Okay so I just got online and I haven’t read much about analyzing the Kingsman 2 trailer yet.
But I’m just gonna say I think it’s significant that his hair isn’t styled??
Even when he woke up from the coma he styled his hair before anything else, it was slicked back when he was applying what I can only assume was aftershave. harry is super image conscious his hair is also darker and shorter here, more brown and not so blond.
Is this going to be some James Bond ‘I took the opportunity to ‘die’ for a little bit and just enjoy being dead’ bullshit
That room is suspect as hell too look at how it’s all white and padded yet scuffed??
I’m wondering if maybe this is part of the dream sequence we saw in the teaser. We saw the digital butterflies flying in 3d from Harry’s walls and Mr Pickle, even though we know at the very beginning of the movie Harry’s house and the Kingsman base blow up.
The trailer JUST came out like an hour ago so I haven’t had time to sit down and thoroughly comb through every frame for thoughts and projections, but I’m pulling out a few things because Harry’s comeback is particularly interesting and they’re giving us strange clues in the trailers
And I’m leaning toward this shot we see of Harry isn’t legitimate. More like a drug induced dream sequence. With the amount of food shots we see for Poppy (I know she has a diner but bare with me) and the golden bottles in the preview, what if they’re carrying a drug of some kind? Eggsy would be a test for it in some capacity, where he hallucinates Harry and Harry’s house - I’m guessing - after seeing something hinting at Harry being alive whether it be photos or videos or straight up seeing Harry.
I don’t think Harry’s not in it sincerely or anything, he totally is. But maybe not this specific shot.
Is anyone following me am I talking out my ass here
So are there any differences in personality from pre-Ottoman Ottoman and post-Ottoman Turkey?
To answer this I need to do a short documentary on the evolution of aph turkey. And maskless. Because why not.
Baby in the steppes aph Turkey is a cheeky one, boisterous and reckless. He enjoys simple pleasures and his simple life. He might be impressionable and a bit of a crybaby, though. Because he’s damn sensitive. He’s already hyperactive, too.
The lil Seljuk Turk didn’t change that much, but suddenly he’s very ambitious. He wants to be a powerful nation. And he’s a wanted warrior, he likes to fight a lot. And he’s way more curious than he used to be, everyone and everything interests him. But still sensitive little lad.
Ottoman Golden Age Turkey gained too much power to be humble about it. He’s super strong, also a huge show off, he likes expensive stuff and he imposes his style. He’s extremely stubborn, his sensitivity turned into a “quick to anger” type. He’s very strict about his own rules and as long as they’re respected, he doesn’t care about the rest. However he’s still a cheerful guy and can actually be nice, he’s just a little too unpredictable on his emotional state.
Ottoman Decline/Dissolution Turkey is angry. All the time. He’s a big grump, he’s even more strict about his rules and doesn’t care about being harsh. He’s extremely touchy and moody, surrounded by a gloomy aura. He’s not as active as he used to be because he’s often tired and wounded.
Republic of Turkey is back to being a cheerful and lively guy. He’s still quick to anger with some people and on some topics, but he’s as quick to forget why he was angry in the first place. Still a show off, still stubborn, yet he got some of his sensitivity and curiousity back, and he’s usually very friendly.
So, in short : yes. but short answers are less interesting aren’t they.
science has yet explored the inferno in which were forged the deformations that
later emerge to daylight as cheerfulness, openness, sociability, successful
adaptation to the inevitable, an equable, practical frame of mind.
Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections from
Damaged Life (1951); trans. E.F.N. Jephcott (London, 1974), p. 59.
possibility of this sickness [of despair] is man’s advantage over the beast.
Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death
(1849), trans. Alastair Hannay (London, 1989), pp. 44-5.
