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queen-beefcake-sqx · 11 months

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Please do your Sanctifying Kim Take!

Perceiving that man through HDB coloured glasses put me off of most fandom depictions of him. Not to mention how absolutely tiny he's depicted when he's of completely average size. (2-3inches shorter than Harry who is above 6ft. Like I get people do be havin size kinks, but that man's not short)

Canon Kim is the most trigger happy cop depicted in the entire game. He shot 6 kids people between working in juvenile detention and processing, is a severely repressed speedfreak with unprocessed grief (still working Dom's cases) and a wild card (not above using Harry's amnesia to manipulate Joyce when he knows him for a couple of hours), who can maybe have 2 Auth over world soggiest superstar but let's be honest don't we all?

He is so petty that he will die in the tribunal if you give away his pen lmao. Like that man is literally two steps above Harry when it comes to being a weird cop, and that's being lovingly understanding. He needs Martinaise just as much as HDB does.

op I am holding your face gently and shaking like a wet chihuahua. you, you get it.

Here’s my thing — as a general theme, I’ve noticed fandom takes seem to lean into the belief that because Harry’s deification of Dora crashed and burned so spectacularly, that (1) deification of Kim would be just as unhealthy and (2) Kim would outright reject that kind of worship.

And like. Okay. I can see how you’d make a case for that, sure. Except as you pointed out Kim is actually really fucking weird, and damaged in his own way, and most importantly — Kim wants to be cool. There’s a purple check that outright states Kim values being perceived as cool FAR MORE than he lets on. I’ve already written a post that mentions how significant it is for Kim that Harry thinks he’s cool, and what I’m gonna say next is an extension of that:

I think, somewhere deep down and repressed, Kim would actually love being deified by someone, and if Harry put in the work to have a healthy relationship with religion, they could actually make that dynamic work.

Long thoughts and explanation under cut:

Alright a little background on me: I was raised Unitarian Universalist and have a history of deifying my lovers. Harry’s anguish over Dora was very heartbreakingly familiar (although I didn’t destroy my life quite as spectacularly), and the way Harry uses inquiry to engage with belief systems (personal, political, scientific, and religious) is VERY Unitarian. One of our precepts is literally the constant and continuous search for truth and meaning in the world, and that’s Harry’s whole MO. So a lot of this is personal experience coloring interpretation.

A few years ago I wrote a piece of meta about why Tian Guan Ci Fu, a novel about a worshiper’s love for a prince turned god, is better treated as a fairy tale instead of a typical character-driven novel. I bring this up because in the meta I set forth that there were three really big themes that the story teaches us about divinity:

Books Two and Four encapsulate Xie Lian’s biggest lesson - that no one person can hope to end all suffering, even a god, and that putting a person on a pedestal places unachievable expectations upon them.

The rest of the books deal with two different but tangential lessons — devotion means seeing the best in people, regardless of their flaws; devotion also means inevitable destruction when you are not valued to the same degree.

I bring this up because, incidentally, these are the EXACT same themes that Disco Elysium deals with in regards to deification and devotion. I firmly believe the rest of the text about Innocences corroborates this, but even just looking at Harry and Dora, these themes are SCREAMINGLY relevant. Harry destroyed himself when Dora, his Innocence and god, left him. Their relationship was never really equal — there was a class difference, the abortion and difference in want for parenthood, the fact she walked out on him at least one before. Harry placed Dora on such a high pedestal that he set her up to fail him when she couldn’t handle Harry’s addiction and deteriorating mental health at a job she encouraged him to pursue.

Because a really important caveat about those themes I didn’t elaborate on — “regardless of flaws” doesn’t mean never acknowledging them. I really think Harry got into his head that Dora could truly do no wrong and found himself increasingly hurt and floundering when she proved just how wrong that was, and instead of acknowledging things they BOTH needed to work on — to do better, to improve, to grow — Harry got angry, resentful, and depressed and Dora got out of there.

And I don’t blame her, nor anybody else who did the same. I don’t blame Jean’s anger with Harry’s carelessness with his life, even if the way he expresses it is actively harmful. But the problem is Harry is a vast, vast soul — he feels things very deeply and extremely. I like fics where he learns to work through it and love a person to a Normal(tm) degree, but there’s a part of me deep down that feels like that is impossible for him. There is vitriol or there is devotion and there is little to nothing in-between for him, and for him a healthy relationship isn’t less devotional/religious as much as it is reconceptualizing what it means to be divine — stealing from my TGCF meta, he needs to remember that deities were human before they were ever his god, and as someone who’s worked as a cop, he should KNOW how messy humans are.

And minus himself, fuck if there isn’t a human messier than Kim Kitsuragi.

I’ve written a bit about Kim’s self-image and the significance of Harry finding him cool before. Kim is honestly a mess. He’s implied to be still struggling with the death of his partner some time in the past, is trigger happy and hates it, and is also implied to be ostracized from his coworkers. Kim does his job because he genuinely thinks it’s one of the only ways he can do good under a military regime that’s got airships ready to attack at a moment’s sign of rebellion. He smokes one cigarette a way to challenge his own volition and give off an air of untouchability because he has to be cool, he has to, he has no power in his life if he doesn’t!

But I genuinely believe that cool is tested at every turn, and I think there’s very few people who see the cool without seeing everything else about him — all the things he’s ashamed of, that make him feel lesser or othered. And Harry sees all those things over time, with a thorough enough run — he learns about “Kimball” and the bad eyesight and his fierce protection of his status as a “true Revacholiere”.

But it’s day one that Harry can call Kim cool. Regardless of flaws you uncover or not, Harry can see Kim as someone to be admired. Because that’s what Harry does with people he likes. And when was the last time anyone called Kim cool and meant it genuinely?

I think it’s noteworthy that Kim tries to stay humble when Harry gets excited about Kim — he downplays himself or pulls Harry out of flights of fancy about the degree of his “coolness”. He reminds Harry that he’s human… even if inwardly he preens at praise and recognition. (I’m too lazy to go through the Fayde viewer right now to back myself up, but just really pay attention to his Empathy checks sometime). Kim keeps Harry from constantly putting him on a pedestal like he did to Dora.

It’s also noteworthy that regardless of what a hot mess you are re: addiction, Kim still respects you as a detective and will defend you to your precinct. Remember that third theme, about relational devotion? Devotion doesn’t work if you’re deifying someone who doesn’t respect you, and thus won’t hold you to the standard of their divinity. There’s a thing in teaching where teachers want to shy away from difficult or disruptive students, thinking we’re accommodating them when in reality we’re not challenging them and are disrespecting their right to learn. Respect also means setting boundaries and trust, and I don’t know how much of either Dora and Harry had by the end.

Kim sets boundaries right off — No, we will not talk about the pissing contest until the field autopsy is done, don’t even try asking again. Yes, I do think now is a bad time for a drink and you should stop being careless with your life. No I will not tell you a secret about myself. Kim isn’t afraid to draw lines in the sand with Harry, because not only does he respect himself, but he wants to see that Harry respects him, too.

And in exchange, Kim displays his respect openly in front of peers — in front of the organization he’s worked to protect his reputation within — to defend Harry. Known drunk, bad-cop-or-cop-with-bad-days, sad sack Harry Du Bois. It’s acknowledgement from the object of his devotion that he’s done good work and can do more, if he keeps putting in the work to get better.

The point is — I don’t think Harry can change how he loves people, I think its just inherent to who he is as a person, but devoting himself to the altar of Kim Kitsuragi might actually work, if only because Kim wants that worship and will hold Harry accountable for not letting it consume them both.

#say more sadie #sadie writes meta #disco elysium #kimharry #I have so many more words about this but it’s less meta and more just hypothesizing how this kind of love would develop #I just realized I linked the same meta post twice lmao I don’t even care

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llycaons · 2 years

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to some extent the drama did erase the gray morality of the novel (making the wens more fantastically evil, making wwx not responsible for nightless, etc.) but what they did with jc was so much more interesting and I think it more than made up for the loss. novel jc is well-written and plays his role perfectly - the general plot threads are the same, but it seemed like in the novel he had always been crueler and more dismissive of wwx, criticizing him without any of the warmth of reconciliation and physical affection that would come immediately afterwards in the drama. the disintegration of their relationship with wwx was something I legitimately felt relief over because it truly did not feel right for wwx to be in that situation and I never felt like they were on the same page even in the best of times. even with the reveal at the very end and a few short paragraphs of jc being anguished in the finale, it wasn’t enough to really shake my perception of him as a dude who was whatever in his youth and then became really shitty. there wasn’t as much complexity to him compared to the drama

drama jc has issues, obviously, but due to some changes in the plot, some very sympathetic directing and acting choices, and the willingness to let him be very emotional onscreen, rather than disinterest over a guy who became shitty I more feel that he’s a deeply emotional person who underwent great loss in a truly unmanageable situation and handled it the best he was able to. and he was...bad. he was bad at it. he didn’t cope well. he failed. he turned his back on the people who had saved him. he stood by, however uncomfortably, as they were burned to death. he sunk into his anger and bitterness and became his worst self

but on the other hand...he never went as far as actually murdering the wens like in the novel, and the drama also emphasized how he clearly still cares deeply for his nephew in his own awkward, forceful way, and the grief of everything he’s lost just drives his actions and his emotions so much it’s hard not be moved by it even when he’s doing horrible things. but his actions don’t need to be excused to be understandable, and I don’t even think they need to be excused for him to be sympathetic - which is where both a lot of fans and haters I think go a little far in either direction - but it’s easy to see how directly they stem from influences that he had no control over or that weren’t his fault (his parents’ abuse/neglect, the manipulation of the sect leaders, his extreme youth, the war). and the drama just brings that pathos to the forefront much more effectively than I think the novel did, and I find him a much more interesting character with more complex relationships because of this core of hurt and misery so obvious within him. but the things he did to a miserable and powerless wwx were so damning and so extreme and and his personal flaws* are so numerous and so seemingly intractable that I just can’t help coming back to them time and again. he really does contain multitudes.

novel jc is just...even more extreme of a version, less nuanced, far more violent and vengeful, too far gone into his grief and anger. not showing nearly the closeness with wwx or the open vulnerability or the grief or the longing for family and for love that was so obvious in the drama. to me novel jc not someone who’s worth feeling sorry for, not really worth examining, and not someone who I would want anyone to rekindle a relationship with. he’s just...there. he serves a role and then leaves and he is not missed. he’s barely worth pitying, though it he is pitiful

I don’t actually dislike novel jc because I don’t feel very strongly about most novel characters, but if there’s one person who’s presented with more nuance in the drama than in the novel, it’s him

*immaturity, pride, aggression, cruelty, inability to control his anger, willingness to inflict suffering on his brother to satisfy his own feelings, a belief he has the right to torture his brother, general disrespect for others, very few ethical principles beyond protecting his own

#like plotwise very little changed but the details...man #me when I'm mad at jc: ohhoho this guy. miserable bastrad man. awful #me when I feel bad for him: aw man I want them to reconcile #🥺#I want good things for him. he doesn't get many good things in his life #and people do not like him #I find it a lot easier to like him tbh. I enjoy liking him more. I want to see them patch things up #I just don't know if they'd ever be able to #in the drama I think they're both clearly so important to each other still that it has to come up again #they'll muddle it out #drama jc needs to like take some time and meditate. little bit of self reflection. maybe a lot #novel jc can die in a ditch and I will spit on his body #FUCKER KILLED GRANNY WEN MAYBE #I shan't apologie for going back and forth on jc. perhaps I too contain multitudes #cql txp #mdzs txp

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theliterateape · 3 years

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I Like to Watch | Zack Snyder’s Justice League

by Don Hall

Mythology is fun.

