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possiblyimbiassed · 4 years

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“E” as in Eurus, Enola and Estate

In June this year the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd filed a lawsuit against an impending Holmes adaptation movie on Netflix (article from RadioTimes here: X).

Sherlock, Mycroft and Enola, starring Henry Cavill, Sam Claflin and Millie Bobby Brown.

This post about it by @tendergingergirl (X) seems to have gone largely unnoticed, but I think it deserves far more attention. In fact, it got me thinking “What’s all this actually about?” and looking a few things up.

My curiosity about the doings of this Estate began in December last year, before the release of BBC Dracula in January, when an interesting discussion initiated after an excellent meta by @yeah-oh-shit (X), who had made some investigations into previous copyright and public domain issues and lawsuits, which I had never known about before.

And now it turns out that the Conan Doyle Estate Ltd (from here on I’ll call them ‘ACD Estate’) is suing the film makers, along with Nancy Springer, author of a book series based on characters from the Holmes universe called The Enola Holmes Mysteries (2006-2010), for copyright infringement.

But I thought most of ACD’s Sherlock Holmes stories are now in public domain, including the Illustrious Client, the Sussex Vampire and the Three Garridebs, whose copyright under US law expired last year (2019)? Well, yes, but that’s still not all of them, and according to ACD Estate “for those of the stories whose copyright terms have ended, this action is brought within the three-year limitations period for infringement.”

More under the cut.

So, the ACD Estate’s copyright, they claim, still includes the following ten stories collected in The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes:

The Creeping Man (1923)

The Illustrious Client (1924)

The Three Garridebs (1924)

The Sussex Vampire (1924)

The Retired Colourman (1926)

The Lion’s Mane (1926)

The Three Gables (1926)

The Blanched Soldier (1926)

Shoscombe Old Place (1927)

The Veiled Lodger (1927)

The whole lawsuit can be downloaded as a PDF file from this news article (X), and it’s quite an interesting read.

Claims about Sherlock Holmes’ emotions

So, since this is not the first lawsuit from the ACD Estate about adaptations, what’s their beef with the film makers this time? As far as I can see from their claims, this is about Sherlock Holmes’ emotions.

This is how the ACD Estate reads Holmes’ character development in the lawsuit: “Conan Doyle made the surprising artistic decision to have his most famous character—known around the world as a brain without a heart—develop into a character with a heart. Holmes became warmer. He became capable of friendship. He could express emotion. He began to respect women. His relationship to Watson changed from that of a master and assistant to one of genuine friendship. Watson became more than just a tool for Holmes to use. He became a partner.”

They even quote the famous passage in The Three Garridebs (3GAR, 1924) where Watson says: “It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask.”

But all this progress, they claim, specifically happened within these ten still (allegedly) copyrighted stories, which Conan Doyle wrote after World War One, where he had the traumatic experience of losing both his son and his brother.

They claim that Holmes’ emotional development is still under their copyright (which I believe in practise means their power to decide whether to allow a film adaptation or not) and apart from the emotions issue, they also provide the following other examples of developments that are (supposedly) unique to these ten still copyrighted stories:

Holmes employs a knowledge of medicine in Watson’s absence

Holmes and Watson use modern technologies in detective work for the first time

Watson marries a second time during his association with Holmes (BLAN)

Holmes changes into someone who has great interest in dogs

Sherlock’s “secret sister”

The Enola Holmes Mysteries got me interested, and now I’ve read the two first of six instalments in total. The series is about Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s younger sister Enola, a clever teenager whom the brothers – in particular Mycroft - want to send away to a boarding school after their mother has disappeared and abandoned her. But Enola hates the idea of being confined to a place where she will be forced to wear a corset and restricted to a certain (‘female’) behaviour at all times. She escapes to London, where she starts a secret private detective career specialising in investigations of missing persons. Enola must keep ahead of her brothers who are determined to capture and force her to conform to Victorian society’s expectations for young women. She skilfully uses different disguises, just like Sherlock, and she meets John Watson pretending to be someone else. With her cleverness she manages to outwit even Sherlock. She is good at drawing and uses her sketches in her work. She manages to communicate with her mother (and eventually also with Sherlock) by using ciphers.

All of this does seem to have certain similarities with how Eurus Holmes is described in S4, doesn’t it?

Eurus is, like Enola, the secret Holmes sister whom we never have heard of before.

In TFP Mycroft claims Eurus’ intellect was superior to both Sherlock’s and his own; she was “incandescent”.

We see little Eurus draw sketches of her family members (not very pleasant sketches when it comes to Sherlock, though).

Mycroft made sure Eurus was sent away to an isolated prison/institution (Sherrinford) at an early age.

Their parents seemed absent and not particularly interested in the whereabouts of their own daughter (they didn’t even know she was alive); they let Mycroft and ‘Uncle Rudy’ take care of things, so one could easily suspect she was abandoned.

Eurus seems to have escaped to London at her own leisure, while Mycroft thought she was incarcerated.

Eurus appears in London under three different disguises: “E” (flirting and texting with John),

“Faith” (walking the streets of London with Sherlock)

and John’s new therapist.

Eurus makes riddles with codes for Sherlock to decipher (“The cipher was the song”).

So, one might wonder if the Eurus plot is – at least to some degree – inspired by Enola Holmes? On the other hand, while Eurus appears cold and calculating, Enola is compassionate and sensitive and makes mistakes because of emotional bias. Enola seems more similar to Eurus’ disguised personas than to the supposedly ‘real’ Eurus - the one who burned the family estate down and killed Victor Trevor.

I still believe that Eurus only exists inside Sherlock’s head in BBC Sherlock, being a part of himself, but that’s for another discussion.

As for the Holmes siblings, it’s also interesting that on the ACD Estate’s website, where they have a collection of ’facts’ about ACD’s characters, they seem to have included BBC Sherlock’s Eurus as a valid sibling of Sherlock and Mycroft (scroll down to “Holmes facts” on this page: X), even though this character is nowhere to be found in canon. Please correct me if I’m wrong about this, but the only reference I can find to ”the East Wind” in ACD’s stories is in His Last Bow (LAST, 1917), where Holmes says that ”There’s an east wind coming, Watson”, and goes on to talk about a cold, bitter wind that is threatening England; most probably a reference to WWI, which was raging at the time of publication. No one with the name Eurus is ever mentioned, though. If Eurus had already been part of canon, why would Mofftiss have claimed her to be the big ”rug-pull” in TFP?

I haven’t read the final part in the Enola Holmes series (X) yet, where allegedly Enola reconciles with her brothers (Sherlock in particular) and they end up respecting her independence and skills. But according to several reviews Sherlock softens up a bit in the end. In the parts I have read, the two adult brothers appear rather conservative, patronising and sexist towards their younger sister – indeed more condescending than I think Holmes view of women actually is described in ACD’s original stories (allegedly – we never see him treat women badly in practice, do we?). At any rate, I haven’t this far been able to find a single specific plot element from the ten (supposedly) still copyrighted stories in Springer’s work.

In their lawsuit, the ACD Estate claims that “The Springer novels make extensive infringing use of Conan Doyle’s transformation of Holmes from cold and critical to warm, respectful, and kind in his relationships. Springer places Enola Holmes at the center of the novels and has Holmes initially treat her coolly, then change to respond to her with warmth and kindness.”

So what they’re doing here is the same thing they’ve done before (and lost): they’re claiming they still own some intrinsic characteristics of Sherlock Holmes, even though most of the stories are already in public domain.

Other lawsuits

A similar lawsuit towards Miramax (X) was made in 2015 for the film Mr Holmes, which had Ian McKellen as protagonist. But it ended in settlement before the defendants had responded to the accusations, which were similar to those regarding Enola Holmes about Holmes’ emotional life, but also had to do with the details of Holmes’ life as a retired man.

So, this is not the first time the copyright owners are interfering with content in Holmes adaptations. To complicate things further there seems to be two different estates claiming copyright for Doyle’s work. In 2010 there was some reporting that another estate had threatened Guy Richie’s Sherlock Holmes movies with disapproval after Robert Downey Junior had discussed Holmes possibly being gay on a TV show (X). According to Digital Spy, Andrea Plunket, who then represented the ‘Arthur Conan Doyle Literary Estate’, said: "I hope this is just an example of Mr Downey's black sense of humour. It would be drastic, but I would withdraw permission for more films to be made if they feel that is a theme they wish to bring out in the future. I am not hostile to homosexuals, but I am to anyone who is not true to the spirit of the books."

It’s very unclear which legal rights Andrea Plunket’s family (Andrea apparently died in 2016) actually has to represent ACD’s work, though. Andrea had been married to one of the copyright owners, and her family’s money had paid for the purchase of those rights, but after her divorce Andrea seems to have lost her part in the copyright, according to @mallamun on tumblr: (X). There’s also a lot of interesting things to read about these copyright issues in an article by Mattias Bodström from 2015: (X). However, there’s still a website from ‘Arthur Conan Doyle Literary Estate’ claiming ownership of the stories: X, and they have published a detailed account of their version of the matter (X).

The current case

I have no idea what the court will think about these new accusations against Netflix et al, but to me, if this isn’t farfetched, I don’t know what is. I think a good case could be made for most of these ‘unique’ elements listed above being expressed already before the Case Book. For example, in His Last Bow (LAST, 1917) they use a car, in The Dying Detective (DYIN, 1913) Holmes manages to fool Dr Watson that he’s very sick. When Watson declares his intent to marry for the first time already in The Sign of Four (SIGN, 1890), Holmes resorts to drugs. The dogs are all over the place since day one, and Holmes seems to appreciate them very much, not least Toby in SIGN.

And don’t get me started on the contradictions in Watson’s various discussions of whether Holmes has a heart. Holmes’ actions of helping people often contradicts the image of a cold, emotionless person. The Yellow Face (YELL, 1893) ends with Holmes being deeply repentant for being over-confident in his suspicion of a woman for adultery or maybe worse offences, when she was actually only trying to protect her little daughter from society’s racism.

In the Devil’s Foot (DEVI, 1910) there’s the following conversation (my bolding): “Upon my word, Watson!” said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, “I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one’s self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry.” “You know,” I answered with some emotion, for I had never seen so much of Holmes’s heart before, “that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you.”

Why on earth would it be a “surprising artistic decision” from ACD to develop Holmes into a little more caring and openly compassionate person as he grew older? Isn’t that the very classical character development of any literary hero’s journey and also a logical personal development for many people in the real world? It’s called ‘learning’ and ‘maturing’, as far as I know. To claim this is infringement of some unique idea is frankly ridiculous.

In short: They make a very literal, textual interpretation of the Holmes character, cherry-picking the parts that suit their interests, they claim there’s a clear story arc with very separate characteristics before and after WWI, and that they own the end of it. Thus, no adaptation with a progressive story arc regarding Holmes’ character would be permitted without their consent. Since apparently BBC Sherlock have ACD’s Estate’s license for their own franchise, this just makes me wonder how much trouble Mofftiss et al had with including things like Sherlock’s and John’s hug in TLD, or his emotional breakdown with the coffin after Eurus’ experiments on him in TFP.

Possible satirical meaning and small hints

Allow me to speculate a bit about the possible implications of BBC Sherlock in relation to the Estate. In a recent excellent meta by @raggedyblue, the ACD Estate as ‘Doyle’s bank’ is discussed, regarding the significance of the banker Sebastian Wilkes in The Blind Banker (X). Many interesting ideas are presented in this meta, I really recommend a read. This topic also initiated an interesting discussion about Doyle himself mirroring John in this post by @devoursjohnlock (X).

In an addition to that meta @shylockgnomes brings up John’s blog post about Tilly Briggs as another possible reference to the Estate (X). I totally agree with this; some time around the release of BBC Dracula this year, and our discussions about legal issues connected to both shows, I stumbled upon this particular ‘aborted’ blog post and came to realise its possible significance. It gave me the idea to change the title of my own blog to “Tilly Briggs Ship with Johnlock on it”, since I suspect that the blog post might be a clue about legal obstacles to a certain relationship. And that title is staying, at least until we know the true story (if ever).

Canon contains some info about Matilda Briggs is in The Sussex Vampire, one of the late ACD stories that should be in public domain by now, since the copyright supposedly expired in December 2019. But, as shown above, the Estate now claims there’s a three-year lapse when they can still sue for infringement. Here’s the quote from SUSS (my bolding): “Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.” Sumatra, by the way, was Sherlock’s preferred destination in the TST tale of the merchant who met Death in Samarra. In Sherlock’s version, according to Mycroft, the merchant survived and became a pirate... ;-)

John’s aborted blog post (X) is titled “Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror”, which just might be yet another little jibe at the Estate. John says that “I had to take this post down for a while as the ship's owners are launching an appeal”. According to Jacob Sowersby (a Sherlock fan on the blog) and Mike Stamford, this was “mind-blowing stuff”:

So I can’t help thinking this sounds like a hint to us about the Estate and a certain ‘ship’ which is still partly in their (legal) power and control. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the whole show - on the meta level - is partly meant as a satirical commentary on how Holmes’ and Watson’s characters, and therefore also their relationship, have been treated the last 100+ years by their ‘owners’. A treatment where I believe the hetero norm has always ruled, and where Andrea Plunket’s quote above indicates that homophobia regarding Holmes and Watson is still tied to legal obstacles.

Charles Augustus Magnussen also talks about ownership at the beginning of HLV (thanks for the quotes, Ariane DeVere): “Of course it isn’t blackmail. This is... ownership”. And later in the episode: “It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning”. In fact, quite a bit of emphasis in HLV is put on Magnussen’s ‘ownership’ of characters people: “I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them!” Apparently - as this new lawsuit shows - it’s even possible to make money out of Holmes’ emotions.

@catwillowtree also pointed out, in another additional thread to @raggedyblue’s meta, that Eurus’ burning down Musgrave Hall – the family estate - in TFP also seems like a reference to the ACD Estate. I would add to this, saying that the bomb that didn’t go off in TEH and the “patience grenade” that did go off in TFP might have to do with the same issue. What would happen if the ‘bomb’ of Johnlock would go off before the relevant stories are legally in public domain? Most probably another lawsuit from the Estate, which might become very expensive.

Come to think of it, in TGG Greg Lestrade mentions an estate agent, when Sherlock receives a text message and a phone call on the pink phone from Moriarty: “What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!” Well, if the Estate agent is somehow connected to the five pips, that fandom theory of the pips representing five series in the show comes to mind... For every pip in TGG there’s a victim covered in explosives; a huge bomb threatening to go off. (The third bomb did go off in TGG, but in S3 Sherlock found the ‘off-switch’ in time). If the fifth bomb is to explode in S5, I bet it won’t be until the relevant stories are safely in public domain. 2023?

More wild speculation while I’m at it: Maybe Sherlock and Ajay’s smashing of Thatcher busts in TST also ties in metaphorically to the same topic? The Thatcher era was not easy for LGBTQ people. There are several owners in TST whose Thatcher busts need to be smashed in order for Ajay’s lost memory stick to be recovered. AGRA is referred to as Ajay’s and Mary’s “family”. The memory stick contains personal information, ‘who you really are’. Could be read as if the info of who Sherlock Holmes really is can only be released once certain obstacles are overcome...

In another interesting meta from last year by @yeah-oh-shit (X), they mention the secret underground station at Sumatra road in TEH, where Howard Shilcott tells Sherlock and John that “They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes, so they never built the station on the surface.” So maybe S5 is basically already written? It would make sense to me if the long hiatus we’re facing right now has a far more logical reason than the excuses Mofftiss have presented in interviews - the risk of legal disputes with the copyright owners.

Tagging some more people who might be interested: @gosherlocked @ebaeschnbliah @sarahthecoat @sagestreet @thepersianslipper

ETA: I have corrected some details about the copyright owners in this post; thanks @devoursjohnlock for pointing them out!

#The Conan Doyle Estate

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acataleptichq · 3 years

Photo

"i am no longer the winter soldier. i am james 'bucky' barnes, and you're part of my efforts to make amends."

statistics

name: james ‘bucky’ barnes age / birthday: one hundred and two / march 10th, 1917 gender / pronouns: cismale / he/him sexuality: pansexual panromantic source material: mcu faceclaim: sebastian stan occupation: good question positive traits: truehearted, quick-witted, resilient negative traits: reserved, snide, cynical

background

bucky follows a lot of the mcu with a bit of comic bucky thrown in

mostly, everything in and before captain america: the first avenger is canon, and then everything from captain america: the winter soldier and forward is canon, but there’s some stuff in between that’s more comic based. kind of a good blend

!!! spoiler alert !!! the last thing he remembers is fighting fake cap to get the shield back after he murdered a member of the flag smashers

mostly he’s fucking confused about being here and even though he’s very disenchanted with the real world and his life right now, he’ll do whatever he can to help everyone

bucky also struggles with a lot of mental health stuff, mostly ptsd. he really should be in therapy

post app details

how long have you been at zerthea? “just got here. can’t say i’m thrilled about it, but it’s not the worst thing i’ve ever experienced.”

housing: very simple, where would you like to live. “fuck, i don’t have a clue. i’ll probably find some small shitty apartment and go with that for now. is television like a thing here? i’ve enjoyed having that on for background noise.”

businesses. “i guess without a government to employ me, i’m unemployed.”

app

[ marvel / mcu. sebastian stan. looks 38. actually 102. cis-male. ] bright light fading away bucky barnes has found themselves in a new unrecognized land. the last thing he / him remember before they were taken was the beginning of tfatws episode five. they say back in those times they were known to be +resilient, however, also have their moments when they could be -cynical and was always best recognized by a deep always present frown, a desire to atone for every perceived mistake, & gloves and long sleeves to cover a metal arm.

extras

will get to this!

headcanons

will get to this too!

#tw death mention #zerthea.intro #intro #『 ━━ ✬ bucky ; about 』

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g-46-stark · 4 years

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Find Me In Paris: Things I’m still wondering...

So, I really love Find me in Paris, is really funny and original.

I appreciate the way they handle all the time travel stuff... I’ve watched it like a hundred of times, but I’m still wondering:

1-Why no one ever told Lena about the Russian Revolutions of 1905 and 1917?

Really, not even Ines, who’s like the ballerina version of Hermione Granger.

For the ones who don’t know what I’m talking about, or just wants a reminder, I’m going to make a short resume:

From 1904 to 1905 Russia and Japan were fighting a war; Russia lose it, so people weren’t very happy (they also realize some social classes needed some changes);

The Russian army repressed a manifestation in St. Petersburg (some people want to present a petition to zar Nikolai II);

It started a revolution that lasted two years (1905-1907). After it, the zar was forced to create the Duma (a sort of Parliament). Some historicals think that this was the first step of the 1917 Russian Revolution;

During WWI, the social situation in Russia wasn’t all this good, especially for the factory worker. They all unite under the ideals of Lenin, and it started the October Revolution, which led to the abdication of zar Nikolai II;

Due to some political issue (it started a civil war between the new communist government and people that still wanted the zar) Nikolai Romanov and his family (his wife Alexandra, his four daughter Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia, and his son Alexei) were took in Siberia and then killed.

So, Lena is a Russian princess: some people think is Nikolai daughter, but since it’s not specificated, let’s say she’s his niece.

She obviously doesn’t know about Russian nobility fate; so, she still thinks that in Russia there would be a zar, who would be one of Nikolai’s descendants.

She says on more than one occasion that she is a princess, who lives in a palace in Russia.

But the thing is this: I don’t think the old Russian nobility still lives in Russia and has all their old proprieties such as palaces.

So no one (not even the teachers) find strange that Lena goes around saying she’s a princess?

This leads me to the next point: why doesn’t Ines tell Lena about Russia 20th century history?

She knows Lena is from 1905, so she knows why she doesn’t know about it.

If I know that one of my dearest friends is a time traveler from 1900’s Russia (and part of the nobility), one of the first thing I would say to them it would be: “If you ever go back in your century, stay away from Russia! Move to the US and don’t go anywhere else!”.

I understand Ines wouldn’t say that for all the “don’t change the past because you don’t know how it could affect the future” thing, but seriously… Lena always said she wanted to go back! You don’t want to even warn her?

And later, in season 2, Lena said to Max all the truth; and she also said she wanted to go back so she could save Ines.

