View allAll Photos Tagged unhinged
The basalt beach at Artist Point in Grand Marais, Minnesota, is a jagged, primordial cathedral of stone, where Lake Superior’s icy waves crash against the black basalt cliffs like some ancient, restless beast gnawing at the edge of the world. The air hums with a wild, untamed energy, as if the ghosts of voyageurs and Ojibwe traders still linger in the saltless spray, whispering tales of shipwrecks and forgotten winters. Jagged rocks, sculpted by eons of wind and water, jut out like the bones of the earth, daring you to scramble across their slick surfaces while the lake’s moody churn roars below, a symphony of chaos and indifference. Gulls wheel overhead, their cries slicing through the mist, and the horizon stretches into a limitless void, pulling your soul toward the edge of reason, where the line between man and nature blurs into something raw, magnificent, and just a little unhinged.
I liked how Densmore looked almost at my camera as he reminisced with Stephen Perkins about his days with The Doors. The book is titled "The Doors Unhinged: Jim Morrison's Legacy Goes on Trial."
Densmore and Perkins are both accomplished rock drummers. Densmore was drummer for The Doors, and Perkins is the drummer for Jane's Addiction. Stephen Perkins was born in 1967, the same year "The Doors" was released in record stores. Perkins had to brag about that, as if there was some sort of significance to it, and perhaps there is. And even if there really isn't Perkins is still a big Doors fan and could ask the right questions to Densmore and get him going with some pretty good stories about his time with The Doors.
IN ENGLISH BELOW THE LINE
Un gegantí creuer "aparcat" dins el Grand Harbour de La Valetta, a Malta. Com poden fer aquestes baluernes tant enormes? I com les poden disfrutar?
===============================
A huge monstrous giant "parked" inside the Grand Harbour of La Valetta. How they can do these so huge and unhinged?
04-Nov-2022 13:121 - Fuji Acros II @ EI 100
3 min pre wash
Developed in 512 Pyro 7 mins 45sec (N) @ 20C
1 min post dev water wash
Tetenal SuperFix Plus 1+4 : 4 mins
Bronica SQAi + 80mm
Highlight = 14
Shadow = 10
Midpoint = 12
Filter : Yellow -1.5
Final EV = 10.5
Note - Film has No Reciprocity for first 50-120 sec
1/2 sec @ f22
Terry Taylor and I set up a little makeshift photo studio on Folsom Street during the Folsom Street Fair, 2009.
Strobist: Front right - Small softbox with an SB-800. 2 SB-800's, rear left and right - kickers.
After his father was nearly killed by a mob boss, Hank and his brother Don tracked his father's would-be murderer down. When they were trapped in a room, they called out for the power to continue their pursuit, a call that was answered by the Lords of Chaos and Oder. They gave them the powers they asked for, so long as they used them for the pursuit of justice. After the death of his brother, Hank had become unhinged, to the point of being kicked out of the Titans and blacklisted in twelve countries. That is, until he met Dawn Granger, the new Dove and the love of his life.
The Soul of America
Posted by Ravi Zacharias on July 2, 2016
Years ago, Francis Schaeffer and C. Everett Koop penned their book, Whatever Happened to the Human Race? It was a book that warned of the decisions that were being made within a culture stepping into new and terrifying terrain. They saw clearly where we were headed. We are now there.
I narrow that title down to what is happening on the home front here in America.
Listening to the blistering political rhetoric, I am asked all over the world, “What has happened in America?” The question should go deeper. Whatever happened to the American soul? We are truly at the cliff’s precipitous edge and the fall could be long and deadly. Why? We have a deep crisis of the soul that is killing us morally and we have no recourse. We have no recourse because the only cure has been disparaged and mocked by the elite and the powerful. And those very ideologies are now presiding over the slaughter of our citizens while the abundance of speeches is inversely proportional to the wisdom they contain and Reason bleeds to death before our eyes.
These may be strong words but I am staggered by all that is happening around us while the powerful fiddle and bodies litter the floors of offices, airports, and even restaurants. How many families will be shattered and offered up at the altar of our foolishness?
Let me connect some dots to trace where the real killing is happening. Dare I say a kind of genocide stares us in the face? Genocide is defined as the mass killing of a particular group of people. I have started to ask myself whether genocide is the first step towards mass murder or has a kind of mass murder already taken place before we experience genocide and the mangled bodies? I propose to you that multiple killings have preceded the horrors with which we now live. Those killings prepared the ground for the literal burial of our own people.
Three killings in particular are as real as the carnage we see when suicide vests are detonated: the death of morality, the death of truth, and the death of reason. With such tragic exterminations, we now find ourselves in ever-present danger, constantly lectured to by those who have all the bodyguards they and their families need while the rest of us are sitting ducks for evil people whose rights are protected more than those of their slaughtered victims. Why is this happening? We are at war but not only with an enemy. We are at war within our own culture, and whether we will ever win over the enemy depends on whether we win this war within our own souls.
At first, how I connect these dots may seem far-fetched, but they are indeed connected. Some time ago Robert Shapiro, the well-known lawyer of the famed O.J. Simpson trial, was being interviewed by Megyn Kelly of Fox News. She asked if justice had been served in that case. In a mind-stupefying, pathetic answer, he said, “There is legal justice and moral justice. Legal justice was served.” Maybe it was rightly called the trial of the century: We have entered the twenty-first century having amputated law from morality. Welcome to the uncivil civilization legalizing murder. That an intelligent, educated, supposedly legal scholar can make a statement like that and think he has defended a noble cause is fatal to our culture. Maybe that’s why Shakespeare described Satan as “the prince of lawyers.” If that’s what legal theory espouses we are in great peril. I have no doubt many an honorable lawyer cringed at that response but probably none was shocked. This is where law has drifted and come unhinged from any moral moorings. When justice is decapitated and something can be legal but immoral, we know we have already killed the heart of what it means to be human. The morality of the beast is now normal. Is it any wonder that Nazi judges felt they were doing the “right thing” by upholding their legal prerogative that resulted in the death of millions? Our society is being dragged towards the morgue because the law has held the gun to the heart of morality.
Ironically, there was something in his response to be applauded. At least he granted there was such a thing as moral justice. So that leads to a deeper question: Should not Morality and Truth be inextricably bound together? That is at the heart of all judgments. What is the truth when a person is killed? But now, I dare say, not only does morality not matter, the truth doesn’t matter either. That has also been buried. If you want a snapshot of our times, here it is: Four brave Americans serving their country murdered by a bunch of hate-filled thugs, whose ideology we are not allowed to identify, received and presided over by a litany of lies, their bodies draped in the national flag, while assurance is given to the bereaved that the culprits will be hunted down, including the one because of whom they were killed. If that scenario doesn’t drive us to our knees, Lord have mercy!
We are in the graveyard of a culture when a most somber moment cannot compel the conscience to tell the truth. Oh, that the victims could have sat up for just a moment and stared down that heinous lie! But it was not to be. One day it will be so as their blood cries out from the ground. As Muggeridge said, “The lie is stuck like a fish bone in the throat of the handheld microphone…. Truth has died, not God.” The noble thing to have done when that blunder was made was to admit a failure for whatever reason and ask for pardon, but not to bury the dead with a lie! As if it is not dark enough for a handful to tell a lie, even worse, in our culture today the lie is no longer a posture to be shunned. We celebrate power over truth, enshrouding the lie with our flag. That is a form of national murder. You see, a blunder is a momentary reality. Upholding a lie is a character flaw, sending that lie into eternity.
The death of morality, the death of truth; then we come to the last, the death of reason. Aristotle reminded us that the first law of logic is identity. We must identify what we are talking about. A particular identifiable characteristic is indispensable to the referent. We must identify the characteristics of the thing we define. That is necessary to understanding the thing and to resisting contradiction. But as destroyers enter our lands and desire to pillage and kill, we are led by rhetoric that kills the first law of logic, the law of identity. We are told that identifying the enemy is not that important; strange that the same logic is not employed to all other local inimical ideologies but only seems to apply to Islam. Honest Muslims themselves wish to call it for what it is but our clever linguistic sleight of hand seems to restrict us from such identity—and so we bury our dead without identifying why the killer killed them. First, we try to mitigate our peril by this incredible new coinage, “radicalized,” that conveniently shifts the blame from the active shooter to the remote controller. Now we don’t even wish to identify what controls the remote controller. Propaganda that kills identity is deadly to the soul of a culture.
We are sliding into the future with evil stalking us but no morality, no truth, and no reason to guide us. America may be flirting with a self-inflicted mortal wound. Or it could well be a killing that is designed by a postmodern ideology masquerading as political correctness. When liberalism, whose legitimate child is relativism, has played itself out it will be a Pyrrhic victory to find ourselves in the hands of those whose identity is no longer in doubt. And when they are in control, the very means they used to hide their identity will be silenced as well. They will preside over the last rites of politically correct enforcers and a “free press” that abused freedom and celebrated the lie ‘til they themselves were silenced, buried by the truth they never wanted to expose.
There always has been, and is now more than ever, only one hope for rescue. If we abide in God’s truth revealed in his Son, then we shall know the truth and the truth will set us free. That is why I say again and again that we must dispense with our verbal arsenal that speaks only in terms of right and left. We have forgotten there is an up and a down. May God help us! We need His transforming power to change our thinking and to give us a hunger for what is true. True freedom is not in doing whatever we wish but in doing what we ought. That has been buried in America. And only one who knows the way out of the grave can give us a second chance to live: Jesus, the way, the truth, and the life that sets us free from within first, before we learn to deal with the lies around us.
As my prayer for this July 4th, I think of the great hymn by Isaac Watts prayed often in moments of drastic transition. I have added a fourth verse for our times.
Our God, our Help in ages past,
Our Hope for years to come,
Our Shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal Home!
Under the shadow of Thy throne
Thy saints have dwelt secure;
Sufficient is Thine arm alone,
And our defense is sure.
Before the hills in order stood
Or earth received her frame,
From everlasting Thou art God,
To endless years the same.
We need thee now as ne’er before,
We mourn the wisdom gone;
Transform our land forevermore—
Redemption through your Son.
John Densmore talked about his days with the Doors about this point when I was shooting photos. He hadn't gotten to the good stuff yet, which was reading excerpts from his book, "The Doors Unhinged..." but that will come with later postings.
Rumours abound this morning, Colas have apparently been told to take their 56's and do one after an apparent incident involving one of the locos doing a 100 metre slide.
True? Don't know, although 56078 was reportedly dumped at Worcester with square wheels a couple of days ago, although that's nothing more extreme than similar difficulties with class 20's on the Yorkshire circuits.
Watch this space...
In other end of the world news, an unhinged bigot has somehow managed to take charge in a big foreign country...
Prestatyn, 8 November 2016.
"VIDEO KILLED THE RADO STAR?"
Well, just about, I'm a tad knackered at the moment!
G’day, I’ve been a wee bit quiet for the past few weeks as I reviewed movies at this year’s 2007 Melbourne (Australia) International Film Festival. I broadcast the reviews over about two and a half hours all up on my show, Zero-G: Science Fiction, Fantasy & Historical Radio, on 3RRR FM. (rrr.org.au)
The above picture is the sign on the Erwin Rado Theatre at 211 Johnson Street, Fitzroy, where the MIFF has its headquarters. The building's nothing much to look at from outside, really! But the sign...well, THAT has character!