As a kid I loved reading Edith Hamilton’s book on the Greek gods and the myths. Hercules, Perseus, Apollo, and Hera—this fell completely in line with my love for superhero comics. The strangely petty human traits of envy, greed, and lust combined with the power to level cities make for some great storytelling.

Zeus was basically Harvey Weinstein in the retroactive revision we’re mired in today. If Harvey could’ve changed into a golden animal and boned unsuspecting ladies looking for careers in Hollywood I’m pretty certain he would. The gods and demi-gods of the Greeks dealt with daddy issues, mommy issues, bad relationships, and fighting. Lots of fighting. Sometimes for the good of humanity but more often for the glory of winning.

Zach Snyder is in the business of tackling myths and reframing them with a style all his own. His career has become its own myth.

From Dawn of the Dead (not so much a reboot of Romero's zombie mythology but a philosophical reimagining of the genre that arguably jumpstarted The Hollywood fascination with it), 300 (a borderline homoerotic take on the myth of the Greek underdog), and Watchmen (a ridiculously ambitious attempt to put one of the most iconic takedowns on the potential fascism of the superhero legend machine ever written) to his nearly single-handed hack at answering the Marvel juggernaut with Man of Steel and Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice, Snyder is in the artistic business of subverting and re-envisioning the mythologies we embrace without even seeing them as such.

Snyder's style is operatic. It is on a grand scale even in the most mundane moments. The guy loves slow motion like Scorcese loves mobsters and Italian food. When you're tackling big themes with larger than life stories, the epic nature of his vision makes sense and has alienated a good number of audience members. With such excess, there are bound to be missteps but I'd argue that his massive take on these characters he molds from common understanding and popular nomenclature elevates them to god-like stature.

Fans of Moore's Watchmen have much to complain about Snyder's adaptation. The titular graphic novel is almost impossible to put in any other form than the one Moore intended and yet, Snyder jumped in feet-first and created a living, breathing representation of most, if not all, of the source material's intent. Whether you dig on it or not, it's hard to avoid acknowledging that the first five minutes of Watchmen is a mini-masterpiece of style, storytelling, and epic tragedy wrapped up in a music video.

Despite a host of critical backlash for his one fully original take, Sucker Punch is an amazing thing to see. More a commentary on video game enthusiasm with its lust for hot animated chicks and over-the-top violence that a celebration of cleavage and guns, the film is crazily entertaining. For those who hated the ending, he told you in the title what his plan was all along.

The first movie I saw in the theaters that tried to take a superhero mythology and treat it seriously (for the most part) was Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie. Never as big a fan of the DC characters as I have been of Marvel, it was still extraordinary to see a character I had only really known in pages to be so fully realized. Then came Burton's Batman movies. The superhero film was still an anomaly but steam was gaining. Things changed with Bryan Singer's X-Men in 2000, then Raimi's Spiderman, and those of us who grew up with our pulpy versions of Athena, Hermes, and Hades were rewarded with Nolan's Batman Begins. A far cry from the tongue-in-cheek camp of the 1966 TV Batman, Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne was a serious character and his tale over three films is a tragic commentary filled with the kind of death and betrayal and triumph befitting the grand narrative he deserved.

I loved Singer's Superman Returns in 2006 because it was such a love letter to the 1978 film (down to the opening credits) but by then, the MCU was taking over the world.

Snyder's first of what turns out to be an epic storyline involving perhaps seven or eight movies was Man of Steel. It was fun and, while I had my issues with the broodiness of Kal El, the odd take on Jonathan Kent, and a redheaded Lois Lane, I had no issue with Superman snapping Zod's neck. Darker and more tragic than any other version of the Kryptonian, it was still super entertaining.

Then came Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. By 2016, Marvel had codified their formula of serious characters wrestling with serious issues of power and responsibility peppered with lots of good humor and bright colors. Snyder's desaturated pallete and angst-filled demi-gods was not the obvious road to financial competition.

I'll confess, I hated it. BvS felt half-rendered. Lex Luthor was kind of superficial and played as a kind of Joker. The whole Bruce Wayne wants to kill Superman thing felt undeveloped and the "Martha" moment was just stupid.

When Joss Whedon's version of Snyder's Justice League came out in 2017, I was primed for it to be a turd and I wasn't surprised. So much of it didn't work on any level. I dismissed it as DC trying and failing miserably and was comforted by the coming of Thanos.

Following Thanos and the time heist was COVID. Suddenly, we were internationally sidelined and the movie theater industry caved in. Streaming services started popping up like knock-off smartphones and Hollywood was reeling, doing anything and everything to find a way back. Since Whedon's disastrous helming of Snyder's third act, fans online had been demanding to #ReleasetheSnyderCut but no one was ever really taking them seriously until all movie production was shut down for a year.

The stage was set to remedy a mistake (or at least make some bucks on a do-over of a huge box office failure). Snyder had left the production in part because of the suicide of his daughter and in part due to the constant artistic fights over executives looking for the quippy fun of the MCU but he still had all the original footage. Add to that the broiling accusations that Joss Whedon was "abusive" during the reshoots, the path seemed destined. For an additional $70 million and complete control, Snyder delivered a four hour mega-movie streamed on HBOMax.

Of course, I was going to watch the thing as soon as I could.

The Whedon version opens with an homage to the now dead Superman (including the much maligned digitally erased mustache on Henry Cavill). The SynderCut opens with the death of Superman and the agony of his death scream as it travels across the planet. It's a simple change but exemplifies the very different visions of how this thing is gonna play out.

Snyder doesn't want us to be OK with the power of these beings unleashed. He wants us to feel the damage and pain of death. He wants the results of violence to be as real as he can. When Marvel's Steve Rogers kicks a thug across the room and the thug hits a wall, he crumples and it is effectively over. When Batman does the same thing, we see the broken bones (often in slow motion) and the blood smear on the wall as the thug slides to the ground.

The longer SnyderCut is bloated in some places (like the extended Celtic choir singing Aquaman off to sea or the extended narrations by Wonder Woman which sound slightly like someone trying to explain the plot to Siri). On the other hand, the scene with Barry Allen saving Iris West is both endearing and extraordinary, giving insight to the power of the Flash as well as some essential character-building in contrast to Whedon's comic foil version.

One thing I noticed in this variant is that Zach wants the audience to experience the sequence of every moment as the characters do. An example comes when Diana Prince goes to the crypt to see the very plot she belabors over later. The sequence is simple. She gets a torch and goes down. Most directors which jump cut to the torch. Snyder gives us five beats as she grabs the timber, wraps cloth around the end, soaks it with kerosene, pulls out a box of matches, and lights the torch. Then she goes down the dark passageway.

The gigantic, lush diversity of Snyder’s vision of the DC superhero universe—from the long shots of the sea life in the world of Atlantis to the ancient structures and equipment of Themyscira— is almost painterly. Snyder isn't taking our time; he's taking his time. We are rewarded our patience with a far better backstory for the villain, a beautifully rendered historic battle thwarting Darkseid's initial invasion (including a fucking Green Lantern), and answers to a score of questions set up in both previous films.

Whedon's Bruce Wayne was more Ben Affleck; Snyder's is full-on Frank Miller Batman, the smartest, most brutal fucker in the room. Cyborg, instead of Whedon's sidelined non-character, is now a Frankenstein's monster, grappling with the trade-off between acceptance and enormous power. Wonder Woman is now more in line with the Patty Jenkins version and instead of being told about the loss of Superman, we are forced to live with the anguish of both his mother and Lois Lane in quiet moments of incredible grief.

To be fair to Whedon (something few are willing to do as he is now being castigated not for racism or sexism but for being mean to people) having him come in to throw in some levity and Marvel-esque color to Snyder's Wagnerian pomposity is like hiring Huey Lewis to lighten up Pink Floyd's The Wall or getting Douglas Adams to rewrite Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

I loved Snyder's self-indulgent, mythologic DC universe.

So much so that I then re-watched Man of Steel and then watched the director's version of BvS (which Snyder added approximately 32 minutes). The second film is far better at three hours and Eisenberg's Lex Luthor now makes sense. Then I watched Zach Snyder's Justice League a second time.

After nineteen hours of Snyder's re-imagining of these DC heroes and villains, I saw details that, upon first viewing, are ignored or dismissed, but after seeing them in order and complete, are suddenly consistent and relevant. Like Nolan or Fincher, Snyder defies anyone to eliminate even one piece of his narrative no matter how long. With all the pieces, this is an epic story and the pieces left at the extended epilogue play into a grander narrative we will never see.

Or maybe we will. Who knows these days?

#I Like to Watch #Zach Snyder's Justice League

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fixaidea · 5 years

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Paris, 1840

It was in the early days of the year 1840 when Monsieur Nicolas Barré, a young, moderately successful novelist fell in with Augustin Perrault and his group of friends. Perrault, done with University, was pursuing a career in journalism and met M. Barré for work related reasons. The working relationship quickly turned into friendship (a quick and easy thing with the young journalist), and soon enough, over a shared glass of wine, Perrault invited him to meet up with the rest of his closest friends.

‘I must say’ Nicolas huffed, clinking his glass against Perrault’s ‘Whatever you told your friends about me, they better lower their expectations. Sure I’m a delight, a true treat to have around’ he winked ‘But political I am not. Not nearly as much as you are.’

Perrault waved his hand in airy dismissal.

‘Never fear. You are no monarchist, and that is all they need. Clavier is more hands-on when it comes to politics but the rest like to hold such issues at arm’s length. No one will begrudge you for not keeping a pet guillotine in your backyard.’

Nicolas chuckled and refilled their glasses.

‘So you’re telling me buying a closetful of red caps to impress them was a waste? Ah well. Now, we are men of the pen, you and I, even if we employ our words quite differently. How about the rest? All writers?’

‘Alain Clavier certainly is, he’s a playwright. Well, in theory at least. In reality he’s a true Renaissance man, doing all things Theatre. Manager, designer, stand-in actor, all of it. René Giraud is an engineer, or rather, currently an assistant to one, Yves Belarbre is a painter. A portraitist, but he has some novel ideas about painting dreams, you’ll see.’

After a couple of more glasses Perrault announced that he still had some obligations to attend to. Just as they were about to part, he turned to Nicolas.

‘I must warn you about one of my friends though, Giraud. He has some peculiar habits, but the one that most concerns you is that he’s rather picky about who gets to touch him. He’s going to allow a handshake, but do not attempt anything more. If he takes a shine to you, he will come to you in his own time.’