All Max has to say on it was: “Oh, ok. I’m really sad that you’re leaving, but that’s ok. Let’s create the most transgressive choreography that Paris Opera has ever seen.”.

And I was like… Ehm…hello?? The girl you claim to love just said she wanted to go back at the beginning of a disastrous century!! She’s leading herself into two revolutions and probably her death, but ok, let’s dance through it.

No one there knows anything about 1900’s Russian history?

And besides that, what about the history lessons or the history teacher?

What do they teach students in that school?

Oh, right...

2- Max's family: What happened between Max and Ruben (Reuben?)? What happened between Armando and his wife? And, more importantly, where is she?

I know that since Lena is the main character, we should be worried about her background story, but really… you can’t throw us some hints about Max's dysfunctional family and then just walk away.

I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I’m still confused about something.

If I get it right (feel free to correct me if I’m wrong):

Ruben is not Armando biological son: he was adopted in Spain;

He was a street boy, who was an extraordinarily talented dancer;

He and Max were inseparable;

At some point, their mum took them to London, where she wanted them to attend a boarding school (Arrow? Harrow?);

Max was accepted, but Ruben wasn’t;

So, Armando took the boy with him to New York (where he presumably worked for the Imperial Ballet) since their mum “can’t take care of him”;

Then something bad happened between the two brothers;

The result was that Max was expelled from his school and his relationship with Ruben was ruined;

Max said that Ruben came to visit him at school and started “acting like himself”: he made something bad, but we don’t know what;

After “breaking his mother’s heart” for being expelled (words from Armando), Max won a sort of scholarship for a European ballet school and chose to go to Paris;

Then, it happens all Lena’s stuff;

At a certain point Ruben comes back in Max life, “stealing” is brother baroque choreography and going at his school (and dancing with his chica);

In a dialogue, we discover that he and Max made a promise, but one of them broke it;

I think it was about not “entering in the other's territory”? Like, Ruben couldn’t go to Max boarding school and Max couldn’t go to a ballet school/found a hip-hop crew?

I don’t know if I missed something or I just misunderstood things, if you can explain it to me, I’ll be happy to listen.

Anyway, I have some main question about Max family:

WHERE IS HIS MUM??

I mean, I assumed she lives in London, her son lives in Paris, it’s like an hour's flight… why she never shows up?

Not even for his shows at Garnier? Not even when her son injured himself so bad that he ends up in the hospital and had surgery?

Is she dead? Is she ill? Like does she have cancer or something so bad that she couldn’t take a plane to go to visit her hurt son? In that case, I’m sorry for my cruel judgment.

But otherwise…I know that the others character parents never go to visit their children (the only exception were Dash and Thea’s mums), but I think that every parent would have shown up in case their child end up in a hospital.

Is she totally unaffectionate?

Because the quote from Armando: “I took Ruben to NY because he wasn’t admitted at Harrow and your mother couldn’t take care of him” sound pretty bad.

What happened between Max's parents?

I know that married couple living in different city/country due to work isn’t uncommon, so it wouldn’t have bothered me if some word in Max and Armando’s dialogue in season 1 hadn’t been said:

Armando said that his wife decided to take the boys back to London, and it sounded to me like he didn’t totally agree with that decision.

Max said something like “don’t speak about mum” as it hurts listening to his dad talking about his mum.

So, maybe I’m seeing drama everywhere, but it seems to me that something happened with Max's mum and/or between the parents.

My interpretation of that, after seeing that scene, is that Armando and his wife were divorcing, so Mum took her sons and moved to London (without Dad's consent, maybe, it’s sadly common in some difficult divorces). Both the boys were obviously traumatized by that, so Ruben started acting badly (so he wasn’t admitted at school) making his mum desperate and unwilling to take care of him? And maybe Max was angry with his father for leaving mum and them (and after, for taking Ruben to NY and leaving him in a boarding school)?

Why are Ruben and Max hating each other?

Okay, they’re brothers, but we’re going a little too far, don’t we?

Maybe Max’s a little jealous of Ruben's talent and (again) because he was taken to New York with their father while he was in a British all-male boarding school and blah, blah, blah… okay, we get it.

But Ruben?

Maybe he is jealous because he’s not Armando's biological son? Because he thinks Armando would always choose his “real” son instead of him?

It could be, but I’m totally plotting things on this point

We know that probably Ruben was the reason for Max's expulsion from his old school, and I presume that their parents thought it was Max’s fault, but I don’t think that’s all the story.

I mean, I personally want to know more about this.

In conclusion, dear producers: you can’t just toss at us two brothers that literally want to punch one another without a real explanation and expecting us to just walk away with that.

So…tell me what you think.

Sorry for the long post, and thanks for reading it!

#find me in paris #max x lena #max alvarez #armando castillo #lena grisky

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thefactsofthematter · 4 years

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angst request: two lovers have been fighting to reunite for years. when they finally make it to each other, one is dying.

ohhhhhh boy. this request just spoke to me and oh my GOD this had me in genuine tears at the end and i’m the one writing it so,,, watch out y’all

post-canon, wwi era; javid; 2k; warning: gunshot wound, medical talk + hospital setting, major character death

When Davey sees Jack again for the first time in years, he doesn't even recognize him.

It's hard to believe it's been a whole ten years since Davey moved to Boston for school, and since Jack finally hopped on a train to Santa Fe. They went their separate ways, as even the best of friends or closest of lovers tend to eventually do. They meant to keep in touch— they really did— but none of the letters Davey wrote ever made it to Jack, or even to the mailbox for that matter.

He told himself it was because he didn't know Jack's new address, but maybe he was simply too heartbroken to bother reaching out.

"I'll be home every summer, and it's just for four years. If you think about it, that's not even very long."

Jack had just sighed and stared down at the train ticket in his hands. It had been hard enough, Davey doing his undergraduate's degree, here in New York. They never seemed to have any time for each other, and it was getting harder and harder to keep their relationship a secret. Now, with Davey headed all the way to Boston to go to medical school, things were bound to be even worse.

"So if you wanna go away and live your dream, it's fine, but when I wanna do it, I'm the bad guy?" The note of bitterness in Jack's voice had seemed insincere, as if he couldn't bring himself to actually be mad. "Maybe I'll only go for four years, then. We'll both come back to New York and find each other. If we write enough letters, maybe it'll be like we were never even apart."

Davey had just forced himself to laugh softly, while leaning into Jack's side to try and revel in every moment, as surely it'll be the last time they hold each other like this.

"Yeah, you're right." A lie. "We'll see each other again, I'm sure." Another lie. "I’ll love you forever, darling." Nothing but the truth.

The last place Davey expects to run into Jack is in a military hospital in France, in the midst of the Great War.

They hadn’t thought the war was going to be this long. When Davey had volunteered to go overseas as an army doctor, fairly early on in the war, the general consensus was that it surely wouldn’t last more than a few months. Now it’s 1917– Davey hasn’t seen his family in two years and the fighting just keeps barreling on. Every day, there’s a constant stream of young soldiers being carted in from the front lines with horrific injuries, and every day Davey has to put on a brave face and try to save their lives.

Jack isn’t the first of the newsies to come in— Davey has seen a handful of old friends and it’s bittersweet every time. The reunion is sometimes pleasant, but always difficult nonetheless: Albert had been missing an arm, Finch had been in agony from mustard gas burns, and the worst of it… Davey had been the one to call Elmer’s time of death. It was horrible and he hopes to never see another familiar face within these walls.

He’s jerked out of his thoughts by the wail of an ambulance drawing near outside— his two-minute coffee break is over and it’s time to jump back into action. He has mere moments to collect himself before the doors are slamming open and his world is back to chaos.

“Shot in the abdomen, already infected,” says one of the travelling field nurses, as they roll the patient in and Davey hurries to match their stride. She’s got a strong French accent and he struggles to make sense of what she says next— something about a fever and gangrene and septic shock, which makes Davey incredibly nervous.

“He’s in good hands,” is all he can think to reply with, as the resident hospital nurses take over and the field nurses head back out. He’s still fumbling to get his gloves on as they enter the operating room and he’s suddenly the one in charge.

Debridement, antisepsis, pack the wound. The three steps of trauma surgery are on a loop in Davey’s head as he takes in the situation.

“General anesthesia,” he orders. He can’t tell if the young man is actually conscious or not until a nurse’s hand gets too close to the bloody mess in the middle of his abdomen and there’s a quiet a groan of pain. “Start cutting his clothing away and cleaning around the wound.”

A fever. The field nurse had mentioned a fever, so he presses the back of his hand to the soldier’s forehead and winces at the heat that radiates from it. Shit.

That means the infection must be spreading, and she was probably right about sepsis, meaning as hard as they try, they might not be able to save him and—

He doesn’t even notice the patient’s eyes snapping open and staring up at him.

“Davey…?”

It’s hardly above a whisper and Davey almost doesn’t hear it. There’s a nurse about to put a mask over the soldier’s nose and mouth to put him under, but Davey quickly raises a hand, telling her to wait.

He watches the soldier’s face for a long moment, and then everything falls into place.

“Jack…” he whispers. “Oh god…”

Everyone has paused to watch them— his assistant and the two nurses— but Davey can’t stop himself from reaching out to carefully touch Jack’s face.

He’s changed— of course he has. They were hardly even adults yet when they last saw each other, and now they’re in their thirties. Jack had always liked his hair a bit long and messy on the top of his head, but he’s now got a close-cropped army cut, already greying just a little at the temples. His face is dirty and worn, but Davey can’t help but notice the smile-line wrinkles starting to form. At least that means he’s been happy in their decade apart.

This can’t be real. It can’t. There’s no way his first (and only) love is lying here on his goddamn operating table, dying of an infected bullet wound. Ten years apart and this is how they reunite… it isn’t fair.

“Remember when I told you I was gonna be a doctor someday?” he finally says, because it’s all he can do to keep from crying. Jack looks entirely disoriented, but he manages to crack a confused almost-smile at that. “You’re gonna be okay, Jackie. I’ve got you.”

And then he nods to the nurse, that she can go ahead and put Jack under, and he shoots a stern look to his assistant, a young doctor-in-training, telling him to keep working on the initial sterilization of the area around the bullet hole.

He’s gonna save Jack Kelly’s life, god damn it.

The surgery, miraculously, is a success.

The infection was somewhat milder than it had initially seemed, and Davey had managed to cut away minimal amounts of tissue and leave Jack relatively intact. Sure, he’s got a gaping wound packed with antiseptic-soaked gauze, but he’s alive and breathing with working organs, so Davey supposes he did his job.

It’s now a matter of hoping that Jack’s body can fight off what remains of the infection without going into shock— there’s nothing any doctor can do for him now.

It takes a couple of days before Davey has a free moment long enough to figure out where Jack’s bed is and actually have time for a visit. His shifts are back-to-back-to-back and he hardly gets a wink of sleep, but he finally manages to set aside some time in the afternoon for personal matters.

Jack is sleeping when Davey arrives. He’s in a room full of patients but his bed is tucked away in a corner, which at least affords them an illusion of privacy. Davey can’t help but check him for a fever, and his heart sinks a little when he realizes that Jack is burning up even worse than when he’d come in and sweating buckets. He carefully checks his pulse and winces at just how quick it is.

“Jack?” he whispers, trying to shake Jack awake as gently as possible. Slowly, his eyes peel open. “Hey… how are you feeling?”

Jack blinks several times and frowns in confusion, staring up at Davey. He seems out of it, as one might expect with being this sick and all. Davey can only hope he’ll at least be recognized.

“Dave…” Jack finally mumbles. “Am I dead? Are you… are you an angel?”

Davey can’t help but laugh softly as he takes a knee to get down closer to Jack’s level.

“No, no, it’s really me. You’re in the hospital— you got hurt pretty bad out there. Not really the best place to run into each other after all this time, is it?”

Jack sort of laughs, but doesn’t seem to have the energy for it. He smiles, at least, and Davey feels just as smitten as he did when he was seventeen.

“I’ve missed you,” sighs Jack, reaching weakly for Davey’s hand. He speaks slowly and somewhat slurred, but at least he’s conscious. “You… you said you were gonna be a doctor. Look at you— smart fella, I always knew it.”

There’s a lump in Davey’s throat as he takes Jack’s hand— it’s cold, another sign that his body isn’t handling the infection well.

“Look at you,” replies Davey, trying to keep things light. “A captain in the army. I suppose it can’t be that different from leading a band of newsboys, can it?”

Another almost-laugh from Jack. He can barely keep his eyes open and it makes Davey want to break down crying.

This isn’t fair. For ten years, he’d imagined all the ways that he and Jack might find each other again someday. None of them involved Jack dying. This isn’t how it was meant to go. They were supposed to be happy.

“Are you sad?” asks Jack, after a moment. He squeezes Davey’s hand gently. “Just ‘cause it ain’t how we pictured it… ‘least we still found each other. I knew we would.”

Davey can’t stop himself from crying.

“I love you,” he whispers, so low it’s barely audible. “Forever, Jackie. I’m always yours.”

Jack’s eyes are falling closed now, but he hums a little and nods as he rubs his thumb over the back of Davey’s hand.

“Love you,” he finally replies, before giving in and letting himself settle back into sleep.

This has to be it— Davey figures he made it just in time. If he’d delayed his visit even an hour, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see him.

He can’t watch it happen, so he pushes himself back up to his feet and wipes the tears from his eyes. He does a round of checking in with and making conversation with all the other patients in the room. He might be crying on the inside, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t have the best bedside manner of any doctor he knows.

Sure enough, when he circles back to Jack, he has to take his pocket watch out and bring a nurse over as a witness so he can call time.

When he met Jack, all those years ago, he never imagined he’d be the one signing his death certificate, but life has a funny way of kicking you in the ass, doesn’t it?

Well… like Jack said, at least they found each other. He always knew they would.

#newsies #david jacobs #jack kelly #javid #my writing #tw war #tw guns #tw injury #if its not clear he died of sepsis :(#tw death

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oh-mymessymind · 4 years

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1917: a masterpiece in one shot

This post contains spoilers to the 2019 movie 1917. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, please do not read this opinion piece.

Up until the tail end of 2019, 1917 wasn’t really on my radar. I saw a trailer for it in like September and the main reason I even found the trailer was because the Youtube channel it was uploaded on had Richard Madden’s name in the title and I was on a Richard Madden kick at the time (sidenote: he’s not even in the trailer). I watched that one trailer and essentially forgot all about the movie until December, when all the movie review channels I subscribe to on Youtube start uploading videos reviewing 1917. The only review I watched was Jeremy Jahns’ (I’ll link it here because his videos are fantastic and should be watched) as his reviews tend to be spoiler free and I didn’t really want any spoilers for the movie. After that, I was intrigued.

1917 was finally released in my local movie theatre around the end of January (we’re very behind, we only got Jojo Rabbit like the beginning of the year), and after it had been out for about a month, myself and my boyfriend got the opportunity to go see it. And all I have to say is wow.

If you don’t know what 1917 is about and you don’t really care for spoilers, let me give you a quick synopsis: the story follows two soldiers, Lance Corporal Schofield, played by George Mackay, and Lance Corporal Blake, played by Dean-Charles Chapman, in the first World War. They’re given orders to stop an attack on the enemy after they seem to have retreated as it’s really just a planned attack and some thousands of men will die if the attack goes ahead, one of these men being Blake’s older brother.

The movie is shot to look like one take with no cuts between takes at all and takes us on the journey with the two soldiers, making the audience feel like a third member of their adventure, and I think that’s one of the most brilliant parts of the movie. Jeremy says it best in his review, you as an audience member really feel like you’re a part of this journey and that you also need to be alert at all times, and this is so true! At one point in the movie Scho and Blake are telling stories and trying to lighten the mood as they’re walking, and myself and my boyfriend found ourselves watching the skies or any open area around them in the scene to see if we could see any German enemies about to shoot them while their guard was down.

Another thing that I think the movie does so well is that it gives you an expectation on what’s going to happen and then completely flips it on its head. I walked into 1917 thinking that I knew exactly what was going to happen in the movie: these two soldiers were going to have hardships crossing enemy lines, but they’d eventually make it and stop the attack from happening. I figured Blake would find his brother and they’d be reunited, and the movie would end with one of those black screens that goes on to tell you how and when the first World War really ended (the following year in 1918).

But boy was I wrong.

The first time I changed my expectations was when Scho and Blake reach abandoned German trenches and go into them to cross through. A trip wire is triggered by a rat - which, sidenote, this movie is full of explosions and gunfire and the one thing in this movie that made me jump out of my skin was a rat falling from the fucking ceiling, but I digress - and there’s an explosion. Scho is buried and when Blake digs him up he looks like he’s dead. In my head, I figured this was foreshadowing that Scho wouldn’t make it. Eventually he was going to die and Blake would have to continue on by himself, eventually finding his way to the attack and stopping it, but unable to find his brother in the process.

Of course, with this thought in mind, I wasn’t shocked when the movie killed off one of their two leads about 40ish minutes into the movie. What I was shocked about, however, was that it was Blake, not Scho who died. And I have to say, for that scene alone, Dean-Charles Chapman and George Mackay were ROBBED of an Oscar nom. Blake’s death scene alone was absolutely brilliant and heartbreaking. Like most war movies do, it makes you understand what these poor men who fought in the war went through; they watched people that they considered their friends die, their actual family in some cases. They watched the young men, like Blake who was only 19, die with so much ahead of them. They watched people like Scho, who is revealed at the end of the movie to have a wife and two children, be killed and have to send letters home to their families. And should they survive and be able to go home themselves, they were never completely okay ever again.

The death of Blake lights a fire under Scho’s ass and we see his character do a complete 180, in my opinion anyways. Leading up to this, Scho didn’t seem to be into the mission, especially not after being buried in the German trench and nearly killed. There’s even a line he says where he snaps at Blake and asks him, “Why’d you choose me?! Why’d it have to be me?!”, and when Blake says that he didn’t realize what he was signing up for, Scho tells him, “You never do!”. But then, when Blake dies, he’s so focused on the mission. He will stop at nothing until he reaches the Devonshire Regiment and delivers the message to Colonel Mackenzie to call off the attack. He even goes as far as trying to push the truck he’s travelling in out of a mud puddle because he feels he doesn’t have the time to waste and has to get there as soon as humanly possible.

Besides flipping expectations, the movie is also cinematically breathtaking. The one scene that will always stick with me, as I know it has others, is one of the final scenes in which Scho knows he can’t get through the trenches to get to Colonel Mackenzie so he runs across the battlefield with bombs going off behind him and soldiers running to what we know will be their death if he can’t stop the attack and the real debris falling around him and at him. The scene is absolutely beautiful and devastating in my opinion, and is still one of my favourite shots in the entire movie.

And goddamn, the song I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger, it’s an actual song they released on Spotify and Apple Music. I can’t stop listening to it, and I can picture the scene it’s in and what happens before and after that scene and I just get the chills. I feel like this song was also snubbed for an Oscar, but it probably isn’t an original song written just for the movie so I totally understand that. But I have to talk about the song while I discuss the movie because I feel like I haven’t seen enough people talking about it when they talk about the movie.

All in all, 1917 is such a breathtaking movie. I thought at first that the single shot following mainly two characters was going to make the movie drag on and feel boring, but I could not be more wrong. I’ve been urging absolutely everyone I know to go see this movie because I feel like it’s one of those movies absolutely everyone should be watching. I really hope George Mackay and Dean-Charles Chapman blow up after this. I know they both have a decently sized filmography, including Game of Thrones for Dean, but I think this is the movie that will catapult them into being household names and you’ll start to see them on the big screen much more often.

That’s just my opinion on the movie. If you’ve seen 1917 (which I hope you have if you read through my whole opinion piece), what did you think of it? What was your favourite scene? Or least favourite if you had one? I feel like people don’t talk about that enough. What’s your opinion on the one take style?

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imhereforbvcky · 5 years

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Team Re-Building - Part 1

Summary: (Sam Wilson x reader, FalconCap humor/fluff) After the events of EndGame, the remaining Avengers head out on a mandatory team building exercise at your cattle ranch. The week turns out as unexpected for you as the idea was for them.