Below the MIFF offices, the theatre, named after the director of the Film Festival from 1957 - 1983, has a charming old 69 seat cinema that can screen 16mm and 35mm film as well as DVD, LaserDisc, VHS, Data and MiniDV.
The MIFF’s access to the theatre expired at the end of 2007 and, ideally, it really should have its own dedicated screening facility, as other major city’s film festivals have. Still, the office itself has now moved to a more central location in Melbourne, which is handy!
To find out more about the MIFF go here:
www.melbournefilmfestival.com.au/
Anyway, I thought I’d post some of reviews here, inspired by films that I particularly enjoyed at this year’s event.
The full transcripts can be found at:
-AACHI & SSIPAK-
SOUTH KOREA
This continuously violent South Korean animated adult feature presents a future where human excrement is an energy source. Citizens have a monitoring chip attached to their arses and particularly productive individuals are rewarded with addictive drug laced munchies called Juicy Bars.
I shit you not.
The story begins with a roadwarrior highway battle as the swarming blue mutant Diaper Gang (!) attempts to truckjack a cargo of Juicy Bars, only to encounter a devastatingly lethal cyborg enforcer who makes Judge Dredd look like a human rights campaigner.
Headshot bodies fall at a rate that would impress Aeon Flux and Samurai Jack combined as the repressive government, assorted roving bands of bandits and con men, including the title characters Aachi and Ssipak (pronounced ‘she-pock’) along with a feisty would-be actress, all compete for the Juicy Bars.
Given the outrageous level of mayhem and the giggling concept that lies at the, er, bottom of the plot, it’s hardly worth noting that the animators cheerfully raid pop culture for many sequences, including the films Aliens and Indiana Jones & The Temple Of Doom. The latter is extensively overmined for one tunnel chase set up.
The animation is quite stylistically vigorous while the off the wall social commentary reminds me a little of the kind of thing that animator Ralph Bakshi attempted in his Fritz The Cat days, well before the likes of South Park and its shock-anime kin. There’s also something to be said for the biting political satire that runs through the narrative, which results in the government and gang leader being merely two opposite sides of the same ruthless coin.
People with kids could have pointless fun banning them from seeing this film, but apparently MTV’s thinking of doing a telly series based on it anyway, so, futile or what?
Subtle it isn’t, but it is a species of wicked fun that will gather bums on seats!
Director Joe Bum-jin
2006/90mins
-A FEW DAYS IN SEPTEMBER-
ITALY/FRANCE/PORTUGAL
The first film directed by screenwriter Santiago Amigorena, A Few Days In September
(Quelques Jours en Septembre), is a laid back but quite charming French spy thriller that makes espionage a family affair...and a realistically bickering family at that.
Elliot, mostly alluded to or played as an off screen voiceover by Nick Nolte until near the film’s conclusion, is an ex-CIA agent with knowledge about the upcoming 911 attacks. He hopes to trade the information for a stake that will enable him to reunite and live with his biological daughter and step-son, legacies of two seperate cover identity marriages in France and the U.S.
Much sought after by various factions, Elliot entrusts his grown up children, Orlando (Sara Forestier) and David (British actor Tom Riley) to the capable care of Irène, a cool, experienced French secret agent who used to be Elliot’s colleague. The potentially overwhelming meta-story takes a back seat to the character relationships, which makes a nice change to the usual breathless adventures that would normally puff up this kind of story into a by-the-numbers action thriller.
Juliette Binoche brings marvelous, stylish depth to her role as world wise spy Irène, providing a wryly sophisticated setting for her charges’ inevitable romance. (What IS it with the French anyway? After Irène’s arm is injured she turns up wearing a chic scarf as a sling, but of course!) Always gorgeous, the actress pitches the character as being adept enough at her deadly trade so that she can afford to enjoy herself while she works. Forestier is all sharp edged, angry eyed angst as she works through father/daughter issues while Riley nervously cooks (his character worked in a restaurant) for the two formidable women who have abruptly complicated his life with their Amazonian expertise with firearms. I also very much enjoyed the arch Franco/American banter between Orlando and David.
Seeking Elliot through the medium of his children is William Pound, a whacko ‘wet work’ assassin who has a penchant for poetry, drives a florist’s delivery van and has a mobile phone plagued by the world’s most annoying ringtone. Pound’s character is tightly wound by John Turturro, who played one of the convicts in O Brother, Where Art Thou? and also an equally obsessive relative of the title character in the television series Monk.
A Few Days In September benefits from first rate cinematography, including some playful soft focus shots that whimsically render Venice and Paris, cheekily explained by Irène’s habit of removing her glasses to ‘see things differently’. There’s also a cracking good shot through the dark framed doorway of a Venetian Chapel which reminded me of a signature frame from a John Ford Western, only instead of Mesas and sagebrush we get the Venice Lagoon and a passing ocean liner.
Although this film lingers perhaps a little too lovingly on the wrangling entanglements of its main characters I still found it pleasant and rewardable viewing. Amigorena certainly knows how to inject off-beat life into his characters.
Director/Screenwriter Santiago Amigorena
2006/115 mins
-BUG-
USA
When down on her luck small town waitress Agnes White (played by Ashley Judd) invites eccentric drifter Peter Evans into her seedy motel room she receives much more than she bug-aned for!
Director William Friedkin (The Exorcist, & The French Connection) gets almost unbearably psychological in this cross genre movie that wisely adds no excess fat to the one set, pressure cooker Tracy Lett’s play that it’s adapted from. As the two main characters’ relationship slowly emerges from a far too tightly spun chrysalis the film builds to one of the most intensely wound paranoic conclusions seen on screen.
Michael Shannon is gauntly convincing as Evans, a role that he pioneered in the original stage play and intially at least, reminds me a little of a young Steve McQueen or perhaps, Joachim Phoenix. Harry Connick Junior has a supporting part in the film as Agne’s ex-convict, ex-husband.
Bug’s maddeningly paced escalating tension is supported by an appropriately chittering score, composed by Brian Tyler, who also gave us soundtracks for the films Constantine, Bubba Ho-Tep, the Children of Dune miniseries, as well as episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise and the upcoming Aliens Versus Predator 2: Survival Of The Fittest. Speaking of Star Trek, Ashley Judd also played Ensign Robin Lefler in Star Trek: Next Generation.
Bug is a film that creeps up on you and by its final scuttling rush will definitely get under your skin...one way or another.
Director- William Friedkin
Screenwriter-Tracy Letts
2006/101mins
-EL TOPO-
(MEXICO)
El Topo (“The Mole”) was director Alejandro Jodorowsky's third film. The infamous Mexican allergorically surreal Eastern/Western is presented at the festival in a very fine new restoration (a bit of a shock for those used to seeing it in its customary raddled grindhouse/cult prints!) along with its natural companion piece, The Holy Mountain.
This comprehensively startling but compelling film begins, not unlike the Lone Wolf And Cub Samurai series, with the black clad, flute playing gunslinger El Topo (played by the director himself) riding across the wastelands in company with a taciturn child companion. After a blood drenched encounter with drunkenly bestial bandits El Topo replaces the boy with a seductively manipulative woman who urges him to become the greatest shootist in the world by seeking out and defeating four master gunfighters.
As with the wuxia martial arts films that this story frequently references the quest for the masters proves dangerous, difficult, baffling and wonderous.
The gunslinger’s odyssey to achieve enlightment and mastery is populated with exotic encounters and inventive, symbolically charged imagery. Deflating balloons signal the start of duels, capering outlaws with shoe fetishes rape feminised sand paintings and carve bananas with sabres, civilised townsfolk prove more depraved and debauched than the wasteland bandits, herds of rabbits mysteriously die at El Topo’s feet, incestuously deformed trogalytes living in oil drums tunnel to escape their underground prison, and live bullets are caught and deflected by butterfly nets.
This visual melange is supported by Jodorowskys and Nacho Méndezs evocative music which, by turns soothing or jarring, echoes across the many desert based sequences and permeates the locations, which frequently read more like artistic installations than sets grounded in any kind of mundane reality. In fact, there is a timeless anachronistic feel to the desert that makes you question whether this is nominally a period Western or indeed set in some kind of post-apocalyptic Stephen King future.
El Topo is rendered even stranger by its renowned mid-film gear change, one of several enigmatic transformations that can be interpreted as Buddhist inspired reincarnations of the title character.
Just imagine what might have been if Jodorowsky had pulled off his mid-70s adaptation of Frank Herbert's Dune, with its intended cast of Salvidor Dali as the Emperor, Mick Jagger playing Feyd Rautha and Orson Welles as Baron Harkonnen? As it is the Acid Western tradition at least got another outing in Jim Jarmusch's more recent film, Dead Man, which, for all its many remarkable charms, by comparison to El Topo is cast into monochrome shade.
A bizarre chimera even by Zero-G's notoriously unhinged standards El Topo is a cult classic given gloriously grotesque new life by its own recent transfiguring restoration.
Director/Screenwriter Alejandro Jodorowsky
1971/125mins
-FIDO-
Canada/USA
Fido fiendishly expands upon the gag featured in Shaun of the Dead (amongst other films) that zombies could be domesticated to perform simple tasks. Zombies helping in the kitchen? Uh-oh, better make sure they keep those rotting fingers are kept hygenically away from food preparation surfaces with a pair of crisp, clean white cotton gloves....
In an alternate 1950s the all encompassing ZomCom, which apparently helped win the Zombie War, protects and serves the walled small towns of America. Now, we all know that the only reason to provide zombies with clever electronic control collars is so that the gadgets can malfunction; cue zombie outbreak! It’s the slyly subversive juxtaposition of wholesome mom and apple-pie Leave It To Beaver sitcom with Zombie killing procedural that lends this consistently bemusing film a wicked Addams Family style where Pop naturally reads Death Magazine and scenes shot in cars are filmed using good old fashioned rear screen projection.
Not that we’re talking Black and White telly, nosirree Bob! Fido is filmed in full, glorious technicolour, complete with ginormous finned automobiles, two toned shoes and compliant Stepford housewives who wait at the front door for their patriarchal hubbies to take the martini from their submissive, manicured hands. Happily, Carrie Anne-Moss in one of the main roles, as Helen Robinson, is more of a buddingly feisty Desperate Housewife after the armed and dangerous example of Bree Hodge. (From The Matrix to a zombie packed Pleasantville is indeed an ironic career path!) It’s not long before Helen kicks over the domestic traces following the example of her young son, Timmy (knowingly played by the intriguingly named K’Sun Ray) and his new pet zombie, the Fido of the title, embodied by Billy Connolly. Connolly plays the long suffering Fido with toothy glee, moaning and groaning and lurching in the throes of what could easily double as a hangover of fatally heroic proportions.
Keep an eye out (easy to do in a zombie film) for Dylan Baker, as the nervously cheerful Bill Robinson. Baker has had the sleeper part of Doctor Curt Connors in the Spider-Man films and, as comic book fans anticipate, should eventually get to mutate into the super-villain, The Lizard.
Fido is my genre pic of the Festival, in the tradition of another year’s shambling B-schlock spoof, The Lost Skeleton Of Cadavra. I ask you, how can I not enjoy sinking my teeth into a film where a pet zombie is addressed with a line like: “What’s that Fido? Timmy’s in trouble?”
It’s enough to make Lassie dig her way out of her grave!
