#Celluloid Burns

[genderoutlaws]

umm what if impromptu stream of the celluloid closet tonight also actually bc i really wanna rewatch it… 👀

#then we can have a february double feature of TS menace / city of lost souls at the beginning of the month #paris is burning / celluloid closet stream at the beginning of the month #n then march i wanna try to do a john waters double feature like every weekend n work thru his filmography

[j-august]

He was talking like a man in a dream, a rosy sentimental dream of the sort that burns like celluloid and leaves angry ashes in the eyes.

Ross MacDonald, The Ferguson Affair

#quote #quotation #Ross MacDonald #The Ferguson Affair #dream #rosy #sentimental #burns #celluloid #angry #ashes #eyes

[celluloidwickerman]

2023 Review

It’s that time of year once again when I look back on everything I’ve watched and read (and wonder whether I should really get out more). While my interests have become a kind of prison, I couldn’t hope for a more entertaining one. So, here’s my review of 2023. Thank you for reading my work throughout the year, wherever you may have seen it. Cinema Fail Safe (1964) – Sidney Lumet Mafioso…

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#a sunday in the country #Adam Scovell #alain reynaud fourton #alberto lattuada #American tabloid #anna maria tato #bertrand tavernier #big deal on madonna street #Celluloid Wicker Man #colette #dario argento #fail safe #father goose #Film #Film analysis #Film Blog #Film Review #film review site #gordon burn #Graham Greene #james ellroy #james mitchell #journey to the centre of the earth #jules verne #kavanagh qc #mafioso #marcello mastroianni i remember #mario monicelli #Masaki Kobayashi #miss marple

[party-hearses]

don’t be a brat, baby | joel miller x f!reader

sequel to relax, baby

pairing: joel miller x f!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI

wordcount: 7.2k

summary: in a desperate attempt to get back into Joel’s arms, you brave a night at the bar with your coworkers.

series warnings/tags: porn with some plot (oops), explicit smut, unprotected piv, creampie, pet names (princess, baby), language, size kink, praise kink, public sex (kinda), bulge kink, joel and reader being a menace to everyone around them. lmk if I’m forgetting anything!

author's note: thank you so much for all the love on relax, baby! i honestly can’t believe how many people requested a part two. i had so much fun writing this. comments, reblogs, asks, feedback, etc. are SO SO SO appreciated! i swear i don’t bite. 🫶

🖤 dedicated to @nostalxgic forever and always

Monday morning comes both too quickly and not quickly enough.

Declining all invitations from friends over the weekend, you had been all too content to remain in your bedroom, hands shoved down the front of your underwear, the film reel of Joel’s hands on you a constant replay in your mind. Joel’s everything, if you’re being honest.

A mixture of excitement and anxiety coils in the pit of your belly, overflowing into your extremities. You flex your fingers against the steering wheel in an attempt to diffuse some of the nervous energy, but the knowledge that you’re walking — falling — into unknown territory sits at the forefront of your mind.

Can he fire you for fucking in the office? Even if it was him you were fucking?

When you arrive, Joel’s truck isn’t in the lot, but that’s standard for this early in the morning — he’s made it clear he’s not an early-to-rise, early-to-work kind of guy.

There’s some comfort in knowing if he shows up at all, it won’t be until later in the day. The ability to shove off the inevitable strangeness, whatever shape it may take, allows you to actually get out of your car and get moving.

But as you unlock and open the door, the celluloid frames of your memory catch fire — burning the imprint of Joel’s body hovering above yours, the thick ropes of the muscles in his neck drawn taut, into the spaces that burst with color behind your eyelids.

A heated flush creeps across your collarbones, the distinct recognition of arousal blooming in your chest.

You shove the feeling all the way down to your toes, sweeping your gaze across the surface of the desk.

It does look somewhat neater than it had when you’d left, everything stacked in the appropriate piles, the receipt book tucked away in the drawer. Credit where credit is due, you think, wondering how defiled the paperwork actually is, and if Joel would have even noticed.

Settling in to try to determine if any of it is salvageable (it is…regrettably), you do what you can to ignore the pavlovian-like wetness pooling at your core. Just being in the office, being seated in the chair, makes it difficult not to drop your fingers between your thighs at the memory of it. For a split second, you consider if it’s something you could get away with.

Pushing back from the desk, stretching the lengths of your arms against the lip of it, you drop your head back, releasing a long, slow breath. Get it the fuck together. You will not masturbate at work to the thought of your boss. Even if your boss had let slip that he masturbated to the thought of you…

Oh, god.

Caffeine. You need caffeine. Of course you need caffeine, because coffee fixes everything — including your need to have Joel’s cock jammed into the furthest reaches of you as soon as possible.

Grateful for something tangible and decisive, you rush out of the office, barely remembering to lock the door behind you.

Your blood now buzzing with the first few sips of an iced latte, you push the door to the office open with your hip, the already too-hot morning sun pouring into the room around you.

“Mornin’, princess.”

You freeze, fingers gripping the sweating plastic cup in your hand. Cunt throbbing at the deep baritone of his voice, a dull ache pulling across your lower half. The realization that you hadn’t needed to unlock the door dawns on you.

He’s seated at the desk, pushed back with both feet kicked up on the surface of it. Arms bent at the elbow into acute angles, fingers laced behind his head. The sun paints him in a silhouette, hiding his strong, angular features.

If you weren’t practically salivating just from the sight of him, you’d wonder why the fuck he always seemed to need to have his dirty work boots all over your paperwork.

“Joel,” you whisper breathily, “didn’t know you’d be here this early.” Any irritation you feel is washed out by arousal. Goddamnit.

Mechanically, you kick the door closed behind you, the click of the latch settling into your bones.

Joel hums stoically, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Get anythin’ done this mornin’?” he asks, pointedly.

Dragging your lower lip into your mouth with your teeth, you shake your head slowly. The anxiety you’d been feeling all morning flares, threatening to spill over.

Can you file for unemployment if you’ve fucked your boss?

“Nah, me either.” He slaps the palms of his hands spiritedly against the flat of the desk, pushing himself up off the chair. “Been a little…distracted.”

His face relaxes into a dangerous smirk, eyebrow quirked, gaze burning into you.

Arrogant motherfucker.

You plant your free hand on your hip. “Really? Playing the fucking ‘boss’ card?”

“Yeah, I’m playin’ the fuckin’ boss card.”

He laughs, his dark eyes glowing with what you can only call depravity — a commanding acknowledgement of what he knows he’s doing to you. Like he could swallow you whole, if given the chance.

You’d let him, you think.

“Can’t be here long,” he says lowly, eyes roving over you — devouring you. “Have a few sites to be at this week. Only stopped by to make sure everything here was…goin’ okay.”

The invisible addendum hangs in the air between you: to torture you.

His long legs bring him to stand in front of you in just a few short steps, his heady scent all-consuming. Clean, comfortable, him. There are only a few inches of space between your bodies, and the tips of your fingers tingle with a need to run them over the solid plane of his chest. To drag them through his unkempt waves.

His presence is imposing — commanding the room, even when it’s just you inside it. Looking down at you, chin angled, he curls his fingers into the plush of your cheeks. It makes the electricity crackling between the two of you that much more real, the doubt you had earlier melting away beneath his touch.

“Baby,” he growls darkly, leaning in to trace the shell of your ear with his nose, “thought about you all fuckin’ weekend.” His free hand snakes around your waist, dropping to squeeze the flesh of your ass through your shorts. “Looked at that picture ‘f you full ‘f my cum so many times.”

Your eyes widen, pupils dilating at the thought of him jerking off to the thought of you, just like you had him. It’s an almost jealous feeling that rolls through you — how unfair that he got to have a visual reminder of it, when all you had was your thoughts.

But it emboldens you.

“Joel,” you pout, speech lilted by his fingers pressing into your flesh, “don’t want you to leave.” You’re not used to being so forward, but you’re also not used to spending entire weekends giving yourself orgasm after orgasm from memories alone.

He gently pulls his hand away from your mouth, the sting of his grip still firm across your face. He doesn’t let go completely, and dragging your bottom lip with his thumb, he juts his own out in mock sympathy. The speed of your heart picks up.

“I’m the boss, remember, princess? Got shit to do.”

Your cheeks burn, eyes narrowing. A reminder that he can be such a fucking dick.

Catching your expression, he laughs again, before dropping his head to kiss up the length of your neck.

“My poor baby. Has to actually get work done today.” It’s a whisper against the hollow of your throat, sending chills rippling through you.

You’re not that naive, despite the way he has you under his spell.

“Fuck off, Joel.” You push your hand against his solid chest, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he catches your wrist in the smooth palm of his hand, pulling you to meet his mouth. The arm that’s still wrapped around your waist drags you further into his body, and you have to stand on your tiptoes to match the intensity of him crashing his lips to yours.

He doesn’t wait for permission before rolling his tongue against yours, taking everything you have to offer. Tracing up the lines of your neck with the rough pads of his fingers, he wraps the thick length of them just below your ear, tipping your head back with his thumb to open you up for him. As he deepens the kiss, you can taste the robust richness of his morning coffee. You briefly consider what it would be like to be the one to make it for him every day.

It’s easy to lose yourself in him, the hypnotic rhythm of his mouth against yours, so it catches you off guard when he pulls back delicately, large hand still cradling your jaw.

“Really have to go, baby,” he says in a murmur against your mouth.

You whimper against him, but acquiesce by untangling yourself from his grip. The ice in your latte has long melted, and you move to chuck it in the trash next to the desk.

Before you can, Joel shoots one arm out across your chest, nuzzling into you to run his nose along the line of your jaw, up to the curve of your ear.

“Still have the panties I ripped off you,” he purrs. “Filled those with my cum, too.”

The rest of the week is much of the same, except you can’t actually get Joel’s hands on you at all. Even in passing.

He’s in and out of the office, finding and filing paperwork, taking and making phone calls, dropping crumpled receipts into your waiting hands. Business as usual.

Seemingly just as frustrated by it as you are, the most you get is a quick nip to the slope of your shoulder as he argues with a supplier.

“Asshole,” he mouths, pointing to his cell phone with his other hand.

