Jordan Peele will executive produce the new series “Lovecraft Country,” which has been ordered straight-to-series at HBO, Variety has confirmed.
Based on the book of the same name by Matt Ruff, the anthology horror
series follows 25-year-old Atticus Black, who joins up with his friend
Letitia and his Uncle George to embark on a road trip across 1950s Jim
Crow America to find his missing father. They must survive and overcome
both the racist terrors of white America and the malevolent spirits that
could be ripped from a Lovecraft paperback.
“Underground” co-creator and showrunner Misha Green
will write and executive produce the series, with Peele executive
producing through his Monkeypaw Productions banner. J.J. Abrams and Ben
Stephenson will also executive produce through Bad Robot, with Warner
Bros. Television producing.
Peele, who broke out on the Comedy Central series “Key & Peele,”
has been in high demand ever since the success of his low-budget horror
film “Get Out.” The film, about a black man who discovers a dark
secret at his Caucasian girlfriend’s family estate, has grossed almost
$215 million worldwide on a $4.5 million budget.
He recently signed a first-look deal with Universal Pictures based on
the success of “Get Out.” Under the deal, Universal will develop
Peele’s next film, an untitled social thriller, which he will write,
direct, and produce based on his original idea. In addition, Peele will
also produce a wide range of movies for the studio through Monkeypaw
Productions, including several micro-budget projects with Jason Blum, as
he did with “Get Out.”
For Green, the new series comes along as the fate of “Underground”
remains uncertain. Despite critical praise, the WGN America show saw a
drop in the live-plus-same day ratings during its sophomore season. In
addition, Sinclair Broadcasting recently announced they will acquire WGN
parent company Tribune Media, with plans to shift focus away from
producing original series. To that end, WGN recently canceled their
other original, “Outsiders,” which enjoyed higher ratings than
it’s daybreak. i’m meandering through a field on my family estate. i look up and see u there striding towards me in tight pants, riding boots, a half open shirt, and an overcoat. the music swells. u stutter through what is possibly the most romantic proposal of all time. i kiss ur knuckles and gaze into ur eyes as sunrise breaks over the horizon.
The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight.
She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn’t had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting’s open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls’ seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface.
The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away.
The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance– with spells, with braces, with a friend’s shoulder– but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names.
The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They’d brought the tables back.
The cluster was only a tiny blip of three– Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair.
Ginny was sitting half in Harry’s lap, like if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin.
Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny’s jokes, and Ron didn’t know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry’s hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday.
He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul.
Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta.
The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again.
The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey’s hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout’s cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable.
Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4.
Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she’d been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. “Hey,” he said, and let the door click shut behind him.
“Hey.” When she saw where he was heading, she added, “The olive’s still alive.”
The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem.
“I was thinking I’d try to mend up the walls, close this place up again,” said Hannah. “But I wasn’t sure I could do it alone."
"Alright,” said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.
The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown’s parents.
The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it.
She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside– up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers.
She wasn’t sure when it had gotten so cluttered– sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle’s barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she’d gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be.
She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags.
She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag’s insides, or if she should just buy another one.
The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged.
Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she’d ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her.
Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her.
The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid’s cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn’t go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn’t come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt.
Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest’s edge. Buckbeak’s old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry’s scars and wrapped
his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists.
When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more.
It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead.
“They doing dinner down there?” she said, her dry throat rasping on it.
He shrugged. “Mum’s organizing, I think. It– helps, I think."
She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one.
"I just wanted to go back to the tent,” said Ron. “Be alone. It’s quiet."
"I won’t get in your way,” she said. “It’s still pitched down there."
"I know,” he said. “With you, I meant.”
“That’s not alone,” she said. “I’m not quiet,” she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag.
“Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one."
"But you are, Ron–"
"Hermione,” he said. “Come with me? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone. Come home.”
They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand.
The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn’t have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened.
“Ginny’s sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery,” Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. “She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not intruding, right?"
"Don’t be daft,” said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. “C'mon, join in, Hermione’s trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it’s an act of caring concern.” Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.
The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other.
