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In fact, I would like to take advantage of this attention to share with you all something which I have kept in my mind and heart for a long time and I think this is the perfect time to share it. Firstly, Singapore is a very women-friendly country. You all know what I mean. The sex Tumblrs, Sammyboy and now, even sex discussion Telegram groups.
And all these are accompanied by crude and degrading discussions about the girls involved, judging their body parts, disregarding their modesty, making lewd comments, all in celebration of humiliation and amusement.
It hurts them bad. It saddens them that an innocent action on their end can bring so much judgment and humiliation. Is it right for a girl to fear that by just posting bikini photos of herself online, wearing a skirt or even shorts in public, using public toilets that her privacy will be invaded and her modesty disregarded?
Is that the culture you all want to live in? Unfortunately, this attitude towards women is brought over to mainstream social media. Even for non-sexualised content, I see degrading and lewd comments. I get accused of objectifying women but I see that in fact, many of you WANT to objectify women for your own amusement.
Yea, you could, but do you know how it affects others? When I started SgInstaBabes, it was to bring out the vibrancy and the beauty of girls in Singapore, and yes, sometimes being sexy and cheeky too. When I started our Patreon, it was to give a chance to our followers to be more involved in our activities and to fund us.
We share more photos, we organize photo shoots and we party. Anything beyond that is your assumption and extrapolation. Unfortunately, I see that our innocent intentions are being perverted, just like how the dark web would.
They are people who are here because of drama and made assumptions based on shallow judgments. They just wanna jump on the bandwagon. Hence, empty vessels make the most noise. And unfortunately, we usually choose the worst possible judgment. Profile Gallery Scraps Favorites Journals.
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You leave it and you want to have an argument and change the world. Buster Keaton's The Electric House is science fiction only in the sense that I do not believe an automated house such as the one designed by his beleaguered botanist-turned-electrician existed at the time of filming—or has been incautiously built since—but that in no way impairs its two-reeler charm.
I feel that everyone who has ever been on an escalator in their lives has at some point worried about being launched off the top of it. We should all be so lucky as to have an auto-filling pool lying in wait. Instead of the gold suggested by the title, the precious commodity mined from the soil of the thickly forested, spore-drifted moon known as "the Green" is aurelac, an amber-hearted gem extracted with difficulty from the acidic flesh of the subterranean creatures within which it accretes.
Fortunately for teenage "floater" Cee Sophie Thatcher , her jack-of-some-trades father Damon Jay Duplass has the skills to pull what he swears is a once-in-a-lifetime haul from the "queen's lair," enough to settle them permanently planetside instead of hitching endlessly between systems.
Unfortunately, this plan does not survive contact with Ezra Pedro Pascal , an ornately spoken prospector and self-admitted killer who shortly becomes Cee's only chance not just of fulfilling her father's side of a previously undisclosed bargain but catching the last freighter off the Green. From here on the plot is not unnecessary, but it takes a back seat to the complicated alliance between a wounded rogue and an unforgiving adolescent and the beautifully offhand worldbuilding of statements like "Ten thousand gets us back to Puggart Bench for maybe half a stand, then we're scanning boards for the next one.
With a handful of slang, an alien alphabet, and a retrofuturist production design that deliberately but not fetishistically recalls the broken-in, dinged-up, blue-collar futures of Star Wars and Alien , it conjures a universe extending far beyond the fern-hazed skies of the Green, as full of graffiti and music and stickers and snacks and fanfiction as our own society.
The cinematography by Earl takes unusual advantage of the near-constant use of environmental suits and helmets to play with reflection and concealment; the favoring of practical effects over CGI adds to the throwback feel, but also grounds the action in irregularity and coincidence as much as laser fire. I really believe the last science fiction I encountered that devoted as much thought to the implications of its material culture was Pacific Rim In all honesty, although I wouldn't want a sequel per se, I would love to see the filmmakers revisit this world they created with such suggestion and density.
Cee is talking about her favorite novel, but she could be speaking for the right audience when she confides, "I like to think about what happens in between what's already been written. Would you like some cyberpunk with your post-apocalyptic road movie? No problem. Romantic comedy with your action heroism? We can do that. Sexbots and bazookas? Got you covered. Set it all in , make about two-thirds of it a Western, and away we go.
After his beloved Cherry Pamela Gidley shorts out from an overspill of dishwater during an energetic bout of kitchen-floor sex, the grieving Sam Treadwell David Andrews seeks out the services of a "tracker" to locate a replacement model in the lawless wastes of "Zone 7," which is how the middle manager of a recycling center comes to find himself barreling through flaming barricades and swinging high above Hoover Dam in a rocket-modded Ford Mustang care of E. Johnson Melanie Griffith , the crimson-haired, sharp-tongued tracker who never turns down a job.
Do not watch this movie if you have a low tolerance for scenes that end in boom or for a careening semi-comedic sensibility that recalls The Road Warrior one minute and Romancing the Stone the next. The psychotic warlord whose one-man vigilante rule over Zone 7 mandates the summary execution of all trackers goes by the name of Lester Tim Thomerson and hangs out at a sort of '60's-ish geodesic spa where he's constantly exhorting his followers to get into regular workouts and self-actualization.