You would be a little less tightly wound if it was just Joel, but it almost never is. There’s a steady stream of his guys dawdling around the office at almost all times, your brother being there most consistently. As if he possesses a sixth sense to crowd you out of any chance at revisiting the best dick you’ve ever had.

On Wednesday, he’s picking his fingernails in the chair across the desk, while you work through a spreadsheet of the past month’s expenditures. Mumbling to yourself, eyes focused on the totals, half-listening to him complain about how expensive a wedding is.

“Adam,” you interrupt, breaking your gaze away from the laptop screen. “Obviously weddings are fucking expensive. If you were gonna bitch about it nonstop, why did you even get engaged?”

A beat of silence.

“Damn, what’s your problem?” he sneers after a moment, brows knitted together in what you can assume is annoyance.

I need to be dicked down by our fucking boss, you think, but roll your eyes at him, instead.

“I’m busy.”

Adam snorts.

“Molly would be pissed to hear you talking about your wedding like that, anyway. I’m just doing her a favor.” The end of your sentence tapers off quietly, as you switch your stare back to the screen.

You are partial to Adam’s fiancée, if not for her bubbly personality, for letting you crash with them between semesters every summer.

“I see where your loyalty lies,” he scoffs, raising himself out of the chair. “Thought we were family.”

“Yeah, Adam, me not letting you talk shit about your upcoming wedding is disloyal,” you respond with a single, hollow laugh, distractedly typing a figure into a blinking cell.

He chuckles, running the toe of his boot along the worn carpet.

“Guys’re goin’ out Friday. I can tell Molly that you two can have a girls night. Drink wine and shit. Since that’s who's back you have.”

Keeping your eyes fixed to the screen, you’re desperate to play it casual, despite the intense prickle of your skin. Will Joel be there?

“Or I could come bug the shit out of you, since you love to do that while I’m trying to work.”

“You’re always invited, princess,” he drawls.“‘M sure the guys would love to see you.”

Every part of your body shudders. Typical Adam, upping the ante of disgusting. You choose to ignore it.

“Your boss usually go to these things?” you ask instead, words measured. You don’t dare glance over at your brother, fearing he’d read the intent all over your face.

But he shrugs, unfazed. “Sometimes. Depends, I guess.”

“On what?” This time you do look at him, but his eyes are fixed on his phone screen, thumb scrolling lazily.

He mumbles something that you don’t catch, obviously distracted by what he’s seeing. Useless.

Knowing he’s moved on from the conversation, you sigh with a certain air of disappointment. You could go, you know, on the off-chance that Joel does show up, but the idea of being there alone with your brother and his work friends makes you wrinkle your nose.

Adam turns to leave, throwing a quick see ya over his shoulder as he pulls the door open.

“Hey! Let me know about Friday!” you call after him, raising yourself up on your arms, a half-assed attempt to make sure he hears you.

He’s already on the other side, door whipping shut behind him.

Aggravated, you sink back into the desk chair, raising your fists to settle your chin on them. You feel like a petulant child, continuously denied the thing you want so bad.

There’s a whole part of you that wants to kick and scream until you get it, until Joel is soothing your angry tears with his mouth pressed to your flesh, smoothing out the knots in your limbs, reaching into the most tender recesses of you to undo you.

Ruined, you think, as you draw your knees together tightly in an attempt to relieve the throb of your cunt.

It’s Friday when you’re eating lunch (the saddest salad you’ve ever seen and the dredges of your iced coffee at the desk) when he texts you.

> J Miller: going w your bro tonite?

Your stomach flips. The restlessness that you’ve been feeling all week suddenly dials up to a 10 — an elastic compulsion that weaves itself into your lungs, your breath catching in your chest.

It’s the first time he’s texted you for non-work related things, which, much to your annoyance, should have been immediately after he made you see stars with his cock.

Either way, you’ve never texted anyone back faster.

> Me: are you?

Logic tells you to play coy, to make him wait, but it’s been an entire week since the cosmic shift of the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, and you’re going out of your mind trying to get another one. There’s no use in pretending.

>J Miller: i am if you will b

Dragging your bottom lip between your teeth, you suppress a grin.

It’s starting to look like you’re not the only one who’s ruined.

The bouncer eyes you up and down, and you’re half-tempted to lean over just a little to showcase your cleavage. The stretchy black dress you’re wearing barely covers your ass, but leaves just enough to the imagination.

You have a feeling that Joel will want to tear it off you, too.

“You alone?” the bouncer asks, gaze flicking between your ID and you.

“My friends are inside,” you coo. “Just gotta meet them.”

He grunts, nodding his head and handing you back the flimsy piece of plastic.

“Gimme a shout if anyone gives you a hard time.”

Flashing the biggest smile you can, you shimmy past him, into the dark bar. Inside, the smell of stale beer and spilled liquor meets you, and you scan the bustling space for anyone you know. The first person you spot is your brother, who waves you over, a pint of dark beer in his hand.

You feel sexy, but overdressed. An upscale cocktail bar The Hideout is not.

As you make your way over to the table, you notice a few recognizable faces from work crowded around, a majority of them sweeping their eyes over your form.

“Hey, Princess. Lookin’ good tonight,” jeers a guy you’ve seen around the site. Kevin? Maybe? Or Alex?

You raise your brows at him, lips pursed. You’ve always hated the nickname, but it feels distinctly wrong now, like it belongs to Joel. You’d like to tell him as much, shove it back in his mouth until he chokes.

But Kevin-or-Alex brings his beer to his lips, eyes still roving over you, corners of his mouth upturned in a sneer.

Moving along, brushing it off, you tip your head to the side, begging your brother for a drink with your eyes.

You don’t need to look around the table to know that Joel is at the end of it, because you can feel his stare burning into you. It takes everything in you to not climb over the guys seated next to him so you can settle in his lap, to grind your hips down into his, but the thought certainly crosses your mind. Knowing you can’t meet his eyes without giving yourself away, you take in the bar around you, gaze bouncing from table to table.

Adam tugs you back from the precipice of your reverie by knocking the table with his knuckles and standing from his chair.

“Gotta get the princess a drink,” he explains to his companions, much to the delight of them all gathered around the table. They laugh uproariously, like he’s just told the best joke of the century. Idiots.

Your brother steers you towards the bar with a hand on the small of your back, and you’re careful to sway your hips just enough as you walk away from the cluster of tables, knowing that Joel is watching. Adam sets his arms across the bartop, and you mirror him, trepidation bubbling in your stomach.

“You good?” he asks over the jukebox, currently blaring a Van Halen song.

“Mmhmm,” you reply, gazing at the bottles of liquor behind the bar.

“You never come out with us,” Adam continues, raising a hand to flag down the bartender. “Kinda weird.”

You shrug, cheeks heating at his questioning. “Dunno. Felt like…I should get to know the guys better.”

He angles his body to you, running his palm over his mouth. There’s a playful look in his eyes, one that you know means he sees right the fuck through you. “Ookay, weirdo. The same guys whose necks you want to wring for calling you ‘princess’ on a daily basis?”

“You call me that, too, asshole.”

He laughs loudly, turning away as the bartender finally makes his way down the bar to the pair of you.

“Vodka water, and a Rumple Minze shot,” you tell him, as he leans in to hear your order over the music.

A quick nod, a swift maneuvering of bottles, and your drinks are pushed in front of you.

“Thank god,” you mumble, picking the cocktail up and sipping it immediately.

“You’re, uh…attracting quite a bit of attention,” Adam says in a low voice, gesturing subtly back to the table of your coworkers.

“Wow, you fuckin’ think?” you roll your eyes, throwing the shot of schnapps back. There’s only one pair of eyes you want on you, and they’re connected to the dick you need in you.

“I’ve never seen you this…” Adam leans into you, bumping your shoulder, “cranky before. Why’d you come out if you’re in a bad mood?”

You soften, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been…a little too in my own head lately.”

The understatement of the century, considering that’s where Joel has made a home.

Adam doesn’t respond, just signals to the bartender, ordering you another shot with a flick of his head in your direction.

The shots go down too easy, your skin flushing with the alcohol and body heat of the bar. You stick close to Adam’s side, and it feels like hours before you allow yourself to glance over at Joel.

Your brother is arguing with someone else about the structure of something you don’t care about when you finally work up the courage to do so, anxiously chewing bites into the plastic straw in your drink.

Joel is staring right back at you, same dangerous smirk pulled across his mouth. Watching the way your lips mold around the plastic, teeth scraping the flexible material. You know that smirk all too well, and want blossoms through your body.

The guy next to him is obliviously chatting his ear off, entirely unaware that Joel can’t take his eyes off of you. But he doesn’t make any kind of move to get up, or any kind of indication that he wants you to come over, so you stay rooted to the spot, entirely unsure how to proceed.

Some kind of frustration churns in your stomach, though you allow yourself to shoot him a coy smile over the rim of your glass. He returns the gesture by dipping his chin just slightly and raising his own drink to his mouth.

Whiskey, neat. The thought of tasting it on his tongue makes your cunt clench with need, and you have to look away to keep your composure.

He doesn’t even need to try, and you melt in the palm of his hand. Fuck.

You finish the rest of your drink in one go to try to settle your nerves, and nudge Adam with your elbow to let him know you’re headed back to the bar. He barely acknowledges you, still enthralled with his conversation.

As you slide up to the bartop, you bump shoulders with the person already waiting for another beer.

“Oh! Oops. My bad. Didn’t really…calculate my proximity, I guess.” You giggle as he turns to you, meeting your gaze with a shy smile.

He’s cute, in a fresh-faced and innocent kind of way. Golden brown hair and light eyes, about your age. His navy blue polo hangs a little too loose on his gangly frame, and it’s too easy to imagine him dressed as a mormon missionary to take him seriously.

“No worries. This place is pretty crowded,” he answers, angling his chin down to make sure you hear him.

The way he draws himself close gives you the wickedest of ideas. One that will surely make Joel get out of his seat and pay you the attention you so desperately deserve.

“It’s definitely the place to be, huh?” You purr, flicking your eyes up under your lashes to meet his, gently placing your hand on his forearm.

There’s an immediate dusting of crimson over his cheekbones, and you see him swallow hard.

