#also just for context the picture on the wall looks like the painting ‘the reluctant bride’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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ncdyc · 3 years

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ANYA & NADYA’S *NEW* TOKYO APARTMENT

nadya is no longer sharing a one bedroom shoebox apartment with her occasionally difficult to deal with sister yay !

this is not a task, i just wanted a record of this on the blog instead of just discord don’t mind me, i like world-building.

CONTEXT: originally nadya had forgotten to have a unit set up for herself in tokyo when she returned to the program. anya offered to share hers before nadya could go invade alexei’s spare room (the czar gotta have at least 1 right?) and looked hurt when nadya seemed reluctant, so my girl took one for the team and found herself sharing a bed with the 1 sibling she barely knows and isn’t comfortable with. nadya is the unassuming lynchpin of the romanovs, it is her role to bridge gaps between the older ones without seeming to.

by the time the staff had empty units ready, nadya had discovered that anya needed a counterweight, and that firmly remaining in a space to have difficult conversations where anya might isolate the most was better for everybody in the grand scheme of things, especially with alexei’s recent decisions. thus she has conned anya into moving into a 3 2 bedroom apartment with her. kostya believes this is a terrible mistake.

DESIGN: the apartments in the building are japanese style: smallish, basic, minimalist and functional. nothing was structurally changed (not the wood or the build in stuff), besides two walls of the third room being traded out for clear soundproof glass. the rest are pieces and elements nadya chose to furnish the apartment with occasional input from anya, which she mostly elected to ignore aside from the request that as much light is let in as possible. the walls are white/grey with cement accents and of course, black appliances.

PIC 1:

on the left, sliding glass that opens out onto the balcony and the pretty view. comfy plush outdoor furniture not pictured. nadya occasionally plays music there.

the side of the cement pillar facing the camera has steampunk metal motorbike sculptures mounted. i tried to edit well, but failed so just pretend they are 3D metal pieces and look aesthetic and cover more of the pillar.

the side of the cement pillar facing the kitchen has polaroids nadya collected (or had sent from irinka) of anya and irina as teenagers, kostya and nadya, alexei and kostya, and bb nadya sitting on teen alexei’s shoulders.

we’re going to pretend the back of the sofa (and whole floor space) is closer to the back of the kitchen counter stools than pictured. there is no sun-roof because they are not on the top floor.

the sliding doors on the right, it’s clear glass that doesn’t slide instead of the wooden framed tampered glass. it is the soundproof clear glass box nadya had fitted for anya’s shouting matches with nobles in russia on video conferences or particularly tense meetings with her team. there are shutters inside the glass, but they are rarely used.

to the far side of the couch, apartment entrance. diagonally behind the camera is the little hallway that leads to 2 bedrooms. anya’s room is bigger, but nadya’s is cosier, darker and comfier with mood lighting.

PIC 2:

i have nothing to say other than there aren’t so many identical white tea/coffee cups.

PIC 3:

the main piece of art in the apartment. it covers the wall diagonally opposite the sofa. it looks like it was printed/painted onto the wall. nadya splashed some gold splotches over it and also over layed the cracks on the sculpture with gold. i tried my best to make it look nice on ps but i am lazy, pretend the splotches are cool.

OTHER DETAILS:

not pictured are the bar cart (from the dubai apartment) kostya’s fave leather chair from nadya’s dubai apartment also and kostya & nadya’s work murder board that is cleverly kept out of anya’s sight.

#tokyo hc.#tokyo apartment.

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star-sky-earth · 3 years

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dropstitch (1489 words)

bellamy/clarke, rated PG

warnings: ambiguous ending

Inspired by everyone’s favourite bellarke modern au picture, and this post.

The painting is beautiful. Large, stretching from floor to ceiling in a riotous mass of colour, taking up the entirety of Clarke’s vision as if she were standing on the precipice of an entirely new world. As if she could step forward, lift her foot over the boundary wire and walk right into it, her body melting into the paint. This close, the image blurs, the paint lying thick on the canvas, and she has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it, to feel the textured surface under her fingertips, trace the path of each individual brushstroke.

She is staring, absorbed, when she senses movement at her side, the quiet shuffle of someone coming to stand next to her. The painting is 13 metres long - it takes up the whole wall, plenty of room for everyone - and she feels a prickle of annoyance at the intrusion, the shattering of the illusion of privacy. As if she had been walked in on while undressing, or singing loudly in the shower, some small private part of her exposed that she would rather have remained hidden. It is always like this, she thinks, with men.

She turns to face the intruder, mouth already opening on a snide comment, and there he is.

It is not her fault, she will tell herself later. He is close, too close really, for such a large open space, and how could she have known? That he would be there, right there, and that their eyes would meet, instantly, and hold, and all the breath leave her lungs, the connection hitting like a perfectly landed blow.

The bright overhead gallery lights are unforgiving, sparing no detail, and despite that he is beautiful. Because of that, even. His eyes are a warm brown behind a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses, the skin around them etched with feather-soft lines, and there is a small scar bisecting the curved line of his upper lip, standing out stark white against his tan skin. His hair is unbrushed, dark messy curls, and he is dressed casually, in a wrinkled beige button-down, the sleeves pushed up and rolled around his elbows. One of the buttons is coming loose, and it trails a thin line of dangling white thread.

She imagines painting him. She can’t help it - she is an artist, after all, and then there is where they are, and context is important in these things. She imagines what it might be like, the process of having him sit for her, deconstructing each feature into its most basic parts, his own personal geometry - the arch of his brow, the angle of his jaw, the exact position of each individual freckle on his skin, like mapping constellations - until she could draw him with her eyes closed, his body captured, written into hers like muscle memory. And then, because she really cannot help herself, because she may be an artist, but she is also a woman, and lonely - she imagines waking next to him in bed, watching in the early dawn light as he sleeps, tracing each relaxed line not with the eye of a painter, but a lover. Memorising not just the sight of him, but the smell, the taste, the weight of his body on hers. Absorbing him entirely, until the boundary between their individual bodies fails, collapses into a question of mere semantics, a philosophical problem.

It is both a very long time, and just a few seconds later, that she collects herself.

“I - ” she stutters, and hates herself. “Um, the painting,” she says, gesturing behind her as though he might not have noticed it, somehow.

“Yes,” he says, his voice surprisingly deep. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he is holding back a smile.

She turns back to the painting, and now they are side by side. He smells good, his cologne rich but not over-powering, and she realises that she is wet, and shifts uncomfortably, squeezing her thighs together underneath her long skirt.

“Beautiful,” he says, after a pause, but the side of her face burns under his gaze, and he is not looking at the painting as he says it.

They stand together, looking at the painting. No, not together, but, also. Together.

The gallery was noisy before, the large space echoing with footsteps and the low hum of whispered conversation, but now it seems to quieten, so all Clarke can hear is her own breath, the thundering of her heartbeat. Her phone vibrates in her shoulder bag, but she ignores it. Her mom, probably, sick of playing with Madi in the Children’s Zone, wondering where she is. She was never that kind of mother. Or grandmother, it seems.

Clarke ignores it.

She risks a glance at his face, but his expression is relaxed, giving nothing away. She’s got her right hand on her shoulder bag, holding it close to her, but her left hand hangs loosely at her side, only a few inches from his. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between their hands seems to lessen, and out of the corner of her eye she notices his hand twitch, his little finger flex, as if he might close the distance. She holds her breath.

“Bellamy!”

The shout rings out across the hall, and she jumps at the sound. Their fingers touch, for an instant.

She looks up at him. He looks as startled as she feels, but there is something else in his expression too. Guilt, and the sight of it wrenches her insides, like someone has wrapped their hands around her intestines and twisted their fists in opposite directions.

“I have to…” he says, his voice trailing off. He takes a deep breath, and then nods in the direction of the shout.

“Of course,” she replied. “Nice meeting you.”

“Yes.” He nods, and then opens his mouth as though he is going to say something else. Closes it, as if he has thought better of it, whatever it was. And then he is moving.

Leaving.

Gone.

Something painful catches in her, a sharp pain just under her ribs and suddenly she’s crying. Like when you stub your toe in exactly the right(wrong) spot and tears spring to your eyes before the pain even registers, someone rushing over to ask if you’re okay. Except she is alone, and when she looks over to the doorway she sees a woman waiting for him, tall and graceful. Brunette. Beautiful, and nothing like Clarke.

The woman looks up, and their eyes meet across the room for a split-second before she is looking away again, he gaze skipping disinterestedly over Clarke.

“Momma!” she hears then, and turns just in time for Madi to run headlong into her, wrapping her skinny arms around her thighs. Clarke bends down and scoops her up, hiding her wet eyes in her daughter’s hair.

“Who is that?” her mother asks, reaching them a moment later. “Do you know him?”

Clarke turns back towards the doorway, still holding Madi. He - Bellamy, she knows his name now - is watching her, his expression unreadable. His eyes flick to the child in her arms, and then back to her, and then the woman next to him tugs on his hand, and he turns away.

Was it her imagination, she will think later that evening, lying in bed with Madi snuggled tight and sleeping against her, or did he hesitate, just for a moment, before he walked away? Did something in his eyes flicker, a muscle in his sharp jaw twitch, before he turned, slow and reluctant? Did he pause, his feet suddenly heavy, almost too heavy to lift, a struggle to make himself walk away?

It would be unreasonable to expect the universe to work perfectly all the time. It is a large machine, after all, with so many small and moving parts, and well out of warranty, held together with little more than tape and super glue, and a good dash of hope. Everyone crossing their fingers and holding their breath, hoping that it won’t sputter and fail and grind to a halt, like driving an old car down a country road, ready at any moment to have to get out and push. If there is anyone in charge - and that, Clarke thinks, is doubtful in itself - they have proved themselves to be an entirely incompetent creator. It is only natural to expect a few hanging threads, a few loose screws, rifling frantically through the instruction manual as the whole thing wobbles dangerously in front of you, threatening to collapse at any moment.

A few dropped stitches.

Clarke smiles brightly at Madi, hoping that her eyes don’t shine too brightly under the gallery lights when she turns back and replies to her mother.

“No.”

#100 #bellamy x clarke #my writing #dropstitch

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lightsandlostbells · 4 years

Text

wtFOCK season 3, episode 1 reaction

So! It’s a million years too late, but I decided to talk about wtFOCK season 3.

I had fairly positive feelings about S1 of wtFOCK. It was the scrappy underdog of the Skam remakes, in a way, and what it lacked in polish, it made up for authenticity. I was very willing to overlook its flaws because of what I perceived as genuine attempts to connect with teenagers. I was really, really holding out hope that future seasons would improve on its flaws. And ... well. (Disclaimer: I still haven’t seen S2. Sorry! I just failed to keep up with all the remakes and S2 is my least fave so I didn’t feel that motivated to make it a priority, even though I did like Zoë a lot in S1.)

Heads up - I didn’t care for this season. A lot of people did, and I would never, ever want to ruin someone’s enjoyment of something, even if I personally didn’t like it. So please take this as a warning that I have a lot of negative things to say, and don’t read if it’s going to harsh your buzz for a pairing or a story that you deeply love. However, I didn’t want to just be grumpy and angry the whole time, so I tried to think of constructive ways to fix certain problems I had with this season. No guarantees that they’re satisfying solutions, but it was an interesting exercise.

Also, I didn’t watch this in real time, and I paid barely any attention to fandom reactions and/or drama, so it’s very possible that I am missing context, or that pacing issues didn’t register with me quite as strongly, etc. If one of the actors ate a live dolphin on Instagram, and then got into a fight with fans on Twitter about their right to eat live dolphins, and now fandom has canceled the problematic dolphin-eating actor, I legit do not know, do not come at me if I’m like “This actor is doing a good job” with “Wow, didn’t know you stanned dolphin-eaters??? YIKES.” Honestly, for the purposes of just grading this season on a storytelling level, I would prefer not to know anything about the cast or crew unless it directly has an impact on the show itself.

Clip 1 - House party

OK, I did like this flashy intro shot, immersing us in the Wild ‘n’ Crazy Teen Party of Wild ‘n’ Crazy Youths.

Amber rejecting every dude in site … When Will Gay Vilde Rise. (I know there have been some f/f storylines in the remakes, but if there’s one involving an actual Vilde, please let me know.)

Luca saying “We’re not walking around in a high school drama” - you can hear the rimshot.

I do like the transition from the party up to the bathroom, that’s a cool shot. wtFOCK’s directing so far is more ambitious than it was in S1.

Robbe is clearly a mess and they acknowledge his problems at home right off the bat.

We go back downstairs. wtFOCK’s version of Magnus knocks his drink on Amber and she gets pissed. She gives him the finger and he falls in love. Still a better love story than S3 Daphne/Basile.

It’s a small point, but I don’t get why we didn’t get this moment before jumping up to the bathroom with Robbe and the others? It would be a far smoother transition, just on a practical level and also in the sense of fully immersing us in Robbe’s POV after a quick update with the other characters.

Belgian Magnus joins the guys in the bathtub and announces he’s in love. They roast him when they find out it’s Amber and start talking about hot chicks. Moyo starts grilling Robbe about his type of girl, in a crass, sexual way.