But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione’s hand and none of them wanted to go.
They would get too old for this– hard floors and the way Harry’s neck was cricked up on Ron’s bony shoulder. Hermione’s snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron’s bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents’ broken home.
In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks’s spare room. “We’re almost like family, after all,” she’d say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy’s diapers, and the whiskey. They’d come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly’s quilts or out on the Granger’s back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda.
In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn’t tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on.
Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry– a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny’s favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug.
When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they’d repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.
A guide to being an apathetic Byronic aristocrat vampire in the 21st century
If the sun is up return to bed and wait until nighttime. There are not enough hours in the night to spend them sleeping. Once it is dark you can be all Dante Rossetti about it and stroll about some darkened woodland or else lay amongst Chinese patterned pillows in the nude reading Marcel Proust.
In fact do a great many things naked. Or if you insist do them naked under a silk robe which trails after you as you stalk the halls of your estate.
And since everyone is fated to die anyway smoke cigarettes while you can. Be blasé about death in general. Or lament it constantly – incessantly – until all who know you associate it with your presence. That is what being a Romantic is all about.
And in the spirit of Byron take such bad care of yourself – by eating badly and drinking copiously – that you might at any moment pass into that lamented great beyond. The best ways to die are in a battle or in a Revolution as well as from sloth – simply laying about wasting away transfixed by a beautiful painting or the memory of a lost lover – or finally simply succumbing to an illness procured from exposure to the harsh elements of nature. The last is the most probable since you will often find yourself standing on mountaintops above mist-laden seascapes shouting Nietzschean quotes into the frosty air and heralding your own impending doom in the process.
Read many books. Watch Orlando bySally Potterfor immortal style tips.
Become a sensual creature (as opposed to a sexually satisfied one) so that you may either conquer a harmen of lovers wherein you can loose yourself for hours on end in a kind of Delta of Venus scenario or else live as an Dionysian hermit finding solace entirely in literature, flowers and moonlight.
Be not strictly woman or man but rather an amalgamation of femininity and masculinity. Embrace bisexuality.
Keep strange pets. Anything besides a dog or cat or gerbil. Or if you must have a dog then choose a Borzoi or Wolf Hound. And if you must procure a cat then name it Lassitude or Nothing as Jean Paul Sartre did. Raise peacocks and keep a menagerie of exotic fauna and flora in an otherwise overgrown rose garden.
Half of what you say ought to be a quote by John Milton, Dante Alighieri, William Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde. Either that or nothing. If you are not reciting – either the work of others or your own – then be quiet. Observe and consider, but rarely speak.
Drink red wine. And white wine. And champagne. Do not however drink vodka unless you find yourself in the Russian Winter Palace filial roaming pale and crazy-eyed down halls with a fur coat whipping behind you and a novel by Tolstoy in your pocket.
Life is a feast. Eat oysters for breakfast and decorate your dinner table – and the food itself – with flowers. Hannibal is the go to cooking program for culinary flair.
In fact Hannibal ought to be the only tv show you watch besides Penny Dreadful.
Wear chokers. All your jewelry ought to be heirlooms.
Keep a much younger lover – if you are a woman – or a much older one – if you are a man – and have them rip the choker from your pale neck as you fall together in a passionate throw onto a 17th century ottoman.
Dress in shrouds of velvet and silk.
Stay out of the sun.
A moushe – a painted-on beauty mark – is entirely appropriate, as is a Jacobin ruff.
From now on sex shall be referred to as Making Cattleya.
Appropriate venues for socializing are cafés which do not play music or serve cappuccinos, theaters built before 1960 and opera houses not built after 1930. Jazz clubs which refrain from fusion or acid. Libraries and old cinemas in general. Family estates and parental mansions, abandoned houses in the country side, churches and cemeteries, woodland openings and castle lawns, museums and – of course – small apartments where you can sit on the floor smoke cigarettes and discuss the collective sense of ennui you share with your friends.
Inappropriate venues are shopping malls, franchise coffee shops and anywhere where reading a novel or smoking might seem out of place. In fact stay clear of any place built after 1980. Avoid food courts, gyms, sports or hotel bars and clubs with more than one dance floor as the plague.