“Y-yeah, it…it sure is.” There’s the slightest of drawls to his words, like syrup poured over pancakes on a sunday morning. It’s nothing compared to the thunder of Joel’s baritone, the sensual velvet of a saturday night shot of whiskey.

But you keep going, acutely aware of Joel’s eyes burning into your back. Tracing the curves and lines of you, watching every move you make. Watching you put your hands on someone else’s body, the hands that belong to him.

At least…that’s what you hope is going through his head.

The bartender slides your new friend’s beer across the warped wood, looking pointedly at you for your order next.

“Vodka water,” you grin, not removing your hand from the freckled forearm, “with a lemon. Please.”

New friend clears his throat, growing redder by the second.

“On my tab, please.”

“Ohmygod, you don’t need to do that!” You sigh warmly, stupidly. As if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

The drink is placed in front of you in no time, but you still haven’t moved your hand. Instead, you look up at your companion, lashes fluttering.

“You from here?” he manages to choke out, before washing the cliche down with a swig of his beer.

You nod, finally breaking contact to pick up the tumbler of vodka. “Born and raised. You?”

“Here for school. ‘M from Baton Rouge.”

Turning your body to face the open room of the bar, eyes flitting over the crowded space, you lean back on your elbows, drink in hand poised just below the swell of your breasts. There’s no way Joel can miss you, now.

“What’re you studying?” You couldn’t be less interested, but you keep your voice chipper and high, drawing him closer.

“PoliSci. I’m pre-law.” He says it with an air of confidence, which you can’t blame him for. It is impressive.

You take a long sip of your drink, considering how much you want to divulge about yourself to this stranger. How far you’re willing to take this game. You sneak a glance over at Joel, who’s watching you with an amused expression, brows lifted.

“Are you in school?” New friend continues, unaware of the come-fuck-me vibes you’re radiating from across the bar.

But Joel remains planted in his seat, thick thighs spread, left arm draped between them. Leaning back in the booth, matching your energy. Playing the game.

Snapping your attention back to the question, you nod again. “Not here, though. I’m in a masters program in Washington.”

“Do you like it there?”

You throw your head back in laughter, all too aware how ridiculous of a response it is to the question.

“I love it,” you say emphatically, still giggling. “So different from Austin.”

When you look at Joel again, he’s turned his attention to the guy next to him, nodding at whatever he’s saying intently. It stokes the frustration in you, and you can’t help but draw your face into a scowl — an entire 180 from how you’d just been laughing at a non-joke.

Before your new friend can respond to your maniacal answer, you push yourself off the bartop and turn towards him.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom really quick, okay?”

As you wash your hands, the door to the bathroom opens quickly, and Joel ducks inside, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one sees. He pushes it closed behind him, fingers clicking the lock shut like he owns the place.

“Oh,” you gasp in surprise, stepping back from the sink and wiping your hands across the material of your dress. “I didn’t…you’re not…Joel!”

His name comes out of your mouth as a yelp as he crowds you back against the counter, his hands already roaming over the hills and valleys of your body. Wasting no time.

“Baby,” he coos, dipping his head to trail kisses up the curve of your shoulder, “been waitin’ all night for you to go to the fuckin’ bathroom.”

You curl your fingers into his biceps to keep yourself steady while he presses wet kisses to your throat and jaw, before landing at your mouth. Gripping your hips tightly, his thigh nudges between yours, spreading you open. You do what you can to meet his fervor, but as with everything else, he’s domineering — completely in control.

His thick hands drag you up his thigh, into him, and the friction of his jeans against you makes you bite back a moan. He repeats the action with more intensity, obviously dismayed that you’re holding back, quickly establishing a grueling rhythm.

Squirming under his hold, he tastes the desperation on your tongue, and when you finally break and whimper into his mouth, he growls back into yours.

He has you exactly where he wants you — writhing in his arms, soft and compliant to what he needs.

At least, he thinks he does.

You dig your fingernails into the flannel stretched over his arms, steeling your body to his movements, pulling away from the heat of his mouth.

“Joel,” it’s a drawn out lilt, one that he’ll never get tired of hearing.

“Saw you over there tryna make me jealous, princesa,” he mutters, chest heaving against your own. He drops his mouth to press against the burning skin of your collarbone, and you can feel the stretched restraint in his muscled body.

“Wasn’t trying to make you jealous, Joel,” you protest quietly, though you both know it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He laughs darkly, his breath fanning against your flesh. “Saw you touchin’ all up on some stranger.”

“I was just being nice. He bought me a drink.” You’re pouting now, sliding your open palms to press against the solidity of Joel’s chest.

He whips your body around so quickly that you have to shoot your arms out to the counter to catch yourself. The mirror greets you, and it’s impossible to miss your glowing skin and kiss-swollen lips. It doesn’t take anything for him to make you look entirely fucked out.

Hooking his chin over your shoulder, front pressed flush to your back, he drags his hands up the sides of your body, stopping to rest just below your breasts. His fingers splay out across your rib cage, nearly meeting in the middle.

Eyes meeting yours in the mirror, he smirks.

“Look what I do to you, baby. No one else can do that. Look at yourself.”

He rolls his hips against the swell of your ass, and you can feel his length through his jeans.

Your vision goes cloudy, the want you’ve been feeling all week flooding every part of your brain. You drop your head between your shoulders, relishing the feel of him pressed into you. But he quickly cranes your chin back up in his hands, angling your head to watch the glistening reflection of the two of you.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he says thickly, commandingly, as he continues to move against you. You obey.

“Can’t make me jealous, princess.”

Anger flares in your chest, slowly ebbing into embarrassment. Of course he would see right through you. You should have known better. You don’t break eye contact.

“That picture I have ‘f you? That tells me you’re mine. Can’t make me jealous when I know what belongs t’me.”

You inhale sharply. Hearing him say it, hearing him mean it, sends shivers over the entirety of your body.

“Why’d it take you so long to come over to me, then?”

His eyes flash. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, baby.”

Dropping his clutch from your chin to the top of your dress, he uses both hands to scoop your tits out over the bodice of it, palming the weight of them roughly. He rolls your nipples in his fingers, and you have dejavú of the week before.

This time you can see the way his fingers move, the way he watches your face in the reflection of the mirror more than anything else.

You moan, arching your back against his chest, and he drops one hand further to bunch the length of your dress over your ass.

Feeling entirely bare skin, he hisses through his teeth and pulls back to look.

“No panties, baby?”

You smile darkly. “Didn’t want you to ruin another pair.”

“Fuuuuck,” he mumbles, leaning down to flick his tongue against the base of your spine. “Knew you were fuckin’ trouble.”

He rucks your dress up higher, following the hem of it with open mouth kisses and demanding nips. You can feel your dripping slick on the insides of your thighs, and as if he can read your mind, he lays one open palm across your back to press your cheek down into the counter, slotting the other between your thighs to open you up for him. Your breathing quickens, knowing how on display you are.

How under his thumb you are.

Teasing the rough pads of his fingers against your core, electricity rolls through your extremities. Between the flush of the alcohol and the thrill of his touch, you know you’re done for.

“See, baby? How wet y’are? Know it’s only for me.”

Anticipation coils in the pit of your belly, waiting for him to plunge a thick finger inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, laser focused on every nudge and slip of his digits.

Instead, you feel him replace his finger with the thick heft of his cock at your entrance, your hands unsuccessfully scrambling for purchase on the slick marble of the counter.

“Joel,” you yelp, the delicious stretch of it seared into your mind, “I..I don’t kn-”

“You can take it, princess,” he interrupts gruffly. “You can.”

You respond with a strangled noise, knees buckling under the warning press of his palm on your back.

Reading the apprehension in your body, Joel grazes the fingers of his other hand over the curve of your hip, rubbing reassuring circles into your flesh. They dance up over your belly, finally grasping at your ribs. His mouth follows, gentle kitten licks that calm your breathing, until he stops right below where your breasts are compressed against the counter, sinking his teeth there into the soft give of you.

Both of his hands float back down to your hips, pressing their length into your bones roughly, dragging your ass back to push the tip inside of your slick folds.

Your eyes fly open, and you mewl as his teeth give way to an intense sucking sensation, as if he’s intent on marking you.

Knowing him, he is.

“Okay, baby?” he murmurs against your skin, once he’s satisfied with what you can feel is an angry red mark on your rib cage, sliding his hips forward to give you another inch, working you open, open, open.

“‘F we had more time, you know I’d do it right,” he continues, an almost tender cadence to his harsh whisper.

You nod, cheek still smooshed against the countertop, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. He’s so fucking much.

His breath hitches as he buries himself further, the tight quiver of your perfect pussy making him see stars. He stills for just a moment, letting you adjust to him, lamenting the fact that he couldn’t get his fingers or tongue in you this time. But he’s so very desperate, has been waiting for this for far too long.

He wants to take you home with him, wrap you in his bedsheets. Undo you over and over and over.

For now, though, he will make do with what he has. And what he has is you, wet and needy beneath him, taking his cock like a good girl. Like a perfect girl.

“Joel,” you whisper, snapping him out of his reverie. “More. More please.”

You’re dizzy with need, aching to feel him stretch you open entirely.

He can taste the salt of sweat on your skin, the light sheen of it glittering under the fluorescent bar lights. It makes his heart ache with something he can’t name.

Rolling his head to press his forehead against your back, he can’t help but breathe you in. This is where he wants to be forever — pressed into you, feeling you tremble and keen for him. For him, and only him.

Unable to hold back any longer, he draws his body up, sliding inside to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush to your ass.

There are tears trickling from beneath your closed eyelids now, and he wants to lick them off your face, smooth out the pain in your features. Your body is taut, wound around the throbbing need you’re both feeling, your hands clenched into fists next to your head.

But he watches as you slowly drag your bottom lip between your teeth, sighing contently, savoring the sparks of pain from the size of him. Fucking perfect.

His entire cock has disappeared into your warmth, and you squeeze him like you were made to do so.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he manages to spit out, setting a pace that feels like you’re being split open. It’s exactly what you need.

You rock your hips, pushing back against his thrusts, thigh muscles screaming.

“So full,” you babble back, his hips snapping against the plush of your ass. Giving you everything you need, everything you’ve craved. His tip nudges the furthest part of you, and fireworks explode in your stomach. Your moans pick up at the same pace as his thrusts, and his grip tightens around your hips.