This is honestly not a bad start to Robbe’s story at all. Robbe is clearly more reluctant to get into his interest in girls than Isak was - Isak was more fuckboyish from the start, Robbe seems like he’s about to start squirming and doesn’t really give an answer to Moyo’s questioning. Which is fine! I think it’s fine to start off the POV character at different stages of performing heterosexuality, as long as it’s taken into account in the writing of the character’s whole arc. The fact that the boy talk is so crude and sexual just ramps up Robbe’s alienation.

I swear, I will never understand how the girls in this scene just go into the bathroom and pee in front of strange boys … like maybe I am just a ~prude but that seems like a recipe for disaster and I would not trust those little fuckers to not be secretly recording me on the toilet.

Her peeing is kind of a power move, like marking her territory.

Also L M A O at Robbe starting to flirt with the girl while she is pissing … like now this comes off as a kink thing. OK, Robbe. Jokes aside, this gets across the same meaning as the scene with Isak: he starts to flirt with her because he was encouraged by the other guys.

Uh, flush the toilet, lady. And use some TP.

Now this version of Emma seriously radiates some Natalie Portman in The Professional vibes.

She orders him to stand up and then starts kissing him. I get way less of a vibe of Robbe’s mad game with women (like how Isak negged Emma into kissing him) and more like this girl is the love interest out of an indie romcom, all mysterious and spunky. She kisses him like once after taking his jay and then leaves. The boys all crack up. Moyo tells Robbe it’s his responsibility to get the weed back which lmao, no it’s not, all you assholes were there and could have intervened.

This scene is perfectly fine and even effective! Not entirely the same vibes as OG, but it still has a purpose and some obvious cause-and-effect, and there are some nice stylistic choices.

Clip 2 - Party pt. 2

Robbe is now making out with mystery girl. We already have a divergence in characterization from OG. Isak was being performative about making out with Emma and shut it down once the guys left. Robbe is making out with this girl because he wants to be straight, I guess? If it’s not to appeal to his friends, it’s likely that this is for himself. Again, I have no real problem with this change if it’s incorporated into Robbe’s overall arc and characterization. My thing is, if you’re writing this scene, do you realize the differences in characterization? Or do you think this is interchangeable from what happened with Isak? The latter is where you run into problems, because then the writing shows lack of nuance. I bring this up here because, well, you can guess how I feel about later events.

Luca seems rather aggro about the mystery woman, which I assume is because she still has the hots for Robbe?

It makes me laugh that we got this first-person POV as Robbe leaves through the garage, because of the “Smack My Bitch Up” song being played in the last clip (the song had an infamous music video, banned from MTV in the ‘90s, that was from a first-person POV). But again, WTFock is trying harder with the cinematography and direction, good for them.

Robbe ditches the cops by jumping on the bike with Belgian Emma. OK, I get it, Belgian Emma is too cool for school.

I have kinda mixed feelings on that, actually. I mean, I’ll be honest - I don’t see why any Emma has to be made into someone more palatable. Definitely don’t demonize her or present her in a misogynistic way! She deserves sympathy and dignity as much as any character on a Skam. But … it’s fine if she and the Isak aren’t like, amazingly compatible except for his sexuality. The Even character is supposed to be the one who really shakes up the Isak’s world! The Isak is supposed to be lost and confused and drifting and then Even comes in and is someone he can really open up to. Not just because he’s another guy who’s into guys, but because Even’s personality meshes with Isak’s so easily while still challenging him and introducing him to new things. In a way, it does kinda diminish the effect of the Even if the Isak meets ANOTHER mysterious stranger who’s an awesome person. Or at the very least, it lessens the feeling of the Isak’s detachment from everything.

And again, this could work if the writing realizes it. You can totally craft a subtly different arc from the pieces of Isak’s season. It’s just that (speaking from the future) I do not feel this is what happened.

Clip 3 - Tagging time

I don’t think it’s necessary to break up all the parts of a longer scene/set piece into a bunch of different clips. If you start a scene at 16:00, it’s OK to have the clip take place over several hours. You don’t need to chop it up unless there’s a reason why this pacing might benefit the story. Honestly, if you’re watching in real time, I think this method is often less effective at building tension/emotion/etc. But wtFOCK is not the first remake to try this tactic.

... this part where Robbe and Noor put on masks sure hits differently in 2020.

Belgian Emma’s name is Noor and she takes him to a warehouse, or something? It’s very secret and Cool Kid. And IDK, it’s fun, but again… I think making the Emma that much of a fun mysterious cool exciting person is very much diminishing the effect of Robbe’s isolation. We had a good start with establishing that alienation while he was in the tub, but now his reactions to her rad hipness feel way too sincere and act against the major character conflict of his season. He seems nervous to go with her, but not because he’s with a girl, just because it’s a risky scenario.

Noor hands Robbe a spray paint can and leads him to tag a wall. There’s a guy taking pictures. So I’m assuming one of the guys in masks is the Even? The POV seems to shift to the photo guy briefly, like we’re seeing Robbe through his eyes. And even though I’m not a fan of POV breakage, I do think this is a cool way to introduce the Even without really introducing him, you know? If that’s him. (EDIT from the future: Ummm, so that wasn’t Sander, right? I’m rewatching and it doesn’t look like him. Soooo that part has even less relevance than I originally thought. Got it.) (EDIT from the future beyond the future: @hellswolfie tells me that this actually was Sander, so I am just bad at recognizing people, lol.)

Robbe and Noor take off their masks briefly to kiss. Uhhhh, did the scene really just … cut off there? Because L M A O what a weird choice. We don’t get to see what Robbe creates on the wall, which could be a great way to establish his character, AND we end with him on a smiley, contented note which does not boost his POV at all. It legit just makes him seem like a guy who’s into this girl, and sorry, even if that’s his public persona at this point in time … that’s not what we, the audience should be getting at all.

Clip 4 - Boy squad morning after

Robbe skateboards to meet up with the guy squad. Again, the directing is far better IMO than in S1.

Robbe got the weed back so that conflict is over, I guess.

He gets a call from his mom and stops laughing with the guys and gets serious. He walks away to take the call. Then he starts to open up to Jens about his mom freaking out, and then Moyo spots some girls so they all ditch Robbe to go chase girls, and WOW, Jens, please turn in your Jonas card.

Don’t love that we didn’t hear his mom on the phone. There’s no reason not to let us hear what she’s saying since it would be in Robbe’s POV AND as it turns out, they just tell us about the situation with his mom right off the bat, anyway, so it’s not like there’s much point in hiding it.

This was effective in a sense to establish how girl-crazy his friends are, as well as setting up Robbe’s isolation, which I was worried wouldn’t come across as strongly after meeting Noor. But I think they could have NOT mingled in his mom issues to make this part more effective. Like if the goal was to show more of Robbe being alienated because he’s gay, then that’s not entirely successful, because there are non-gay reasons why Robbe wouldn’t join his pals on the girl chase. I mean, even a horny hetero Robbe might not want to chase girls with his bros because talking to his mom is a downer, so it’s not necessarily because of his sexuality. Plus he just found a girl he liked in Noor, so apparently, he’s not on the prowl. What this part IS communicating that the Belgian guy squad doesn’t have much interest in their friend’s family struggles, which ... ehhhh, maybe not great in the grand scheme of the storyline? These guys can be flawed, for sure, but we do need them to care about Robbe’s well-being. And Robbe tried to open up here, so the flaw is not in him, it’s in his friends. I’m going to let it slide because Jens was offering to help Robbe in the first clip, so it’s not like he’s been a totally insensitive friend this whole time.

Clip 5 - Phone call from Robbe’s dad

Noor jumps on Robbe and they make out. She shows him the garage and they talk about the tagging world or w/e. Again, not sure why they are portraying Noor as like … a legit love interest. I don’t get much of a sense of discomfort from Robbe. Isak was just not into Emma and was uncomfortable when his bathroom flirting came back to haunt him. And I don’t think it’s TERRIBLE not to follow that route, but you can’t just make this huge change if you don’t account for it in future episodes and Robbe’s overall arc. (EDIT from the future: Which I don’t think they do, otherwise I wouldn’t care.) Every scene should count in furthering Robbe’s character, especially this early in the season where we’re just getting to know his particular struggles. If Robbe is trying to convince himself to like girls, then I want to see definite vulnerability in how that’s portrayed.

I blame the directing/writing more than the acting for the lack of discomfort, since I sensed Robbe’s lack of comfort just fine in the bathtub scene.

Makeouts get interrupted when Robbe’s dad calls. Again, not sure why we aren’t hearing both sides of the conversation? Because we’re in Robbe’s POV. Why wouldn’t we hear them? This seems like they just want to create some suspense or mystery over the situation with his parents. But it’s perfectly possible to do so while still letting us in on the phone calls. In fact, it’s arguably more intriguing to let us listen to some phone calls where we get some vague details but nowhere close to the whole story. It’s not like Robbe’s dad is going to explain the whole situation to his son in an exposition dump. We can get some crumbs to tease us, while still keeping us in Robbe’s POV and not feeling like the show is cutting corners.

Robbe gets mad at his dad and tells Noor he needs to be alone. Closeup on Noor as Robbe walks away. OK … why? Why on her and not Robbe when it’s his POV? Why the focus on Noor’s feelings when we really need to be establishing our protagonist’s mindset in the beginning of this season? I’m not saying her feelings don’t matter, I’m saying that well, this isn’t her story. It would be better to see Robbe’s pained reaction as he leaves.

Clip 6 - Robbe’s dad drama

Jens comes running up while Robbe is being sad. Robbe says that it may be necessary for him to stay with Jens because Robbe’s mom has been committed to a mental health institution and Robbe doesn’t want to stay with his dad. Ah, so I guess we’re hearing that right away. Which honestly makes not hearing his phone calls to his parents even funnier - like you lock us out of his POV arguably for the suspense, but then you end the suspense anyway by just telling us what happened a scene or two later? All right. I guess there’s suspense in that we don’t know exactly what’s up with the mom, mental health-wise, or the root of Robbe’s problems with his dad.

It occurs to me that maybe they just didn’t want to hire people to voice Robbe’s parents? Or put in the time to film both sides of the conversation? I have a hard time believing either of those because it’s so lazy, but.

I mean, just turn the phone conversations into text conversations if you’re not going to let us listen to Robbe’s parents on the other end.

They go and play football without really resolving the situation. Sad music plays while Robbe joins in. Also, someone was calling Robbe, and I assume it was his dad, but it’s not shown.

These clips are VERY short and choppy so far. You could easily combine the last two, so Robbe is with Jens instead of Noor when he gets the other phone call from his dad, leading into this conversation.

We know immediately about Robbe’s mom’s situation instead of it being a mystery, like with Isak. Which, again, isn’t inherently wrong, but then I want them to DO SOMETHING with it.

Clip 7 - Jens and Jana

Oh hey, Jana got her braces off! IDK if that happened last season or this one, but it was something I liked, seeing a teenage girl with braces on a teen drama. That rarely happens unless it’s a joke or a plot point.

OK, they really need to film Robbe’s phone so I can actually see who’s calling…

Jens tells Jana about Robbe’s parental situation. I’ll note that first she asks if something’s up with Noor, so news of the Robbe/Noor relationship must have traveled really fast since they’ve only just gotten together. Like Robbe and Noor are clearly dating, going off Jana’s comment, and not just hooking up. Then Belgian Magnus wants to know about hooking up with Amber. Meanwhile Robbe is having a conversation off screen with his dad? Guess it wasn’t important!

And that’s the problem, obviously. It’s his POV season, anything you decide to show SHOULD be important to his storyline.

Also … it’s fine that we’re focusing on Robbe’s shit home life since that’s relevant to his story, but almost nothing in these clips has set up Robbe’s attraction to men, and only slightly his lack of interest in girls, which was negated by him seeming very interested in a girl afterwards. And knowing how long this season takes to get going with the Even character, it’s a pretty glaring omission.

So we don’t see Robbe’s phone call with his dad, but he gets snappy about it when Jens asks. One of the boys (I can’t tell who) says that Robbe’s on his period. Gonna be real, I don’t care for this squad so far.

What was the point of this clip? We already know Robbe is having problems with his dad, which is the most relevant part to the plot here. We shouldn’t be wandering from Robbe’s POV so much, but even taking that into account … we already know Belgian Magnus likes Amber, so that’s not necessary to establish. And we didn’t need to see Jens tell Jana something we already know. I assume he tells her so Zoë can find out and offer a room, but there’s no reason to see Jens tell Jana this, so. Filler clip.

Clip 8 - Zoë and Robbe at the lockers

Yeah, Zoë offers Robbe a place to stay here, but again, we didn’t need to see the news travel down the Jens-Jana pipeline. It could have been condensed more efficiently.

Robbe doesn’t want to because he says his dad wouldn’t approve. Zoë says she hopes things get better with his mom and Robbe at first snaps and tells her to leave it, then says thanks. This is an actual good interaction, writing-wise, kudos.

I liked Zoë a lot in S1 and I like her here again. I really should watch her season despite my Noorhelm allergy. The scene of them kinda smiling at each other across the hallways reminds me that this is probably the strongest relationship in the whole season, tbh.

Why was this clip so short? So many of these clips could have been combined into one. I mean, Zoë could have said, “I heard from Jana who heard from Jens...” without us needing the previous clip. Although, did Robbe really want anyone else to know about his home life? Lol @ Jens just blabbing Robbe’s private business.

So I guess they didn’t set up the Eskild situation in S2 that would lead to Eskild offering Robbe a place to stay?