The film takes some pains to represent a future where shacking up with a robot does not automatically code a person as a hopeless loser. What we see of the dating scene in neon-Brutalist Anaheim looks almost as dehumanizing as Tinder, encapsulating a society so corporatized that even one-night stands must be legally negotiated in advance: "Stick your tongue in my client's mouth and I'm going to sue your ass off!
Oh, I like that. It is not at all what I would have expected from either its writer or director and I enjoyed it a great deal, but it has done nothing to disprove my accumulating impression of the 's as a deeply weird decade for film. In justice to the film, it has terrific model work, some unexpectedly grisly effects, and does its best to provide classical allusions and topical-political considerations along with the pulp thrills of a top-secret submarine hunting a sinister mystery beneath the ice of the North Pole.
In actual reaction, as soon as the stentorian narrator began to describe the vital importance of the shipping lanes across the Arctic Ocean, I burst into " Northwest Passage.
A grim, abstract first contact disaster ends in a macho punch line. I am still not convinced it is the smartest of tactics to ram a submarine into a flying saucer, especially when the result is a submarine sinking to crush depth still stuck into the saucer's side like a horny anglerfish. It is much easier to take a desperate gamble of speculative engineering seriously when the narrator isn't putting in his oar: "It was foolish, it was insane, it was fantastic—but it was their only hope!
Since he spends most of his screen time defending his ban-the-bomb ideals against charges of cowardice, I appreciate that Brett Halsey's Dr. Carl Neilson is not required to kill anyone to prove his mettle and is even affectionately included among the future defenders of Earth by his former chief critic, Arthur Franz's Lt. Commander "Reef" Holloway, but the moral of the story remains that no ruthless, telepathic, technologically advanced menace from the stars is a match for good old American ingenuity and nukes.
The avant-garde, electronically pinging score by Alexander Laszlo still sounds space-age uncanny. My father sent it to me. Rob helpfully filled me in on everyone who wasn't Godzilla, Mothra, or Rodan.
It is difficult for me to accept a dragon as the villain of any story, but I am tempted to watch Godzilla: King of the Monsters just for its take on the majesty of King Ghidorah. We are not counting our work as a miss or a substitute; we will observe our tenth anniversary of marathon-sharing next year. I should have guessed that we would skip fewer movies than usual when we selected them ourselves and didn't need to wait for the bus to feed the cats.
It was worth it. This tradition brought to you by my time-honored backers at Patreon. Rock and roll is going to be fun again - 02 - 13 I do not mean that as a concert film and backstage comedy it is not wild, absurd, one hundred and ten percent primo bazoo; it is. I mean that the title implies the existence of some baseline of normality from which the film will achieve escape velocity and it must be understood there just ain't no such thing.
Insofar as there is a plot scaffolding its cavalcade of in-jokes and anarchy, it concerns a night in the life of a beloved rock venue where the stakes are high and the performers are higher, not to mention the stage crew. Lou Reed sends up Bob Dylan. Crazy comes built in. It's the fifteenth anniversary of the Saturn Theatre the Wiltern Theatre, effectively playing the Fillmore and in honor of the occasion, its owner Max Wolfe Allen Goorwitz , a mensch, a schlub, and an impresario of the old school, is planning to ring in with "the greatest concert in the history of this city.
Old-timers can wave their lighters to the legendary stylings of King Blues Bill Henderson , a man of such profound cool that he can close out a colleague's funeral with the heartfelt address to the heavens, "God, this is my man, and you better take care of him or I'm going to wax your ass.
Everyone screams for Reggie Wanker Malcolm McDowell , his quintessential rock godhood equally jaded with his aristocratic girlfriend, his private jet, and his ice buckets full of coke. And colder hearts than Max's would melt at the return of Captain Cloud Howard Kaylan and the Rainbow Telegraph, a flower-power commune just now fulfilling their booking for New Year's Eve, With a little help from an apparent heart attack, Max has even secured the participation of Auden Lou Reed , a reclusive folkie sensation of undiminished mystique and questionable attention span.
Charged with making this chaos run on time are the indefatigable, occasionally Class B-fueled staff of the Saturn—smart-mouthed, fantasy-prone stage manager Neil Allan Daniel Stern , eternally unimpressed light op Violetta Mary Woronov , sound tech and aspiring drummer Arthur Tim Jones , stagehand and despairing virgin Joey Dan Frischman , and the lucky drop-in of Willy Loman Gail Edwards , the former stage manager whom Max still praises as "the best. Determined to bring this chaos to an explosive halt are the forces of gentrification personified by Colin Beverly Ed Begley Jr.
The lines are around the block. Watch and learn. It is not difficult to imagine a more conventionally human comedy constructed from these premises and indeed Arkush claims he originally intended to make one before finding himself unwittingly Springtime for Hitler 'd by producers who wanted a flop to make bank off.
I regret to inform him that however ambivalently he may regard his Tashlin-esque translation of the screenplay written by Danny Opatoshu, Henry Rosenbaum, and David Taylor, I love it.
You thought Mel Brooks could pack the gags in with a tamping iron? Get Crazy makes Spaceballs look like the Lubitsch touch. Screwball chases satire trips over slapstick cannons into surrealism.