Refer to your circle of friends as your Family. Be religiously devote and romantically involved with them. When it comes to your actually family a cool somewhat distanced relationship is the most appropriate. Or if so inclined consider a more obsessive cloistering constellation that will inevitably lead to rumors of past inbreeding – the French aristocratic kind – and scandal. Refer to your parents by their first name or not at all and thus have them remain an elusive periphery to your life.
Instead declare Richard Wagner as your emergency contact.
Descend stairwells slowly.
Express yourself through Greek axioms and lyrical poetry or lingering secretive stares. Consider perfume as a means of communication.
Remember that the only respectable means of transport are the Oriental Express, steamships across the Atlantic or long boats along the Nile. You may also travel by foot if you do so in a languid fashion. As far as tourism goes the primary vehicle of experience ought to be stargazing and kissing.
yeah, Reiner, let’s talk about this, real quick, real quick.
We all know Eren Jaeger, yes?
You uh, remember where he’s from?
yeah, yeah, there’s this uh, great little village, you might’ve heard of it, great little place, beautiful landscape, stucco style housing, great neighborhood for kids, lots of families, real estate value has been going up for years.
yeah, well, he’s uh, from this little town.
and uh, if you don’t remember…
this kid’s, uh, mom and his entire village, well.
they got utterly destroyed.
and uh, well, this guy’s MO is
It’s kind of his thing.
he’s said it a million times.
And you thought that…
you could not only reason with him, and convince him that he should leave with you, that he should just walk away or else he’ll destroy the walls and the entire population living within it…
but you also thought that this kid
yeah this one.
was gonna….be totallllllly down to pal around with the two people responsible for killing his mother and destroying his village.
“Diana must return to her family estate after problems arise with her aunt. However, in order to inherit the manor and everything her mother worked for, she must marry someone within a limited amount of time. With no suitor, she decides to fake a fiance when Akko shows up to take her back to Luna Nova,”
I’ve been pondering what Feyre saw in the Ouroboros Mirror. What parts of herself did the Mirror drag up from the darkest depths of her soul and make her face? What was Feyre forced to come to terms with in order to save Prythian, her friends, her family, and court? What did she learn to love? And what does the beast have to do with anything?
I think Feyre had more to come to terms with than anyone else in Prythian. Yet she overcame it. She decided not to let her own soul destroy her.
I believe she had to watch her younger self wring the neck of a tiny rabbit as it screamed in pain—her first kill. Feyre watched from the snow-shrouded trees as an ash arrow imbedded itself in the side of large wolf, an unprovoked shot of pure hatred. The Ouroboros would have shown in graphic detail everything that occurred UtM—the dancing and drinking that made her feel filthy, the unsolved riddled that made her relive her shortcomings, and the unbearable murder of two innocent fae. The families of those two innocent souls as they raged and mourned and crumpled in weary misery. They had come so close to freedom, but the price to pay had been their loved one. Feyre had taken it from them.
The Mirror would have swirled with images and flashes of Tamlin, Lucien, Elain, Nesta…all those Feyre felt she had betrayed or let down in some way, whether it was deserved or not. Her conversations with Ianthe as she ignorantly shared every detail about her human family and their estate, then the moment her sisters stumbled through the door in Hybern, and were shoved into the Cauldron, Made into the very thing they hate. And somehow, after all this and so so much more, Feyre came to acceptance. But I think, more than all the ways she hurt those around her, or they hurt her in turn, all the blood and vomit and nightmares…more than any of that, Feyre had to learn to love the beast that stared back.
I was not alone.
Crawling down the snow-kissed wall, a massive beast of claws and scales and fur and shredding teeth inched toward the floor. Toward me.
Its enormous paws were near-silent on the floor, the fur on them a blend of black and gold. Not a beast designed to hunt in these mountains. Certainly not with the ridge of dark scales down its back. And the large, shining eyes—.
I didn’t have time to remark on those blue-grey eyes as the beast pounced.
