#my tiny take on 1941

[lineffability]

London, Soho, AZ Fell’s Bookshop, 1941

“That’s the trouble with you lot, you tend to see things in black and white. Sometimes, you just gotta blur the edges.”

“Well, maybe there is something to be said for… shades of gray?”

Their glasses clinked.

“Well, shades of dark gray,” Crowley corrected, and the ease crept back into their conversation along with the little correction, leaving the emotional vulnerability under the table, where the photograph rested on Aziraphale's thigh.

“Shades of a very light gray, I rather fancy.” Aziraphale smiled into his glass, preparing for their disagreement to turn into a full-blown silly discussion on color theory. Which it did. 

While their aesthetic discrepancies about various shades of gray were being discussed at length and in oral treatises, the angel and the demon were very much on the same page when it came to wine, and the drinking of it. They had not over-indulged, not tonight, but were emptying the bottle between them slowly and comfortably, having settled into a conversation of the same kind. The virtues of mixing colors, all that. It came to them easily, the debating, each fending for the role they had been assigned. 

“Of course, take too many colors and you just end up with a sort of brown-gray sludge,” Crowley said now, and made a face. “Bit like the walls of hell.”

This was the wrong term to drop so carelessly, on a night such as this, and the lapis-lazuli dreams of Aziraphale’s mind were washed right down the drain, where they traveled until they turned into a sort of brown-gray sludge and dripped onto the road to hell, which matched the walls in color. Hell, where Crowley had almost ended up tonight, and not to pay a friendly visit with a report card.

“Crowley, what would have… If they’d taken the photograph, what would have happened to you?”

Aziraphale had turned the page and stumbled upon a new chapter of their conversation, pricking himself on the safety pin that kept the messy draft of the novel of Them all in one tidy place. This was uncharted territory, both of their relationship and of his heart. Aziraphale really, really terribly loved a good story with a happy ending. Shame if it were to be cut short, finished before its time. But where was it headed? The proof was in the pudding. (A good kind of sludge, with a more pleasant color.) There were no instructions, not on the pudding box and not in the first and second and hundredth drafts of their millions of stories. Aziraphale was scared, he realized, of the open-endedness. 

He looked nervously at Crowley, for a moment, before his eyes flitted away. 

“Eehhhh,” Crowley said. “Eh. Dunno. Y'know. Bad stuff. Good at that , they are.”

Crowley wouldn’t answer him, Aziraphale realized. At least not properly. The demon began blubbering away now, about the creativity of hell, trying to work his way back to the topic of colors along the sludgy walls of hell and likely succeeding, but Aziraphale wasn’t really listening anymore.

Aziraphale didn’t say he was scared. He even tried not to show it. He’d shown too much, already, tonight. And look where it had gotten them, all this emotion. They were safe now, yes, but Crowley had risked too much for him today – and too many other days and nights, as well. It was all his fault. And he kept doing it, too, purposely even, sometimes (though not tonight) and it was so terribly selfish of him. 

Crowley’s safety was more important to him than anything else. 

And he was its biggest threat. 

They couldn’t keep doing this. Not after tonight. Not after Crowley had tread on hallowed ground for his sake; after Crowley had held a gun to his face, shaking, pleading no; after Crowley had almost gotten dragged down to hell for trusting an angel. Not after Aziraphale had realized that he– how much Crowley meant to him, and how much losing him would tear a hole into the very fabric of his being. Not the loss of his corporation – though that was its own kind of terror and a cause of many past nightmares – but the loss of him, Crowley, his very being. No more Crowley ever again, not in this body or any next. The thought had been so terrifying he'd rejected it immediately, and shut it away, but it was back now, a monster not constrained by drawers or cages of the mind. He'd realized there was no Aziraphale without Crowley, not really. And he couldn’t imagine it. But to keep him safe, to truly keep him safe–

“It’s getting awfully late. Maybe you should leave, now.”

–he needed to stay away. 

“Eh?” 

“I said it’s late, and I’m ti– tired… and– you should probably leave. We’ve spent– too much time together, today, have we not?” He tried to laugh, nervously, and Crowley furrowed his brows. 

He got up anyway, abruptly and a little stiffly. “If that’s what you want, angel.”

It’s not what I want at all. “Yes.”

Aziraphale got up, as well, pushing his chair into the table and following Crowley to the door. The demon was walking briskly, but stopped short before reaching the exit. Aziraphale came up to his side, looking torn, and lifted a hand as if to hold him. He, too, stopped short before making contact. Let it drop.  

“Angel,” Crowley started, but obviously didn’t know where to go with the words. What’s going on? The sudden change had thrown him off, and yet he was beginning to realize, slowly, what might have caused it. The worry in Aziraphale’s eyes was telling. 

“I can’t have you risking your life for me,” Aziraphale said now, very quietly. 

Crowley exhaled through his nostrils. We’ve both been risking our lives for each other for a very long time , he wanted to say. Wonder why that is? He said nothing. He didn’t want to think about the answer to that question, either. 

Aziraphale looked at him, and there was something in that look, in that god-unforsaken gaze , that tore at Crowley’s insides, and he leaned forward: just a bit. And Aziraphale didn’t draw back. They stayed like that for a moment entirely too long for it to mean anything but one thing, but neither closed what little distance remained between them. 

It was Crowley who turned away. 

“Good night, angel,” he murmured, and Aziraphale only registered the sound of the little door bell as the Bentley was already roaring to life.

He stood there, alone, for several more moments, grappling with what had not happened, before he returned to the back room, where the photograph lay on the table, mocking him and his silly little human feelings. He didn’t want to look at it. 

He should destroy it. Wasn’t that the right thing? The only thing? But Crowley’s absence hurt (already, already it hurt) and... what if he followed through and kept him at an arm’s length? What if nights like these were no longer possible? At least not until things had cooled down, one way or another. A few decades, maybe. 

But he couldn't do it. Couldn’t bear it. 

He pocketed the picture, carefully, in his waist coat. He suddenly felt like crying. Instead, he wandered into the shop, sat down at his desk, and opened a book. Paradise Lost. How wonderfully ironic. 

He kept reading until dusk, and longer still, and when the little bell chimed again, announcing a brave and forlorn customer, Aziraphale slid the photograph between the pages, and closed the book, and got up with a smile. 

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #my tiny take on 1941 #(this is part of the new chapter of Meanwhile but posting it as a standalone too) #my writing #inefficable

[ebbarights]

emma appleton as thomasina in lola (2022) i am on my knees.

#there is not a single post to reblog about this movie so i'm standing on my tiny soapbox to say watch it #it's a found footage movie taking place in 1941 featuring a time machine. need i say more #yes actually i do want to say more. it's very good and scary and sad and kind of funny and i liked it. don't want to spoil it #lola (2022) #leog

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

This is Part 2 of 3 total metas. Here are:

Part 1, in case you want to read about my analysis of the Story of Job first

and Part 3, in case you're impatient and want to jump ahead.

Fair warning though, for the sake of understanding some of the references, you're probably better off reading this chaptered meta chronologically. However, every part should work just as well as a standalone! I'll do my very best to make it so.

Alright, off or on you go beyond the cutty cut!

I'll start this second part off with a very brief summary of the main take aways and points from Part 1, which go as such:

Memory, as opposed to a third party's narration, is not a factual, objective retelling of a story or event. It's mingled and mangled with emotions, imaginations and exaggerations, projecting both the feelings and impressions you had back then as well as those you might have now in the present time back on whatever it is you are remembering. (Which is why we need to put everything that Aziraphale is remembering into the context of what he might have felt in the past, as well as what he's feeling right now.)

While this doesn't mean his (or anyone's) memories are lies, it does mean they're a very subjective and sometimes factually distorted representation of what actually happened, which, in our case, gives us a lot of subtext and a lot of not-there furniture to figure out and look at.

So, let's continue with S2E3 and the Story of wee Morag. We start our flashback with a scene of Aziraphale writing his diary entry on the 10th of November, 1827. Immediately, it's firmly established that this is once again not an outside-point-of-view narration, but rather what Aziraphale remembers and wrote down.

One thing that immediately stuck out to me here, is how helpful and kind Crowley is to Elspeth, pretty much from the very beginning when they meet her in the graveyard. Not only does he take on a Scottish accent so she won't perceive him as English (as she does with Aziraphale), but he also helps her drag the barrel that has the fresh body in it and, in the end, even pulls it all by himself while Elspeth simply follows behind them. Here's a rather poor-quality picture, for reference:

Now, we know that despite not showing it very often, Crowley has always been very fond of the humans and never really put himself on a pedestal simply because he's an immortal being himself. He likes humans, just like Aziraphale does. But, just like this story will tell us, Crowley knows that on top of liking humans, you can't just put them into boxes of good and evil and expect them to always do what is supposedly the "right" or "divinely good" thing to do. (Which is what differentiates him from Aziraphale in the way he understands and treats them, as we're shown in this minisode).

Him immediately and unspokenly helping Elspeth with dragging the barrel therefore might also be a first sign of a tiny projection from present day Aziraphale, as opposed to what Crowley might have actually done (probably just walked beside her, like Aziraphale) because he has the knowledge that Crowley really was so very kind to her in the end, wasn't he? And that he's kind to humans in general. ("Not kind! Off my head on Laudanum!" Sure, babe.)

Most of this minisode, in my opinion, is actually there to establish how Aziraphale's view of morality and good vs. evil used to be quite flawed and elitist –– and how Crowley has always been there to gently nudge him towards questioning his black and white view of heavenly right and hellishly wrong. That's why I think there's not as many hints in this minisode about Aziraphale's memories not being an accurate portrayal of what happened, as there are in the Story of Job or the magic show in 1941. (And, fear not, the latter will definitely be the most hint-heavy one). Alas, there's still a few bits and bobs in the Story of wee Morag that stuck out to me, that make a brief yet good case of the whole unreliable narration thing.

First of all: The way Aziraphale describes all of it in his diary is so different from the way we see him actually remembering it. It's almost like he tried to write this entry (and possibly all of his diary) as a bit of a thrilling short story, with himself as the main character. Which makes sense, given the fact that he adores books and would certainly be keen on dabbling in the art of capital-w Writing himself. It's yet again hinting at the fact that sometimes people (and angels) try to polish and bedazzle stories (and memories) to make them seem more exciting and adventurous, often to distract from the not-so-fun parts of it.

Like when Aziraphale's diary narrates:

"It was with heavy heart we arrived at Elspeth's destination. I was determined to thwart her monstrous plan!"

... and yet we see Crowley and Elspeth casually walking down the alleyway, very obviously not heavy-hearted in the slightest, while Aziraphale nervously scurries on behind them, very obviously not determined to thwart. (Timestamp-wise, it's around 17:38 in S2E3, in case you want to see for yourself.)