Open a scene with anti-humor and it might well end in Old Comedy. Just so the silent era doesn't feel left out of the double-talk, the action is studded with subtitles: "Boy meets Girl. He's trying to bring me down! Reggie Wanker in a heap of groupies in his hotel room is barely a joke, but Reggie Wanker gaspingly extricating himself from a solid interlock of groupies like a defututus Jenga block is sex comedy genius. Mark and Marv echo their boss' every pronouncement in a beautiful three-beat ping-pong of yes-manning— "Max Wolfe is a pissant and the Saturn Theatre's got to go.
Statistically speaking, it can't all work and it doesn't all work and some of it never should, but the relentless ratio of gags per minute guaranteed that I spent nearly the entire hour and a half of this movie laughing, if occasionally at the meta-level that it had gone for some of its jokes at all. The blues funeral. The Jews band. The doctor played by Paul Bartel. The twenty-three seconds Jackie Joseph and Dick Miller spend onscreen as Neil and Susie's parents straight out of the squarest cartoons of the Fifties.
The local dealer is an alien robot pimp hight Electric Larry and his drugs are so good, they cause special effects, like stop-motion nose candy and the Surfaris. What's going on? The Rainbow Telegraph tool around in a psychedelically painted bus worthy of the Electric Mayhem, or more likely the Merry Pranksters. It's a nice twist on the clown car that Nada's '57 Chrysler Windsor—spray-painted with antisocial graffiti and a vanity plate reading "GET BENT"—can fit a dozen-strong all-female cross-section of post-punk and new wave, but then the trunk springs her hardcore special guest Piggy Lee Ving , who registers as a quite credible combination of Lux Interior and Animal; he passes the time until his solo chained to the stairs and headbutts contracts to sign them.
As the one-time mop-top whom success has most definitely spoiled, Reggie Wanker has the Jagger strut down to an F. It doesn't hurt that the cast is stocked with ringers right down to a couple of band members I only spotted in the credits, but the energized cinematography by Thomas Del Ruth and the high-octane performances do more than any page of exposition to sell the cherished institution of the Saturn and the tragedy if Colin Beverly got to plant a high-rise on the property instead.
Nada's "You Can't Make Me" and "I'm Not Going to Take It No More" are deliciously belligerent blasts of proto-riot grrrl, full of synth and sax and no time for men who don't stay on their side of the line.
Ain't no if's, and's, or maybe's—I don't ride shotgun, baby. She knocks out the same stage crasher twice and he thanks her for it both times. Not professionally a singer, McDowell achieves the near-impossible and convinces as a "rock and roll fantasy" who may have had his head up his ego for the last twenty years and still sweats charisma as he swaggers through his signature anthem "Hot Shot" before crumpling into its heartbroken reprise.
Plus the sentient joint and the German shepherd in the balcony. What can I tell you? If you have ever attended an exhilarating, exhausting, once-in-a-lifetime concert, Get Crazy will reproduce something of that experience for you; something of the experience of working one, too.
When Neil entered the men's room in hip waders, waving off clouds of reefer and narrowly avoiding the shark-fin cutting through the knee-deep ammoniac flood, I took it as a sign of authenticity that spatch , veteran of countless live shows at the Somerville Theatre, convulsed beside me in recognition. I have alexxkay to thank for making me aware of this treasure of cinema gonzo, both times in context of Robert Picardo; I deeply resent that I have never seen it from the balcony of one of our local art houses.
In fairness to our local art houses, Get Crazy has been famously scarce since its hamstrung initial release, but Kino Lorber claims to be coming out with a restoration this year and if so my money is theirs, because some movies are too weird to let get away. Till then, we'll always have not too dreadfully pixellated YouTube. The title song, I feel it should not come as a surprise, is by Sparks. This shot brought to you by my hot backers at Patreon. It's good to know how the world works - 01 - 29 I can't not be interested in popular receptions of J.
Robert Oppenheimer; I've written one myself. Considering how many historical allusions and allegories the franchise has employed over the decades, I should not have been shocked that Star Trek: Voyager — indulged a similar impulse in its first season, but I reserve the right to be pleasantly surprised that it turned out intelligent, ambivalent, and much less anvillicious than any translation of the atrocities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki into an interplanetary conflict of the twenty-fourth century had any right to be.
The premise of " Jetrel " is not quite space Oppenheimer meets space hibakusha , but it's close enough for top-secret government work.
Instead of the father of the A-bomb, we have Dr. Ma'Bor Jetrel James Sloyan , the leading scientist of the Haakonian Order whose research efforts ended nearly a decade of war in a single sky-blinding flash; standing in for the survivors, we get Voyager 's chief cook and bottle washer Neelix Ethan Phillips , whose home moon of Rinax was ground zero of that flash, an atom-unraveling weapon of mass destruction known, with a simplicity that borders on euphemism, as the "metreon cascade.
The teleplay mostly by Kenneth Biller leans on them until they can't be missed, right down to dialogue remixed from the historical record and strategic details like a planned invasion forestalled by an unconditional surrender.
The cascade vaporized a quarter of a million civilians on impact, left thousands more to die burnt and disfigured, explicitly of radiation poisoning.