Prompt/Request: “Is that a horse?! Do I look like a cowboy to you?” For mine and @justsomebucky’s Cap² Challenge. I separated the prompt a little for flow, but I think I kept the spirit of it.

Warnings: None. Probably swearing. I’ve got a mouth and I can’t control it.

Word Count: 2061

A/N: This is just a little 2 part series. Part 2 is totally done. I’m planning to queue it to post in just 2 days! yay! 2 in 2 days, that’s easy to remember.

“Are you sure this is it?” Bucky muttered. His eyes followed the wrought iron banner propped between two enormous raw logs rising to form the arched entry. Dead center, the flying K brand stood dark and resolute against the bright afternoon sun.

“No,” Rhodes grumbled, “I haven’t seen a road sign for at least fifteen miles. Just dirt and tumbleweeds.”

The group held a collective breath when the modified jeep rattled over the cattle grate beneath the arch. The all-terrain vehicle had been waiting for them at the tiny regional airport when they’d landed. Now it made sense. The road went from grated dirt to a rugged two-wheel cut path over hill and stone.

Sam tried to convince himself it was all part of the experience, but frankly, the kinds of experiences he preferred usually involved a cold beer on his patio or a jog along a beach. The mountains were, admittedly, something to see. Jagged stone fingers clawed out of the hills, reaching unknowable heights into the unending blue sky. The photos on the brochure hadn’t done it justice.

Still, he just wished he wasn’t seeing them with clenched teeth and fists tight around the roll bar of the jeep as it hauled them all further and further from civilization.

“Why are we doing this, again, Sam?” Wanda asked, her arm darting out to his shoulder to brace against the jostling.

“Team building?”

“And there’s no ‘team building’ in New York?” Bucky complained, leaning past Wanda to glare at Sam.

“Couldn’t we have done a trust fall or something?” Rhodes agreed with a smirk on his lips at his own joke.

“How long’re you gonna hold that over my head?” Sam complained.

“'Til that face you make stops being funny.”

“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here.”

“I still don’t see why we had to be here,” Bucky insisted.

“Look, if any of you have figured out how to skip out on Maria Hill’s orders, you let me know the magic words and I’ll get us out of shit like this next time.”

Before too much longer the little caravan had made its way over the foothills and pulled up to a large cabin. It looked old, like the stones had been there as long as the mountains themselves, but the logs were freshly sealed and the chairs on the sprawling porch looked deep and inviting with soft leather cushions and bright red pillows.

“Hi there!” The voice that greeted them sounded like it was made there in those hills. It rolled gently and warmed like the sun on the breeze. “Welcome to Kestrel Point.”

“Thanks for accommodating our crew,” Sam stepped forward, offering his hand. “Sam Wilson.”

A laugh tumbled out. “I think we know who you are. All of you.” Your smiling eyes darted to the group behind him, still righting themselves after climbing down out of the jeep.

Sam wasn’t quite used to that yet. Sure, he’d been an Avenger for years now, had worn the armor of a hero. But after the Decimation… after the fight in upstate New York… after he picked up that shield… Being known had a different weight to it; sat just a little heavier on his shoulders.

“Right,” he shook his head and glanced back at what was left of the team, at those who’d survived, who hadn’t been left too worn to continue the fight. It was his team to lead now, his to rebuild and hold together.

You watched the struggle dance across his features and saw it echo in the furtive glances among the others. But you didn’t remark on it, nor did you hesitate. It was your job to help them find their rhythm and rebuild their strength, not to dwell on the present cracks in the armor.

Offering the same wide smile, you introduced yourself and a few of your staff before clapping your hands together, brows leaping with excitement. “Well let’s get started! My guys will take your bags to your rooms, and if y’all will follow me, we’ll get you matched up and get you started.”

When you turned toward the barn, nodding for them to follow, there was no argument. At least not that you saw. Mainly because you didn’t wait for one. That didn’t mean there weren’t protests. There was a flurry of wide-eyed glances exchanged from everyone but Clint.

For once, Clint felt right at home. He’d made a beeline for the stables and perched up on the split-rail fence with all the ease of familiarity. They might be thick western saddles here instead of the sleek black tack of his memory but the sound of twisting leather and long swooshing tails took him right back. With a distinct brand of nostalgia, he recalled rows of agile white Lipizzans, practically glowing under the circus tent lights. Visions of children gawking at larger-than-life Percherons filled his head and a slow grin eased over his face.

While your ranch hands tied the last of the horses in a row before him along the fence, ready and waiting, you lead the rest group inside. They weren’t quite ready.

“Is that a horse?!” Sam balked as he approached. It suddenly all clicked for him what Hill had been planning and he was not a fan. He liked the smirk on Barton’s face even less as watching him stroke a hand down the nose of a particularly antsy Quarter Horse. “No. I think there’s been a fundamental misunderstanding on our end.”

You laughed as he backed away. “Miss Hill warned us this was not the most uh… experienced group,” you tucked your worn leather utility gloves in your back pocket and gently slipped your fingers around his bicep, easing him forward. “You have nothing to worry about Mr. Wilson. We’ll take it slow.”

You were meant to be comforting him, but the moment he felt your contact and looked down at you with the softest, deepest umber gaze you’d even laid eyes on and it was your breath that caught in your chest. The words suddenly vanished on your tongue and it was all you could do to mimic the slow pull of his smile at your playful word choice.

“Do I look like a cowboy to you?” he asked, teeth flashing that smile.

You coughed on a laugh and looked at your feet. Boots. That’s right. They needed boots, that’s what you had been doing before. Before Sam Wilson and his damn smile.

“Not yet,” you agreed, shrugging one shoulder. “But we’ll take care of that.”

It took three full days to get everyone sufficiently steady on horseback. By the morning of day four, you’d decided it was sink or swim. The herd had nearly eaten through the winter pasture and before long the creek cutting across the valley would be swollen and racing with snowmelt. If you didn’t drive the cattle up to the newly sprouting summer lands soon, it would be too late.

A little instruction on the trail, couched softly in teasing and laughter might get the team where they needed to be skill-wise. If not, your own team flanked the Avengers, just in case. They might fight aliens and save half the galaxy, but they had never chased a scared new calf down a ravine.

Well, maybe Clint had.

He was, of course, a natural. Animals were his thing. Particularly large gentle ones whose affection could be bought with food. He’d spent his down time near the stables, figuring out what Apollo’s favorite snacks were and had stuffed his pockets with broken carrots.

The others… well they were lucky if they’d encountered a horse at a petting zoo before that week.

Bucky hadn’t seen a whole hell of a lot of cattle in Brooklyn between 1917 and 1943. And after that, war and survival had pretty much been his sole priorities until very recently.

Rhodes had no interest. He was a modern military man with his own Iron Man suit. Let’s face it; he had a better ride and more pressing matters anyway.

Wanda spent most of her life in a concrete cell. You weren’t sure if she had ever even seen a horse in person before climbing out of that jeep on your ranch. But she took to it pretty well. Those with a gentle demeanor usually did. You’d paired her with a sweet old mare that didn’t spook easily. Eventually the slow sureness of the horse seemed to have a calming effect for Wanda. She found herself enjoying her time away from so many people, away from their thoughts and fears. You could imagine her leasing out a ride now and again when she went home.

Bruce was… well half Bruce and half green and far too big to sit a horse. Didn’t stop him watching and teasing, though.

And Sam. Sam was maybe the most fun for you. He was all city, all soldier. Stiff but determined.

“I know you’re not laughing at me!” he hollered as you circled back and eased to a trot beside him. He looked so stiff and uncomfortable; you just couldn’t help but snicker. “Not again.”

“I’m sorry,” you managed, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, grin so wide it hurt. “Just… You’ve gotta relax.”

“There’s a thousand pound animal between my legs!”

“And you think clenching up is gonna keep him from throwin’ you?” you teased.

It didn’t help. Logic flew out the window when fear came knocking. Sam only glared in your general direction, too anxious to look away for long. But you saw him fighting back a smile.

“Alright, well I think Ranger’s been a smooth ride and it’s high time you return the favor,” you tried again, reaching over and untying the lead you’d left on Sam’s horse.

Sam glanced down at his steel grip on the pommel. “What do you mean?” he asked, eyeing Ranger as if there was some lever that would make this all easier.

“You’re ex-military, right? I assume you had to carry a person at some point in your training?”

“Para-rescue. Carried injured friendlies out all the time. How’s that supposed to help?”

“Was it easier if the payload was stiff as a board or if they moved with you?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “I see your point.”

“It’s a ride not a beating. Treat it like a lady,” you joked, encouraging him to push again into a trot and offering advice as you continued alongside. “Move with him. ‘ll be easier on your ass and his back. Relax and let your hips roll.”

“Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I just lucky?” He was smiling now, still looking down at his horse.

You, however, laughed beside him, relishing in his flirtatious nature. His easy smiles and quick wit had captured you early on. It had been a while since you’d enjoyed someone’s company this much. “You’re definitely somethin’.”

“That didn’t sound like a good thing.” He pouted, but with that little shine in his eyes, that extra roundness to his cheeks that betrayed the grin beneath. Like it was just waiting to erupt and brighten his whole face. The longer you spent near him, the greater the pang deep in your gut at the thought of what that full smile might look like. Would it be better than these secret hidden ones? Would it warm you head to toe? Ignite this heat that seemed to spark from something as small as a little grin?

You needed to breathe, get your head back on your shoulders. With a swift squeeze of your knees your horse notched forward.

The more Sam had talked with you, joked, and flirted, the less he had time to worry about his horse. He relaxed, consciously or not, he and his horse settled into a rhythm.

Satisfied with his ability and desperately needing the distance, you led the way out onto the soft green acres that sprawled beneath the rough granite peaks. Fresh spring leaves quivered in the breeze and blankets of snow still dominated most of the mountaintop.

You pushed ahead into a canter, resuming your duties checking in on the other guests – the other Avengers. But not before turning over your shoulder with a grin just for him, just for Captain goddamn America.

“I think I’m the lucky one this time.”

Part 2 >>

#sam wilson x reader #sam x reader #cap2challenge #samcap x reader #falconcap x reader #sam wilson fanfic #sam wilson imagine #avengers fanfic #avengers imagine #team rebuilding #team rebuilding part 1 #team rebuilding 1

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whitequeenasitbgan · 4 years

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The House of Smoke and Fog Cap 10

May, 1917

Erin was walking around the garden early in the morning: she had lost weight, she was as pale as a corpse and her appetite was gone. She vomited every time she tried to content her mother and eat. She was nauseated by herself: she couldn’t even bear to look at herself in the mirror. He was dead. He probably died not knowing how sorry she was for not saying goodbye to him: he never answered her letter, after all; how could she be sure he knew. Not knowing how he had died was a torture. Did he suffer? Was he scared? Did he lay in the mud alone for hours before it all ended? She knew nothing. If only he could have relied on her, in his last moments. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, he would have suffered just the same, but she felt like she failed him. Every human beings need to know they were loved when their life is about to end. He needed to know that he was loved. He needed her. But she wasn’t there.

She heard a horse galloping down the alley. When she turned, she noticed the horses were two and on one of them she recognised Joe. He greeted Mr Evans, they exchanged a few words, a pat on the shoulder. Then Joe came towards her. -Would you like a ride? -I’m not in the mood, Joe… but I’m happy to see you home, safe. -Tom wouldn’t be happy to know I’ve left to go back to France without talking to you. Tom. Everything reminded her of him. Erin exhaled loudly -I hate all this- she said as she took the reins from Joe. -Erin! you’re not in the right attire for riding! Your knees will be showing!- Her mother screamed. She didn’t care. Female propriety couldn’t have bothered her less. -Don’t worry, Mrs Evans. I’ll make sure no one will see her - Joe said, as he galloped to reach Erin.

They rode silently through the woods. Erin stopped at the clearing where Tom used to teach her how to ride. Joe left the horses browsing on, then sat by her side, against Tom’s favourite tree. -She used to sit hear and scream at me ‘look forward! Heels down!’ all the time- she said, breaking the silence -He taught you well - silence. An awkward silence. Tom used to fill it with a joke. -My mom said you might have wanted to know… more. -About? -How he died Erin turned at Joe, astonished -You know? How? -I wasn’t with him, but I met a soldier. Name is Schofield. He was with him. -What happened, then? He told her everything. About the mission, the Letter, Erinmore, a guy named Leslie who warned them, the German trenches, the dugout, the rat, how Tom saved his mate as the earth was about to bury them, about the cherries.. and finally about the farm. -He had to help him. Bastard Boche- Joe said. He was crying. His voice was calm as usual, his breaths were regular, but tears were falling down his eyes. He cried like Anne. -So that’s where he left him? at this farm, near Ecouste? -Yes… I imagine they took care of him, but we don’t know if we will ever get the chance to.. well, bury the body. -I understand. Did he suffer? -I don’t think so -You’re like Anne… -Anne who? -My best friend, Anne Shirley -Last time I saw her was ages ago -She’s changed a lot since then. We all are. But she never learned how to lie. Neither you did. -My mom doesn’t know. I think my dad does, but she couldn’t bear it. -I can. I want to. He was stabbed, Joe. I know what that means. He bled to death. -Not for long. -Not quickly enough, though. -And there’s more- Joe said. He was embarrassed. Visibly. -What else? -Schofield said he had just received mail, before he left. One from mom right before Erinmore summoned them. And one from you, the night before. Spent all night talking about it with Schofield. He had so many things to tell you… I know this is a bit private and that Tom would have said all this way better than me… Anyway the point is: he felt like there was nothing to forgive, it was all his fault… -it wasn’t. We were two fools. No, two morons, definitely morons Joe laughed, struggling to keep going -he wanted to tell you the he was sorry about what happened cause it made you skip a year in college and he encouraged you to go ahead, follow you dream, cause the last thing he wanted was to stop you from doing what you wanted with your life. He said he was looking forward to meeting you. And that he loved you. He always had and he always would have. Erin was relieved, but not as she expected to be by the news. She had dreamed of it: she had dreamed to receive an answer to her letter, sooner or later, in which he said those things. She even dreamed he was still alive once and that she still had a chance to be with him one more time. But now that she knew that yes, he had forgiven her and that he still loved her, knowing for sure that he was dead made it all even more cruel. They remained silent, for a while. -What are you going to do, now?- Joe asked. -King’s Scholarship Examinations, I suppose. Then, if successful, I’ll attend training college for two years. -Sounds great…Have you thought where? -Westminster Training College -London? Your parents? -They don’t like the idea of me going to London alone. But knowing I’ll be with Anne has finally convinced them to let me go. They would have had to face Anne’s fury if they didn’t. -This is… Men are so privileged I’m disgusted by my own gender -A feminist, ladies and gentlemen! -And I also support the suffragettes. Every man should. How could a non represented woman give birth to a free mind -Don’t ever get involved with politics -Why I’m not good at it? -No, you’re great at it. People like you usually get killed. You could start a revolution. -I’ll just help you with yours, as much as I can- Joe said, turning to look at Erin. She looked thoughtful -what is it? -Nothing -Erin… -Ok… It’s just that my world has turned upside down: I.. I was meant to be married by now. Tom should have been with me, in London. I don’t feel as invincible as I felt before. I know it sounds pathetic, but I just miss Tom and how he made me feel safe and powerful. -It’s not pathetic -It is -Erin said. She wasn’t comfortable with her weaknesses. She tried to cheer up the conversation -Not to mention that it would have been much better if my parents knew Tom was always with me there to ‘guard me’ Joe started laughing. It was a genuine belly laugh -Tom?! He needed surveillance himself! God knows how many times I had to take him home dead drunk from the pub. Mum never found out. -You were very discrete…- Erin said, closing her eyes to catch a glimpse of sun, before he got back playing hide and sick with the clouds -Thanks for this, Joe -You’re like a sister to me, you know that. Anything you’ll ever need, I’ll be there. I mean this. I owe this to Tom. -Just be careful, that’s all I need - Erin said. Placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder and gently squeezing it. He felt nothing like his brother. He was way more muscular and rough than Tom. Had they been dogs, Joe would have been a majestic and elegant Great Dane. Tom wasn’t a pure breed, he had the energy of a Dalmatian and the hard working attitude of a Shepard. He was good looking but not in a rough way: he was sweet. He looked at you like a stray dog, as if he was asking ‘can I believe in you or will you just let me down?’. He he did look at you as if he deeply believed in you. He really did. -Time to go home - Erin said. -Sure I can’t do anything else for you?- -You know what? Actually there is something You could do for us -Us who? -Anne and me. You could take us to London on your way to France.

‘This is it’ Erin thought as the train was running towards London, leaving the countryside behind ‘this is the future’. Anne was right in front of her, talking to Joe. And Joe looked bewitched by her. What a fool: he wondered around London for so long until he ended up in the trenches that he missed to notice there was an extraordinary young woman right under his nose. She was a girl when he left, no corset, no hair… and he was Tom’s big brother, of course he didn’t notice. How much time did they lose. They all did. Erin smiled, contemplating happiness, then she turned at the window again. It was open, so she got closer to it and lifted her head to catch the breeze. The sun was warmly kissing her. ‘This is the future, Tom. You are in everything. And all that I’ll do will be for you’.

Cap 11

https://whitequeenasitbgan.tumblr.com/post/613333193352953856/the-house-of-smoke-and-fog-cap-11

#1917 film #tom blake #blake x reader #william schofield #ww1 #dean charles chapman

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timelord-winchester-22b · 6 years

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Secret of Baker Street

Oh look I’m back from the dead. Again.

@crystalmax-15 (don’t know why the link’s not working) mentioned to me back in like last December about the possibility of an AU where Rosie Watson hunts with the Winchesters. This is the result that I probably should have posted a long long time ago...

I wasn’t entirely sure where to go with this so I just thought up and excuse for a get together with her family and the Winchesters ended up only being mentioned... sorry. Cas is in a little bit of it though? So it’s mostly Rosie and her Baker Street Family.

This is the first fic I’ve done on here that wasn’t done with a reader omg

Word count:1917

Rosie took a deep breath, preparing herself for what lay on the other side of the door. She was apprehensive to say the least. You can do this She told herself. You’ve been hunting vampires and werewolves and demons for years. You’ve stood your ground against princes of hell and angels and the devil himself. You can do this. Hesitantly, the raised her hand and rapped loudly on the door, just underneath the wreath. There was a moment or two of quiet before the door opened and she was greeted with a face she’d known since she was a baby.

“Rose! I was just saying to your father, ‘where is that girl?’ You almost missed presents!”

“Good to see you too Mrs Hudson” Rosie laughed, accepting a hug. “What’s been happening on Baker Street, anything new?”

“Oh, just the usual. Sherlock causing a ruckus every now and then. John and him still go out on cases, but your father’s been more focussed on his books now” Mrs Hudson filled her in, stepping aside to let the younger girl enter. “Would you like some help with those bags of yours, dear?” She offered.

“Oh, no thanks Mrs H” Rosie declined quickly, laughing slightly. “That’s the kind of thing I’d be asking you”

“Oh don’t you start” Mrs Hudson huffed good naturedly, leading the way upstairs. “Your father has been hounding me incessantly about moving into a home”

“I’m sure he just wants the best for you, Mrs H” Rosie told her. “What with Sherlock and all his running about”

“I know dear, but I’m just fine where I am”

“I know, Mrs Hudson” Rosie nodded, grinning. It was good to know some things never changed while she was away. With the knowledge of Sherlock shooting the wall and taking up cases and her father writing and harping on everyone else, everything was right in Baker Street.

The was a cheer as Rosie entered the room and she laughed, feeling at home right away. Greg and Molly were standing around the table, drinks in their hands. John was over by Sherlock, who was sitting in the corner with his laptop and probably being nagged by his flat mate. Even he smiled and stood to make his way to her. John was faster though, and so he was the first to reach her and just about squeeze the life out of her. Hugs and welcomes were given and even Sherlock obligingly hugged her as they said hello.

“It’s been too long, Rosie!” Molly pointed out cheerily.

“Yeah, where you been?” Greg asked in all curiosity.

“Oh, you know, here and there. Been spending some time in the US” She told the group. Surprised looks donned on faces around the room. All but Sherlock of course.