Nicolas smiled and nodded, although he did not understand why he needed such a warning – certainly he was affectionate, but nowhere near as much as Perrault, pawning at random strangers was usually not the first thing on his mind. Surely keeping his hands off of one would not be much of a hardship. His nonchalance regarding the matter lasted exactly until the moment of meeting the man in question. René Giraud was on the shorter end of average height, thin and tired looking and, at least in Nicolas’ humble opinion, utterly adorable. He had fluffy, white-blond hair and big, pensive blue eyes.

They did not get to talk too much that first day – as Nicolas later learned this was not simply because Perrault and his friend Alain Clavier dominated every single conversation they took part in, but also because of Giraud’s own quiet nature. Still, all through the evening Nicolas kept sneaking glances at the man and, to his immense satisfaction, found himself being watched in turn. Just before the company disbanded for the night, Giraud sidled up to him. He cocked his head to the side and spoke, eyes fixed on the floor:

‘What do you call a medical-minded dog?’

Caught off guard, Nicolas scratched his beard.

‘I have no idea. What indeed?’

‘Un physi-chien*’

Nicolas blinked. For a moment he was not sure if he truly heard what he did, but René was watching him expectantly out of the corner of his eye. Nicolas’ big body began to shake and soon he was howling with laughter. Giraud, proud of his work, bounced on his heels and smiled, blushing with joy. Nicolas raised his hand to clap him on the back, but caught himself in time and hastily showed his fist into his pocket.

He wiped off his tears. That was it. He needed to win his René-touching privileges as soon as possible.

***

It was the end of May, but the weather resembled the worst of August and Nicolas was painfully stuck. Again. His serialised novel was running out of pre-written chapters at an alarming rate, he needed to catch up with it and soon. He could practically feel his editor breathing down his neck. He was sating at a blank page. In fact, he had been doing just that for the last half an hour, but the words stubbornly refused to manifest. With a deep sigh of defeat he donned his lightest coat and hat. If inspiration would not come on its own, the best he could do was to try and seek it out. After a brief consideration he headed to the Louvre.

He regretted his decision to leave the flat the moment he stepped out of his building. The streets were scorching hot, vibrating above the cobblestones. Dust filled the air and the sun was so blinding, that without the straw hat to protect his eyes, Nicolas doubted he would be able to see a thing. Still, he steeled himself and faced the inferno of the city.

He was richly rewarded for his effort – the inside of the museum was shady and blessedly cool. Few people took the effort or had the time to drag themselves here at his hour, so it was also mostly deserted. He sighed again, this time in relief, and was about to zone out and let himself get lost in the centuries of art surrounding him, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar mop of blond hair. René Giraud was sitting on a bench, an open notebook in his hands, though when Nicolas stepped closer he noticed he was staring at his feet rather than at the pages. He started when Nicolas greeted him.

‘Ah, hello there, Monsieur Barré! I mean. Nicolas.’

Nicolas smiled and plopped down beside him. He was pleased René was finally gave up on the formal ‘you’ with him, even if he still called him by his surname sometimes.

‘You must be quite the patron of arts to cross the city on such a wretched day just to look at pictures! Or are you, like me, in need of inspiration for something?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid’ René answered. He kept his gaze on his notebook. When they first met Nicolas wondered if he did this because he did not like him or was especially flustered in his presence, but had since come to learn that this was simply something he did with everyone. Avert his eyes or, remembering that you ought to look people in the eye, fix his unblinking gaze upon you.

‘I am here exactly because the day is wretched’ René went on ‘My quarters are unbearable and so are the streets. Everything seems to be so much more intense in this horrible weather. The people are loud and irritable and they stink. I stink, the horses stink, I can barely see, everything is bleached white by the sun, even the sky. It’s either white or that unsettling shade of lilac.’

‘Lilac? I never noticed that.’

‘It is though. A pale lilac. I find it deeply disturbing. Here though…’ he looked up ‘Here it’s cool and quiet and the smells are subdued. I like this place.’

‘Still, it must be boring to just sit here. Walk with me?’

Nicolas thought of offering his hand as they got up, but René was on his feet before him. They wandered the halls in silence for a while. Nicolas knew his friend was not exactly loquacious, but he wondered if this silence was stretching too far. Testing the waters, next time he spotted a particularly interesting painting he stopped before it and quietly started to explain what he knew about it. With others, he tried to guess what the artist might have meant, making up stories on the spot, one wilder and more colourful than the rest. René mostly kept quiet, but seemed to be enjoying himself none the less. Every now and then he inserted his own small remarks or chuckled lightly at Nicolas’ jokes. Encouraged by this, Nicolas was gaining momentum, spinning one astounding, ridiculous tale after the other, compensating for the low voice he kept with sweeping gestures and exaggerated expressions. Soon René was pressing his hand against his mouth, his whole body shaking with the laughter he desperately fought to hold in.

And then he froze.

His smile faltered and slowly disappeared as something behind Nicolas caught his eyes. Nicolas turned, following his gaze.

They were standing in front of a large painting. The canvas was populated by a crowd of figures, faces and bodies contorted by the pain of grief. In the centre, a male figure, a warrior, cradling the body of his fallen companion, face twisted into a mask of anguish.

‘Achilles and Patroclus.’ René whispered.

Nicolas nodded. He waited for his friend to turn away and move on, but he seemed to be hypnotised by the painting. They stood there in silence for a long while, before René finally spoke again.

‘I envy him, in a way.’

‘Who? I cannot for the life of me think of a single enviable character in that story.’

‘Patroclus. How much Achilles loved him, unashamed. He was no dirty little secret.’

It took the both of them a moment to fully realise what he just said. René, scrambling to save face, blushing so fiercely it was visible even in the dim light of the museum, and rushed to continue:

‘I-I mean it’s a touching story no matter how you look at it, I mean, anyone would be grateful for such loyalty from a friend…’

Nicolas took a deep breath and, momentarily forgetting himself, laid a hand on René’s arm. The little engineer froze. Nicolas quickly released him.

‘I understand.’

René peered up at him from under his curls.

‘Do you? Truly?’

Blood was rushing into Nicolas’ face and he suddenly felt very light and somehow detached from his body, as if he was watching the conversation from afar. Still, his friend laid his soul bare before him, if only on accident, he had to know he was not alone.

‘I do. I understand what you meant.’

René kept his big eyes fixed on him for a moment then slowly, so slowly, reached out and laid his hand on his arm. Nicolas’ heart leapt to his throat – carefully he raised his own had and covered René’s with it. They held the connection for a second before René stepped back. He cleared his throat.

‘I must be going now, I have some plans I need to double check. Thank you for this afternoon.’

‘My pleasure’ said Nicolas, eyes fixed on his toes ‘See you back at our café?’

‘Yes. Yes, certainly.’

***

Nicolas wondered if things will change between them and indeed, there was a small but noticable shift in their interactions. Nothing dramatic – unlike Augustin, Nicolas still was not allowed to just walk up to René and cuddle him. Though of course he never tried. Still, at least René would now touch him every now and then. Nothing too personal or overly familiar, rather he simply did not go out of his way anymore to avoid contact. Nicolas tried a little bit of flirting but as the engineer did not respond – or even seemed to notice his attempts – he soon ceased.

It was now July, and Nicolas was in the middle of revising his latest chapter (or more precisely re-arranging the bookshelves while thinking very hard about how he should be revising said chapter) when the knock came. He left the bookshelf somewhat begrudgingly – he was hard at work, creating, how dare people hinder his genius! – and went to answer it, grumbling all the way. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a polite but slightly haughty expression and he opened the door.

The corridor was empty.

Nicolas rolled his eyes – was the half a minute it took him to get to the door truly too long a wait for his visitor? He was about to retreat when he noticed a sheet of paper at his feet. A message then? A prank? A strongly worded appeal from his editor? It turned out to be neither. It was a poem. It was not written in pen, but in letters carefully cut out from a newspaper and glued to a sheet.

TO THE LOVE I DARE NOT NAME

FROM THE SHADOWS I SING YOUR PRAISES SCRAMBLING IN VAIN FOR THE RIGHT PHRASES YOU ARE ROUND AND WARM LIKE THE SUN IN JUNE THE COPPER OF YOUR HAIR IS THE CAUSE OF MY DESPAIRE

HAVE MERCY ON ME, O MUSE

He read it – and read it again. And again. It seemed to be a sincere if terrible love poem. Nicolas tugged at his beard. Was this dedicated to him? The mention of the subject’s bodily proportions and hair colour suggested so, but he was still uncertain. Humming lightly, he folded up the paper and got back to work. He resolved to show the strange little letter to his friends and thought nothing of it for the rest of the day.

When he did in fact pull the sheet out on their next get-together, the reaction of the group was, in the mildest possible terms, explosive. Alain ripped the letter out of his hand and studied it for several minutes, muttering to himself all the way through, before he was forced to relinquish it to a nagging Augustin, and then to Yves. René, reserved as ever, did not attempt to grab for the page, but followed the proceedings with eager eyes.

‘Well then’ Nicolas said ‘What do you gentlemen make of it?’

‘Why, my dear fellow’ said Augustin, leaning back in his seat ‘It is quite obvious. You have a secret admirer!’

Nicolas propped his chin on his hand and laughed.

‘Well, there’s no debating I’m a right catch, any lady would agree I’m sure, but don’t you think it more likely that this would be a nervous amateur trying to show his work off? Maybe try and get a foot in the door of publishing through me?’

Yves waved a hand with a little huff of dismissal.

‘Quite unlikely. If this were a poet interested in getting his name known, surely he would have included just that: his name! No my dear, this is quite obviously a love-stricken if unusually daring and forward lady!’

‘A true little firebrand!’ Alain exclaimed.

René remained quiet. Nicolas searched his face with a slight flicker of hope for any sign that he might be the one behind it, but then dismissed the idea. He could not picture him resigning himself to such bold a move.

‘All right then’ he said, folding up the sheet ‘I suppose my best bet now is to wait and see.’

And see he did. The very next day, about the same time, the knock sounded again. Nicolas, hard at work on his novel (he was cleaning his windows), took some time to answer, so the mysterious visitor was long gone by the time he got to the door. In her – his? wake he left an elegant box of high-end pralines. Nicolas inspected the gift for a message, but found none.

Well then. This certainly seemed to underline the ‘secret admirer’ theory, opposed to the ‘hopeful amateur poet’. Smiling to himself, Nicolas plopped a piece into his mouth and retreated. Excitement was starting to bubble up in his belly – who could this be? Sure, he had his secret hopes for a certain engineer, but with all his loveable qualities, René just did not look like the type for grand romantic gestures. Who else then? Nicolas made a list of all the ladies and gentlemen he knew, but found it entirely unhelpful. He had half a mind to drop everything and go seek out Augustin, even though they were not meant to meet up that day, but decided against it. The group regularly met on Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes on weekends, and it was only Wednesday. Let’s not rush anything, let’s wait and see what happens next!

Thursday brought him a nice set of steel-tipped pens, complete with ink, all tied up with a bow. Now Nicolas was all but crawling out of his skin with excitement and resolved to catch the person responsible in the act.