The second-order complication of metremia—a fatal blood disorder which reproduces in slow motion the sub-molecular disintegration of the cascade's victims—echoes the leukemia from which so many of the hibakusha died. Neelix who escaped the cascade only because he was planetside at the time describes his fruitless search for his family among the seared and flattened ruins, finding instead a ten-year-old girl whom he brought home to die like Sadako without paper cranes; his insistence that the weapon should have been demonstrated on a purely military target or even some uninhabited satellite of the Talaxian system resurrects the arguments of like-minded scientists at Los Alamos whose petition in favor of the nuclear equivalent of a warning shot was overruled by the recommendations of the Target Committee and overtaken by the signature of President Truman.
Even the late-breaking revelation that Jetrel was disgraced as a "Talaxian sympathizer" and exiled from the Order for trying to turn his postwar research toward repairing the destruction of the cascade recalls the stripping of Oppenheimer's security clearance during the Red Scare, the President's disgust with the "cry-baby scientist" who couldn't deal with having "blood on his hands.
We have passed well beyond the point of Easter eggs when one of Jetrel's key lines interweaves the two verses from the Bhagavad Gita that are supposed to have come to Oppenheimer's mind If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One.
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds on the success of the Trinity test of July 16, "The day when we tested the cascade, when I saw that blinding light, brighter than a thousand suns, I knew at that moment exactly what I had become.
There's no Talaxian Nagasaki—the one world destroyed was enough. But then neither is Jetrel an exact transfer of his twentieth-century model, which means I am almost more interested by the ways in which he diverges: for starters, he's a far more sympathetic presentation of the scientist as monster than Oppie himself. Whether he thought of himself as Shiva or, in the words of Trinity test director Kenneth Bainbridge, a son of a bitch, it is documented that when the white sands flashed to green glass at Alamogordo, Oppenheimer was not horrorstricken but exhilarated, triumphant to such a disconcerting degree that his old friend Isidor Isaac Rabi compared him to a gunslinger at high noon.
Isn't that an American image? So's the report of Oppenheimer's first public appearance post-Hiroshima, shaking his clasped hands above his head like a prizefighter who'd just won the world championship. He was proud of the bomb. He was sorry it hadn't come online in time to be used against the Nazis. Any number of his colleagues felt sickened, betrayed, guilt-ridden at once, but it took the additional destruction of Nagasaki on August 9, to change Oppenheimer's tune.
By the end of the month, he was all out against nuclear proliferation; by the end of the year, he was expressing blunt regret that the whole history of physics as a discipline had culminated in mass murder.
His about-face was as real as it was remarkable and if it made him enemies he couldn't afford when the time came for his loyalty to his country to be challenged, he had been proving for years that, sometimes silver-tongued, sometimes shockingly gauche, he could sabotage himself without any assistance from the A-bomb.
He died of a chain-smoker's throat cancer, not of the radioactive irony of his own creation: that fate was saved for Harry Daghlian and Louis Slotin, tickling the dragon's tail of the demon core.
Certainly he did not spend the years between the war's end and his own working to improve or save the lives of the survivors of the cities he had enabled to be bombed. He wished there to be no more like them, but I have never read that he met with any of those who had no choice but to live as they already were.
Fortunately, we have fiction instead of biography for a reason, and the differences between Oppenheimer and Jetrel—and between their weapons and their wars—are part of the reason the episode makes such a riveting near two-hander between the Haakonian scientist and the Talaxian survivor, with the rest of the cast serving as divers plot hands and sounding boards more than decisive players.
It's such a good character piece, I forgive it even the technobabble that inevitably enters the plot. For most of its runtime, it is instead a chain of arguments over the ethics of science and the stresses of war and the consequences of atrocity, played out between two intelligent, articulate, revealingly damaged people who in some ways aren't talking to one another at all. Judgments, accusations, contempt disguised as curiosity or served raw as a slap in the face, Jetrel must have heard it all in his years of studying metremia among those Talaxians who were exposed, like Neelix, to the aftereffects of the cascade; he dismisses a piece of particularly deliberate rudeness on his intended patient's part with an even-voiced "I'm used to it.
He doesn't defend himself. He defends science: the imperative to understand the universe, the sharing of knowledge and its applications, the necessity of not shying away from the implications of power. His claim that the metreon cascade would have been discovered with or without his research sounds like passing the buck until the audience remembers that nuclear fission was the scientific question of the first half of the twentieth century.
Does it help you sleep at night? Even his own wife saw nothing else in him when he returned from the devastation of Rinax—a touch borrowed not from Oppenheimer but from his predecessor in mass destruction Fritz Haber, the pioneer of chemical warfare whose wife shot herself after he personally oversaw the first successful deployment of poison gas during the Second Battle of Ypres in It is clever to present the Haakonian as such a weary, unflamboyant figure, with a deep rough brush of a voice and a dry, crenellated face in which the bright eyes seem the only remnant of the man whose heart could once beat faster for more things than science.
Neither conspicuously anguished nor tethered to his planet's party line, he answers a prod at his conscience with the patient, practiced "I did what had to be done," but his rationalizations find no purchase on the uncompromising hatred of the Talaxian who won't give him a Planck length of absolution, this funny-looking little ginger-ruffed man with nothing funny at all in his razor-light voice as he describes the experience of watching all the lights of Rinax wink out in the wake of the blast or pronounces the name of a child fifteen years dead to make the man who killed her remember it.
