writing

Avengers Infinity War

The film is not so much a movie as a cultural event. Ten years of continuity, characters developed in their own stories and without having met before this movie. The thrill of seeing characters standing around and exchanging quips has the charge of good mythology, although I doubt Gilgamesh and Zeus teaming up would matter as much to people.

Superheroes are our mythology. Through mythology, we tell stories to share knowledge on how to live good lives. Infinity War talks about how we face defeat, amplified to a cosmic scale, against an opponent with a point of view which is not a one dimensional cartoon. There’s little to no allowance made for the casual viewer, and if you’re reading this as one, I’m not putting you off seeing it but if you’re sat there figuring out why the raccoon talks and why the purple alien is wearing something which looks like a pimp cup and a glove had a baby, you’re not going to enjoy it as much.

The look of the film has a burnished, soft element to reflect the weariness of the apocalypse and also to blunt the spectacle a little bit. There’s a clear Star Wars influence, albeit with far better special effects in the motion captured performances and battle sequences, because this universe feels like the frontier, the desert, which was where Star Wars felt most authentic.

We’re dealing with an established cast and the latter additions feature as lengthy cameos. Black Panther, Shuri and Okoye enter into the film when the story moves to Wakanda and it drops into the flow of things like a well placed music sample. The film has the large cast split into pairs or trios, so you have the pleasure of Benedict Cumberbatch riffing with Tom Holland and Robert Downey Jr and Chris Pratt displaying an endearing masculine insecurity in the presence of Chris Hemsworth. Their characters and personalities are established like study notes with quips exchanged which have a lovely improvisational rhythm to them.

Josh Brolin who plays Thanos is the linchpin of the movie. His character is motion captured, being an eight feet tall purple alien, but there is a nuance and empathy to his character which takes him from being a scenery chewing villain into a dark god. In good storytelling, your villain should be a dark mirror of the hero.

Holmes and Moriarty.

Starling and Lecter.

God and Satan.

Thanos justifies his pursuit from a place of benevolence. A villain who has a point about the nature of things displays a keen eye for storytelling.

I won’t go into his core motivation. It would take away from the pleasure of watching it, knowing on one level it’s zeroes and ones whilst also able to believe he could walk off set and go to his trailer. Brolin impressed me but then he always does, if you’ve not seen him in W, you should check it out because he delivers some moments of gentle, quiet observation with a solid crafted focus.

The film was full of moments where I felt a savage joy in my chest. It’s a tingling of the skin on my upper back and my chest swells up, where the heroes appear and you’re invested in their chances to overcome evil and terror.  Captain America stepping out of shadow with a look of stoic determination on his face, (having stolen my look, not Thor’s) and when Black Panther strides into view, looking like he’s ready to win a staring contest with a brick wall.

If you’re ever a bit down, remember there are people who feel like that when you walk into the room or hear your voice. I’m not bored by it but I have lived with it for a while now.

We’re put into the thick of things and the stakes are as high as possible. It’s action over violence, so there are deaths but little blood and the action sequences are fluid, balletic and intense. The characters move in the way they’re portrayed in the comics, static powerful images from my memory are brought to life and amplified into roaring life.

Its comedic elements appealed to my sense of humour, informed from shows like Community and Parks and Recreation, and there were a few things which made me laugh out loud.

Here were some highlights, and if you’ve seen it, comment on what yours were and about the film below.

  • ‘I am Steve Rogers.’ What’s enjoyable is how Steve puts his hand on his chest and bows his head amidst a vicious battle.
  • ‘Thor: The rabbit is correct and clearly the smartest among you.
  • Rocket Raccoon: Rabbit?
  • Peter Quill: I’m gonna ask you this one time: where is Gamora?
  • Tony Stark: Yeah, I’ll do you one better. *Who* is Gamora?
  • Drax: I’ll do *you* one better. *Why* is Gamora?
  • ‘We Have A Hulk’
  • I’d like to think of myself more as a titan-killing, long-term booty call.’

I won’t talk about the ending or my further thoughts here in order to avoid spoilers but go see it if you’re wavering. It’s a franchise which hasn’t devolved into tired tropes and that is rare these days. It also amuses me the film was directed by the same team who directed and produced a large amount of Community which is one of my favourite television shows and I’d make a pitch that the Study Group will Britta Thanos based on a plan by Evil Abed and Troy.

I loved the film and will see it again. It’s not a waste of your time in the slightest and leaves you expectant and exhausted in the way great movies do.

 

 

Advertisements
Standard
men, politics, Uncategorized, writing

Incel

I don’t write this from an elevated perspective nor in judgement. My relationships speak to the good and bad we

I don’t write this from an elevated perspective nor in judgement. My relationships speak to the good and bad we all face, and I’m informed by my failures as much as my successes. I’ve rejected and been rejected, it’s the latter which informs this train of thought.

Most people weren’t aware of incels until today if they are at all. It is short for involuntary celibate, a designation made by men who haven’t been able to form romantic or sexual attachments at all. They congregate online, Reddit and there’s a lot of resentment expressed there. Hatred, in a lot of cases, and it leads to expressions and calls for violence. That’s a surface level interpretation of a subculture so infused with irony and sarcasm but there’s one of them who’s made it happen. I won’t write his name down because he’s a symbol now, an apogee for a situation where everyone has been throwing opinions around. There’s been a consistent narrative of mockery and emasculation to push and it comes from left wing/liberals (which I’ve considered myself to be albeit with some concerns) Is it any wonder they developed into an ideology which leads to murder?

