams were real. I would try anything within my power to have you with me once more. (”I would even try Zumba, even though that looks ridiculous.”) I remember our past, the man that I once was, the pain you caused when you left me that time, (”and the people I’ve killed. The many, many people I’ve killed.”) but you do not. And it doesn't matter, my darling, because I'll be with you forever now. As we were meant to be on earth." He said softly, kissing her whitening forehead.

"Promise me you'll never leave me Erik.forgive me for doing this, for letting myself go.. I just couldn't handle just dreaming of you anymore. I felt so unloved, and so.unwanted in this world. (”Sure, I never said anything to Angel about my feelings, but how dare he not read my mind and immediately return them... I mean...”) I wanted to surrender to our beautiful dreams forever."

"Christine.I'll never leave you, no matter what may come between us. I never left your heart, and you never left mine. Ah, that line from long ago, my darling, anywhere you go, let me go too.I never broke my promise." (”I also promised that you would rue the day you did not do all that I asked you to do. You’d better prepare yourself for some bullshit.”)

Despite her cooling body, she felt so warm, so filled with love for this man, remembering suddenly everything, that first time when they had found love, that it was too powerful a love for Christine to accept. (...she’s still underage.) She remembered her older form, in a wedding gown, crying tears as he was, finding strength to only give him her kiss. (It took everything she had not to screw him silly right there on the altar. What? It’s her older form, in this sentence.) Everything flashed back to her, as her eyes began to close as all reflexes went in her body (including twitch, gag, and those reflex saves you make in Dungeons and Dragons) and her hand slipped from Erik's. She could only murmur that she loved him as the last breath left her body, her face showing that she was happy and free.

Erik wept and then stood with her in his arms to the mirror, entering the place where all lived in happiness after a lifetime of pain. There she became alive again, (making Erik’s weeping premature and pointless,) and they loved forever, knowing that the Phantom and Christine did exist, because of an all-consuming love.

Her mother forced open the door, noticing that all sounds from her daughter's room had ceased. (It took her a while, admittedly; actually being able to hear herself think was such a welcome relief.) She came past many books, several pages of paper scattered about, and it was full of Christine's furious handwriting. And then she stopped short of the mirror, noticing her daughter's crumpled form beside it. She looked like she was sleeping, in a wonderful dream, softly smiling. It was only when she noticed that Christine's lips were blue, that her beautiful daughter (had terrible taste in lipsick. Also she) was dead. She cried out loud, picking up her cold body in her mothering arms, smoothing the dark gold curls, and then stopped, knowing that her daughter was suddenly at peace. (Upon learning her daughter was at peace, she dropped Christine’s body like a sack of potatoes and thought no more of her death.)

She picked up the notebook that she had never been able to read, noticing that it was flung open to one certain page. She wiped her eyes and tried to read it, trembling. (She then immediately closed it, realizing it was a collection of thinly veiled sexual fantasies under the pretense of fiction. Having been a teenage girl, herself, Christine’s mom knew better than to fall down that particular rabbit hole. Instead, she picked up a notebook that wasn’t titled like a cheap bodice-ripper and began to read.)

"When she loved him, he was her everything. He lived for her, for the light in her eyes, her voice. She loved him, it did not matter what he looked like, as long as he loved her with the same passion to which she gave him. To live without her, he would most certainly die.and in doing so, he waited in heaven to meet her again, where they would never be separated.. "

(”Of course, then the honeymoon began to peter out on their eternal love. It had been fun and exciting for the first few months, of course. How couldn’t it? She’d whipped herself into an all-fired frenzy, imagining what it would be like to have eternal love, and he’d been so incredibly flattered to have somebody that devoted to him that he couldn’t help but feel a sort of contact high from the emotions running rampant.

(”As time wore on, however, it started to become obvious that she had been so starved for her desires, she had merely come to adore what little her new heavenly husband could provide. Once the embers had managed to cool, she was left with the haunting realization that no man could ever hope to climb the incredible pedestal she had built, on which her lover was meant to stand. Oh, he would try. Like the devil, he would try. For all his effort, though, he would always be left... wanting.

(”The fights would happen, soon afterwards. Not that they were any one’s fault, in particular. They both were confused, and frustrated, and wondering why it was that love suddenly seemed so much more complicated than it was when they were simply daydreaming. It could only end one of two ways, from there: either they could reconcile their visions of love with the realities of life and the world, or theirs would be one of the thousands of relationships every day sacrificed upon the altar of their childish vision of “love.””)