Jetrel, Neelix is reverberating with memory and all the raw nerves that come with it, grief, helplessness, fury, guilt, all burning-glassed on one plainspoken yet maddeningly elusive scientist who puts a face on everything he ever lost in his life. Their fights are not straw men on either side. It's just that the answers to their problems, if there are answers, are really messy. Now you know. If two drowning people join hands, don't you think they stand a better chance of being rescued?
The first time I saw it, I didn't even think I liked Ibsen. I had read a couple of random translations while in high school and seen a memorably mixed production of Hedda Gabler while in college and for years had some of his titles confused with Strindberg's, which is the sort of thing that could reopen the northern theater of the Napoleonic Wars; I can't even remember what I was expecting out of one of the cardinal, perhaps unintentionally but nonetheless feminist plays of the nineteenth century.
I was watching it for the cast. I came away fizzing for weeks about the characters and their interlacing into a plot so scrupulously and yet not airlessly patterned that it had at once the rising and falling symmetries of a classical tragedy and all the late-night messiness of a breakup that everyone except the couple concerned could see coming from space; I loved the secondary couple even more and then I never wrote about any of them.
January being the month of comings and goings, now seemed as good a time as any to commemorate the slam of a door heard round the world. It is a Christmas story, but we're only just past Epiphany. Henrik Ibsen in was pulling no punches about the stacked deck of patriarchy and at the crest of second-wave feminism neither is Garland; it is not merely monsters of authoritarianism who make bad husbands, not just baby dolls barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen who warp under the weight of being wives.
By the lights of his society, Torvald is quite the catch, a responsible provider, a respectable man of business, a virile and handsome mate who's fathered three children on his slim, dark, adorable wife and would gladly engender more.
With his promotion to manager of the Joint Stock Bank, he can look forward in the new year not just to the esteem of his new position but the security of its "comfortable income," more than enough to pamper his dear little squirrel who shows off her Christmas shopping with such girlish pride that he can overlook the extravagance for the small price of a lecture on domestic economy, which he despairs of his impulsive darling ever really learning.
She can't even pass the confectioner's without sneaking herself a macaroon or two—he dabs the telltale crumb from the corner of her mouth and touches it to his own tongue in teasingly sensual reprimand. For all his methodical air of middle management, he's not a cold man, always kissing and cuddling with Nora, catching his children up to admire them before shepherding them off to the care of their mother and her old nurse, energetic and effusive in his affections.
And yet there's something childish about this doting on his family, less like a partner and parent than a boy with the favorite toys someone else will always put away for him when he's tired of playing. His temper is childish too, jollity peeling to petulance at the slightest resistance—brought up short by an expression of surprise instead of expected support, he catechizes his wife far past her actual critique, "What do you mean, petty?
Do you think I'm petty? Of course, if you say my behavior is petty, that must mean that I am petty as well! Then again, as Nora will come to understand as the shape of her life reveals itself to her in all its world turned upside down, she herself is not exactly a real, grown, adult person, either.
Torvald's been licensed not to be; she's been discouraged from it. She imagines that in the event of a disaster he'll heed her, comfort her, shield her even at the cost of his own character, as a man who makes so much of his wife ought to do. He showers her with ten-kroner notes like a stripper's rain, chides her fondly as his little "spendswift" and hasn't a clue that she saved his life years ago when she took him out of the country for a desperately unaffordable rest cure, much less that she forged her dying father's signature to get the loan for it and that the scrimpings and savings of her allowance have been going to pay off the debt ever since.
She's never dared test the truth against his masculine pride and it's never occurred to him to wonder about the strength of her feminine deception. It's a devastating indictment of their marriage even before the anagnorisis hits the fan and the most devastating part is that it isn't uncommon at all.
All it requires, in the nineteenth century or the twenty-first, is an acceptance of relationships as ownerships, where trust and communication matter as little as ratifying the ERA. Fortunately for my ability not to scream at history forever, there are a couple of people in this story who know how to talk like adults. Nils Krogstad was not quite the first role in which I noticed Denholm Elliott, but it remains a brilliant introduction to his gift for tarnish and vulnerability together.
In this house of green boughs and gold paper and Christmas candles, his tall crow-stalking figure all in black looks ill-omened, almost demonic when he appears suddenly with the light catching his crooked spectacles half-blind—he would have made a scene-stealing Korovyev in The Master and Margarita —an intrusion from the shifty, shabby underworld of "debt collectors and hack journalists" threatening to drag Nora, for the sake of her one fatal step out of the charmed circle of bourgeois respectability, down into disgrace with him.
He was a solicitor once, before his "mistake" that he's quick to say he was never charged with and no one has ever let him forget. He still sounds like one. It makes him even less comfortable to deal with.
He has a bitter, explosive snicker, brows angled in ironic disbelief; his dry voice makes even neutrally worded statements sound dangerous and sometimes they are. He has two young sons to take care of and nowhere to turn in this town where clerking for a pittance is the first honest job he's been able to hold since the scandal and even there he's always on the thin inescapable ice of his reputation, the sufferance of decent citizens of whom Torvald seems representative in thinking that Krogstad hasn't paid nearly enough for a crime which he swears bluntly was "no more and no worse" than Nora's own careless falsification and "totally destroyed [his] position in society.