On Friday he was fully expecting the knock, but he made a fatal mistake. The weather turned damp and cold, so Nicolas decided to make himself a cup of tea as he waited. The problem was only that his visitor was a full hour early compared to the previous days, so he had a kettle full of boiling water in his hands when the knock came, and by the time he managed to carefully put it down without spilling any of it on himself, his mysterious suitor was gone again. In their wake they left a bouquet.

Nicolas snatched it up and inspected it excitedly. It was a nicely arranged collection of reds, blues and yellows. On a whim, Nicolas quickly averted his eyes. He was keen to find out what message might be coded in there in the flirty language of flowers, but he wanted to decipher it in the presence of his friends. He placed the bouquet in a vase and resolved not to look at it for the rest of the day.

It was an excruciating exercise in temperance and patience and he came close to failing several times, sneaking glances at it every now and then, but miraculously he persisted. Still, it felt like the longest day of his life. He tried to proceed with his writing, but his thought kept floating back to the mysterious gifts and the sound of footsteps fading in the hallway.

When the clock finally struck five he practically flew out the door and did not stop until he reached their café, the Poule Rouge. René was already there, nursing a cup of coffee at his usual seat. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Nicolas flung himself down beside him. He looked up – only be greeted by a mass of flowers shown in his face.

‘From your admirer?’ he asked around the clump of vegetation.

‘I’m assuming yes!’ said Nicolas, leaning in close ‘What do you think?’

René regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then looked down.

‘I think it’s pretty. It has happy colours. I think whoever gave it to you wanted you to be happy.’

Nicolas could feel his lips stretch into a grin. He was about to answer but Alain’s booming voice cut him off. The man entered with Yves on one arm, Augustin on the other. Nicolas held up the bouquet like a trophy.

‘Well, well, well’ said Alain as he slid into the seat across Nicolas and pressed a cup of wine into his hands ‘What have we here?’

The three newcomers – all experts in courtship and all the delicacies it involved – pulled the bouquet into the middle of the table and began to pour over it. Nicolas watched in excitement, but his enthusiasm began to falter as their faces fell. After a couple of minutes they sat back and exchanged some deeply confused glances.

Yves scratched the back of his head.

‘Well this… All right, let’s see. The good news is the cornflower, which means wealth and fortune, the yellow rose, which stands for joy and friendship and the blue iris for faith and hope. But we also have marigold for jealousy and yellow carnation for disappointment and rejection. Also red poppies which mean consolation. So. There’s that.’

Alain propped his chin on his hand.

‘It might not mean anything at all.’

‘No no no, let’s not give up on this so quickly’ said Augustin ‘The lady went out of her way to play this intricate game, surely there must be some sort of message in there. So what do we have? Wealth, friendship or joy, consolation, hope or faith but also jealousy and either disappointment or rejection. This to me speaks of someone who was for some reason disappointed in you, but who values your friendship more than her pride and has hope in repairing your relations. It’s simple!’

‘I don’t think that’s it, not at all’ Yves objected ‘Look at this closely! The poppies and the yellow carnations out-weight the rest – to me, that says the sender has been disappointed to the degree she wants to now part ways. She includes the rose, the iris and the cornflower as a reminder to why she started this game to begin with, but does not wish to continue.’

A heavy lump settled into Nicolas’ throat. Still, he tried to hide his disappointment, so he arranged his features into a smile and laughed.

‘Well, I suppose we shall see about that. We’ll find out if she truly wishes to quit before long – tomorrow at the latest. If the gifts cease I can assume the lady truly meant it and lost interest.’

Soon the topic was changed as Augustin brought up a play he was interested in seeing and the rest of the evening was spent with amicable chatter, though René excused himself early. He had not spoken a single word all evening and after a quick round of goodbyes he hurried away without explanation. As he retreated Nicolas could have sworn he had seen him rubbing at his face.

Nicolas for his part was crestfallen. The presence and chatter of his friends took away the edge of the blow but he was sad to see this interesting affaire come to an end. Not to mention he had no idea what he did wrong to put off his secret admirer this much. With one last sigh he downed his wine. Ah, well. It was nice while it lasted.

The next day he all but managed to put his disappointment out of his mind, though a shard of it was still lodged in his heart like a persistent thorn. He tried to concentrate on his work, failed, tried again, failed, gave up and went for a walk. He went all the way to the Jardin de Luxembourg in hopes of clearing his mind. He was in great need of that – he wrote himself into a corner and had no idea how to rescue his own heroine. Sadly the fragrant air of the park failed to deliver any flashes of inspiration, so with a heavy heart he returned to his flat.

He was almost through the door when a flash of red caught his eye.

A red rose was lying on his threshold. Nicolas carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hand. There was a note attached to it, composed in the same manner the very first poem was, of letters and words cut out from a newspaper.

I HAD NO IDEA FLOWERS MEANT THINGS. THIS IS WHAT I MEANT.

Nicolas stood there, rooted to the threshold for a long time, grinning.

Now he was almost certain of his mysterious admirer’s identity, but still, he was curious about the reactions of his friends. When he entered the tavern the company gathered that night he held aloft the flower like a banner of victory.

‘Confess, gentlemen’ he said ‘Which one of you tattled?’

The rest looked back at him with wide, all-too innocent eyes.

‘What makes you accuse us so?’ Alain asked in the high-pitched, affronted voice of a man who had carried the gossip over half of Paris already. Nicolas showed him the rose and the letter attached.

‘That doesn’t prove anything’ Yves muttered, though he too was reluctant to meet his eyes ‘Your lady may have learned of her mistake independent of our conversation yesterday.’

‘But in such short a notice? Gentlemen, if not someone you passed the news on to, I’m forced to believe it might be one of you!’

Yves and Alain protested loudly, Augustin did not comment, merely shook his head with an amused grin. René, Nicolas noted with some cautious hope, was beet red and refused to move his gaze from his drink.

***

The next week went by without further communication from his suitor. Nicolas was beginning to fear he might have scared him (…or maybe her) away. He was close to despair when finally, on a rather wet, gloomy Saturday the tell-tale knock sounded again. Nicolas raced to catch him, but as usual, his visitor was quicker. He left a letter behind, this time written in ink but in all capital letters so Nicolas still could not recognise the handwriting.

DEAREST,

MEET ME AT THE PÈRE-LACHAISE, AT THÉODORE GÉRICAULT’S TOMB, ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON.

This time he did not wait for the agree-upon get-together, he flagged down a coach and raced all the way to Augustin’s lodgings. Luckily he found the man at home and, upon being let in, quickly pushed the letter into his hands.

‘Look at this!’

Contrary to his exuberant enthusiasm so far, Augustin frowned and scratched his head.

‘This could be very good or very bad news. All through this little adventure I had a feeling that all this is way too daring, shameless even, for a lady.’

Nicolas did not wish to draw unneeded attention to the fact that he was quite all right with the mysterious suitor being a man, so he merely hummed his agreement.

‘Still’ he said ‘What’s the worst that might happen?’

Augustin raised an eyebrow.

‘You could be ridiculed at best, robbed or even killed at worst. You will be in the middle of a graveyard. Secluded, with plenty of places for the members of a gang to hide.’

This gave Nicolas a pause.

‘None the less’ he finally said ‘I want to know who is behind this.’

‘At least permit me to go with you!’

Now it was Nicolas’ turn to frown and tug at his bear.

‘A kind offer, but I must decline. Actually…‘ he took a deep breath ‘I have a good idea who this might be, and in case I’m right, I do not want to compromise this person.’

Augustin chuckled lightly and swatted his arm.

‘A true gentleman! Very well then, but promise to be careful!’

Nicolas smiled and pressed his hand.

‘I promise!’

***

The graveyard was all but deserted – Nicolas came across a couple of elderly ladies, the sort that is a permanent fixture of cemeteries all over the world, but none of them paid any attention to him. Though he did ask for directions at the gate it still took him a long time to find Géricault’s grave in the dense labyrinth of tombs. When he finally did he found the scene deserted. Not a single sound, except for the distant murmur of the city beyond the graveyard’s walls. His stomach fell. Was all this an elaborate prank? All this for nothing? And the culprit would not even stick around to witness his humiliation?

He dejectedly kicked a pebble and was about to leave when there – just there behind the edge of the massive block of the monument – he spotter the rim of a top hat. In two quick strides he rounded the tomb.

René Giraud was standing there hunched over, dressed in his best dress coat and shiniest shoes. When Nicolas came to stand in front of him he made an attempt to raise his head and look him in the eye but the task proved too much for him. The rose clenched in his hand was trembling. He wordlessly held it out.

Warm fondness bubbled up in Nicolas’ chest. He yearned to pull René into a hug and never let him go again, but he knew better than to grab him without his consent. He took the professed rose and opened his arms. René shuffled closer, fisted Nicolas’ vest and hid his face in his chest. Slowly, carefully Nicolas completed the embrace. He took off his friend’s hat, set it and the rose aside and gently ran his fingers through his hair. René was trembling from head to toe – Nicolas could only imagine how much courage it must have taken him to go through with this plan. This courage evidently carried him to this point and no further. He looked ready to collapse on the spot. Nicolas held him tighter and began to rock him slowly, continuing to pet his hair.

They stood there for a long while, locked together in an embrace, gently swaying from side to side. Nicolas nuzzled René’s hair. The heart fluttering against his chest started to calm down a bit. Eventually René snuggled against him and spoke up.

‘I’m sorry about the first bouquet.’

‘Don’t be. I think it was beautiful, artificially assigned meanings be damned.’

René giggled and pulled back just enough to be able to rub the back of his neck. Not daring to initiate any other contact just yet, Nicolas quickly nuzzled his nose. René took a deep, shaky breath, latched on to Nicolas’ lapels and pecked him on the lips. Before Nicolas could react he ducked his head again.

Still carefully, as to not scare him away, Nicolas slid a finger under his chin. René allowed this and obediently tilted his head up at Nicolas’ gentle push. Emboldened, Nicolas cupped his cheeks and pressed their foreheads together. After a small pause he tilted his head to the side and kissed him. René’s lips were velvety soft and a little wet – he was clumsily pushing back against Nicolas, evidently unsure of what he was supposed to do. Nicolas slid his hands down onto his shoulders and moved on to kiss a line along his smooth cheeks and jaw. They broke apart, stepped back a bit – and dissolved in a fit of nervous giggles. Nicolas tried to stop but the laughter only intensified, relieved and yet slightly hysterical. Face burning, stomach flipping, Nicolas wiped at his wet eyes and swept René back into a tight embrace. René flung himself into his arms without hesitation. Nicolas smacked one more big, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

‘Sweet René’ he murmured ‘My sweet René.’

*un chien = a dog

#writers on tumblr #mm romance #writeblr #lgbt fiction #historical fiction #fixa writes #rené giraud #nicolas barré

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masterskywalkers · 6 years

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#85 from the angst/fluff prompt list?

Firstly, thank you so much for sending this through! It was such a lovely surprise to see in my inbox ❤

I wasn’t too sure what sort of pairing / characters you wanted me to write for for this, so I apologise in advance if you had someone I usually write for in mind. Instead, I took the chance to write something I haven’t written for before, since I’ve been reading a good portion of the Thrawn novels recently. So, here we are!