Where I had been standing … the beast now sat, scaled tail idly swishing through the snow.
Gazing back at me. My reflection.
Of what lurked beneath my skin.
My knife clattered to the stones and snow. And I looked into the mirror. (pg. 605-6)
“What did you see?”
“Myself. I saw myself.” (pg. 617-18)
Maas gives us a short, but very revealing description of the beast—Feyre’s beast.
The significance of gold and black fur? Throughout ACOTAR and MAF, Feyre religiously rejected any power that related to Tamlin, namely the ability to shift into animal form. She feared the claws that poked against her skin. She hated them. Until she realized they weren’t Tamlin’s claws, they were her own. They were talons. And if she could make talons, she could make wings. Feyre’s beast form having a mixture of black and golden fur signifies that Tamlin is a part of her, and always will be. She once loved him, so much so that she killed for him, died for him. A love like that leaves a permanent imprint on a soul, even if the love itself doesn’t last forever. Feyre had to learn to love the part of her soul that had been touched and permanently changed by Tamlin.
The scales could signify several things. Of course Summer comes to mind. Feyre obviously has an affinity for the Summer magic that flows through her veins. It came easily to her—more easily than any other High Lord’s power. The scales might represent the bond formed between Tarquin and Feyre while she visited Summer. Regardless of the blood rubies, now rescinded, the High Lord of Summer and High Lady of Night shared a unique understanding of one another, and a common passion to spread equality between the High Fae and lesser faeries (and even humans) to all courts and territories.
The scales might also be equivalent to the thorns Feyre feels she has and once used to describe herself to Tamlin—the spiny ridge running down the beasts’ back and tail representing her prickly side. This is an annoying feature most of us have, and a part we all hate, but must accept responsibility for.
But perhaps the mostly likely possibility is that the scales and ridges represent Feyre’s armor (Illyrian armor is scaled). We know it to be thick. In ACOMAF, Rhysand worked for months to attempt to delve through the layers and layers of Feyre’s armor in the form of depression, anger, bitterness, and solitude. It is likely that Feyre had to learn to love that armor, even if she wished it had been stronger, or less harmful to those around her, the way it hurt Rhys after the Court of Nightmares scene in ACOMAF, and Mor at the camp in ACOWAR. While gazing at herself in the Mirror, Feyre had to learn to bear her armor proudly and honorably, to use it to strategically protect herself, and not harm or keep out those who love her, fight for her.
The massive, flesh-shredding teeth—Feyre’s ability and willingness to kill and murder. Whether for food to avoid starvation, killing for no other reason than pure, undiluted hatred, or the murder of innocents to save the one she loved, Feyre has a lot of blood on her hands. And as we learned through her nightmares and admittance to Cassian…Feyre feels that blood should be her own. She has fangs, and she’s used them—over and over again. Feyre suffered soul-deep from the pain she felt she brought upon others. But when the Mirror showed her those glistening teeth and impressive maw, Feyre had to accept that pain and torment—and then turn it against her enemies. Not fangs to harm the innocent, but rather to protect them, to fight for them. To fight against Hybern and the injustices of the world. To protect her sisters and those like them. To care for the weak and weary and afraid.
I have been struck each time I’ve read these scenes—on a personal level. To think about facing my own beast…what would it look like? How would I react as it sat and laid my very soul bare? Could I even look into my own eyes as they gazed back in judgement? Could I learn to love every part of myself as Feyre did? Would I be able to face my inner most demons? Honestly, I don’t know. But I think we could all benefit from pondering this passage a bit more.
