Positive things about the Oscar Isaac Hamlet because I swear I’m trying
First off, Keegan Michael Key played the stand in for Old Hamlet in the dumb show and did a fake death that I swear went on for about three minutes and had me ROARING. Half the actors were visibly laughing when it was clear they were not supposed to
After “And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that’s villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it,” all of the other players stared significantly at Key and he got all offended and it was HILARIOUS
He was the first and only Hamlet I’ve ever seen that was princely and justified all those lines about Hamlet being beloved by the common man. He was charismatic, magnetic, and charming AS WELL AS complicated and sad
Every single soliloquy (perhaps with the exception of To be or not to be, which…I blame the director) was outstanding. He gave me the stand up comedian Hamlet I’ve been longing for and there were lines in that play I heard for the first time because of him
The balance of comedic madness with very real depression was flawless. Also, he took off his pants every single time he was “mad”
For the first time, I didn’t want to punch Hamlet in the balls for leaping into Ophelia’s grave. His sorrow was so profoundly believable, I stopped thinking about how shitty a thing it was to do
His VERSE SPEAKING ABILITY WAS IMPECCABLE. He was on his voice, the language was in his body from head to toe, and he achieved that magic alchemy of balancing heightened language with rooted emotion. He found the poetry AND the simplicity.
In short, Oscar Isaac should play every single major Shakespeare role forever and ever. He’s Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Ian McKellen good. And I don’t think that’s an exaggeration.
The Glaceon glanced at the bouncer again, shook her head. She was finding another way in. Fresca went around to the right side of the building. She observed the surroundings.
There was a ladder leading up to the roof. She pondered this, only to discard the thought. The stadium was over 450 feet high. What was the point of climbing for that amount of time, to get basically no gain.
There was a door. It was a fancy door, looked out of place with its surroundings.
There was a window on the top center of it. Fresca stood up but couldn’t see through it. She went back to observation and found a discarded footstool.
She propped herself up and looked through the window. Inside was a waiting area, for trainers. She could tell because all of the people in there had pokemon. Except for one. Her owner. She started to feel somber and stepped off the footstool.
After she arrived at the front part of the stadium, she was a little hesitant with checking the left, but she did so anyway.
Fresca was surprised to see a door left wide open. She entered to find the main lobby, where everyone was. She concealed herself in the crowd and made her way to the front.
A battle was going on, a Lurantis and a Golduck. Fresca used her average common sense to foresee the Golduck’s loss. The sigh of seeing the hurt pokemon saddened her.
She continued to watch the battles for a while until she got drowsy. She exited the way she came and trudged back to her alley. She curled up under the box, and fell asleep.
everyone likes to joke about tumblr being a hellsite but honestly the mindless hedonistic sadism you indirectly encounter every single shitty fucking day on this website is nauseating theres so many fucking things that hurt me and the people i care about constantly, everyone indirectly mocks spag or says hes a degenerate at every opportunity, everyone sadistically interacts with alex like apeshit fucking sociopathic monkeys making her want to induce self harm by brain damage, i dont even know what the fuck they always harass mismagius girl about aside from being pretty or something, i constantly fucking have to spectate the dregs of society on this shitty blogging website that ironically holds every single connection i have, all the ones that mean everything to me right now and theres no escape, i have desperately wanted to chat with specifically alex about actual topics! but i cant, this fucking passive communication is everything i have and its also the most fuckign threatening because it makes me have to see all you fucking pigs with your shitty aesthetic death/blood/car crash shit or your sociopathic moral high horse bullshit calling everyone pedophiles and animal abusers at the drop of a fucking hat completely oblivious to the nasty festering fucking wounds you throw around out of laughable irresponsibility i just want to bite my fingers off like baby carrots and cauterize them with boiling lemon juice and bash my bash into concrete until im fucking braindead you all want me to watch the people i love fucking suffer, just so you can endlessly jack off to your self imposed superiority complex i fucking hate you i hope you fucking burn
Eureka! We’ve just discovered a breakthrough in squid-observation technology! In Splatoon 2, a new feature called Private Battle Spectator View will allow up to two non-players to spectate a Private Battle. These two people act as camera operators in order capture all the action. This is, of course, in addition to the 8 players who fight in the Private Battle. Outstanding!
Here I am, lying in my one-place-and-a-half bed, in the very place where you used to throw yourself to snuggle in, and I miss you.
The intensity that permeated your look when it touched me, the softness of your hair, the tenderness of your cuddles, the warmth of your skin against mine, the comfort of your presence, I miss everything.