85 - “I need to tell you something”. [prompt list located here]This prompt can also be read on AO3 here.Collateral Damage

It’s not difficult for Ar'alani to find Thrawn whilst onboard the Springhawk.

Ever since their conversation with Chaf’orm’bintrano, Thrawn had remained under the temporary protective custody of the Expansionary Fleet. Both he and Ar’alani knew the investigation into his actions regarding both Outbound Flight and the Vagaari were far from forgotten, but rather put on hold whilst more pressing matters were at hand.

Now however, Ar’alani wishes she had better news to deliver to the Commander.

He’s sitting on the far end of the couch when she finds him in Forward Visual, attention focused on the image of space outside the viewport. As Ar’alani comes to stop within the room Thrawn slowly pulls his gaze away from the viewport, instead turning his head to acknowledge her presence.

“Admiral.” He says, as way of a welcome.

“Commander,” comes Ar’alani’s response. She clasps her hands behind her back, standing proud and tall despite the reason why she’s here. For a brief moment Ar’alani simply remains silent as Thrawn’s eyes flicker over her expression, likely trying to find the answer for her sudden visit on his ship hidden somewhere within it.

“You likely have already understood that my visit is not a social one.”

“I assumed as much from your request,” Thrawn eventually responds, rising to stand. “I gather that the subject is urgent.”

“To put it more accurately, it is rather that the subject is something I thought you should know.”

Thrawn raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Ar’alani pauses, briefly bracing herself for the difficult truth she must share with him.

“Mitth’ras’safis has been declared as deceased.”

Ar’alani has always thought Thrawn often difficult to read. He’s a genius, yes, but a rather guarded one when it comes to sharing what it is he thinks or feels. Over the years Ar’alani has come to understand that Thrawn is even often overly cautious to reveal much about a plan, beliving that to overshare before the result is clear is tet expectations and influence what others expect out of the situation at hand.

So with keeping that present in her mind, the fact that there is a fleeting slight of a crack in his usually guarded mask startles Ar’alani. It is gone in the blink of an eye, yet Ar’alani knows her words have managed to shake Thrawn to his core.

“They have found his body?” Thrawn asks, albeit cautiously.

“No,” Ar’alani confirms. “Nor have they found Outbound Flight or any trace of possible remains. Yet the search has been called off, with no intention to pursue it further. For all intents and purpose, your brother is believed to be dead.”

Thrawn’s brow furrows, and he casts what Ar'alani can only describe as disbelieving look in her direction.

“The Eighth Ruling Family would never give up on searching for a Syndic such as my brother.”

“They would if they knew of the risk of Outbound Flight falling into any of the Ruling Families hands could insight civil war among them. You know as well as I that the sacrifice is one which would be made if it ensured a better outlook for our people in general.”

Ar'alani can see that Thrawn knows her words are truth, even if he doesn’t particularly like hearing them. She can only imagine the confliction of his thoughts: the troubled blend of knowing what is right and just in accordance to the family he serves, and of what is fair towards the memory of the brother which shares his blood.

It is why she is prepared for his stubborn response.

“Thrass deserves better than to be a mere sacrifice in a political game, Admiral.”

“I agree, as I know you are well aware. Yet you forget one vital thing Commander. That it was Mitth'ras'safis’s own choice to remain on Outbound Flight and help navigate it towards the nearest Defense Fleet base. One which he made despite my own reluctance.”

Ar'alani tilts her head to one side, eyes narrowing as she continues to watch Thrawn. She’s certain that if it weren’t for the fact that he was in as much trouble as he currently was Thrawn would take to searching for his brother as soon as she leaves the Springhawk.

She also knows that, given his brothers precarious situation right now, Thrass would certainly not appreciate such brash actions taken on his account. Especially in light of other current circumstances.

“Do not give me cause to regret passing this knowledge onto you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Your brother may not be able to help either us with Chaf'orm'bintrano’s anger now, but that does not mean it is time for you to forget the orders I have previously given to you.” She straightens her neck, her voice lowering slightly as she continues. “You know what else is currently lurking out there, Commander.”

Across from her Thrawn takes in a slow, deep breath. After a beat of a moment, he bows his head.

“Of course, Admiral. Although … I find myself asking you one question.”

“And what is that?” Ar'alani asks.

“Only that if my brother were to ever return, what would you tell him of me?”

Ar'alani raises an eyebrow. It isn’t the question she’d expected, but then she hadn’t known what he might ask of her.

“I would tell him the truth, of course. That in order to continue to protect and save our people from the threat of the Far Outsiders - as well as to appease both Chaf'orm'bintrano and the rest of the Fifth Ruling Family - you were exiled. Although to be clear, given how long it has been since his disappearance, I doubt it is a message I shall be sharing.”

Thrawn nods, and doesn’t say anything more.

Having delivered her message, Ar'alani turns and prepares to leave Thrawn alone to his privacy. Yet as she reaches the door she comes to a pause. Glancing over her shoulder she notices how her Commander appears to have deflated slightly under the weight of the tragedy that has been shared with him. Ar'alani remembers how upset he had appeared before, when the radiation bomb had destroyed the majority of life aboard Outbound Flight.

She feels she is witnessing the same level of anguish now.

“For what it is worth, I am deeply sorry for your loss, Thrawn. Mitth'ras'safis was a good man, and I truly wish the outcome of his efforts had been better.”

I also know how important he was to you, she leaves unsaid, the words floating in the space between them.

Instead, Ar'alani turns her gaze away once more and, without looking behind her, leaves.

Bonus:

It isn’t until after Ar'alani leaves that Thrawn falls back down into his earlier space on the couch. He presses his hands against his eyes, trying hard to push back the mixed wave of frustration and guilt that suffocates him.

Part of him had known. Known there was a chance that, if things went badly, he would never see Thrass again. He’d simply remained too hopeful, believed his brother would always find a way to return to him.

A dangerous thing, hope was.

It shouldn’t have been Thrass.

Thrawn still remembers the argument he’d played in his brother’s favour. How the role of a warrior was to protect the Chiss people, and that the warrior’s own survival was of secondary importance. Yet as Thrass had made clear when he’d presented his decision to remain with Outbound Flight, he wasn’t ever under military command. Thrawn knew he was only staying because both his and Ar'alani’s hands were tied, could see it when he’d last looked at his brother before leaving him behind.

Once again Thrass had been clearing up after him. The difference is, this time the cost came too high.

Thrawn rarely made mistakes. Instead he usually considered all variables, had a plan for any eventual obstacle he could calculate.

His mistakes this time around - as well as the reaction of events that unravelled after - would act as a future reminder to him to be even more vigilant.

For now though, Thrawn takes the time available to him to loose himself in his grief.

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #admiral ar'alani #mitth'ras'safis #mitth'raw'nuruodo #outbound flight #my writing #prompt fill #angst and fluff prompts #me: ((turns up eleven years later with starbucks and fic))#wait didn't i do this back in january with kotor fic?#apparently 2018 is the year i go back to old star wars stuff and decide #'hey! i wanna write more for this one thing only i likely care about!'#also i tried to keep it ambiguous if outbound flight is canon anymore /just incase/ thrass is alive in new canon #and if there are any mistakes i do apologise!#misc: replies #anonymous

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wesleyhill · 6 years

Text

The Vessel’s Cracks

[In 2009, I wrote this review of Marilynne Robinson’s novel Home for a now (sadly!) online magazine called Wunderkammer. I’m posting it again here in anticipation of the Wheaton conference honoring her work this week.]

Imagine that someone failed and disgraced came back to his family, and they grieved with him, and took his sadness upon themselves, and sat down together to ponder the mysteries of human life. This is… human and beautiful, I propose, even if it yields no dulling of pain, no patching of injuries. Perhaps it is the calling of some families to console, because intractable grief is visited upon them. And perhaps measures of the success of families that exclude this work from consideration, or even see it as a failure, are very foolish and misleading.

So writes Marilynne Robinson in an essay titled “Family” from her collection The Death of Adam. Such a passage invites reflection on the aims and expected outcomes of familial loyalty. What counts as love if every motion toward it ends without the hoped-for result? How do we determine the success of our attempts to love? Robinson’s latest novel, Home, is an extended engagement of these questions.

Home is the companion volume to Gilead, Robinson’s 2004 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that ended her 24-year hiatus from writing fiction (she authored Housekeeping in 1980). Much like Wendell Berry’s stories of Port William, Gilead and Home narrate the same events but from different characters’ vantage points, and thus they are intermeshed rather than sequential. Gilead is a sublimely contemplative letter written by the dying Reverend John Ames to his young son in 1956. In the letter, Ames meanders through the significant details of a life lived sweetly, though often achingly. Throughout Gilead, Ames frequently describes his encounters with Jack, who is recently returned home from a twenty-year estrangement. In Home, a third-person narrator tells the story of Jack’s return in deeper detail, primarily from the point of view of Jack’s sister, Glory.

Readers of Gilead come to Home with some knowledge of the broad brushstrokes of Jack’s life. Growing up, he establishes his reputation as a scoundrel, albeit one motivated as much by loneliness as by malice. In late youth, he fathers a child only to skip town in her infancy and not come home on news of her death, rejecting both convention and obligation. Likewise, Jack is conspicuously absent from his mother’s funeral, recapitulating his scarcity. These choices stand as the crowning dishonors on a life of petty theft, meanness, and bitter withdrawal from family.

In Home, though, we are able to take in more of the measure of what it means that Jack has finally returned to Gilead, the fictional Iowa town in which both novels are set. He has returned to live again, if only for a while, with those he has wronged so devastatingly in the past. Whereas in Gilead Jack becomes for John Ames a mirror in which the aging minister is able to contemplate his own need for grace, in Home, Jack’s own life is mirrored by its most intimate observers—his father and sister—who reflect its light in tones sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer. If Gilead shows Jack as a fractured bearer of what Flannery O’Connor might call a “violent grace,” Home invites us to examine the vessel’s cracks with more loving, patient, sad attention.

As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that one of its central questions is whether or not Jack can be at home in Gilead. “I just never knew another child who didn’t feel at home in the house where he was born,” Jack’s father laments helplessly. Such a lament could serve as a précis of the entire novel. Every conversation with his father and sister, every casual moment, from a shared meal to an afternoon ride in the car, becomes an occasion on which Jack’s alienation might erupt in unbearable pain.

At every turn, Jack’s uneasiness with his father and Glory, his inability to receive their earnest efforts to make him welcome, prompts a deeper question: if Jack cannot allow his alienation to be swallowed up by his father and Glory’s unconditional care, how can his family keep alive the hope that he might ever be consoled? If their sharing of Jack’s grief “yields no dulling of pain, no patching of injuries,” how might they find the will to sustain their care? Is love still love if the beloved remains lost?

“‘Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds,’ in the words of the sonnet, which I can only interpret to mean, love is loyalty,” Robinson writes, again in the essay “Family.” She continues: “I would suggest that in [loyalty’s] absence, all attempts to prop the family…will fail. The real issue is, will people shelter and nourish and humanize one another? This is creative work, requiring discipline and imagination.” Home may be read as Robinson’s fictional embodiment—all the more real for being fiction—of these stated convictions.