Director- Andrew Currie
Screenwriters- Robert Chomiak, Andrew Currie, Dennis Heaton
2006/91mins
-HANSEL & GRETEL-
GERMANY
If you go down to the woods today.....you’d better take your copy of the Brothers Grimm Cookbook For Baking Independent Elderly Female Cannibal Sorceresses.
German director Anne Wild and screenwriter Peter Schwindt settle for a straightforward retelling of the classic rural ‘stranger danger’ story wherein the devious Gretel proves the most resourceful of two deliberately lost children who end up on the menu of the obligatory member of the local Guild of Almagamated Wicked Witches & Confectioners.
Deliberately lost? How do you think the kids got to be wandering around in Blair Witchburg in the first place? Sometimes tactfully omitted from modern retellings of this familiar story is the neglected element of child abandonment, a practice forced upon starving families in situations of plague, famine, wars and other social upheavals. In this case, it’s the pragmatic step-mother who pushes her more sentimental but nontheless compliant woodcutter husband into cutting loose the kids.
In early versions of the story it’s usually just the natural mother who suggests jettisoning the offspring...a much more useful cautionary tale for parents to use as and Awful Threat when disciplining naughty anklebiters.
Leaving aside observations about how Hansel and Gretel underlines the historical distrust of skilled single women of independent means this is actually a moderately creepily staged film. The woods are suitably threatening, and the witch herself, though certainly not up to Buffy The Vampire Slayer standards is a reasonably nasty albeit dimwitted piece of work...
I never can figure out quite why witchy poo needed to go Hannibal Lector on kiddies when she was capable of whipping up enough food to fatten a small army, not to mention all that square footage of gingerbread real estate. Let’s just assume it’s an alternative lifestyle choice, along the lines of supergenius Wile. E. Coyote yearning after Roadrunner drumsticks in spite of the fact that he had enough credit to order truckloads of expensive gadgets from the ACME Corporation.
(On the subject of ghoulish folks developing a fondness for ‘long pig’ just what DID those darling children do with the oven fired witch after they fried her arse?)
We all know how this ends, after making off with the witch’s portable property the kids, in a remarkable act of forgiveness, share their taxfree windfall with their deadbeat dad...though their step mother has obligingly dropped dead in the meanwhile.
Hmm, did anyone actually see step-mama and Ms Witch in the same room at the same time?
Don’t expect a Post-Modern fractured fairytale from Hansel and Gretel and you won’t be led astray by what’s essentially a traditionally told, moderately unsettling film.
Director- Anne Wild
Screenwriter- Peter Schwindt
2006/76mins
-THE HOLY MOUNTAIN-
MEXICO
If you thought Alejandro Jodorowsky’s third film, El Topo, was weird...well, no caca Sherlock!
Wait until you get a load of this....
His next surreally allegorical outing, 1973’s The Holy Mountain, scales even more whackily experimental heights. Like El Topo, The Holy Mountain has also been recently, lovingly restored, all the better to trip out on the eye bulging psychedelic imagery!
Again, as with El Topo, the nominal protagonist is on a messianic quest to achieve enlightment. Even more ironically symbolic in this case since the central thief character bears a strong and exploitable resemblance to the traditional representation of Jesus Christ.
Horácio Salinas plays the hapless thief, leaving Jodorowsky himself the catalytic role of a tower dwelling alchemist who charges him to accompany seven influential but materialistic powerbrokers to Lotus Island where they will achieve eternal life once they have climbed the eponymous Holy Mountain.
Initially the dialogue is thin on the ground but soon ramps up to cheerfully inexplicable levels where a line like “hypersexed brown native vampires” can pass without comment or indeed comprehension. Politics, art, sexuality, and filmmaking, amongst many other subjects, all cop a satirical hiding in this extraordinary film which relies heavily upon fantasy imagery drawn from tarot cards, astrology and religion.
Just listing a few of the oddball ideas gives you an idea of the unique scope of Jorodowsky’s fevered imagination.
Two women are ‘cleansed’ of clothing, make-up, jewellery, false nails, and hair by a black robed priest who himself has ebony varnished fingernails. A screaming man lies covered in tarantulas...no big acting stretch there! The Invasion of Mexico is renacted by lizards dressed in Mezoamerican costumes battling frogs wearing Conquistador armour and missionary robes. (I have my doubts about this sequence, it sure looks like the poor frogs are really being blown up by explosives?) A mulitple amputee writes cryptic messages in the dirt with a severed animal leg. Parading prostitutes turn out to be just as holy as priests. Roman soldiers cast the thief in plaster and create a line of life-sized crucifiction merchandise. Art factory paint coated nude backsides stamp out images on a production line while live body painted nudes are built into installations so they can be fondled by gallery patrons. Gas masked soldiers attend dances and machine guns and hand grenades are painted in rainbow colours. Spartan like warriors pursue a cunning plan to emasculate 1000 heroes to create a shrine of 1000 testicles....and nevermind what they did with the other 1000! Eviscerated victims spill chicken guts....and I mean they literally pull chickens from their wounds’ while Liederhosen wearing Teutonics trip on drugs and strongmen are able to turn intangible and teleport through entire mountains.
Distantly reminiscent of Fellini’s Satyricon, and to some extent Roma, The Holy Mountain also boasts the most startling Orgasmatron machine since the erotic cult film Barbarella, in the form of a Giant mechanical vagina that’s manipulated like a theramin.... well, if a theramin was played by a giant dildo!
Is it any surprise, really, in the wake of the cult success of El Topo, that The Holy Mountain’s producer Allen Klein also managed The Beatles and that those fans of all things psychedelic, John Lennon and Yoko Ono helped fund the movie?
Landmark or landfill experimental film? The Holy Mountain remains an obvious precursor to movies like Eraserhead, The Cremaster Cycle, and The Qatsi Trilogy.
Climb it at your own peril. (You know you want to!)
Director/Screenwriter Alejandro Jodorowsky
1973/114mins
-lLS-
France
Clementine (Olivia Bonamy) and Lucas (Michael Cohen) live happily in pastoral rural isolation in a rundown chalet in the Romanian woods, until one night they are attacked by....THEM! No, not by lurching giant ants from a 1950s horror film but by...well, that would be telling. Some horror films take their time building suspense but Moreau and Palud’s shiversome first feature nails you straight to the wall and keeps you hanging there for the economical just-over-an-hour’s running time. And I do mean ‘running’.
The adept direction and unrelating pace set within the atmospheric confines of the old chalet (a dream of a location to create nightmares in) is ramped up by genuinely unnerving sound effects design, an evocatively tense soundtrack, solid if necessarilly Spartan performances by the two leads, and the teasing revelation of the nature of the besiegers.
There’s nothing particularly new about the ingredients stirred into this terrifying mix. In fact, you could, after the credits have rolled and the lights come up again, sit back and tick off the horror cliches one by one, starting with the usually tiresome pronouncement, “Based On A True Story”. Commentators seem uncertain about the veracity of that, but in this case it adds to the overall feel of unease that permeates the ending of this film. I found myself thinking, “Y’know, I can see how that could actually happen....brrrr!”
Ils...it took me a while to realise that the title is merely the French word for “Them”... is one of the most disturbing horror films I’ve seen in some time, and all without buckets of blood or lashings of sickly inventive torture porn. With its efficient minimalist approach it’s very close in tone to the best of the New Wave of Japanese horror that burst upon the West several years ago now.
Directors/ Screenwriters- David Moreau and Xavier Palud
2006/70 mins
-ISLAND OF LOST SOULS-
DENMARK
A big budget supernatural fantasy for young adults that's part Spielberg, part Lucas, with an added dash of Harry Potter, but which ultimately wears its ample CGI well to create an enjoyable and in a few places reasonably scary film.
When two children move to a quiet country town the last thing they expect to find is a haunted island plagued by a supernatural confluence of kidnapped souls. When a young girl taps into the mystic mayhem it results in her brother being possessed by the spirit of a centuries dead member of an ancient order of sorcerous crimefighters.
The film's young actors are capable and ‘self possessed’ in the face of some quite formidable magical opposition, including a new and nasty take on that familiar player from Central Horror Casting, the living Scarecrow, along with a necromancer who could be brother to both Nosferatu and the Star Wars Emperor, right down to the cadaverous features and handy ability to cast Sith lightning from his fingies! I especialy liked the offbeat character of the trainspotting psychic investigator who inevitably comes to the kid’s aid in their hour of dire peril.
A fun little romp that’s no longer than it should be at an economical 100 minutes.
Director- Nikolaj Arcel
Screenwriter- Ramsus Heisterberg
2007/100mins
Sessions
Sun, 12th of August, 1:00 PM
ACMI
-KHADAK-
Belgium/Germany/The Netherlands
Bagi, played by Batzul Khayankhyarvaa, is a young nomad, who, along with his family are wrenched from their nomadic existence by the Mongolian government who want to consolidate people in towns, villages and cities as the fledgling democracy gears up to enter the 21st century’s global economy. After rescuing Zolzaya (Tsetsegee Byamba), a beautiful female coal thief, Bagi boldly goes where nomad has gone before on a shamanistic quest that culminates in fantastical revelations about Mongolia’s future relation with the environment.
Khadak is underpinned by a hypnotically compelling narrative fascination with magic realism that often contrasts the shabby reality of the concrete high rises with the colourfully organic traditional nomadic traditional yurt dwellings.
The film overflows with powerful imagery, including a simple but effective camera roll that causes an iconistic prayer-scarf draped tree to turn upside down as the land itself is inverted by mineral exploitation and pollution. A deserted town, in reality an abandoned former Soviet barracks, stands in for one potential future. Tractors, used to haul the disassembled yurts, are started and allowed to run aimlessly free across the steppes as the government agents burn the nomads’ links to their former lifestyle behind them.
Khadak doesn’t always offer too nostalgic a view of the nomadic struggle; many of the former rural folk cheerfully adapt to their new circumstances and some seem to pragmatically thrive, especially Bagi’s mother, who ends up running heavy machinery at the coal mine where immense draglines swing with saurian grace across the screen.
The film’s reverberating score resonates across the wind blown, echoing steppes, giving way to some moments of pure musical bliss, especially when some of the newly urbanised young people get together for astonishing ‘jam’ sessions.
Both lyrical and hard edged Khadak is a film, like Martin Scorsese’s Kundan, whose exotic sights and sounds will be welcome guests in my yurt for as long as they choose to stay.
Directors/Screenwriters- Peter Brosens, Jessica Hope Woodworth
2006/105mins
-LAST WINTER, THE-
USA/Iceland
It’s damn cold in Northern Alaska but not cold enough, as tough but soft centered Ron Perlman’s advance oil drilling preparation crew discover when they set out to re-open an isolated test drilling site that may be viable in the face of looming energy shortages. The arctic circle tundra is thawing rapidly, unleashing the kind of environmental horror movie that used to be in vogue back in the 1970s and which is all too timely now as global warming makes its presence felt in the real world.
Perlman, as usual, is excellent, giving the kind of inflected performance that graced Hellboy, Cronos, City Of Lost Children and his impressive work in the television fantasy series Beauty & The Beast. The ensemble players are also deftly sketched in, often in a low key fashion that adds realism.