Clip 9 - Robbe gets roommates

Robbe is in Zoë’s room. He sees her “everyone you know is fighting a battle” quote next to the mirror, which is a detail I actually quite like in context with the rest of this storyline and Even’s condition. It’s a good Skam thesis overall.

I guess Zoë met with Robbe’s dad. Zoë calls him a tough cookie. Robbe doesn’t want to speak to him. They bond a little over their parental problems. Again, a nice detail.

Belgian Eskild appears and teases Robbe a little before announcing that Robbe’s dad has agreed to let him stay in the flat. Yay!

Oh, so Senne is staying there, too? At least they didn’t do a pointless Noorhelm breakup in this version.

Milan (the Eskild) tries to go in for a hug and Robbe isn’t cool with it, so at least that’s something with Robbe’s issues with men. (I think? The thing is, Robbe also does not really know Milan, so it’s not as weird that he’s not ready to be affectionate with a near-stranger.) (EDIT from the future: Keeping the S2 almost-kiss that’s referenced in the next clip in mind, I can rationalize this moment as a continuation of that awkwardness from Robbe’s POV.)

They chat with Lisa (Linn) who wants to direct Robbe on what he is and isn’t allowed to touch in her room, heh. Milan and Zoë have cute interaction, and Robbe looks happy. I do like the flatmate vibe so far, they seem fun.

Clip 10 - Robbe and Milan

Senne and Zoë get cute. I haven’t seen S2 so I can’t give my opinion on their version of Noorhelm, but I did think a few things about them were less creepy in wtFOCK’s S1 than in OG. Milan talks about how they’re a Disneylike couple and Robbe laughs.

Then Robbe apologizes for something that evidently happened in S2, where Milan tried to kiss Robbe at a party? Again, I didn’t see the scene. Milan says he’d never try to do that. He offers Robbe a hug, which he accepts - tbh I don’t know if Robbe SHOULD accept based on where he is in his character arc, maybe he should have more skittishness? But it’s a nice character moment, at least. They really have to make up for lost time with the Robbe-Milan relationship, so I can get that they need to establish some closeness fast.

Not being in the wtFOCK fandom, I kinda wonder if there was backlash to that scene from before and this is damage control, LMAO.

I feel like you could’ve tweaked this to be more representative of Robbe’s issues, like have him stress here that he’s not gay, because it’s a sweet scene but again, I don’t feel like this episode built up Robbe’s internal dilemma very well. You could make this not just about smoothing over whatever bump there was in this relationship, but also about setting up some internal tension with Robbe’s sexuality issues. Multi-tasking - it’s great!

EDIT from the future: OK, I tracked down the S2 scene, and yeah, while it illustrates some of Robbe’s internalized homophobia, I really think you needed to carry this through to this clip. Because that was a very public situation, and they made a point of emphasizing onlookers’ reactions. I feel like you need to show that Robbe’s internalized homophobia isn’t just about external reactions, but internal struggles, because ... so far, that’s what it is? Like what is he doing with Noor otherwise?

Clip 11 - Housewarming party

Party is underway. Yasmina is there and is friendly with Robbe. It sounds like they’re working on a school project together. Aaron (Magnus) and Moyo are talking about hot chicks again.

Noor arrives and the boys tease Robbe about how far he’s gone, Robbe looks pretty chill and happy until Moyo says Robbe’s getting laid tonight and you can see the nerves and reluctance take over. Okay! A character detail that actually works for his arc! Yes!

Partying, makeouts with Noor … sorry but they are wasting a lot of time with this relationship. ROBBE ISN’T INTO HER. Here’s the thing: I don’t want to demonize any of Evak’s female “love interests,” right? It’s pointless anyway because Evak is the endgame pairing, Sonja and Emma aren’t “threats” in the end, but also because they’re not bad people just for wanting to date these two guys who happens to want each other instead. And I think you can do interesting things with Sonja and Emma as characters. I’ve read Sonja fanfic that’s really good!

But when it comes down to it … this is not the story of Robbe/Noor, and there’s a point where it feels like there’s too much development for something that is really intended to be a speed bump in Robbe’s journey.

I guess it’s a pet peeve of mine when gay stories devote a ton of time to het relationships, to the point where it begins to overshadow the main gay relationship. Love, Victor did this to an absolutely ridiculous degree. (I actually made notes for Love, Victor reactions, but hesitated to post them because 60% consisted of me typing I DON’T CARE ABOUT THESE STRAIGHT ROMANCES.) And I GET it, this is an experience many gay kids go through in their coming out journey, but also, less charitably… you don’t need het romance to dominate everything. You don’t need to make this about how a gay person being gay hurts a straight person. I genuinely appreciate that once Isak kisses Even, it’s fucking over with him and Emma, that plot thread is done.

Anyway, Noor tells Robbe he’s so fucking hot and Robbe looks more uncomfortable, moreso when she wants to see his room and he goes off like he’s headed to Mordor.

Aaron checking out Amber … okay, again with all the het. I don’t care!!! This is not important right now!!

Noor pushes Robbe onto the bed, ugh please don’t have them Go There.

She takes off her top and Robbe touches her boob like he’s sticking his hand into a porta-potty. We see his discomfort so at least this part is effective and relevant to Robbe’s arc. Noor is taking off her bra when the boys come into the room, wanting the weed. Okay, you dumb fucks, you’re teasing your bro about getting laid and yet you think it’s cool to enter his room when he’s with a girl? I mean, that’s a lucky break for Robbe, but his friends are extra stupid.

The mood is killed, Robbe goes hunting for weed. Episode ends.

HOW I WOULD REWRITE THIS EPISODE:

Lmao, some of my changes sounded a lot like “be like OG Skam S3.” Because Skam S3 was well-written and made sense. But I tried to think of edits that worked with what wtFOCK was presenting, not just repeating OG.

(I’m also repeating a few things in this section that I said above, btw)

While this episode doesn’t make me angry or anything, it’s got a serious problem with dithering. The first clip is a solid start to the season, but afterwards, so many of these clips feel like filler. There’s a lack of substance to them. It was hard to write about them because they ended up feeling like two minutes of nothing.

Did we need to see repetitive mentions of Robbe’s troubled relationship with his dad? No, it’s an important plot detail but we could have established that more concisely in fewer clips. Did we need to see the process of how Robbe comes to stay with Zoë, Senne, and Milan? No, not really. Or at least not dragged out over at least three clips.

I don’t feel like I’m in Robbe’s head to the extent that I should be so far. Some of this is because the show just flat-out locks us out of his POV, like not showing the phone call in the Jens-Jana clip. But a lot of it is also because of the narrative dawdling. There’s just not as much to analyze unless I bring in Skam season 3 and project what we know about Isak onto Robbe. And that’s not a good way to adapt a story.

The framing of Robbe/Noor needs to change. Combine the bathroom intro with the aborted sex scene - the boys are sitting in the tub, teasing Robbe about getting laid, so he makes out with Noor and they go into a bedroom where he’s clearly not into this, and then Moyo and Aaron come in asking for weed because Robbe still actually has the weed from the bathtub at this point. Or do what Skam France did (can’t believe I’m referring to Skam France) and have the arrival of the cops interrupt the makeout/sex session and Robbe takes his cue to exit.

But frankly, it’s not great to have Robbe acting or looking too cozy with Noor, like this is a legitimate romantic arc except when it gets to the sex. The point is that this isn’t a romance. Even if you want to show some cuddly, non-sexual scenes with Noor, you have to show more of Robbe’s reluctance and fear throughout.

Show Robbe’s fucking phone conversations with his parents!!!! Good Lord. He’s not ordering a pizza. These are important aspects of his story. Capitalize on that family tension, show us what a bad place Robbe is in at the start of this season.

Now, about the lack of Even in this episode. Not introducing Even is a bold move, but not necessarily a smart one. Even’s introduction in Skam is not just the intro of “the love interest” - he’s the catalyst for almost everything in Isak’s story. Consider that in episode 1, Isak is seen mostly unhappy and bored - he’s distraught after kissing Emma, he’s checked out of his friends’ lunchtime girl talk, he zones out staring at his teacher’s boobs, he doesn’t want to be at kosegruppa. Isak is actually very passive and just going through the motions, doing what people tell him to do. But once Isak meets Even at kosegruppa - well, that’s when Isak wakes up. In the next few clips, we see Isak taking action. And sure, they’re small actions, searching for Even online, watching the Even video over and over, asking Vilde if there will be more kosegruppa meetings. But we can see that Isak now cares about something, he’s paying attention. Of course, Robbe’s story doesn’t have to follow the same arc. However, it does the season a huge benefit to get him intrigued by something at this point, so we the audience are not just sleepwalking along with him for a few episodes.

There’s also just the simple fact that we have only 10 episodes to establish a love story and make us care about the Even character, and it’s a very risky move to waste too much time. If you are really killing it with the rest of Robbe’s arc, this could still work, but ... well, that’s not what’s happening here.

If they didn’t want to full on introduce the Even directly, one thing they could do is subtly and indirectly find ways to include him in the narrative and create some mystery. Let’s say Robbe sees the Even’s artwork somewhere and is like whoa, that’s cool, and we can tell that it resonates with him. Or he admires Even’s graffiti, or it makes him laugh, whatever. Basically Robbe has some kind of emotional reaction to a thing the Even has created or done, which helps to set up that relationship even before we officially meet the Even.

If we want to add a little more, perhaps Robbe sees a mysterious dude in a mask tagging a wall, but they get interrupted by the cops or something and have some kind of brief but intriguing interaction with each other, and Robbe’s like, who was that guy in the mask? Or Noor takes Robbe to the tagging place, the police/security bust them, Robbe and Noor get separated, and Robbe gets helped out by the Even so he can escape. So it’s an important moment, lots of adrenaline, we can frame it like there’s a sudden ~charge~ between them (ooOOOooo the Even helped Robbe stand up and their hands touched like this was a fanfic, etc.), but he doesn’t learn Even’s name, maybe he doesn’t even see his face because Even has a mask on, so Robbe spends part of the next few episodes trying to figure out who that guy is, casually asking Noor if she knows a guy like that, keeping his eyes open. Maybe we have some fakeouts where Robbe thinks he sees the Even again but it’s just a false alarm. He’s on edge, eager to know more about that mystery guy, and so are we. Bam, we have “awakened” Robbe from his deep sleep.

If you’ve seen Netflix’s The Get Down, there’s even a scene like this where Jaden Smith’s character gets caught tagging by the cops, he runs and flees with another young dude, and they have a moment where they recognize each other as graffiti artists they admire. While watching that scene for the first time, without any context or spoilers, without even knowing if there would be LGBT content in that show, I immediately thought, “This guy is his love interest.” Not even because it was overtly romantic. Because the way it was written and shot told us that this meeting was important. Because they had an instant connection. Something similar could have worked for Robbe and his Even. But in any case: it would have been best to establish something between those characters, even if it wasn’t an “official” introduction.

Stop focusing on Aaron/Amber when it’s not in Robbe’s POV. Reverse the scene at the beginning with Aaron videotaping and Amber getting spilled on. She gets pissed, he falls in love, and then we follow him upstairs and we meet the boy squad. That is a very obvious, very clean transition that doesn’t interrupt Robbe’s POV as it technically hasn’t started yet. So IDK why they didn’t do that, lmao.

Some changes with the Milan relationship:

Tweak the apology scene to be more representative of Robbe’s issues. Have Robbe apologize while still stressing that he’s not gay. Have Milan be chill and not question that statement, but maybe Robbe is so defensive that it comes across as unconvincing.

Then have Milan be the one instead of the boys to interrupt the Noor almost-sex scene. Milan wanders in acting drunk, haha Milan, he’s wacky. Robbe doesn’t realize it (though the viewers do if they’re paying attention) but Milan is only pretending and is “subtly” rescuing Robbe because he realizes, based on the earlier scene, that Robbe might be struggling with his sexuality and he wants to give him an escape option. (Although I still think it’s best to combine the not-sex scene into the opening clip, but this could work, too.)

Basic questions we need to be asking, clip to clip: what is the conflict? Where is Robbe’s head right now? Why is this scene necessary? How did this scene come to be - what’s the cause and effect here? How does it advance Robbe’s story? Is it redundant? How do we tell this story in a narratively economical manner?

#wtfock reactions

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ofeoladapo-literacy-through-art · 4 years

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Literacy Through Art: An Analysis of Banksy’s “Sweeping It Under the Carpet”

By: Oreofeoluwa Oladapo

This street art painting was painted by Banksy, an anonymous artist, in Chalk Farm, London. This painting, entitled “Sweeping it Under the Carpet,” is a portrait of Banksy’s maid from a hotel room that he stayed in while he was in Los Angeles, and the artwork symbolizes how the governments in the western world ignore and fail to address many of the issues that occur in the world. The more developed countries are essentially sweeping pressing global issues under the rug and pretending that certain problems do not exist. Specifically, people who knew Banksy said that the portrait is meant to symbolize "the West's reluctance to tackle issues such as AIDS in Africa." Personally, I am very passionate about the idea of using street art to convey messages. Some people would consider wall art to be vandalism or graffiti, but I think that it is a form of self expression that is very necessary in world culture. Banksy was anonymous, so he focused on using his art to convey messages as opposed to making money off of his work. I enjoy the simplicity of this portrait and the meaning behind it is extremely powerful upon hearing the explanation, but, even though Banksy had the intention of silently protesting through his artwork, it would be difficult to understand his underlying message just by looking at the painting. The portrait simply resembles a maid lifting up a rug to sweep under it, but the portrait does not convey emotions of frustration or any particular issue that Banksy was aiming to address in itself. When I looked at the painting prior to reading an explanation or receiving any context, all I could conclude was that the image is of a maid cleaning. The colors also do not help convey the intended message; the black and white contribute to the simplicity of the portrait, but it is difficult to interpret the underlying meaning because black and white are associated with blandness and neutrality. The color scheme makes it difficult to feel the painter’s frustration through the image. A color like red would have been good to include in the portrait to express anger. Also, the maid’s facial expression could have been used to express emotion through the image. Overall, this portrait is a good example of visual literacy, but the painter did a mediocre job in conveying his exact message through the image.