Home depicts not only the anguish of an estranged prodigal but also that of the ones who try to provide sheltering, nourishing, humanizing care for him. For reasons that remain mysterious and grievous, the love of fathers and sisters may prove ultimately ineffectual when it comes to “dulling the pain” or “saving the soul” of one like Jack. And yet, if the measure of love’s success is the degree to which it approximates loyalty, then the absence of sought-after effects may be no barrier to love’s growth, love’s fullness. Indeed, as the novel’s conclusion hints, it may be, in some strange way, the most important reason for continuing the effort.

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misscrawfords · 6 years

Note

11, 12, 16

Sorry for the delay in answering @cinquespotted and thank you for asking! :) Been a manic couple of days and I needed to think about non-fiction books about classics because that’s not so easy to answer when I haven’t been in academia in the subject for almost ten years. (Yikes…)

11. recommend a piece of non-fiction about the classical world

I was thinking about this on and off for a couple of days and then the answer hit me. Adam Nicholson’s The Mighty Dead. I’m not sure that “non-fiction” is quite the right way to describe this utterly brilliant book. It’s a lyrical, imaginative, semi-fictional investigation of Homer’s influence and power, as simultaneously oblique and direct, beautifully written and πολυτροπος as one of Homer’s heroes.

I also pulled out my undergraduate dissertation bibliography which was the last time I read classical scholarship seriously and I remember being blown away by some of the things on it. (Unlike many students, I absolutely adored writing my dissertation - I was very lucky.) Here are a few of the academic books I read which I recall enjoying even at the distance of 9 years:

- Chew, Kathryn. “The representation of violence in the Greek novels and martyr accounts”- Frye, Northrop. The Secular Scripture: A study of the structure of romance (not classical per se but brilliant and influential - I read more Frye for my masters and I’m a big, big fan)- Konstan, David. Sexual Symmetry- Loraux, Nicole. Tragic ways to kill a woman- MacAlister, Suzanne. Dreams and Suicides: The Greek novel from Antiquity to the Byzantine Empire

Yep, my dissertation was basically about sex and death. (What else is fiction about?) No, I didn’t do it on purpose…

12. who is your favourite poet? why?

(Oh how nice, this meme was created by someone writing British English. How delightfully unusual!)

Am I allowed to cheat and give two - one Greek and one Roman? Good! :P

On the Greek side, I have to go with Homer. I mean, I honestly feel he (he? As if we know!) might be my favourite author. Or at least sit up there alongside Austen. I guess at the moment I’m in more of a Homer mood than an Austen mood. Polite tea drinking and elegant sniping in a ball room really isn’t cutting it for me at the moment. (YES I KNOW THERE IS MORE TO AUSTEN THAN THAT. SHE’S MY FAVOURITE AUTHOR AND I’VE WRITTEN A DAMN MASTERS DISSERTATION ON HER. I’m just having a reaction against that kind of writing atm. I don’t know why. I don’t know what to do about it. I feel sad. But that’s another post.)

HOMER

I mean, where does one start? I’ve always loved The Odyssey from reading Book 6 for Greek GCSE and tittering over Odysseus covering his naked manhood with a fig leaf (lines inexplicably missed out from the Bristol Classical Press’ edition for fear of offending the sensibilities of school children, clearly not realising that by missing them out there is no indication that Odysseus isn’t stark naked in from of Nausicaa the entire scene lololololol). I did a final year paper involving reading the whole poem in Greek (spoiler: I failed, but I read about 2/3rds of it missing out the many books of recognition in Ithaca and it was a wonderful experience reading 100s of lines of Homer and getting a feel for the vocabulary and the rhythm of it all. I wish I had been a more dedicated student and had actually completed the whole thing.) It was my favourite paper. Professor Simon Goldhill (who looks and sounds like Zeus) opening the lecture series by booming, “The Odyssey is all about how to be a MAN”. ανδρα μοι εννεπε. First line of the poem. I get shivers thinking about it. Odysseus - his character. WHAT A GUY. (I don’t mean to say you have to like him or approve of him - that’s not what appreciating fiction is about, you clodpoles, but you have to admit he’s an amazing, amazing character and concept.) We actually had Professor Edith Hall come to my school today and she gave a talk on Odysseus as a hero and ngl I actually almost teared up at one moment. I just can’t believe such a great character exists and over 2000 years later, he still speaks to us and we can trace SO MUCH in Western culture back to these texts. Actually, while I was nursing a raging crush on Odysseus (I was 20 okay), it was Penelope who was the revelation to me in that paper. Did Penelope know her husband was back before the recognition scene? This had never occurred to me before and I was plunged into debates on the stability of the text and characterisation and feminism and narratology. I mean, it was just amazing! And whatever nitty gritty you might go into with it, I was just struck by this wonderful, admittedly overly romantic idea, that Penelope was absolutely Odysseus’ equal. That in this ancient epic, we had a woman who bested a man at his own game, that she was playing him - and he loved it. These two tricksters, separated for too long, finally getting their happy ending. And I know it’s not about that. But it also is. Emotionally, that’s what I got. And it made me so, so happy. Because, honestly, I don’t have a problem studying works written by, for and about men if they’re good, but there are SO FEW opportunities studying classics (at least traditionally; the approach is changing now which is great) to grapple with amazing female characters or figures - and here I had Homer’s hero and Homer’s heroine. I mean, there are many other things I love about the Odyssey but this is already long enough.

I always joked about the fact that I managed to get a classics degree from Cambridge without having ever studied the Iliad. (Ikr, it’s crazy!) And youthful, hubristic me was okay with that. I was an Odyssey girl through and through. I’d read the Iliad and it was all battles and death and the catalogue of ships. YOU FOOL. So the first time I really had to deal with the Iliad was when I found myself teaching it to A Level Classical Civilisation. And it was an absolute revelation. I’m teaching it for the third time at the moment and it’s not getting old. Every time I see something different, every time the students find something new, every time I cry quietly in class when we are reading. The places vary but the moments that are guaranteed to set me off are Achilles’ grief over Patroclus, him putting on his armour and his final unbending towards Priam. Why the armour? I’m not entirely sure. I think it’s something to do with this sense of inevitability of the approach of the end, of imminent climax (somehow more significant than the climax itself). It’s like how the lighting of the beacons in LotR is such a powerful scene. It’s not that the thing itself is particularly full of pathos but because of everything it signifies. I can’t altogether explain it but it always really affects me. When my uncle died the other year, I was reading the death of Patroclus with my class at that time and my mum came to visit. I didn’t know how to talk to her or talk about my uncle’s death and we had this absolutely awful walk around a country park in the rain (I am never going to be able to go back there for the memories it triggers) but somehow the only way I could articulate something of what I felt was by clinically and factually describing Achilles’ anguish and explaining to my mother how the ancient world mourned its dead and what Patroclus had meant to Achilles and what blinding grief and rage would drive him to do. And she gripped my hand and we both wept, silent tears, and we walked on in the rain talking about the Iliad. I’m actually crying again, writing this, right now. I am not sure there is ANYTHING in literature more powerful than Achilles’s rage and anguish.

If Odysseus is the hero of romance and comedy, a clever hero whose very wiliness makes my heart sing and my academic brain bounce up and down looking for mythic parallels, Achilles does something else altogether. I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently - partly because I’m teaching the poem and once again we’ve got to Book 16 and Achilles’ tragedy is becoming the focus of the remainder of the poem (if it wasn’t before) so it’s literally my job to think about his character - but also in the context of my recent obsession with SW, Reylo and Kylo Ren’s Episode 9 possibilities. I’m not trying to be trivial here but it saddens me SO MUCH that people have the nerve to police interest in that character, one of the most fascinating and complex to grace the screens of a fantasy blockbuster series in - well, honestly, I can’t think of another one. What a treat we have. Nobody has a problem loving Achilles’ character and weeping over him (and making soft pastel shipping graphics of him and Patroclus…) but he was objectively speaking an awful person in many ways. A violent, unpredictable, psychopathic overgrown adolescent who holds an awful grudge. But of course, that isn’t the full story and it’s not the purpose of this post to educate the internet on the nuances of Achilles’ character and his profound tragedy. I’ve got emotional enough, but honestly, we NEED Achilles. We need that larger-than-life expression of all our deepest fears and regrets and violence and destruction - and also wit, compassion, sense of justice and deep love and loyalty. I think someone once said that everyone should read the Iliad at least once in their life. Whether they did or not, it’s true: everyone should.

Okay, so I was also going to talk about how much I love Ovid too but that would be literally going from the sacred to the profane, the sublime to the ridiculous and I have spent way too long on this already. So, yeah, I really love Ovid as well.

16. Cicero - love him or loathe him?

I unironically love Cicero.

Okay, so I started along this journey from the worst of reasons. The first guy I ever liked in high school was obsessed with Cicero. At the time, I’d never read anything by him, so I decided to like him because liking the same things as your crush is an A+ way of getting him to notice you and like you back. (Spoiler: it failed.) Along the way, I got really inspired by Cicero’s wife Terentia. My first internet handles were Terentia. (I WONDER IF HE KNEW I HAD A CRUSH. lol he did. it was awful. I cringe.) Anyway, Terentia was fabulously wealthy and responsible for financing Cicero’s political career, married twice more after Cicero’s death, including to the historian Suetonius, and died aged 103. What a BAMF.

So first off, I love Cicero’s Latin. He’s my favourite Latin prose author to translate. Even if his speeches are sometimes on the dull side (we had De Imperio as an AS set text a couple of years ago and it was such a snooze-fest), the actual style of writing is so lucid and balanced and satisfying I can forgive him the content. I love all the rhetorical devices and how you can still see them at work in (good) political speeches today. I just get tremendous pleasure from translating him. It annoys me no end that the prose unseen author at A Level at the moment is Livy. I have no patience for Livy’s Latin; it doesn’t thrill me at all.

But I also kind of like Cicero the man. He lived at one of the most fascinating periods of history and although you can’t altogether trust his bias, he was a really important figure in that history and documented so much of it. I wish we had more sources to sit along side as I think he definitely puffs himself up, but nevertheless he’s invaluable. I even quite like his arrogance. He’s the ultimate self-made, intellectual man in Rome and I think he has reason to be proud of what he achieved. He must have been formidable to listen to.

Thank you for letting me ramble on about classics and literature like this. I miss writing on tumblr and not just reblogging pretty things.

Ask me about classics (or anything else obviously)

#classics #homer #the odyssey #the iliad #cicero

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rainbowrites · 7 years

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SEASON 7 PRIMER

OH GOD @wellntruly YOU’RE AT SEASON 7 ALREADY???

WHERE DID THE TIME GO???