We've seen the smoke of the stove and the whining drafts and the line-strung washing in his garret, his boys wrapped in scarves and blankets around the meager table; he's supported them for years by all sorts of shady trades and his confession that he needs to be respectable for their sake is piercing. As menacing as he can be one moment, he's defenselessly awkward the next. He fidgets with his fingernails like an excuse for not meeting people's eyes and stammers so badly over the mention of his past that we can't believe him an entirely hardened character, especially not when it worries him that he might be driving a woman to suicide in his efforts to get the advantage of her husband.
As long as he's determined to go through with the blackmail, however, all the sympathy in the audience can't keep him from being just another man with a hold over Nora, which is where Mrs. Linde comes in. I definitely noticed Anna Massey first as Kristine Linde, even though the character herself is sometimes doing her best to be wallpaper, self-contained and soft-spoken, dressed with the neat plainness of necessity, much too thin for her watchful eyes and the great knot of her pale ginger hair.
Since the death of her husband, she's successfully made ends meet in a variety of small professions and it is with knowledge of this experience and her old school ties to his wife that Torvald is cheerful to award her the position from which he's been looking for an excuse to fire Krogstad.
It's the sort of gesture that makes him feel not just magnanimous but righteously in service of the social order, rewarding the deserving and dismissing the rest. In place of a "moral cripple" who as the last straw of all his shortcomings keeps forgetting the difference in their stations and embarrassingly addressing Torvald by his first name like the schoolfellows they once were, he's getting a model hard worker, a sober and law-abiding employee whose widowhood only seems to set the seal on her respectability.
It's just as well he doesn't know that Kristine herself considers her marriage indistinguishable from prostitution: seven years with a man she didn't love just to support her young brothers and ailing mother before her husband died and left her with "nothing. They could be a particularly bleak twist on Austen, old lovers separated and then reunited by the unforgiving economics of irony, harrowed so much by their choices along the way that it takes Nora a moment to recognize the old friend waiting quietly in her front hall and Kristine taken aback by her encounter with an equally startled Krogstad remarks simply, "He's changed.
Her decision to deal with the blackmail involves no stratagems of seduction, sentiment, or even moral appeal, merely a conversation with the man she couldn't afford to marry and never stopped wanting, and when he questions her motives with the corrosive, deliberate cynicism of a romantic trying to beat disappointment at its own game, she meets him with the unflinching answer, "A woman who's sold herself once for the sake of others doesn't make the same mistake again.
We heard the same firmness in a less personal key when she defended him to a family friend of the Helmers, not about to let the casual condemnation—or its vaguely eugenicist language—slide. She calls herself a drowning woman, but she's more like driftwood to the hand, scarred and buoyant. She's the spark in the threads of the plot and she's anything but a device. I love these battered characters and their chance of a second chance, but I love especially how they play across the A-plot of the Helmers.
They look at first like the foxed mirrors of their social betters; they turn out to be the true images. After all the fireworks of the third act, after the whiplashing turn of Torvald violently denouncing his wife when he thinks her dealings with Krogstad have ruined him utterly and then tenderly declaring his forgiveness as soon as he's given the opportunity to destroy the evidence and satisfy himself that all is restored between himself and his little squirrel on whose face the bruise is still rising, Nora dressed as soberly as we have ever seen her seats herself across from her bemused husband and steadily begins, "We've been married eight years.
Don't you think it's significant that this is the first time that you and I, as husband and wife, have ever sat down to have a serious talk? It mostly doesn't work. Not because he's stupid, not even because he just doesn't want her to leave, but because he doesn't want it to be true.
He liked the doll-world of his household where he was just and munificent and not at all prone to panicky rages or grateful cover-ups, where his wife was frivolous and fulfilled and so endearingly irresponsible that she needed his guidance even to choose a costume for the Christmas ball, and now it turns out that their sexual connection—combustible enough that Nora vetoes his suggestion of trying to live as chaste housemates as much out of self-knowledge as self-protection—may have been the only part of their interactions that wasn't a lie.
Their one hope of rapprochement is something Nora somberly believes to be impossible: "Both of us would have to change so much that. Even just sitting and talking in the candle-dimness of his garret, warily and bravely, they are modeling the kind of relationship that for Nora and Torvald would take a miracle. There's no posturing for one another, no illusions about themselves. Krogstad braces visibly against the answer, but makes himself ascertain that Kristine knows the full story of his disrepute; she's already admitted she treated him clumsily around her marriage, breaking off their relationship without an honest explanation.
As he contemplates the mess he's made of his life and she relates the emptiness of hers, their courtship could be mistaken for a merger of pragmatism, simply a more sustaining solution than their separate unhappinesses.Free Porn Categories
It looks fab. I absolutely adore velvet, but only good velvet, not the horrible polyester stuff. I NEED more. My favourite charity shop buys back in my poorer students days were three velvet smoking jackets in navy, burgundy and bottle green. Sarah, what a wonderful look that is. Thanks for that description. Great post, Alyson. Am a new reader and have bookmarked your lovely blog. Time to get my big orange Georgina von Etzdorf velvet stole back into daylight.