My classmate, Khawla Elnour, is also a fan of Banksy’s work, but she seems to appreciate the simplicity more and discusses the power of his art. Elnour stated, “As someone who has never developed a deep interest in visual arts, Banksy has always been the exception. I have always seen his works circling around social media and thought they were amazing. I have always been especially attached to this piece in particular, “Sweeping It Under the Carpet”. Like the rest of his works, it is simple, but holds great meaning. Banksy uses this painting to make several statements. Here he is calling out the inability of government authorities to acknowledge and act upon the injustices people face worldwide. I resonate with this message because I constantly find myself frustrated with this lack of action. The witty manner in which he conveys this message is very creative. By having a maid pictured sweeping under a rug, he speaks against the people who spend their lives purposely ignoring and dismissing major issues. Overall, I have an appreciation for Banksy’s unique application of literacy. The art silently protests in a way traditional words cannot. In this case, his art is used as a platform of literary expression rather than a means of monetary gain or to create something that is just beautiful. Every aspect is significant because these are what serve as the supporting details and evidence of his work.”

A Fictional Interview with Khawla and Dr. David Kirkland (in the form of a televised talkshow)

Ofe (announcer/producer/technician): Welcome to another night of “Khonversations with Khawla!” starring Khawla Elnour! On tonight’s episode, we have a very special guest! He is New York University’s Metropolitan Center for Research on Equity and The Transformation of Schools Executive Director, and he wrote an article about literacy through tattoos, the black community, and the adoption of a new English Education! Everyone give it up for Dr. David Kirkland!

Audience cheers

Khawla (host): Welcome Dr. Kirkland! How are you tonight?

David (guest): Oh please, call me David. I’m doing swell!

Khawla: We love to hear it. I understand that you worked with someone named Derrick Todd to learn about he tells his story through his tattoos. Do you think there are other forms of literacy that capture stories without using the typical paper and pencil?

David: Of course! I think paintings, drawings, sculptures, statues, and even memes use artistic methods to tell stories, and these types of works definitely should definitely be considered to be forms of literacy and discussed in English courses.

Khawla: That is so true! Speaking of paintings, I have been interested in this painting for years now! It’s called “Sweeping it Under the Carpet.” It’s by this anonymous street artist in London who’s known as Banksy.

David: Wow, I LOVE street art! It is a form of literacy that serves even more public purposes than tattoos do! It is an amazing way to truly get your story out there! Let me take a look at it!

Khawla pulls up an image of the “Sweeping It Under the Carpet” painting on her phone, and Ofe displays the same image on the large screen for the audience to see.

Audience murmurs in confusion

David: Um...so...what is it?

Audience laughs

Ofe inserts this image on jumbo screen:

Audience laughs hysterically

Khawla: With all due respect, what do you mean by that?

David: All I see here is a woman lifting up what I’m assuming is a carpet.

Khawla: There is so much more to it!

Ofe inserts this image on the jumbo screen:

Audience breaks out in laughter

Khawla (facing Ofe, angrily): You know, we can change the name of this show to “Khonflicts with Khawla” if you want to!

Ofe: Hey, I’m just doing my job.

Khawla: Anyway, the painting has a significant meaning behind it. Banksy made this painting of his maid from a hotel he stayed in sweeping under the carpet. The artwork signifies how the western world sweeps many worldwide issues under the rug, such as the AIDS crisis in Africa. Banksy used his art to express his frustration about the situation. I personally resonate with this message because I am also extremely frustrated about the lack of action!

David: Did you read a summary about the painting?

Khawla: Yes.

David: Of course you did. That meaning is powerful, but how was I meant to get all of that out of a black and white image of a woman cleaning? I couldn’t feel the struggle, pain, and frustration through the painting at all.

Ofe inserts this meme on the large screen:

Audience, collectively: Oooooooooooooooo

David: I do love the painting, and I believe that it is a great form of literacy because Banksy intended to express his views on a very valid and important issue in today’s world, but there was a lack of emotion in the image. The painting is black and white, and the expression on the maid’s face is extremely neutral. This painting is beautiful, but it gives me a vibe of neutrality and emotionlessness, not frustration. Like honestly, how was I meant to figure out the underlying message in that painting?

Khawla: I guess you are right, Dr. Kirkland, but you do have to say, once that message is uncovered, the painting is ten times more powerful

David: Certainly! Thanks for having me!

Khawla: Thank you for coming to converse with me, and thank you all for tuning in to “Khonversations with Khawla!” On the next episode, I will be interviewing Megan Thee Stallion to see how she feels about the recent tweet that Howard University’s professor, Dr. Gregory Carr, posted regarding her performance. You won’t want to miss it! I love you all. Remember, if you want to be “khool, khome khonverse with Khawla!”

Audience applauds

Curtains close

A Video about Art as Literacy

youtube

This video is about a school that teaches art as literacy where the students learn how to read and understand images. From 1:49-2:05, one of the students discusses how color helps her to interpret the mood in a piece of artwork. This shows that simple elements in a piece of artwork such as color have a powerful impact on the message that the art conveys.

Important Questions to Consider

Can one measure proper attribution and citation in writing formats that borrow heavily from non-peer reviewed sources?

A non-peer reviewed source is a work that was published by a single author without other people’s revision. These types of sources will rarely be found in publications that are meant to be peer reviewed. Examples of non-peer reviewed sources include editorials and opinion pieces. Some editorials found in newspapers have no author or are written by an “Editorial Board.” This means that it may be difficult to measure proper attribution in non-peer reviewed sources; people can only give as much credit as the author gives, and people do not always know who the author is. If the author of an editorial does not cite the sources used to make his or her conclusion, then the only person who will receive proper attribution is the author. If the specific author is not known, whether it was written by an anonymous author or an editorial board, then readers do not know who to credit for the opinion. Writers who borrow heavily from non-peer reviewed sources can only give as much attribution as their sources provide.

What responsibilities are most important for writers? To adhere to the conventions and   expectations of their disciplines and professional communities? Or to address and persuade   mainstream readers of the perspective each writer values most?

Writers have many responsibilities, and it is important for writers to consider which responsibilities have the most weight and which rules can be bent when they are writing their works of creative expression. Many writers believe that it is crucial to adhere to the expectations and standards set by their professional community, but others believe that the most important duty in writing is to convey their message and persuade the audience of their perspective, no matter how they do it. I believe that the most important responsibility of a writer is to get their message across, even if the most effective way of doing so is to break away from the standard conventions and formats. Adhering to certain rules while writing can be very limiting, but using formats and modes of expression that are not considered standard in literacy allows writers to convey their messages in a way that’s easier for the readers to grasp and more fun to read. An example of a writer who breaks away from the standard essay format who I still consider to be professional is June Jordan. In her article, “Nobody Mean More to Me Than the Future Life of Willie Jordan,” she used multiple formats to convey her message; she included a dialogue from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, letters, prayers, lists, and a dialogue from Ibsen’s A Doll’s House while discussing black English in the classroom. Her use of various elements in her writing made the essay more exciting and interesting for the reader and helped her to convey her perspective effectively.

Can writing ever be too neat? Too organized? Can writing with too few sources still be considered critical?

Many writers strictly adhere to the “proper” organization of essays by building on points that other people made in their writings and leaving out certain points. Although it is very common for writers, especially high school and college students, to try to perfectly follow the expected organization, I believe that writing can often be too neat. If a writer is so focused on organization, he or she is less likely to be focused on the actual content of the essay or piece of writing. This could result in a writer not fully expressing all of his or her views because they are afraid of ruining the organization or breaking from the standard writing format.

Works cited

Jordan, June B.. “Nobody Mean More to Me than You and the Future Life of Willie Jordan.” (1988).

Kirkland, David E. “The Skin We Ink: Tattoos, Literacy, and a New English Education.” English Education, vol. 41, no. 4, 2009, pp. 375–395. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/40607891.

O'Neill, Brendan. “Backstory: A London Scene Set by Guerilla Art.” The Christian Science Monitor, The Christian Science Monitor, 9 Jan. 2007, https://www.csmonitor.com/2007/0109/p20s01-alar.html.

Links to Images

***all memes were created using https://imgflip.com/memegenerator

https://www.canvasartrocks.com/products/banksy-maid-sweeping-under-the-carpet-wall-mural-wallpaper

Links to other sources

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esUawrdkxEo

#literacy #art

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empress-of-snark · 5 years

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Cursed Child Review!

(this will contain only the vaguest spoilers--you have been warned)

(also tumblr is being dumb and refusing to let me upload this with pictures, so expect a second post later with pictures)

THE THEATRE

So first of all, the Lyric Theatre is gorgeous. It was renovated specifically for this show, so the design is full of all kinds of Harry Potter references. Inside, the carpet is red with a Hogwarts ‘H’ pattern, and the ceiling is blue with gold stars.

Also, directly across from the entrance, on the way to the gift shop, there’s a small, circular room with patronuses painted all over the walls! They got all the major characters (minus Albus and Scorpius, but we don’t know their patronuses, do we?), as well as play quotes from each:

Speaking of the gift shop, I absolutely bought a Ravenclaw scarf and iron-on patch for my denim jacket. I wanted so badly to buy a replica wand as well (if I remember correctly, they had Harry, Ron, Hermione, Albus, Scorpius, and Voldemort), but they were pretty expensive and I couldn’t decide on a character anyway.

Also, funny thing, we got two playbills—one for Part One, and one for Part Two—and… they’re exactly alike. There’s nothing at all different except for a very slight alteration in cover art and the fact that they’re labeled Part One and Part Two. The insides are identical, lol. Weird.

THE PLOT

There’s really nothing to be said about the plot that hasn’t already been said. It’s not great. It’s not terrible either, honestly, but it’s not great. In terms of alternate HP content, I’d put it below Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, but above Crimes of Grindelwald.

Part One is definitely the stronger half, plot-wise. Part Two is where everything goes a little off the rails and you start thinking “wait a second, did J.K. Rowling actually come up with this or is this just straight-up fanfiction that someone wrote in 2009?” Again, no spoilers, but… the Act III, Scene XXI plot twist is contrived and kind of ridiculous and seeing it played out on stage does nothing to improve my opinion on it.

THE CHARACTERS

Albus and Scorpius were phenomenal! To be honest, Albus has never really interested me as a character very much, he’s always just come across as a sullen teenager, but Nicholas Podany made me like him more than I did in my initial readings of the script.

Scorpius, though. SCORPIUS. I knew he was an adorable geek when I read the script, but seeing it on stage is just so much better. He’s the absolute cutest character and I adored him. Also, major props to Bubba Weiler’s physicality because it was awesome. His lounging awkwardly on the stairs and giving finger-guns to Rose in Act IV was priceless. Absolute cinnamon roll.

Speaking of Rose, I feel like I should talk about the whole shipping war thing of Rose/Scorpius vs. Albus/Scorpius, but honestly I don’t wanna drag this down into fandom wank, so maybe I’ll make a separate post later. Suffice it to say, I totally 100% understand why people ship Albus and Scorpius, but I also think we should be allowed to have other interpretations and sometimes people on the internet don’t understand what true friendship is supposed to be like despite constantly calling for more platonic friendships in the media.

Anyway.

Harry and Hermione were awesome. I know people complained about Harry’s characterization, but honestly, I think it’s similar to what happened with Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi. People don’t like watching their childhood heroes grow into flawed adults who make mistakes, and I understand. It’s hard to see Harry being such a strict father and saying or doing things that he regrets, but that’s what characters are supposed to be like. Harry is not perfect and he’s always had a bit of a temper. For the first eleven years of his life, he didn’t have a good father figure to guide him so as an adult, it makes sense that he would fumble a bit in fatherhood because he has no one to really base himself on, and he literally says this in Act IV.

Hermione didn’t have as much of a character arc, but she was excellent. Her characterization was on-point and I loved her. There was a moment I especially loved where she hugs Rose around the middle of Act III. There’s no dialogue and it’s only a brief moment, but it was beautiful. With context, it’ll make more sense why, but again, no spoilers.

Finally, my boy Ron Weasley, was… comic relief. Why am I not surprised. Functionally, he did almost nothing of any importance for the plot—they could’ve taken him out completely and it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. While he did have some good, genuinely funny moments (they included his line from the book when, in answer to Albus saying that everyone is staring at them at King’s Cross, he said “It’s me. I’m extremely famous.”) but he also has some really dumb, out-of-character moments as well (at one point, in response to a threat, he… pulled out his wand… backwards… and had to fix it… get it? Cause he’s stupid!).

That’s not to say the actor did a bad job. He did the best he could with the terrible characterization. But the bright side is, we got several really good Ron/Hermione scenes that were stupidly adorable and made my heart happy. My two favorites were, of course, the staircase scene in Act II and the scene in Hermione’s office in Act III.