Director Larry Fessenden successfully follows up and even references in one brief bit of dialogue, Wendigo, one of his earlier, not entirely disimilar horror outings. As with some other genre films in this year’s festival the horror elements are timeless; from the simmering sexual and tensions and hostility between the boffins and the bluecollars to the classic scenario of the besieged ice station. The latter is a character in itself, in the ‘Thingy’ tradition of both Howard Hawks and John Carpenter’s seperate adaptations of John W. Campbell’s seminal very Cold War science fiction novella, Who Goes There? Best possible use is made of this stunning location, as the screen often becomes an overwhelmingly vast white or dark canvas to trap and diminish the hapless blue collar workers.
Crystal clear sound design helps ‘sell’ the visuals and the impressive CGI special effects are first rate, without ever detracting from the practical drama of the sheer dangers of living and working in such an extreme environment.
The Last Winter is a cunningly ambiguous chiller that cleverly maintains a plausible alternative explanation for the film’s lethal events up to and possibly including the final admirably restrained frame which begs teasingly to be opened out into a wider shot but leaves the audience wanting more, leaving room for a possible but unecessary sequel.
Oil be back!
Director- Larry Fessenden
Screenwriters- Larry Fessenden, Robert Leaver
2006/107mins
-MEN AT WORK-
IRAN
A carload of Iranian buddies on their way down the mountains from a skiing holiday stop for a toilet break at a precipitous roadside layover and discover a monolithic rock
that just HAS to be tumbled down the slopes.
If you’re a bloke, you automatically know how it is.
If you’re a woman, equally, you KNOW how we are!
An amusing exploration of male bonding and stubborness this happily crazy film is guaranteed to contain no sociopolitical allegory whatsoever (really!) and the Iranian writer/director has asked that the U.S please refrain from invading his leg of the Axis of Evil until he has finished his next project.
Director/Screenwriter- Mani Haghighi
2006/75mins
-SEVERANCE-
UK
When completely politically incorrect arms merchant Palisade Defence rewards its crack Euro Sales division with a team-building weeked in the woods of Eastern Europe the mismatched but archtypal bickering office workers soon find that they’re not quite the ‘gun’ group that they thought they were.
Yes, the comparison of choice is The Office meets Deliverance and that’s fair enough because what makes this movie so gormlessly funny is the inept Brits Abroad schtick combined with an equally knowing, wickedly timed take on the horror slasher genre that puts most inept Hollywood fun with fear spoofs to more shame than ever. The only time this film ever really fumbles is when it takes the horror too seriously, which is not all that frequently, though more noticably and perhaps inevitably, in the apocalyptic last reel.
Oddly, Severence’s particularly grungy baddies who get to fold, spindle and mutilate our heroic twonks remind me very much of the “Stalkers” from the recent popular video game, which itself references the Tarkovsky film and the less well known science fiction novel that classic is itself based on, Boris and Arkady Strugatsky’s Roadside Picnic.
The heavyweight British ensemble cast is a real corker here, and one of the most enjoyable in the festival films I’ve seen this year, including at least one former Bond villain (Toby Stephens who was Gustav Graves in Die Another Day) and the always wetly amusing Tim McInnerny who plays to his well known Blackadder type (He was both Lord Percy and Captain Darling) as the incompetent boss of the Palisade’s party.
I won’t be the last reviewer to note that Eastern Europe has become destination of choice for horror filmmakers of late. Attracted by threatening woodlands, abandoned buildings and low cost production facilities the exotic locales also perhaps wallow in a degree of smug and possibly premature Western superiority in the wake of the economic collapse of former Eastern Bloc foes. For the moment, these once hard to access countries are providing filmmakers with a place to set their stories ‘beyond the glow of the streetlights’. Again, as with other festival genre films, Severence does benefit from a marvelously decrepit Old Dark house of a location.
Severence is laced with joyfully understated sight gags, dialogue to listen for, and a good deal of well meaning irony regarding corporate responsibility. The icing on the cake is a musical score that fiddles with both ominous gypsy curses, pop tunes and even riffs off We’ll Meet Again as featured in Stanley Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove, to which black comedy there’s more than one reference.
Severance gives awful new meaning to the term, “You’e fired!”
Director- Christopher Smith
Screenwriters- James Moran, Christopher Smith
2006/90mins
-STILL LIFE-
HONG KONG/CHINA
An intimate but involving look at the disapora of displaced persons produced by China's Three Gorges Dam mega-engineering project as seen through the eyes of two people.
In the first part of the film coal miner Han Sanming (played by Sanming Han) returns after 16 years absence to his former home town of Fengjie, only to find its 2000 years of history submerged beneath the waters of the dam. Taking a temporary job in demolition, he searches for news of his ex wife, whom he hasn’t seen for 16 years.
Still Life never wanders far from the dominating horizontal visuals of the mighty Yangtze River and the monolithic concrete and steel dam. The apocalyptic rubble of the yet-to-be flooded part of the town forms another powerful metaphor, a full stop to the flow of linear time represented by the River, which itself has been given pause by the immense project.
It’s a hard life for Han, though undoubtedly far less dangerous than the notoriously hazardous Chinese coal mining industry, and it provides some extraordinary imagery.
Men in supposedly protective suits with sanitising back pack sprayers wander through gutted homes. Friends are made amongst workmates to the jaunty ringtones of their mobile phones as they exchange numbers...a socialising ritual that later prompts one of the film’s most poignant moments when a mobile ‘s unanswered ringing signals a tragic accident. Condemned buildings collapse with tired grace in the distant background as they receive explosive coup de grâces.
The second half of the film segues into another quest for closure, as Nurse Shen Hong (Tao Zhao) journeys to the town looking for her own estranged husband.
Again, the dam is another defining presence in the story, providing a backdrop for the final resolution of Shen Hong’s search.
One baffling scene (and I’d welcome any light that anyone can shed on this!) sees Shen staring at a large monument in the distance. It appears to be a Chinese alphabetical character, rendered in concrete. As she turns away, rocket motors ignite at its base and the whole giant structure lifts off into the skies. I assume this is some kind of reference to the recent successes of the Chinese manned space programme but am not sure as to why it’s relevant to the story? Unless it’s just a bit of triumphalism? Or indeed, because Shen does ignore the startling sight, perhaps it’s meant to be ironic? Enquiring minds need to know!
Actually, the overall philosophical conclusion drawn at the end of Still Life does read a little bit like some kind of inspirational tract to me....but that may just reflect my own bias, or again it could be ironic, and I won’t spoil the ending by going further into detail. (Well, cross cultural puzzles have always attracted me to World Cinema!)
Still Life is a beautifully visualised, thoughtful film with a measured pace that aptly reflects the larger elements that form the canvas that its smaller, but no less important, human dramas are played out against.
Director/Screenwriter- Jia Zhang-ke
2006/108mins
-THE WAR TAPES-
USA
Rather than be 'embedded' in a U.S military unit in Iraq filmmaker Deborah Scranton chose to give cameras to three National Guardsmen to record their own experiences deployed with Charlie Company, 3rd of the 172nd New Hampshire Mountain Infantry. Scranton provided additional remote directorial aid via text messaging and email to the three soldiers, Sgts. Stephen Pink and Zack Bazzi, and Specialist Michael Moriarty, whose stories were chosen from an overall pool of 1000 hours of footage.
The soldiers’ personal and professional accounts are sobering and revelatory and never less than enlightening.
Though it does this remarkably cohesive documentary something of a disservice to cherry pick material out of its sturdily engineered overall context it’s necessary to give some idea of the range of material included in the film.
We see several ambush eye views of the destructive force of roadside Improvised Explosive Devices which, though initiated and responded to with varying degrees of control by both combatant forces, usually result in chaos and confusion, death and destruction, for bystanders. One soldier matter-of-factly tours a vast graveyard of combat lossed vehicles, shattered and gutted by I.E.Ds, casting in an increasingly ironic light President Bush’s triumphantly naive 2003 announcement that “Major combat operations in Iraq have ended...”
The complexity of night operations are mirrored in the silvered eyed stare of soldiers seen through the eerie but tactically invaluable lenses of night vision equipment , rendering one formation of troops strikingly like a formation of stolid Terracotta Warriors. The detached professionalism of the soldiers understandably falters when a night time convoy kills a woman who was then struck repeatedly by each truck in turn.
The irony of soldiers and hired civilians (drivers and security guards) risking and losing their lives to protect re-supply cargos of, for example, cheese for hamburgers, is not lost on the troopers who wonder loudly if the complex and highly profitable logistical tail is wagging the policy dog? In fact, they’re refreshingly unguarded in their speculations about what they see, from their perspective as boots on the ground, as the reasons behind the ongoing war. Their observations are pithy, and to the point...or, rather, multiple points, as the individual opinions cover the entire spectrum of current controversy, from oil driven conspiracy to patriotic war on terror.
Soldiers will always enthusiastically relish the opportunity to grouse about their lot, reserving special venom for the shortcomings of their equipment, training, rations and orders. One complaint amongst many was that these soldiers received little or no cultural instruction to help prepare them for operating in the Iraq theatre, which ommission makes it hard to both know the enemy or understand your friends. Even a simple misunderstanding over a commonly used hand gesture for ‘Stop’ can, in the local environment, be fatally mistaken for ‘Hello!”
The fact that the Iraq conflict is, in reality, fought amongst peoples homes rather than some spiffily titled combat theatre, warzone or neutrally termed area of operations is thoughtfully underlined by frequent segues to the soldiers’ American homes, either when the troops have returned or during their absence. Surface impressions notwithstanding there doesn’t seem to be a great deal of difference between U.S and Iraqi civilians; folks, it seems, are alike all over. Stateside sequences touch upon the complicated effects that the deployment had on civilian family members, the problems of post traumatic stress disorder suffered by the veterans, and the more obvious physical injuries. For example, one of the soldiers has carpal tunnel syndrome in his hands, the result of vibration transmitted through the grips of his vehicle mounted machine gun on patrol. He also has to cope with back pain from wearing body armour in a confined space.
Crammed with ‘real time’ feedback from ongoing conflict The War Tapes makes a provocative companion piece with the 2005 documentary Gunner Palace. For balance I would also add to the recommended viewing list: Control Room (2004), Baghdad ER (2006), and My Country, My Country (2006)
Director- Deborah Scranton
2006/97mins
-WELCOME TO NOLLYWOOD-
USA/NIGERIA
Never heard of the Nigerian film industry? This inspiringly cheeky doco will rectify that and should be seen by all budding filmmakers seeking new ways to practice their art.
Something like 2400 movies per year are produced in Nigeria, making it the third most prolific film industry in the world. Film? Well, that’s a nostalgically generic term to describe the Nigerians’ enthusiastic bypassing of conventional film stock and its complex and expensive infrastructure in favour of digital video distributed directly and cheaply at local marketplaces on DVD or VCD.
The 300 or so Nigerian directors have an already rich tradition of oral storytelling to draw upon, and have embraced multiple genres usually lensing them through an action adventure filter, which has fostered a support industry of movie fight Action Camps where actors can learn the stunt fight business. Although one director claims “We don’t do science fiction” Nollywood nevertheless loves fantasy, especially religious based melodramas with plenty of demons and angels, sorcererors and witches.
Period films set in Nigeria often have a luridly portrayed but understandably anti-slavery element, which alongside with the witchcraft angle concerns some commentators who argue that focusing on these aspects promotes stereotypes.