We get another cinematographic/auditory hint at the fact that Aziraphale's memory is heavily influenced by what he's feeling that very moment, when Dr. Mister Dalrymple –– FRCSE, thank you very much –– shows him the tumor he removed from the seven year old boy. You can see the shock and horror on Aziraphale's face once he learns of this child's cruel fate. We then proceed to hear Mr. Dalrymple's voice grow sort of echo-y and far away as the sad music swells up and drowns out his voice almost completely. It's awfully similar to what it feels like when really horrible news are broken to you and you dissociate and drift into a state of shock. Here's the clip of it, so you may listen for yourself:

It's clear that this is a very subjective portrayal of what Aziraphale is going through during this part of the memory. He's deeply horrified and saddened about the little boy having passed away so early in life – and we hear and feel this shock with him. Through him, because this is his memory. Whatever it is he's feeling and thinking, we're feeling and thinking it too because we're seeing it through his lense.

Another (less sad) hint at a possible exaggeration is the abnormally deep hole Crowley makes the two graveyard watch keepers fall into. I'm pretty sure he's very much in charge of his miracles, making this random slip-up seem a little silly – which is why I'm also pretty sure the "Might have slightly overdone it on that hole" is a wee bit of a meta hint at this just being another one of Aziraphale's dramatic bedazzlements of this story. For the *flings feather boa around neck* drama!

You know what else might be exaggerated? Hm, I dunno, maybe Crowley growing into the size of a tree for no apparent reason. Sure, yes, he's pretty high on Laudanum which is making him a bit loopy. But apart from that, it does seem an awfully big cinematographic euphemism for him being the metaphorical (and, once again, for the drama of it) literal bigger person in this scenario. He's the one who ends up saving Elspeth and who manages to secure a safe life without poverty and grave robbing for her. While Aziraphale was so tangled up in his own moral journey and main character-ism, missing that wee Morag was seconds away from death already, Crowley is the one who actually ends up growing stepping up for the human in need and saving them for good (pun intended).

In a way, it might just be Aziraphale's view of/feelings for Crowley in this very moment. Watching the demon outgrow what, according to Aziraphale's heavenly logic, is supposed to be a foul fiend, bestowing evil upon humanity – and growing into someone who does the exact opposite and saves Elspeth instead. Another larger-than-life character development, in Aziraphale's eyes. Literally.

Let's switch back to the topic of the diary entry one last time, so I can make my final point of the this minisode's unreliable and a smidge over-dramatic narration of Dr. McFell. If you pay close attention, Aziraphale starts the entry we're all getting to experience with: "Last month, Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh." Which means it didn't actually happen on the 10th of November, but rather at some point in October, 1827. Once we see Crowley get hydro-pumped back to Hell after rescuing Elspeth, the minisode ends with, presumably, the last sentence of Aziraphale's diary entry: "And that was the last I would see of Crowley for quite some time."

Take my hand and let's look at where the furniture isn't: This very clearly means that Crowley couldn't have been gone for more than a month, at best. Read again: "It happened last month and that was the last I would see of him for quite some time." This, albeit indirectly, clearly implies that when Aziraphale had sat down to write the diary entry, he had already run into Crowley again. Otherwise his phrasing would have probably been more along the lines of "... and I haven't seen Crowley since" or "... and Crowley has yet to return from wherever it is Hell's currently keeping him".

What's the point I'm trying to make? Good question. I guess my main point of storyteller Aziraphale being a bit over-dramatic in his narration is simply backed up by this, since A Single Month would barely pass as "quite some time" for an immortal being like him. And yet that's how he puts it, in his little Confidential Journals of A.Z. Fell, Vol. 603.

And another point that has absolutely nothing to do with the topic of this meta (but I'm still gonna make it 'cause this is my memory post): The meeting at St. Jame's Park in 1862 that so many, post-S2, took to be their first run-in after the Story of wee Morag, actually wasn't that at all. They saw each other at least once only a month later, as Aziraphale's diary lets us know. Which explains why he wasn't very surprised or concerned when he met Crowley in London, 1862. If there really had been 35 years in between those two events, the first one ending with Crowley being sucked back Downstairs to receive more than three decades worth of hellish punishment, wouldn't Aziraphale have been at least a tiny bit worried or more interested than:

Just saying.

Alright, let's string this inflated hot air balloon of a post back together so we can outline some invisible furniture. This time with only two humble points:

Crowley through Aziraphale's lense Backed up by how we are introduced to Bildad the Shuhite in the Job minisode (suave, cheeky, smart, passionate in shoemaking and obstetrics), it's growing quite clear that Aziraphale's memories and impressions of Crowley are very fond and impressed ones. He sees him as someone who's not only witty, funny and cool, but also as someone who has figured out way sooner and faster than him that nothing's ever black and white. Not God's plans and not the human's choices either.

Aziraphale as a bit of an exaggerating adventure author With the direct parallel we get of inkslinger journalist!Aziraphale in the present day, it's quite apparent after this minisode that Aziraphale's memory is not only deeply influenced by his emotions, but that he also tends to have a bit of a dramatic touch to him. Although, you gotta give it to the guy: A month without seeing the love of your life, even if said life is eternal, can indeed seem like "quite some time".

Well, would you lookie here, we've reached the end of Part 2! What a journey it was. I hope you forgive me for the fact that I drifted off-course a few times. I just can't seem to reel in my silly little observations, even if they've got nothing to do with the point I'm trying to make. But hey, doesn't that just make me a little bit like Aziraphale's storytelling, in a way?

I'll let you be the judge of that.

See you in Part 3! And in case you haven't snuck a peak yet: here's Part 1 again.

Ta!

#good omens #good omens season 2 #gos2 #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens analysis #aziraphale is a storyteller #but not a very accurate one #story of wee morag #my own meta #aziraphale the Drama Queen #shakespeare who #unreliable but beloved story teller aziraphale

[dee-morris]

Crowley's Effect on Reality

There is a headcanon that has been rattling around in my coconut for about a year, and now I've added to it. It's canon that Crowley has a reality-altering effect on his immediate surroundings; we see it in the cafe where he meets Shadwell and the TVs are showing The Witchfinder. Or when "You're My Best Friend" is playing in the Bentley and follows him into the burning bookshop to play on the gramophone. (Cinematography so seamless it actually took me several watches to notice, bless them all.)

So I've been wondering how far that extends, and I got to thinking about the baby swap. Crowley gives the baby to Sister Mary and tells her to take him to Room 3. Mary says this to Sister Grace, who tells her to get on with it, then. But Grace was the one who put the Youngs in Room 3! She of all the nuns should have been like, Wait a minute.

The obvious answer is obviously the nuns aren't bright and/or are too used to following orders to question it. But it would have made more sense to just have some random nun there, not the one most likely to catch a mix up before it happened. So this makes me wonder if it's not Crowley's ambient reality warp in action. Instead of playing a song reflecting his mood or a movie that reminds him of someone, the world is reflecting his deepest wish: he wants something to go wrong. Something that will give the world a fighting chance and ideally can't be traced directly back to him.

So that's what's been kicking around in my brain for about a year, and after watching season two and thinking about how RIDICULOUSLY OVERPOWERED these two idiots are, I'm starting to wonder how often this has happened before. A tiny little surreptitious half miracle set off alarms in heaven and works so well that it sends the most powerful angel in heaven racing to the scene to get control of the situation. That was a conscious effort; what have they gotten away with without even knowing what they were doing?

"I've been looking over your previous exploits" and what did you see, Metabitch? Did you see an angel and a demon hornswoggle the entire Host to save a couple of human children? Did you look more closely and wonder why even Michael (who is significantly sharper than Gabriel even on his best days) was taken in by their embarrassingly transparent magic act?

Then there's 1941, and I know there's a miracle blocker in the room when Aziraphale steals the photo, but does that work if it's unconscious? Bc it's not something they're trying to do, it's not a force of will being inflicted on reality; it's reality bending to reflect their wishes. Would a miracle blocker work? Genuinely do not know.

Season Two did NOT spend enough time talking about the power they can access together, we know almost nothing about it, and I think that's deliberate. I'm so fucking stoked for the next season, make it happen make it real.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #crowley x arizaphale #aziraphale my beloved #good omens meta #25 lazarii #fan theory

[noneorother]

There's a *puppet* show going on in the magic shop, and it looks awfully familiar...

(Insert unhealthy number of rewatches here) The magic shop in S2 is a real jewel box. There's so much symbolism and so many easter eggs, it starts to make your head spin. But I found something really weird going on with the puppets (or should I say angels) in the background...

Here's 1941 : you can see on the left what looks like closed red curtains, and a coatrack with puppets behind Crowley here.

Where am I going with this? Well, don't those puppets look familiar?

For my money, they really look like silly versions of Crowley and Aziraphale, with a few other familiar puppets hiding on the other side of the rack.

Now here's that exact same shot in the present. The red curtain falls away to reveal: An extremely symmetrical arrangement of truly weird puppets. The puppet in the glass case near the back is the same.*

It probably just looks like a creepy display, with our familiar Aziraphale and Crowley puppets, until I do this:

To me at least, this arrangement really looks like a depiction of a synaxis of the hosts of bodiless powers (i.e. angels) before Jesus. If you study European art history, you can't escape medieval religious iconography. It's kind of a big deal. I've put this example of Mary flanked by the nine ranks of Angels from a Cathedral in Exeter above, but you can find 100 examples of this kind of eerily symmetrical and hierarchical ranking of angels with god, Jesus, Mary etc... Before I break it down, you have to know that in the medieval period, and especially in religious art and iconography, the relative size and position of figures is WAY more important than realism or accuracy.

Obviously the costumes don't match one to one, but you get enough of a vibe that once you start seeing it you can't UNSEE it. The relationships of position and size here are fascinating to me. For one, what the hell are two Crowleys doing in a host arrangement in present day? He's not even an angel. In the second row we have archangels Gabriel, the flopsy twins Uriel and Michael, and a slightly larger Saraqael head in the center. Is Saraqael actually more important here? Technically Jim is still an archangel, so he gets the mirror of the Gabriel position, but as a sad clown wearing a tartan blanket. We also have two tiny dolls (not puppets) with star name tags, one keeled over wearing brown, and one sitting up and smiling, wearing blue. I've named them tentatively Adam & Jesus for now, because that's the vibe I'm getting, but who knows. Here's the usual position of the Jesus in a synaxis for comparison.

In the lowest row, we bizarrely have arguably the most powerful angel, The Metatron (shown here with a dark floppy overcoat hiding the fact the doll has no body) and what I can only imagine is Maggie with blonde hair and blue eyes? What? Now, the doll I'm calling God in the middle for the large size, and the fact their head is always cut off above the framing in the shot. God is clearly looming large over the rest of the host, but is in a lower hierarchy (with Muriel, Crowley & Aziraphale being fairly low ranking at this point in the show) and also has NO HANDS, a clown face and BLOOD SMEARS on their overalls. Yikes. If you take a look at the top-down shot of the dolls, you can see how they had to completely redo the god-doll's hair. This is a specific vintage English doll called "Bimbo the clown". You can see the original hair always has a fringe, and the yarn locks are usually much bigger. Compare with the new hair in the top view of the present-day shop.