Draco was great, I loved his relationship with Scorpius and how it grew, and I loved his reluctant allegiance with the Golden Trio.

Ginny was pretty good, though I wish they had given her a bit more to do at times.

I also wish Rose had gotten to be more a part of the action, but I get why, for a lot of the play, she couldn’t be involved in the plot. For spoiler-y reasons.

THE SPECIAL EFFECTS

This is the real reason people see this play, and it is worth it! It’s worth sitting through the weirder parts of the plot. Some of the illusions I could figure out (a lot of them were either clever use of the fly system or two actors hiding in the same robe), but some I’m pretty sure were just genuine magic because I don’t know how they pulled them off.

Characters Polyjuice and Transfigure themselves into other characters, wands light up and even shoot fire (at one point, a lot of wands were shooting fire simultaneously during a multi-character duel and I don’t understand how the set didn’t catch on fire), a bookcase comes alive and eats three people and spits them back out again, and the DEMENTORS.

There were DEMENTORS and they were SPOOKY and AWESOME and I wish so badly that we had been in balcony seats because at one point, a dementor comes out over the audience and we were so far back that we could barely see it.

Also I don’t think it’s a huge spoiler to say that the show involves use of a Time Turner, and every time it was used, they did something really cool with the lights that gave the whole stage a ripple effect and I have no idea what it was they did, but it looked SO COOL.

IN SUMMARY

The building was gorgeous, the plot was just okay (better in the first half), the characters varied but were mostly good (all the actors were amazing), and the special effects are absolutely the best part of the show, hands down.

People have said that this show shouldn’t ever be professionally recorded because watching a DVD will never compare to seeing it live. I agree that the live experience is undoubtedly better, that’s the case with every play. Live is always better. But it’s not always possible for people to drop hundreds of dollars on a plane ride and Broadway tickets. Our tickets for Cursed Child were expensive, and we didn’t even get the best seats. I can’t believe how elitist people can be in thinking that if, for whatever reason, you can’t afford to see a Broadway show, then you shouldn’t be given a cheaper, more accessible option.

Also, like, I’m never going to be able to see the original Broadway cast of Into the Woods live because that show was running in 1987, but thanks to the professionally filmed DVD, I can watch it whenever I want and I love it. Money and time should not stop someone from experiencing theatre, ever.

Anyway, it was an amazing experience and I’m so glad I went! If anyone wants to talk more about it, or get my more spoiler-y opinions, shoot me a message! If you go anon, I’ll tag all responses with #cursed child spoilers.

#it was so so so so good #im still geeking out #does anyone want me to make a separate post about the shipping discourse?#cause i'm more than happy to #i just didn't wanna get too discourse-y in this post #harry potter #harry potter and the cursed child

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thesweetblossoms · 5 years

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Blossoming Pear Trees

🎼Breakfast at Tiffanys by Truman Capote, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith and The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, are a few of my favorite books based in New York City. In each, I learned about the charms, qualities and history of the port town bordered by rivers and saturated with hopes, dreams, ambitions, adventures and ideas, each framed within its unique time and context. These books careful plots, characters, storyline, setting and subtexts offering a sliver of knowledge, into the eras thinking, behaving, cultural nuances, as well as the animated energies and perspectives, that shaped and influenced such a complex and captivating town.

In Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I was struck by the fathomless quarters of the heart, the vivacious and inimitable character of Holly Golightly, and the sumptuous homage to the renowned Manhattan nightlife, rife with its glamorous habitués, black silk Givenchy dresses, cocktail soirées and scintillating repertee. I read The Tree Grows In Brooklyn, while living on Roosevelt Island. Within the pages of this delightful rendering of childhood memories, I was gripped by the historical flavor of Brooklyn, the memories of life as a small girl in a lively neighborhood, and the universal experience of being a child tempered heavily with the backdrop of a multicultural new land. The Age of Innocence, portrays another world within the five boroughs, it spotlights, the heady world of upper east side mansions, park avenue town homes, sea escapes to Newport and Long Island, the closely knit and highly structured world of the old New York elite, and the inevitable barriers that plant themselves, in the purest love stories. The book is strewn with references and symbolic meanings of flowers; ‘His eye lit on a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before, and his first instinct was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her- there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty.’

Having studied and lived in NYC for eight years during my early twenties to early thirties, I often miss the alchemical rush, fearlessness, possibility, dreamlike and magical qualities of living and experiencing one of the great world cities. Thus, a setting in Manhattan brings back the memories of my own time in the city, whether in the faint refrain of notes of music drifting from long ago nights dancing, flirting and imbibing cocktails in Soho with my dearest friends, remembering the anticipation of getting ready for nights out, in short, white, party dresses, also sprinkled with hazy recollections of ending up at somebodies apartment watching the sunrise over the east river, or rainy, rose and iris strewn June walks in Central Park, or hot chocolate from a café near the Met Museum, or of teetering in four inch hot pink stilettos to law firms in midtown or Wall Street, or even further, back to my first night of Law School, crying myself to sleep in a dark dorm room in Greenwich Village, to the day I left, unsure of the journey as the cab carried me across the midtown bridge to the airport, Manhattan lit up behind me, my passage barely dimming its intensity or power. My first stop was to spend a few weeks in the South of France before moving to Vancouver. While those trillion and one lights in the epic skyline glittered farewell, I didn’t know that I would create homes soon, in Vancouver, Los Angeles, Toronto and in my current home in palmy, light saturated and desert bewitched Phoenix, all within half a decade of leaving New York.

Of course, when I miss the city and its aphrodisiacal properties, reading a lighthearted, expressive and engrossing book, such as Sweet Bitter by Stephanie Danler, is transportive and thoroughly entertaining. In this book, I follow the hectic, hedonistic, raucous, fast paced and party filled days and nights of Tess, the small town heroine who moves to the city with hardly any money, to work at a celebrated and iconic NYC restaurant. The most riveting elements of the narrative beyond the illuminating yet relatively common premise of being young, confused, riddled with anxiety about the future, driven to the edges of exploration and self discovery, are the careful and considered details that are painstakingly layered, by the author, like nacre accumulating on a shell, to create a picture of one persons bewildering unfurling of time and space; of developing a crush and falling in love, of connecting with other people through post work hours of heavy drinking and drugs, of everyday group camaraderie, of obstacles and of the costs of taking a chance, of being hurt by the many thorns, blind spots and fractures within reality and of times reluctance to reveal the truthful bitter notes of existence to the untried and uninitiated. Along with the protagonists evolving ability to understand her own capacity for work, of her desire to party, and to chase the object of her desire at the risk of rejection, we are gifted with a rich, informative, luscious, compelling and beautifully conveyed dialogue, steeped in knowledge, brimming with anecdotes and lush with poetic names of revered wines, sherries and champagne. Readers are granted an epicurean education into the sybaritic realms of hospitality, of torn figs, marcona almonds, black truffle laced risotto, of fine cheeses, of terroir, of perfumery and of the effervescence, of those who chase the ephemeral, whether in briny winter oysters, mornings commenced with espresso and closed with half discarded bottles of celebrated wine, in rootless love affairs and in risking everything for the intoxicating New York City moment.

Sometimes nostalgia hits in painful ways, like a cut, tearing skin when scraping against a jagged wall, yet when I see my little son who was born in the city, or my husband, whom I met therein, or my daughter, who might one day visit my favorite museums such as The American Museum of Natural History on the Upper East Side, I don’t miss it that much, I become lost in my current adventure, in baking the family walnut, chocolate chip banana bread, in cutting shell white roses from my balcony garden, in hiking in the charged desert and realizing with the grace of hindsight, the I found both heartbreak and love, from a storied place, and that it is as close to me as my breath and as dear as the Callery pear trees that bloom in the early spring along the proud avenues and reverie misted streets.

Dwelling here in the present, I vow to write more about flowers. For a petal and dew drenched reality accumulates hope, positivity, happiness, reveries, ideas and inspirations. One is potently healed by the generosity and brilliance of blossoms, from witch hazel sprays, to lavender soap, to jasmine and vanilla perfume, to dried rose petal dipped madeleines to countless other floral injections. To be among flowers, is our most natural and exhilarating state, whether it is a summer picnic by a meadow of chamomile and violets, or a October harvest of basil blossoms and cosmos, or a spring seaside hike bordering a swell of wild lilies of the valley. Yet, no matter the climate, reading about flowers provides a season-less joy and bliss to those who might stumble upon a pressed peach pink peony, laid lovingly in the pages of The Painted Veil by M. Somerset Maugham, or to the person who receives a catalog of old roses, featuring Chateau De Malmaison from David Austin, or the person that seldom tires of dreaming about flowers, lost in the liminal botanical sphere, content with the written words about these delicate creatures, no matter the coordinates of the sun, or the exact location of ones own heart, beyond the garden.

In between the hours of work and play, sleep and wakefulness, dancing and being still, writing and reading, planting seeds and cutting flowers, I conduct a search for signs from the universe, fully aware, that there may be many that we are sorely deficient in sensitivity, imagination and consciousness to perceive. Perhaps these subtle jewel boxes of illumination render themselves mute, appearing as the earliest streaked lavender, roasted sweet potato orange and bleeding pink dawn in the morning, the horizon appearing as we are struggling to rise and challenge the random slights of the work week, or it could be the jasmine flower you discover on the desk by your computer, turning striped royal purple as it dries slowly, learning later, that it was left by a fellow attorney who has knowledge of your love for flowers, or maybe, proof of grace may arrive, as innocuously as the black holographic star decals, a gift sent along with the romper room nail polish you purchased in the mail, or it could be from the positive occurrence of an overdue text message from your beautiful, talented and successful law school roommate in Los Angeles. However, they appear, the ones that please you the most, are the ones you should carry closest to you, for these may be the keys to unlock your dreams, discover your nature and decipher your heart.

Though I often encounter unbounded bliss, dwelling in my garden by candlelight, under the mist laced stars, calmed by the analgesic dance of the palms and the steady flow of the water fountain, I have discovered an equal passion for delicate, fine or potent pieces of jewelry. My earliest memories of jewels are of tiny, delicate, faceted gold bangles, from my grandmother, that I wore on special occasions or events. I remember them mostly from old pictures of when I was four or five living in Sydney, but also recently, when my mother gave them to me, collecting them from the locker, for my little daughter to wear. Other reminisces include the memories of the joy, ceremony and fanfare when my parents gave my sister and I, little opal earrings as gifts, or when my mother lent me petite ruby and diamond flower studs to wear before a party, reminding me of their preciousness and to return them to her for safe keeping later. Perhaps, just as the energy, vibrations, subtle magic, healing and alchemical qualities of trapped fire, air, water and earth exert their influences over us, working in tangent with the myriad other cosmic objects that comprise reality, the wearer of these exquisite, handcrafted and artistic pieces also alter, influence and change the mystical qualities of the jewels. For after, I wear a piece, whether an heirloom, a vintage piece, or a newly commissioned trinket, I sense a change, both in my self and in the inanimate stone and metal. The jewel and the bejeweled act in concert to chase and trap the light, the anklet bells drifting into the music, the diamond engagement ring quietly drawing two souls closer and the emeralds earrings annotating the laughter and erasing the tears. 🎹

#design #healing #lifestyle #love #gypsy #style #bohemian #flowers #perfume #wellness #jewelry #gardens #gardeners #bookreview #books #newyork #manhattan #losangeles

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themastercylinder · 5 years

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An Interview with John Dods

How did you come to be involved with The Deadly Spawn?

DODS: Well, it was a fairly simple turn of events. My friend Ted Bohus called me up one day and said, “Let’s make a monster movie!” That seemed like a good idea to me so we did it. I’ve known Ted for years and we worked on the (uncompleted) film Nightbeast together. Ted wanted me to be in charge of the special effects.

You are known primarily as the creator/animator of the Grog film series. Will there be any stop motion in The Deadly Spawn?

DODS: We had assumed from the beginning that some stop motion would be necessary to create Spawn locomotion. As it worked out I devised “live action mechanicals” that everyone seems very happy with. It looks real, and avoiding stop motion enabled us to use fluids. The baby “Spawns” are seen swimming around in the flooded basement of the house in the film. There’s also a lot of blood in Deadly Spawn. It’s hard to make fluids look convincing in the stop motion process.

What kind of special effects will we see in Spawn?

DODS: Most of the effects are on the set mechanicals. Simple puppetry was used for many of the shots-manual manipulation of the various sized models from beneath a specially prepared surface. For example, if a spawn is seen on the floor of the basement we had to build a false floor, flood it with water, and conceal the mechanism through a hole in the surface. Sometimes we had eight people lying flat on their backs making the spawn babies “act” their roles. If a spawn had to appear on a chair we would have to get a chair and wreck it-putting holes in it through which spawn controls could be concealed; that kind of thing. The mama spawn is just a big elaborate puppet that is mobilized by six crew members-one for each body part and another to propel it forward on a tracking system. We have some pyrotechnics in the film which Tim Hildebrandt helped us work out. There is a neat effect involving a miniature set that I’m not allowed to talk about. We have a lot of blood effects where we had to mechanically pump fluid through body parts. I’ve always had an ambition to create a monster that wasn’t an obvious “man in a rubber suit,” so from the very beginning designs for the spawns were far from human. I did a series of drawings and we all picked the one we liked the best.