A visit to the set of a film grounded in the recent Liberian war shows the Nigerian director, who at least partly funded the movie himself, putting his actors through boot camps to learn how to fill out their soldierly roles, including veteran advisors from both sides of the original conflict. The actors go through production hell but ironically are brought low by a botched contract with the caterers...
Nollywood; not entirely different from Hollywood!
Director- Jamie Meltzer
2007/58mins
-U-
FRANCE
A lyrical French animated feature with fluidly drawn artwork and an equally languid, but elegant plot as a Princess Mona is faced with choosing between new love and a beloved friend, who happens to be a unicorn. The charming, anthropomorphic animal cast could have been drawn by Dr Seuss, and the story is a souffle of flirtatious love with a playful musical topping.
Directors- Grégoire Solotareff, Serge Elissalde
Screenwriter- Grégoire Solotareff
2006/71mins
I've photographed A LOT of homes and this is one of the most unhinged thing's I've ever seen; a taxidermy bear snowboarding right at you as you enter the home.
www.myjewishlearning.com/2009/04/27/the-cabalists-daughter/
The Cabalist’s Daughter
BY MATTHUE ROTH | APRIL 27, 2009
“The Cabalist’s Daughter is a bipolar sort of book. On one hand, it’s a crazy, unhinged vision of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, starting with a wild supposition and growing steadily wilder from the first page onwards–what if the Lubavitcher Rebbe had a clone? On the other, it’s a pretty serious book that touches upon messianism, rape, global warming, peace in the Mideast, and those perpetually-impending nuclear crises that the news people are so fond of reporting about.
Of course, it’s not actually the Rebbe, and it’s not officially Chabad that’s being portrayed here — it’s the Cosmic Wisdom movement, a Hasidic group filled with “Cosmic Wisdomnik” rabbis with hospice houses spread out all over the world. The book opens with the leader of the Cosmic Wisdom movement, known only as the Cabalist, visiting the grave of the previous CW leader, his father-in-law, and having one of those supernatural rabbi conversations.
Soon after, the Cabalist has a heart attack. In the hospital, boys from the Cosmic Wisdom yeshiva keep a vigil over their leader and recite psalms, believing that, as long as there’s a Jew keeping watch, the Cabalist is safe from death. Of course, one of the boys falls asleep, and the Cabalist immediately dies — but, as the moment of death, the boy snatches a shirt with some some stray genetic material on it, runs it across the street to the Columbia University laboratory that his father funds, and instigates a procedure to clone the just-departed (and heirless) Cabalist.
Genetics being what it is, the cloning works — but, unexpectedly, the Cabalist’s clone is a girl. She’s taken in by one of his chief followers and raised, knowing that she’s adopted, but ignorant of her true parentage. At the age of twenty, however, her true nature begins to be revealed. First, at a brothel in Scranton, Pennsylvania, the unlikely Nechama (a near-anagram of Menachem, the name of both the fictional Cabalist and the real-world Lubavitcher Rebbe) makes miracles happen and heals the mentally and physically injured women there. She then travels the country helping the disadvantaged, giving strength to labor unions, and riling up the populace…basically, exercising her messianic powers and building up her stamina to fight against the powers of the devil, or Samael, whose minions soon come after her.
The promotional copy compares Cabalist’s Daughter to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. In reality, it’s more similar to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s novel Good Omens, a retelling of the Christian Apocalypse, both satirizing religion and complementing it. It’s like when you make fun of one of your friends, clapping him on the back and promising that everything is okay while knowing that, at the same time, knowing there’s an element of truth to the barb.
By most accounts, Yanover displays an intimate familiarity with certain leaders of Chabad. A few mistakes — sometimes trivial, sometimes glaring — occasionally make their way through: when Nechama’s adoptive father, one of the most hardcore Hasidim in the book, who kisses and touches her freely — which most Hasidic men wouldn’t do in public with their own birth daughters, let alone adoptive daughters, who, according to Chabad halakhah, are treated with the same stringencies as two unrelated people. Lengthy excerpts from the fictional Cabbalist’s Handbook for Practical Messianic Redemption — again, a massive hat-tip to Hitchhiker’s Guide — round out the story, digressing into sometimes-Midrash-based, sometimes fantastical apocrypha of Biblical characters and mystical techniques.
At times, Cabalist seems like it’s written for complete insiders, with its esoteric allusions and extended winks at the reader. But then you’ll arrive at footnotes, some of them necessary — and some of the explanations, among them Purim (Festival of Lots) and tefillin (phylacteries), more obfuscating than the words they’re supposedly defining.
But that’s just me nitpicking. For part of my criticism, I should issue a caveat: I’m not Lubavitch, but I have a lot of familiarity and family within the movement, including, if I’m not mistaken, one or two of the elder rabbis portrayed here. There’s something about watching your home turf fictionalized that’s both jarring and thrilling, and I suppose I’m reacting within that. As weird as it is to see both Chabad and Judaism given a clinical once-over within the confines of this book, it’s also really cool, like seeing an action movie shot in your home neighborhood. As the aliens land and military bases storm the streets and sidewalks, it makes you want to shout out in the theater: “Hey! That’s my sidewalk!”
And, indeed, when all Hell breaks loose in the second half of the story — starting with (spoiler!) a cool little East Village bar exploding, and continuing with an all-out bombing of the main street of Crown Heights — it almost fills the reader with a feeling of giddiness. Yanover has taken his time and arranged his chess game meticulously; now he’s smoothly, calculatedly blowing it up, piece by piece. And when the concepts and characters that seemed tedious at first are set in motion, piece by piece, it’s Glorious — both in the quotidian and Divine senses of the word — to watch.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk to Yori Yanover himself about his girl messiah, his ties to Chabad, and how it felt to blow up Brooklyn.”
I've always felt sorry for folks who were perfectly happy as kids, teenagers, and young adults. There's an unseen downside in having no context for darkness – when your shadow finally sneaks up to grab you, you've got no natural immunity. I've seen the bottom fall out for a lot of men in my age group, hit hard in their twenties and thirties. They don't know how to deal with it, so end up unhinged or shut down all together. I've got sympathy for the former, but find the latter hard to relate. Giving up the fight is understandable, but hardly honourable. A lot of middle-aged guys think that their dullness is earned. Hard work is exhausting, and at the end of the day, they just want to shut off. But the outlet of making a mess of yourself is underrated. I don't mean anger, that's cheap. You've gotta be stronger to get weak. I cry at shows and movies, laugh at simple beauty, feel emotionally overwhelmed on a daily basis. I keep absolutely nothing to myself. It was a tough thing to learn. At first, all your bleeding is black and congealed, just a disgusting misery to be around. But eventually, the blood flows bright red and fully oxygenated – and the wounds you stopped trying to stifle will heal.
Some of my earliest memories are of feeling somehow off, wearing an unnamed emotional weight, or buzzing from unseen anxiety. That was in my head from the start. Growing up wasn't something I'd want to repeat. Most of my childhood was outwardly happy, but inside, I was a mess. I still sense that static in my background daily, waiting to rise. But that's not how I present face-to-face. Over the past fifteen years, I've become steadily attuned to the light of interaction, pleasures of human connection. Any chance to open up has treated me well. I thought the day would never come when I wasn't constantly complaining, broke down from dragging myself through life. I thought I'd have to wear the badge most men in my family had sewn to their skin by the time I was born – cold and distant like survival demanded it. It was a hell of a heartache, but I shook loose and left myself exposed. Took a hard look at everything, audited my emotions, didn't accept that apathy is earned. It's a curse compiled from a life of not caring. If thawing out doesn't seem worth it at the moment, that's all the evidence you should need that it is.
March 9, 2025
St. Croix Cove, Nova Scotia
Year 18, Day 6328 of my daily journal.
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So now that I have released my problems with how writers mistreat Moth. You may wonder what I'd personally do to fix him, while making everyone happy
Well I kinda have two ways, One staying closer to the original (Without being a complete joke villain) The Other being quite a departure.
I'll start out with the first one I mentioned. I often find myself questioning how I'd write Moth, at first I wanted to write him comedically, but it feels like every writer does that. I considered a more competent villain take (A take Similar to Kylo or The Hand Guy from MHA, One where they desperately want to become this feared and respected force, but due to various reasons they aren't feared or respected, making them more unhinged as time goes on, But not as powerful of course) but feared too many would find that boring.
So I sat down wondering what I wanted to do with him. Then it occured to me.
Peridot.
Hear me out, Peridot was an interesting kind of villain (Y'know when she was a Villain), There were moments where she was a fairly intimidating force, but also times where she felt goofy, and it never really felt inconsistent. she was in an interesting place where she stood out as her own thing. Not too goofy but also not too Intimidating, but could be both.
Now If DC could do something similar for Moth, I feel he could be a stand out villain in Batman's rogue's gallery. I mean he'd be fun and occasionally goofy, but he could pose a decent threat if he wanted too. (He wouldn't be a complete Joke, but he also wouldn't be the highest level threat out there. A happy medium....But he'd still be cooler than Anarchy. Fuck that guy.)
Stay tuned for The Killer Moth Conundrum Part 3. (The Controversial take on Moth)
Yep, definitely a bad guy. I'm not sure if I overworked the torso area, I mean, his name is Maniac, it's supposed to look a little unhinged I guess...
I thought getting a wider shot (or, perhaps an "establishing shot") of the main stage was a good idea at some point of this discussion between John Densmore, drummer of The Doors, and Stephen Perkins, drummer of Jane's Addiction.
John was about to take out a few sheets of paper to read excerpts from his book "The Doors Unhinged: Jim Morrison's Legacy Goes on Trial." He was going to focus on the chapter where he plays for his parents The Doors' first album, most especially the final track, "The End," describing his parents' reaction to the song, especially the latter part.
More to come on that.
Most goannas are rather large for a lizard, and they all have sharp teeth and long claws. Monitor lizards are predators.
They forage and hunt for lizards, snakes, insects, birds and eggs and even small mammals, and they often dig them out of their shelters and nests.
They're not fussy about what they eat, anything they can grab and overpower will do, and they also eat dead and rotting things.
Like snakes the goannas can unhinge their lower jaw to help them swallow bigger prey. It's impressive to see what size meals they can swallow whole. And if the food is there they will just keep eating. Watching them makes you think they must have bottomless guts.
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Aprendi que vivemos em um contante passado e que cada coisa que fazemos é uma aprendizado, belo e constante. Aprendi que nada vai ser tão fácil daqui pra frente e que eu preciso ser feliz. Aprendi também que pessoas especias não encontramos em uma esquina qualquer, mas sim, já dentro de nossos corações.
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Oi pessoal, como estão vocês??? Espero que sim porque eu vou muito bem.
Primeiramente tenho que pedir mais e mais desculpas a todos que eu deixei sem resposta na minha ultima foto e, também, na demora em por fotos novas juro que responderei e postarei mais fotos daqui por diante. Vamos por partes: Tudo começou com provas (que ainda não terminaram) e que deixou tudo uma bagunça, ainda no meio dessa bagunça surgiu um viagem que fiz para Santarém (minha cidade natal\que amo) que me renderam fotos lindas de quase toda família reunida, praticamente todas na praia hahaha. Agora, estou de volta para velha realidade de Santa Maria de Belém do Grão Pará e com mais provas a caminho, irei ficar ausentado de tudo novamente.