It is so unfair. You are the person who has approached the most closely the frail little organ that is my heart, and here we are again strangers. It is even worse than being strangers, if we had simply returned back to this stage, there would remain hope, the electrifying excitement of having the opportunity to know each other, to discover each other, to marvel at each other of what we were, the visceral excitement of bonding to a new soul.
We’re not even strangers anymore. Even our eyes are fleeing each other as we both die of wanting to make them cross again.
I miss you.
You had to realize that we did not want the same thing for this utopia to end. It was too good to be true, you were too beautiful to be mine.
And here we are, both of us wishing deeply to reach the contraries of our mutual desires.
You, to love me with a flame of love that you do not have, in order to keep by your side the soul mate you found in me.
Me, to be able to forget that it is this flame of love that I have for you which gnaws me, in order to be able to meet again your almond eyes without feeling my world collapsing, in order to have the strength to keep you by my side, to have the strength to love you with that profound friendship you have for me.
I miss you.
We are but the sad spectators of a morbid scene, where we can only look helplessly at our plans to empty their blood by liters. The hope was extinguished in my hands when I tried to hold it to you and you did not know how to grasp it.
Love has given way to disarray, happiness has given way to loneliness, romance has given way to nostalgia, your kisses on my cheeks have given way to the erratic furrows of my tears, and you, you have given way to a gaping hole in the middle of my most secular hopes.
I miss you.
I wish I could hug you again, I would like to have the naivety to believe that you loved me, I would like to have the carelessness not to fear the nature of your feelings. I wish I could no longer be afraid to eternally continue to seek for you through all the people I meet. I wish I could not be terrified that I will never find someone else like you, someone who would have the same laugh, the same look, the same dimples in the corner of the mouth, the same hair, the same Way to kiss, the same way to get angry, the same tastes for music. I wish I could feel able to love something else than what you are.
I wish I could no longer feel a piece of me collapse every time I remember that you are now part of the past and that there is no possible future with you.
I wish that the thought of you leaves me a different taste than the bitter one of the salted pearls that flow on my cheeks.
If horror is banalized it is not because we see too many images of it. We do not see too many suffering bodies on the screen. But we do see too many nameless bodies, to many bodies incapable of returning the gaze that we direct at them, too many bodies that are an object of speech without themselves having a chance to speak. The system of information does not operate through an excess of images, but by selecting the speaking and reasoning beings who are capable of ‘deciphering’ the flow of information about anonymous multitudes. The politics specific to its images consists in teaching us that not just anyone is capable of seeing and speaking.
Jacques Rancière - The Emancipated Spectator (2009 Verso Edition)
The Schooners win game seven and dethrone the defending champion Falconers to claim Seattle’s first national title.
Eric was definitely not expecting Jack to propose immediately after losing.
(A rework of the ‘Game 7 PVD vs SEA’ prompt that totally retcons some NHL!Bitty stuff, so timeline-wise: the Falconers took the cup Eric’s second year with the Schooners. The Schooners win the following season.)
Game Seven. Third period. Eric’s running on adrenaline, blue Gatorade, and rage.
Jack and the rest of the Falconers first line are racing to catch up, but Eric is ‘criminally fast’ (thank you ESPN for the lovely descriptor), and it’s almost too easy to whip the puck to Carter and wait for the siren.
Snowy can’t stop it. The Schooners will win in regulation.
For a brief, terrifying moment, Eric sees Morin’s breakaway as the death knell of his relationship. He has flashes of Freshman year and he thinks ‘Jack is going to hate me’.
are you a christmas at hogwarts or christmas at home person? are you a butterbeer or pumpkin juice person? are you a hogsmeade or diagon alley person? are you a hanging in the great hall or your common room person? are you a summer at hogwarts or winter at hogwarts person? are you a quidditch player or quidditch spectator person? are you a studying in the library or outside near by the lake person?
“I’m gonna propose,” Jack huffs through red-stained teeth and a cut lip. “right here.”
“Now?” Eric asks, throwing off his gloves to push off his helmet.
“Right now,” Jack nods, “but only if you want to.”
“But you lost.” The music is deafening and out of the corner of his eye, Eric can see Cricket grinning like a loon before a swarm of reporters and several cameras.
“And you won,” Jack counters, tossing off his own gloves to cup Bitty’s face. “And you have no idea how proud of you I am. Six years ago you’d pass out if you got hit. Tonight you ran me into the boards. Twice!”
“Cause you were being an asshole, Sweetpea.”
“And it was great, but you know who helped you through that? I did,” Jack grins. “Checked you so many times you forgot you hated me. So it’s kinda like I won too, you know? I won because I get to see you fearless.”