Is it restricting to work within the confines of a low budget film?

DODS: I suppose so but I’ve never worked any other way! We’ve stretched every dollar to the limit and all of it is on the screen. I’m working with a very resourceful group of people. We could make an expensive looking film with the money that Dino DeLaurentiis spends on stationery. I know that our effects budget would be around $100,000 if we had done this film in any kind of conventional way—and I don’t think we’ve spent that much. On the entire picture.

Do you feel that the Deadly Spawn is different than the current crop of low budget thrillers?

DODS: I know that it’s different. We designed it to be different. The Deadly Spawn is presented in the manner of putting on a show, or like a tour through a chamber of horrors. We show the audience series of exhibits in a theatrical manner in the context of a story that resolves itself in a very satisfactory way.

What would you like to do after The Deadly Spawn is completed?

DODS: Work on another film with Filmline Communications, make another Grog puppet film, finish illustrating a children’s book I have been working on.

Dods’ title, as director of special effects, is one to be taken literally-virtually all of the scenes involving monsters and effects were directed by Dods, following his storyboards. In fact, Bohus’ first plan called for Dods and Bohus to collaboratively direct the film themselves. “I was reluctant, at the time,” he recalls. “Though I’ve directed stop-motion films, I’ve never worked with actors, and you see so many low-budget films that are hurt by bad acting, so I was insistent that we get someone who’d had experience working with actors.” The choice of McKeown, who has directed for the New York stage as part of the Jean Cocteau Repertory Theater, did not exactly eliminate that problem, however. Dods now doubts that he would be so reluctant the second time around.

Dods does, however, work singularly well with the monsters of Deadly Spawn. One of his primary concerns was the manner of locomotion used by the various critters. “The mother spawn was herself relatively limited in movement,” Dodds says, “but that was okay-she’s supposed to be a huge, lumbering 3,000-pound thing. Her slow movements make sense, so we avoided a whole lot of technical problems right there.”

The film does open with a sequence that shows, in silhouette, the adult monster undergoing rapid growth, shortly after killing a pair of campers; simultaneously, various inhuman schlurping sounds are heard on the soundtrack, as it consumes its human meal (“‘Every sound you hear the monster make came from my mouth,” Dods reveals). The manner in which the illusion was accomplished is one of the simplest tricks we’ve ever come across Using shadow puppetry, monster shaped cardboard cutouts back-lit against a wall.

Yet another sequence shows one of the repulsive-yet-somehow cute baby spawn wiggling through bloody basement waters with the speed of a frightened lizard. “Every monster movie should have one long shot of the monster, showing its method of locomotion,” says Dods, “and so many don’t have that-they try to get by with fast cutting, or some other technique, to give you the impression of having seen an entire creature in motion. Since my background is in stop-motion, I was planning to use that in order to get such a shot. Using a jigsaw, I cut an S-shaped, repeating wave form, a sort of curved slot. I then mounted a flexible, foam rubber baby spawn on a piece of plastic, and was going to shoot that in stop motion, travelling in that S-shaped curve; but then we found that, if you simply pulled it along in that slot, it traveled in a very lifelike, wiggling fashion, so we wound up shooting it in live action. That way, we could also have it speeding through the water on the basement floor-water is just about impossible to animate.”

The swimming spawn, and many of the other effects of The Deadly Spawn, were entirely originated by the effects crew; few were specially called for by McKeown’s script. “Arnold Gargiulo was particularly good at coming up with things,” says Dods. “For instance, it was indicated that the monster would attack Ellisa Niel in the face, but it was figured we’d simply track in, through the monster’s point of view, and then pull back to reveal the damage. Arnold came up with much more than he was asked for in several cases; in that scene, he did something I hadn’t seen before-a two-layered makeup, with a normal-looking appliance, which the monster rips away to reveal some pretty gruesome work underneath it.”

More contributions above and beyond the call of etcetera came from Tim Hildebrandt-including the contribution of his own little spawn, son Charles, as the film’s youthful hero. Wife Rita Hildebrandt served in various capacities as well, including the provision of her own recipe for monster saliva-a concoction achieved by mixing water and corn starch and boiling it down to a syrupy goo. Hildebrandt’s contributions to the effects are seen in the very beginning and end of the film, in the depiction of the spawn’s arrival on earth, and of its final (unless there’s a sequel) appearance. The Hildebrandts even sacrificed the attic of their home, which was transformed into a blood and-debris-spattered mess after the filming of a crucial confrontation scene.

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BABY SPAWNS

When a deadly spawn reaches a certain growth stage it reproduces. Before the movie is half over we introduce several dozen new characters into the story: rapidly growing baby monsters.

In clay, I sculpted four small creatures each representing a baby spawn in a different stage of growth. These ranged from six inches to three feet in length. Molds were made of the sculptures using a mix of 50% Hydrocal and 50% Ultracal; these are plaster-like materials that yield molds much harder than ordinary casting plaster. This extra hardness was needed to insure mold durability during the repeated use the five molds were subjected to to produce over 50 constructions.

R&D brand oven-cured foamed latex was used to produce most of the smaller spawn babies. The plaster molds were greased with caster oil or rubber mask grease paint (which I like better because unlike caster oil you can make about three positives without regreasing). The liquid foam-frothed with an electric mixer-was poured into each mold cavity to the point of overflowing and the mold halves were closed tightly. The excess foam came out through a large hold in the mold’s underside. This method never resulted in the air pockets commonly associated with injection processes.

The largest mold was over three feet long and would not fit into my oven. So a (more expensive) Isofoam “cold foam” process was used for this. This is a two part system that begins to foam by chemical action after parts A and B are vigorously mixed together for about 20 seconds. Effects assistant Sharon Levine and I mixed a series of small batches and gradually filled the large mold cavities almost to the brim. Then a final large batch was mixed, poured quickly, and the mold closed just as the foam was beginning to expand to fill the remaining space. In this process, the mold is not only greased conventionally, but is also coated with a layer of liquid latex “skin” before any cold foam is poured. This provides a smooth surface to the model (the cold foam alone has a very coarse texture) and keeps the cold foam from adhering to the plaster.

After the foam babies were produced, the teeth and mechanics were inserted; certain areas were hollowed out of the foam using scissors and tweezers. Super glue proved to be a good adherent between the rubber lips and the plastic teeth.

SPAWN ANIMATION

From the beginning of the production the method for getting the baby spawns to move was undecided. Most of the effects shots required the spawns to remain in one spot-chewing on body parts usually; this action was accomplished through simple puppetry. But the problem of spawn locomotion remained unsolved for some time. Because of my previous experience with stop motion (the Grog series of film shorts) this animation technique seemed to be a real possibility-yet eventually I decided against it. Unexpectedly, found a better solution to the problem.

I constructed a plywood surface into which I cut a repeating “wiggle” pattern with a jigsaw. I slit open the underside of a small foam rubber spawn and sewed into it a flexible plastic insert; this protruded from the underside of the model and fit into the plywood track. I had intended to move the spawn bit by bit along the track and create the illusion of movement through the stop motion process. I soon realized, though, that this was not necessary. By lubricating the track with Vaseline and pulling the spawn with a nylon cord I had created the effect we needed. It looked real

Hiding the track then became easy. In The Deadly Spawn there is water in the basement where the spawns are breeding; leakage from the thunderstorm raging outside the house covers the floor. I simply made the water (opaque with dirt and “blood”) deep enough to submerge the numerous tracks and we had another set of successful constructions: mobile spawns.

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PLASTIC FLESH

During The Deadly Spawn some scientifically oriented teenagers find a dead baby spawn and decide to dissect it in an effort to figure out what it is. For this sequence a construction had to be made out of a fleshy/jelly-like material that could be cut with a razor blade. After some unsuccessful experiments with alginate material found a supplier of Plastisol—the same material used to make artificial bait and those wiggly spiders seen in novelty shops. Plastisol comes as a white liquid that turns clear when heated on a stove for a few minutes; pigments can be added at this stage to color the Plastisol as desired. I poured pigmented Plastisol into two greased plaster mold halves and quickly closed them together; more Plastisol was poured in through a hole in the mold’s bottom half. After cooling (about one hour in a freezer) the Plastisol had set and was removed from the mold. Permanent Magic Markers were the only form of colorant I have found that will adhere to Plastisol once it has cooled to a solid state, but these do work quite well.

Plastisol again proved invaluable when we needed a shot of a human head being eaten by baby spawns—chunks of flesh were to be pulled off the face by the greedy extraterrestrials. The Deadly Spawn makeup supervisor Arnold Garguilo prepared a mold from the face of the actress whose head was to appear to be consumed. I poured a one quarter inch thick layer of Plastisol into Arnold’s mold to produce a positive “face.” This was super glued onto an appropriately gory plastic skull and a realistic glass eye was inserted. The face was made up with rubber mask and conventional type grease paints.

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THE MOTHER SPAWN

Building the mother spawn began with the sculpture of hundreds of teeth using a material called Sculpey. Sculpey is a lot like clay but when you bake it in an oven (15 minutes at 250°) it hardens. The hardened teeth-ranging in size from 5 inches long to as tiny as a pencil point-were pressed into the gums of three clay spawn skulls.

I then had to duplicate the toothy creations in hard plastic so they would be more durable. Many layers of thick mold-making rubber were applied to the sculptures over a 10 day period. Before removal, the resulting molds were heat treated in a 300° oven for 20 minutes. Rubber that has not been heat-treated vulcanized) in this way can be stretched out of shape permanently; vulcanized rubber will always remember” its original form and return to it.

The molds were removed from the sculptures and scrubbed clean with acetone. Positives were made using Jet Dental Acrylic color #6 (the color most popular with dentists according to the salesman). This plastic material was applied to the insides of the molds in small sections—the fast hardening liquid being worked into the points of the deep mold cavities with a fine wire. I reinforced this thin covering with (cheaper) polyester resin—the kind available at auto body shops with chopped fiberglass mixed into it. Tooth polish and a scrub brush made the teeth shine.

The mother spawn was controlled like a puppet by as many as six people situated low to the ground in back of the construction. The operators were hidden by darkness, camera cut-off, and the bulk of the monster. One operator rode inside of the structure manipulating one or both of the side heads. Others worked the main head, arms, and body movement.

The substructure of the mother spawn looks like somebody had some fun with an erector set; it provides the needed support and control for the heads. The weight of the heads was counterbalanced with springs; gentle pressure would move the heads and necks forward and backward. The jointed mouths would open and close through manipulation of a hand control which also governed the head tilt.

In The Deadly Spawn the mother creature moves almost in slow motion (kind of like a giant slug), its speed held in check by inertia and its own massive weight. The entire structure moved on wheels that fit into a tracking system constructed from plumbers’ PVC tubing. This provided the very smooth movement we needed.

The monster’s skin was built up on top of the metal skeleton in layers. Half-inch foam sheeting was cut and stapled together to form the basic shape. Refinements were added using paper toweling soaked in thick latex mold-making rubber. Fans and hair dryers speeded the drying process. The spawn was painted with latex base wall paint with about 30-40% liquid latex added in order to keep the paint from cracking and peeling as the skin moved and flexed.

During the shooting the mother spawn had to be “made up” before every take. Spawns are very slimey. Initial experiments with children’s toy store variety slime gave way to a combination of mineral oil and rubber cement. This looked good but the oil rotted the rubber and the rubber cement was a nightmare to clean up. Executive producer Rita Hildebrandt suggested that we try thickening plain water with corn starch; this produced the best looking slime of all and at 65¢ per gallon it was super economical too (rubber cement costs about $20.00 per gallon).

THE FINALE

It was a real problem. How were we going to create the biggest effect of the entire production without any money, well hardly any money? It was near the end of the filming on The Deadly Spawn when Executive Producer Tim Hildebrandt and Producer Ted Bohus had their brainstorm. They wanted to cap the film with a shot showing just how big the ever growing deadly spawns really can get as big as a mountain.

Dino D’Laurentis might have spent a couple of million dollars on a mountain-sized construction, but with less than $500.00 to spend we had to think small. So, naturally. we built a miniature Tim Hildebrandt’s production drawing for the shot was our guide during construction as well as our inspiration to do the work necessary to make it happen on film. Tim’s teenage experience as a miniature landscape builder, as well as his more recent work on the 3M TV commercial (the one with the futuristic looking cityscapes), was instrumental in realizing the drawing, Tim in fact did all the landscape detailing himself. The rest of our effects crew for this shot included Glenn Takakjian who built the house, Frank Balsamo-cinematographer. Greg Ramundas-Deadly Spawn chief effects technician, and Robert R. Bohus. As usual, it was my job to build the monster.

BUILDING THE SET

Before doing any actual construction we cut shapes out of cardboard representing various proposed set elements. When viewed through the camera, these helped us to determine how big and how deep we would have to make the set in order to get the depth of field we wanted. This turned out to be about 10 feet wide by 15 feet deep, Plywood cutouts then replaced the cardboard so that the set would have a sturdy substructure Chicken wire covered the plywood and was shaped to Create the basic topography of the landscape. The chicken wire was covered with paper toweling and a low budget substitute for plaster cement. A V-inch thickness provided the strength needed.