Hamlet is English literature’s great melancholic: like
Shakespeare’s fellow dramatist John Webster (as characterized by T.S. Eliot),
the Prince of Denmark is ‘much
possessed by death’. The play opens with the appearance of Hamlet’s father’s ghost
and concludes with a graveyard scene, followed by Hamlet’s death along with those
of many others. Hamlet’s death-drenched atmosphere drew a rebuke in 1930 from the
critic G. Wilson Knight, who in a brilliant (and typically idiosyncratic) essay
portrayed Hamlet as more than half in love with easeful Death—as an enemy of life. For
Knight, Claudius’s court at Elsinore was essentially a fun-loving, sensual
place, and Hamlet a sort of sex-hating, spectral, neurotic ascetic. It is a perverse
interpretation, one that fails to take account of Hamlet’s own sense of fun
(see his send-ups of Polonius) or his warm, lively, wholesome relationships
with others, from his friend Horatio to the actors who visit Elsinore. But you can see how such a view of Hamlet might
come about: he often seems to speak to us from beyond the grave, which, in the
‘To be, or not to be’ speech, he imagines both in terms of an afterlife and as
total dissolution (it’s not clear which vision of death prevails in the play).
But another way in which melancholy
enters into the world of Hamlet is in
the form of social and political critique. True, the period linked melancholy to mental
disorder—but also to insight, even genius.
An ancient work traditionally assigned to Aristotle had asked why those
distinguished in philosophy, politics, poetry, or the arts happened to be melancholic;
and the Renaissance humanist Marsilio Ficino had likewise associated genius
with melancholy. So melancholy might yield
knowledge. In Hamlet Shakespeare seems to find something of value in the
melancholic temperament—in particular, he associates it with an attitude of reflectiveness
about political and social matters.
is problematic in the play is the kind of coercive happiness urged by Claudius
(the Usurper) and the all-too-human Gertrude.
The Queen urges Hamlet to have done with grief for his father:
cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine
eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not for ever
with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy
noble father in the dust.
’tis common: all that lives must die,
nature to eternity.
follows suit, telling Hamlet that
condolement is a course
stubbornness, ’tis unmanly grief,
It shows a will
most incorrect to heaven,
unfortified, a mind impatient,
simple and unschool’d;
For what we know
must be, and is as common
As any the most
vulgar thing to sense—
Why should we in
our peevish opposition
Take it to
both speeches Hamlet is taken to task for separating himself from the ordinary course
of grief—which, it is accepted, must eventually have a conclusion: one should have done with mourning because
it is non-functional, non-adaptive; it unfits one for life. Notice too that non-normative grieving of
Hamlet’s kind marks one out as un-‘common’. Melancholy singularizes Hamlet, separates him
from others. But it also marks him off from
what turns out to be a profoundly seamy and corrupt world, indeed a murderous tyranny. Hamlet refuses the kind of compulsory contentment Gertrude’s and
Claudius’s words recommend—the notion that one must fit in, play one’s part,
not make waves.
Precisely, then, because it puts us outside society, melancholy
is potentially a source of critical insight. It is significant that Claudius
reproaches Hamlet for resisting what the King presents as the natural order of
things. Hamlet’s behavior is ‘obstinate’,
a piece of ‘stubbornness’ and ‘peevish opposition’ that shows ‘a mind
impatient’. Obstinacy, stubbornness,
non-compliance: not qualities dear to tyrants and slave-drivers, who prefer to
rule over happy idiots rather than unhappy thinkers.
Hamlet is deeply critical of tyranny.
And melancholy—which is, and not to put too fine a point on it, noticing
how atrocious things are—is a precondition for real criticism. Glass-half-full types are unlikely to mount a
revolution, or stand up to a dictator. Witness
one of Hamlet’s most famous speeches, his confession of melancholy to
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, apparently old friends of Hamlet’s but now working
as Claudius’s spies. ‘I have of late’, observes Hamlet to these bootlickers,
wherefore I know not–lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? (2.2.297-310)
Hamlet here speaks to an old theme in
tragedy, that of dissolution and futility. Man may well be ‘the beauty of the
world’, ‘the paragon’, or ideal type, ‘of animals’, but it is all for naught,
because, like the ‘Golden lads and girls’ of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, he will eventually ‘come to dust’
(4.2.262, 263). But Hamlet’s pessimism has a social, as well as a metaphysical,
cause—has as much to do with tyranny as with mortality. He is led to this
despairing vision of life only fifty or so lines after declaring to these spies
that ‘Denmark’s a prison’ (2.2.244).
