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micamicster · 1 month

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Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

#lmao with this and the country playlists this blog has been on a real raven boys kick the last few days #anyway... enjoy?#i need to make a tag for my writing like... generally but until then #super rich kids #this really isn't about anything and had nothing else attached to it #it was just a random scene that stood alone so like...#probably the best thing for me to start out this 'posting unfinished stuff' project #i feel like gansey does not appear at his best in this fic but that's not a reflection of how much i love him!#he's trying his best to keep this family together! and the other 15 year olds are no help at all!#ronan lynch #adam parrish #the raven cycle #pynch #tw suicide mention

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kuwdora · 8 months

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I always have thoughts about book-to-media adaptations running in the back of my mind these days since it’s part and parcel of our fannish landscape. There’s just so much that goes into translating something from book to a visual medium. And then the adaptation fails in some small and/or large way and it ends up being a disappointment. (I think there’s also a lot to be said about adaptations that are more Successful than not and what success means in an adaptation…but I think that deserves its own post.)

I’m often considering a person’s entry point to adaptations, whether it’s through the media or the original source, and how that plays into people’s reactions about failures of adaptations or—like, what each person is wanting to get out of the adaptation if they know the original source material. And what they’re happy with when they’ve just discovered it through the adaptation.

Just gonna ramble a little bit about my own experience with being a book-to-adaptation person. I think even when writing and production circumstances are the most ideal, it’s still fucking hard as hell to adapt complicated narratives to the screen. Still. I’m not immune to heartbreak about seeing something play out badly because I had been so attached to the original book material.

When I was a little girl I picked up a fantasy book featuring a little girl protagonist. This main character was living in a foster situation, had dead parents, and a wishy-washy background she didn’t know much about. She was a little bit of a ruffian and kind of defied everybody and everything because she had a very strong sense of self and moral code. She is, of course, a child of prophecy and has a lot in store for her.

Over the course of the first book she ends up embroiled in some social and political intrigue and ends up going on a grand adventure. She meets an outcast who is is hated by humans but they use his services anyway because he’s good at his job. He ends up becoming her protector and guardian and would do anything for her.

She eventually crossed paths with a world-traveling misfit with who brought levity and a heart of gold to every scene. She also ended up meeting a very old, very beautiful witch also fell in love with this child and would move heaven and earth to protect her and help her survive and thrive.

The whole series deals with a lot of complex issues of the moral and social variety, and there’s a running theme about how men and institutions headed by men wield their power and try to impose their vision of the world on everyone. Particularly on women.

The little girl also eventually found out that her dad isn’t actually dead like she was told. The dad is alive and well and he’s asshole, also a bad guy. But he has the MOST CHARISMA EVER, holy fuck.

I ate these books up as a kid and reread them over and over and my brain and heart totally grew around them. I admired the protagonist and her sharp wit and mouthiness and determination. Her resiliency and perseverance to do what she knew would be right and just. As I got older and I reread the books and absorbed the more complex issues about personhood and agency. I thought more about how you can resist a bad situation or person when the world/person is trying to change you to fit their ideal. (That part was particularly important to me when I was young). But also the themes of good and evil, etc. I started seeing the politics and then understanding it more with every reread over the years when I started reading more history, more politics. It had always been there in the books but I could finally SEE it. It felt like a revelation.

A dozen or so years later it turns out someone was going to going to adapt these books! It was much discussed and heavily anticipated. These were well-known, beloved fantasy books from the 90s. Amazing characters and great scenes! Fascinating themes.

God I remember being so excited when I heard about the adaptation. And then I got to see it. It was the most confusing and disappointing experiences of my life. What I ended up seeing was pretty. Great costumes, CGI. Amazing actors! But everything that made the books interesting and magical and profound had been watered down, elided over the moral complexities. Or it outright changed things that would have fundamentally shifted the events of the rest of the books and make the adaptation even MORE incomprehensible.

I’m talking about the 2007 film adaptation of The Golden Compass from Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials. A lot of this probably sounds familiar to my Witcher mutuals, right?

Anyway.

The film had so many boycotts by the Catholic Church and other churchy groups in the United States for its depiction of institutionalized religion in Lyra’s world. So on the studio-side they made so many changes and demands that fucked the movie. So much doesn’t make sense or is just pales in comparison to what was actually originally intended.

After the film’s flop even more articles and reviews came out talking about Tom Stoppard’s original draft of the film and the director’s first take on the screenplay. Vulture read both versions and it's really illuminating what they discovered. The film was indeed supposed to be significantly longer but the studio wasn’t having it because they wanted kids to go and see this film and 2+ film wasn’t gonna be it.

Like. The studio was really hoping for another Harry Potter franchise and were treating this book-to-film more like a YA fantasy type of thing. When in reality someone wrote a sanded down version of the story for the screenplay that left me and a whole bunch of other people fucking jaded as hell. Because damn. Way to miss the fucking mark on an amazing fantasy series. 10000% missed it. I’ve blacked out most of the actual film from memory because I just could not believe it. The disappointment. The heartache of not doing the story justice.

But yeah…just… someone really thought The Golden Compass was gonna be a huge fantasy action/adventure hit because there were really cool talking animals.

It’s so fucking hilarious to me in retrospect. When you realize these books are Phillip Pullman’s AU fanfic/fix-it of Paradise Lost where Lucifer gets to have his revenge on the kingdom of heaven, there was noooo way that original film was going to even begin to set up a 3 or 4 film franchise. Nooo way.