Estou postando essa fotos porque a amo demais, já postei ela no meu blog e agora aqui. Aí na imagem vocês veem meu primo Felipe Quincó e sua prima Larissa Alvarenga, todos dois muito queridos!!!!
Por fim, deixo o meu agradecimento (como sempre) por todas as favoritas, comentário e visualizações. ATÉ MAISSSS!!!
SN/NC: Larus Canus, Laridae Family
Gulls or seagulls are seabirds of the family Laridae in the suborder Lari. They are most closely related to the terns (family Sternidae) and only distantly related to auks, skimmers, and more distantly to the waders. Until the 21st century, most gulls were placed in the genus Larus, but this arrangement is now considered polyphyletic, leading to the resurrection of several genera. An older name for gulls is mews, cognate with German Möwe, Danish måge, Dutch meeuw, and French mouette; this term can still be found in certain regional dialects.
Gulls are typically medium to large birds, usually grey or white, often with black markings on the head or wings. They typically have harsh wailing or squawking calls; stout, longish bills; and webbed feet. Most gulls are ground-nesting carnivores which take live food or scavenge opportunistically, particularly the Larus species. Live food often includes crabs and small fish. Gulls have unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey. Gulls are typically coastal or inland species, rarely venturing far out to sea, except for the kittiwakes. The large species take up to four years to attain full adult plumage, but two years is typical for small gulls. Large white-headed gulls are typically long-lived birds, with a maximum age of 49 years recorded for the herring gull.
Gulls nest in large, densely packed, noisy colonies. They lay two or three speckled eggs in nests composed of vegetation. The young are precocial, born with dark mottled down and mobile upon hatching. Gulls are resourceful, inquisitive, and intelligent, the larger species in particular, demonstrating complex methods of communication and a highly developed social structure. For example, many gull colonies display mobbing behavior, attacking and harassing predators and other intruders. Certain species have exhibited tool-use behavior, such as the herring gull, using pieces of bread as bait with which to catch goldfish, for example. Many species of gulls have learned to coexist successfully with humans and have thrived in human habitats. Others rely on kleptoparasitism to get their food. Gulls have been observed preying on live whales, landing on the whale as it surfaces to peck out pieces of flesh! - Wikipedia
Gaviota, pájaro común en la mayoría de las playas del continente americano y que ha desarrollado mucha familiaridad con los humanos y "roba" tranquilamente comida donde la haya. Son ruidosos e simpáticos.
Gaivota dá um colorido especial às praias apesar de ser apenas cinza e branca, no geral. São ruidosas e convivem muito bem com os humanos de quem tenta conseguir alguma comida mais facilmente que estar pescando por aí.
. . . If only this sea gull could unhinge his jaws like a snake! This headless trout might go down in one swallow! This wildlife moment brought to you by Rugg Pond in Kalkaska . . .
Have a great week Facebook and Flickr friends!
B/W Re-edit from the archive.
Street art, Shoreditch High Street, London, EC1.
Canon EOS 7D/Minolta Maxxum 50mm f/1.7
wanted to create a metallic look but perhaps more articulated so I tried to add a hinge effect.....maybe a book cover from the Middle Ages.......somewhere to keep your Illuminated Scrolls
thanks for looking in....appreciate it.....best bigger....hope you have a Great Week
it is upon
reflection
that we
look to
see
how life
has treated
us
in
the time
we have spent
our view
may be
marred
or obstructed
but if
you look
closely
there is
growth
and
potential
yet to
be realized
look past
the chipped
paint
and move
the tangles
aside
and see
the richness
you have
for age
is relative
but beauty
is timeless
Gulls or seagulls are seabirds of the family Laridae in the suborder Lari. They are most closely related to the terns (family Sternidae) and only distantly related to auks, skimmers, and more distantly to the waders. Gulls are typically medium to large birds, usually grey or white, often with black markings on the head or wings. They typically have harsh wailing or squawking calls; stout, longish bills; and webbed feet. Most gulls are ground-nesting carnivores which take live food or scavenge opportunistically, particularly the Larus species. Live food often includes crabs and small fish. Gulls have unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey. Gulls are typically coastal or inland species, rarely venturing far out to sea, except for the kittiwakes. 6510
A bar in Gotham
Several boozers and lowlifes stand lifelessly around an old rotting pool table. At the helm of the table stands a tall ratfaced man who looks about 50 though in reality is 30 years younger. Completely Unaware of himself, he fills the room with the unmistakable stench of petrol and brandy. The name of this fine gentleman is Garfield lynns. Better Known as archduke lynns of the knights realm by his thespian of an associate and proud owner of a self appointed knighthood, sir Drury walker who at this very moment sees fit to make his grand entrance. Which involves slamming the half unhinged and rotting door violently open against the plywood walls of the wretched bar with the full intent of being seen by all
Drury Walker: do not fret my noble audience! for I have returned to you in your hour of need!
Garfield lynns:you got the smokes then?
Drury Walker: yeah I got em...but that’s not all I come with!!! For you see I was also fortunate enough to come across this fine copy of today’s Gotham gazette and to my joy and suprise I discovered a worthy contender for my ingenious criminal mind!...
To Drurys disgust and frustration There is no response. He repeats himself: I said I disco..
Garfield lynns: yeah we heard ya the first time buddy...Go on ya might as well say ya piece
Drury: yes yes yes...as I was saying!...a more than worthy opponent has chosen this dark hour to set foot on our cities doorstep! His name? I hear you ask is one of great nobility. His name..is..the BATMAN!!! Yes I know I know. I too was trembling in my shoes when I read it myself and I can only imagine it has stricken fear into your hearts as it has of many others!
One of the other men in the bar decides to pipe up: hey! I hearda that guy yknow. I hear he be taking down streetgangs and whatnot. I nearly flushed my piece down the toilet yknow. But i thought better of it. it’d be nothing but a waste o time. he’ll come fir me anyway. My time is due and there’s nothing you or me or anyone! can do bout it
Drury: such certainty of the end you possess. I admire that you know...my name is sir Drury Walker and with me is my noble associate sir Garfield lynns.
Pleased to make your aquaitance
Garfield lynns: so I’m a sir now eh?
The man replies: well thanks I guess...names Leonard. Ya can all call me Lennie though.
Garfield lynns:heh that so?
*he takes out a lighter and holds its flame to Lennies face
I don’t trust him Drury. Talks like a rat. As if he putting on a accent!
You a rat lenny? You got wires strapped about ya? Huh?
Lenny: what?! Nah come off it! I ain’t no snitch! I’m one of falcones boys. I burn the evidence and whatnot.
Garfield lynns: you burn stuff eh? I can live with that. Drury I trust him again: he’s clear
Drury Walker: yes yes I’m sure he is. But you should know that who or what he is is of no significance to me whatsoever. If he wishes to accompany me then so be be it but for now I must be left alone and given time to plot a genius....plot. I cannot have simple distractions such as other people blurring my vision...and a truly brilliant vision it is to...
Garfield lynns: knock ya self out buddy... fine by me
Manufacturer: Harrier Motor Company
Nationality: United States of America
First assembled: TBA 2216
Birthplace: Corvallis, Oregon, USA
Engine: 7 L V8
HP: 1.223 BHP
0-60: 2.1 Seconds
Top speed: 300.16 MPH
Harrier surprisingly unveiled the LMP-Roadster, an old-school take on the forward-thinking LM series. Front engined, open-topped, rear wheel drive, the LMP Roadster is like a racecar from yesterday shot into the future from a high-powered railgun. But the surprises from Harrier don't end there. The LMP Roadster has a sister car. And you can drive it on the road. As a matter of fact, that's what the name means. The LMP Droga takes it's name from the Polish word for "road" to acknowledge both it's road legality and Harrier's Polish roots. The Droga is an oddity in Harrier's stable. Of course the LMP Roadster was a tad strange as well but it's purpose is cemented as a racecar, not associated with the road-going stable. And in that family of luxurious, art deco class, the Droga is like their unhinged uncle that keeps a machete and burlap sacks in his trunk. You see, the Droga is a homologation special, something that more or less is made to satisfy a bunch of rules to allow it's racing sibling to fulfill it's purpose. It basically is it's racing sibling with semi-slick tires and indicators. Which means the Droga is just as brutally fast. The Droga is actually closed-top. The result is a low, curvy appearance that actually shares a passing resemblance to another Harrier car, the Sevastopol Concept Coupe. And that's where the resemblances end because the Droga the most brash and loud car to come out of the Corvallis plant. While other Harriers serenade the driver in a posh, luxurious interior, the Droga is nothing but bare bones with an AC/heater. The seat isn't even a seat, just cushions and frames bolted onto the Droga's monocoque. The Droga uses the same 7 L V8 seen in the LMP Roadster, now modified for road-worthiness. Somehow Harrier squeezed out and extra 50+ HP from the engine, giving it an apocalyptic 1,200+BHP. This makes the Droga faster than it's racing brother, with a 0-60 of 2.1 seconds, and a top speed breaking the 300 MPH barrier. When it's put on sale, the Droga will be both the fastest front engined car in the world and the fastest RWD vehicle. It'll certainly be the fastest Harrier this side of a Varsovian. And despite it's loud, harsh nature, it really wouldn't look too out of place next to it's nuclear-powered older brother. Or any other high-class hypercar for that matter. It'll certainly have the exclusivity to stand with them . Only 12 will ever be made, with a price tag expected in the millions.
SN/NC: Larus Canus, Laridae Family
Gulls or seagulls are seabirds of the family Laridae in the suborder Lari. They are most closely related to the terns (family Sternidae) and only distantly related to auks, skimmers, and more distantly to the waders. Until the 21st century, most gulls were placed in the genus Larus, but this arrangement is now considered polyphyletic, leading to the resurrection of several genera. An older name for gulls is mews, cognate with German Möwe, Danish måge, Dutch meeuw, and French mouette; this term can still be found in certain regional dialects.
Gulls are typically medium to large birds, usually grey or white, often with black markings on the head or wings. They typically have harsh wailing or squawking calls; stout, longish bills; and webbed feet. Most gulls are ground-nesting carnivores which take live food or scavenge opportunistically, particularly the Larus species. Live food often includes crabs and small fish. Gulls have unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey. Gulls are typically coastal or inland species, rarely venturing far out to sea, except for the kittiwakes. The large species take up to four years to attain full adult plumage, but two years is typical for small gulls. Large white-headed gulls are typically long-lived birds, with a maximum age of 49 years recorded for the herring gull.
Gulls nest in large, densely packed, noisy colonies. They lay two or three speckled eggs in nests composed of vegetation. The young are precocial, born with dark mottled down and mobile upon hatching. Gulls are resourceful, inquisitive, and intelligent, the larger species in particular, demonstrating complex methods of communication and a highly developed social structure. For example, many gull colonies display mobbing behavior, attacking and harassing predators and other intruders. Certain species have exhibited tool-use behavior, such as the herring gull, using pieces of bread as bait with which to catch goldfish, for example. Many species of gulls have learned to coexist successfully with humans and have thrived in human habitats. Others rely on kleptoparasitism to get their food. Gulls have been observed preying on live whales, landing on the whale as it surfaces to peck out pieces of flesh! - Wikipedia
Gaviota, pájaro común en la mayoría de las playas del continente americano y que ha desarrollado mucha familiaridad con los humanos y "roba" tranquilamente comida donde la haya. Son ruidosos e simpáticos.