“Where you’ve just come from, as is evident by the tag on your bag” He responded simply.

“I left that there for you, Sherlock” Rosie nodded, grinning.

“Oh, how thoughtful” He hummed in response.

Rosie pulled her coat off and left her bags by the door as she was offered a drink, and she spent the rest of the night catching up with her odd little family. She had missed them dearly while she was gone, but she hadn’t dared come back. But when her father asked for her to join them for Christmas celebrations, she couldn’t exactly say no. Things were bound to get complicated soon, she knew, because Sherlock was eyeing her oddly when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. She shot him a look that clearly said ‘later’. After the celebrations began to die down and it got late enough that Greg and Molly were taking a cab home, Rosie retired to her room. It was left exactly how it was when she had set off what felt like a lifetime ago. She smiled, dropping her bags on the bed because she could leave them by the door all night.

John had taken it upon himself to take Mrs Hudson back downstairs and make sure she went to bed, which meant Rosie wasn’t surprised when Sherlock appeared at her door moments later. She called for him to come in without looking around, having heard his footsteps. He entered and stood in the middle of the room as she sat down on her bed.

“Are you planning on calling your friends back? I assume whatever they were attempting to reach you for was rather urgent. They called at least four times in the last hour and a half” Sherlock pointed out. Rosie smiled, unfazed.

“You’re getting slack Uncle Sher, they called six times” She pointed out.

“And at least two texts”

“Oh that was just Cas. He’s still trying to figure out the whole texting thing” Rosie laughed, remembering the odd texts she’d received in the middle of Greg’s impromptu drinking game. He paused for a moment. A short enough moment that no one else would notice, but Rosie had come to know that it meant he was storing away a piece of information for later. Before he could speak again however, Rosie’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Sherlock’s gaze went to her pocket and she sighed, pulling it out. She couldn’t help the small frown that crossed her expression when she read the name on the screen.

“You should pick that up” Sherlock told her. She glanced up at him and he recognised the look in her eyes, wanting his explaination. “The calls before had you rolling your eyes, obviously them calling you on a regular basis is the norm. But considering your obvious concern and the fact that ‘Cas’ is the one calling you despite his aversion to technology, you should pick this one up” Rosie nodded slowly, looking back down at her phone. She tapped sharply at the screen and held it up to her ear. She was concerned at first, but as Cas explained to her what had been going on she became more annoyed than anything else.

“They can’t go one night without pissing everyone off? It’s Christmas for Christ sake!” She complained, ignoring Sherlock’s curious gaze as she spoke. “Son of a… Why were they there for so long anyway? It’s late” She paused as Cas responded. “Well is Dean there, can you put him on? Hey Dean, what the hell? Oi, tread carefully, don’t be forgetting where I come from. Well how do I know it wasn’t your fault? I know you Dean, complete American stubbornness and all. Well where’s Sam?” She sighed, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “The one that can be reasoned with… and he’s the one…” She glanced at Sherlock. “not there. Alright hold on, I’ll come get you. Yes I know where it is, I was there before you knew what it was. Alright, bye” She hung up with another sigh, leaving the room to don her coat before heading for the door. To her luck, she ran into John at the door of the flat.

“Rosie, where are you going, it’s late” He pointed out with a frown.

“Yeah, sorry Dad. Couple of friends came back over with me. They were staying in the hotel a few blocks over but they’ve gotten themselves into a spot of trouble. Just gonna help them out. I’ll be back soon” She explained, grabbing her keys from the table.

“Well you can’t go out there on your own” John frowned, watching her.

“That’s why I volunteered to go with her” Sherlock spoke up from behind them, coat and scarf already on. He gave John a slight smile, ushering Rosie out the door with him. “Won’t be long. Come along Rosie, shouldn’t keep them waiting” Rosie gave her dad one last reassuring smile as she pulled her scarf on and followed Sherlock out of the flat.

“You don’t have to come with me you know” Rosie told Sherlock with a degree of annoyance.

“Of course I do. Monster hunter or not, I’m not about to let you go wandering the streets on your own” Sherlock retorted, closing the front door behind them. Rosie stopped, watching him a moment. Sherlock smirked just the slightest bit. He hadn’t stumped her like that since she was a teenager.

“How’d you work that one out?” She asked, crossing her arms.

“Come on Rosie, you can’t be forgetting that I was there with you when we uncovered the whole ‘Men of Letters’ operation” He reminded her.

“Of course not, but Men of Letters and hunters are two very different things. How could you be so sure I’d even get into it?” She countered.

“Oh you’re far to attracted to the danger to stay away from hunting monsters” Sherlock smirked before it fell into a kind of nostalgic smile. “I could never be sure if you got that from your mother or from your father”

“Both from what I can gather” Rosie smiled.

“And now you’ve moved on from catching criminals to hunting monsters” Sherlock mused, watching her. “I believe your mother would be proud of you. Your father too, if you ever decide to tell him”

“I think he might be, yeah” Rosie agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we need to tell him, right?”

“No of course not” Sherlock shook his head. “Come on then, let’s not keep your boys waiting” He went to move towards the road, looking out for a cab, but Rosie stopped him.

“I have something a lot faster” She told him, quick fingers typing out a message and sending it before she’d even finished talking. With a flutter of wings Castiel appeared by the front door, looking around to see them. He smiled at the sight of her and the man beside her.

“Sherlock Holmes” Cas greeted, holding out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you” Sherlock was, for once, rendered speechless. Rosie watched in amusement as his eyes darted around, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation his mind would accept as to how Castiel had appeared. He looked to Rosie after a minute, looking lost. She laughed, delightedly surprised at the expression she had never seen on him before.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions”

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ahistoricalramblings · 4 years

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Say What?: The Importance of Language and Word Choice in Genocide Studies

November 1, 2020

This past week we talked about dark tourism in class. This is right up my alley as in undergrad my focus was histories of violence. In particular, my focus was how violence has been commemorated. So, as I said—right up my alley. Despite this, I’d never actually considered the commodification of these sites. I’ve been so focused on how commemoration affects victims and survivors that I hadn’t ever considered who else would care.

Anyway, we talked very briefly about Auschwitz and we had an optional reading on the topic. I’m not actually going to name the reading because my comments are about discourse about the Holocaust generally and the reading just sparked a much bigger fire in my soul.

The main portion of this post will be about language and word choice—something that is deeply important to Holocaust studies (and if you ask me, all history).

The one that is most important is the use of the term concentration camp. I would search Twitter for this reference but I actually dislike Twitter and avoid it at all costs—I’ll just tell you the story instead.

A couple years ago, it was released that the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) had separated families and interned them in concentration camps. The use of the term enraged some twitter users who couldn’t believe someone would compare an immigration detention centre to Auschwitz. I’m hoping you see where I’m going with this. The ICE camps are concentration camps. Auschwitz wasn’t (well, not really -- more on this in a moment).

Left: Concentration camps in Greater Germany. Right: the six killing centres

When I teach about the Holocaust, I use these maps because they telling you everything with just one look. Look at how many dots there are on the left, and those are just major camps. Compare it to the right. This contrast tells us everything we need to know.

The basic etymology here is that there were over 1000 concentration camps and sub-camps in German-occupied Europe and five (or six, depending on the scholar you ask) killing centres. The five were Auschwitz-Birkenau, Treblinka, Chelmno, Sobibor, and Belzec (the sixth is Majdanek but recently some scholars have argued that Majdanek was a holding site for transfers to killing centres not a killing centre itself).

The difference is crucial to understanding how and why we use the term concentration camp in cases like the ICE centres. While concentrations camps did have lots of death via disease, torture, and starvation, their purpose was not solely to kill. They were meant to concentrate people into one area from which they couldn’t leave. Killing centres were solely designed for the purpose of killing.

Left: map of Dachau concentration camp in 1944. Right: Map of Belzec killing centre 1942.

I also use these maps as they show the difference in an important way. Dachau is largely barracks (most of the long buildings are barracks with a few exceptions). Belzec has almost no barracks. That’s because almost every Jew transferred to Belzec would be killed immediately.

“But wait,” you say “I read Night/The Awakening/any other memoir of an Auschwitz survivor!”

And you have, you’re not wrong. Which is of course what makes this conversation so hard to squeeze into laymen’s terms (not that I think you’re laymen). I will explain this as basic as possible (so don’t come at me).

Auschwitz was actually a system of camps and sub-camps that we now use one term to describe. So, within what we now call Auschwitz there was a killing centre and a series of concentration camps—to make it difficult the Germans referred to them as Auschwitz I, II, and III (the killing centre was Auschwitz II). Basically, we use one term to describe more than one thing, convenient I know.

I could go on about this issue and why Auschwitz looms so large in popular history but Chelmno, Sobibor, Belzec, and Treblinka don’t. I won’t for the sake of not talking your ear off but let me know if you want to talk about it more.

I’m sticking to language for a second and talking about word choice. This isn’t the case for every scholar, but I was taught the majority of my undergrad Holocaust education by Doris Bergen and she really emphasized the importance of language. And so, I have continued this line of thinking.

Language is so hard when we talk about the Holocaust. What terms do we use? We use concentration camp (Konzentration Lager in German) but we don’t use KZ (the acronym used by guards and prisoners alike). * Do we use ‘Final Solution’? It’s the terminology of the Germans but in its subtext, it implies that Jewish life is a problem. Do we use extermination? Its use was directly meant to evoke thoughts of bugs and pests. Do we use euthanasia? It’s a euphemism and it directly contradicts what actually happened in the T4 program. Do we use T4? It’s also a euphemism. This an endless cycle. The answer I give is that we use the term when talking about planning and documents and terminology but when we talk about victims, we talk death and murder not extermination or euthanasia.

Let’s talk about the Wannsee Conference. Wannsee was a meeting on January 20, 1942 and has been cited in popular history as the ‘decision point for mass killings’. If you learned about it in high school, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were taught it was the start of mass killings. It wasn’t. Not even by a long shot. But it has often been depicted as such.

Here’s why it’s not the start of mass killings in any context. Mass killing in the T4 program began in 1938 via mass starvation and injection, mass death in Polish ghettos had been happening since occupation in September 1939, and the Holocaust by bullets had killed 1.5 million Jews in the USSR since invasion in 1941. So Wannsee wasn’t the beginning of mass death. But was it the beginning of gas chambers? No. Gas chambers were being used to kill in the T4 program as well as to kill Russian POWs as early as 1940. Okay… so was it the beginning of gas chambers in German-occupied Poland? No. Chelmno, the previously mentioned killing centre, opened 2 months before Wannsee in December 1941.

And yet, we are taught that Wannsee as this defining moment in the narrative of the Holocaust. I could do an analysis about why I think this is the case and I could cite modern scholars’ thoughts on what Wannsee actually was, but again, I want you stay awake.

The last thing that bothers me about popular understanding of the Holocaust is about the term genocide. Quick background: genocide was coined by Raphael Lemkin in 1933. Lemkin was a Polish law student who had watched the trial of Soghomon Tehlirian who killed Talaat Pasha.

I know those two names probably mean nothing to you. Pasha was instrumental in the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire between 1915 and 1921 (or 1917 depending on the scholar you ask).

Lemkin watched the trial and wondered why Pasha wasn’t tried for killing a million people (the popular estimate for the Armenian Genocide puts the death toll at about 1.5 million). And so, he began to develop a term that could be codified to ensure that people like Pasha could be tried for their crimes.

In the wake of the Holocaust, the world was confused about what to do in the face of mass death at the hands of the Germans. And Lemkin went to the UN to propose what he had proposed to the League of Nations in 1933. This time, they actually took the suggestion and drafted the Genocide Convention. **

This is a long-winded background, I know. But here’s the important bit—Lemkin based the definition off of the Armenian genocide, not the Holocaust. Despite the invocation of the law in 1948, the term itself is not inherently tied to the Holocaust. Why does this matter? Because of something Samantha Power calls the ‘Holocaust Standard’ which basically means that people compare all accusations of genocide against the Holocaust and if it’s not the same, it’s not genocide. You can see how this makes me angry.

This was very popular in Canada last summer when the MMIW commission came back and said ‘this is genocide’. You can imagine how many people turned to me and asked if I agreed expecting me to say no.

This is all to say: we need a total change in popular understanding of the Holocaust. Not only because it’s crucial to how we understand the history itself but also because the world today is influenced by our understanding of the Holocaust. From ICE detention centres to the MMIW commission, the Holocaust is living and breathing in the way we understand contemporary human rights discourse. And if it’s largely incorrect, where does that leave us?

If I made any mistakes in terms of dates, names, etc., let me know (I did this all on memory... whoops). And if you have questions or what to continue the conversation in the replies or my ask box, do it! If you can’t tell, I love having conversations like this.

I hope this was interesting/informative for you. Language and word choice are some of my favourite histories of violence topics and I could truly go on about it forever.

Next week I will actually post the photography thing I meant to, I swear.

Until then, stay savvy.

*I could easily go off about the term GULag in this moment, but I won’t.

**I would like to mention that Canada did not sign the Genocide Convention because they read it and said “umm that’s us, can’t sign that…”

#digital public history #history #HIS9808

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dipulb3 · 4 years

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TCL 6-Series Roku TV review: Better than ever

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/tcl-6-series-roku-tv-review-better-than-ever-9/

TCL 6-Series Roku TV review: Better than ever

The new TCL 6-Series Roku TV has big shoes to fill. For two years running it’s been my favorite TV for everyday buyers, with excellent image quality, class-leading smarts and an affordable price. The 2020 version adds a new backlight system powered by mini-LED, improved gaming features and a 75-inch size, yet keeps the cost affordable. The result is the best picture quality for the money I’ve tested this year.

Excellent overall image quality

Superior brightness for the price

Great game mode performance

Roku smart TV is simple, capable

Don’t Like

Some issues with low-light dimming

No HBO Max or Apple AirPlay

Those mini-LEDs maximize brightness, leading to better images in bright rooms and with HDR. Local dimming, meanwhile, manages to keep black levels dark and overall contrast superb — although it’s not perfect. And gamers will appreciate the new THX Certified game mode, which serves up fast response time with minimal lag and excellent image quality.

Now playing: Watch this: TCL 6-Series Roku TV review: Brighter and better than…

4:43

Compared to the 2019 6-Series, which is still an excellent TV if you can find one in stock, the 2020 version is better in pretty much every way and worth an extra $100 or so at the 65-inch size. The new 6-Series isn’t as good as the 2019 TCL 8-Series, however, which has an even brighter image and better local dimming. Normally there’s a big price gap between the two but when the 8-Series is on sale — as it often seems to be — video quality snobs who don’t want to spring for OLED should probably choose the 8 instead.

I’ll update this review when I have the chance to test out more 2020 TVs — coming soon — but going into the holiday season the TCL 6-Series is already tough to beat, especially once the traditional November price drops kick in.

Red Roku, metallic frame, impressive picture mark TCL 6-Series

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Gray metal body, adjustable feet

TCL’s midrange TVs have a much more polished look than their budget sets and the new 6-Series is no exception. The slim frame around the image and thicker bottom edge are dark gray textured metal, with subtle TCL and Roku logos. Not-so-subtle is the big accent light below the central logo — it turns off when you turn on the TV, thankfully, but I wish there was a way to disable it entirely. (Update: You can! Go to Settings > System > Power and turn off the Standby LED. Thanks to commenter chazzsubscribe.)

New for 2019 is a dual-position stand leg arrangement on the 65- and 75-inch sizes that lets you place the legs either out toward the edge of the panel, as seen in the images here, or more toward the center. Both also include a cable cozy in the legs that let you kinda hide HDMI, power and other connectors.

David Katzmaier/CNET

Hello, Roku (now with Peacock); goodbye, HBO Max

I’m a fan of Roku TV, for reasons I’ve documented extensively in previous reviews. Here’s the short list why:

Frequent updates and feature improvements

Simple menus with full customization, including input naming

Inputs on the same home page as TV apps

More apps (and 4K HDR apps) than any other smart TV system

Cross-platform search covers many services and allows price comparisons

Like other Roku devices, the TCL 6-Series is currently missing an app for HBO Max. HBO subscribers can still watch HBO shows using the standard HBO app, but won’t get access to Max-specific shows such as Friends or Love Life. The TV does now have a Peacock app, however.

In an issue first brought to my attention by a reader, the 635’s Amazon app doesn’t yet deliver HDR. TCL says Roku is aware of the issue and working on a fix with Amazon. I’ll update this section when that happens.

Another thing currently missing from the Roku platform — and available on competing smart TVs from Vizio, Samsung and LG — is support for Apple’s AirPlay system. The Apple TV app, which includes access to Apple TV Plus, is on-board.

David Katzmaier/CNET

The 6-Series includes the simple Roku remote with built-in voice control. Roku’s voice function isn’t nearly as robust as Amazon Alexa, found on Fire Edition TVs, for example, but it worked fine for searches, app launching, switching inputs and tuning to an antenna channel. If the TV is off, a voice command such as “Launch Netflix” will turn it on and launch the app.

Mini-LED leads a big list of features

Mini-LEDs are, as you might have guessed, smaller than standard LEDs, allowing them to be grouped into more local dimming zones. Full-array local dimming is the best way to improve picture quality on LCD TVs. It allows the backlight — the part behind the LCD screen that provides illumination — to dim and illuminate different areas simultaneously. Smaller areas, or more dimming zones, mean more precise illumination, which ultimately increases contrast, the most important ingredient in a good picture.

Key TV features

Display technology LED LCD (Mini-LED) LED backlight Full array with local dimming Number of zones 55-inch: 128, 65-inch: 160, 75-inch: 240 Resolution 4K HDR compatible HDR10 and Dolby Vision Smart TV Roku TV Remote Voice

TCL is still the only TV maker to use mini-LED technology, first in the 8-Series and now in the 6-Series, but specs on the 6-Series aren’t nearly as impressive. The cheaper 6 has around 1,000 LEDs and 240 zones on the 75-inch size, while the more expensive 8 has 10,000 mini-LEDs and 1,000 zones. That’s likely the biggest reason the 6-Series didn’t perform as well as the 8-Series in my tests.

Read more: Mini-LED is here: How smaller lights could lead to big TV improvements

The 2020 Vizio P-Series is probably the new 6-Series’ closest competitor and it actually has more local dimming zones than the TCL — 200 on the 65-inch size. The Hisense H9G matches the TCL with 160 zones on the 65-inch size, while other TV makers like Sony and Samsung don’t specify number of zones.

Another improvement over the 2019 6-Series is a true 120Hz refresh rate on all sizes in the series, which leads to better motion performance. Like most TVs in its class today the 6-Series uses quantum dots that help improve color compared to non-QD-equipped TVs. And of course it supports both Dolby Vision and HDR10 high dynamic range formats. These days basically the only manufacturer that doesn’t is Samsung.

David Katzmaier/CNET

Inputs are ample:

4x HDMI inputs

1x analog (composite) video input

1x USB port (2.0)

Ethernet (wired internet)

1x headphone jack

1x optical digital audio output

1x RF (antenna) input

The 2020 6-Series supports Auto Game Mode that engages the new THX Certified game mode automatically when connected to a compatible device. New for this year it also has variable refresh rate and the ability to accept frame rates up to 120Hz. The latter are both important capabilities of the upcoming PS5 and Xbox consoles, but hardcore gamers should note that the 6-Series lacks the ability to do 4K resolution 120Hz with HDR, instead maxing out at 1440p resolution. The Vizio P-Series and Sony X900H, meanwhile, can handle 4K/120 with HDR. I’m not sure how big a difference it will make but I plan to test the new TVs with those consoles when they come out.

Picture quality comparisons

Click the image above to see CNET’s picture settings.

David Katzmaier/CNET

While the TCL 6-Series put out an excellent image, I can’t say yet how it competes against the 2020 Vizio and Hisense sets mentioned above, since I haven’t reviewed them yet. Against the TVs I have reviewed, however, its overall picture is better than any other set that earned an 8 in this category — yet not quite worthy of the 9 I gave the brighter and more expensive 8-Series and Vizio PX from last year, let alone OLED models like the CX that earned a 10. The new 6-Series nails the basics and looks great for gaming, but some issues with dimming in select scenes held it back a little.