The first book ends with an absolutely heartbreaking and horrific scene that is the catalyst for Lyra and what motivates her for the next 1500 pages of the series. I was there opening weekend in that theater for The Golden Compass. I have never been more confused in my LIFE while watching a film because they ended the film like 5 chapters before the end of the book. They lopped it off and made the first film a very strange Cliffhanger for a sequel that would absolutely never get made. I was flabbergasted.

The disappointment. The confusion. The despair. I was fucking depressed about it for a good long time. I had been so excited and been brimming with anticipation because I loved the books so much and I wanted it to be good and then what I got was….absolute garbage. To me. I mean maybe if I had been a little girl watching the film for the first time it would have been better. But as an adult who had spent the better part of my life immersed in Lyra’s character arc… I just. Could not feel more betrayed.

I can’t even be that upset anymore because I’ve had enough time to grieve and leave it behind. Then somehow the universe came together and HBO let Jack Thorne and company re-do the books as a series. It is a much more faithful adaptation. I’m too close to the book source to know if people who don’t read the books will get the same kind of experience out of seeing the show play through Lyra and Will’s experiences in the show.

The final season of His Dark Materials was also probably the most philosophical and abstract season of fantasy television I’ve seen. I fucking loved it. I don’t think it was perfect, but it was really enjoyable and did more to soothe my soul than I thought possible. It’s not a show for everyone—and I’m still not sure how it got made because HBO the last few years had been going through some changes. Maybe I’m very sentimental and forgiving, I don’t know. The narrative pacing was a bit weird to me in places and some of the dialogue was hit or miss but overall, I could not have gotten a better time from it.

That experience with the film a has made me much more intentional about managing my expectations of how I approach media adaptations.

Where am I starting with an adaptation? What am I hoping to get out of this? Who is making it and what are the production constraints working against it? How do I manage my expectations if I know the original source and what do I want from the visual media and acting? Etc etc. Do I want to go and read the original if I don’t know it already because I want to see what changes they made?

I keep thinking about everything with The Witcher Netflix. It’s so fucking difficult to get anything made through studios and networks (especially now, but even then in the late 2000s)… And when you’re trying to appeal to the widest audience possible, you’re only going to get so far when you’ve left the rest of the source inspiration on the table. And didn’t bother to make up for the difference in what you left there.

We all know how depressing it is. The streaming model has fucked television over completely. The depreciation of writers rooms… we had 20 and 22 episodes, and then 15 and 12 episodes. Filler episodes with great character moments. Space to flesh out complex narratives with nuance. And now 8 episodes as a standard runtime. The lack decent amount of time for production (including pre and post) to actually set things up in a way that serves the media narrative.

It’s so hard to cater to everyone when you’re drawing from a book/comic book. Also harder to cater to your specific audience. But when you’re trying cater to enough people so you don’t get cancelled and keep going to try and tell the story you’re trying to tell, that’s fucking hard and shitty and I don’t begrudge them for that. Even though it sucks.

Even though I can hate it as much has I can understand it. Wish it was different. Even though it can be a fucking travesty of epic proportions because these writers/showrunners/directors don’t get the space to actually flesh out what they’re trying to do.

Even if people are writing a very different iteration of the story that I don’t like/want/agree with/understand/etc.

That doesn’t even go into the issue of when showrunners and directors don’t understand the characters they’re working with or make fundamental changes because of their own vision, production constraints, and everything else. You might see a lot of this going around again with Red, White, and Royal Blue and what the director had changed in his film adaptation. People are worked up into a froth for very valid reasons. It’s all exhausting but this is all nothing new. Still demoralizing when people so attached to the original material.

Anyway. That’s….just some thoughts that have been sitting with me for awhile. Could probably ramble more if I can get the brain cells together.

Fun fact: George RR Martin looked at the 2007 The Golden Compass film and said (paraphrasing here): “I am never, ever fucking EVER letting anyone make my books into a film. A television show is the way to go.”

Fun fact #2: James SA Corey (Daniel Abraham and Ty Frank) worked with GRRM extensively over the years and I think others have written more extensively about GRRM’s influence the way they wrote sprawling narratives with multiple POV characters. Anyway they developed a tabletop RPG that they eventually turned into novels that became The Expanse.

Which eventually got adapted to television. SyFy network was in a bidding war with Netflix for the show and out-bid Netflix. This was a show adaptation that did not hold your hand whatsoever. Fascinating, new, interesting. Faithful adaptation. Still got cancelled after two seasons. Even though both authors had become producers on the show and were learning more about production and writing teleplays from experienced sci-fi showrunners/producers/television writers.

Show was later picked up by Amazon to finish out the last few seasons. But I would bet my bottom dollar that both these authors watched how the Game of Thrones adaptations went and probably went “we’re not gonna let this happen to us.” And I think that’s reflected in the way they and their team were able to adapt the story faithfully with multiple huge and small changes specifically so it would work with the television medium.

#so rambly #next time I'll edit more #honestly this is still only like 30% of my feelings about His Dark Materials books #and only like 15% of my feelings about how The Witcher Netflix has been adapted #my crankiness about the way witcher netflix adaptation goes is so variable. i love. i hate. i'm confused and chill at the same time.#hurray for posting some rambly thoughts #and for years i've wished i had the brain and energy to write my like eight part essay about The Expanse adaptation #maybe this will spur me into writing about Lyra & Ciri & Teresa Duerte from The Expanse & how they're treated by the authors and narrative #my brain is soggy and worn down from capitalism but still always churning with thoughts #i need to practice being more pithy and editing but alas this is what i have right now #textpost #blogdora

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