Hey. Does that hair style look familiar to anyone?

Look. I don't want to go claiming something THIS insane from one doll's hairstyle in a background shot. I'm not trying to convince you this is irrefutable proof that there's some sort of storyline where Nina is actually God. But it's interesting they took the trouble to re-make the doll's hair (and costume) to look like Nina's, even when it is almost never seen, much less noticed. The fact that the god-doll is also a clown got me thinking of the Gabriel and Jim dolls, and that maybe there's another doll in the shop that should double with Bimbo? *Here's the only other doll with a name card in the magic shop in either time, the one in the glass case :

Even though we barely see it, we can tell it's wearing the same outfit as the 1941 magician. Why? If this one is the equivalent of the real god, and not the sad clown version, and if it's locked up in a box somewhere, unable to free themselves, is that why we haven't heard from them in season 2....? So many questions. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Thanks to @kimberleyjean and @embracing-the-ineffable for additional pictures.

#good omens meta #good omens 2 #art director talks good omens #go season 2 #good omens season two #go meta #good omens season 2 #good omens prime #go2 #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 1941 #1941 minisode #good omens #good omens analysis

[cobragardens]

Red & Yellow Can Hurt a Fellow:

Color Symbolism in 1941 (Part 1)

(Plus Bonus Sundry 1941 Observations)

"Nazi Zombie Flesheaters" is such an interesting title, isn't it? You don't need to say flesheaters if you've already got zombie: it's redundant. It's like the title was chosen by someone unfamiliar with very basic zombie tropes. Also fwiw "Nazi zombie" is an anachronism: zombies did not exist in the popular consciousness before George Romero's Night of the Living Dead in 1968. I feel like maybe an angel titled this minisode. There is evidence both that the Metatron fucks with the story and that the flashbacks are Aziraphale's memories, so my guess is it's one of them.

***

In "The Colors of Crowley" I make an effort to evidence that crimson red is both the the color that symbolizes Crowley to Crowley and also the color that symbolizes passionate romantic love.

In light of that, here is this tiny beautiful moment:

As they did to each other in 1793, Crowley is sending a message here to Aziraphale with his clothes, so let us dwell on it.

Crowley's tie has Aziraphale's colors on it--white and blue-- in a design that connects two points (through a larger, dark point between them), one above and one below.

And Crowley opens his jacket with a flourish and shows Aziraphale the tie.

So first we we get this beautiful gesture of opening a covering and exposing a hidden, brighter, truer self beneath it, along with the metaphorical implications of exposing the heart and the guts, the snake showing its vulnerable red belly. Then the tie says, I like you. I'm wearing your colors. I want to be connected to you. And Crowley doesn't just display that message by opening his jacket, he then calls attention to it by straightening the tie.

Aziraphale gives no outward sign he has received this message. But.

There is so much red in this bookshop tonight.

The bookshop structure is brown and tan, with bright yellow in the back rooms (just as Aziraphale always has fear in the back rooms of his mind). But in this flashback there's a red carpet on the steps in front of the door, a red carpet on the floor in front of that, a display of red books on the circular tiered stand, a pile of red books in the corner, more red books on the windowsill behind Crowley's head, and the red velvet chair that Crowley's sitting on.

Here's the other side of that room, i.e., what Crowley is facing:

The walls of the bookshop are, again, brown and tan, but there's a red rug, red brocade on the front panel of the cashier's table, two red-upholstered chairs, and a red-stained chest of drawers Aziraphale is mostly blocking, plus another red thing in the right corner behind the stepladder that I can't even identify but that looks like the same velvet as the chairs. That's a determined effort to cram in as much red into a brown space as possible without actually taking a paintbrush to anything.

There are other metas showing how Aziraphale takes pains to make the bookshop into a welcoming place for Crowley [link if I find them again]. Just as likely imo his love of red and gold in soft furnishings is to remind himself of Crowley because they don't get to see each other very often.

But the books Aziraphale would be constantly rearranging, and buying more of, and possibly even occasionally selling when it can't be avoided; and bibliophiles do not generally organize their books by color. I therefore suggest two things are happening simultaneously here: on the Doylean (authorial) level, the set dressers are using the red notes in these backgrounds to symbolize the passionate romantic love Aziraphale has just realized he feels for Crowley; on the Watsonian (intra-story narrator) level, Aziraphale's feelings are "coloring" his memories.

This red as symbolic of Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley is not subtle. It starts immediately after his epiphany about those feelings--I mean literal sparks fly--

--and it does. not. let. up.

Note the other colors in the (brick red) dressing room besides red: blue, white, and off-white, Aziraphale's colors. There are even white and off-white feathers, indicating these are the angel's feelings we're being shown.

Brief digression. I've listened to this line several times now and for the life of me can't hear the final -s. I suspect Crowley may in fact say "Chalk up a win for the side of the angel," i.e., Aziraphale, which definitely makes Aziraphale's reaction of giddy delight track well, but I don't have a decent pair of headphones, so if someone would be willing to verify whether I've caught a Moment or just have romance on the brain, I'd be very grateful. [Update: I've got one confirmation so far that Crowley says "angels."]

Anyway. Note the splashes of blue and off-white surrounding Crowley, indicating all this red (he's sitting on a red velvet chaise btw) continues to be linked to Aziraphale's feelings for him. This whole narrative is drenched in Aziraphale's passionate romantic love.

Until this moment:

Now something really interesting happens. For the first time in the scene (I went back and checked), a bright spot of canary yellow suddenly becomes visible in the frame.

It's a jar of ostrich feathers, dyed bright yellow, on one of the dressing tables. How do we know it's meant to represent fear?

Because it already has done.

And remember how yellow is specifically fear of the head offices?

Look who shows up.

Now suddenly the camera shoots Aziraphale from a different angle, and yellow appears in the frame here, too--more fear.

The yellow feathers remain visible between Aziraphale and Furfur for the remainder of the scene.

So that's one gif and 18 stills I've shown you thus far in this essay about how the use of red in and yellow in this minisode is consistent with the use of red and yellow throughout Show Omens and is being used in a symbolically meaningful way, right? I mean they come down pretty hard on it.

So it's very interesting, in terms of colors, how the minisode ends.

Which I will talk about in Part 2!

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 1941 #good omens meta #good omens color symbolism 1941 #furfur #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

okay so a couple of days ago i saw this ask on @fellshish's blog about a need for a full 1941 discorporated aziraphale angst fic, realized i had an entire outline already in the hull, and... this happened:

a "what if crowley didn't miss in 1941" fic, including but not exclusive to the moment itself, the hours leading up to it, and the aftermath; a fanfiction (chapter 3/4)

summary:

It's Fell the Marvelous' awaited debut performance on the West End. He has his marksman, his turnips, and things appear to be going as planned—that is, until said marksman does the one thing he was supposed to avoid. Not missing. (or: the bullet catch goes wrong, and due to a tiny technicality, crowley's afraid aziraphale is gone for good. and crowley himself—for the first time in quite a while—is well and truly alone.)

warnings: full of blood, sweat, kissing while crying, blown up heads, prayers, nostalgic churches, polaroids, alcohol, and aziraphale being a discorporated bastard and bitching his way back to earth while a plot we should probably be focusing occurs as we ignore it entirely. and written extremely slowly. oxymoron but i couldnt get this out of my head fast enough and now you must endure it (should you choose to accept). i think i'm gonna be pretty proud of this though. excited!

(also thank @tforthetea for the inspiration because a conversation with them helped spark this the first time. all hail)

ao3 link for those who didn't check the title, and fic under the cut! :)

chapter 1: number thirteen

One of the things Crowley liked gloating about on occasion was that he was older than Death Itself.

He wasn’t technically wrong, per se. The humans think him mad, and the demons think him stupid, but he was still right. Human concepts, despite their hold on the population and overall importance, were non-existent before or even during the Beginning. The Four Horsemen and other ideas evolved right alongside the humans, so technically, Crowley was older than all of them. He rather liked having something to lord over War (in his head), during the few unfortunate meetings he would have with her. Famine was a non-issue, and Death could not touch him regardless of how much he didn’t like him. There were failsafes.

Now, however, actually being in the room that Aziraphale could potentially walk into and never come out of, Crowley would gladly take all of it back and pretend he never even thought about it at all.

The damned magician. Crowley never caught his name, but if he had, he would wrought him with the most annoyingly small curses that no one would ever believe to be true after today. Tonight wasn’t just about impressing the audience or even repaying that wine-filled debt, it was about them. Tonight, Crowley was to play the trusted stooge, and…shoot the angel. Point blank. In the face. And make it look real. And not discorporate him. And not get them fired. And—

There were a lot of things to consider, alright? To contrary belief, Crowley did, in fact, not think Death was silly or stupid. He’d also been there when It was born, you know. Crowley liked Abel. Watching It happen was, plainly, fucking terrifying. It brought up something new, and change was just as scary as Death. Ask anyone, and they’d tell you.

Crowley has been running that unfortunate meeting involuntarily through his head for the first ten or so minutes of waiting for the actual show to begin, while also listing out the terrible things he would do to the magician man had he ever held the opportunity again. He’d been sort of gunning (no pun intended) to stay backstage and avoid the riffraff, but been ushered out the dressing room the second he’d given his (admittingly harsh) two cents on the situation. Aziraphale said he wanted privacy before the big show, but Crowley knew he was just ticked. Aziraphale was an angel who thrived with a supportive devil over his shoulder.

So, Crowley is just milling around in the crowd as the Allied soldiers and their companions filter in. They come and go—a Lady even comes to check on him at point, mentioning odd vacant gazes and looking over shoulders paranoid-like, but he waves them off before they can pry. He really shouldn’t be so worried—even if Aziraphale…‘didn’t make it through the night’, he’d eventually be fine. As long as he discorporated a certain way, nothing too lethal—some deaths were harder to come back from others.

They’ve been discorporated before, of course. That was how Crowley knew this. Six millennia offered many opportunities for the event. But never, and it was never, at each other's hand. On paper, yeah, they killed each other on occasion, but truly…

Crowley shifts nervously, sending a glare at anyone who got a bit too close, but the brief discomforts aren’t enough to lift his spirits. There was one entity faffing about who refused to bugger off even with direct acknowledgements, though that might be because Crowley was imagining It. Or It really was here, and interested in the affairs of potential angel discorporation. Or a bomb was going to fall here and It was just beating the rush. The theories were far from endless.

Death appeared back there as soon as Crowley had been kicked out. He’s simply been dealing with it since then, and It probably wasn’t helping to lift his spirits. He shouldn’t be so antsy—both logic and mechanics deemed it so.