What Hamlet responds to is life in a political and social prison; and what presses in upon him is
the enormous gap that exists between what man could be and what, under such conditions, he actually is. Man is ‘infinite’ in potential or ‘faculties’—he
really could be almost anything,
could have the power and rational self-direction and dignity of an ‘angel’ or a
‘god’—if only he was permitted to develop these powers. But instead he is worth no more than ‘dust’,
is nothing more than a slave and prisoner.
Shakespeare seems to have been preoccupied in Hamlet with this theme of a human potential (most obviously,
Hamlet’s) thwarted by tyranny. Later in the play Hamlet muses on the true
ends of a properly human life: ‘What is a man’, he asks,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with such large
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unused. (4.4.33-9)
asserts that the principal ‘good’ and profit or purpose of human life is the
free exercise of rational and discursive powers (consciousness being the
faculty that, at least here, marks us off from the animals). Our Maker, he claims, did not give us
consciousness—this ‘godlike reason’ and ‘large discourse’ (or power of speech)—for
it to grow mouldy in us through lack of use.
But of course it is precisely under a tyranny that such ‘capabilities’
as reason and speech fall into decay—because the last thing a tyrant wants, of
course, is a populace speaking and reasoning freely. Tyrants want their subjects distracted by
sleeping, feeding, sex, entertainments. They
prefer ruling passive and unthinking ‘beasts’ rather than reflective and inquiring
human beings. Claudius’s problem is
that the Prince of Denmark is not such a ‘beast’: he’d rather think and be
unhappy than not think and be happy.
Perhaps in that sense Hamlet is a model for us today.
Holbrook is Professor of Shakespeare and English Renaissance Literature at the
University of Queensland, Australia, and Chair of the International Shakespeare
Association, which is holding its tenth World Congress in Stratford-upon-Avon
and London in the Summer of 2016. His
most recent book is English Renaissance
Tragedy: Ideas of Freedom (London: Bloomsbury/Arden Shakespeare, 2015),
from which some material has been borrowed for this essay.
Shakespeare quotations are taken from The
Arden Shakespeare Complete Works, ed. Richard Proudfoot, Ann Thompson and
David Scott Kastan; Consultant Editor Harold Jenkins (London: Methuen, 2001).
A Valentine's treat: a sweetbox slice of a future Fairy Tale of Panem
The other day the-peeta-pocket was feeling blue so I offered to dig through my hard drive to see if I had anything fluffy and not-yet-posted that I could share as a cheer-up treat. <3 I realized almost immediately that I, in fact, have a substantial portion of an incomplete oneshot lurking around which is, for the most part, quite fluffy, and after carving out a nice little askbox-sized nugget of prose I got to thinking, “Why couldn’t I post the whole finished portion?” This Valentine’s day is promising to be a rough one for several of us and, well……I thought it might be nice right about now to present a romance that is grounded in compassion and affection and honest-to-God love.
Not to mention, as Valentinesque fics go, this one’s got swans, the moon, wishes, strawberries, candied violets, even red ribbons (the appearance of which pre-dates Ch 11 of WtM, but they actually fit the sweetheart concept perfectly!), all wrapped up in fairytale trappings.
So without further ado, here is a big ol’ chunk of my Crane Wife Everlark fic (requested by and written for alonglineofbread, eons ago now :/). If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you will have seen the first portion of this last (2013) Christmas Eve Eve, but the rest, minus a few SSS’s, should be new to you.