Dim lighting: With standard Blu-ray and other SDR content calibrated for a dark room, the TVs looked very similar, and any differences would be tough to distinguish outside of a side-by-side comparison. Overall the Sony showed slightly lighter black levels than the TCLs, for a slightly less impactful and contrasty image, and between the three TCLs the 8-Series looked best by a nose.

Watching 1917 on Blu-ray, for example, after the soldier awakens in chapter 13 (1:06:38), the 635’s letterbox bars and shadows looked truer and more inky than the Sony’s, while I could discern more of the folds of his uniform and walls in the background than on the 625. Meanwhile the 635 and the 8-Series were closest of all, with the only real difference being slightly better shadow detail on the 8-Series.

During the extremely dark assault on Hogwarts from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the 635 again looked best aside from the 8-Series. Compared to the 625 from 2019 its black levels were very slightly worse but shadow detail was significantly better, and all three TCLs maintained black levels better than the Sony.

In content prone to blooming, for example when I brought up the playback controls during a black screen, the TCLs all did a better job controlling the stray illumination than the Sony, which lit up larger portions of the image. The 635 did show blooming more with brighter content, however, including HDR (see below).

Bright lighting: The TCL 6-Series is the brightest TV I’ve ever measured at this price. Brighter TVs like the 8-Series and the Vizio PX cost a lot more — as do numerous dimmer examples like the Sony X900H.

Light output in nits

TV Brightest (SDR) Accurate color (SDR) Brightest (HDR) Accurate color (HDR) Vizio PX65-G1 1,990 1,120 2,908 2,106 TCL 65Q825 1,653 904 1,818 982 TCL 65R635 1,114 792 1,292 1,102 Sony XBR-65X900H 841 673 989 795 TCL 65R625 653 578 881 813 Vizio M658-G1 633 400 608 531 LG OLED65CX 377 290 690 634

The TCL’s brightest settings, “TV Brightness: brighter” and “Picture mode: Vivid,” (or “Bright HDR” for HDR content) are terribly inaccurate. An accurate bright-room picture is laudably easy to achieve, however. Just switch the mode to “Movie” or “Dark HDR” mode, which reduces light output but delivers a much better image.

Under bright lighting the 2020 6-Series’ TCL’s screen performed a bit better than last year’s model, as well as the Sony, at mitigating reflections and preserving black levels and contrast. Overall its bright-room image is just as impressive for the price as its home theater picture.

Color accuracy: According to my measurements the TCL 635’s color was excellent before calibration in Movie mode and even better afterward. Watching 1917, for the most part I’d call its color excellent as well, as indicated by the numbers. It did appear slightly less saturated than the other three at times, for example, in the faces of the soldiers or the reddish glow of the firelight. In general the difference was minimal, however, and in other scenes it was much less visible.

Video processing: The 6-Series is a 120Hz native TV with plenty of options for handling motion. The most obvious is Action Smoothing which has four settings. In Off the TV delivers correct 1080p/24 film cadence but in the other settings, Low and higher, it causes the TV to have the buttery smoothness of the soap opera effect.

Those other settings, “Action Clarity” and “LED Motion Clarity,” affect motion resolution and interact with one another. The good news is that achieving maximum motion resolution doesn’t require SOE. When I toggled LED Motion Clarity on, engaging black frame insertion, and cranked Action Clarity to High, I measured a healthy 1,080 lines of resolution — very good, albeit not as good as the Sony or some other 120Hz TVs I’ve tested. Turning LED Motion Clarity off reduces resolution out at 600 lines. I preferred to leave AC on High and turn LED Motion Clarity off because the latter dims the image slightly and introduced some flicker. Viewers very averse to blur might want to leave it on, however.

Compared to last year the 2020 6-Series added a couple milliseconds of gaming input lag, clocking in at around 18/19ms for both 1080p and 4K HDR in game mode. Twitch gamers might notice, but nobody else will. That said, the chances of noticing lag go way up for anybody who doesn’t use game mode in 4K HDR: I measured 134ms (!) in 4K with game mode turned off.

“Game mode” is actually another confusing setting on the 2020 6-Series. You can apply it to any picture mode (such as Movie) or choose the actual “Gaming”https://www.cnet.com/”Gaming HDR” picture mode, which invokes THX’s special sauce. In both cases input lag was basically the same.

Uniformity: With test patterns the 2020 6-Series was solid without too much brightness variation across the screen: slightly better along the edges than the 2019 6-Series and better in the middle than the Sony. One blemish on my review sample was a pair of very slightly darker spots in the middle right. They were quite subtle: I only noticed them on test patterns and demanding material like hockey. From off-angle the 65R635 preserved more black level fidelity than the 625 and the Sony, while off-angle color was similar to the other TCLs and worse than the Sony.

HDR and 4K video: As usual with bright, contrasty HDR material I saw more differences than with SDR. To get a baseline I started with the video montage from the Spears and Munsil 4K HDR benchmark disc, and the 635’s advantages stood out over the Sony and the 2019 6-Series. In the cityscape scenes like the Ferris wheel at night (4:49), the 635’s highlights looked brighter than the other TCL, while the black levels of the sky and shadows were significantly darker than the Sony. Meanwhile the 8-series looked best of all, with blacks as dark as the 635 and brighter highlights.

In difficult scenes with objects against black backgrounds all three TCLs showed similar inky black levels but the highlights were quite visibly different. The 635 was consistently brighter than either the Sony or the 625 (the pen at 4:12 was a good example) and dimmer than the 8-Series. In mostly white scenes, like the mountains and the horses grazing in the snowfield, the 2020 635 again measured the brightest aside from the 8-Series.

As with SDR the 635’s color did appear slightly less impactful and saturated at times, particularly orange like the sunsets or the wings of a monarch butterfly at 3:51. And just like with SDR the difference was subtle and the kind of thing I wouldn’t notice outside of a side-by-side comparison. And in other scenes, like the red, green and yellow of the tulip field, the 635 looked just as vibrant and punchy as the other three.

Moving on to the 1917 4K Blu-ray disc it was mostly the same story, but in a couple of mixed bright and dark scenes that really test local dimming, the 635 stumbled. When the soldiers meet the general in the bunker (5:20), the 635 showed more blooming and stray illumination in the soldiers silhouettes, the shadows and letterbox bars than the others. I tried reducing the brightness setting from Brighter (which I recommend for HDR on this TV in general) to Normal (which put it at roughly the same overall light output as the 2019 TCL) and or Darker (the dimmest option and much dimmer than either one). If I had to choose between the Sony’s lighter black levels and the 635’s blooming, I’d still take the 635, but both of the other TCLs handled this scene better.

And as usual the effect varied quite a bit. In the next dark bunker scene, around 25:45, the 635’s blooming was much less noticeable, perhaps because of the way the flashlights and camera moved through the rooms. On the other hand in the Chapter 13 awakening scene the TCL 635 was basically unwatchable: its dimming kicked in aggressively to crush almost all the shadow detail in the scene, the uniform and background were invisible and blooming rampant. Changing the picture mode to Bright HDR reclaimed most of the detail but made other aspects of the image look worse, especially in brighter scenes. The 625 looked a bit better (but not great) during this scene, the 8-Series looked significantly better, while the Sony looked the best despite its lighter black levels, showing minimal local dimming effects.

HDR color during 1917 showed the Sony as the palest and least saturated of the three in this pale and unsaturated movie, and to my eye the 635 and 8-Series looked the most balanced. HDR color accuracy measurements gave the Sony the advantage over the 635.

4K HDR gaming: For this test I played The Last of Us Part 2 on a PS4 Pro in the TVs’ various Game modes: Gaming HDR (aka THX-certified Game Mode) for the 635, Dark HDR/Brighter/”Game mode” toggle on for the other two TCLs and Game mode on the Sony. In my comparison THX Game mode did an excellent job of balancing image quality and low input lag.

In those settings the 635 had the best contrast, brightest highlights and most punch of the bunch — the other three looked more washed-out. When you’re crawling around a dark building hunting zombies, however, shadow detail is more important than black level and contrast, because it allows you to peer into dark recesses to spot enemies. By that measure the Sony was better than the 635, delivering every ounce of detail in the darkest shadows while the 635 was a bit more shrouded, albeit still better than the other two. If I wanted maximum zombie-spot potential on I’d set the game’s Contrast slider a bit lower.

Moving out into the day-lit Seattle streets the 635 again looked best overall thanks to superior contrast, which as usual helped colors pop. Of course you can reclaim the native contrast of the other TCLs by turning off the Game mode toggle but the trade-off is extreme input lag — which was intolerable as I played the game.

Geek Box

Test Result Score Black luminance (0%) 0.005 Good Peak white luminance (SDR) 1114 Good Avg. gamma (10-100%) 2.2 Good Avg. grayscale error (10-100%) 0.44 Good Dark gray error (30%) 0.40 Good Bright gray error (80%) 0.54 Good Avg. color checker error 1.60 Good Avg. saturation sweeps error 1.56 Good Avg. color error 1.39 Good Red error 1.36 Good Green error 2.16 Good Blue error 1.61 Good Cyan error 1.29 Good Magenta error 1.17 Good Yellow error 0.72 Good 1080p/24 Cadence (IAL) Pass Good Motion resolution (max) 1080 Good Motion resolution (dejudder off) 600 Average Input lag (Game mode) 19ms Average HDR10 Black luminance (0%) 0.011 Good Peak white luminance (10% win) 1292 Good Gamut % UHDA/P3 (CIE 1976) 96.51 Good ColorMatch HDR error 10.91 Poor Avg. color checker error 4.96 Average Input lag (Game mode, 4K HDR) 18.27ms Average

TCL 65R635 CNET review calibration results by David Katzmaier on Scribd

First published Sept. 11.

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clamatoes · 4 years

Text

Toward a Sacramental Aesthetics

A friend and I had a conversation a little while ago which has informed my aesthetics and metaphysics of the person ever since. I saved the first two salvos, which I’ll reproduce here, and I’ll add more as I find it.

Tim says:

Today I was reading about Marcel Duchamp, French Dada artist in the late Modernist years most famous for his piece, Fountain, and I began thinking about art, about what storytelling really is, about why this stuff is important, and how it all relates to a urinal.

Of course, these are thoughts that basically lead into the entire field of aesthetics, and I can’t say I’ve got any definitive or even piecemeal insight here, and that’s probably for the best. At the heart of my artistic beliefs is that each person is the most important person in his/her/their artistic experience: while the author and creator is obviously important for defining the field and parameters of interpretation, and sometimes providing the clear interpretation on top (though I see this as detracting from the experience), the viewer/reader/perceiver is essential and authoritative in making any interpretation meaningful.

This word, meaningful, is one of my favorite in any discussion of aesthetics, and in any discussion of the Natural Sciences versus the Human Sciences. Math and physics and chemistry etc tell us what things are – what they do and what they are made of, a thing’s demonstrable properties of existence. But the human sciences, the pure human ‘sciences’ like history and philosophy and literature, they tell us what things mean. You can say a poem is a piece of writing broken into lines instead of by page margins, but it is more useful, interesting, and meaningful to say that a poem compares God’s transformative powers to razing a city and, essentially, rape.

So if the audience has a substantial part of the meaning-making within an artistic object, if the individual interprets and seeks the meaningful truth of the piece before her (an ‘individual,’ but one working within the web of cultures she exists in always already, and potentially even within a conscious community of responders, of other audience members), then what is the place of the artist? Is the author really, and irrevocably, dead?

I don’t think so. Not that I really disagree with Barthes’ essay (linked above), but there is a sort of transcendental quality to a text completely separated from an author, to a painting with no painter. No, we do not need the history of the author, we do not need to know the intentions or the desires for interpretation, but the very fact that the artwork between you and me is human made is essential, absolutely essential, if for no other reason than that this one human, similar and dissimilar from myself in so many ways, at one point found this thing worth communicating to me.

In 1917, Marcel Duchamp created and premiered one of his “Readymade” works (what he called works made from found objects, objects already actually created) named Fountain. Duchamp bought a urinal, turned it upside down, wrote “R. MUTT 1917″ on the side, and voilá, one of the landmark artworks of the 20th Century.

A high degree of this landmark-ness comes from critics arguing at the most basic level: is this art? And it’s an important question, the topic of this post that will, I promise, get to storytelling. How do we determine what gets the label artistic? And what does that even mean?

As I have hinted towards, I believe this is art, and I believe the label is of the utmost importance. What Duchamp achieved in this and similar work was to eradicate the power structures of elitism that create the AUTHOR and the reader, the ARTIST and the viewer. An artistic genius is thus no longer a master craftsman, but someone who views the world artistically.

This sounds like circular reasoning, and it very well might be. I am defining the artist as one who views artistically, and the reason is because it moves the focus away from the question of talent and craft. To view artistically is to see in something a belief, idea, or experience that is worth communicating, that can be meaningful to another human just as it is to oneself. This means two things: an artist is anyone, and an artwork is anything.

What is so mystical and phenomenal about the artist is that he finds this Thing, this potentially relevant Truth worth communicating, and simply by designating it ‘art’ – whether the thing is already made, self-made, collectively-made, whatever – he has made it a thing worth interpreting.

Now there is still such a thing as qualitative difference in art. Duchamp gets a freebie perhaps because he’s one of the first (though I think the piece itself has a high degree of artistic quality to it, but I need to stop this tangent before it starts) to really make such a thought prominent. I still do think that spending time perfecting one’s art sharpens one’s ability to find and create objects that are maximally meaningful, the distinction is simply that this isn’t an innate genius – it is more that humans are built to experience Art, by whomever, about whatever.

My story is not necessarily waiting for a genius talent. It is simply waiting for the artistic perceiver, and the energy to put these perceptions into a public medium. The world, the big one we all live in, it’s waiting for artists as viewers, and viewers as artists.

My response:

I couldn’t possibly agree more when you say that “an artist is someone who views something artistically,” and that art establishes a paradigm of “contrapasso” among parties to the art – the artist is viewer and the viewer is artist. This is a relationship of communion, then, which is inevitably a relationship of equality, as you intimate. But it is art’s status as communion that I find so intriguing, and I can’t help mapping onto the sacrament that bears the same name, which of course mimics the Trinitarian communion that I (and I think, you) as a Christian accept as the bedrock of the universe, and therefore critical not merely aesthetically or theologically, but even ontologically. I see the relationship established by art, then, as universally fundamental.

Per your “object (i.e., in the natural world) —> set of experiences —> artist/viewer —> object (i.e., the piece of art) —> set of experiences —> artist/viewer” hermeneutic, there is clearly a semantic “dance” at the core of any genuine aesthetic experience. A sort of reflective equilibrium is established between the dancers, in which their communion through this dance changes what each IS, insofar as it undeniably changes what each MEANS – e.g., the fact that X is presented to me as art changes my experience upon considering it from what it would have been if I hadn’t realized that it was art, which in turn changes me in such a way as to establish me as co-artist, which allows me ultimately to share in full in the artistic creation of the original artist, whose relationship to his work is identical with my relationship to his work – i.e., the relationship between object and “artist-viewer” or “viewer- artist” – and differs only in the chronological aspect (i.e., his relationship with the object preceding mine by minutes or centuries) and by direction (i.e., his experience of some object in the world led to his creation of the objet d’art, whereas my experience of the objet d’art led to my post-facto co-creation of the original aesthetic experience, and thereby the “perception” of whatever set of objects or events lies behind the aesthetic experience causally).

And so aesthetic experience, then, is the experience of CREATING art (which I’ll go out on a limb by saying is something I’m doing anytime I “perceive” anything at all, due to my status as metaphysically-independent SUBJECT of the physical OBJECTS – more on this perhaps later).

If author is “dead” as you discuss, then my engagement with the aesthetic object resembles the artist’s original engagement with the world around him. In both instances, the subject of the experience asks the same set of questions: “What does what I’m looking at MEAN – to me, and to everyone? Is it important? If so, why? What is relevant and what is extraneous to what I’m feeling due to my engagement it? Is this experience the member of a genus of experiences I’m familiar with, or does it define some new category? Am I brought higher or lower due to this experience?,” etc.

Conversely, if the author rather remains in command of the aesthetic experience, with full power to bracket and dictate terms, then my engagement with the aesthetic object resembles the scientist’s lifeless engagement with the world around him, and thus the possibility for mutually-transformative aesthetic communion evaporates. The death of the artist by the humility of accepting his role as viewer (and the simultaneous humiliation of his critics) then makes way for the aggrandizement of the viewer into his consubstantial role with the artist as co-artist/co-percipient, which gives life to aesthetic COMMUNION. (In the same way, perhaps, that Christ’s genuflect at the cross made way for the deification of man – but more on this later).

It seems then that the extent to which we acknowledge an object’s status as “deliberate” or “finished” art (the extreme of would be having a head-full of prejudicial and non-experiential notions about, e.g., what each aspect means and how it relates to every other aspect which is dictated to us by the artist or critics) is the extent to which we have abolished the aesthetic experience per se for the viewer, by ironing it into a “theoretical” or “epistemological” experience instead.

The object cannot be an epitaph and relic of a bygone and INDIVIDUAL aesthetic experience – as art, it must be a gateway into this shared experience while it still lives and breathes, which is, as discussed above, communal and consubstantial with the world around us, establishing a creative give and take between one’s mind and creation, and ultimately, I’d argue, the “person” whose “art” IS the created world. In the same way that a given word has a meaning which is not the word itself (i.e., insfoar as the word itself is constituted of ink or sound) and which is not a periphrastic description of the word or a cluster of thesaurus entries, but rather is a similar and thus communal EXPERIENCE in the minds of the speaker and the listener, and serves to bridge that infinite chasm between these two persons, art is a tool, it is a bridge between one boundless, unitary and unbreachable mind, and another – and it belongs equally to both. Perhaps in the same way that Christ – the Logos/Word – bridges the divide(s) among men, and between men and God. The artist as viewer and the viewer as artist = “God became man that man might become God.”

By analogy, then, the beauty of human experience is afforded by our bare knowledge of its authorship by a Creator-artist who stands behind its pattern, which knowledge assures us THAT our experience is meaningful, if not HOW. And the extent to which we are beaten over the head with the HOW is the extent to which we are incapable of genuinely experiencing this beauty and its ultimate meaning. Incidentally, I think this is true regardless of the ontological status we afford "God"; even if we do not believe in God's material/empirically-observable existence (i.e., what most of us in this age would call God's "real" existence), observing the world at large as though it were presented by a mind like ours instigates us into a creative engagement with the world around us in which we viewers become artists, and the urges for truth and for beauty become twined together in the singular act of artistically viewing the world which is as much creation as it is observation - "the utmost must be true, and is" Wallace Stevens says, describing this erotic engagement between reality and the imagination.

The parabale of the prodigal son seems apposite here – in the parable, what divine childhood MEANS is impossible truly to know prior to DISCOVERING it oneself, ultimately at a remove from that experience or in exile – or, by analogy, by exile from KNOWLEDGE ABOUT the experience. Perhaps then the exile from Eden is also apposite – indicating the same removal from the meaningful experience when the mind becomes too laden with “KNOWLEDGE ABOUT” to instantiate and incarnate the visceral and genuine “EXPERIENCE OF.”

At his most useful, then, the artist does little more than faithfully, artistically, and humanely PERCEIVE – and thence hold an empty frame over some complex of human experience – a “map” to “nodes” of aesthetic beauty – which is, of course, aesthetic truth, which is the only truth worth knowing (although I suppose I’m committed now to saying you can’t “KNOW” it at all – when we do know it, it disappears like Christ when he’s recognized logically rather than merely experientially, at the end of the Road to Emmaus episode). What does the artist ultimately perceive and then relate to his audience? His experience of “being a genuine human being” – being an authentic and humane “passive or co-active percipient” of everything-there-is. Which opportunity, of course, he doesn’t just articulate or describe, but holds forth to his audience, in that their faithful, artistic, and humane acceptance/perception of/participation in his objet d’art IS the act of “being a genuine human being.” This is super meta.

Perhaps then Duchamp’s fountain is exactly what its title pseudo-ironically claims it to be – i.e., it is a fountain insofar as it was constructed to be and faithfully stands as a bare index of an aesthetic “node,” with nothing more than a title and a stall in a museum to indicate its status as art (leaving no theory to crowd out genuine aesthetic experience), pouring forth, if you will, a communion substantiated by the conversation you and I are having about it here today.