“C’mere baby,” he hums, arcing his arm across your chest to drag you up to him. You can feel the desperation in his movements, the stuttering of his hips as the new angle squeezes his cock deliciously.

He curls his fingers around the base of your throat, and for the first time, you see how absolutely fucked he looks. Black pupils blown wide with lust, strong jaw set to the side, hair mussed more than usual, stray curls clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. He’s beautiful, you think, but your brain can’t connect to your mouth to say so.

His palm spans the width of your throat, and he gently tightens his hold with each deep thrust into you. You raise your arms to card through his hair, clutching to him to ground yourself. His other hand grasps at your tits, caressing and pulling at your hard nipples.

Your legs are shaking with the intensity of it all, with the salacious way he massages your walls with the length of his cock. He’s watching you in the mirror, eyes fixed on the way you tremble around him, the way you grip him like you’ll melt into a puddle on the floor if you let go.

“So fuck…fuckin’ perfect for me, baby. Bein’ s-such a good…good girl,” he pants, and you bask in his praise, letting it fill you from the inside out.

The fingers he has wrapped around your throat inch up to your bitten, parted lips, and you open to accept three of them obediently, his pinkie and thumb clenched firmly around the lines of your jaw.

You wrap your tongue around the digits, saliva pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking much, and you want to give him everything.

“Say it, baby,” he growls, pressing the calloused pads of his fingers to the broad flat of your tongue. “Fuckin’ say it.”

You meet his fiery eyes in the mirror, brows knitted together in a question.

“Say it,” he repeats, the fingers not in your mouth digging into your jaw. Demanding it.

And like he’s impressing it upon your skin, burning it into your insides, you know what he wants to hear.

“‘M yours, Joel,” you whisper, words mangled by the way he pushes down on the wet muscle in your mouth. “Only yours.”

Dropping his other hand, he ghosts his fingertips over the slight bulge in your tummy, where his cock is nestled. The knowledge that you’re so full of him makes him quicken his rhythm, hips snapping against your ass ruthlessly. Giving you everything he has.

“Princess,” he whispers, nuzzling into your ear. “Gimme your hand.”

He traces up the soft lines of your arm, gently removing one of your hands from his curls, and pulls it down to feel the thick outline of his cock just beneath your belly. He keeps his hand over yours, and you press your own fingers into your flesh, in awe that you’ve taken the whole thing.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire, and you’re suddenly on the very precipice of your orgasm, his hand over yours being what pushes you over the edge.

Fingers still in your mouth, you drop your head back onto his shoulder, moaning around the shape of them, crying out, cunt strangling his already erratic movements as he races to catch up with you at the finish line.

It’s sloppy, saliva still dripping down your chin, your body cresting the wave of your orgasm, his stuttering movements fucking you all the way through it. You go limp as it washes through you, and he’s holding you up for the last few thrusts, growling into your ear and biting at your neck.

All-consuming.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth, he wraps both arms around you, holding you tightly against him, knowing that you really will melt if he lets you go. He can feel his own orgasm at the base of his spine, crawling up, up, up the column of it, until he’s there, spilling recklessly inside your swollen pussy, pushing himself further into you, making sure it stays.

He doesn’t need to tell you, because you already know.

The warmth of it shoots through his body, and it feels like heaven, buried to the hilt inside of you.

He runs his palms down your sides as you both come down, and even the slight touch makes you shiver. You prop yourself up on your arms again, the tips of your fingers numb from the earth-shattering orgasm.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, satiated and soft.

Joel presses tender kisses across your shoulder blades, hands aimlessly drawing shapes into your plush hips, loathe to pull out of you.

But knowing he must, that his time with you is almost up, he does, drawing his hips back excruciatingly slowly, savoring every second of being inside of you, in whatever capacity. You hiss as he does, feeling so disappointingly empty and stretched open.

Gently caressing the globes of your ass, his palms fitting over them perfectly, he bends down to give you a final nip, laving his tongue over what he hopes will be a mark. You giggle warmly, hands meeting to pull the bodice of your dress back up over your tender breasts, while he pulls the length of it back down to your thighs.

Finally regaining the strength in your legs, you turn to face him, standing on the toes of your platforms to meet him in a kiss, him pulling your bottom lip between his own, sucking gently.

“Joel,” you mumble against him, his name an antidote to the poison of the longest week of your life.

“Baby,” he responds, encircling you with his arms, drawing you closer to him. Not wanting to let you go.

“We have to go” you whisper, pressing kisses across his jaw, his scruff pleasantly abrading your soft lips.

He grumbles an agreement, but doesn’t take his hands off of you.

“Keep my cum inside you,” is what he does say, after a millisecond of silence, as if it was burning his tongue. Like it needed to be said.

You giggle again, supplicant and sweet. Spun sugar on the tips of his fingers. Unwrapping yourself from his arms, you tug his boxers and jeans up, and his fingers fumble to help you. You let your hands wander up the plane of his chest while he clicks his belt into place, wondering how you’ll both fare this weekend.

“Can’t go that long again, princess,” he says, stroking the wild tangle of hair framing your face. “Need you.”

The admission nearly astonishes you. You’ve never seen Joel be so open, so vulnerable, so absolutely fucking wrecked.

“‘N…next time won’t be so…rushed. Wanna take my time with you.”

You believe him.

Hoping your action conveys that message, you press one final kiss to the heart-shaped space in his scruff, before turning to tame the locks of your hair and fix your smudged mascara in the mirror.

“You have my number, Joel.”

taglist: @jasminedragoon @loveisacowboyyy @scarletthefierce @thecasualnope

#joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller tlou #joel the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller #tlou #tlou fic #pedro pascal fanfic #joel x you #joel x reader

[queer-media-tourney]

Here are all 64 round 1 polls:

Rent vs Orphan Black

Heartstopper vs Orange is the New Black

Carol (2015) vs Bugsnax

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern vs Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Fienburg

Red, White and Royal Blue vs This is how you lose the time war by Amar el-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

Our Flag means Death vs Always human by Ari North

The last of us two vs On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden

Heartbreak High vs Shameless

Undertale vs The Handmaiden

Young Royals vs Revolutionary Girl Utena

Sens8 vs Carry on by Rainbow Rowell

Bee and puppycat vs The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Yuri on Ice vs Ranma ½

Q-force vs Feel Good

Torchwood vs The interview with a Vampire (2022)

Homestuck vs Good Omens

Some like it hot vs Killing Eve

Scott Pilgrim Takes Off vs Bound (1996)

It's a sin vs Magnus Chase by Rick Riordan

Doctor Who vs Portrait of a young lady on fire

Steven Universe vs Saltburn

Xena Warrior Princess vs Cyberpunk 2077

Welcome to Nightvale vs Schitt's creek

Night in the woods vs A league Of their own

Lisa Frankenstein vs The boys in the band (1970)

Black Sails vs Owl House

Hannibal vs The Traitor Baru Cormorant

Bottoms vs The Locked Tomb series by Tamsyn Muir

The picture of Dorian Grey vs Adventure time

The Sandman (comic) vs Supernatural

Maurice (1987) vs Hazbin Hotel

Nimona vs Love Simon

Epithet Erased vs What we do in the shadows

Buffy the Vampire Slayer vs The Other Two

One Day at a time (2017) vs Falsettos

She-ra and the princesses of power vs Dykes to Watch Out for

Celluloid Closet vs Harley Quinn

But I'm a cheerleader vs Vida

Angels In America vs Glee

Hooky by Míriam Bonastre Tur vs They both die in the end by Adam Silvera

Will and Grace vs Paris is Burning

Sanders Sides vs The Magnus Archives

The L word vs Goncharov

Queer as Folk vs Paper Girls

Boys don't cry vs Dracula

All of us strangers vs Yellow jackets

The Song of Achilles vs D.E.B.S

Brokeback Mountain vs Dead end: paranormal park

Carmilla vs Pride (2014)

The Bifrost Incident vs Pink Flamingos

Call me by your name vs Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Grishaverse vs Roswell New Mexico

Riverdale vs We Know the Devil

Stardew Valley vs Pose

Disco Elysium vs Different For girls

Banana fish vs my own private Idaho

Celeste vs Tales of the City, by Armistead Maupin

Everything Everywhere all at once vs Outer Wilds

To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar vs Victor/Victoria

Moonlight vs Stranger things

The birdcage vs Midnight Cowboy

The Watermelon Woman vs The Ritz

The haunting of Bly Manor vs Epic of Gilgamesh

Fun Home by Alison Bechdel vs How to survive a plague

#queer media tourney

[fibula-rasa]

How’d They Do That?

Special Effects & Stunts of Silent Cinema - Part 1

This is the first installment of an open-ended series where I try to highlight and illustrate the work of special effects and stunt artists of silent filmdom. Using articles from contemporary fan and trade magazines, I’ll make gifs or dig up images and/or video clips to accompany the descriptions of how the sequences were executed.

My notations will be bracketed and highlighted in a different color. Hope you all enjoy! Fair warning: this is a long read.

How They Do It! 

[from Photoplay, April 1926]

by Cal York

Millions are asking how the motion pictures are accomplishing the marvelous new effects which have been developed in the past few years. It took months of investigation to give you the answer

DO you remember how you thrilled when the Red Sea parted to let Moses and the children of Israel pass through, only to close again and swallow up Pharaoh and his pursuing warriors in C.B. De Mille's stupendous "Ten Commandments" ?

How you gasped as T. Roy Barnes fled from the burning tenement with Claire Windsor in his arms as flames and smoke spurted about them and debris crashed on all sides in "Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model"?

The destruction of Pontius Pilate's palace with the crushing of hundreds underneath the ruins in "Ben Hur"? 

The rescue of Doris Kenyon by Ronald Colman in Fitzmaurice's great picture, "A Thief in Paradise," as Miss Kenyon's runaway horse reared and stood poised on his hind legs on the very brink of a precipice? 

Conway Tearle's hair-breadth escape from the mountain of rushing water in "The Great Divide"? 

The stirring battle scenes in "The Big Parade" in which giant shells burst all around, tearing huge craters and spreading death as our boys marched on and on and on through No Man's Land. 

How Blanche Sweet carried Ronald Colman to safety as the blazing roof fell and seemed certain to bury them. This in "His Supreme Moment." 

I could go on and remind you of train wrecks which have brought you from your seats, of battles against storm and shipwrecks at sea—of thrills and hairbreadth escapes and terrific disasters.

How many times have you gone home from your motion picture theater and wondered how these things were accomplished, discussed with your family and friends what possible method could have been used to achieve the seemingly impossible?

AFTER months of investigation, I am able to give you an explanation of the thrills in the pictures I have mentioned and to explain to you the general method used in most other similar scenes. 

First, I will tell you how they parted the Red Sea. This was done by a process of double printing, worked out by Roy Pomeroy, technical director at Lasky's. But that, marvelous as it seemed, was but a simple thing compared with the miracles now being wrought on celluloid by Frank Williams, the wizard of Hollywood, who has dreamed out and perfected the moving or traveling mat process of printing, which has made possible most of the recent marvels of the screen.

[Roy Pomeroy was head technical wizard for Famous Players-Lasky/Paramount (that is to say, he was their head special-effects engineer). We only know for certain about a handful of films that Pomeroy made specific contributions to, like The Ten Commandments (1923) and Wings (1927). As with many journeymen of the silent/studio era of Hollywood, the amount of films Pomeroy worked on was likely substantial, but many technical roles went uncredited at the time.]

To part the Red Sea, Pomeroy first built, on the Lasky lot, two wooden walls about the height of the ordinary room and backed them at one end with a scenic drop to represent the Red Sea country. These walls he covered with a jelly-like substance made from silicate of soda and sulphuric acid, which shimmered and shook and photographed like water. The floor space between these two walls was made to look like sand. He then photographed this set. 

Then, with two cameras set up at the open end, he emptied thousands of gallons of water between the walls from huge water tanks behind them. One of the cameras was cranked backwards, and this showed the parting of the Red Sea. The other camera was cranked forward, and showed the waters joining together. Both were done in slow motion, which will be explained later.

The next step was taken out on the desert. 

Wire fences were built a few inches further apart than were the jelly walls built on the stage. First Moses and his followers, with their live stock, were marched between these wire fences, which were just outside the camera lines, and therefore did not show in the picture. What the fences did do, however, was to keep the goats and donkeys from poking their noses outside the camera lines, which would never have done for in the double printing process the camera lines would become the walls of water. And it would never do for a donkey to shove his head through the Red Sea. 

After Moses and his Children of Israel had passed through satisfactorily, under the grinding camera, they then photographed Pharaoh and his Egyptians madly pursuing in their chariots through the same fenced lane. And if the horses and chariots smashed out through the light wire fence, it was fine. for you will remember they were seen madly milling about before the walls of water finally obliterated them. 

THEN when they put all together, by double printing, here is what they got: 

First, a wall of water parted and left a lane of dry land in the Red Sea. (You remember the camera cranking backwards gave them the negative for this.) 

Then Moses and his band were printed in passing along the space between the walls of water. After them, came Pharaoh and his warriors in full pursuit. 

Right over these they printed the original negative of the waters rushing together, and this completely engulfed The Egyptians.

The only person to get wet in the closing of the Red Sea was Charles de Roche, who played Pharaoh. The blotting out of the King and his war chariot was not done by double printing but by trick photography, as it seemed necessary to the story of give this incident more personal drama.

The method used was this: DeRoche and his horses and chariot were placed on a treadmill. The camera was on a platform facing them. Over DeRoche's head and out of sight of the camera was a huge water tank, with a water chute projecting from it. This chute gave into a tank between DeRoche and the camera, but below the level of the camera line. While DeRoche whipped his horses like a madman on the treadmill and did all the acting necessary to being engulfed by water, the water in the tank was released and poured down in a torrent between him and the grinding camera, giving a perfect illusion. The only reason DeRoche got wet was because the water chute running above his head leaked badly. 

Does this seem wonderful to you? It should. It is. And yet I tell you that it is simplicity itself compared with the moving mat. 

Remember that in the "Ten Commandments" the double printing put the moving people into a vacancy on the film—the blank space left in the miniature between the walls of water. Also, that the double printing of the moving water over the Egyptians simply obliterated them.

READ ON BELOW the JUMP!

---

Photo caption: This great outdoor scene is made up of three parts and was made right in the studios of the Paramount Company at Astoria, L.I. It is composed of three parts: a miniature four feet high, six feet in front of the camera; the top part of the cliff, fifteen feet high, eighty feet in front of the camera; and a painted back drop, a few feet further away. In the long shots, or distant views, you see the whole in convincing reality. The close-up shots are shown in the white frame, the bottom of which indicates where the miniature ends and the larger set begins. This scene is from Gloria Swanson's new picture, "The Untamed Lady" 

[The Untamed Lady (1926) is presumed lost, but luckily, a few images of this cliff-top sequence have survived.

from Exhibitors Herald, 20 March 1926]

An amazing revelation of the latest discoveries of pictures which produce miracles before your eyes

---

But Frank Williams can put moving actors photographed in Hollywood into a moving background photographed anywhere in the world—put actual life and dramatic action into miniatures, which, during the previous years when they had worked with miniatures, seemed absolutely impossible. 

[As you can gather from this article Frank Williams was a pioneer cinematographer and special effects artist. Williams was able to patent his moving matte process (and named it the Williams process) and it was an important effects technique used in film as as varied as Ben-Hur (1925), Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1926), The Lost World (1925), and The Invisible Man (1933). All of which are extant and easily accessible! 

While it wasn’t in regular use for very long, the process was the basis for significant later developments in special effects photography, like green screening!]

Williams has made possible scenes that could never otherwise have been shot in motion pictures. It is not only that he has reduced the cost so that often he can give the producer scenes that would otherwise have been prohibitive because of building sets, etc. But he can give them scenes that couldn't be physically shot in any other way—such as a huge building crumbling and toppling in an earthquake and actually burying hundreds of people. It isn't only that he can make hairbreadth escapes without endangering the lives of actors and animals, as was sometimes done to get effects in the old days. He can make thrills that only the actual killing of animals and men would render possible—and this without the actor or animal being anywhere near the scene. 

He can build a miniature town, put real, living people into it, and have them go through any necessary dramatic action, and then he can make a miniature torrent somewhere else altogether and have it sweep away the town with its laughing, singing, dancing population and make you believe when you see it on the screen that it actually happened. 

THESE things he does by the patented process of the moving or traveling mat. It is a matter of printing, remember, more than of photography. Williams himself photographs nothing. The negatives from which he works are all shot for him, under his direction, and the miracles are performed in his laboratory. 

It hasn't been easy for Williams to attain his title of the miracle man of films. He has given to the motion picture art one of its greatest discoveries. Like all great inventors, he has been scorned, laughed at, at times almost starved, forced to work under unspeakably difficult circumstances. But, none of these things moved him. 

A big, quiet, simple fellow, only thirty-two years old. Shy, rather diffident of speech, he makes everything he does look easy. When he comes on a set, his quiet presence is scarcely noticed, and cameramen and technical experts go on spluttering and arguing, and when he is finally appealed to, he settles the problem so simply that everyone wonders why he didn't think of it himself.

WILLIAMS started as a cameraman at the old Essanay lot the year he was out of high school. He was fifteen years old and knew just enough about a camera to turn a crank. He has spent seventeen years at his work, and it was as far back as 1912 that he started work on the moving mat process.

He had no money and few would listen. He was laughed at—Ford, Edison, Marconi, Fulton, all went through the same experiences.

At one time, not so many years ago, John Considine, who is Joe Schenck's chief lieutenant, could have bought a half interest in Williams' big idea for a couple of thousand dollars. Today it is rumored in Hollywood that Williams has refused a cool half million for the same half interest. 

THE way he finally made it was this—he'd work a while as a cameraman and save a few hundred dollars, and then go back to work in his laboratory—usually the bathroom in the place he was living—until his savings were exhausted. Then back to the camera for another stake, and so on.

In 1912 he was cameraman for Mack Sennett when they had the back end of a little grocery store for a studio. During this time Williams made his first attempt to use the moving mat process. It failed, however, due to the inaccuracies of the cameras and printing machines of the time and the crude film in use.

But Williams wouldn’t let go of the idea. He kept right at it, and finally, in 1917, he again tried to perfect his process. working in a laboratory furnished by Adolph Zukor, of Paramount. But again he faced defeat, and for the same reasons—mechanical inaccuracies and improper film.

---

Photo caption: A rolling stage at studios of the Education Film Co. in Hollywood. Upside-down scenes and rolling ship scenes are easy with its use. It is possible to show ship interiors on the stage inside the cylinder which duplicates exactly the movement of a ship in a storm

[The rolling stage was used for lots of imaginative and comedic sequences in shorts and features. In the Lupino Lane short Movieland (1926), there’s a bit that shows the stage in action. Here’s a link to that specific scene, but the whole short is a lot of wacky fun and I recommend watching the full film!

Another illustration of how the rolling stage can be put to use is in When the Clouds Roll By (1919):

---

FINALLY, six years ago, his efforts were crowned with success. The Williams moving mat process was used in a Universal picture, "Wild Honey," and acknowledged commercially. Williams received a great deal of help and gives much credit for this to Elmer Sheeley, then a Universal art director, especially in the building of the miniatures. 

Through the better grade of film, a motor-cranked camera set on a solid tripod, and through his own printing machine, built according to Williams' own drawings at a cost of $18,000, one whose accuracy is to within one ten-thousandth of an inch, all the obstacles which had frustrated him so long were overcome and Williams' moving mat process came to life, as perhaps the greatest single invention in motion pictures since that of the camera itself. 

Once having demonstrated what he could do in "Wild Honey," in which he made a miniature stream appear a rushing torrent over a hundred feet high which pursued Priscilla Dean down a dry stream bed and finally engulfed her, Williams did not have much trouble getting producers to listen. This "Wild Honey" thrill was the forerunner of all big water spectacles, and when shown to C.B. DeMille gave him the idea for the parting of the Red Sea. DeMille admitted that this flood was the greatest spectacle he had ever seen up to that time.

[Unfortunately, Wild Honey (1922) is currently presumed lost and I was unable to find any depiction of Priscilla Dean fleeing from a torrent of water. As noted above however, there are quite a few extant films that also used Williams’ moving matte process.

In case you were wondering, I put $18,000 through an inflation calculator and it is equivalent to more than $315,000 in 2023 money!]

In trick photography miniatures have always been a very important part. It would hardly do to burn a huge building to have a woman carried from the blazing structure, and this the Williams process makes unnecessary. 

TAKE the thrilling rescue front the burning tenement in "Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model." A replica of a New York tenement was built in miniature at the studio where the picture was made. We will say for illustration that the scale used in erecting the miniature was one and one-half inches to a foot, or one-ninth the actual size. 

In working with miniatures there are two very important things to be considered, and these must be worked out with mathematical precision, if Williams is to be given a perfect negative on which to transpose living actors through his traveling mat. One is to make the miniature look the proper height. This is done by placing the camera the proper distance from the miniature (of course much closer than if it were a real building), and shooting from a lower level. The other is called timing. For example, if a miniature tree is to fall and the camera set-up is close enough and low enough to give the miniature the proper height when it is seen on the screen, then you must be careful of the speed with which it falls.

A little tree falls rapidly—a big tree slowly. And here is where the timing enters. Ultra speed cameras are used. The faster you crank the more pictures you get per second, and the slower the thing seems to move when you see it on the screen. You have all seen slow-motion pictures. These were made with slow-motion cameras, or what are more commonly termed ultra-speed cameras. And it is through this slow motion photography that the little tree is made to fall at the proper speed to be the big tree it represents, or the miniature stream is made to run at the proper speed for a giant river. 

And so to get back to the fire which is still threatening "Our Nell." A torch is applied to the miniature tenement. At the proper count little invisible wires tied to window sashes are pulled and burning brands crash to the street below. And all the time the cameras, driven by motors at the proper speed, placed at the right distance from the conflagration and almost flat on the floor, are grinding away and recording this great fire.

[Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model (1924) is extant, with a print located at Gosfilmofond, but the film is not readily accessible. However, a depiction of the burning building sequence appears on an advertisement for the film:

from Film Daily, 28 February 1924]

OVER on some other part of the lot, and at any time which suits the director's convenience, T. Roy Barnes, with Miss Windsor in his arms, dashes through a black velvet door and down a street backed with more black velvet. 

Two things must be remembered, however. The actors must come out of the velvet door at the right spot and at the right time or "count." This is necessary so that Williams can match up the fire negative, which is the background with action in it, with the negative of Miss Windsor and Barnes, which becomes the moving mat. 

The remainder is simple, and is done by Williams and his printing process over at his laboratory. 

On the screen you see Barnes dashing from a burning tenement with Miss Windsor in his arms while, in reality, neither of the actors has been close enough to a fire to singe a single eyelash. 

Blanche Sweet's rescue of Colman in "The Supreme Moment" was worked out in the same manner as this, as have been most other burning building thrills in pictures made in the last few years.

[His Supreme Moment (1925) is presumed lost and unfortunately I was unable to locate a depiction of the burning building rescue mentioned here.]

Now for the destruction of Pontius Pilate's palace with the struggling mass crushed beneath, in "Ben Hur." Of course the palace was done in miniature, while the people did their acting out on the lot, where the street was built with a dead white backing. Again the timing had to correspond with that in the falling of the palace. 

The throng of people was lined up and rehearsed. Two lines were drawn in the street a fixed distance apart—which represented the space where the ruins of the palace would fall, and the throng was sent dashing wildly down the street. At a fixed signal, all caught between the two marks fell flat on the ground. Those who had not reached the first line halted and registered terror. Those who had passed the second mark fled on, looking back and also registering terror. You see, those caught between the two marks were the people buried under the debris of Pilate's palace—those on either side had escaped.

Then came the trick printing with the two negatives, with considerable painting out of those who had fallen flat between the two lines, and you have the palace falling on the panic-stricken throng in the street. The accompanying drawings will help you to visualize this. 

Never Before Told 

This set of illustrations graphically explains for the first time the marvelous traveling mat process invented by Mr. Williams, which makes it possible for one cameraman to take a background in Europe, another to take the action of moving persons in Hollywood, and to combine them in one motion picture so that when it appears on the screen the action seems to take place against the background so perfectly that it cannot be detected by the human eye. 

Follow this explanation carefully, and the method will be clearly demonstrated to you. 

No. 1. This is the negative of the moving figure taken in front of a white background. In the negative, white appears black and black appears white. It is from this negative that the Williams traveling mat, which has revolutionized motion pictures, is made. 

No. 2. This is a print made from the No. 1 negative and is printed on film of extreme contrast. In this the white and black values are given their true tones. 

No. 3. This is the No. 2 film intensified in a silver nitrate solution so that it becomes a dead black silhouette, while the rest of the film is transparent. 

No. 4. This is the background negative which can be taken any place in the world or made from still photographs or from miniatures. This background negative can have put in it any motion required. 

No. 5. This shows the most important step in the Williams' moving mat process. In front you see the moving mat or drawing No. 3. In the middle is the background negative, drawing No. 4, and at the back is the unexposed film on which they are to be printed concurrently. By this double printing, you get a print of the background negative, which leaves an unexposed portion in each frame, corresponding exactly to the figure you see in drawing No. 1. 

No. 6. The result of the double printing being made in No. 5, which leaves a silhouette blank space of the moving figure, is again double printed and into the blank space is printed the real photographic action taken in the original negative. 

Thus you see that one double printing has left a blank silhouette space into which the real action is double printed in every detail.

---

The rescue of Doris Kenyon, which is also illustrated by the artist, was accomplished in this manner. One negative was shot of a very real and very steep precipice, the cameramen suspended on a platform far out over the edge to get the proper angle. Another negative was shot of Miss Kenyon's horse racing madly along what looked like a fence—but what was the inevitable white drop. Doris and the horse had to reach a certain mark at a certain count—for over at the precipice there had been rocks and dirt released at a certain count—the horse bad to rear, and Colman had to reach the frenzied beast, starting from outside the camera line, and he, too, must arrive on the right count. There could be no waiting for man or horse. They took it perhaps forty times before everything was exactly right, and then the two negatives (the precipice background and the moving mat) were ready for the printing wizard, and audiences got a great thrill.

[A Thief in Paradise (1925) is almost entirely lost. I profiled the film in my series Lost, but Not Forgotten in 2023.]

Photo caption: These two drawings explain how the runaway horse thrill in George Fitzmaurice's "A Thief in Paradise" was made. The upper drawing shows the cameraman getting his shots of a very steep and very real precipice. It also has the horse with its rider and the rescuer sketched in on the edge of the precipice where it actually appears in the picture. 

The lower drawing shows the run that was made before the dead white background, with the horse rearing and Ronald Colman coming to Doris Kenyon's rescue. 

The upper drawing was the background negative and the lower drawing the moving mat negative, and by the Williams' process the rearing horse, rider and Colman seemed to be actually placed on the brink of the precipice

---

You remember the mountain of water pursuing Conway Tearle in "The Great Divide." Of course they shot the torrent in miniature. Conway and his horse made their hairbreadth dash on a dark night and in an artificial rainstorm with nothing but a director threatening —then, although they did have quite a time making the steed climb a slippery and sloping wooden bridge, which was out on the back lot. Then up in Mr. Williams' laboratory, they finished one of the greatest thrills ever witnessed. 

[While The Great Divide (1925) is thankfully extant at Cinemateket-Svenska Filminstitutet, it’s not easily accessible and I was unable to find a depiction of the effect.]

And the marvelous battle scenes in "The Big Parade." There were the big guns tearing huge craters in No Man's Land made on one negative, and the boys marched on and on and on in the other negative, and Mr. Williams brought them together in his printing laboratory. However, it was by no means as easy as it sounds, for this was one of the hardest pieces of moving mat printing ever accomplished.

SO critical is the public that the building, photographing and printing of these miniatures must be of the very highest type of workmanship obtainable. It might be interesting to know that this work in "The Big Parade" alone cost approximately $70,000 for the background negative and the moving mat negative. The miniature battlefield was about one hundred thirty-five feet long and more than seven thousand miniature shells were fired in a period of forty seconds.

On another picture—"The Barrier"—which shows a fierce storm at sea, icebergs, and a ship caught and crushed in an ice floe, more than $85,000 have been spent to create these illusions. 

[The Barrier (1926) is unfortunately presumed lost and I wasn’t able to find a depiction of this effect.]

Mr. Waller, technical camera expert of the Famous Players Long Island Studio, had never seen a cyclone; yet he was instructed to produce one for D. W. Griffith's picture, "That Royle Girl." Mr. Waller did extensive research work on the subject, and then made one to experiment with. A scientific knowledge of the working of the law of gravity, by the way, is necessary to create this phenomenon of nature. 

[That Royle Girl (1925) is also presumed lost, and without film footage of this sequence there’s not really a way to know how the cyclone looked in the film. However, I do think the image highlighted in the advertisement below is likely from the cyclone sequence.

from Motion Picture News, 21 November 1925]

In the basement of the studio Mr. Waller connected up three vacuum cleaners. With three suctions of air and some dust, he made a tiny cyclone. This was photographed in slow motion so that the camera and technical crew might study the formation and activity of the cone. 

From his observations of the film, Mr. Waller was able to prepare the series of wash drawings which, photographed in animated cartoon fashion, represented the action of the cyclone's cone in this sequence of the picture. 

Several hundred drawings had to be made, each one depicting gradually the advance of the cone toward the Inn, which it finally demolishes. These were photographed in rotation on motion picture negative, and this negative double exposed on the 180-foot miniature scene containing the houses and trees. Thus we got a very good illusion of the cone of a cyclone advancing over a village and sweeping houses and trees out of its path. 

[I wonder if/hope that some of these drawings have survived!]

The animated cartoon idea was also used in "A Kiss for Cinderella," when the pumpkin and mice change into the coach and four. The first few feet of the sequence showed real mice and pumpkin; from then on 256 wash drawings of the gradual transformation were photographed in rotation and gave the impression of being animated.

Double exposures of one actor playing two parts is the oldest and most familiar camera trick to the fans. 