Gaivota dá um colorido especial às praias apesar de ser apenas cinza e branca, no geral. São ruidosas e convivem muito bem com os humanos de quem tenta conseguir alguma comida mais facilmente que estar pescando por aí.
Only one sentient species managed to develop in the jungles of Markkis : the Vlorak.
In a land taken over by its unhinged fauna, the Vlorak camouflage themselves with a bright green armor matching its environment, and have to mechanically enhance their lower body in order to outrun the many predators of the jungle.
Here is Heerk, fierce Vlorak hunter and aspiring tribe leader!
He might look powerful right now, but wait until you see what's chasing after him...
~ Biocup 2022 Preliminary Round entry by Chopper ~
This was alot of fun to build! With the theme "Nature", I wanted to go with something a little different from a tree man or a bug... Let me know your thoughts below :)
Gulls (often informally called seagulls) are birds in the family Laridae. They are most closely related to the terns (family Sternidae) and only distantly related to auks, skimmers, and more distantly to the waders.
Gulls are typically medium to large birds, usually grey or white, often with black markings on the head or wings. They typically have harsh wailing or squawking calls, stout, longish bills, and webbed feet.
Most gulls, particularly Larus species, are ground-nesting carnivores, which will take live food or scavenge opportunistically. Live food often includes crabs and small fish.
Gulls have prophylactic unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey. Apart from the kittiwakes, gulls are typically coastal or inland species, rarely venturing far out to sea.
The large species take up to four years to attain full adult plumage, but two years is typical for small gulls. Large White-Headed Gulls are typically long-lived birds, with a maximum age of 49 years recorded for the Herring Gull.
Gulls nest in large, densely packed noisy colonies. They lay two to three speckled eggs in nests composed of vegetation. The young are precocial, being born with dark mottled down, and mobile upon hatching.
Gulls—the larger species in particular—are resourceful, inquisitive and intelligent birds, demonstrating complex methods of communication and a highly developed social structure. For example, many gull colonies display mobbing behaviour, attacking and harassing would-be predators and other intruders.
Many species of gull have learned to coexist successfully with humans and have thrived in human habitats. Others rely on kleptoparasitism to get their food. Gulls have been observed preying on live whales, landing on the whale as it surfaces to peck out pieces of flesh.
== My Alibi==
"Hey, folks," a new, squeaky voiced arrival swung the door open and lumbered down the steps.
The short man’s entrance was met with an enthusiastic "Jumbo!" from the bar patrons.
Smiling at the welcome, Jumbo trotted across the bustling bar and sat down beside James Carter at his usual stool by the counter. Carter slackened the strap of his hefty mail bag and slapped his friend across the back.
Without missing a beat, Leonard Fiasco manoeuvred past the Turtle, and slid a glass of the Ant-Man’s favourite beer his way.
As he did so, his eyes met with waitress Celia Smith who blushed and quickly looked down.
"Oh, Len, what are we doing?" she asked him.
Fiasco’s jaw slackened. The question had caught him by surprise. Something was wrong. He kept wiping the counter, his hand stuck in a clockwise motion. My Alibi was burned to the ground. Carson and Carter were dead. Turtle was currently a baby. Celia Smith ditched him for Bruce Wayne back in junior high. And... And... And... There was a ringing in his head like there was an audience just beyond the north wall. A north wall, which for some strange reason, his eyes would wander past. Like something was there that didn’t want to be seen.
"End the simulation."
==Arkham Asylum==
Crane’s gnarled hand grasped the armrest of his wheelchair, a curled lip concealed behind layers of stitched burlap. As they observed Fiasco, a variation of the Cheers theme began playing. Billings grinned at Crane proudly, but catching his eye, swallowed, and turned the cassette off.
"There’s... There was a good bit coming up," he assured Scarecrow.
Crane looked at him, his lip curled. "I think you misunderstand the assignment, Mr Billings. They are supposed to believe in the simulation."
"He did-"
"Oh? Reminding Fiasco of Carson’s death?"
"He fit the archetype-" Billings began.
"I don’t want an archetype. I don’t want tropes. Or clichés. I want an authentic glimpse into a better life. One we can tear down and destroy this man utterly. Run the simulation again. No Jumbo Carson. And no... wooden Indian in the doorway."
"Hey, I never met this Smith girl, she could look like Shelley Long-"
"Enough. Run the simulation again."
It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command. That much was clear. And Dellbert Billings had been in this business long enough to know when it was time to argue, and when it was time to shut up.
"No matter," Crane’s nose wrinkled, smelling the liquor on Billings’ breath. "How is our other subject?" he asked.
Billings breathed a sigh of relief. Good. Crane didn't intend to kill him just this yet. "Let me show you-"
As he took hold of the handles of the wheelchair, Crane slapped his hand away. So much for that goodwill...
"I am no helpless babe, Mr Billings. I do not require your assistance," he scowled, gripping the wheels himself, and trundling forwards.
"Uh, see, Joker was insistent, Scarecrow. Didn’t want you, uh, 'Trundling off the edge of a cliff.'"
"I would be so lucky..." Crane mused, as his arms slumped down to his sides, allowing Billings to cart him off in the direction of the second observation room: Jeremiah Arkham was standing in the center, the cramped cell transformed into a sprawling auditorium. He was on stage, accepting a Nobel Prize for his strides in bettering the world's understanding of Mental Health, in curing all the sick and unhinged that had plagued this city for all these years. And he was smiling, blissfully unaware of the two monsters observing him from behind the glass. No, he didn't have the capacity to fight the simulation; his weeks of torture at the clown's hand had made sure of that.
"See? Fine," Billings spoke, taking another swig from his hip flask.
"A pity."
"I don't know about that, he’s a valuable hostage," Billings shrugged. "No matter how things turn out, the cops aren’t gonna risk one of their own."
"One of their own? The fascist fools in the police department wave their badges and guns around in the air, begging to be taken seriously. But Jeremiah Arkham is, was, different. His family’s legacy was tarnished by a mad dog and a doctor stricken by the same madness he had built this institution to tame. So, when he graduated medical school, he aimed to do what Amadeus could not, what Sharp, Young, Cavendish and all the other supposed academics failed to do: To tame the untameable. Not for profit, but for the greater good. And look... Just look at what that has cost him. His freedom. His sanity, perhaps. The pity, Mr Billings, is that he failed. Failed to resist your illusions when a lowly bartender, a parasite, a lowlife with a gimmick saw through your mind games. Gotham grinds most into the ground, but none fare worse than the idealists who actually delude themselves into believing that they can make a difference. It consumed Dent. It consumed Grange. And so too will it consume Doctor Jeremiah Arkham."
A crackle of lightning signified Zoom's arrival, standing between the two men, his red eyes darting between them. "The Joooooker wantsto seeeeeeee you," he raised an arm at Scarecrow.
"Oh, very well..." Crane resigned himself. "We wouldn't want to disappoint him..."
===Gotham City===
Garfield Lynns rang the doorbell and took a step back, ushering his companions to stand behind him in case things got ugly. There was a faint tapping of footsteps from within, and then the handle turned; a tall, red-haired woman had answered the bell; she had a glass of wine in one hand and was dressed in a stretched-out t-shirt which came to a rest at her knees and read 'This Mom is on Fire.'
"Oh," her nose crinkled, as she looked down at the group shuffling by the porch. "I thought you were dead."
"Hey, Clair. Missed you," Gar spoke. Behind him, Needham nodded politely while Joey dragged his feet across the ground, avoiding eye contact. Jenna picked at a freckle on the bottom of her elbow.
"Well, that sucks all the fun out of teasing you. Come in," she replied, ushering Gar inside and rolling her eyes at the sorry-looking lot trailing behind him. "Josie’s upstairs, I just put her to bed ten minutes ago."
"Alright, good," Gar nodded. As Jenna stepped forward, Clair placed her arm across the doorframe, blocking her way.
"Jenna," she said coldly, her orange eyes fixed on her. The glass of wine in her other hand bubbled.
"Clair," Jenna answered equally stiffly, standing on her tip-toes to match Volcana's height.
"Let her through, Clair," Gar called back tiredly.
Clair ignored him at first, her eyes shining with an amber glow, but ultimately, she relented, moving her slender arm aside.
Jenna slid past her cautiously and caught up with Gar, resting her head on his shoulder and muttering in his ear. "That woman is a sociopath by the way. You do know that right?"
"I am aware," Gar smiled softly. "How do you think I got these?" he asked, gesturing to the dry patches of cracked, burnt skin across his face and scalp.
"She didn’t…" Jenna gasped. She looked back; Clair was waving at her, taunting her.
"She did. I was all fixed up until Clair Selton came back into my life."
"I mean, I know Drury said, but I thought-"
"He’s being overdramatic, dear. It was all very consensual," Clair rolled her eyes at her.
As Joey climbed up the steps, he turned back to face Needham.
"You not coming?" he asked, perturbed.
"Nah, I should probably check in with Bats... Someone needs to explain... that," Needham stated. "Don't worry, I’ll let Brown know you’re safe. Or safe enough," he gestured to the doorway.
Joey nodded back, and followed the rest of the group inside.
Shortly afterwards, the trio were escorted into the living room. As they settled down on the suspiciously up-market furniture, Gar frowned, noting a still-attached price tag, and a sticker which read 'Display Only.' Jenna, tapped his knee affectionately, and rose to her feet. “I'll be right back," she promised, although there was a peculiar unease to her words. "I just need to hit the shower.”
"It’s upstairs," Clair gestured.
As she departed, Joey took her place at Gar's side, nudging his friend's ribs playfully (and forgetting that he had broken them not so long ago). "Psst, Gar, that sounds like your cue."
"Huh?" Gar grunted in response.
"Look, I’m no Blake, but seems to me like 'Hit the shower' is girl talk for, y’know, an invitation."
"Rigger… She’s hitting the shower, to wash off the blood of her last boyfriend."
Joey's playful smile faded. "Oh. I thought those were freckles."
"In her hair?"
~-~
The Misfits approached the Waterworks: a foreboding structure of rusted metal pipes and stone arches overlooking the Gotham Reservoir. The other members of the party kept their distance, while Sharpe marched towards the entrance and chapped the golden, dragon-shaped door knocker against the tall wooden door. There was a sound of shuffling from within, then the door creaked open, revealing the fearsome, hooded visage of Shiro Ito. The doctor was holding a wax candle, which sat on a round metal tray, illuminating his reptilian eyes.
"Montgomery?" Ito answered, his eyes softening as he recognised his late-night caller. “What brings you by so late? If you are looking for Cynthia, then I am afraid to say that she is in her room, no doubt gossiping with her friends; you know how children are... I was just about to watch my programme on the television.”
"Yeah, Doc, I figured," Sharpe nodded. In actuality, looking for ‘Cynthia’ was the last thing he wanted to do. "Thing is, my friends and I need a place to crash. Normally, you know, I’d just take them to my place, which is pretty bitchin’ by the way, but it’s only got the two bedrooms, and after the night I’ve had, I really don’t feel like sharing a duvet with Condom King."
"Montgomery, you know how I feel about your profanity…" Ito chided him.
"Shit, yeah, I forgot," Sharpe swore, already taking a crumpled dollar bill out of his pocket. "To make matters worse, a friend of mine, Blake; maybe you’ll remember him; he was the guy possessed by King of Cats before Gramps. And if you don’t, then you probably have Alzheimer’s. Which is fine and all, you are a hundred and y’look great on it, scales and all! But it’s probably worth mentioning at your next physical."