i know this is cliche af but i want a plot where muse a is broke as hell and does little jobs to get by and gets hired to spend a summer at some rich family’s estate and do some stuff around the house. meanwhile there’s muse b who is a part of the family who owns the estate and leads a lifestyle of lavish parties and thoughtless spending, and is entirely different from muse a. still, they keep bumping into each other, and eventually end up growing close to the point where muse b sneaks muse a into fancy parties, and muse a takes muse b out to know the seedy little bars hidden out of the view of the wealthy or for motorcycle rides in the dead of night because they keep this relationship under wraps? and maybe there’s even some angst and jealousy when muse a runs into an ex they never thought they’d see again or muse b is flirting with someone else at a party muse a is working at. this could be so much fun tbh
Miss Sybil Moira Branson, daughter of Irish journalist Tom Branson and the late Lady Sybil Branson (née Crawley), has published her first novel at the tender age of 18. The Fate of Gold explores the adventures of an aristocratic young woman who goes against the wishes of her family to explore the goldfields of Australia in the early 19th Century. The novel has so far received positive reviews from literary critics as a ‘heartfelt’ and ‘refreshingly exciting’ piece that examines the harsh reality of the British class system and the challenges of womanhood.
Miss Branson currently resides in London, working as an intern for the magazines, Tatler and Sketch (the latter owned by her aunt, Lady Edith Pelham (née Crawley), Marchioness of Hexham). Miss Branson’s mother stunned the British aristocracy shortly after the Great War when she married the family’s chauffeur, Mr. Branson. Sadly, she passed away after complications during the birth of Miss Branson in 1920. Thereafter, Miss Branson was brought up with her mother’s family in Yorkshire at the family estate, Downton Abbey whilst regularly travelling to Ireland to visit her father’s relatives after spending a short time in Boston, Massachusetts.
For the time being, Miss Branson intends to remain in London to begin her career in journalism whilst working on her second novel, which she promises will more thrilling than her first.
She uses the pseudonym Danielle Guillard for public travel/reservations
She currently lives at her family estate in Annecy, France
She flew from CDG (Charles de Gaulle) airport to NCE (Nice-Cote d’Azure) airport, then was picked up by a hired limo for a 30 min drive to Monaco, where she met Akande for their meeting with Maximillien
Widowmaker likes to travel in style (first class flight, hired limo)
Widowmaker holds the title of countess
That’s all I’ve found so far from images people have posted (as a poor console player, I have no access to the PTR), but I’ll report on anything else I find.
(This totally answers my question about how all these wanted criminals are capable of world travel - pseudonyms, and nobody asking questions.)
GET OUT by Francesco Francavilla 24"x36" Screen Print, Edition of 250 Printed by D&L Screenprinting - $50
From the trailers I knew GET OUT was a movie that I had to go see as
soon it was in the theaters. And I did, on its opening weekend. The
movie was so good that I couldn’t think of anything else once back home.
As I do for everything that I really, REALLY like, I decided to do a
quick poster art for it, and went with a minimalist approach, trying to
not spoil the movie for those who hadn’t seen it yet. I posted the art
with my 2 thumbs up review on twitter and had director/writer Jordan
Peele himself replying to the post and saying how much he loved the
concept. Someone else suggested to turn this in a Mondo poster (given my
relation with Mondo) and Peele said he was totally up for it. Of course
Mondo was happy too cause they loved the movie as much as I did. So
yeah, now you have this poster because of the movie being so good and
the magic of social media that makes the world way smaller than it
really is :)
These posters will be available at a random time today (5/23) on
mondotees.com - follow @MondoNews feed on Twitter for the drop
MONDO’s press release: Jordan Peele’s GET OUT is an absolute gut punch of a film. Not
only is it one of the best and most important movies to come out so far
in 2017, we’d rank it among the top movies of the last several years.
The film tells the story of an interracial couple, Chris and Rose, as
they travel to Rose’s family estate to spend a weekend with her parents.
Things get increasingly dark as the visit goes on and more sinister
discoveries come to light about her family’s past.
excited to have two incredible posters available for the film by
Francesco Francavilla and Jay Shaw, each rife with rich subtext, themes
and imagery, available tomorrow in celebration of the home video
release. Francesco’s poster features Chris trapped in the vast expanse
of the sunken place, while Jay takes a visceral approach in illustrating
themes touched upon in the film.
The fact that GET OUT was
Jordan Peele’s directorial debut is all the more impressive and we
absolutely cannot wait to see what other stories he has to share with
the world. GET OUT is available on Blu-Ray/home video tomorrow and we
highly recommend picking it up and watching it immediately.