They’d be fine, Crowley repeats to himself near constantly, finding a proper seat in direct line of sight where Aziraphale will be standing. He readjusts his tie as the humans sit around him, creating a perfectly isolated bubble of red velvet seats. What did it matter that twelve humans died doing this before? They weren’t human. Death had no claim on them. It couldn’t take them even if It so desired.

Crowley scowls at the hooded figure standing near the entrance of the theater, cold scythe gleaming under the warm bulbs of the West End. Its just…standing there. Making no move to come closer, either. Odd.

Crowley sinks lower into his plush seat, as if trying to avoid Death’s gaze. But being one of two immovable objects on this Earth, It’s always on him. If Death had a goal, there would be no point in warding It away.

Seeing Death is a famous bad omen, and would send a chill down his spine had it been anywhere else. At this moment, however, Crowley is simply irritated. If It was looking for another soul in this theater, that was fine by him, let It take them, but It would not be ruining whatever this was. Humans were ever plentiful—there was only one angel deserving of Earth.

Before Crowley can decide whether or not he should be stupid and confront the omen in the room, the lights go dim. The crowd’s murmurs die down, and Crowley has no choice but to stay seated and watch the show. Aziraphale wouldn’t be coming on until the Ladies of Camelot had their first number, but Crowley could easily endure it. The gaze aimed straight at his head could be ignored.

World be damned if It took the angel’s enthusiasm. They’d be fine. Crowley just has to remember that.

-----

Things are, indeed, not going fine.

Crowley is meant to go up on stage any second now. Aziraphale has no inkwell in his gloved hand. No amount of snapping is removing said turnip from line of sight. He reads the pamphlet—then again, then again, then again, but there is no second option for apparently miracleless individuals.

Fucking. Hell.

Whatever false bravado Aziraphale is spewing is null and void compared to the should-be-non-existent nerves running through frantic hands and finding absolutely nothing useful. Crowley flips through the same two pages—give the stooge the bullet, poise, and shoot. The miracle would’ve ensure that the bullet would never leave the barrel. But now—now, well, he really regrets not considering a Plan B. Did they ever consider a Plan B? Apparently not.

Getting there is a blur. Aziraphale is essentially shoving the rifle into Crowley’s care, which is honestly becoming a worse idea by the second. He’s switching between the demon and the audience so quickly that Crowley can’t tell who he’s addressing. They’re deathly quiet, and Crowley would feel embarrassed if his heart that shouldn’t be there wasn’t pounding with too much blood in too little time. His mind is a soup. Muddled, feverish, and incredibly foul tasting. You wouldn’t want to drink it even if you were starving.

“I would ask you,” Aziraphale says loudly, cutting through the fog of utter mental mush, “to take this bullet, and load it into the rifle. Very carefully.”

Crowley nods belatedly, squeezing and turning parts of the gun to get the non-existent warmth running back through his fingers. He takes the bullet, and turns it round a few times while Aziraphale stares at him with excruciating anxiety. Is he stalling? Honestly, even Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell you.

“It's perfectly simple,” Aziraphale mutters softly, pushing the gun a bit closer. “Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear.”

Crowley can’t find himself to agree here. He’s staring at him, and that would usually get him to listen regardless of shades, but Death is boring into them like the harshest of theater critics. His skin is slick, almost clammy, threatening to let the gun slip and fire a stray bullet anywhere but its intended target. His back is sore, oddly enough. Irritating.

Crowley has questions, like he always does, but the time has long passed. What he wants to ask is ‘do I just squeeze that little bit there?’ pointing at (what looks like) to be the trigger—but then that would just make Crowley look incompetent, so he swallows it back and nodly lightly. He’s never fired a gun like Aziraphale seems to believe whole-heartedly, but he’s certainly watched it happen. He’s picked up enough of the motions to figure it out on his own.

That thought still doesn’t help when he’s being told to insert the bullet, though. Crowley fumbles through it, opening a mislaid hatch or two, but manages before Aziraphale could raise any alarms. He’s already stood back in position (when did that happen?) when Crowley raises the loaded rifle for all to see, proclaiming as such. He bites back the tremor threatening to appear—he wasn’t nervous. Excited, more like it. Excited to finally get an excuse to make a throw at the angel non-suspicious like.

That was all it was. Really.

Crowley turns the rifle one last time as Aziraphale spins more useless pageantry for the audience to woo at. They’re both grinning, but tightly and annoyingly false. It wasn’t the eyes that were the problem—what, do you think that demons ever got stage fright? Absurd!

It was just...well, there weren’t just humans in this audience. Crowley couldn’t forget the shadow looming at the end of the theater no matter how tight he grips the side of the weapon. But, just like Someone had laid out all that Time ago—Death could only perceive them.

It could not touch them.

It would not touch them.

It would not touch him, if he could help it.

The drums begin their incessant titter as Aziraphale finally turns to Crowley properly, blue cloak glimmering under the warm light of the stage before them. “A-are you ready, sir?”

Crowley would scoff at this if he could. Sir. Only humans ever addressed him that way; angels look down on him, demons sneer at him. Though he supposes this angel would be different—always throwing the curveballs, him.

“When you hear my signal,” the angel says, voice growing quieter, “shoot.”

Aziraphale removes his tophat, revealing preciously white curls. This pings something, the remaining traces of damned sense he’s got buried inside. Crowley isn’t sure what has possessed him—but he shakes his head. It’s all he can do. Don’t make me do it, he nearly warns out loud. Not if you know what’s good for you.

Aziraphale stills, but not before mouthing words that would be akin to an ashamed mumble if he were close enough. Trust me.

Trust me.

Satan, he got him there. That’s why Crowley was here, after all. Stooge. 100% Reliable Marksman.

Right.

Aziraphale isn’t nearly as good as Crowley at hiding his anxious gaze. “Ready?”

Oh, Heavens no. He never would be, but no better time than the present. Or something like that. He can’t recall where it came from.

“Aim…”

Crowley can’t ignore it anymore—he’s shaking. Extremely so, at that. It’s knocking around the air in his lungs very unkindly. It’s quite difficult to aim. His head is bobbing around in the scope.

Just about…

There it is.

Crowley waits—just like he’s done for the last…however long. A long time. His arms are starting to hurt, frankly. He rests his finger over the trigger to ease the trembling a tad.

And the magician remains silent.

Crowley ignores the sweat crawling down his neck. (Wasn’t it supposed to be freezing?) He waits some more—it’s not like one can forget where you are. Benefit of the doubt and such.

Nothing still. Nary a nod.

He’s been staring at him for a minute. The crowd hasn’t uttered a peep. Is Crowley just supposed to…do it? Did they talk about this? They must have. They talked about this. They talked about it, right? Yeah. Yeah, they must have—

"Fire!"

He startled him.

The reason why he listens is easy to explain. Aziraphale made Crowley flinch. A bit of a spook, really, not that bad of a fright. A sudden jolt—a tap on the shoulder, one that said ‘oh, look, you’ve got perfect aim already! Shoot!’

And he did.

What’s the first rule of approaching someone with a weapon again?

Right. Don’t fucking scare them.

The handle is warm. Slick, heavy, shaky. The scope aims with guilty target missing at the helm. A puff of smoke is spewing from the barrel. A thump, a sickening thump, deafening in the cricket silence of a post-trick world.

And Aziraphale…is on the floor.

(Where else would he be, really?)

There, obviously. On the floor. With a blown-up head. Bleeding like blessed Heaven. Bleeding like bloody Heaven, while Crowley has to take in the sight and smell the blessed thing.

It fits. They fit. Like a perfect crown on a decapitated head.

God, his head’s just gone, isn’t it?

A noise cuts through the thick silence like a stubbornly determined knife. Far away, above it all, there it rings. It’s muffled, soft, and almost awkward in the way it cuts through the air. A camera click. A reluctant, malicious camera click.

And that was just the perfect way to say it, no? He blew his brains out. Crowley blew his angel’s fucking brains out with a fucking gun that he’s never fucking held before.

Trust me.

Well. That, no doubt, was Aziraphale’s fault—it’d be a funny old world if angels and demons went around trusting one another.

-----

hgh. hope that was decent. chapter two coming as soon as it can because im invested now :))

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #good omens 1941 #cw blood #cw guns #cw death #maniac writing #in a west-end town

[drconstellation]

All The Colours In Good Omens: Version II

Part 1: Black to Gold

Even when I put together my original big colour meta back at the end of October 2023 I knew things were going to change on it. Over time it became pretty clear we were way off-track with several of the colours, and I didn't have anything for orange, which does actually appear in a significant amount in S2. There was also a bit of effort to try and incorporate the colours seen in S1 with what was appearing in S2, and to see if there was any consistency. Then I wrote the Passion of Jimbriel, and several particular religiously-themed colour-associations kept appearing, so I went on a search for a more biblical-based interpretation of colour. As a result of this, some colours have more-or-less stayed the same, some have expanded considerably in their range of meaning, and some are completely different! But I think you find the results interesting, nonetheless.

Basically, interpreting the colours in the two series is not a simple task. The colours used in S2 differ slightly to S1. For example, in S2 there is a lurid green associated with Hell (for reasons, which I will explain,) that is not used in S1. But there is also a dark green used elsewhere that turns out to have a different meaning that is not associated with Hell at all, so context becomes very important when trying to decide what it means. Rather than try and fit all the colours into one post, I'm going to split things up and take as much room as I need to explain it all this time.

BLACK

Biblical Meaning: Darkness, sin, Earth, affliction, humiliation, calamity, death, mourning

Additional: Suffering, punishment, Satan

Black doesn't automatically mean a relationship with Hell. The demons don't all wear entirely black, they are actually dressed in a lot of colour, but they do tend towards the darker shades. The colours they do wear reflect individual qualities or characterizations. For example, Lord Dagon is dark blue to reflect their fish god avatar, but it also reflects their senior authority and power. Furfur is in shades of dark green with a few tiny red highlights.

Historically black had an association with wealth over time, as it was difficult to obtain and dye black cloth. In out modern era we would tend to associate it with power and authority - or just looking "cool."

One interesting combination to mention is Aziraphale's magician's costume - black, gold and white. It's the only time we see him, an angel, wearing black. Originally it looked like he was clothing himself in mystery, but I would now say its a combination of calamity and humiliation. I've included a GIF set from S1E1 with the duo discussing Warlock's 11th birthday party in the park, plus recall Arizaphale was heckled from the audience in 1941 when his turnip trick failed. (I guess we could argue this one, its still up for debate!)

Black is also associated with the Horseperson Famine, who rides a black horse. Nobody is getting anything to eat tonight here - or the rest of the week, for that matter.

RED

We originally had red a a single colour, but it's more complex than that and needs to be split into two shades, scarlet and the darker crimson. (I will do pink in another post.)

We can still associate it generally with passion, romance, the Left Hand Side (the sinister side or demonic side), goats, sin, and the archangel Michael on the LHS of Jesus.

The Horseperson War and their parallel character Pepper from the Them both wear red as well. War is said to ride a red horse.