Chunks of burnt coal from the Hildebrandt’s coal stove were pressed into the cement to form cliffsides and other rocky looking areas. Coal dust from the same source and flocking-applied with a flour sifter-created areas of texture and color. Lichen Spongy fungus growth was used to simulate areas of vegetation and the treetops. Lichen can be purchased where toy train accessories are sold, though it can be found growing naturally in places having good air quality imported a hefty bad full of it about $300.00 worth) on my way back from a trip to Ontario, Canada. Trees were made of real tree branch endings–sometimes bunched together and taped along the “trunk” section before being painted. A road was cut out of roofing paper and cemented into place. The gravel at the side of the road was kitty litter

Glenn Takakjian’s efforts in producing a scaled miniature house topped that of everyone else on the crew combined. Working 4 5 hours a day for 6 weeks. Glen produced a highly detailed accurate miniature version of the Deadly Spawns primary location; a house. Glen began by taking many photos of the house he was to copy: long shots and many close ups of detailing. The construction began with the assembly of a corrugated cardboard framework with holes being cut wherever windows were needed Proportions were determined by studying the photos. Floor by floor, the cardboard substructure was covered with balsawood “siding” using Elmer’s glue as an adhesive. The window frames were also made of balsa with molding detail being hand carved using an exacto knife. This was sanded with fine grade emory cloth. Clear plastic was placed behind the windows to simulate glass. The large vertical posts of the downstairs porch were purchased from a doll house supplier and modified using an electric Dremel tool. The “gingerbread ornamentation was reconstructed from parts of a doll house gate each “S shaped unit being made of 4 plastic pieces that had been cut glued, and sanded. The smaller posts as well as the rest of the porch construction were simply hand carved using an exacto knife and a great deal of care. The completed porch construction was coated with a plastic spray in order to smooth over and hide the grain texture of the balsa wood. The plastic surface also made it possible to use instant bonding Crazy Glue as an adhesive instead of the slow drying Elmer’s. The chimney was a balsa wood box covered with ordinary wall spackle Bricks were carved into the dry spackle using the end of small rattail file. Covering the cardboard tool with 1,200 shingles was the most time consuming part of the project. Each shingle was individually cut from thin cardboard and glued into place; the completed house was painted with acrylic paints.

THE MONSTER

In the shot we were planning the monster or monster head-had to first look like a distant mountain, and then to rise upwards, tilt up, and open its mouth Since we had determined that the head had to be a rather large construction 3 feet wide 3 feet high, and 4 feet long-it required a very substantial control mechanism to make these movements happen. This was constructed out of wood-2×4’s and plywood. A seesaw arrangement – the head being at one end of the seesaw-controlled the upward movement. A 10 feet long handle attached to what amounted to 2 oversized pairs of scissors caused the mouth to open. This handle also governed the tilt of the head.

The mountain monster’s gums and numerous teeth were cast in hydro hard plaster) using existing rubber molds produced earlier for other spawn constructions in the movie. These teeth-fragile but cheap to produce were wired to the substructure. Many of the smaller teeth were simply painted onto the gums. The bulk of the shape was made of chicken wire and sheets of foam rubber stapled together): the use of these materials helped minimize the weight of the construction. Finally, the monster’s skin was built up out of paper toweling and liquid latex rubber. The creature’s head was landscaped with burnt coal chunks.

Everything we built was backed up by an original Hildebrandt painting: Three panels of masonite were joined together and taped at the seams with gafers tape to provide a large canvas. The sky actually had to be painted three times. The oil based paint first used proved to be too reflective-it was impossible to light. Tim opted for redoing it rather than trying (expensive) experiments with large amounts of dulling spray. The second version painted in flat latex base wall paints-is the one seen in the film. Still another backdrop was painted when we decided to use the miniature-minus house and somewhat modified for the shot that opens Deadly Spawn: a meteorite crossing the sky and falling to earth. Ideas on how to produce stars in the night sky ranged from direct projection, to the use of bits of front projection material of sequins. The first thing we tried worked-almost unexpectedly-so we used it: Tim simply painted them on.

We knew from the beginning that we wanted to film the shot in slow motion in order to suggest great size in the creature as an avalanche of dirt and rocks (burnt coal chips and coal dust mostly) fell away from its rising body at a speed right for its apparent size. We were able to shoot at 64 frames per second(only about half of what I we would have liked.) This rapid rate of frame exposure increased our lighting requirements as did stopping down the lens to increase the depth of field on the set. It ended up that of the money we spent on the shot was spent renting lights about 8000 watts and extension cords. The final bill for the shot was about $360.00.

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A no-sound-look behind the work of “The Deadly Spawn” (1983) directed by Douglas McKeown.

Michael Perilstein ‎– The Deadly Spawn (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

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Source Material

Fangoria Magazine 28

Fangoria Magazine 310

Cinemagic Magazine 22

Cinemagic Magazine 18

The Deadly Spawn (1983) Retrospective Part Two An Interview with John Dods How did you come to be involved with The Deadly Spawn? …

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bungou-stray-dogs-indulgences · 7 years

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Hi there! Just wanna say I absolutely love your blog! I wanted to request headcanons of Akutagawa, Dazai, Atsushi, Chuuya, and Mori (if that number is too big then just the first 3 are fine! ^-^) with an S/o that is an artist, but when they get really into their paintings/drawings, they don't always pay attention to the boys?

(I did general artist HCs too, I hope that’s okay?)

Akutagawa Ryunosuke

For the sake of Akutagawa’s interior decoration, it’s probably a good thing you’re an artist. The only thing clothing his otherwise naked walls is your artwork. No matter what you paint, it’s going on display.

Painting is one of the few things Akutagawa compliments often and openly. Art is one of the things he appreciates most; the fact that such emotion and intensity can be displayed without words amazes him. Normally, Akutagawa wouldn’t be anywhere near as vocally encouraging, but he wants you to know how much genuine pleasure your work brings to him, so he praises everything from your brushstrokes to your color choices.

Secretly, Akutagawa slips your sketchbook in with his belongings if he’s going on a long trip for the Port Mafia. Looking at your drawings comforts him, and the lines winding across the page quickly become his solace when the two of you are apart. Even when he’s countless miles away from you, a mere glance at your sketchbook’s pages makes the distance seem a little less cold.

Akutagawa doesn’t want to pull you away from your hobbies, especially ones that he enjoys as well, so he’s a bit more reluctant to recapture your attention while you’re focused on art. Despite this, he still takes your sudden cold-shoulders a bit personally, even if they’re not intentional.

After awhile, Akutagawa will flat-out tell you he’s sick of you tuning him out. He points out that he really doesn’t have that much time to spend with you, what with all the Port Mafia business he’s got to handle. If you still don’t pack up your supplies, his mood sours instantly. Akutagawa doesn’t dare start putting away your tools himself- he’s worried he’ll screw something up and you’ll be forced to scrap countless hours of work. Instead, he sits perhaps three feet away from you, glowering. He stays there, glaring, still as a statue until you’re simply too uncomfortable to continue.

Dazai Osamu

Dazai praises your art exuberantly and often. There’s no one in the ADA who hasn’t been victim to him waxing poetic on your mastery of shading, the delicacy of your lines, the poetic beauty of your finished pieces. Often, he’ll google complicated artistic terms, just so he can compliment every possible thing there is to point out. Plus, he sounds smarter when he uses words like ‘chiaroscuro’ (even if it’s not always employed strictly in the right context).

Often, Dazai seeks out art exhibitions in Yokohama for the two of you to peruse. No matter the quality of the pieces shown, Dazai always pretends to be disappointed, bemoaning the fact that none of your art is there. Whenever you pick out a work that you like, Dazai sidles as close to it as the gallery attendants will let him. After scrutinizing it for awhile (he usually whips out a magnifying glass), he draws back, sighing dramatically and shaking his head. Dazai points out all the aspects that you could’ve done better, mourning the fact that this got into a gallery and your work remains displayed only in his home.

Depending on the mood he’s in, Dazai either is alright with letting you alone as you work on your art, or he simply can’t handle being ignored. If he’s in one of the latter moods, kiss any potential progress good-bye. When you focus on your art instead of him, he’s immediately scheming ways of drawing your attention back. All of his brain power is channeled into getting you to acknowledge him.

Dazai tries every trick in the book. He starts off with sweet little kisses, smattered on your cheeks and neck, but it only goes downhill from there. If you don’t give in instantly, he morphs into a whiny toddler. Dazai creates racket in the background, pokes at your cheeks, complains about how cruel you’re being, pouting face about two inches away from yours. Things only escalate the longer your will holds out. Once, he set off the fire alarm just so that you’d acknowledge him (he apologized, but he wasn’t really sorry. Setting it off was so satisfying, not to mention effective, he’s got a burning desire to do it again.).

Nakajima Atsushi

Atsushi’s simply amazed by your skills. Whenever you show him a finished piece, he beams, eyes shining with awe as he admires your work. Atsushi’s never been too talented with a pencil and paper, and your creative prowess is only one of the countless reasons why he adores you.

Unless you specifically allow him sneak peeks, Atsushi avoids your unfinished pieces like the plague. To him, something just doesn’t feel right about glancing at such a personal object in progress. If he does happen to notice an uncompleted project, he’s instantly apologizing to you, begging forgiveness for invading your privacy.

If you let him, Atsushi loves to sit back and observe as you work on projects. He admires the way your hands swerve across the paper, sweeping lines with unbelievable grace and precision. He also thinks your facial expressions as you concentrate are adorable. Every time your nose scrunches, or your tongue pokes out of your mouth in concentration, Atsushi can’t help but grin, delighted at your sheer cuteness.

Although Atsushi feels a bit slighted when you spend hours fine tuning artwork instead of hanging out with him, he would never dream of interrupting you. Your level of focus amazes him. As long as you’ve got a paintbrush or pencil in your grasp, Atsushi doesn’t disturb you, occupying himself with something quiet and unobtrusive. He doesn’t even want to cause accidental breaks in your concentration, shying away from all loud noise and distracting activities while you’re at work.

When you’re in your zone, Atsushi keeps close tabs on you. Meals are left by your workspace to ensure that you don’t forget proper nutrition, there’s always a full water glass somewhere nearby, and his inner mother comes out when it’s long past time to pack it up; Atsushi strongly ‘encourages’ you get enough sleep (ignoring him results in an indignant cold-shoulder; he’s trying to look out for your health and you brush him off?! Unacceptible), no matter how much progress you’re making

Nakahara Chuuya

Soon after he discovers you’re an artist, Chuuya’s constantly bothering you to paint something for him. He insists on paying commission. If you won’t let your recompense be money, he’ll settle for paying you in kisses.

Instead of keeping a photograph of you with him, Chuuya holds onto a pocket-sized self portrait. Staring at your likeness, one that you created, brings a smile to his face no matter where he is. The picture especially helps when he’s called away on long Port Mafia tasks; glancing at the image every so often eases some of the loneliness of being apart.

Chuuya will love anything you create, but he’ll especially enjoy a scene of Yokohama at night, with the lights glimmering over the water, or a portrait of you two together. After letting you pick out a suitable frame, he hangs every art piece you give him somewhere noticeable; usually, it ends up decorating the walls of the front hall or dining room. Chuuya’s special favorites go in his bedroom. When you’re not with him, it helps ease his loneliness if the last thing he glances before he falls asleep is one of your artworks.

You have to be careful complaining about your art supplies when around Chuuya. He’s prepared to splurge any amount just so that you’re outfitted with top-of-the-line tools. Whenever he notices that your pencils are growing dangerously short, or that your paintbrushes are fraying beyond redemption, he immediately surprises you with replacements. They’re always an unbelievably expensive brand, probably foreign, and usually, your initials are etched somewhere.

Chuuya will never directly let you know that he’s annoyed when you’re ignoring him. He’ll try every trick in the book to coax you away from your art, though. Chuuya taunts you with the promise of your favorite meals, tries to rub your shoulders until you’re putty in his fingers, even hints at all the other, more… exciting things you could be doing instead. If you’re completely determined to work on your art, he’ll eventually let you be, but he won’t go down without a fight.

Mori Ougai

Mori’s absolutely delighted when he finds out your artistic ability. He encourages all of your hobbies, but this one, he’s especially enthusiastic about supporting. Mori’s no art critic, but he does enjoy browsing pieces. If you’re the one to create it, his interest only skyrockets.

To Mori’s absolute glee, Elise takes a liking to your art, too. Whenever you’re slaving away on a project, she’s probably got one she’s working on, too; she likes to pick out the same subject as you and compare when you both finish. Mori can never decide which is better when pressed for his opinion (usually by Elise). They’re both masterpieces, he insists, and there’s no competition between masters. Both artworks are hung up together, a plaque underneath them identifying the pieces as a collaboration between the world’s two greatest art masters.

Without telling you, Mori calls in a designer and sets up a massive studio for you to work in. The room is fully equipped with every art supply your heart could ever desire. It’s absolutely gorgeous; there’s windows overlooking gardens filled specially with all of your favorite flowers, and skylights littering the ceiling filter in moonlight when you want to work at night. Mori brushes it off as nothing, insisting that artists of your caliber need work spaces that measure up to their skills.

Generally, Mori leaves you be when you’re devoting all your attention to your art, although he’ll whine a bit. After he complains for a few minutes that he deserves your attention just as much as any canvas, he abandons the pursuit of your acknowledgement. Mori’s busy enough that he can occupy himself until you’re ready for him again. He’ll be mopey until you’re back in his arms, though.