Eric grabs a handful of Jack’s jersey and pulls him down into a kiss, heedless of the flashing lights and screaming spectators. When they separate Jack’s expression is dazed.
Another siren goes off and Jack shouts, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you!”
“Me too!” Bitty yells, fighting tears of exhaustion and happiness.
“Great. Let’s get married! But not here. Later. I love you.” Jack cradles Eric’s sweaty face and peppers kisses across his cheek.
“Wait,” Eric protests, finding Sorenson’s blond head a short way away. “What about right now? Our backup is ordained.”
Jack stares at Eric and grins like he hasn’t just lost Game 7 of the finals. Like Eric isn’t about to hoist the cup. Like they didn’t just out themselves on national television.
“Yeah?” he breathes, pulling Eric into a hug. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.”
Mycroft’s anger is in response to Sherlock creating a theatrical performance, a lie to scare him. The mention of “pantomime” makes me think of false stories, and many metas have been written on the unreliability of series 4 in general, to not take it as face value: it’s a false story, all smoke and mirrors.
What if we take Mycroft’s words as both literal and symbolic, though? Sherlock Series 4 is both literal theatre and a constructed false story.
toxicsemicolon’s posts are mainly about Sherlock and the Theatre of the Absurd (to me, it’s like ‘what would happen if Sherlock suddenly made no sense, the point is there is no point! etc etc). And I was taking a screenwriting course, and something called Brecht and Epic Theatre was mentioned. I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded interesting, so I looked it up!
^This video really helped me start understanding it- I’m by no means an expert! This quote from it was particularly helpful:
“And we’re not meant to sit comfortably and predict what’s going to happen, because that’s not what this play is about. And I think the more they throw in things that are unexpected, the more that they shake you up when you feel like you know where this is going.”
Basically, I think Series 4 is showing what happens when the normal ‘rules’ of the story we’ve been watching no longer apply. Now, we’re in the land of (UNCONVENTIONAL) theatre, and reacting in similar ways to how the first audiences of the theatre of the absurd and epic theatre reacted: disorientation, confusion, resistance.
While not invented by Brecht, the Verfremdungseffekt, known in English as the “estrangement effect” or the “alienation effect,” was made popular by Brecht and is one of the most significant characteristics of Epic theatre. Brecht sought to “re-create the relationship between the actor and audience as dialectic” so that the audience would not longer “willingly suspend disbelief.” The Verfremdungseffekt makes the audience feel detached from the action of the play, so they do not become immersed in the fictional reality of the stage or become overly empathetic of the characters with the hope that Epic theatre will turn “the spectator into an observer” and arouse “his capacity for action, force[ing] him to take decisions.”
This is what The Final Problem is all about to me. We’re encouraged to no longer view this as a ‘normal’ episode, to pay attention to the discrepancies- for example, the glaring ‘missing 10 minutes’ of John’s therapy appointment, and him apparently being shot by a tranquilizer gun. (x) And, there’s the general dissonance in tone of the entire episode- things that would normally give us a poignant, emotional reaction such as the burning of 221B are handled poorly (see If you want to make me laugh OR cry then do one, not both!) This makes us resist our usual willingness to “suspend disbelief”, distances ourselves from emotionally investing like we usually would.
And, that turns out to be a good thing, because now, we shouldn’t be emotionally investing in these particular portrayals of our usually beloved characters. They are deliberate caricatures of themselves. Turns out, that’s also part of Epic Theatre, specifically the way the “alienation effect” is achieved:
Some of the ways the Verfremdungseffekt can be achieved is by having actors play multiple characters
This doesn’t happen quite literally in Sherlock- as in, say, Una playing both the role of Mrs Hudson and Norbury, or something like that. Rather, because our emotional investment has been removed, we are able to see the characters as stand ins for Something Else. For example, Mycroft is no longer ‘Mycroft’ but a stand-in for Mark, the writer watching his own creation crash and burn, and get high-jacked by The Final Problem story.
rearrange the set in full view of the audience
And yes, this one does quite literally happen. Our “set” of 221B is destroyed, and the audience gets to see it, “the stage”, re-made in front of their eyes:
And our own set designer of Sherlock, Arwel Wyn Jones, gets to have a cameo there- again drawing attention to the very fictionality of the show itself, its own set designer is doing work in front of our eyes that is usually reserved for off screen/on stage.
“break the fourth wall” by speaking to the audience.
Lighting can also be used to emulate the effect. For example, flooding the theatre with bright lights (not just the stage) and placing lighting equipment on stage can encourage the audience to understand that the production is merely a production instead of reality.
Such a moment happens in The Six Thatchers, where we see a camera in the right-hand corner of the screen as John confronts Mary: