I think a lot of people had a lot of ready-made takes on the Oppenheimer movie about how it "lionizes" or "glorifies" Robert Oppenheimer and his bomb, and I really wonder what movie they were watching. The Oppenheimer in this movie is a weirdo who makes a lot of stupid decisions, constantly gives the impression he's not saying what he really thinks (because it's never a hundred percent clear what he really thinks about anything), and seems to have convinced himself by film's end that he's responsible for what will ultimately be the end of the world. He's also shown as a brilliant scientist and project manager and something other than history's greatest monster. He's not the hero of the movie; he's just the subject.
Other criticisms, such that this story of the man who built the bomb does not let in much air for the stories about the people who were hurt by the bomb, are more valid. The movie really does not have much to say about the people affected by the Trinity test, and has little to say about the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that isn't from Oppenheimer's point of view. I think there was room for that discourse in this movie, and it would have furthered the movie's purpose. But it also bears remembering that this movie did not purport to be the definitive and comprehensive story of the atomic bomb, but rather to be a story about the man who built it.
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nightfall
j. robert oppenheimer x female reader
implied adultery, set during manhattan project
prompt by @forgottenpeakywriter
1.1k words
summary
You meet the illustrious Dr. Oppenheimer at the Los Alamos Christmas party. He asks you for a dance.
Los Alamos isn’t a socialite’s paradise, but looking around Fuller Lodge decorated for the annual personnel Christmas party, they almost could have fooled you.
A band was playing - turns out Los Alamos had a lot more musicians than you had thought - and the soft bustle of the room’s chatter rises up to the tinsel garland draped over the ceiling’s wooden beams. The electricity was always down in the evenings, and the water from the tanker trucks was in short supply, but for tonight, candles and liquor more than made up for it.
You see him from across the room, standing at the counter. Doctor Oppenheimer is not a particularly loud man, nor a particularly imposing one. Still, there’s an air about him that seems to draw people in. He looks up and meets your gaze from across the room, and his blue eyes in the low light strike you like a bullet. You’ve heard about a million stories about him in the time that you’ve been here - you’ve heard he’s a genius of the highest degree, of course, but that’s practically a given. According to the rumors that flew through the town, he was also a Communist, a millionaire, a homewrecker, and a man that had left a trail of cultish devotion behind him in every university doing any real work in theoretical physics everywhere from Cambridge to California. You hadn’t believed a word of him until you’d met him in person. He seemed to be around every corner, in every lab, his brilliance the undercurrent at every turn. There was a sort of hypnotism that surrounded him, something that you had never seen before. You, like all the rest, were only human. Nobody could help falling under its spell. In the crowd, you lose sight of him.
It’s not until the night starts to draw to a close that you encounter him again. He startles you, tapping you on the shoulder. The light is low, scattering dim light across the wooden floor. The band plays some soft, pretty jazz tune you’re sure you’ve heard before.
“Are you new to the Hill? I don’t think I recognize you.”
He extends his hand to you, and you shake it.
“J. Robert Oppenheimer. I’m not sure we’ve had a chance to meet.”
You introduce yourself and his eyes glimmer with a slight touch of recollection.
“I recognize that last name. Were you at Berkley? Caltech?”
You laugh and shake your head.
“No, you must be thinking of my husband. He was one of Professor Lawrence’s graduate students there.”
“Of course. I don’t think I could have forgotten a face like that.”
He smiles at you over the rim of his glass.
“Let me make you a drink.”
You lean against the edge of the counter as you watch him make a martini, rimmed in lime and honey with extra gin.
“So where did you go to school? I know your husband works in the E-5 group, but I could swear I’ve seen you in the labs.”
“Harvard - for chemistry, summa cum laude. I wasn’t able to complete my master’s, though - we moved out here just a couple months before I would have finished. I worked under Hornig in plutonium chemistry as a lab assistant for a while, but now I’m just a courier in the library group.”
“Ah, one of Lilli’s plutonium girls. It’s important work you do, you know.”
“What, to drive back and forth from a mailbox all day with a suitcase of old books locked to my wrist like a pack mule?”
He laughs in a way that’s almost disarming, the charismatic Oppie of legend.
“A pack mule with one of the highest military security clearance levels in the country. It has to count for something.”
He hands you your drink. It’s strong, almost dizzying in the high altitude of top of the cocktails you’d already had. He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes studying you with an emotion you can’t quite decipher.
“Do you recognize this song?”
You shake your head.
“I’m certain I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.”
“Ah, of course. It’s quite popular, but it’s not as in vogue as it used to be. It’s called Nightfall - by Benny Carter. I saw him play live once, under Henderson at the Roseland in New York. Quite brilliant men, actually - I believe Henderson was a graduate student at Columbia in chemistry briefly.”
He pauses again, considering something. His eyes flit across the diamond ring on your finger as it wraps around the stem of your glass.
“Has your husband gone home yet? I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Oh, yes, doctor. Hours ago. He doesn’t dance - and he figured I could make it back home on my own.”
“I see. Do you? Dance, I mean.”
“When I can - which hasn’t been often lately. And where is Mrs. Oppenheimer tonight?”
“She’s… She’s visiting her family in Pennsylvania. Los Alamos has never suited her.”
You watch him rub the silver wedding band on his finger, a sudden flash of tension skimming across his face.
“And what about you? Do you dance, Dr. Oppenheimer?”
The question snaps him out of his reverie, and he smiles softly.
“Please, call me Robert. And as a matter of fact, I do. May I have the pleasure of this one?”
He extends his hand to you, and you take it.
“You may.”
He leads you out to the dance floor. He’s old-fashioned, almost gentlemanly - his hand rests delicately on your waist, in classic ballroom fashion. The two of you are practically the only people in the room, now - he leads you in a slow foxtrot around the room. There’s something soft in his eyes when he looks into yours that makes you feel like the only woman in the world.
When the last note of the song rings out, the two of you are standing in the center of the floor. Your head rests on his shoulder, your clasped hands pulled in close. His hand is warm on your waist through the thin fabric of your dress.
It’s hardly the picture of propriety. The scandal of an affair between the two of you would be enormous. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to care. Not now - not with him, dancing like this in the cool desert night. The rising moon drips silver light across the floor. With a flick of his hand, Robert signals to the band for just one more song.
couldn't resist the chance to flex my very minor jazz knowledge
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