RED - Scarlet

Biblical Meaning: Royalty, blood of humanity

Additional: Martyrs, prostitution, wealth, power, revolution

Scarlet is a lighter red than crimson, just to differentiate between the two colours. It's the colour on the back of Crowley's collar.

Jesus was dressed in red during the Passion to mock him as a king, but he when he appears in imagery such as the sign on the Resurrectionist pub below it reflects his future status as King of kings. It also reflects his connection to humanity, through the blood he shed.

Prostitution is connected through the mention of the Whore of Babylon in Revelations, but the connection to revolutions is a more recent one that may be worth including in anticipation of S3. Wealth and power also belong here, particularly in historical connections.

RED - Crimson

Biblical Meaning: Splendor, victory, sin

Crimson is the colour that Shax wears, the darker of the two shades of red. She comes across as being hungry for success and eager for promotion, both of which tie in with the concept of victory. Her darker red is also mixed with black.

ORANGE

Biblical Meaning: Fire of God, deliverance, passionate praise

Additional: sacrifice

Originally I did not have an interpretation for orange, and did not think there was a lot of it present in S2. Then it was pointed out that Maggie's shopfront was orange, she herself wears orange several times, a lot of the extras wear orange and Beezlebub's sash is orange, too!

Yellow and orange have some cross-over in meaning with sacrifice, but I'm going to do my best to separate them and I'll explain where the fuzziness comes into play in yellow, as I think it sits best there.

Both yellow and orange are also associate with fire, as flames are seen as yellow and orange, not red. The "Fire of God" is alluding to presence of the Holy Spirit.

YELLOW

Biblical Meaning: Faith and Glory of God, anointing, joy, presence of God, fire

Additional: Illness/leprosy, God's judgement and anger, sacrifice, optimism, faithfulness in awaiting the return of a loved one

Yellow is probably the most controversial colour of the spectrum. It's the colour of Crowley's eyes, and we know Aziraphale painted the walls of the bookshop to reflect this.

But let's turn all your preconceived ideas on their heads.

It's one of the colours of fire, so it is closely associated with the presence of God, but also the expression of God's anger.

It is the colour of clear olive oil used for anointing.

On the negative side it is associated with illness, in particular with leprosy.

It is the colour that the traitor Judus Iscariot is often depicted wearing in art.

And it is the colour of saffron and marigolds, both associated with sacrifice in more than one religion. Saffron as a colour can vary in colour from pale yellow to deep orange, and so can marigolds the flower. The flower is named after the Virgin Mary, as in "Mary's-gold," and the array of petals are supposed to be symbolic of the the rays of light that crown her head, relating to the giving of her self to the Ineffable Great Plan, so to speak.

Here's Norman, leader of the yellow team at Tadfield Manor, giving his speech that includes the line "...bugger off and tend to your marigolds." I've shown in other posts that there is the allegory of the Great War/Glorious Revolution being played out here, and Norman is the analogue of Lucifer. Right after his speech he runs out and is felled by a shot to the heart: a sacrificial loser, as all the yellow team and demons end up being.

Adam wears a t-shirt with two yellow stripes on it in S1. Combined with the blue, he does appear to be anointed for a larger role in the story.

Aziraphale's hat-bands are yellow after the 1827 Edinburgh incident. Both in 1862 and 1941 his hats have a yellow ribbon around them. While this could be related to a Heavenly aspect, fanon has it that it's part of his expression of his feelings for Crowley. The tradition of using a yellow ribbon to show that one was waiting for a soldier to return from war was started around the late 1700's.

It is confirmed that the name of the colour used inside the bookshop is indeed called Va Va Voom. While it could be many things, the one thing it is not is fear.

Neither is this example - it's more likely to be fire - cleansing fire. Jim is cleaning with it.

GOLD

Biblical Meaning: Glory, divinity, holiness, eternal deity, altar, beauty, precious, kingship, majesty, righteousness

Additional: Trial of Faith

Gold is usually associated with Heaven and the divinity of the angels in Good omens. Most of the time we see the angels with some trace of gold on them. The most obvious examples were the golden collars and trim on the robes in the Job minisode in S2E2. They even wore golden sandals on their feet.

The archangels and Aziraphale all have their golden rings. Here is Michael with their ophanim ring.

We also have the golden lions that occur in several locations in S2, representing the royal house of Judea that Jesus is said to belong to.

The most interesting use of gold has been on Crowley's "throne" in S1. "Nice chair," Hastur comments at one point.

Oh, and I can't forget this one, either:

This series on colour continues in the following posts:

Part 2: Green to Purple

Part 3: Silver/Grey, White & Brown

Part 4: Tartan Colours Review

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens analysis #colour meta #black #red #orange #yellow #gold #color meta

[sgiandubh]

Ohi Day

Today is the second National Day of a country that I shall always consider one of my homes. You probably guessed already, it's Greece.

When Grazzi, Mussolini's Ambassador, presented an ultimatum to the Greek PM (and dictator) Yiannis Metaxas, in the wee hours of the morning of October 28, 1940, asking for Italian troops to be allowed access to 'unspecified locations' on the Greek territory, the answer was curt and clear: Όχι - "NO". That's the urban legend, though: it's more likely Metaxas really said something along the lines of "alors, c'est la guerre" / then, this is war. But hours after this fateful event, all the Greeks took to the streets shouting Όχι , and it is their resistance and resilience that we remember and celebrate today.

The story doesn't end well and Hitler's troops entered Athens, a mere six months later, on April 27 1941. It is then said that when they raised the swastika on the Acropolis, the evzone guard wrapped himself in the Greek flag and jumped from the sacred rock to his death, refusing to surrender it to the Nazis. His name was Konstantinos Koukidis and a tiny memorial reminds the world this episode on the slopes of the Acropolis hill, even if we have no evidence this man ever existed.

On this special day, I would like to tell all our Greek shippers a simple, but heartfelt thing: Χρόνια πολλά, Ελλάδα!

Along with this song, the unofficial anthem of their country. There can be no other choice and you will probably understand why if you take the time to read the explanations in the clip (not my favorite version either: for Axion Esti, I always go with Bithikotsis' canon version). I know it by heart and you have to hear it on a stadium chock-a-block full of people singing and crying at the same time, to feel its true energy:

#PSA #Youtube

[fellthemarvelous]

Has everyone in the Good Omens fandom seen Shaun of the Dead?

(I tweeted this and then screenshot it because I had more to say. Also if you haven't seen the Thriller music video by Michael Jackson then you're missing out.)

It is very important to know that if you've seen Staged, you know that Simon Pegg and Nick Frost were both on the show together in one episode. They are just as close to each other as David and Michael are to each other.

Here is when Shaun and Ed finally notice something weird might be going on.

They have no idea why this woman was showing up in their backyard and they just assume she is drunk. They were so drunk the previous night (Liz dumped Shaun) they don't realize they witnessed one woman completely bite a man's head off or realize that the person moaning back in reply to the song they were singing was actually a zombie.

Ed literally took the time to find one of those ancient cameras we had to use before the invention of the smartphone. And we know that everyone with a smart phone these days would be doing the exact same thing if this was happening right now.

But Shaun also has this girlfriend, Liz,

who is always third-wheeling on dates with her own boyfriend because Ed is never not with them. And the truth is that Shaun needs to make a choice because he can't have both, and Liz really loves him back just as much as he loves her, but Ed is basically Shaun's shadow.

Shaun and Ed begin a noble quest to save Shaun's mum (his stepdad was bitten by a zombie so it becomes necessary to kill him too but there is a flaw in their plan because Philip is still alive by the time they get to the house and Shaun isn't going to kill a living person so they have to add him to the car), to save Liz (only to realize David and Di are still with her and they don't want to be left behind so they get added to the tiny car), and to go to The Winchester (Shaun and Ed's favorite pub and the bane of Liz's existence) because it's sturdy with heavy doors and a rifle behind the counter.

And then all hell breaks loose because Philip finally turns into a zombie in the car, and it's Philip's car that Ed stole because he really wanted to drive it because it was a classic and the child safety locks are still on in the back.

They end up having to abandon the car after locking Philip in it.

They finally reach the pub by acting like zombies and hoping the other zombies don't notice.

And if you have never seen this scene, it's the funniest part of the entire movie. It's iconic, and it happens to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen. (Warning: this is still very much a zombie movie)

In the end, Ed gets bitten and later sacrifices himself to the other zombies so Liz and Shaun can escape a little easier.

And then at the very end Shaun is letting zombie Ed live in his and Liz's shed and they still play video games together, and even if Ed tries to bite him from time to time, Shaun yells at him and zombie Ed goes back to playing video games.

It still got the happy ending of a romantic comedy, and we never actually learn what caused the zombie breakout, and the zombie's best friend is taking care of him in the shed of the backyard where he and Liz will live happily ever after (we hope).

The movie ends with the song "You're My Best Friend" by Queen.

Also note: Liz's best friend Di is the only other one in their group to survive the zombie apocalypse but you only find out how if you watch the special features.

I think we need to be looking at Shaun of the Dead a bit closer.

And Hot Fuzz ("surrender the angle" is an easter egg from it), also starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. It's hilarious too.

The apocalypse is happening all around Aziraphale and Crowley, but we didn't notice because we were watching it through the lens of a romantic comedy. Meanwhile, Hell is overcrowded and Furfur set zombies loose on Earth in back in 1941.

#good omens #good omens meta #shaun of the dead #parallels #simon pegg #nick frost #Youtube

[ohmygodshesinsane]

Drop-Off | A Jily Micro-Oops

James Potter takes Lily Evans home, and wants to make something clear.

words: 1941 | for @jilymicro-oops | april prompt 22: ridiculous

sequel to unlicensed

read on ao3 or under the cut

“Hilarious, Potter. Left again.” James made a face and did as she said, playing it off like a laugh, still barely able to believe that she was in his car, in his proximity, breathing the same air as him.

“It’s like a rollercoaster.”

“It should be shut down.”

“Oi.” He jabbed his pinkie finger at the indicator and nudged it up, though the street was deserted. The blinker click-click-clicked, and a cat watched him from the top of a faded brick letterbox, tail flicking.

These roads were unfamiliar. They nestled together only a few blocks from the beach, but they were distinct from the shiny rows of glassy mid-rises, with their acai shops and coastal boutiques tucked beneath sprawling apartments. Sad single-storey brick homes dominated the little suburb of Cokeworth, gutters wonky, red-tile roofs slumping in the blunted sunlight. A leather lounge teetered on the curb, its peeling seats and flaking arms praying for a good home. James’s foot hovered on the brake, idling them along.

“Your joint’s around here?” he asked, frowning. In all his daydreams, he had never imagined Lily Evans living here. None of these places had room for the Beauty-and-the-Beast library her good grades demanded, or a pool for her to lay by in summer’s heights. No old ladies fidgeted, waiting for a reckless do-gooder to escort them across the street. A dog barked through the missing panes of a grey-wood fence.