Tim says:

I’ve been working on a longer essay of literary criticism lately, but I want to sketch out a few of its basic ideas in the hopes of getting your comments and feedback. I suppose, to start, that calling it “literary criticism” is not too accurate: the essay is basically a compilation of fears and concerns that have made me skeptical about contemporary American poetry, and trying to at least blueprint a possible alternative path.

A number of assumptions sit in the center of the essay, and the first one is that poetry, to be important, meaningful, and truly Art, must remain fringe, difficult, and opposed to anything that tries to systematize it. This is more of a tautological point about Art as a whole: Art must remain Art, and to what Art is is always terrorizing, unsettling, thoughtful, questioning, and restless. And the assumption to this assumption is that we, as humans, live always along a stream of hidden prejudices and unconscious motivations, caught always in the middle of what we know we know, what we know we don’t know, what we don’t know we know, and what we don’t know we don’t know. This is my assumption of the human condition, and thus Art is meant in its highest to uncover and discover, to reveal, to lift up what we think we’ve got pinned down so we can stare into the abyss beneath the carpet. This assumption includes the idea that this is the exact task of religion and philosophy and psychology and every other social science, to a degree, but that none of them work the same way Art does, that where sciences operate logically and consciously, Art can operate above, behind, and underneath logic and consciousness, but also with them.

So far I have said nothing about technique, though that is one of the core issues here. Poetry, as an Art, operates along certain techniques, all meant to take Language as we use it without thinking about it and put it on the stage or under the microscope. In poetry, more so than the other written arts, we are to take notice of the individual words, the layout of sentences, the technical qualities of the work. Like music forces us to recognize sound differently, and painting forces us to recognize space differently, so poetry forces us to recognize language differently.

And yet, poetry still is language. Poetry, to a very different degree than painting or music, is saying something. In other words, poetry is not Art simply through technique, but also through content. Shakespeare is not brilliant only because his writing is brilliant.

Or at least, I don’t think so. I don’t think poets become Great Poets through technique alone, because the words are still communicative. I think the poets that survive the ages, the ones that change lives, are the ones who saw in poetry the diligent need for craft, yes, but who also had something Real and Meaningful to say, the ones that could capture something insightful and propulsive and compelling.

So far, so good? Here’s my critique point (note: every time I say “young poet” I am including and indicting myself):

Because of the increasing number of young poets writing poetry seriously and the growing ability for poetic professionalization, both of which have taken the Workshop Model of poetry and utilized it so universally that to learn how to write a poem is to learn how to write a poem technically, young poets are giving rise to a new aesthetic of writing that promotes technique over content, studies craft over meaningfulness, and secures anintention to write poetry instead of an intention to use poetry for writing about something else.

I am calling this aesthetic Poetic Poetics, as in, the Poetics of becoming poetic. I need some examples, and luckily/unluckily, there are a trove of them right in front of me, because I have fallen into this with almost every poem I’ve written (which will bring me to another point in my conclusion).

My first example comes from a poem that I wrote last January called On Everything, Eventually. I have tried fixing it up a few times since; I like the concept, and the opening stanza:

In time there are no farces only parables: the wind blows to remind us and through the reeds we will hear spirits bargaining over souls. We are the dust that we shake from our opened cloaks and our sandals, innumerable orbits jockeying for recognition, or understanding.

The rest of the poem unwound this opening into a faint narrative. The unwinding isn’t very successful, which is why it still isn’t a finished poem, but worse is the conclusion, which is, I think, a premier example of Poetic Poetics:

The wind blows. In time we will hear no farces, only parables as the reeds bargain for our cloaks and sandals. The spirits are jockeying for understanding. Dust shakes out in orbits to remind us.

Content and meaning have dropped out of the writing. Where, earlier, throughout the poem, I am trying to twine ideas together and communicate a scene, a feeling, and thoughts that come with them, I ended the poem by rewriting the conclusion. This technique could work, but I made no attempt to make meaning, and haphazardly enjoined phrases. The result is a stanza that reads well and sounds nice and even has the impression of meaning, but the impression is as deep as it goes. This conclusion is a poetic poem, it intends to create a “poetic moment” and is conscious only of its own existence as a stanza of poetry, nothing higher.

Here is another example from my writing. Last year I started a series of poems called Documenting the End of the World, another project that I intend to return to with a new vigor at some point in my life when I am feeling ready to destroy a good number of pages that I wrote and that, I think, are very poor. Below is a full poem called Matin:

This morning the sun lay like planks shuffled over the rooftops. I placed my hand on the stair-railing as I walked up the stairs just to feel the railing. Someone called my name. Only, it wasn’t anyone I knew and it wasn’t my name either. I thought about the lightness of great things, like feathers, and souls, and tried to compose a poem where the sky was a levee, broken apart, like eggs with the yolk spilling over the rooftops, and everything.

This poem frustrates me, a lot. It keeps approaching a point where you think the writer (me) is going to say something, but then the sentence ends – twice very awkwardly, in the middle of lines, with no reason – and the possibilities for meaning are cast off into hipster flippancy. Finally, the poem becomes a poem about writing a poem. Ugh. The whole piece has a vanity and arrogance about it, and when you dig into it the only idea it sees to offer is, Look at my poetic experiences! I am a poet!

Now, admittedly, my examples are not the best because the actual poems just aren’t great. It would be the height of presumption for me to take a contemporary poem and show it off as an example of Poetic Poetics, but I think they are out there, and I think they are growing because of, as I said, the Workshop mentality and the avenues of professionalization (the latter of which is a kind of shorthand for Keep writing, constantly, and publishing, constantly, and in return you will get a position at a university. It seems to be the same publish-or-die mentality that runs across academia and most influences younger writers/scholars who must break in and fight to stay in). Still, I hope this gives at least a sensibility of what I mean.

Against this aesthetic, which I do think I see more often, stands the poet who studies more than poetry. The poet who is invested in the world, in other academic pursuits, in cultures, whatever – the point is that this poet has something to say. Technique might be half of the matter, but content is the other half. Poets through tradition speak with the weight of philosophy in its root meaning, love of wisdom, and we recognize this immediately in a single line of Dickinson or Hopkins or, I suggest, most of the poets who we still read. They struggle over religion and faith, question culture, criticize the State, get obsessed over insects and mythologies and whole countries or small towns. And then, through their obsession and interests, poetry becomes the inevitable tool for what they want to communicate, rather than the intention of the interests themselves.

Finally, though, I think there is some salvation for Poetic Poetics. My argument is first, that it is an aesthetic that must be recognized and questioned, that is pulling poetry into self-referentiality where it is its own object of study, at the cost of meaningfulness and content, that it is taking William Carlos Williams’ famous adage of No ideas but in things and is axing the first half of the phrase and defining the only “things” as, ultimately, poems. But the process of Poetic Poetics, which I am still squarely within, is still important: it is still a workshop, a place to learn craft. In the end, I am not against Poetic Poetics pedagogically – it very well might be the best way to teach poetry, starting with the technique and then heading out – but teleologically, against it if it is the goal and intention of writing.

What I fear is that the tracks of professionalization – and with them, legitimization – available to young poets will allow Poetic Poetics to avoid its status as the roadtowards poetry, and will instead become the destination. What I fear is that the inherent abilities for poetry to challenge and change lives will be lost, that poets will learn all of the best ways to lifeguard, but will never take these skills to the ocean. I’m certainly guilty of all of this, which is, finally, avoiding the responsibility, the gravity, and the duty of poetry.

My response:

I share your concerns about academic or professional poetry, and your stand defending poetry as a living art for living people, that ought, at its highest, to aim at something, ironically, inexpressible.

I agree that the increasing professionalization of poetry is an ongoing disaster. Think of the finest poets of the last century: Stevens and Williams had non-literary careers as a lawyer and doctor, respectively, and Stevens took a 10 year hiatus from poetry in the 20s; Hart Crane shuffled among entry level jobs in unmitigated poverty; Eliot drew his income from Lloyds and Faber and Faber, and wound up with an international reputation as a publisher and intellectual that afforded him an income independent of new publication; much of Pound’s Pisan Cantos (certainly his poetic apogee) were scrawled on toilet paper in an animal cage adjunct to a prison camp. The difficulty of finding the time for poetry that you economically needn’t write, and choosing between the poem and other commitments, would seem to restrain the motive for prolix redundancy and impotent, verveless affectation that we both bemoan in much of academic verse. On the other hand, if one’s “job” is to produce “poetry,” poetry, like all objective labor output, is going to have to be codified by someone, which necessitates strictures of a sort that are external to the rule of the muse. Under this legal dissonance and fundamentally economic pressure, disasters are bound to ensue – even Shakespeare, cash-strapped, gave us The Merry Wives of Windsor to shrug through. How to fix this essentially sociological problem for art is obscure for me – I suppose most poets need to learn to be comfortable with poetry’s place as a difficult distraction from daily duties rather than a quotidian obligation.

But to pick up on the fallout of the academic “systematization” of poetic art, I agree that this imposition of standards essentially alien to the process of accessing beauty itself is, by necessity, the death of art, as I agree that bucking systematization is a sine qua non of great art of any kind. Were beauty a system, the system itself and not its various iterations would be what was beautiful; but as well we know, art is rather the process of continually discovering that which is beyond any system we have yet realized, startling us by presenting reality in a new and vivid light beyond both what is apparent to all of us naturally and what has been proferred by previous artists. This freshness is what affords unique beauty to each individual work of genuine art, in virtue of which such art has any justification to exist.

Someone who can paint is not necessarily an artist; and whether one is “imitating” reality, or another artist, or some familiar compound ghost of other artists, he is a mannerist, and not an artist – a position that Plato rightly criticizes in Republic Book x as being “at a third remove from the Truth.” It is this mannerism – this paint by numbers in slavishly heeding conscious or unconscious rules- that is, I think, the genuine problem of what you call “poetic poetics,” and the void into which artistic efforts lately all too often stumble (a failure that realizes the Platonic critique of art per se).

Self-reference, however, is not necessarily an obstacle to sublime art, and I think it can actually be an important refining fire leading to such art’s production – the self-consciousness of Hamlet’s character as an object of literature, the “painterly art” of Pollock or Rothko, or the “poetry for poets” of a titan like Stevens are indispensable contributions to the world of art, because of, rather than in spite of, their self-consciousness as art.

The artist’s free disclosure of his intentions and methods in his art itself through self-reference forces a discovery process: it can essentially function as the exorcism of old mannerisms (even imitations of a previous poetic self!) and simultaneous issuance of fresh vistas and pronouncements. It’s something like a magician revealing the usual tricks of the trade before an illusion and renouncing them, necessitating a change in tactics on his part that can recover his “art” from kitsch staleness and renew a sense of wonder in the audience indispensable for its success.

Furthermore, as you heartily affirm, poetry, at its best, takes the entirety of reality and our experience of it as its subject, and is itself the fullness of human expression and our mental grapple with the world around us – “the act of the mind finding what will suffice.” Thus, a poem aimed at understanding itself and disclosing this understanding takes a fresh approach to the agon at the center of all-there-is: reality and the imagination, and their various progeny.

These are the moments of truest human existence, moments of freedom from (and power over) the tyrannical and law-limited world that traps our spirits, in a fresh, unpredictable prospect abstracted out of the march of time. These free moments of clarity, of sublimity – of beauty as truth – become merely a fixture of inescapable Necessity in the restraining physical world when allowed to patina under the zeal for codification and systematization. It is only as that which can be trapped in no conceivable systematic labyrinth, however capacious, that art, as envoy to beauty, is our access to the ultimate, the permanent, the deathless and the divine, as the purest expression of our spiritual freedom in a physical world. The art that we can systematize is the art that systematizes us in a systematic world; the art that “teases us out of thought” frees us if only for a moment from the “malice and sudden cry” of a tumultuous world of death and decay. It must surprise us – as sudden as “a thief in the night” on the last day.

Tim’s response to my response:

You, like my brother, very rightly pointed out the positives and benefits of self-reference and even turning back on the art itself (my brother brought up Rilke as a prime example of a poet concerned often with poetry itself, but not falling into the critique I present here). I suppose what I am aiming for is not condemning self-conscious artists so much as attempting to move the discussion from technique – where, quite rightly, every subject matter under the sun is allowed, and the question is How, not What – to a more ethical or socially-aware question. In short, though this word is so challenging in itself, I think the meat of my concerns rest in the Intentions that seem to be swapped out: an intention to use poetry as a mechanism toward, as you comment, self-discovery and world-discovery, (or “world-disclosure” to make this all as Heidegerrian as it probably should be…), an intention that searches and is restless and is ambitious, rather than an intention to Write a Poem.

I very much like your manifesto-like last paragraph, especially art as that which “can be trapped in no conceivable systematic labyrinth.” To bring back Heidegger again, I’ve often gotten a great deal out of a thought of his – and in fact, I can never find the exact quote, so I very well might be making this up, but it seems to fit at least – that where philosophy ends, poetry begins. There is so much to that thought – but what is missed in contemporary poetry, I think, is the most crucial bit: in order To Begin as a poet, then, it follows that one has hemmed his or her way through some philosophy, and thus knows the weight and gravity of staking something or searching something through poetry.

Tim says:

I’ve been thinking a lot about The Economy of Words lately. It’s one of the first, most important, and longest lasting lessons a writer learns when trying to figure out what it means to write, how to do it better, how to take it seriously, and how to make it Artistic. I was writing before I learned this helpful little phrase, and then I learned it and at once writing became challenging, difficult, and rewarding.

And yet, as I think about this heavily ingrained aspect of creative writing pedagogy – at least here, in America – I wonder how strong of an influence it has had in shaping aesthetic, and perhaps even broader actions like reading styles and attentions. I wonder if the emphasis on economizing words has preempted the true beginnings of creative writing, which could alternately be described (based on your disposition as more optimistically-inclined or pessimistically-) as long-suffering or pleasure.

I’ll give a quick take on “economy of words” first, though I imagine it’s seeped into discursive writing pedagogy by now and is the type of thing you learn about in your freshman composition classes. It’s a pretty intuitive phrase, and basically advises the writer to look for the most economical way to say something, or, the least amount of words that fit the most meaning, description, tone, or feeling into them. It’s a way of writing slowly and intentionally, always looking for the right word, Flaubert’s le mot juste, the “word with the most juice” (I have a memory that ascribes this translation to Pound, but I can’t seem to find where he said it… is this right?).

Economizing words means hacking away at unnecessary description, removing scenes and even characters or plot points that have no movement or cruciality to them, saying a thing once but never twice (unless for a very good reason), etc etc. It means erasing that second “etc” because the first one has everything the second one already has. It provides the writer with focus and clarity as the writer then hones in on the specifics, follows the threads, and often is influenced towards shorter, more clausal sentences that then must employ active and visceral verbs as well as clear subjects to these verbs. So the writer uses fewer “There was” and “It is” when there are no antecedents, uses fewer “to be” constructions, and creates an entertainingly faster piece.

There are (oops) more benefits here than I am describing, and really, economizing one’s words is a necessary skill to learn at some point. Though I am transitioning to a more critical take, I would never suggest leaving it aside as it is perhaps the single mechanism for a writer that chips away at the writer’s block of words and shapes an elephant out of them (or a poem about an elephant).

But I do believe there is a real flip side here, that being taught to write this way so early on in one’s writing life may have negative side effects on one’s writing and, even more importantly, one’s reading. In fact, as I think about this, I wonder if the entire project of teaching discursive writing, stretching back to our earliest school days, is wrongheadedly aimed at an almost scientific (or perhaps purely scientific) branch of this economy of words.

I was thinking about this just yesterday, wandering through Border’s liquidation sale. I picked up a collection of Schopenhauer’s aphorisms, read a couple, and then cautiously thumbed through a John Searle book, which reminded me of the unfortunate reality of contemporary American philosophy. Besides its utter infatuation with Analytic trends, obsessing over math and science and logic (my loathing of this trend has no bounds, so I’ll stop it here), American philosophers just aren’t good writers. They are so boring, and dry, and serious. Look, compare them yourselves: here’s Searle’s Wikiquote page, and here’s Søren Kierkegaard’s. I was going to give an example, but re-reading it proved rather absurd. It’s not exactly a fair fight…

Regardless, my point… where is my point… My point is that Searle, American/Analytic Philosophy, our early writing education, and even the beginning of creative writing pedagogy – they all share this economizing of words. However, they use “economizing” in a scientific sense, in an almost logical sense of looking for the most meaning in the quickest time-span. It truly is “economical” to read the boring philosophy of our age because you get a lot of thoughts (though rarely a meaningful one) in a focused and direct fashion. We are interested in information-transference, rather than living in the language, and stretching out in it.

Here’s the antidote, and maybe my overall point will become more clear: great big books like Ulysses and The Man Without Qualities and Proust and Kierkegaard and all of these geniuses who let the sentences gallop like horses and twist like twine, and in order to get anything out of it at all you had to pause your thinking in a certain way, accept the guide of the writer, and enjoy it.

I think this is where I’ve been trying to go. By focusing on economizing words, I wonder if there is a relation to not being able to sit down and take pleasure in long, descriptive writing, in reading for reading’s sake, and maybe even in writing for writing’s sake, decadently, exuberantly, with all of the fat and excess of a feast. Perhaps strange words coming from me, whose aesthetic beliefs hinge on Meaningfulness, but my point is not that we end here, but that we begin here. How can we be writers and readers if we cannot plunge into the mystery of language and let it roll us along for pages and pages without looking to see where the chapter ends, without thinking about if there is a new email in the inbox, without anything except the world that has allowed us entry and will give us everything it has as long as we play by its rules?

My brother calls this an inability for readers to suffer, but I think just as much it is forgetting that reading and writing are pleasurable acts, acts that don’t just finish books and look for the next, but shape us unknowingly because our self-consciousness has quit itself as we enter a different consciousness, a reading and writing consciousness.

I suppose I’ll finish with the creative writing application, since that seems most questionable. I’m not necessarily saying that we need poets and novelists to return to some past tradition or style. I’m not even saying, again, that economizing is wrong. But what I think we might have paid in order to get our economy is the freedom of un-restriction, first. I remember some of my first poems, written after a fever of Whitman. One was about clouds, and the other was about waves. I let the words tumble out and they just kept coming. Like a lot of Whitman, my early poems would be served by an editor, but that’s a secondary process. Something that comes later.

What if we started writing just to write, describing whatever we see, putting it all down not like a journal but in the ecstasy of Writing a Poem, or story, or whatever, and put aside all of the aesthetic values we have learned? What if we relegated craftsmanship to the secondary action – the carpenter who has a piece of wood, the sculptor who has a block – and first we build the raw piece of wood, the ugly stone? Maybe others write like this, letting themselves savor Saying, but I don’t suppose I have since those early Whitman poems. Instead, I’ve been so concerned with Value, Meaningfulness, and Art, that I think I’ve lost the first, primal, and core function of Art, which is something like enjoyment or stimulation, isn’t it?

My response:

First, you discuss Heidegger’s “world-disclosure” regarding the intention of poem-making (or, etymologically, “making,” per se), and identify the intention to make meaning as distinct from that to merely “write a poem.” We can, of course, reject as the vanity of the poetaster the intention of writing a middling poem, but I’m not certain we can sever the intention for world-disclosure from the intention to write a world-disclosing poem.

I don’t think a poem can succeed on any level if it doesn’t change the world and thus disclose a new one through aesthetic impact and cognitive power – in other words, there is no such thing as a good poem that is trivial or inessential, regardless of the apparent or so-called “topic” of the work.

As I argued in our dicussion of “mannerism,” there isn’t a sanctified set of locutions that afford a poem artistic status – sure, rules make a poem a sonnet or a pantoum, but they don’t make it ART. And so whether the putative topos is political, religious, ethnic, ars poetica, or anything under the sun, the poem itself succeeds only insofar as it aggrandizes and elevates the consciousness of its genuine audience.