Adam Bourbon is the sole heir to the Earldom of Villeneuve, and loves to attend parties in London, gamble and spend ridiculous amounts of money of clothes and material possessions.
He’s been the centre of numerous scandals (with both married and unmarried women) that his father desperately pays to keep out of the papers for fear of his own reputation.
After realizing they’re loosing money and their estate is at risk due to a bad investment, Adam’s cold and distant father tells him he must marry and settle down, or he’ll be disinherited and the estate and title will do to the next heir (a very distant cousin).
Not wanting to lose his inheritance or title, Adam begrudgingly agrees and his father orders him to stay at the family estate in the country to keep out of trouble. His father rarely spends time there, but nonetheless starts organizing dinners with respectable potential brides for Adam, though he shows little interest.
Months of unsuccessful marriage attempts go by, and Adam feels as though there’s no one for him, until a woman in a maid’s dress catches his eye.
Belle is hired by Cogsworth and Mrs.Potts as a housemaid in the earldom’s big house. She is content with her position, but knows that she’d doesn’t want to work in service forever. She’s saving up to travel and see libraries all over the world.
Belle quickly becomes friends with Plumette, the head housemaid.
Adam and Belle accidentally meet when she walks into the library to dust and set the fire, and is taken aback to see that Adam is there.
She apologizes, saying she thought he’d be hunting with the rest of his visiting relatives, and he says he was never keen on the hunt. He also lets it slip that his father teases him mercilessly because of it, and says some not-so-kind remarks about him. After quickly realizing he shouldn’t have said that, Belle promises not to tell anyone. Adam smiles, doesn’t say a word, and leaves Belle to her duties.
Adam starts “accidentally” running into Belle whenever he can, interrupting her duties. Belle eventually becomes slightly frustrated with Adam’s advances as he’s inconveniencing her and if they were to be found out, she would be sacked. He realizes this, eventually, and backs off (if a little reluctantly).
One afternoon, Adam catches Belle in the library, secretly reading his mother’s copy of Romeo and Juliet, and can’t help but let out a snort of disapproval. Belle jumps, quickly putting the book back as Adam saunters into the library.
Adam: “Of all the books in this room, you choose to read that one?”
Belle: “It’s my favourite, actually.” She’s trying (albeit not successfully) to not sound offended.
Adam: “But all the heartache and the pining… there are so many better things to read.”
Belle: “Well I haven’t had the luxury of a library such as this.”
Adam: “You have that now.”
Belle looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What- what do you mean?”
Adam: “You can borrow any of these books, if you want to.”
Belle: “Does your father allow the staff to borrow from the library?”
Adam: “Oh, no. He keeps a ledger that even I have to use. But I would be willing to sign my name next to the books you want to read.”
Belle can’t help but let out a small laugh of joy.
On one of the staff’s nights off, Belle, Plumette, and the other maids head down to the visiting fair in the village. Belle decides to stay a bit later, and is noticed by a few young men who start to make unwanted advances. These advances start to get violent, and Adam (who had come to the fair out of nostalgia and remembering when his mother used to take him) notices these men ganging up on Belle and fights them off.
With all the adrenaline and an injured Belle, Adam rushes home and doesn’t leave her in her small bedroom in the servants’ quarters, but instead brings her to a guest bedroom.
Adam decides to revive a tradition put away when his mother died: the servants’ ball
It’s basically an excuse for his to dance with Belle in a non-scandalous setting.
Cogsworth is worried by the idea, thinking the Earl will find out, but Adam persists (with the help of Lumière and Plumette) and Cogsowrth eventually, begrudgingly accepts.
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Get Out will be released on Digital HD on May 9 and on Blu-ray and DVD on May 23 via Universal. Written and directed by Jordan Peele (of Key & Peele fame), it’s sure to go down as one of the year’s best and most important films.
The acclaimed, record-breaking horror/thriller
stars Daniel Kaluuya, Allison Williams, Bradley Whitford, Catherine Keener, Caleb
Landry Jones, Milton “Lil Rel” Howery, Betty Gabriel, Marcus Henderson, and Lakeith Stanfield.