Just recently, however, has it been perfected to the point where the actor's two screen shadows can light each other's cigarettes and shake hands. 

Tom Meighan, you recall, did this in Irish Luck." 

AN invisible line from top to bottom divides each frame of the negative in half. One half at a time is exposed, photographing one half of the set. 

Tom appears as Lord Fitzhugh on the left half, and as Tom Donohue on the right half. If you remember. Tom's two shadows are sitting side by side on a divan in the instance of the cigarette lighting. Fitzhugh leans over and gets a light from Donahue's cigarette. The illusion is perfect. But the cigarette from which his lordship really got the light was tacked onto a chair just outside the line, on the half of the set not being photographed at that moment. Only the lighted end of the cigarette projects into Fitzhugh's half of the picture.

[Irish Luck (1925) is extant at Eastman House, but it’s not currently easily accessible. I wasn’t able to find a depiction of this split-screen effect.]

Then when Donahue's half of the scene was being filmed, Tom leans forward and holds his cigarette in exactly the spot where the chair had been, the lighted end being outside his half of the picture. Think of the perfect matching this requires! 

It is done this way. As Lord Fitzhugh performs on one side of the set, the director times his actions, counting the seconds out loud. He knows just where his lordship's right arm is, for instance, at the sixteenth second. When Donahue begins to perform on the other side of the set, his arm must be in a corresponding position at the sixteenth second. Tricky. 

A thrilling moment in "Aloma of the South Seas," Gilda Grey's new picture, occurs when a shark eats a sailor. If you want this thrill, you naturally have to take it synthetic. 

The shark cost $3,000. It was made of flexible rubber, and its insides consisted of a maze of electric wiring. Outside the body were several buttons which the actor could operate in his fight with the shark. It swims, wiggles its tail and bites electrically.

[Aloma of the South Seas (1926) is presumed lost and I wasn’t able to find images of the shark described here. However, as consolation, here is a photo from American Cinematographer of the film’s cinematographer Harry Fishbeck shooting on location in Puerto Rico:

from American Cinematographer, February 1926]

I guess most of the suffering for art is done by the actors who tie themselves into knots to create the illusion of paralysis, amputated legs and so on. John Gilbert is shown in the last reels of "The Big Parade" with an amputated leg. Jack Barrymore in "The Sea Beast," also does it. It is merely a painful process of strapping the foreleg back. In "The Street of Forgotten Men," with Percy Marmont, a very lucid expose of cripple fakes is shown. Marmont had his arm strapped to his back for hours at a stretch during the filming of this picture. It hurts the first fifteen minutes, Percy said. After that the arm becomes numb. 

A vigorous massage is necessary to bring it back to life, but it doesn't feel normal for weeks, Percy says. 

Lon Chaney has his tricks of deformity down so pat that they are almost painless to him now.

#1920s #1910s #1926 #classic film #classic movies #film #american film #my edits #silent film #my gifs #silent movies #silent era #silent cinema #cinema #film history #history #Roy Pomeroy #Frank Williams #Film Art #How'd They Do It #photoplay #lantern

[revelisms]

Don't you want to be—

(what what what, darling?)

—mirror to some piece of this: moon-slash of his wretchedness, recklessness, fawning fingers pleasure-peaked sharp-tongued wickedness—

(why why why, darling?)

—hair slicked back and smile perfect.

His silks feel like death-robes, his pulpit a coffin, his congregation a stew of want and need. His own needs selfishly curtailed and forgotten. Drowned in skin sticky with sweat and voices biting nothingness in his ear: in his brother's cracked-open wines and the slam of his foot on the gas pedal, fueling life into an engine that screams, a vile communion with the hoarse shattering of his own.

At the cliffside, pomade wind-tussled from his hair, layered instead with salt-grime and smeared tears, he smokes.

His mother's own habit, sourly inherited.

The scent is nostalgic the way celluloid film loses its stain: bitter, half torn, stuffed in the pockets of his mind, nonetheless. The same brand of cheap woody tobacco he smells on her when he's close enough to lay his head on her shoulder.

Not that she offers.

Not that he asks.

The sun is dipping on the horizon: a blood-orange half-moon slurped down by a dead sea.

He ticks his thumb over the paper rolled between his knuckles. Watches the ash flutter like polluted snow to his feet. Through his lungs breathes a soldier's quiver, weighing him down like lead: sighs out black magic, white-eye light, the taste of empty pleasure on his tongue, a throat-trip of rusted ambrosia.

He looks not to the heavens—but to the red-soaked sea, below: to the black gate of Olde, the Beneath, the Beyond: wings of skin, not of feathers, beasts gray and fanged, and violet spellwork unspoken in his hands.

In thirteen months' time, the adopted darling will succeed him. The little copper-haired boy he still sees, sometimes, with both eyes that watery ocean-blue. The child his mother wrapped her arms around, without question. The heir his father, in spirit, will learn to accept—after he's carried out his head on a spit.

Him, the doomed Failure from the start.

Him, the one they've all watched and waited to fall.

He hears reason in the memory of Ghoul's—Omega's—his—otherworldly grumbling: that it is one path of countless.

A curse that this eye can see them, at all.

But he feels sureness in his bones, more than any sureness he's known before.

All their days are numbered.

(and yours?)

The stubbed end of a cigarette rolls between his fingers. Against the points of them: a purple spark. The paper folds upon itself, blackened and writhing: burns and burns in hellfire and ash.

A year, if he's lucky.

A smile twitches on his mouth: paintless and crooked.

And, oh—will he give them a show.

terzo, on premonitions / creator, brother, son

#we are back with the gutting prose hoo man #terzo is giving me some angsty throughts today #prose #writing #ficlet #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #terzo #papa emeritus iii #papa iii #i'm still trying to figure out what all the lore *could* mean but i LOVE the idea of it having more magic elements to it #and i have so many thoughts on him as the last ''official'' heir to the Bloodline (per Nihil's comments in the chapters) #and all the pressures that potentially came with that #he is very much becoming a 'grew up too fast / stayed reckless for years / saw his status as both a blessing and a curse' figure to me #i just think he's neat

[renthony]

Someone left a comment on one of my Steven Universe posts bitching about how Steven Universe, The Owl House, and She-Ra are the only queer shows people ever want to talk about, and I'm just sitting here laughing, because, wow, honey, just because you don't see the conversations doesn't change the fact that you left that comment on a post made by someone working on a massive, massive project talking about censorship throughout American film and TV history.

Like, if you want to talk about other queer film besides modern queer cartoons, I gotchu. Let's talk. I have a booklist and several YouTube channels I can recommend if you're looking for sources, even. Let's talk about Queen Christina, and Brokeback Mountain, and The Celluloid Closet, and Some Like it Hot, and Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and The Birdcage, and Will and Grace, and The Ellen Show, and Glee, and Paris is Burning, and But I'm a Cheerleader, and The Watermelon Woman, and Bound, and The L Word, and Rocky Horror. I am there. Let's do it! Let's talk!

Though quite frankly, people don't seem to like it when I talk about things like Rocky Horror, either, so I think the problem is that, as always, people have no fucking comprehension of just how difficult it is to make queer media and actually get it seen, and want to evaluate it completely out of context, as if we've always been living in the United States in the year 2022, and queer art has never been subject to violent censorship.

So, like...do you actually want to talk about other queer media, or do you just want to complain because you've got a chip on your shoulder about the one specific piece of media I was focusing on in a single post?

#original post

[ariel-seagull-wings]

RECOMENDATIONS OF MOVIES TO WATCH ON PRIDE MONTH

@thealmightyemprex @piterelizabethdevries @themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie @barbossas-wench @professorlehnsherr-almashy @amalthea9

Disclosure

Priscilla: Queen of the Desert

The Celluloid Closet

Paris is Burning

Cazuza: Time Doesn't Stop

Pain and Glory

Bad Education

Nina's Heavenly Delights

My Fake Boyfriend

Tatuagem

Billy Elliot

Bacurau

Patrik Age 1.5

#queer cinema #pride month #pop culture #cinema #cult cinema #movies #tumblr mutuals

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

“Soren Kierkegaard argued that it was the separation of intellect from emotion, from empathy, that doomed Western civilization. The "soul" has no role in a technocratic society.The communal has been shattered. The concept of the common good has been obliterated. Greed is celebrated. The individual is a god. The celluloid image is reality. The artistic and intellectual forces that make transcendence and the communal possible are belittled or ignored.The basest lusts are celebrated as forms of indentity and self-expression. Progress is defined exclusively by technological and material advancement. All that is human is obliterated. This creates a collective despair and anxiety that is fed by glitter, noise, and false promises of consumer-culture idols.The despair grows ever-worse, but we never acknowledge our existential dread. As Kierkegaard understood, "the specific character of despair is precisely this : it is unaware of being despair."

Those who resist are relentlessly self-critical. They ask the hard questions that mass culture, which promises an unachievable eternal youth, fame and financial success, deflects us from asking. What does it mean to be born ? What does it mean to live ? What does it mean to die ? How do we live a life of meaning ? What is justice ? What is truth ? What is beauty ? What does our past say about our present ? How do we defy radical evil ?

We are in the grip of what Kierkegaard called "sickness unto death" - the numbing of the soul by despair that leads to moral and physical debasement. Those who are ruled by rational abstractions and an aloof intellectualism, Kierkegaard argued, are as depraved as those who succumb to hedonism, cravings for power, violence, and predatory sexuality. We achieve salvation when we accept the impediments of the body and the soul, the limitations of being human, yet despite these limitations seek to do good. This burning honesty, which means we always exist on the cusp of despair, leaves us, in Kierkegaard's words, in "fear and trembling". We struggle not to be brutes while acknowledging we can never be angels. We must be able to see our own face in the face of the oppressor.

The theologian Paul Tillich did not use the word "sin" to mean an act of immorality. He, like Kierkegaard, defined sin as estrangement. For Tillich, it was our deepest existential dilemma. Sin was our separation from the forces that give us ultimate meaning and purpose in life. This separation fosters the alienation, anxiety, meaninglessness, and despair that are preyed upon by mass culture. As long as we fold inward and embrace a hyper-individualism that is defined by selfishness and narcissism, we will never overcome this estrangement. We will be separated from ourselves , from others and from the sacred.