Herein then lies the trouble of setting out to do more than write a poem when you’re writing a poem: the poem itself must be the standard of its own value and of its own truth, rather than reliant upon a formal grid abstracted away from the complex of the poem and our aesthetic and cognitive experience of it. Naturally, for the poem to succeed, it must elevate us, but restricting the terms of this enrichment in philosophic or moralistic nets is myopic – no great art is reducible to something more concise than the world itself.

You mention the relationship and boundaries of philosophy and poetry, and I think that tension is remarkably apposite here. To illustrate the point, it’s critical that we reconsider Plato’s famous and misunderstood indictment of art as simple fabrication in Book X of the Republic. Plato’s schooling was in poetry, and it seems that only his late discipleship with Socrates led him down a different path. As such, we oughtn’t to doubt Plato’s appreciation of artistic beauty – and of course, reading his dialogues it would likely be impossible to draw that conclusion anyway. So whence his suckerpunch that art is mere artifice, and has no place in paradise?

In suggesting art is “at a third remove from the truth,” Plato indicts mimesis specifically. While verisimilitude has always been evidence of an artist’s honed craft, I don’t think any of us would now say that it is only by exact similarity to some aspect of the physical world that art serves its purpose. I think perhaps a better (if imperfect) trope to replace verisimilitude might be “eloquence” – a matter of expressive power in conveying “some thing,” not necessarily something physical. Students are often satisfied with such a resituation of Plato’s point, by which, uncharitably, we hear them accuse the philosopher of straw-man sophistry and a malicious reductionism, incredulous at the fawning yes-men crowding Socrates’ campfire, egregiously sanctioning these dialogic shenanigans. But I think we need to take the climax of the magnum opus of Western civilization’s major philosopher a bit more seriously.

If art WERE fundamentally imitation – of reality, of formal principles governing art’s creation, or even of other artifacts – Book X’s blow would be devastating. Plato’s critique identifies two areas in which art can mortally lose itself – one, in mannerism, as I discussed in my previous comment (in which genuine artistic value is abandoned in favor of fulfilling formal considerations that are meant to endue the work with artistic status), and the other, in gussying up (and thereby obfuscating) a truth beyond the art and which the art merely mocks in fripperies – whether that truth be scientific, philosophic, theological, phenomenal, etc.

There is thus a needle we need to thread in setting out to make art – while we cannot fall into mannerism, we must equally be sure to disclose truth IN art rather than BY MEANS OF art. As you quote Heidegger saying, poetry ventures BEYOND philosophy: it is not a handmaid to it. I think a diagram would help illustrate what I’m trying to say here…

Mathematics & Formal Logic –> Theoretical & Empirical Science (including everything from physics to economics) –> Technical Philosophy and Theology –> Prosaic Art –> Poetry –> Music

The further right you move on the above-pictured spectrum, the more remote and inexpressible the subject, verging on the basal, fundamental, and thus not often clearly-defined and regulated regions of mind and truth. The further left we move on this scale, the more certain, plain, objective, knowable, and explicable/communicable the content under discussion (I suspect this has to do with an increasing abstract, generic, symbolic formalization as we move left on the spectrum, and an increasing experiential, special, deictic concretization as we move right on the spectrum, but I’ll have to think about this in greater depth).

I restate Plato’s critique in an axiomatic corollary based on this spectrum: one must express completely any set of meaning in as far-left a medium as is possible. For instance, taking a perfectly cogent economic argument out of “The Wealth of Nations,” adding no meaningful content to it, but adapting it into a poem, would be a singular disaster – an aesthetic abortion, a waste of artistic firepower, and, most critically, an evasion of the truth rather than an encapsulation, extension, or expression of it. Art so used is indeed removed from the truth, and surely threatens our apprehension of it. My concern regarding prejudicing “moral” or “political” or “religious” art is thus twofold – first, in so doing we are BEGGING for doggerel; and second, the sublime ought to be enough, regardless of its occasion. As you say, poetry is beyond philosophy, and begins where philosophy ENDS – our moral, political, and philosophical concerns are more often matters for a more discursive mode.

In demonstration, think of supremely successful religious verse – what comes first to mind for me is Eliot’s Quartets and the Commedia. These poems are proudly and profoundly vague and ambivalent on the adamant dogmatic lines of their mother faith(s): you might even argue that the Commedia isn’t even a Catholic poem! Paradise Lost is more pagan than Christian in its stance!

We need to be sure that we’re ascending beyond mere reason, partisanship, observation, facts, and discourse when we make our poems – the muse deserves so much more: a universal and preternatural perspective that gathers meaning to itself inductively and synthetically (etymologically a “putting together”) rather than analytically (etymologically a “chopping-up”) eviscerating a choice and whole vista opened on truth. Our art must be fully felt experiences of real paths of truth, fresh, not pre-fabricated, and never mere formal and conceptual discussions or opinions garlanded with happy verse.

Per the above, no great art is reducible to something more concise than the work itself, nor may it be otherwise composed to the same effect. This axiom is at once a corollary to Plato’s point en-spectrumed, and a restatement of the economizing principle for language. I think we must find it infallible in both discussions.

Consider booming and blowing tracts of undomesticated verse – what stands more sprawling in our rogueish American memories than “Song of Myself”? And yet, however prolix and inebriate we find Whitman in his shameless verbal onanism, can we strike or alter a word of this great chant, or scratch lines from the “Lilacs” elegy, without eliminating instead of clarifying meaning or beauty? And so as with Kierkegaard or Proust, we cannot but deem Walt economical, at least by the aforementioned restatement of the economizing principle.

Similarly, we are within our rights to tell Searle to shut the hell up already. In less space, he is far more rambling than Kierkegaard, because what matters is EFFICIENCY, which is a quotient – the ratio of meaning to text. Kierkegaard explodes meanings, gets at load-bearing joints in the universe and our cognition of it, and squats there to apply a full-nelson – imbuing these critical points with a gravity that presses them into singularities that have gathered to themselves the meaning of the ages and which disclose this heavy load only over the course of decades and lifetimes of gravidity. Searle’s sparse meaning (most of his articles are adequately summarized in a paragraph) rather prove his dis-economy of words.

(Then again, it’s not exactly fair to indict Searle on these grounds, who was never trying to create literature. We might commend him for realizing which section of the grid he belongs to, since, in writing such as Searle’s, the goal is to limit, cut up, distribute, and pin down meaning – to AVOID focus on the text – just like legal writing or writing an instruction manual; in such writing, as the writing teaching how to diffuse a bomb, for instance, verbal efficiency is necessarily of a very different kind, since the goal is really to MINIMIZE meaning rather than to MAXIMIZE it.)

Now meaning in poems is not always merely conceptual – it verges on music toward its “right-most” boundary, of course. And so certain felicities of sound that may not be critical to sense ought not to be stricken on that account. And let us not forget the use of economy in breaking down familiar and typical linguistic locutions often to fresh and beautiful results.

In validity, then, this principle is not an imprecation to reduce word use per se, but rather a prohibition against oblique restatement or bungling verbosity – “one should not use words, sounds, images, or concepts that do not add to the aesthetic value of a piece” – and how could we possibly argue against such a tautological truth? If a word, or phrase, or image or character doesn’t add to a work of art, it at the least distracts us from its semantic nodes and thus muddies and diminishes it.

Ultimately, there are different poems that do different things, and just about as many poets as there are poems: the poet of “Sunday Morning” has never met the man who wrote “An Ordinary Evening in New Haven” (perhaps due to their keeping different hours). Some poets and poems begin in negation and absence, and economy is an ineliminable means of lifting them out of the void and into meaning; other poems begin with an unencapsulable and incomprehensible full experience that cannot possibly replicate itself in a vessel as restrictive as all of human experience. To return to “Song of Myself,” we find “creeds and schools in abeyance” at the very outset – we must let the poem come as it may, free of critical restrictions that are not trivially true. But the economizing principle is inarguable.

This eradication of grids and philosophies in search of poetry is simply a restatement of our spectrum presented earlier, a corollary to the rule against rules we agreed about in my last post, and a unison chant with Heidegger. Ultimately, rules beyond tautology can apply only to a subset of all possible poems, given that art is not a formal system, but that which escapes formality and lives in special, untamed personhood. To formalize art is to chain our souls within the deterministic labyrinths of physical reality, which the both of us know we are in truth unlimited by and more capacious than. What this means though is that for every bad poem from which a principle can be abstracted concerning the cause of its failure – e.g., “this poem is wordy” or, “its complete adherence to a definite rhyme scheme and meter robs the poem of freshness”- we will find another poem that shares these same attributes and is yet a permanent achievement.

Art that follows the rules is merely an instance of a previously-composed piece – and so it is only the art that creates space for itself outside the shadow of previous art and the ambit of rude nature that ever truly matters. Again, if we can formalize it or explain it beyond itself more succinctly, we have proved a work irrelevant. The pattern beyond it, the scheme it merely mimics and reiterates, is, like natural law poised behind the maya of experience and the confusion of colliding atoms, the TRUE object of pursuit and target for reverence, rather than its mere instances and imitations.

Tim’s response to my response:

Hey Peter–

I agree with, I think, most everything you’ve said here, and certainly the general tenor of your post. I have been aiming more specifically at pedagogy and training – how one learns to write poetry, how one starts out and continues, where the spring of interest and motivation comes from.

My earlier statement was an attempt to differentiate poetry that comes from the authentic artistic impulse versus the workshop-specific techne of a young poet still learning, a differentiation I found necessary as the latter techne is in many ways becoming an end-in-itself in the contemporary poetic landscape.

This one is aiming for something deeper, and I haven’t quite put it all together yet. I agree completely that the directive to economize words is akin to the irreducibility of a poem, and you claim Whitman’s verbosity as an example of economy without economy, so to say. And I agree, but pedagogically speaking, very few of us start out as Whitman’s (Whitmen?) or Pound’s or whoever. And oftentimes we learn through two very different paths (at least, I experienced two, though I imagine others are out there): imitation, and formalism. The former dives into a sense of joy, I think, and appreciation, and lets it flood out onto the paper in whatever messy ecstasy the young writer has encircled, and the latter tends to take on a mantle of apprenticeship – perhaps too early on, or so I am trying to argue.

My initial work, and my present work, all need heavy edits and revisions. The pieces simply aren’t irreducible to themselves yet, and I need principles like the economy of words and other such maxims. But I find myself emptying out, drained of everything full and fleshy and real, when I focus too much on these maxims and proto-rules and allow that very necessary determined focus outweigh a consistent enjoyment in words and reading and writing. And I’ve found that the more I allow myself to write without care of readers, to read without flipping to see when the chapter ends, to get lost in these sorts of activities, the better my writing tends to become.

As for poetry in general, as you are talking about it, I suppose the one… potential disagreement I have is the mystifying of poetry your chart seems to indicate, as well as “the sublime ought to be enough.” I have been working a lot with this mystification issue, where as you interpret the Heidegger quote philosophy ENDS, and then poetry Begins, whereas I see it as philosophy getting to a point where Poetry takes off in a progression sort of way. The best poets I know have always been the best thinkers, and there is something to that. Moreover, poetry has often seemed to stake out a very clear “philosophical,” or whatever you would like to call it, position on truth, stretching back to Greek poetry and Hebrew poetry. I wrote on Plato a few weeks ago, and it seemed to me his most looming concerns with poetry involved its ability to convince one of something, to persuade or manipulate. Similarly, Hebrew poetry was just steeped in theodicy and theology, and Job is as brilliant philosophically as it is poetically.

I agree completely that poetry is a Different thing, is no handmaiden to philosophy, etc etc. A poem cannot be restated as a philosophy, yes, and neither vice-versa. But the spectrum you set up also frees to poet, I think, from metaphysical, ethical, whatever responsibility. I think a poem is made of three things, always already: 1) its conceptual level, 2) its sensual level, and 3) its mystical, or spiritual, or playful level. The first is the sense of the thing, the philosophy or science or clear thinking that forces the poem into existence, like biology for Marianne Moore, and the second is the sound and image and all of that – the Real World of the poem, the part we enter into – and the last is akin to what Kant calls “purposiveness,” a sort of “irresolvability” where all of 1 and all of 2 never end up just Finishing any various interpretation. It is the “so much depends / upon” of WCW’s “Red Wheelbarrow,” the slingshot into Great Art where not everything can be logicked out.

This has become a longer note than intended… I’ve written a lot about poetry specifically and abstractly before, but haven’t really laid out my thoughts on this issue before. Perhaps I should – and apologies if I have misstated or misread pieces of your post or it in its entirety. These are wonderfully fun conversations.

#aesthetics #philosophy #poetry

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the-domestication-of-the-dog · 4 years

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The 10th Annual L.A.O.K. Awards

Wow. Ten years of the Layokies. What a trip. I would like to give my heartfelt thanks to all five of my faithful fans for your readership over the years. In my first ever Layokies post, I named it the “1st (Possibly) Annual L.A.O.K. Awards.” I had no idea how long I’d be working at the Academy, let alone living in LA, but here we are. I bragged about seeing 180 movies that year. I just checked my Letterboxd stats for this year and it turns out I watched...180 movies. However, this year I hit a new personal best for new releases: 125. While this is about half as many as some people I know, some of the first Layokies were based on a field of 60 or 70 movies, so I’ve doubled up on my old self. Funny thing is, I can still look on other year-end lists and find many films I haven’t seen, and even some I haven’t heard of, so the field of films I’ve added are probably in the middle to bottom range of the pack. But someone out there has to watch Tolkien, Gemini Man, The Goldfinch, and Where’d You Go, Bernadette?, so it might as well be me.

In all honesty, my absolute favorite thing about living in Los Angeles and working at the Academy is access to watching movies and being around the general cinephile community, and even a bad couple of hours in a movie theater beats a lot else. Over Christmas break I saw Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker in Shawnee, OK’s own Cinema Center 8.

It was quite a trip going back to this theater after so many years and to think of the love of film that was fostered there. Alas, the picture was pretty muddy, and I’m almost positive they showed it in 2k. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now, in penance for naming The King’s Speech Best Picture in my first year (lol), I give you five real good’uns for 2019:

Best Film The Farewell The King Little Women Parasite Uncut Gems

Sometimes I touch on a year being good or bad for film in general. Not sure about the whole, but I’ll call 2019 a real SEC year (aka stacked at the top and mediocre to poor the rest of the way down). While I would probably only give one title on this list must-see status (Parasite), these are all definite should-sees. The Farewell made me laugh and cry and cringe. One might even go so far as to say it “gave me all the feels.” The King gave me actual siege warfare and period-accurate haircuts. Little Women hit me with that structure, and at first I was all “hol up,” but then I was all “OK I see you.” Little Women also made me cry because I cry in movies now. (A quick aside, because while I absolutely loved Little Women, it’s not really going to come up again. If you liked the movie and haven’t read the book, please do yourself a favor and make it the next one on your list. You can’t know how great this movie is unless you know how good Beth is. Beth kind of got lost in this one, and you need to know Beth.) Parasite blew me away through its normality (who, having seen The Host, Snowpiercer, and Okja could have guessed that it wasn’t about some actual alien parasite??). And Uncut Gems was exactly as perfect as I expected it to be. And the Layokie goes to... The King

Faithful readers will know that one of my absolute favorite genres is ‘discreet conversation behind castle walls,’ and The King absolutely nailed it. It has everything: leadership position foisted on a worthy but flawed character who doesn’t want it, conversations in tents about battle tactics, love built on almost nothing but mutual respect, and most of all, Robert Pattinson doing a funny accent (it’s just a French accent, but he makes it quite funny). I would have already watched this again five times on Netflix, but I’m hoping and praying for an Oscar nomination that will never ever in a million years come in hopes that I can see it again in the theater during nominations screenings.

The Next Five Six 1917 Honey Boy The Laundromat The Lighthouse Marriage Story Portrait of a Lady on Fire

Best Actor Timothée Chalamet - The King Adam Driver - Marriage Story Paul Walter Hauser - Richard Jewell Joaquin Phoenix - Joker Adam Sandler - Uncut Gems

Another super stacked category this year. You might even say they’re *puts on sunglasses*...Stacked Actors. (<-- This is a really good joke for anyone whose favorite band from 7th-8th grade was The Foo Fighters.) These are all kind of obvious, so I’ll take a second to comment on Paul Walter Hauser and the fact that I gave out a very specific award last year titled “Refuse to Watch - Any More Clint Eastwood Movies” after trying and failing to watch The 15:17 to Paris on a plane (one of the worst pieces of filmmaking I’ve ever witnessed). Then this year Richard Jewell was getting such good buzz, and it seemed like such a good cast, and it was such a low-risk watch (on my second screen at work while doing spreadsheets), that I decided to shamefully renege on my earlier pronouncement and give it a shot. And...it was great pretty good! What is the deeal with Clint Eastwood?? He’s made some of my least favorite movies of the decade (Gran Torino, Invictus, Hereafter was a particularly awful stretch, Sully was pointless, and even parts of American Sniper, which was otherwise tolerable, were absolute cringefests). Anywho, I was very impressed by Paul Walter Hauser’s understated but perfect performance, in which he gets one good chance to blow up and yell at people--which you know I love. I hope he gets nominated, because it would be a great Oscar clip. (My ultimate dream job would be to pick the acting Oscars clips and I would be very very good at it.)

And the Layokie goes to... The Sandman (love that everyone is calling him the Sandman again)

I touched on Adam Sandler “A” in the Best Supporting Actor section of my 2018 Layokies post regarding his performance in The Meyerowitz Stories, lamenting that he hadn’t taken more dramatic roles after Punch-Drunk Love and hoping that good writer/directors would keep casting him. One more wish granted by the Safdie brothers. Adam Sandler’s talent is undeniable. He is truly one of the Great Actors of his generation. I really hope this is a respected-actor-making turn for him, but the upcoming roles on his IMDd--Hubie Halloween and Hotel Transylvania 4--don’t give much hope for the immediate future.

Honorable Mentions Taron Egerton - Rocketman (but only for the phone booth scene) Shia LaBeouf - The Peanut Butter Falcon Noah Jupe - Honey Boy Robert Pattinson - The Lighthouse Jonathan Pryce - The Two Popes

Best Actress Ana de Armas - Knives Out Scarlett Johansson - Marriage Story Elisabeth Moss - Her Smell Florence Pugh - Midsommar Saoirse Ronan - Little Women

Found out last night from my resident celebrity expert Bridgette Smith that Florence Pugh is dating Zach Braff and it absolutely crushed me.

And the Layokie goes to... Elisabeth Moss - Her Smell

Her Smell was the last 2019 film I watched before writing this post, and I was really just looking for something to pass the time. I had been wanting to see it for a long time and noticed it was on HBO, so I pressed play and planned to work on this post while I watched. I couldn’t. I was riveted. The writing, score, and sound design are incredible, but it’s all tied together by Elisabeth Moss’s performance. She’s excellent at being revolting but still has all of those qualities that made her Peggy. You can’t not like her, even though you fairly hate her.

Honorable Mentions Awkwafina - The Farewell Cynthia Erivo - Harriet Lupita Nyong’o - Us (You know I love weird voices, you know I love actors doing weird voices and faces, but this was a bit much even for me. Reflective of Us on the whole, which I thought was interesting but really missed the mark.) Charlize Theron - Bombshell

Best Director Ari Aster - Midsommar Bong Joon Ho - Parasite David Michôd - The King Benny and Josh Safdie - Uncut Gems Céline Sciamma - Portrait of a Lady on Fire

And the Layokie goes to... Benny and Josh Safdie - Uncut Gems

Wired: New directors Tired: Old directors

Boy do I not understand the love for The Irishman and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. I’m not totally against boring movies if there’s a good reason for it (Midsommar was actually quite boring), but these were some of the least compelling films I watched all year. On the other hand, you have these young directors coming out of prestige horror, Ari Aster, Robert Eggers, and to a lesser extent David Robert Mitchell and Trey Edwards Shults, making some of the most dynamic films out there. Reminds me of Roger Ebert talking about early Scorsese in Life Itself (which I can’t find a clip of). Then you have Benny and Josh Safdie doing Scorsese better than Scorsese with literally breathtaking shots like the one below. How they construct such amazing edits out of such disparate takes as the one in the still above is a wonder. They’ll go from five extreme close-ups in a row to a jaw-dropping shot of the inside of a jewelry store zoomed in from across the street. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg on what makes them the best filmmakers working right now.