Yes, her daughter most certainly did(”)love(”)the phantom of the opera...

[viralhottopics]

Breaking bad: Hollywood wakes up to the power of dark, dangerous women

Forget the sobbing suffering beauty. From Rebecca Halls unlikable newsreader to Jessica Chastains ruthless lobbyist, this is the year of the unsympathetic, deeply flawed femme. Thank goodness for that

The good news is that there are some great female characters coming up in the cinema in 2017. The bad news, if youre looking for inspirational feminist role models, is that you wont always find them in the movies. Lurking behind such obvious audience-pleasing instances of fine upstanding womanhood as Taraji P Henson plotting a course through the cosmos in Hidden Figures, or Rachel Weisz taking antisemitism to court in Denial, lies a monstrous army of deeply flawed femmes perverse, prickly, deluded, depressed, obsessive, venal, scary. Well, I say hurrah for that.

First up, though, is the unfeasibly perfect Natalie Portman in Pablo Larrans Jackie, not so much a biopic of Jacqueline Kennedy as a tone poem evoking its subjects transformation from trophy wife via weeping widow into American icon, a makeover forged by grief. In recreating a historical event made to seem ever more removed from reality by more than half a century of Zapruder, Warhol and conspiracy theorising, the film-maker and his leading lady transport us back to basics: the barely imaginable horror of witnessing your husbands brains being blown out. Portman knocks it out of the park, giving a masterclass in suffering beautifully.

And I mean beautifully. Whereas the likes of Claire Danes and Laura Dern convey excoriating emotional pain by snivelling like you and me, cry-faces scrunched up and shoulders heaving, Portman weeps like a lady, trying to blink back her tears, elegant eyebrows rearing up like rival caterpillars to greet each other across her lightly furrowed brow. She cries cute, a fan comments beneath one of the supercuts of Portmans comely blubbing in everything from Lon to V for Vendetta to the Star Wars prequels to Black Swan. And Larrans camera loves her, whether shes crying in the shower or chaperoning her husbands coffin on Air Force One.

Tippi Hedren in Hitchcocks The Birds. Photograph: Allstar/Cinetext/Universal

There is something exquisitely cinematic in the suffering of women, and depicting their torment in big closeup has long been a favourite pursuit of male auteurs. How often do their cameras linger on womens pleasure? Try to think of great actressy moments in the cinema and the memory veers towards heartbreak more than happiness or fulfilment. Greta Garbo may have laughed in Ninotchka, but this was already so atypical that the publicity department bragged about it on the poster.

No wonder there have been so many films about Joan of Arc – all that in-your-face spiritual agony, with the religious element providing a righteous front for the voyeuristic revelling in pain. In The Passion of Joan of Arc, Carl Dreyer dwells on Falconettis sublime anguish so relentlessly his camera is practically lapping up her tears. One thinks of the womens pictures of Douglas Sirk or Max Ophls, or Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Margit Carstensen in The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant), or Meryl Streep tortured by Sophies Choice, or, more recently, Nicole Kidman in Birth, or Marion Cotillard howling the roof down in La Vie en Rose or Rust and Bone.

Alfred Hitchcock pretty much dedicated his career to putting his leading ladies through the wringer, and duly subjected Joan Fontaine, Ingrid Bergman and Kim Novak to the sort of carefully calibrated mistreatment guaranteed to make them look more alluring than ever. This tendency reached its apex in The Birds, where Tippi Hedren starts off as the epitome of cool blonde chic (impeccable coiffure, spotless suit and pearls) and ends up decoiffed, streaked with blood, her nylons laddered a traumatised victim of assault. Hitchcock is clearly getting off on it. Male directors, few of them attractive physical specimens themselves, like nothing better than to knock perfect leading actresses off their pedestals.

The most Hitchcockian heroine of 2016 was Amy Adams in Tom Fords Nocturnal Animals. Adams plays Susan, a super-soigne Los Angeles art gallery owner who lives in a concrete and glass Bel Air mansion and sports impeccable maquillage, preternaturally straight hair, high-tone couture (as youd expect in a film from the former creative director of Gucci), statement jewellery so pronounced you half expect it to start talking and a fabulously good-looking husband who keeps her in the style to which she is accustomed.