“Nah,” Evans said, shrugging hard. “Just thought we’d take the scenic route.” She rapped her knuckles on the window. “Entertained?”

James swallowed. Touchy. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, cruising along, squashing down the sinking feeling that her sharp little remarks always wrought. She was just some girl in his class. She wasn’t Lizzie – Lizzie, who would be coming round later to ‘study for Chem’ in the media room, Lizzie who James had just invited to Pete’s birthday, Lizzie from the netball team, Lizzie who he reckoned he might properly ask out soon. Lizzie, not Lily.

Sure, some girl he’d liked when he was thirteen was sitting in the front seat, dark red hair pulled back in the swish of a ponytail, one knee slung over the other at the edge of her regulation black skirt, but it was whatever. She shifted, and her maroon jumper rose with the arch of her back and the stretch of her arms, revealing a swathe of the white cotton blouse beneath. Tiny gold hoop things glinted in her ears, and the light caught the flecks of forest in the emeralds of her gaze –

“Bump!” As Evans shouted, the car hit it, and the car hiked awkwardly over the raised crossing. “Jesus, again. It’s not GTA.”

“GTA’s not allowed in my house,” James answered flippantly. “It’s offensive to women.”

Evans guffawed; in the corner of his vision (because he really was trying to focus on the road now), she folded her arms indignantly, cheeks red. Bugger. Truth be told, he couldn’t say precisely why he had offered up his vaguely-illicit chauffeur service when he’d seen Snape stalk off without her. Evans had working legs – no, James wasn’t going to think about them, moving on – and was capable of walking herself home without that idiot hanging around. His eyes sharpened, raking down the sides of the street, as if the git might materialise. But in any case, it wouldn’t be dark for hours. Evans could have got herself home no worries. The words had just flung out of James’s mouth before he could think, and then he’d nearly keeled over with shock when she’d accepted, and so – here they sat.

Maybe the guilt from lunchtime had crept in. James had copped a week of detentions and a call home, but Lily had been hauled into McGonagall’s office, despite being innocent in the whole matter. She hadn’t destroyed Snape’s project. That fucker deserved it. James’s knuckles whitened around the wheel. Where the hell did he get off, talking to her that way? And now the whole school was muttering about prissy prefect Lily Evans getting a talking-to, and she’d not done a thing wrong – she was the one who had been wronged. His fingers itched for Snape’s throat. Half of James wanted to chuck a u-turn and speed back until he found the sulky little Slytherin, and then he could land one right in the middle of his stupid, petulant, ugly –

“Are you kidding?” Oh, shit. James was doing fifteen over. Not that Evans’s eyes were on the speedo – she grinned at him, mirth sparkling, and his heart somersaulted. “You don’t play GTA because you’re such a feminist?”

James made a rude hand gesture, swerving a little as he looked back at her. He scrambled to correct it.

“I am a feminist,” he said, a little offended. “Mum banned it besides. She goes mental whenever Sirius sticks the girly pictures up. Bad for body image. And what would Lizzy think, if I spent all my time murdering hookers and dealing drugs? In real life, sure, it’s street cred and money, but online that’s just depressing.” That wasn’t an exact summary of why he avoided it, but he wasn’t about to imitate a video essay. He watched too many of those. Really, though, Lara Croft has gone through the wringer! He’d nodded along with the Youtuber’s words while Sirius killed cultists on their Xbox.

Evans’s eyes narrowed. “Next right, and it’s two from the end on the left,” she said off-handedly, gaze still roaming across the planes of his face. He slowed, waiting for a car to pass before he made the turn. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Believe me?” James took the gap and lurched down the cul-de-sac. “I mean it, Evans. Street cred is everything. If I was a loser, I wouldn’t be a Marauder, would I?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are a loser. Nobody who’s actually cool gives themselves such stupid nicknames. It’s not like you’re a band.”

“We’ve considered it.”

“I remember Remus on the clarinet at the ANZAC assembly; please stop considering it.”

The brakes screeched; James stopped halfway down the lane, head whipping around. Evans clapped her hands over her mouth, cheeks flaming.

“Oh my god,” she said, irises as wide as starbursts. “Shit. Oh my god. That was a horrible thing to say.”

Electricity crackled from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers; had Lily Evans really just said that? Laughter burst from his lips, chest aching, stomach spasming as he gasped for air. Perfect prefect Evans thought Remus was shit at clarinet. Of everything today, that was the strangest.

“No,” Evans said, “shut up, don’t laugh – I didn’t mean that –”

“You did, though,” James gasped, eyes swimming with tears. Her red hair swirled into the air like tendrils of smoke, in the blur of his vision.

“It was a mistake,” she insisted. “I meant…”

“That Remus’s performances make you envy the deaf?”

Evans whacked him lightly on the arm. James lost his breath. The warmth of her touch burned like embers in a hearth, long after her fleeting fingers knotted together, far from his skin.

“He’s your mate,” she accused. “Shouldn’t you be defending his honour?”

James’s tongue poked at the fleshy inside of his cheek. “He works hard, he’s a laugh, he keeps us on track… sort of. I’ll defend that. But honesty is my policy, Evans. Sirius and I have fantasised about throwing that bloody thing in the creek.”

“So we have the same fantasies,” Evans grumbled. “Fantastic.”

His nails left crescent moons on the leather of the wheel. Probably not, he thought. Definitely not.

“The truth comes out in your mistakes, Evans. When your guard’s down.” He lifted his foot, rolling the little way down the rest of the street. She inhaled - the change of tone in his voice had been clearer than he'd intended.

“When people are angry, they say things they don’t mean.” He pulled up outside the second house from the end. This one was timber rather than brick, older than the others, raised on a brick platform. Low shrubs and strangled flowers lined the concrete path from the curb, and further down, gravel tracks rolled down the side of the house and out the back. Rickety stairs led up to the front door, the security screen rusted and faded. Yellow curtains hung in the windows. An old wooden chair waited on the porch, beneath two hand-painted signs – one welcoming all, and a second warning off ‘Jehovers’. Bits of hose littered the front garden. The red-lidded bin bulged with black rubbish bags. Evans shifted, turning her body as if to block the view of the house out the passenger window. The colour leeched from her face; her eyes were luminous. She tugged at the collar of her school jumper.

“I don’t know if I agree with you,” James said frankly, shifting the car into ‘park’ and pulling the handbrake. Evans’s hand rested on the handle of the door.

“I fight with my sister all the time,” Evans said. “I don’t really hate her.”

“Not now,” James said, “but in that moment… I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a feeling, not a resolution. I don’t think you say anything you haven’t felt before. Anger doesn’t make you a different person, you know? It just sort of… sharpens bits.”

The door opened, and Evans scooped up her backpack, halfway out the car.

“Thanks,” she said sharply. “For the ride.”

“Evans –”

“Thank you.”

James unclicked his belt, climbing over the gearbox. He caught the door as it swung shut, opening it again.

“Evans!” She stilled with her back to him, standing on the browning grass, bag hanging by one strap. James took a deep breath. “Evans, you have to know that – that word doesn’t just slip out.”

She whirled around, face hard, eyes wet. “It’s not really up to you to decide what I have to know, actually, Potter.” But she was listening to him. He ran his fingers through his hair, the gearstick digging into his stomach as he leaned across. He looked like an idiot, probably. He didn’t care.

“You deserve better,” he said. Evans flinched. Her lips curled cruelly.

“What, someone like you? I heard what you said to him. You’re not any better –”

“I didn’t call him that –”

“He’s been my friend since I was seven, Potter.” Her face crumpled; she turned her face to the sky, eyes shut. “You don’t get it. You could never get it. He’s the one that knows.” An angry arm flicked at the street. “I bet your bedroom’s air-conditioned.”

James frowned. “Yeah,” he said, flummoxed – what did that have to do with anything? “I mean – not me. I didn’t mean me. We would never… but not Snape. You deserve better than him. You have more than two options, you know.”

Slowly, she looked down at him. Trails shone on he cheeks. James pushed himself up on his hands, awkwardly manoeuvring back to his seat. Her mouth moved wordlessly; she rubbed her face, wiping the tears.

“Please don’t tell Remus what I said,” she said quietly.

“I won’t,” James said. “I promise.”

Evans smiled tightly, and then the door swung shut. James took a shuddering breath, watching as she crossed the grass and slumped up the stairs, shoving a key into the door and letting herself in. His mind churned. What didn’t he get? What didn’t he understand? The answer was beyond his reach, tantalising. He pressed his forehead to the wheel, sighing.

Lily Evans always left him with questions. He didn’t mind that. He just wished he knew how to find the answers.

#jily #jilymicrofics #jilymicroops #lily evans #james potter #hp #fanfic

[bandagesandloveletters]

Lilla Thornton (Masters of The Air OFC)

Note: A little introduction to my newest original female character for the Masters of The Air universe. Look out for all her adventures in the weeks to come. Word Count: 895 words.

Glass plasma bottles clicked against each other as they moved inside the chipped wooden crate marked "Medical Supplies". Pyramids of morphine syrettes threatened to spill with every second step heavier than the opposite. In a different setting, desperate hands would be grabbing at the morphine, like kids to a bowl of candy. It was a highly sought-after substance on the frontlines by medics, but in the ghostly quiet hallways of the on-base infirmary, no one dared to steal from what supplies graced the stockroom. 

In the middle of the infirmary's hustle and bustle lay a heavy oak desk, out of place and odd for its surroundings but very fitting for the occupier who worked upon it, hour after hour.

Thud! Rattle! Clunk! The wooden crate came to rest upon the paper-laden desk as dainty hands rifled through its contents, determined to find the item that she so urgently needed.

"Ah-ha!" the gentle rasp with a Texan accent piped up as she grasped what she was looking for in her left hand. "There you are, you little rascal."

"Still talking to the medical supplies, I see."

"You know me, Nora. If a seasick-riddled boat journey across the pond can't change my ways, it will never happen," Second Lieutenant Thornton chirped as she turned to stand before the friendly face.

Lilla Thornton was a petite girl from Fredericksburg, Texas. Although she was small in stature, she had a big personality. As head nurse, the tiny Texan often had to drum up morale as her fellow medics worked tirelessly on wounded men evacuated from the battle-damaged aircraft returning from missions into occupied Europe. It was almost like working on a production line; as soon as a patient was stable, they'd be moved to a more suitable bed within the infirmary, away from all the chaos.

A no-nonsense kind of girl, Lilla was known for throwing herself into her work, placing it on top of her list before pleasure. Her time at Thorpe Abbotts was a perfect example of this practice. As her nurses clung to the men of the 100th every Friday at the Half Moon Inn, the young Lieutenant would spend her night taking stock of supplies and rolling bandages. Even back home, she'd rather spend her weekends studying or helping her father run the family ranch than travel the hour into Austin to go drinking and galavanting with her friends.