It cost a fortune, and I justified it by rationalising that I would never be too old or too fat for it…. He is tall and slight, and I am smaller. No prizes for guessing which of us looks wonderful!
So many beautiful choices. Also the Whistles high waist black pants. Usually from Kensington market, how I loved that place. I remember wearing them on a long train journey and arriving with a terrible stomach-ache from being so constricted. Oh to be a size 8 again! Yes, I remember the velvet flares with no stretch whatsoever from Kensington market!
Mid thigh, sharp cut, bought when it was drastically reduced in Harrods sale who knows when. I thought I was the bees knees. Still fits, as long as I leave it unbuttoned!
And Georgina von Etzdorf, still got the velvet scarves but why did I get rid of the velvet coat?! I kept two velvet Blazers one a black brocade one which I had shortened and a teal stretch one by Essential Antwerp. They both still look good and are worn frequently. I recently revived an olive panne velvet top from 90s by washing, and having sleeves shortened to bracelet length and hem taken up.
Glad I kept it since it is so of the moment. Hope the pair of black velvet jeans I have retained still look okay. Trying to still fit into these clothes a good incentive. If too small, I send them on to a new home. You look lovely in that top. I missed you, you got sick. And yes, you did sneak Keef in there.
Thirty years ago I bought a s black silk velvet swing coat in a village jumble sale visiting the in laws in the depths of rural Dorset. The quality of the velvet is sumptuous and I have to be careful not to sit stroking myself when I wear it. Once I was no longer an impoverished student I was happy to pay for the professional cleaning and bit of repair work it needed feeling that was a fair exchange for my original 50p investment!
I did have to remove a dead animal collar of unclear origins, sometimes you can only go so far down the vintage road………. And the reduced velvet ankle boots from Top Shop, much as it pained me to give Philip Green my money.
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The details included:. LoP showed several images and characters that will appear in the new expansion, dubbed Violet Aster, on their blog. It was also hinted that it would include more scenes with Amber, Paige, Kevin, and re-introducing Didi, Angel, and Devil into the world of Eleanor. On December 11th, , Lesson of Passion announced on their blog that the following week December 18th would be when the expansion will be released. Along with the release date, they announced the full details of the expansion, including:.
This wiki. This wiki All wikis. Sign In Don't have an account? Start a Wiki. Amber Davis. Benjamin Cross. Chris Cooper. Darnell Thompson. Drake Robinson. Eleanor Robinson. Felix King.
Francesca Waters. Ivone Ramsey. Jenna Bower. James Miller. Josh Armstrong. Kevin Avagyan. Natasha Kuznetsov. Creating Instructional Content. Creating video essays and short films. Creating Fantasy Football Podcasts.
Creating with no intermission. Creating The World Service Podcasts. Creating a media empire to span the cosmos. Creating bonus podcast episodes and trivia nights! Creating comedy sketches, reactions, reviews, and vlogs on YouTube! Creating Timesuck premium content. Creating Mudae, a multiplayer games bot for Discord. Creating a Network of Nerdy Entertainment. Creating Videos and Video Essays. Creating YouTube Content.
Graphtreon needs your support! Become a patron. CritRoleStats curated statistics, live info, and lore for Critical Role. Sailing Magic Carpet sailing episodes filled with music and thoughts. Grimhood a new paradigm of health and wellness. Top Patreon Creators Ranked list of the most popular Patreon creators. More Patreon Creators 1. True Crime Obsessed Creating podcasts of the non-garbage variety. Patrons 46, Patrons 37, Per month. DarkCookie Creating Summertime Saga.
Patrons 29, The Tim Dillon Show Creating a podcast. Patrons 27, You're Wrong About Creating a podcast. Patrons 26, Patrons 22, Flagrant 2 Creating Podcast, Video, and more.
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Local businesses and start-ups all came to his company and it even got the attention of the local crime syndicate. A local mafia man by the name of Don Mario invested, or should he say "funneled" his money into Drake's company in hopes it would turn a profit and laundry his dirty money and Eleanor even found time to dance and have sex with strangers and the Don himself on the side for some fun as well.
The government was not too happy with the Don's business venture and soon arrested him. But Don was not going to go down without a fight. He threatened to tell the court about Eleanor and her "night business" behind her husband's back if she were to take the stand against him. Eleanor feared for her own safety and played the part. With her silence, Don Mario then shifted the blame towards Drake, and without a character-witness to defend him, Drake was sentenced to 6 months for his part in this fiasco.
Eleanor soon packed her things and moved out of their city and back to their old hometown of Passion City where she hopes to make things right once Drake is out. But with so much wrong she has done in her life, beyond just her marriage, perhaps it would be best for Eleanor to take a step back from the parties and her work and to ask the hard-hitting question; what now?
On April 24th, less than two weeks after the initial release of the game, LoP announced on their blog that an expansion for Eleanor was already in the works. On June 25th, the released the expansion entitled "Blue Orchid". It featured the following:. With several images posted to go along with it, they hinted at a Natasha and Felix from Club Velvet Rose as well as Chris from Night with Angelica will make cameos in the new expansion. Also, LoP opened their blog to ideas and concepts to the players to submit possible ideas they wish to see in a possible future expansion.