"You are rambling, Montgomery."
"Right- Anyway, he got stabbed. Another friend of mine, more an associate, acquaintance, to be honest, also got stabbed. What’re the odds? Well, pretty high given our line of work, I guess... You’ve met him too, I think. He’s called Ten. Cause of his fingers. ‘Course, most people have ten fingers but his are freakier... ahem Basically, I’d really appreciate it if you could help a guy out."
Ito mulled over Sharpe’s request, then looked down. "Montgomery, what happened to your trousers?" he asked, gesturing to his ripped jeans.
Sharpe’s brow furrowed. "My pants? That’s just the style!"
"No no no," Ito shook his head. "This won’t do at all. Please, allow me to stitch them for you."
The Dragon King placed his arm around Sharpe’s back, and before he could utter a single word of protest, he was escorted inside, the door closing behind them.
The minutes passed, and although the rest of the Misfits continued to wait patiently, Chuck was more skeptical, wondering if perhaps Sharpe had abandoned them, having been led astray by the Dragon King’s promises of freshly baked muffins and a warm bubblebath. A further two minutes later however, his fears were disproven, as the door opened once again, and Sharpe called out to them:
"It’s cool, you can come in!" he assured them, standing in the doorway, his cheeks a deep red. Incidentally, he wasn't wearing any pants, exposing his white underpants adorned with red and black suits.
Not privy to Ito's earlier offer, the Misfits approached the entrance tentatively, as their minds ran wild with speculation. Initially silent, Mayo addressed the elephant in the room with his usual tact. "Chancer, where are your pants?"
"Hey, let's not judge him," Blake determined, sticking up for his friend. "Who hasn't greased a few palms here and there?"
"Somehow, I doubt that his palms were the only things greased," Kuttler murmured dryly, as the group entered the building.
==Arkham Asylum==
"Among the suspects arrested tonight was former Gotham mayor, Drury Walker. In addition to tonight’s skirmish, Walker faces charges for his attack on the GCPD earlier this summer. Additionally, Abner Krill, for his complacency in the Arkham City disaster, and Ted Carson for the shootout in Gotham General have also been apprehended, alongside the notorious Calendar Man, who is believed to be the mastermind behind the attack.
Walker, known by some as The Killer Moth, is reportedly cooperating with authorities to-"
A boxing glove attached to a metal spring smashed through the TV screen, then retracted into the barrel of The Joker’s oversized gag gun.
"No," the clown stated, an uncharacteristic scowl stretching across his pale face. "The story can’t end like this: Not yet. There are so many loose threads! Incomplete character arcs! And it won’t. Not if I (and our readers) have anything to say about it!"
"Bah!" Crane scoffed, no stranger to the clown's odd tangents. "I grow tired of these games, Joker. You know as well as I that Zolomon could eliminate every one of those Misfits in one swoop. And yet, you sacrificed my Fearless formula so, what? The Calendar Man could feel included? Well now, we have no formula, no Polka Dot Man and not an ounce of progress made on your little pet project. Now, is the time to act.
Think! We have an opportunity here, to bring this city to its knees, and you are squandering it all over an irrational infatuation with Killer Moth! Have you considered the avenues that Billings’ illusion technology can open? The new wave of nightmares that we can craft for our victims?"
A fresh smile broke across the clown's face, as he strutted over to his wheelchair-bound accomplice.
"Tut tut tut... You’re still so narrow minded, Johnny Boy. Fear this, fear that... It's rather like you're fearful of trying something new!" Joker teased, tussling Crane's hat playfully.
"Theeeeeeee prooooofesssssssooooor hasavalid point," Zoom interjected, his arms folded.
"Thank you," Crane nodded appreciatively.
"ButIhave noooooo interest inconquestor reeeeeeeevenge. Walker isthe taaaaaaaarget. Andright nooooooow Waaaaaaaalker isonthe edge. Hecanbe moooooooulded intothis wooooooorld’s greatest heeeeeeeero oritsvilest villain, buttheother Misfits are a distraaaaaaaaction fromthat goaaaaaaaal. Andthatgoal caaaaaan onlybe birthed from traaaaaaagedy."
~-~
"Excuse me, Doctor Ito," Chuck asked. "Is there a toilet?"
"Of course," Ito nodded, pointing his wooden spoon in the direction of the farthest hallway. "Third door down."
At the ISA headquarters, Thomas Blake was watching the news broadcast on the Dragon King's television; an old, unsightly thing that didn't seem to have been replaced since the 1960s. Behind him, Mayo was helping Ito stir a pot of sauce on the equally outdated stovetop.
As Julian's mugshot appeared on the screen, he raised his glass, as though to honour his old friend. "Notorious..." he repeated glumly. "You finally got your wish, didn't you Jules..."
He took a gulp of his drink, and immediately spat it out, drenching the table in crimson liquid. “Dude, is this blood?!” he glared at Ito. All eyes were on the Dragon King now, who shrugged dismissively:
"You said you were thirsty."
"Not for blood!" Blake countered.
"Ah. My Cynthia is a fussy eater too."
~-~
"In other news, four bodies were recovered from a Sionis Industries facility in South Gotham. Commissioner James Gordon held a press conference earlier today."
"It is believed that this particular warehouse was being used as a staging area for a rival gang working to take over the False Face Society. Of the four bodies recovered tonight, three were high profile inmates at Blackgate Penitentiary. The fourth, a man we have identified as Henry Ferris, is believed to have been the ringleader of this attempted coup. It is our suspicion that the Black Mask, the current head of the Society, uncovered Ferris’ scheme and sent a hit squad to eliminate him."
"Here, I made you some tea," Clair announced, placing down a tray of three steaming mugs on the coffee table beside Gar and Joey.
Wise to Volcana's tricks, Gar swatted Joey’s hand away. “Don’t drink it, Rigger," he warned before tilting his head towards Clair. "Did you heat it with your hands again?" he asked, throwing her an accusative glare.
"Maybe," was Clair's response.
"You know that burns the ceramics. And our insides… Just use a kettle."
"The kettle takes too long," she shrugged.
"Like thirty seconds at most," Gar began to argue, only to be struck by a sudden realisation. "You don’t heat the showers yourself, do you?"
"Gar, do I really strike you as the kind of person that would mutilate your current girlfriend?" Clair teased.
Gar looked at her askance.
"Yes…?" Joey asked. "Absolutely, yes."
"Lord, I’m kidding," Clair pouted. "I’m not a monster."
==ISA Headquarters==
Chuck opened the second door, and as he stepped through, it was as though he had been transported to another world, and in some respects, he had been; the room seemed to go on for miles and miles and the walls were all painted in hues of greys. It was like Kansas, from the Wizard of Oz film; all swirling shadows and black masses, and it felt like he was being watched by a thousand eyes.
"Good evening," a voice spoke from the darkness. It was surprisingly eloquent; the accent was English, but old English, like a nobleman's or a duke's, or an aristocrat's. Its' owner, was standing several yards away, denoted by the slight glint from their sunglasses and the hint of a tall top hat. They appeared to be holding a white cup and saucer; the only things not caked in darkness.
"I was... looking for the toilet," Chuck spoke, the words finally finding him.
"Third door on the right. Thank you kindly," the voice instructed him. "It wouldn't do to get lost. Not in this dreadful place."
~-~
Blake wiped his mouth, and looked up from the table: Ito’s daughter, Cindy Burman, was awake now, and with her were three other girls her age, all dressed in baggy clothing that could almost be mistaken for prison uniforms, if not for their bright pink colouring.
"Speak of the Devil-Child," Sharpe sniggered.
"Cynthia? You should be sleeping," Ito stated, cocking his head to one side.
"Urgh, don’t we have any food in this house?" the girl complained, ignoring her father’s queries, as she opened the cupboard beside him and started raking through it.
"There is a carton of ice cream in the freezer," Ito relented.
"What, where you keep the severed heads?"
"I am well organised, Cynthia. The risk of cross contamination is minimal."
"You’re embarrassing me!" the girl squealed petulantly. "Let's go, gang, I'll order us a pizza since daddy clearly doesn't care if I starve!" Cindy exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in protest, and kicking the trashcan on her way out.
"Ahh, teenagers," Ito spoke wistfully. "To be seventeen again..."
"Uh, dude, I don’t think those girls are here willingly," Blake tapped Sharpe on the shoulder, leaning in closely so that Ito would not overhear them.
"Nah, come on!" he snorted. "It’s Ito, he’s cool."
"Is he... Is he going to turn them into lizards?" Bridget asked, as she too looked over at the girls with increasing concern.
"Dragons, babe. And only if they force his hand," Sharpe shrugged.
Not convinced, Blake raised his shirt up, and ran his finger across his fully healed knife wound. "Yeah, well, I don’t think my skin’s supposed to turn green like that."
Kuttler, rolled his eyes, clearly irritated by the Misfits' irreverent attitude. "Very well, if no one else will ask it, then I will: What do you intend to do with her?" he asked. The Misfits each turned to look at Bridget, who sat isolated at the end of the table.
"She saved my life," Ten vouched for her. "I would have bled out in those service tunnels if not for her."
"Yeah, but no offense, Ten, you’ll latch onto anyone who can stop you bleeding for a while," Sharpe countered.
"I actually take quite a bit of offense to that."
"And when next you’re stabbed, I’ll have you indebted to me with some gauze and a couple of bandages."
"Don’t worry," Bridget shook her head. "I’m not staying long. I... can’t. I have to pick up a few things from Uncle Jacob, after that I’m leaving town. For good." But even so, she sounded unsure.
"Where will you go?" Mayo asked.
"Doesn't matter. I just... need to be away from this city for a while. Away from the Carsons and Walkers of the world."
Ten scraped his chair along the floor and placed it at her side. "Perhaps it’s not my place... Perhaps, god forbid, Chancer is right, and I do just have a dependency, a complex, but you did save me. And when you defied your father, when you kept that virus out of his reach, even if it was just for a moment, I believe you saved us all."
Bridget scoffed, dismissing Reardon's revisionist account. "I didn’t save anyone... Hayden messed with my mind, took the vial."
"And moments before, Julian Day dug an axe into my shoulder and took that same vial from me. At the end of the day, he was stopped, and you helped. You want to know why I have faith in you? Because faith... Faith is all I am. And I believe it’s all part of a bigger picture. His picture. You might not think that’s the case, but you did make a difference tonight. In fact, I believe you still can. If you stay with us, if you put up with us: it’s going to be hard, it’s going to be, quite frankly exasperating, but it will be worth it in the end."
He offered Bridget a prosthetic hand. His mouth was dry in anticipation, worried about what she might say or do. But after a moment's hesitation, after weighing her options, she took it, and shook it firmly. It wasn't just a gesture, no, she understood Ten's offer and what it represented; it was a way to clear the board, and finally do something right. And just like that, all those past grievances; the fights... The Arkham Moth, the Society, Chronos... it was all settled with a handshake.
Chuck re-entered, a phone in his hand, and perhaps a little paler than he had been when he had left. "That was Eric; Gar and Joey got Jenna. They're all safe; they'll be staying at Volcana's for the time being. Did I miss something-?"
"That's funny. Thought you said they were safe," Sharpe smirked.