Perfectly flawed Amy Adams as Susan Morrow in Nocturnal Animals. Photograph: Merrick Morton/Universal

But, this being a revenge thriller (albeit not necessarily the sort that youre expecting) the delivery of the manuscript of a novel by her first husband throws a spanner into the perfection. Unlike Hitchcock, Ford is a prime physical specimen, and one can safely assume his interest in her downfall isnt so much sexual as conjuring classic Hollywood by expressing emotion via screen style. But many filmgoers have felt alienated by Susan not being sympathetic, and condemnations of the film as misogynistic are not hard to find. A love letter to sexist movies (Bitch Flicks); epitomises salacious, exploitative misogyny (Ruthfully Yours); an ugly, mean-spirited story from start to finish, with a deep misogyny at its core (Bouquets & Brickbats).

I suppose if you like your films to be purveyors of Old Testament-style justice, in which anything unpleasant that may happen to, say, a career woman must be de facto punishment for sins she has committed, then Fords treatment of her is as cruel as that of her ex-husband. But Nocturnal Animals is a cautionary tale, not a moral one. I prefer to think of Susan as a tragically flawed human being, wrestling with lifes complexities and suffering the consequences of her own misguided decisions, yet in control of her own destiny, just like all the best male movie characters. Im not interested in watching the hackneyed rise and fall and rise again of a one-dimensional paragon who learns from her mistakes, triumphs over sexist opposition and emerges in the third act as a shining feminist role model. I want compelling drama and dark nights of the feminine soul. I want Shakespearean, and if that means a character suffering, so be it.

And it looks as if 2017 might be stepping up to bat. Brace yourself for a coven of female characters who are no more sympathetic than Susan. Prepare to see them make awful decisions and do bad things, with results that are sometimes tragic, sometimes comic, sometimes both simultaneously. In Christine, Rebecca Hall gives a fearlessly unlikable performance as an ambitious Florida newscaster whose refusal to play the game leads her into some very dark places. In Miss Sloane, Jessica Chastain is bracingly uningratiating as a ruthless Washington DC lobbyist. In Elle, Isabelle Huppert plays a chilly businesswoman who reacts to being raped by refusing to embrace the traditional movie roles of victim, survivor or avenger, instead striking out into unexpected and distinctly uncomfortable territory.

Elle trailer: Isabelle Huppert stars in Paul Verhoevens noir thriller exclusive video

All these are hints that the next few months could be one of the most promising seasons for choice female roles in years, and what is especially exciting is that female film-makers visions are at last entering the picture. In the three chapters of Certain Women, Kelly Reichardt presents the non-glamorous lives of Laura Dern, Michelle Williams and Lily Gladstone in a precisely observed manner that is the opposite of melodramatic, though one of the segments will still break your heart. Maren Ades Toni Erdmann may be named after the grotesque alter ego of its leading male character, but its chiefly about the strained relationship with his daughter (Sandra Hller), a workaholic businesswoman leading a bleak life in Bucharest. Like Reichardt, Ade isnt in a hurry and prefers slice of life to glamour, but the film packs at least two audience-pleasing highlights to rank with any by commercial Hollywood.

But you dont have to settle for realism, because the more we see movies by female film-makers, the more its evident that the female point of view, like the male one, is not some homogeneous, touchy feely Mama Mia!-type hoedown. Alice Lowe stars in her own directing debut, the deliciously mean-spirited Prevenge, as a pregnant woman whose foetus urges her to kill, and kill again. Lowes Arnold Bennett-ish ear for one-liners, insight into hormonal chaos, and gleeful splatter combine to present a female POV youve never seen before. From the other side of the Atlantic, Anna Biller pays visual homage to the colourful style of 1970s occult thrillers in The Love Witch, the tale of a Californian femme fatale (Samantha Robinson) whose love spells have bloody consequences, but gives the story a modern feminist twist.

Alice Lowe as a woman whose foetus urges her to kill in horror flick Prevenge. Photograph: Western Edge Pictures

And while there is no UK release date for it yet, keep your eyes peeled for Julia Ducournaus Raw, the best and bloodiest slice of body horror since David Cronenberg in his prime. Its about a naive French veterinary student (Garance Marillier) whose hair-raising rite of passage includes brutal hazing, eating raw liver, cannibalism and the funniest, most gruesome bikini waxing ever filmed.

Theres more than enough room for all these films. Some you may love, others you might loathe, but there is no longer any excuse to pin feminist hopes and dreams on to a single film or female character. We contain multitudes.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2j3r7Zb

from Breaking bad: Hollywood wakes up to the power of dark, dangerous women