LoP teased several images about the third expansion for Eleanor 3 and unveiled the name "Orange Daisy". On their blog, they gave the details along with a release date of November 14th. The details included:. LoP showed several images and characters that will appear in the new expansion, dubbed Violet Aster, on their blog.
It was also hinted that it would include more scenes with Amber, Paige, Kevin, and re-introducing Didi, Angel, and Devil into the world of Eleanor. On December 11th, , Lesson of Passion announced on their blog that the following week December 18th would be when the expansion will be released. Along with the release date, they announced the full details of the expansion, including:.
This wiki. This wiki All wikis. Creating premium dad audio content. Creating Instructional Content. Creating video essays and short films. Creating Fantasy Football Podcasts.
Creating with no intermission. Creating The World Service Podcasts. Creating a media empire to span the cosmos. Creating bonus podcast episodes and trivia nights! Creating comedy sketches, reactions, reviews, and vlogs on YouTube! Creating Timesuck premium content. Creating Mudae, a multiplayer games bot for Discord.
Creating a Network of Nerdy Entertainment. Creating Videos and Video Essays. Creating YouTube Content. Graphtreon needs your support! Become a patron. CritRoleStats curated statistics, live info, and lore for Critical Role. Sailing Magic Carpet sailing episodes filled with music and thoughts.
Grimhood a new paradigm of health and wellness. Top Patreon Creators Ranked list of the most popular Patreon creators. More Patreon Creators 1. True Crime Obsessed Creating podcasts of the non-garbage variety. Patrons 46, Patrons 37, Per month. DarkCookie Creating Summertime Saga. Patrons 29, The Tim Dillon Show Creating a podcast. Patrons 27, You're Wrong About Creating a podcast. Patrons 26, Patrons 22, Flagrant 2 Creating Podcast, Video, and more.
Patrons 21, Patrons 20, Patrons 19, Patrons 18,
Eleanor 3 | Lesson of Passion Wiki | Fandom
Eleanor's husband Drake founded his own company and soon it gathered a nice profit within their new town. Local businesses and start-ups all came to his company and it even got the attention of the local crime syndicate. A local mafia man by the name of Don Mario invested, or should he say "funneled" his money into Drake's company in hopes it would turn a profit and laundry his dirty money and Eleanor even found time to dance and have sex with strangers and the Don himself on the side for some fun as well.
The government was not too happy with the Don's business Patreon velvet ballerina and soon arrested him. But Don was not going to go down without a fight. He threatened to tell the court about Eleanor and her "night business" behind her husband's back if she were to take the stand against him.
Eleanor feared for her own safety and played the part. With her silence, Don Mario then shifted the blame towards Drake, and without a character-witness to defend him, Drake was sentenced to 6 months for his part in this fiasco.
Eleanor soon packed her things and moved out of their city and back to their old hometown of Passion Patreon velvet ballerina where she hopes to make things right once Drake is out.
But with so much wrong she has done in her life, beyond just her marriage, perhaps it would be best for Eleanor to take a step back from the parties and her work and to ask the hard-hitting question; what now?
On April 24th, less than two weeks after the initial release of the game, LoP announced on their blog that an expansion for Eleanor was already in the works.
On June 25th, the released the expansion entitled "Blue Orchid". It featured the following:. With several images posted to go along with Patreon velvet ballerina, they hinted at a Natasha and Felix from Club Velvet Rose as well as Chris from Night with Angelica will Patreon velvet ballerina cameos in the new expansion. Also, LoP opened their Patreon velvet ballerina to ideas and concepts to the players to submit possible ideas they Patreon velvet ballerina to see in a possible future expansion.
LoP teased several images about the third expansion for Eleanor 3 and unveiled the name "Orange Daisy". On their blog, they gave the details along with a release date of November 14th.
The details included:. LoP showed several images and characters that will appear in the new expansion, dubbed Violet Aster, on their blog. It was also hinted that it would include more scenes with Amber, Paige, Kevin, and re-introducing Didi, Angel, and Devil into the world of Eleanor. On December 11th,Lesson of Passion announced on their blog that the following week December 18th would be when the expansion will be released.
Along with the release date, they announced the full details of the expansion, including:. This wiki. This wiki All wikis. Sign In Don't have an account? Start a Wiki. Amber Davis. Benjamin Cross. Chris Cooper. Darnell Thompson. Drake Robinson. Eleanor Robinson. Felix King. Francesca Waters. Ivone Ramsey. Jenna Bower. James Miller. Josh Armstrong. Kevin Avagyan. Natasha Kuznetsov. Nicholas Whitewater.
Paige Summers. Samantha Miller. Sasha Brown. Universal Conquest Wiki. Characters by Chestnut Shuffles Locations by Szuga.
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Sasha Brown. Patrons 17, James Miller. Hbomb Creating Videos and Video Essays. Creating Fantasy Football Podcasts. Eleanor Patreon velvet ballerina packed her things and moved out of their city and back to their old hometown of Passion City where she hopes to make things right once Drake is out. It was also hinted that it would include more scenes with Amber, Paige, Kevin, and re-introducing Didi, Angel, and Devil into the world of Eleanor.