Resistance is not only about battling the forces of darkness.It is about becoming a complete human being. It is about overcoming estrangement. It is about our neighbour. It is about honoring the sacred. It is about dignity. It is about sacrifice. It is about courage. It is about freedom. It is about the capacity to love. Resistance must become our vocation."

(Chris Hedges in "America, The Farewell Tour")

[h/t Ian Sanders]

#human #human being #Ian Sanders #quotes #Christ Hedges #philosophy #existential dilemma #vision #the senses #the eye

[98bluecalisky]

Happy Halloween!

Bela Lugosi King of Fright

In arcane shadows of the silver screen

These iconic monumental Masters of the macabre will make you shudder and scream

Lon Chaney Senior the phantasmal man of a thousand faces

is one of many to which the screen he graces

Boris Karloff is a celluloid monarch as horror fans we all worship and hail

Lon Chaney Jr.'s Wolfman leaves behind a bloody, gruesome homicidal trail

Vincent Price laughs with a ghastly glare

Basil Rathbone creeps through the midnight air

While Peter Lorre chooses his victims with keen and sadistic care

John Carradine stares with mesmerizing evil stone-cold eyes

Dwight Frye's Renfield eats plump juicy spiders and flies

George Zucco experiments upon the living dead

Lionel Atwill ogles gleeful with mad bloodshot burning eyes of red

Charles Laughton's Dr. Moreau is blasphemously deranged as one can be

Excellent are Horror Greats such as Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee.

The deformed Rondo Hatton will leave you with an uncanny chill

Claude Rains' performances are phenomenal and forevermore thrill

Gale Sondergaard, the dark beauty will rob you with her draconian heart

These legends are immortalized in cinematic history and will never be forgotten nor will their legends that haunt us ever depart...

In the saturnine shadowy bowers of our hearts now comes the imperial looming Master of this ghastly Hollywood regime,

Hollywood's Prince of Darkness whose dominion reigns ever supreme,

In the terror throughout the sequential lexicons of celluloid time,

the epitome of horror he truly defined,

he has enchanted and seductively made the ensorcelled souls of so very many moves to heart-quake and scream,

He resides lurking in the lugubrious chambers our hearts, souls, nightmares and beautiful dreams, and captivates us all with his vampiric kiss in the mysterious night and while drunken in the esoteric bath of mordacious moonbeams

Hail Bela Lugosi Father to all the lost howling children of the night

Bela Lugosi is King of horror who can still enthrall

He will mesmerize you entirely and make your skin crawl

So, remember on this frightful Halloween night, who truly is the King of fright

Bela (Dracula) Lugosi who stalks on the screen and the forsaken eternal midnight.

- Christopher R. Gauthier

#halloween #classic horror #classic monsters #dracula #frankenstein #dwight frye #boris karloff #vincent price #bela lugosi #lon chaney #basil rathbone

[genderoutlaws]

omg didnt realize how many ppl havent seen paris is burning maybe tht should be its whole own stream with celluloid closet lol

#bc theyre both quintessential queer docs imo

[zippocreed501]

FROM THE B-MOVIE BADLANDS...

...images from the lost continent of cult films, b-movies and celluloid dreamscapes

Killer Kaiju: Godzilla's allies and enemies (1955-1967)

...so the mega-slug Squisho was slithering over Tokyo, smothering a carpark and a pachinko arcade. We had to send in Godzilla.

And how did the King of Monsters save the city from destruction?

...well, he smashed a few skyscrapers, burned the town hall to cinders, stomped his way over downtown and used the rail network as dental floss...

Anguirus (Godzilla Raids Again (1955)) Kong (King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962)) Mothra (Mothra vs. Godzilla (1964)) Ghidorah, Rodan (Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster  (1964)) Ebirah (Ebirah, Horror of the Deep (1966)) Kamacuras, Kumonga, Minilla (Son of Godzilla (1967))

#godzilla #kaiju #monsters #japan #from the b-movie badlands

[freakingoutthesquares]

Shag Pile Carpets Confessions Unknown Publication - Helen. S Stock. 1994 Interview with Russell Senior & Steve Mackey Transcription by me - taken from Pulp scrapbook 2

After thirteen years in the pop wilderness, Sheffield band Pulp finally seemed to be getting the recognition they deserve. What took them so long?

“The thing that we are about is a glamorous thing and we were swimming against the tide in the 80s,” says Russell Senior, the band's guitarist and violinist. “People hated all that stuff, they wanted anonymity and we must have seen quite corny and capricious, really. But now the tide’s swung in our favour in a big way.”

Pulp have been variously described as kitsch’n’sink and their song as ‘Mike Leigh plays set to music.’ “I don't mind that,” says bass player Steve Mackey. “If I saw that written about a band, I'd think it was worth having a listen, because I like Might Leigh. I'd rather they say that than kitsch Electro skiffle, which has been used in the past.”

Pulp songs are also narrative packed, with Jarvis Cockers lyrics invoking cast of odd, yet accessible characters making out and breaking up behind the net curtains. As Russell says, “Most people who write love songs or about sex write from a macro outside view, but Jarvis writes about the minutiae.” In His’n’Hers their latest album, Jarvis, the Clark Kent of the pop world, expressed his fears of interior decoration, of soap on the Rope, pot-pourri and nights on Couple Row. Russell, now a father for the second time, denies any anti couple sentiments. “It's more about not letting mundanity creep into the relationship you have. Getting the his’n’hers towels thing. But I recognise something of myself in some of those slag off lyrics.”

Pulp's last single, Do You Remember The First Time, is accompanied by a documentary of the same title, which is due to be screened on Channel 4 in June. In the film, they ask a host of friends and celebs including Jo Brand, Reeves and Mortimer, Terry Hall, Alison Steadman and Justine from Elastica how they lost their virginity. The results are funny and enlightening. Not much Mills & Boon here, but plenty of damp grass, awkward fumbling and carpet burns. While most of us have trouble remembering the last time, Pulp probe the first times of their subjects in the most sensitive way. To create an intimate atmosphere, they put a ‘sad pretend leather couch’ in the studio, poured the whiskey, passed round the cigs, and the rest is celluloid.

Steve admits, “We didn't ask any embarrassing physical questions like ‘was he rough’ or anything like that. They were all in control of how much detail they told us.”

The film has received good reviews following screenings at London's ICA and nationally, including Manchester's Dry Bar. It also provided an inbuilt chat up line for those present and led to the deflowering of one young Innocent. “It was a boy who was in the video for our single,” says Steve, “and it happened the night we showed it at the ICA, so I thought that was good.”

Whose first time would they most like to know about? “My dad.” Says Steve. “I never found out what happened to my parents, and when they came to see the film, I thought they might tell me. I've got this sneaking suspicion that I was the result of the first time. I wouldn't say they've ever been great lovers.”

All this sex talk in the press would lead to embarrassing confessions. Have they ever given too much away? Steve nods. “I thought that when we did the NME article, they asked us individually to tell our own stories. Once you get in there, it all comes out. Russell laughs, “I just lied.” “I didn't. I told the truth,” says Steve, perhaps a bit miffed he didn't think of it himself. “Yeah, but mine was more interesting,” says Russell. “The truth wasn't.”

“But I don't advocate Scandinavian attitudes,” confesses Steve. “I quite enjoy the fact that English people are they way they are, to be honest.” Reserved? “Initially reserved, but in private quite the opposite, they’re quite bestial when it comes down to it. Not speaking from personal experience, of course!” “You shouldn't be ashamed of your body,” deadpans Russell, “it’s a sinful thing.” “And I want you to be ashamed,” laughs Steve. “Yes,” says Russell, “share my shame.”

While stardom beckons, Steve bemoans his current homeless state, which he agrees this is self-inflicted due to splitting up with his girlfriend, “But I’ve not had a real house in seven years. I went to London and lived in squats for five years, then me and Jarvis had a council house which was worse than the squat and now I'm on Jarvis' floor.” “We've all squatted,” says Russell. “I know we're not the Levellers, but we have suffered bad housing.”

Reluctantly, Pulp agreed that the measure of success is still an appearance on Top of the Pops. As Steve puts it, “If you haven't been on Top of the Pops and somebody asked you in five years time what you do, you couldn't really say ‘I'm in a band.’ It's like getting your Cycling Proficiency Test or your L plates.” Like losing your virginity. “Yeah, the test of you’re in a band now.” So while we await the imminent debut with bated breath, is there anything else they aspire to? “Yes,” says Steve “a Flat.”

Sisters EP will be released on 16th of May. Pulpwood Play the Glastonbury Festival 24th to 26th of June.

#russell senior #steve mackey #pulp #interview #britpop #90s

[queer-media-tourney]

#queer #queer media #polls #celluoid closet #paris is burning

[myhauntedsalem]

The Great Salem Fire of 1914

Salem, Massachusetts

On June 25, 1914 a devastating fire ignited on Boston Street in Blubber Hollow, the leather-manufacturing district of Salem. Over the course of two days, this massive fire destroyed 1,376 buildings and left 18,000 people, almost half of Salem’s population, homeless and many without jobs.

The Great Salem Fire started with a series of explosions, caused by a mixture of acetone, amalacitate, alcohol, and celluloid. At 1:37 PM, a fire alarm box was used to report a fire in the Korn leather factory, 57 Boston street.

The fire spread quickly down and across Boston Street. The police department sent out calls to 21 cities for assistance. One industrial department, the Fore River Shipyard, also assisted. Over 90 police men from out of town came to help. The Salem Evening News, (Friday, July 26, 1914, page 11), has a complete list of all responding departments and where and how they worked to fight the fire. The Salem Evening News covered the events in a series of articles which were later reprinted as a book by Montanye Perry

The fire burned 253 acres (1.02 km2; 0.395 sq mi) with 1,376 buildings. The entire loss was estimated at US$15 million; insurance policies paid US$11.744 million. Some 20,000 people lost their homes, 10,000 their jobs and a few their lives.

#ghost and hauntings #paranormal #ghost and spirits #haunted locations #haunted salem #myhauntedsalem #salem massachusetts #paranormal phenomena #Salem Fire of 1914