There are, of course, exceptions; when Mori’s looking for sex, no amount of charcoal smeared on your hands is going to stop him. He’ll fuck you right against an easel if he has to. In addition, if Elise wants your attention, he’ll stop at nothing to fulfill her demands. Mori will ensure you give the girl what she wants.

#Bungou Stray Dogs #Bungou Stray Dogs Imagines #Mori Ougai #Nakahara Chuuya #Dazai Osamu #Nakajima Atsushi #Akutagawa ryuunosuke #Akutagawa #Atsushi #Chuuya #Dazai #Mori #Bungou Stray Dogs Headcanons

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courtneytincher · 5 years

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Climate Migrants May Number 143 Million by 2050

Turjoy Chowdhury/NurPhoto via GettyThis story is part of Covering Climate Now, a global collaboration of more than 220 news outlets to strengthen coverage of the climate story. ROME—Manu remembers vividly the grim conditions he faced when he left coastal Bangladesh just three years ago to try to start a new life in Europe. The 45-year-old woodworker was one of millions of people in his South Asian country who had, for years, adjusted to seasonal flooding, moving in and out of their homes as the higher tides passed with the seasons. But in recent years, the rising seas didn't subside, and Manu lost his home, his belongings and finally his livelihood when trees vital to his craft disappeared under the rising sea. In 2016, Manu made his way to Italy where he requested asylum, which very likely won’t be granted. “There isn’t even a category on the application to request protection from the changing climate,” he told The Daily Beast. “No one even recognizes the problem.”Some do, in fact, but too few, and global society cannot ignore the problem much longer. The World Bank estimates that by the year 2050, at least 143 million additional migrants from sub-Saharan Africa, Asia and Latin America—already the greatest migrant and refugee-producing areas—will be on the move because of rising seas, droughts, and extreme weather. Adding to the injustice for those most affected is the fact that the climate change crisis is not the fault of those on the move. Founder and executive director of the Environmental Justice Foundation, Steve Trent, tells The Daily Beast that the poorer communities, affected first and worst, are those least able to mitigate the impacts of the heating planet. “The world’s least developed countries produce only a fraction of greenhouse gas emissions and have had far fewer of the benefits reaped by richer countries from our addiction to carbon, yet they are suffering the worst impacts of the climate crisis,” says Trent. “This summer, entire villages in India were abandoned, leaving only the sick and the elderly, as the country baked in 50°C [122°F] heat. Right now in the Bahamas, the death toll in the wake of Hurricane Dorian is expected to [continue to] rise dramatically.” Trent points to the fact that the European Union alone was responsible for 40 percent of all global C02 emissions between 1850 and 2011. “Yet in an unjust world, 99 percent of all deaths from weather-related disasters occur in the world’s 50 least developed countries,” he says. “Countries that have contributed less than 1 percent of global carbon emissions. This is not justice.”A new doomsday report by the World Bank’s climate scientists, migration experts and statistical researchers paints a picture of what's to come so dire it verges on the apocalyptic. According to Kanta Kumari Rigaud, the World Bank’s lead environmental specialist who compiled the report, events like crop failures due to droughts or floods will create what he calls “hotspots” that force people to move at first within national borders. Most will be go from rural to urban areas, but that influx will create new concentrations of poverty and cause people to start moving beyond borders.To meet this challenge, the report suggests, many urban areas and their environs need to prepare for an influx of people with improved housing and transportation infrastructure, social services, and employment opportunities. If managed correctly, the migration could create a “positive momentum” in some areas facing depopulation. But in others, it will only put additional burdens on already overwhelmed systems. Look at the recent global migration crises that have relatively little to do with climate change, and the way those have shaken developed nations. The rise of the xenophobic extreme right in Europe was spawned in part by the 2015 influx of a million refugees, largely from war-torn Syria. Central Americans trying to reach the United States by way of Mexico have faced a figurative and perhaps soon-to-be physical wall. Rohingya people fleeing inter-communal wars in Burma were met by some of the most abhorrent human rights violations since the Holocaust. To date, sub-Saharan Africans fleeing war and poverty trying to reach Europe though Italy have been met with harsh policies and closed ports, but only a fraction were fleeing the impact of a changing climate. Now, as a recent report by UNHCR, the U.N. refugee agency, points out, drought is compounding security woes and people are fleeing to Ethiopia. Many will then try to move on to Europe.Now imagine the extra migration pressures imposed by “natural” disasters related to climate change. The U.N. today counts 68.5 million forcibly displaced people in the world due to war, poverty, and natural disasters. Imagine tripling that figure.Some migrants will have it much harder than others. The United Nations special rapporteur on poverty and human rights, Philip Alston, warns of a disaster made worse by wage disparity. “We risk a ‘climate apartheid’ scenario where the wealthy pay to escape overheating, hunger and conflict while the rest of the world is left to suffer,” he wrote in a report to the U.N. in June. “Perversely, while people in poverty are responsible for just a fraction of global emissions, they will bear the brunt of climate change, and have the least capacity to protect themselves.”Alston also warns that climate change will impact democracies as governments try to cope with the consequences. Aid agencies have yet to define what it means to be a climate migrant or refugee, and without crucial designations there won't be policies and legal protections. “Most human rights bodies have barely begun to grapple with what climate change portends for human rights, and it remains one on a long laundry list of ‘issues,’ despite the extraordinarily short time to avoid catastrophic consequences,” Alston said when he presented his report. “As a full-blown crisis that threatens the human rights of vast numbers of people bears down, the usual piecemeal, issue-by-issue human rights methodology is woefully insufficient.”UNHCR has been reluctant to designate the new category for people moving due to climate change. John Podesta, founder and director of the Center for American Progress, outlined the issue of classification in a recent report for the Brookings Institution. “The UNHCR has thus far refused to grant these people refugee status, instead designating them as ‘environmental migrants,’ in large part because it lacks the resources to address their needs,” Podesta wrote. “But with no organized effort to supervise the migrant population, these desperate individuals go where they can, not necessarily where they should. As their numbers grow, it will become increasingly difficult for the international community to ignore this challenge.”He believes the international community will be forced either to redefine what a refugee is to include climate migrants or create a new category and institutional framework to protect climate migrants.“However, opening that debate in the current political context would be fraught with difficulty,” he said in the report. “Currently, the nationalist, anti-immigrant, and xenophobic atmosphere in Europe and the U.S. would most likely lead to limiting refugee protections rather than expanding them.”All agencies that eventually will be tasked with managing the new migration have reached the same conclusion: the developed world has to act to cut emissions and stave off the apocalyptic disaster in the making. But vulnerable countries need to act, too. The World Bank is helping Bangladesh, which is projected to produce a third of South Asia’s climate migrants by 2050, to develop a “Perspective Plan for 2041,” that, while pessimistic, recognizes that people need to start moving away from coastal areas in order to integrate and find new skills. Mexico is also working on a plan towards adaptation, which will help retrain workers who rely on industries that will disappear as the real effects of climate change take hold. The World Bank says that if the industrialized world starts to act by cutting greenhouse gases now and integrating a climate migration contingency into all development plans, the inevitable disaster does not have to become a worst case scenario. Read more at The Daily Beast.Got a tip? Send it to The Daily Beast hereGet our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

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georgiecarrfilmreview · 5 years

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On Looking but not Seeing: Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s ‘Never Look Away’

This review appeared in Another Gaze Feminist Film Journal

https://www.anothergaze.com/looking-not-seeing-florian-henckel-von-donnersmarcks-never-look-away/

The title of Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s Never Look Away (2018) is an imperative: don’t look away from art, evil, joy or history. The film follows the life of Kurt Barnet (Tom Schilling) as he grows up in nazi Germany and Communist Dresden, engaging directly with the horrors of the era. Kurt’s aunt Elisabeth (Saskia Rosendahl), diagnosed as schizophrenic, is sterilised as part of the Nazi eugenics program overseen by Professor Carl Seeband (Sebastian Koch), a gynecological doctor and leading member of the SS medical corps. Dresden is firebombed and men die on the Russian Front. Many reluctant National Socialists fall foul of the piecemeal attempt at post-war denazification, while higher profile nazis go unpunished. This unflinching history is told alongside the history of German art and the aesthetic, as well as the ideological, changes wrought upon it by both regimes.

It is Elisabeth who urges Kurt to “never look away” because “everything that is true holds beauty in it”. This becomes the guiding mantra of Kurt’s life, framing his relationship to the world and to his art. Looking at art is, in the context of Nazi Germany and the later period of East German communism, a politically subversive act. It is also central to the structure of the film, shaping it into three fairly predictable acts. Aryan Romanticism and brutal state suppression are followed by strict Socialist Realism, and finally, when Kurt moves to the West and the Dusseldorf Art Academy, by bourgeois Modern Art. This movement is echoed in the artistic development of Kurt: his narrative functions as a lens through which we can contemplate epochal shifts in a larger story, The Story of Art. Never Look Away was inspired by the life of Gerhard Richter – and suggests a progression both in terms of artistic freedom and artistic taste. Taste is central to the film’s discussion of art: while repressive regimes judge an artwork as Good or Bad because of its political subtext, the film urges a qualitative metric – to consider Beauty or Skill. In a tour of ‘Degenerate Art’ in Dresden, the National Socialist guide stops in front of a Kandinsky painting and, pointing to the five-year-old Kurt, jokes “I think you could do this, too”. Using the well known joke – modern art as childlike scribble – in this context serves to align bad taste with bad politics, a brutish intellectual miscomprehension with an evil ideology. This didactic structure is repeated throughout the three acts of the film, each of which contains a representative speech on art – the venomous nazi tour guide, a Communist art professor who rails against the “Me, me, me” stance of bourgeois artists, and the modern art student who obsesses over the need for “something new – an idea”. On each occasion art introduces politics.

The film makes a strong case for the idea that a society can be judged by its relationship to art – that there is a strong correlation between artistic faculty and political morality. We have seen this before – in The Monuments Men (George Clooney, 2014) or Trumbo (Jay Roach, 2015) – mainstream cinema exploring the inherently political nature of artistic production and exhibition, as far as liberal discourse will allow. But Never Look Away also suggests a theory about how art should be made. Scenes set in the Dusseldorf art school focus on the relationship between Kurt and his lecturer Antonius van Verten (Oliver Masucci), and their traumatic experiences of nazism and a World War Two plane crash. For van Verten, art is about “what I have truly experienced in my life” – his agony in the wreckage of a burnt-out Luftwaffe plane. For him, artistic integrity is gained through personal hardship. This Romantic perspective of the suffering artist is set against the callous profiteering of the Abstract Expressionist art students who flog sexed-up, ironised work that is, they themselves admit, little more than ‘wallpaper’. Van Verten’s relating of art to suffering is, on a more fundamental level, also reflective of the logic and form of the film itself. An artistic Bildungsroman, Never Look Away’s very structure and focus support the theory that Van Verten proposes – art from experience. This is problematic when we consider the film and its relationship not just to art but to history. The Bildungsroman was notably an 18th-century form, and the film’s focus on Great Men is similarly dated. Women are everywhere subsumed into the story of the artist. Kurt’s wife Ellie is a fashion student but apart from the time she makes a suit for Kurt there is almost no on-screen development of her passion. In a film with a run-time of three hours and nine minutes there is little excuse for such omissions. Later, when she loses a pregnancy and thus her traditional reproductive role within a nuclear family, Ellie tells Kurt, “Your pictures have to be our children”.

Although Never Look Away explicitly criticises contemporary patriarchal attitudes these are addressed diegetically rather than formally. The message of the film is clear: men like Seeband must be condemned. But in a film about looking it is frustrating that we never see from the perspective of these women. While we do not always see through Kurt’s eyes, everything we see affects him, is linked by the structure of the film to him. When Elisabeth is interviewed by Professor Seeband before her sentencing she stares at a wall clock and a painting by the doctor’s daughter. Many years later Kurt stares at the same objects. This creates a sense of dark historical irony but it is also true that, structurally, Elisabeth’s scenes are a set-up for Kurt’s. When Elisabeth is violently removed by the medical authorities, the child Kurt holds up a hand, blocking the traumatic image. The camera blurs when Kurt squints, filtering the action. Through such a filter their history becomes his experience and eventually, his art.

In the final act Kurt paints a picture of himself and his aunt Elisabeth which wins him an exhibition. He calls it ‘Mother and Child’. The press ask, “Who is depicted there? You and your mother?” he replies “It’s just a snapshot”. Kurt creates his paintings from photographs, projecting the images onto canvas and painting in the lines, later smudging the photo-realistic painting with his brush, making his mark on what would otherwise be direct mimesis. The transposition liberates the image from the form of the snapshot, dulling the link to the historical figure of Elisabeth. She is universalised, repackaged for public consumption as an angelic model of reproductive traditionalism. The picture appears again, in different form – only this time it is seen as his work rather than her life. He asks us to look but to see only with his eyes. This is the problem with the demand to ‘never look away’. No one can see everywhere at once. What matters, and where the film fails, is in interrogating how to look. While the film introduces the idea of seeing politics through art, it ignores the political ramifications of its own artistic form, omitting to ask who has the opportunity to look? and who will be seen?. Elisabeth’s imperative is direct, but it is also vague, and much of its moral value is diluted as Kurt’s vision is clouded by his own subjectivity. The final frame of the film is Kurt’s face, joyous and close-up in shallow focus, a visual summation of the film’s real imperative, which is to never look away from Kurt. Like the childlike hand, held up to block an unwanted image, everything else blurs into the background.

#never look away

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