(into a depression hole that’s where, I have all your posts lined up ready to read and comment on I PROMISE it’s just that ye olde depresh then taps on my shoulder and says ‘what if, instead of doing this thing you love, you just dragged yourself to work, then went home and mindlessly clicked around doing nothin and hating yourself? doesn’t that sound BETTER?’ and I am like ‘wow that sounds awful!!! let’s do it!!!’ honestly car dealerships should hire my depression it is the best goddamn sales person ever)

BUT THE POINT IS

we are here, together at the end. It has been a long and winding road filled with lows (we wept with you and raged with you) and enormous highs (we laughed with you, we squealed and clapped our hands to our face in disbelieving joy with you) and some truly weird potholes (YOU FUCKING CASSANDRA YOU, SINGING THOSE JAGGED HOLES INTO BEING AND THEN SLAMMING THE SHIP WITH US ALL ON IT RIGHT INTO THEM)

it is the last season with DS9, but not our last season with you Tarra, not nearly. Legions awaits, and after that many more shows to delight in once again through you. But thank you for this amazing experience. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you

and without further ado, one last primer

7x01-7x02 A quieter opener than usual for DS9. Sisko is trying to find himself through finding the Prophets. DS9 is still deeply in grief for the ones they lost, and Worf leads a group of them on a search for blood sacrifice to honor Jadzia's death. 7x02 introduces ~THE NEW DAX~ Sisko and Dax together again as they roadtrip to find the Prophets! Things get incredibly fucking trippy as they travel through the desert in search of answers, as DS9 goes fucking ALL IN on the Jesus metaphors

7x03 Dax is back, but she's not the same Dax who died there and is struggling to find a new place in her old home. Unexpectedly, she ends up bonding with Garak as she tries to treat him for his claustrophobia

7x04 BASEBALL EPISODE!!!!! BASEBALL BASEBALL BASEBALLLLLLLLLLL

B A S E B A L L

7x05 Bashir is really really lonely. Things get a little uncomfortable as the Augments come back, and he desperately latches back onto them. It's a painful episode, in some sad ways and some cringey ways, but I appreciate how everyone involved understands how awful loneliness is and the terrible things it can drive you to do

7x06 This episode is why everyone loves Weyoun, as we finally explore what it means to be a vorta FEATURING TWO WEYOUN CLONES BITCHING AT EACH OTHER. B-plot is HILARIOUS AND AWESOME as Nog teaches O'Brien how to Ferengi his way through problems

7x07 what does it mean to be old in Klingon society?

7x08 Exactly what it sounds like, an intense episode as a bunch of the DS9 crew bunker down on an planet under attack for a siege. Pay extra attention to Nog in this episode

7x09 DUKAT THE CULT LEADER, in a super creepy episode he kidnaps Kira to try to induct her. This episode is literally just CULT CULT CULT for 40 min, as it delves into religion and also all the horrible things that can happen when your leader demands complete obedience. WARNING: suicide

7x10 a FANTASTIC episode with Nog dealing with PTSD by hiding in a holoprogram with Vic. Once again DS9 is unafraid to delve deeply into hard topics and does it beautifully

7x11 a Ezri episode that delves into her family backstory. It's a total mess of an episode that came about because they literally kept throwing out ideas until finally they had to write the whole episode in 2 days. But if you like Ezri, or you want more information about her to help you like her, then this is a good one to watch

7x12 the Ferengi go to Mirror-verse in a completely ridiculous episode that totally gives up the pretense of Mirror-verse being serious. My favorite part is Rom desperately trying to figure out what the rules of a MIRROR-verse are

7x13 This is definitely my least favorite episode of the entire DS9 run and I cannot in any way subjectively write this primer. I JUST HATE IT SO MUCH. Mostly because there is so much there that I love the idea of! Ezri hunting a serial killer by letting out her own serial killer past life - it's all very Hannibal and such a great idea. There's even a Vulcan character! But no. It's terrible and badly written and just... I hate it so much. I have very visceral memories of ending that episode feeling like betrayed by how much I hated it, from a series I love so much

7x14 I did NOT hate this episode, a beautiful Odo piece focusing on how much Odo has been suppressing himself to better fit in with the solid (non-Changeling) society he lives in as he meets a non-Dominion Changeling. It's a really fantastic episode that has lots of stuff about assimilation and the insidiousness of fear

7x15 HEIST EPISODE!! OCEAN'S 11 IN SPAAAAACE!!! This is such a fun episode, oh my god and it's your last silly romp before things get REAL as we careen towards the end of the series. GET TO WATCHING :DDD WARNING: Kira is so insanely attractive that you may have a heart attack, I know I always do

7x16 Section 31 returns! This is based on an ACTUAL John le Carre novel as Bashir the Spy tries to save the day by ousting the evil group and keeping Romulus safely in the Federation! Darker than I or Bashir expected it to be. Life isn't like the holoprograms...

7x17-7x26 the TEN PART finale!!!

7x17 Ben and Kassidy are HELLA CUTE! Worf and Dax are HELLA AWKARD!

7x18 this entire episode is a series of anguished NOOOOOOs. BEN NO. WORF NOOOO. WINN, SUPER DUPER NOOOOOOOO.

7x19 the theme of this episode is alliances, both literal (between Cardassia and the Dominion) and figurative (marriages, both past and present) and spiritual (Kai Winn struggles with her faith) and what they mean for both parties. Also, Damar's death wish becomes canon

7x20 you're going to cry in this episode. That’s it, that’s all I’m giving you

7x21 Kira is forced to help the Cardassians by teaching them the same rebellion techniques that she once used against them. Odo gets sick, and Bashir tries to figure out how and why

7x22 The Cardassian rebellion struggles, both with it's own identity and with having a Bajoran leader as Nana shows off some of her finest acting ever. Not to be outdone, Klingons are having their OWN revolution, because why not

7x23 Bashir and O'Brien infiltrate Section 31 to try to find a cure for Odo! and by infiltrate I mean they're going FULL INCEPTION

7x24 A new Grand Nagus is crowned! The rebellion gears up for its last stand in Garak's childhood home! WE BARREL FORWARD TOWARDS THE END

7x25 goodbye my darlings. you had an amazing run

#wellntruly #star trek #DS9 #primer

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nntodayblog · 6 years

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Don’t Let Blockbusters Keep You From Seeing Indie Movies This Month

A24 Great Point Media/Paladin Film Amazon Studios

Snag a ticket to "Lean on Pete," "Where Is Kyra?" or "You Were Never Really Here" before the blockbuster deluge.

Now that blockbusters ― namely reboots and franchise fare ― have graduated from summer escapism to year-round fixtures, April is no longer a safe space at the multiplex. The month that once birthed “Field of Dreams,” “The Matrix,” “Election” and “Mean Girls” now belongs to the “Fast and the Furious” vehicles, Marvel and “Clash of the Titans.”

To see “A Quiet Place” rumble into theaters last weekend was to witness a small miracle. Heralding John Krasinski’s directing talents and notching an august $50 million opening, the post-apocalyptic creature feature is the sort of studio product meant to warm jaded cinephiles’ hearts: a high-concept crowd-pleaser that manages to be fresh andwhip-smart ― an increasingly rare sight in the year of our big-budget Lord 2018. “A Quiet Place” boasts the highest-grossing April debut for an original film in history, as well as the heftiest intake for an original live-action release since “Happy Death Day” last October.

The rest of April’s wide releases are, well, less thrilling. Oversized beasts are stampeding Dwayne Johnson and Naomie Harris, “Isle of Dogs” barks its way into more corners of the country, Shia LaBeouf flaunts short shorts in the otherwise staid “Borg vs McEnroe,” Amy Schumer stars in a feminist “Shallow Hal,” we finally get a sequel to ... “Super Troopers” (?), “Truth or Dare” turns its titular pastime into something deadly (Tyler Posey doesn’t take his shirt off in the trailer; skip it), and the Avengers threaten to put more superheroes on one screen than a VH1 Divas telecast.

Those movies will flood multiplexes in the coming weeks, ushering us toward the blockbuster domination that is May, June and July. Meanwhile, three worthwhile underdogs opened opposite “A Quiet Place,” shouldering the month’s indie marketplace. “Lean on Pete,” “Where Is Kyra?” and “You Were Never Really Here” are hardly light fare, but isn’t there some adage about bleak movies being the perfect way to escape April showers? No? You’ll want to invent one after seeing this trio.

We talked to the filmmakers responsible for these gems. If you don’t live near a theater where the movies are playing, add them to a list of rainy-day streaming options for later in the year, when you find yourself wondering who among us requested yet another Robin Hood retelling.

“Lean on Pete”

For fans of “Boyhood,” “The 400 Blows” and “The Black Stallion”

Written and directed by Andrew Haigh Starring Charlie Plummer, Steve Buscemi, Chloë Sevigny, Travis Fimmel, Amy Seimetz and Steve Zahn

A24

Lean on Pete is a racehorse whose cantankerous trainer (Steve Buscemi) describes him as a “piece of shit” ― catnip for our protagonist, Charley (Charlie Plummer), a motherless 15-year-old working the stables for $25 a day, partly as a respite from his aloneness and partly to gird his father’s (Travis Fimmel) limited income. Gentle Charley can’t stomach the thought of Pete being carted off to Mexico, where aged steeds are slaughtered once they are no longer moneymakers. So, in the dark of night, this spindly boy absconds with his beloved horse (an expert listener), trekking through the Oregon desert toward a broader horizon.

On paper, it’s a quintessential coming-of-age tale. But in practice, writer and director Andrew Haigh sees “Lean on Pete” as the events that occur before Charley comes of age. And he’s right: Charley doesn’t yet have the means ― the familial support, the peers, the finances ― to determine his place in the world. The only thing that steadies him is a tender heart. “Until he finds somewhere to have a base, in order to grow, he can’t even deal with ideas of identity or who he’s going to be or what kind of man he wants to be,” Haigh said. “And also, I suppose, in all of my films, I can’t help but want to show a different version of masculinity.”

Haigh is the master of compassionate relationship dramas, having explored a one-night stand in “Weekend,” a long-term marriage in “45 Years,” a group of gay friends on HBO’s “Looking,” and, now, a teenager and his equestrian companion in “Lean on Pete,” based on the novel of the same name by Willy Vlautin. It’s Charley’s desperate need to be kind, and to receive kindness from others, that grounds this particular relationship and separates him from the average teen boy. Whereas most kids his age are striving to master schoolyard politics or sibling rivalry, Charley is trying to conquer the oppressive ugliness of the world around him, hoping that relatives in nearby Wyoming will provide the stability he lacks.

“What do you do in your life if you don’t have support from your loved ones?” Haigh said. “Or you don’t have support from the society around you? It felt like it was something more important, almost, than just questions of identity. It was about something like, how do you survive in the world if you don’t have a framework?”

Charley’s journey makes for a magnificent travelogue in which none of the travel is glamorous. With a parting shot that evokes “The 400 Blows,” this is one of the year’s best movies to date. Another recent release, “Ready Player One,” centered on an orphan in an ugly world, but its virtual-reality bedlam lacked humanity. “Lean on Pete” more than makes up for it, sending its hero ― Plummer’s performance is a wonder; a true star is born ― on an expedition through the great Northwestern outdoors that ends with an introspective discovery. Bring tissues; you’ll need a bunch.

“Where Is Kyra?”