Growing up, she had to learn and take responsibility more quickly than most girls. At the age of seven, her dear mother Tabitha passed suddenly of an unknown illness that doctors were trying to grasp a better knowledge and understanding. Lilla was the eldest of three siblings, meaning any extra time she had after her classes were finished was spent working to bring in extra money to aid the family finances.

Her father, a cripple who couldn't work, always encouraged the brunette to follow her heart, and on the 18th of August 1941, Lilla Thornton joined the Army Nurse Corps. With a passion for helping those in need and a hard-working ethic, Army life came as easy as learning to crawl as an infant.

Training started at Brooke General Hospital, San Antonio, Texas, before she was assigned to the Eighth Air Force as a breakaway unit in September of 1942. A single gold bar sat proudly upon the collar of her dress uniform and the new role of head nurse upon her shoulders.

At Kearney Army Airfield, Nebraska, Lilla made friends with a fellow nurse from Louisiana. Like Lilla, Nora was a serious person putting just as much dedication into her role as a nurse as the Texan girl did. Nora and Lilla forged a friendship that would stand the test of time.

Thrusting the two bottles of saline towards the medic, followed by some syrettes of morphine, Lilla raised an eyebrow in question at the female before her.

"This should be more than enough for now. You don't happen to have any chocolate in your magic box, Lieutenant Thornton?" Nora’s Southern drawl emphasized certain words as she asked the smaller female. 

Holding up a finger, Lilla turned and began to search through a heavy oak drawer connected to her desk before producing a foil-covered article. Chocolate had become a rare commodity, especially with all the rationing the Americans faced while living in England, and what they could get a hold of tasted far from what they were used to back home. 

"This is my last ration for this month. It better be for a good reason you’re looking for some. You owe me one, Nora."

"You got my word, Li. If you have the time, can you check on Lieutenant Payne? I think he's coming down with pneumonia."

Looking up from her clipboard at the mention of one of the navigators, Lilla nodded. It was apparent there was some kind of bug going around the base. She’d already treated a few men with similar symptoms.

"I don't have long left until I've finished my shift here, but I'll be round as soon as possible. Just make sure he's kept warm until I get there."

Returning her attention to the crate of supplies, Lilla sat down behind the desk to begin the final stock check of her shift.

#hbo war #masters of the air #rosie rosenthal #original character #original female character #lilla thornton #lilla thornton x rosie rosenthal #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air original female character #nix writes #OFC #ladies of hbo war #1940s character #women's army nurse corps

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

hey can u tell me abt ball point pen history

OH BOY DO I EVER!!!

The first patent for ballpoint pens was granted in 1888. Specifically on the 30th of October, to one John J Loud. It was supposed to be able to write on coarser surfaces that a fountain pen could not.

However, this very first version of a ballpoint pen sucked balls. It was not a design that could not write on paper. At all. Also, the ink tended to either leak (in summer) or freeze (in winter) Mind, I only have one specific source on this model right now but. There's a reason they were yet to be used for a long time. Over the next couple decades, a few people tried to chime in with suggestions for improvement but Loud kept a tight wrap on those patents.

No profit was made from Loud's original version of a ballpoint pen. But, you know, technically it still existed.

Now, early 20th century. Enter László Biró, a newspaper editor who was frustrated about all the smudging ink from fountain pens and his dentist brother-with-chemical-knowledge György. Biró (already seeing the resemblance to some slang here) watched newspapers being printed and dry very, very quickly and went "actually, You Know What".

What they figured out was that to use ink that dries fast in a pen, you need a pen that prevents the ink from drying fast inside of said pen. Therefore, they spent Quite A While figuring out a mechanism to allow inkflow while preventing it from drying and clogging up inside. 1938, they filed for a British patent.

1941, the Biró brothers left Hungary due to its support of Hitler (based) and eventually settled in Argentina, where they founded/developed a new brand of ballpoint pens with their friend Juan Jorge Meyne and filed a new, better patent in 1943.

Now this is where things get messy and my sources differ sliiightly but considerably enough to be confusing.

One the one hand, you have two companies, Eversharp Co and Eberhard Faber Co teaming up to license this Birome pen in the USA.

Around the same time, a bit later, some American fuckhead, also known as Milton Reynolds gets a hold of a Biró pen and gets a whiff of sales money immediately. He goes back to the US and starts his own company. This is Absolutely Not A Copyright Infringement since he's selling an altered copy only loosely based on those Birome pens. Definitely. Absolutely.

I mean, to be fair, it was in fact different enough to count as its own brand. And it skipped and leaked and did not live up to user expectations. But neither did Eversharp/Faber's pens, and both companies were constantly caught up in their beef that both companies went down like a lead balloon.

Eventually, Parker Pens got out the first proper design that, you know, actually worked as intended (and was, I think, actually licensed to Birome pens), and a little later Bich, then shortened to Bic, made a design that actually offered quite some precision. This was around the 1940s/1950s when ballpoint pens now finally, actually, permanently came in use (Bic around the 60s I believe) and I love them.

Keep in mind, though, I only used three sources, one of those Wikipedia, and picked through slight contradictions to figure out what makes sense and is the most likely, so take this with a grain of salt.

For the initial purposes of my research, however, this was more than sufficient. (I needed to know if I could have a character in the 30s click a pen. Since they were still pretty much not in use back then, she got to twirl a pencil instead. It was one tiny sentence.)

Thank you for asking! It's my favourite piece of niche knowledge to whip out at random and the only one I can support with dates and names, though I did have to read up on my bookmarked pages. I am waiting for the day when I finally play powerpoint karaoke and get the topic of ballpoint pens. Please let this happen, it would be so funny. Uno uno (<- prayer of my friend group).

#a biscuit's rambles #ballpoint pens #ballpoint pen history #the brand name birome was just biró and meyer mashed together and the british still call pens biros sometimes idk i like that bit #i also think its really funny how two companies had beef about this only to both fail LMAO

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Doctor Who, but Chronologically: 39

We have finally escaped the time-loop of 1941! Only to land hard in 1947, a year that is notable for two things:

My dad was born

The Partition of India

Only one of those things is relevant to this episode, which is also a banger, because we have reached Demons of the Punjab

We are back with Jodie Whittaker, Yaz, Ryan and Graham, and this is a Yaz Episode! Which is nice because so far she has been very blank. Unfortunately she remains fairly blank because the episode is actually about her Nan, Umbreen - they go back in time to see Umbreen getting married in Lahore in the 50s. Except they miss and land in 1947 on a tiny farm. But that's okay, Nani is getting married! Except it's to the wrong man - rather than the Muslim grandfather Yaz is expecting, she's about to marry Prem, a dashing Hindu stranger.

And Partition happens. Also there are alien demons about.

It's slightly a shame this is not more of a banger, actually, and it would be if the actors were better and the writing was just a bit more thought out. The problem is that they shied away from being too explicit about the issues involved. Which, you know, I get - this is a British show and Britain is a racist cesspit and wouldn't put up with it, ON TOP OF WHICH they were blatantly aiming for allegory about how fascism is universally bad, like. I do get it.

But it does mean that the central tension - two brothers torn apart by Partition and its subsequent creed-based radicalisation - has nowhere near as much weight as it really should have had, because the Nasty Brother just says very vague strawman things to indicate that Hate Is Universal And Always Bad, rather than making meaningful and incisive points about this particular historical atrocity caused by the British Empire. And that means it ends up being a bit too unclear what his fucking problem is, and why he's ready to commit fratricide.

But it's otherwise a GREAT episode, my god. Beautifully shot, the plot is super simple to let the character work take the lead, and Bradley Walsh emerges as the unlikely Best Actor of All to smash it out of the park with sheer poignancy.

(Also like, I cannot stress enough that the vast majority of British people don't know what Partition is. They do not know. This episode introduced a swathe of British society to a vitally important historic event that this country caused and then deliberately forgot about. This means, oddly, that this stupid watch order triumphs again, because two episodes ago we watched Matt Smith attempt to suck off Churchill down to the balls - now, we get a straight up reference to the mass famine Churchill deliberately inflicted on India, plus the twice-stated statistic that a million people died in Partition. This is one of the most socially important episodes of Doctor Who ever made, I think, which I say non-hyperbolically.)

Anyway the alien demons turn out to be a race who used to be assassins, but their planet was destroyed while they were out doing killings and that, so now they go from place to place and mourn people who die alone and unmourned. They "witness". I like this as an idea. They look pretty cool, too. Except this means people keep seeing them standing over recently-deceased corpses looking like they belong to a Finnish heavy metal band before "vanishing" (trans-matting), and so assume they've murdered said recently-deceased corpse, and so they are now experiencing what I shall call the Absol Effect.

Two thirds into the episode, the Doctor discovers this. I will admit, she could have discovered this much sooner if they'd actually said in the first meeting. In that sense this is like the Testimony mirror people again, who could have prevented most of the episode by actually explaining straight away; but eh. Whatevs. It turns out, though, they're here to witness Prem's death; so the main cast now have to go the rest of the episode knowing this man is going to die tomorrow. As I say: Bradley Walsh's acting. That man can do an amazing wibbly lip, turns out. Fair play Brads.

Umbreen and Prem get married in the morning, but the Nasty Brother has called on a mob to come and kill them. Umbreen and her mam escape, but Prem is murdered in cold blood. It's very moving. My husband cried.

After all of that, though, I don't think we have a single new plot thread? NO WAIT - we do! Ish. The Thijarian ex-assassin professional mourners lost their planet. We've seen that before! Maybe it's connected.

“She” (an unknown person) is returning (perhaps River returned as Missy. Maybe Me? Maybe Clara???!)

There is something on Donna’s back

An entire planet, Pyrovilia, just… disappeared, somehow. (Maybe because the TARDIS is exploding??? Saturnine was also lost, and that WAS because of the TARDIS exploding. The lion man’s planet was also lost but he was a bit of a knob about it if I’m honest. NEW INFO: the Thijarian planet was destroyed by some sort of impact)

Amy is maybe dead (she’s not)

The Doctor has been cubed (he’s out, but how?)

River is possibly blown up  (unless she’s Missy. Nope: she is definitely not blown up)

The TARDIS has blown up  (It’s fine now. Except it’s sort of melting now because it’s corrupted, but it’s fine again)

The universe appears to have ended  (the universe is back again)

The Doctor has employed(?) Nardole

(And Nardole was “reassembled???” Nardole had glass nipples and invisible hair?? WHAT THE FUCK IS HE)

There’s a vault in the TARDIS and it contains Missy but we don’t know why (sometimes she knocks for the bants)

There’s an immortal Viking girl now. Her name is Me and she’s now looking after the people the Doctor abandons

Why was Rory entirely unconcerned by the entire world suddenly going silent when that is Not Normal and should have been, at the very least, extremely disconcerting?

What did the Doctor do to Queen Lizzie One?

Why is Amy seeing a one-eyed woman in a vanishing window? (She’s with the Silents, but we don’t know why Amy saw her)

Why is Amy’s pregnancy inconclusive? (Maybe because the baby had Time Lord DNA?)

Who is Sarah-Jane Smith?

How is the Doctor Bill’s teacher and why/where does he have an office?

What is going on with the Cyber War and the Cyberium???

What happened with the Other Cyber War?

What happened with the Third War that deleted the void?

Why does Rose seem particularly important?

What order do these Doctors go in? (Eccleston, Tennant, uncertain, Smith, Capaldi, Whittaker)

Which companion just… forgot the Doctor, and how?

Yaz and Vinder are about to die as Mori/Mwri/Muuri

There is a Lupari shield around Earth.

What’s a Time War?

What’s the Rift?

What’s Bad Wolf?

In which war did the Doctor become a war criminal, and how?

Who is the Master?

Why has Amy forgotten Rory? How did she forget a Dalek invasion?

Is Rory plastic or not?

Why is the Doctor sulking on a cloud?

How exactly does the Doctor have a cloud?

What exactly happened with Strax to, uh, tame him?

Which friend killed Strax?

Which friend brought Strax back?

Where did this lesbian lizard and human couple come from?

What happened with Clara as Souffle Girl and the Daleks?

How does Clara actually join?

Why so many Claras?

Why is Missy apparently in robo-heaven?

Why is probably!Missy pushing Clara and the Doctor together?

What is Trensilor and what happened there?

Who is Handles?

The Doctor is about to be dissolved by a beautiful geode man

The universe is being crushed by the Flux

Will the Doctor open the fobwatch?

Sontarans are invading Earth again

Who is Kate?

Who is Osgood? Another name of Clara’s again?

The fuck is the deal with the Grand Serpent

Does Martha get to go to an ice cream planet with 12-fingered massage aliens?

How did the Doctor forget Clara?

Who is Bill’s puddle girlfriend Heather?

How did Nardole die?

When does Bill get Cyberman-ed and die?

When does the Doctor shrink and enter a Dalek called Rusty?

Whittaker is falling to her death rn

Was that ring relevant?

Does anyone know the Doctor’s name?

When did Yaz talk to Dan about fancying the Doctor?

When did Dan talk to the Doctor about fancying Yaz?

What’s happening with the bees?

What happened with Donna’s ex and a giant spider?

What war wiped out the Daleks, and is it one of the ones already mentioned?

What did the Doctor mean when he said “The (Daleks) always live, while I lose everything?”

If Dalek Caan is the last Dalek left why are there more now?

How did the rest of the Time Lords die?

How and why did Amy melt?

What’s the question that will make silence fall?

Why do the Silents… want silence to fall?

How and why are Silents at war with the Doctor when he… hasn’t even heard of them?

How does Hitler get out of the cupboard?

What’s the significance of fish fingers and custard?

Why does the Doctor feel guilt about Rose, Martha and Donna?

What happened with the space whale?

When does Rory defend Amy for 2000 years?

How does the Doctor survive River

How does he erase himself from history

Did Captain Jack lose his memories to the same people as the Doctor? What did he lose?

When did the Doctor send the Daleks into a void to save the universe?

What’s with the weird crack in the wall and is it affecting memories?

Why do Amy and Rory think the Doctor is dead?

Is Matt Smith’s Doctor a tree racist?

#doctor whom #and yet we are continuing

[cinemaocd]

Jenny's ongoing list of films watched 2024

January

RRR (2023)*

Peter's Friends (1992)*

The Lady Eve (1941)

How to Get a Head in Advertising (1988)*

High Fidelity (2000)

Frieda (1947)*

Oh...Rosalinda! (1955)

The Quick and the Dead (1995)*

The Barefoot Contessa (1954)*

The Life and Death of Col. Blimp (1943) Commentary Track (2012)*

Rhubarb (1951)*

The Birds (1963)*

House of Yes (1997)*

Cassandra Cat (1963)*

Foreign Correspondent (1940)

The Long Goodbye (1973)

Night of the Comet (1984)

The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961)*

For Me and My Gal (1942)*

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

The Small, Back Room (1949)

House of Games (1987)

Water (1985)*

The Ballad of John and Yoko (2023)*

The Meaning of Life (1983)

Track 29 (1988)*

*New to me

Thoughts on the New to Me films:

New Year's Eve we watched RRR, a lot of fun, energetic, bright and action-packed. I enjoyed the way that little attention was given to the British characters. They were straight up villains in ill fitting ahistorical costumes, kind of like the way Indian/Asian characters are treated in Western films most of the time...$$$

New Year's Day we watched Peter's Friends, a drama/comedy from the early 90s starring all of the famous Cambridge Footlights. Big Chill-ish film set in a country house over the Christmas holidays. $$$

How to Get a Head in Advertising was weird and also really good. Had a similar vibe to Withnail and I (possibly because of Richard E. Grant, but also possibly the mixture of the surreal with the realistic). Quite stage-y in some ways but clever and savage in it's satire of life in the 80s. $$$

Frieda: Oh I loved this! Weird World War II melodrama about a German girl marrying a British boy and all the trouble it causes with his complex family situation. Such a stellar cast including the late, great Glynnis Johns. $$$$

The Quick and the Dead: I set my expectations quite low for this and was pleasantly surprised. I liked Sam Raimi's comic book-y take on gunfighters and esp. loved Sharon Stone's character. We love to see a female action hero with no love interest. A nice twist on the Man with no Name trope. Excellent cast as well with Russell Crowe, Gene Hackman, Roy Scheider and Woody Stroud in his final film. $$$

The Barefoot Contessa: Joseph Mankewitcz is one of the geniuses of old Hollywood but this ain't it, chief. Just kind of all of the place melodrama that makes no sense and relies too much on Ava Gardner looking amazing in technicolor in the South of France. A bit of a commentary on Grace Kelly who a few years earlier married minor royalty on the Riviera. Even Rossano Brazzi can't save this mess for me. $

Rhubarb: Two genres I usually kind of hate (family-friendly animal centered film, sports film) combined into one and it's actually a lot of fun. Ray Milland and a bunch of classic character actors as the baseball team (also Leonard Nemoy has a tiny part as a mobster) in this slight/ predictable romp. $$

The Birds: Woah, shit this was good. I should have known. Amazing tension created and Hitchcock just sells the surreal horror with lots of rear projection...so. much. rear. projection. $$$

House of Yes: How about House of NOPE. Ugh what a mess this was. Some good performances and intriguing story, but it was very stagey and I don't know why the 90s couldn't make a story about adult children and their parents without reducing everyone to cliches and stereotypes but this and Six Degrees of Separation are definitely guilty of that, but the latter is just a better film. $

Cassandra Cat: Takes a long time to get to the cat which given that this was a family film from the 60s might be a problem for some viewers, expecting a more cat-centric movie. Interesting riff on fairy tales from the Czech New Wave. Beautiful Demy-esque technicolor and settings make this 60s nonsense fly by. $$

The Day the Earth Caught Fire: 60s nuclear panic disaster film that really just shows the earth as it is now in the throws of global warming. Yikes. Thoughtfully written and well acted by a bunch of folks I'd never heard of. $$

For Me and My Gal: Directed by Busby Berkley and starring Gene Kelly and Judy Garland and set in the 1920s on the Vaudeville circuit, I was expecting a lot more fun, dancing, color, costumes etc. This is actually more of a black and white war time melodrama with some music shoved into it and the dancing is very rudimentary. (I think this is probably because Garland esp. at this stage wasn't in the same league with Gene Kelly and I think it would have been too noticable...). Filmed at the entry of America into WW2 this was quite a deliberate propaganda piece. $$

TLADOCB Commentary: I've watched this movie 20 times at least but the commentary really made me think about a bunch of things differently. Can't say I recommend unless you are fanatic though as it's obviously pieced together from interviews Michael Powell and Martin Scorcese $$

Water (1985): If you smoke the exact right strain of sativa and ignore some of the more dated aspects of this 80s comedy, that reads as if Local Hero were a Cheech and Chong film--this is a total classic. Irreverent Michael Caine just straight up breaking character the minute he turns into a guerilla fighter in the jungle and being far too competent and cool, and then snapping back to sweetly shy, inept British Civil Servant, finding he actually loves his hated backwater post (the invent Casara part Caribbean, part Devon Jurassic Coast) while having to actually do his job. Political satire and fully both barrels to Maggie Thatcher and Reagan. Good on em. Filmed in St. Lucia, the movie has a zany heart and little taste, hoovering up vast quantities of competent TV players from my youth: Herman Munster and Reginald Perrin to name but two. Awkward love story and some uneven acting from Valerie Perrin and Brenda Vaccaro. I enjoyed myself, heartily, anyway. $$$

The Ballad of John and Yoko: Technically a video essay with amazing production values (the licensing alone was epic) dragging together disparate topics around the central theme of women being blamed for bad things happening to infantalized male geniuses. Is it the most coherent argument? No. Does it absolutely tap into many unexpressed or implied ideas that have been floating around since me too? Absolutely. $$

Track 29: This was some of the worst casting I've ever seen in a film. When I think of Texas nurse who is into trains and spanking, I don't automatically think of comedian Sandra Bernhardt. When I think of an actress of that era who was old enough to play Gary Oldman's mother, I don't think of Theresa Russell who is the same age as Oldman and looked every bit as young as he did in the film. Maybe that was the point? I'm not sure. The story was weird, like a Southern Gothic melodrama/black comedy ala Flannery O'Connor, but there was something off about the whole thing.

#Jenny's Film Odyssey #all credit to @dweemeister #January film Odyssey

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Begonia :: Zou Chuan'an (b. 1941) @Yenisey5

* * * *

Entangle Tony Hoagland ISSUE 219, WINTER 2016

Sometimes I prefer not to untangle it. I prefer it to remain disorganized,

because it is richer that way, like a certain shrubbery I pass each day on Reba Street

in an unimpressive yard, in front of a home that seems unoccupied: a chest-high, spreading shrub with large white waxy blossoms—

whose stalks are climbed and woven through simultaneously by a different kind of vine with small magenta flowers

that appear and disappear inside the maze of leaves like tiny purple stitches.

The white and purple combination of these species, one seeming to possibly be strangling the other,

one possibly lifting the other up—it would take both a botanist and a psychologist to figure it all out

—but I prefer not to disentangle it, because it is more accurate.

My ferocious love, and how it repeatedly is trapped inside the fear of being sentimental;

my need to control even the kindness of the world, rejecting gifts for which I am not prepared;

my inextinguishable conviction that I am scheduled for some kind of destination.

I could probably untangle it, yet I prefer to walk down Reba Street instead,

in the sunlight and the wind, with no mastery of my feelings or my thoughts,

purple and ivory and green not understanding what I am and yet in certain moments remembering, and bursting into tears,

somewhat confused as the vines run through me and flower unexpectedly.

[via Paris Review] [alive on all channels]

#alive on all channels #begonia #Paris Review #poetry #poem #Tony Hoagland #Zou Chuan'an