Honorable Mentions Noah Baumbach - Marriage Story Robert Eggers - The Lighthouse Claire Denis - High Life Greta Gerwig - Little Women Alejandro Landes - Monos Sam Mendes - 1917 Alex Ross Perry - Her Smell Joe Talbot - The Last Black Man in San Francisco Lulu Wang - The Farewell

Best Supporting Actress Laura Dern - Marriage Story Lena Headey - Fighting with My Family Lee Jung Eun - Parasite (The housekeeper) Meryl Streep - The Laundromat Shuzhen Zhao - The Farewell (Nai Nai)

And the Layokie goes to... Laura Dern - Marriage Story

Here’s one for the Laura Dern stan accounts: There’s no question that Noah Baumbach is a talented director of actors, but Laura Dern makes so much out of seemingly not a lot in this role. She truly embodies a wholly unique and three-dimensional character that could have extremely easily been one-note.

Honorable Mentions Lily-Rose Depp - The King Florence Pugh - Little Women Margot Robbie - Bombshell

Best Supporting Actor Timothée Chalamet - Little Women Willem Dafoe - The Lighthouse Shia LaBeouf - Honey Boy Al Pacino - The Irishman Robert Pattinson - The King

And the Layokie goes to... Willem Dafoe - The Lighthouse

For being all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xT7uR4wNMJs

Honorable Mentions Bill Hader - It Chapter Two Tim Heidecker - Us Sam Rockwell - Richard Jewell Song Kang Ho - Parasite (the dad) Lakeith Stanfield - Uncut Gems

Best Original Screenplay The Farewell - Lulu Wang Her Smell - Alex Ross Perry Marriage Story - Noah Baumbach Parasite - Bong Joon Ho Uncut Gems - Benny and Josh Safdie

And the Layokie goes to... Parasite - Bong Joon Ho

Another genre we don’t get nearly enough of: comedies of errors. A script like this is as sophisticated as any mystery, political thriller, or...some other sophisticated type of script, like uh, I don’t know, they usually just say Chinatown or Witness. I did think it lagged a bit in the third act, but everything that came before it was so tight. Twist after turn after twist, so funny, so shocking. This is such a rare prestige crowd-pleaser that it really does harken back to Hitchcock; if a wide audience can get over watching subtitles, this has to have one of the lowest barriers for entry of any foreign film in a long time. Here’s hoping for a Best Picture Oscar nomination and a wide release. Uncut Gems played at Shawnee’s other theater (titled simply Movies 6), so it’s not that far out of the realm of possibility. But I know people in LA, even that work at the Academy, who won’t watch subtitled films, so getting people to actually go see it is another question.

Honorable Mentions Peterloo - Mike Leigh

Best Adapted Screenplay Jojo Rabbit - Taika Waititi Joker - Todd Philips & Scott Silver The King - David Michôd The Laundromat - Scott Z. Burns The Two Popes - Anthony McCarten

And the Layokie goes to... The King - Joel Edgerton and David Michôd

It wouldn’t be the Layokies without me championing one film that no one else cares about. I just really really liked The King. Timothée Chalamet is so hot right now! How did this get so overlooked?? 😭

Best Documentary Apollo 11 Honeyland It’s a Hard Truth Ain’t It Maiden Mike Wallace is Here

And the Layokie goes to... Maiden

As I’m in the process of producing a documentary right now, it pains me a bit that my top two picks in this category are almost entirely archival. I thought Mike Wallace is Here was so well done, and the director did some amazing things playing with aspect ratio. But Maiden came into port first. What is wrong with people who don’t appreciate sports? This xkcd comic (who I usually appreciate) makes me so angry. Tell the women who worked their asses off for years to claw their way into this male-dominated space and literally made the world a better place that their efforts were no more than a weighted random number generator on which to build narratives! Clearly the narratives are there, but it rarely has as much to do with the result of the competition as it does the effort that it took individual human beings to get there. See also: Undefeated (currently streaming on Netflix).

Honorable Mentions Fyre They Shall Not Grow Old Satan & Adam

Best Foreign Language Film Duh Parasite

Biggest Missed Opportunity Pokemon: Detective Pikachu (How the first live action Pokemon movie should have happened)

Not Even Close to Enough Monsters Godzilla: King of the Monsters

Most Unbelievable Cosplay Tom Hanks as Mr. Rogers

Absolutely Crushing the Sensitive Dad Roles Billy Crudup in After the Wedding and Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

Good in Everything Too obvious, but Florence Pugh - Fighting with My Family, Midsommar, Little Women Robert Pattinson - High Life, The Lighthouse, The King Adam Driver - The Dead Don’t Die, Marriage Story, The Report, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker

Destigmatizing Fatness Award Dolemite is My Name The Laundromat Skin Almost Hustlers but then not (Lizzo got what, 30 seconds of screentime??)

#WasteYourAudience’sTime2019 The Souvenir The Proposal

Didn’t Actually Deserve to be Driven into the Ground Dark Phoenix The Kitchen

Just Plain Liked It Triple Frontier

Most Forgettable Tie: Tolkien and High Life (not for me, but it took me a full 10 minutes to convince Becca that she watched this, and I had to describe the masturbation chamber aka fuck box in a lot of detail before she got it, and I’m still not totally convinced she remembers it)

The Something Award Motherless Brooklyn

The Nothing Award Judy

Worst Movies 1. Rambo: Last Blood 2. Between Two Ferns: The Movie 3. Abominable 4. The Lion King 5. Godzilla: King of the Monsters 6. Wine Country 7. Jumanji: The Next Level 8. Frozen II 9. The Goldfinch 10. Pet Semetary

Best Scenes

Avengers: Endgame - The hammer, the portals, all the nerdy/normie BS, what can I say call me a basic bitch but there were some genuine holy schmoly moments in this that made it a really fun movie to experience in the theater

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood - When Mr. Rogers uses the puppets on Lloyd

Captain Marvel - When she went full shit on ‘em

Climax - The opening dance sequence (the only thing that made this movie worth watching)

The Farewell - Too many to choose from, but I think my favorite moment in this movie was when they were taking photos of the fiances and another couple stumbled in on them, claiming they were lost. That couple leaves and we never see them again. These are the kinds of details that make movies come alive. Absolutely brilliant.

Gemini Man - The motorcycle chase (a rare scene actually made better by the high frame rate)

John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum - The knife fight in the knife store

The King - The conversation between Hal and Catherine

Knock Down the House - When A.O.C. debated the incompetent proxy

The Last Black Man in San Francisco - Skateboarding into town

Little Women - The “break-up” scene between Jo and Laurie (not a spoiler)

Midsommar - The drug trip scene (not that I’ve ever done drugs but this was the most accurate drug trip scene of all time) and the Ättestupa ceremony. Also found out in the video linked above that Ari Aster pronounces it Mid-SO-mar?? I thought that was the dumb way to pronounce it but apparently I’m the dumb one. Also also, another amazing detail worth mentioning: I absolutely loved that every time they were in their community sleeping barn, there was a baby crying somewhere on the second floor that we never see. Such a perfect way to put the characters and the audience on edge and indicate that there’s something wrong here.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood - While I didn’t care for this movie, the scene where Brad Pitt went to the movie ranch and when he fantasized about going to the film set were absolutely dripping with tension, which made them as just as riveting as the rest of the movie wasn’t

Parasite - When the other family comes home early

The Peanut Butter Falcon - The scene after they come out of the corn field and share one of their first genuine moments

Uncut Gems - *Sarah Palin voice* All of ‘em, any of ‘em. But seriously the finale with the Celtics game

Us - The initial home invasion and the visit to the Tylers’ home (Tim Heidecker and Elisabeth Moss)

The A.V. Club also does a best scenes list at the end of the year, and I love writing mine first and then seeing what they came up with. I’m always surprised at how many we match on. Just goes to show that a good scene is universal. I also enjoyed some of theirs that I overlooked here, including from Her Smell, Bombshell, Ad Astra (I almost included the moon chase myself and thought the baboon scene was equally compelling), and Portrait of a Lady on Fire.

Stupidest Scenes Every other John Wick 3 scene

Deserves Discussion The Dead Don’t Die

This movie was a lot of fun. But then it also completely sucked? Not really a Jim Jarmusch fan in the first place, but this had so many awesome elements to it: a great cast, great soundtrack, really fun and unexpected ways of breaking the 4th wall, but then it was also pointless and boring. I would love for someone to tell me why this is a good movie after all, but judging by its complete absence from the end-of-the-year discussion (or any discussion), I’m guessing no one cares enough to mount that challenge.

Best Visuals Alita: Battle Angel Aquarella A Hidden Life Honeyland Midsommar Monos

Many LOLs It Chapter Two Jojo Rabbit Parasite

Best Song Ready or Not - The Hide and Seek Song (why was this not submitted?)

youtube

Best Soundtrack Waves - Never have I already known so many songs on a film’s soundtrack; it’s almost as if Trey Edwards Shults is another white guy around my age with the same interests as me...

Worst Accents Midway

Started But Never Finished Cats Cold Case Hammarskjold Genndy Tartakovsky’s ‘Primal’ - Tales of Savagery The Highway Men High Flying Bird Queen and Slim Spies in Disguise

Didn’t See Ash is Purest White Atlantics The Beach Bum The Body Remembers When the World Broke Open (still really want to see this one) Clemency Diane Invisible Life Luce Shadow Synonyms Transit Woman at War

Absent on Purpose Pain & Glory Ford v Ferrari I think these are the only two contenders that I’ve seen and haven’t mentioned. I actually liked both of these movies quite a bit. Just didn’t stand out for me in any one category I suppose. But then also: Booksmart Brittany Runs a Marathon Just Mercy The Mustang

Hah!

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lordofsunshadowandsailor · 7 years

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replies

because many and long and thorough:

danjaley replied to your photo “A single glance sufficed for Alvar to see he would have a hard time...”

I like this thought. And it links Alvar and Tobio on yet another level.

In future updates we shall learn how their relationship developed after that first sexual encounter, but I thought I’d already leave this hinting at their paths, that is really so different between themselves.

danjaley replied to your photoset “There lay a peculiar emptiness to the closet, though. Tobio’s clothes...”

Oh dear, this really is a large bottle of wine! ;)

And it’s a particularly beautiful one, right, @aroundthesims

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “The outbreak of war had interrupted the normal and predictable career...”

I like this so much. Fire always makes beautiful effects. And the background! I'm looking forward to see more of your WW I recreations.

It is so atmospheric, I agree. One can feel the ambient just because of the image of the fire pit. It must be our ancestral collective memories.

As for the WWI, this is when the steampunk accent creeps in... There is virtually nothing specific to recreate the war, so it will be more on the side of fantasy and imagination than recreation...

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photoset “There lay a peculiar emptiness to the closet, though. Tobio’s clothes...”

What a luxurious bedroom.

Oh, Alvar think it is so middling class, so constraining in its humbleness... But it did take a lot work to build this set!

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “Alvar had then ventured into yet another room of his friend’s house...”

Alvar still looks kinda hot...

Poor Alvar. He would never think of himself as hot -- did people use that term back then? --, and not in his lame post-war persona anyways... But I agree with you, he still looks fit and his partial nudity in contrast with the formal attire is kinda hot!

hyperkaos replied to your photo “The outbreak of war had interrupted the normal and predictable career...”

I keep coming back to see if you've added more to this, it intrigues me as to how it ties into everything else

And it took only a few days... Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope it makes more sense now.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Tobio?” Alvar inquired, in a voice that suddenly sounded not just...”

Oh hi!!! I remember you from 'beneath the stairs!' lolol x

And what stairs are we talking about? Because Alvar has been carrying Apollo Jim since the margins of the river, up those incredible stone stairs where Death tried to dissuade and distract him :)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Tobio!” He exhaled the name more than called it, and finally seemed...”

I love the blend also @tyrellsimsoficeandfire

I simply cannot imagine my game without the Greek outfits made @venusprincess-simblr, even if I am not playing the Greco-roman world any longer, so I always make up reasons to use them... :)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Where do I place him, Tobio?” It could have been said that he...”

What are the scars on his face from? Crazy experiments? Acid attack? He wants to be a super-villain?

Poor Tobio. He is super nothing, except perhaps super lonely, super devastated, super sad.

I don’t think I have described the ambush that cost his eye, have I? Then I should!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “With a sharp sting across his chest, Alvar deposed Apollo Jim on the...”

I love the description of Alv's perception of death by the window. Beautiful!

Thank you! I’m glad you like it!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Tobio could tell why, but he wanted to listen it from Alvar. Lost Boys...”

Weeds on the soil of wealth. Wow. Your writing is masterful!

Writing is like bathing in a river that springs from yourself. You just pick the right words as they float by you.

But when I am not in the process of actually writing words down, I wonder... Did I really write that?

Thank you always for your support!

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a decade. Freddie’s occasional...”

I always like the atmosphere your shots hsbe6. One can really feel the warmth and intimacy! Also, do I spot danjaley's fireside poses?

I don’t think I remember her poses, but I probably should... These poses are actually from two guys cuddling next to a car, on the floor of a parking lot... Not the least like this scene, actually! But when I saw it I knew it was just right for Alvar and his cousin Freddie.

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “Probably feeling guilty in his irresponsible repose, in dreams – where...”

I'm curious if there's some reason why they are associated with greece?

It’s the ideal time, in the understanding and idealization of the Victorian era, for their love otherwise condemned and forbidden, called then the Greek Love... I have explained it in this post, and declarations-of-drama has a comment below that adds to this, too, if you want to read my answer to it.

danjaley replied to your photo “I understand it, Alvie.” Alvar’s name in Frederic’s mouth was little...”

I was going to say they have these characteristic WW1 faces, but I've come to realize it must be the style rather than the faces, when I compare them with the Greek versions. That's interesting, as I always wonder where those types disappear to when they go out of fashion - or how we'd all look if the year was 1917...

Thank you for mentioning this! It’s very interesting isn’t it?

I did make a post with my inspirations to create the characters for LoSSS. I f look closely to their faces, they are timeless male beauties, considering Western and Classical Greek standards... And they do resemble contemporary male models or actors of our days. It’s their hairstyles and clothes and the photography of course that makes them dated, like you say.

Just like sometimes I meet Italian people who do look like a Roman marble statue come to life...

hyperkaos replied to your photo “Dreaming was all they had had for a while to keep their love thriving...”

So young, so willing to give up everything for hopes and dreams, for love, Alvar's innocence hurts

Yes, that is Alvar, at his purest in the company of the man of his life!

fancifults3cc reblogged your photo and added:

Oh no! A crime of passion!

Oh, I would say this is a crime against passion, Alvar and Freddie’s passion!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “You already have, Lord Phallihurst.” Tobio affirmed, after having...”

So, something mixed with the Absinthe?

This is what we know or are led to believe so far. Maybe Tobio will find out more.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Tobio could tell why, but he wanted to listen it from Alvar. Lost Boys...”

I also had to come back to this chapter to read your description again of the brothels. I've done a bit of reading about these places before now and am sort of a bit fascinated by the whole logistics of how those places conducted business and the lives of the workers etc etc. You paint a very graphic image of it.

I admit to not having researched extensively on this subject, other than reading about brothels and a little about sexuality and pornography in Victorian times -- though this is supposedly Edwardian times (or the end of it) in the story, and then WWI and the changes it brought... I’m happy you did not find any inconsistencies, but please do let me know if you spot any!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “The boy stood clearly not for a sailor, though the hat could have been...”

But why would he be wearing a false tattoo? Roleplay? To be seen as a sailor boy I guess?

The tattoo matches the strange outfit, though not so strange for a rent boy who is supposed to fulfill his clients’ fantasies...

The plots holds several small mysteries, and this is one of them...

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “I don’t think I understand it, Alvar Andrew. You don’t intend to...”

Why is there so much concern for this boy? I'm a bit lost here.

I hope this has been answered in this post, though it is left ambiguous and rather open as Alvar does not utter a word, leaving Tobio to conclude...

I shall have to be more explicit in the future about the link between Alvar and the boy.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “You are taking him to your ancestral lands? To live under the same...”

Good question! And Tobio has probably seen too many to be as bothered about him tbh

Exactly, that’s what he says, too! And the next post to this holds the revelation...

declarations-of-drama reblogged your photo and added:

Art against art…

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Not proud. Not the least, not Alvar. Not for any past weaknesses,...”

This is amazingly beautiful! The contrast really catches my eye and it's almost hard to distinguish the Sim from the painting! Well done!!! x

Thank you so much for the reblog, and your kind words, dear!

I did play a lot with this scene. I tried several choices of paintings, and different poses for Alvar, and changed the colors on the wallpaper until it matched and still contrasted with Alvar’s skin.

I’m hardly ever satisfied with lighting in Sims 3, and that the part I try to correct in PS.

I’m so glad you liked the final result, and the one shot I chose to upload from the dozen I made :)

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “But still, quite accomplished. As if again turned into thorn flesh,...”

Alvar should also have phantom pains, and boils would come and go to accompany the intrusion of a false support. Also he would probably call it his stump and not his amputated leg (which is by now probably lost, burned or used in medical science).

I did not reflect about this, thinking an amputated leg was both what remained and what was removed... But you are right saying that sometimes the specific word is stump... I’ll have to rewrite this, and pay more attention from now on!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “His temples throbbed, too, as if his heart, oscillating between...”

Why do I get the feeling that Alv wants to be one of Tob's patients himself? Was it Tobio who took his leg?

Alvar is one of Tobio’s patients! But no, Tobio did not operate Alvar’s leg -- though that is maybe a good idea...

declarations-of-drama replied to your photoset “There lay a peculiar emptiness to the closet, though. Tobio’s clothes...”

Oh! That explains a lot!

I often hesitate about making longer posts, but sometimes it’s just what it’s needed to get the whole perspective, right?

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “Alvar walked slowly towards the armchair next to the rack of clothes,...”

Disliking women totally, as in sexually? I often wonder about things like this, such as the levels of bi-sexuality in us and how people must have coped when they were married etc in those days

I will develop this theme in the story, both from Alvar’s and Tobio’s perspectives!

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “From the beginning of his life – love life, sentimental life, intimate...”

I watched Troy the other night and then spent around 4 hours reading up on Greek Antiquity. It was fascinating! I'm guessing this is what Alvar with his cousin is resonating of a pedarasty relationship? Like was a required part of Greek Noble youth? It was all so fascinating to learn!

Greece was not an united nation back then, so this was mostly and Athenian thing. Pederasty, as I mentioned in this post , was not just acceptable but often a desirable thing as a rite of passage. It usually involved a wider age gap than this existing in the story, with Alvar submitting to Freddie or Tobio, that are not actually old enough to be the erastes. But I’m no expert in such matters and am writing a story, not a treaty. So you are right to mention Troy, a good movie despite all the Hollywoodian peccadilloes and hypocrisy, and the love between Achilles and Patroclus, which was not the same as in pederasty, since they were practically the same age, and not Athenians.

declarations-of-drama replied to your photo “The outbreak of war had interrupted the normal and predictable career...”

A story within a story. This should be interesting! I wonder where Freddy is now? Time for Dinner! These chapters made me HUNGRY!!! lol

This is usually how I write. Stories within stories, and plenty of flashbacks, and flashbacks withing flashbacks... Like in a mosaic, or a kaleidoscope.

Freddie is dead, like it’s been said before.

And I hope you had a good dinner!

tyrellsimsoficeandfire replied to your photo “Not proud. Not the least, not Alvar. Not for any past weaknesses,...”

I had the same though when seeing. @andantezen always does amazing artworks.

Thank you dear, it’s always a much needed encouragement to know that!

lifeasasim replied to your photoset “There lay a peculiar emptiness to the closet, though. Tobio’s clothes...”

Look at that room ;_;

Haha, the detail is intended to say things about the characters, that’s why I have troubled myself and gone this far...

lifeasasim replied to your photo “Probably feeling guilty in his irresponsible repose, in dreams – where...”

Gosh, this is so beautiful!

Thank you dear!

#danjaley #tyrellsimsoficeandfire #hyperkaos #declarations-of-drama #murfeelee #lifeasasim

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