For fans of “Klute,” “99 Homes” and Gena Rowlands movies

Written by Darci Picoult • Directed by Andrew Dosunmu Starring Michelle Pfeiffer, Kiefer Sutherland, Suzanne Shepherd and Sam Robards

Great Point Media/Paladin Film

“Some people say it almost feels like a horror film,” Darci Picoult, the writer of “Where Is Kyra?,” said. “It becomes this terrorizing psychological deterioration.”

Those horror trappings are evident in Picoult’s sparse script, but they’re largely owed to Andrew Dosunmu’s shadowy direction. Working with Oscar-nominated cinematographer Bradford Young (“Selma,” “Arrival”), Dosunmu shades Michelle Pfeiffer’s titular Brooklynite with fuzzy grays and anesthetized blues. Laid off from her job and cashing her late mother’s pension checks for income, Kyra is often framed from a distance, the atrophy she’s facing as she nears senior citizenship foregrounded to reveal a genre of poverty rarely explored in popular culture.

Picoult wrote “Where Is Kyra?” in 2013, surveying the aftereffects of the late 2000s’ economic crisis. She first set the movie in Detroit, which filed for bankruptcy that same summer. But Picoult and Dosunmu, who also collaborated on the Nigerian drama “Mother of George,” relocated the backdrop to New York, where the glaring disparity between haves and have-nots underscores everyday economic strife. What is a middle-aged woman to do when she finds herself unemployed and undesirable, reduced to placing advertisements on vehicles’ windshields and being turned down for gigs at fast-food restaurants in favor of younger candidates?

“I always envisioned Kyra being someone who, if you will, had a life that had promise, someone who believed things were going to work out,” Picoult said. “And then, when they don’t, it becomes even more disparaging because she’s holding on, hoping for something better that doesn’t happen.“

Pfeiffer, who made something of a comeback last year with “mother!” and “Murder on the Orient Express,” has found one of the richest roles of her career, looking more desperate with each rejection and more weathered with each dignity-shattering wakeup. Kyra’s corner of the world struggles to blossom into anything sunnier; farther and farther she drifts down the rabbit hole of anguish, Pfeiffer’s oceanic eyes absorbing every psychic bruise.

“You Were Never Really Here”

For fans of “Taxi Driver,” “Good Time” and “Drive”

Written and directed by Lynne Ramsay Starring Joaquin Phoenix, Judith Roberts, Frank Pando, Ekaterina Samsonov, Alessandro Nivola and Alex Manette

Amazon Studios

“You Were Never Really Here” demands to be seen twice: once to absorb its ethereal grime, and another to peek more clearly into its protagonist’s fractured mind. As Joe, a contract killer (and PTSD-addled war veteran) paid to extricate young girls from corruption, Joaquin Phoenix dances with the camera, angling through the New York streets, slipping between past and present, reality and hallucination. Joe is purposefully elusive, a design that is at once frustrating and hypnotic.

“I thought I was making an action movie, but it also became a character study,” Scottish director Lynne Ramsay, who adapted Jonathan Ames’ novella of the same name, said. “I think I just gravitated to the inner workings of the character.”

Those inner workings are bleak: At home, where he cares for his ailing mother (Judith Roberts), Joe sometimes covers his head with a plastic bag, wondering what would happen if he finally ended it all. Outside, he seems as likely to take a gun to his own head as he does to avenge the brutes holding innocent preteens hostage. But that’s familiar territory for Ramsay, who treats grief and death as leitmotifs (her other credits include “We Need to Talk About Kevin,” “Morvern Callar” and “Ratcatcher”). What makes “You Were Never Really Here” powerful is its ability to place us next to Joe, psychologically and physically, as he flits between avenger and avoider. Think Travis Bickle with a splash of the adrenaline-pumping “Good Time.” The movie telegraphs a woozy paranoia, aided by another stirring score from Jonny Greenwood, who composed the music for “We Need to Talk About Kevin” and last year’s “Phantom Thread.”

For Phoenix, the role encouraged a certain visceral improvisation. “We would make decisions in the moment, and sometimes there are things I’m reacting to in the moment,” he said. “There are times when other actors didn’t know what was going to happen because we didn’t know what was going to happen in that moment. And I think I probably like that way of working in general, but I think it was probably really applicable to that character and this experience.”

You won't find that in "Rampage."

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BEFORE YOU GO

Matthew Jacobs

Entertainment Reporter, HuffPost

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MoviesSteve BuscemiJoaquin PhoenixAndrew HaighCharlie Plummer

Reference source : Don’t Let Blockbusters Keep You From Seeing Indie Movies This Month

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how2to18 · 6 years

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IN JASON REYNOLDS’S new novel in verse Long Way Down, it all began with The Rules.

No.1: Crying Don’t. No matter what. Don’t.

No. 2: Snitching Don’t. No matter what. Don’t.

No. 3: Revenge Do. No matter what. Do.

Will’s brother Shawn has just been shot. Knowing that it is his responsibility to honor the rules of his community, Will goes in search of the man who ended his brother’s life, carrying Shawn’s gun to complete the deed. In the elevator of the building where Will is supposed to find Shawn’s killer, he is visited by ghosts from his past, all of whom have suffered a similar fate at the hands of a man with a gun. As the elevator descends, and the ghosts all reveal the circumstances surrounding their deaths, the reader is dragged down through the chaos of Will’s grief-stricken mind.

Something ached inside me when I finished this novel, a quiet pain that still hasn’t quite left. Even now, I can feel its presence when I sit down to write, the way someone might gingerly touch the new skin of a healing wound. Perhaps it is just the universal feeling of grief that overpowers us when we lose a family member, because we have lost a piece of ourselves.

but if the blood inside you is on the inside of someone else,

you never want to see it on the outside of them.

The feeling of helplessness was too familiar, because even though the rules that govern my own life are different, I can still see their power in Will’s world. I can see how they wind their way around a person, especially a young person, cutting off his options and obscuring his view.

“Every community has rules,” says Reynolds. “Rules that are blindly followed. Codes of conduct that come from police brutality and poverty that make necessary certain rules, because they are put in place for safety.” Safety from the people who are supposed to protect us, safety that is actually an illusion because no one is ever really safe, which is the greatest tragedy of this story.

Shortly after the novel was published, I asked the author how he spoke to young people about the subject matter of his work, especially those whose stories were not unlike Will’s. “I talk to them about things that matter to them,” he said. “That actually have nothing to do with my books. Sometimes my childhood. Sneakers, ice cream trucks, swimming pools…” He adds: “Even though this book is an obvious warning against gun violence, it is also meant to humanize young people in the midst of all of this” — an important message because it has become too easy to look away from tragedy when it isn’t happening in our own families.

But of course we understand the pain of loss very well, as it is one of those uniquely human things that unites us regardless of circumstances. We may not live by Will’s rules, but we can empathize with a grieving brother, and our blood still runs cold at the thought of our own mother experiencing the loss of a child:

She sat in the kitchen, sobbing into her palms, which she peeled away only to lift glass to mouth

With each sip came a brief silence, and with each brief silence I snuck in a breath.

Long Way Down inspires empathy by forcing readers to experience the protagonist’s anguish. It reveals what Reynolds calls the “feeling of anger when you’re so upset and don’t know where to put the pain.” Grief replaces rationality with uncontrolled rage and creates a tidal wave of emotion that demands to be felt. The excruciating sensations of loss and anger and responsibility overwhelms all other thoughts. You can’t escape it. You are trapped in your own destructive sadness, which is what makes the elevator setting of this story so appropriate. It is like grief itself: once you are in it, you are trapped until it releases you — until the doors clang open and you can think freely again.

“It’s a physical space that directly mimics the feeling of trauma,” says Reynolds. “And when we think about pain, it’s closed in, slow. I chose a space that mimics the psychosis of intense pain.”

He accomplishes this with a genuine love for the rhythms of his story, which led me to ask how he felt about narrating the audiobook version. “Weird, but good,” he said. “Poetry was my first love and medium. Reading this felt natural for me,” which is why he felt a certain degree of responsibility to record it himself. “If you miss a beat, you ruin a page.”

In fact, the whole story follows a series of well-timed beats, as the elevator doors open to expose the deaths that haunt Will’s looming choice — to follow the rules or walk away. The first ghost, Buck, “the only big brother Shawn had ever had,” doesn’t seem surprised that his life was cut short by a gun. As a street dealer, he lived with the prospect of violence every day: he followed the rules, and he died by them. Then comes Dani, a childhood friend, appearing eight years older than she was when she was killed. Will remembers her flower dress, but more importantly he remembers a time when they had been happy, before the rules applied to them. And as the elevator descends further, we feel the bittersweet loss of childhood as he tells her what he needs to do and she asks, “What if you miss?”

The story was written and rewritten until Reynolds was satisfied that it was ready. “It was originally written in vignettes,” he told me. “I knew the characters and the plot points. I knew I needed different kinds of visitors. Good Guys. Bad Guys. I rewrote in verse and found the language, but only the necessary language. For me that was the most rewarding part. Trimming the fat and only using the language that served the story best. Over and over and over again.”

This obsession with detail is obvious to anyone who picks up the novel. Reynolds insists that this is a “novel-in-verse,” not “a novel in poems,” which is probably another reason I was able to connect more easily with his words. Even though Reynolds might not classify this work as poetry, he admits that the white space on the page serves as “an entrée to poetry,” which is comforting to readers who might be anxious about tackling a novel in verse.

It also speaks to the author’s own arrival to this level of craft because his journey as a writer was not a smooth one. While he might be a New York Times best-selling author, a National Book Award Honoree, a Kirkus Award winner, a Walter Dean Myers Award winner, an NAACP Image Award Winner, and the recipient of multiple Coretta Scott King honors, there was a time when Reynolds felt shut out by the world of literature. During his childhood in Washington, DC, Reynolds felt that books were about other people and their problems, which made it difficult for him to connect. This struggle to find himself on the page led him to set books aside at the age of nine; he would not discover them again until he was a teenager. At the University of Maryland, he earned a BA in English with a concentration in writing and rhetoric. Yet, were it not for the influence of Queen Latifah’s 1993 album Black Rain, he might never have found his own voice — the language that led him to poetry and then ultimately to the heartbreaking prose of Long Way Down:

Uncle Mark and My Father

looked at me with hollow eyes dancing somewhere between guilt and grief, which I couldn’t make sense of until my father admitted

that he had killed

the wrong guy.

These lines — detailing an accidental murder that occurred in the service of rules no one can escape — struck me the hardest. Will’s father’s ghost is trying to explain the circumstances surrounding his death so his son will not repeat his mistakes. It was a painful reminder of the price of revenge — that it isn’t always justice and the result not always what we intend. I was destroyed by the agony in the father’s voice and the truth spoken as he watched his son with “hollow eyes.”

Family is a powerful force in this story. Reynolds is very sensitive to the loss of innocence that comes with losing the last of our protectors — father, brother — leaving us alone to battle a desperate grief. Long Way Down is an elegantly crafted work by a writer who understands the tragedy of this subject.

Julia Walton is the author of the young-adult novel Words on Bathroom Walls published by Random House in July 2017. She lives in Huntington Beach, California. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @Jwaltonwrites.

The post The Ghosts of Gun Violence: Jason Reynold’s “Long Way Down” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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