Rejection is not an excuse for acts which impinge on the lives of others. Rejection hurts but it teaches by it being a painful experience. When lobsters lose mating competition battles with other lobsters, they shrink in size and experience depression (they have similar nervous systems as human beings) and slip down the hierarchy until they win again.

What if they never win? I wonder if it is something there, but it denies their humanity, and these days it is easy to forget we’re talking and commenting on the words and actions of other human beings. I feel disappointment because anger won’t solve this, and neither will love. There are winners and losers in everything, and perhaps they brought into the illusion of equity our culture espouses in terms of love.

Is it entitlement? If some cultural expectations and tenets of love are an illusion, then the idea might seek to plant roots in the soil of young minds and create an expectation of sex, or love by the virtue of approaching with it in mind.

There are illusions which kill people.

These are boys grown older, but not up. No one starts them into manhood, so they try to figure it out on their own and on the nights when it difficult to breathe when you’re nursing the bitter sting of loss, these ideas, these other people come to you like a fairy tale and they lure you in.

I wrote about this because things like this happen and you see blame but not understanding, and it given under the auspices of grief but its politicized and used to berate men. People die and we use it to hurt one another.

Rejection hurts but love hurts too. They are beautiful and painful kinds of hurt, and to use them as a means to make other people suffer betrays what happened.

Ten people won’t get to feel love or rejected again.

Fourteen are suffering more than most of us will ever know.

There’s lots to go around but at least we should be kind to one another.
face, and I’m informed by my failures as much as my successes. I’ve rejected and been rejected, it’s the latter which informs this train of thought.

Most people weren’t aware of incels until today if they are at all. It is short for involuntary celibate, a designation made by men who haven’t been able to form romantic or sexual attachments at all. They congregate online, mostly Reddit and there’s a lot of resentment expressed there. Hatred, in a lot of cases, and it leads to expressions and calls for violence. That’s a surface level interpretation of a subculture so infused with irony and sarcasm but there’s one of them who’s  made it happen. I won’t write his name down because he’s a symbol now, an apogee for a situation where everyone has been throwing opinions around. There’s been a consistent narrative of mockery and emasculation to push and it comes from left wing/liberals(which I’ve considered myself to be albeit with some concerns) Is it any wonder they developed into an ideology which leads to murder?

Rejection is not an excuse for acts which impinge on the lives of others. Rejection hurts but it teaches by it being a painful experience. When lobsters lose mating competition battles with other lobsters, they shrink in size and experience depression (they have similar nervous systems as human beings) and slip down the hierarchy until they win again.

What if they never win? I wonder if it is something there, but it denies their humanity, and these days it is easy to forget we’re talking and commenting on the words and actions of other human beings. I feel disappointment because anger won’t solve this, and neither will love. There are winners and losers in everything, and perhaps they brought into the illusion of equity our culture espouses in terms of love.

Is it entitlement? If some of the cultural expectations and tenets of love are an illusion then the idea might seek to plant roots in the soil of young minds and create an expectation of sex, or love simply by the virtue of approaching with it in mind.

There are illusions which kill people.

These are boys grown older, but not up. No one initiates them into manhood, so they try to figure it out on their own and on the nights when its difficult to breathe when you’re nursing the bitter sting of loss, these ideas, these other people come to you like a fairy tale and they lure you in.

I wrote about this because things like this happen and you see blame but not understanding, and its given under the auspices of grief but its politicised and used to berate men. People die and we use it to hurt one another.

Rejection hurts but love hurts too. They are beautiful and painful kinds of hurt, and to use them as means to make other people suffer betrays what happened.

Ten people won’t get to feel love or rejected again.

Fourteen are suffering more than most of us will ever know.

There’s lots of it to go around but at least we should be kind to one another.

 

 

 

Standard
fiction, writing

Precop

https://alexandre-deschaumes.deviantart.com/art/The-light-at-the-end-of-the-world-372773387

They knocked out the lights in the hallway. The glass from the lightbulb crunched under her boot and she heard someone moving towards her and the palm strike to her nose, feeling it crunch and then the knife punching through her vest. She falls back, bangs the back of her head. She didn’t get to draw her gun.

 

She came in low, drove the tomahawk into the meat of his thigh and dragged it down. There is an artery there, and he was dead before she went up the stairs.

 

The shotgun came as a surprise and the force of the round slammed her back down the hallway.

 

Next time, she had the revolver up, squeezed off a clean shot which clipped him in the temple before he brought the shotgun up. His blood and brains made a comma shaped mark on the wall behind him. She looked back at the bodies and crept up the stairs.

 

She died twice before she shot through the floorboards with the shotgun, took out two people before she walked up, cruising on adrenaline like a migrating bird on the thermals. Every swallow tasted of copper as she cut down a young man who pointed a cheap revolver from a doorway at her.

 

He fell onto his side, stared out at nothing. Imogen had been at the last Thanksgiving turkey hand out, he couldn’t have been over ten sporting a swollen lip from another of his mother’s endless loop of men and she’d gone into the apartment, shot out a hard right which took him by surprise, gave the kid a twenty and warned his mother if she saw the boy with so much a frown, she’d come back and fuck her up.

 

That had been before she’d volunteered for the enhancement programme, laid in a hospital looking at three dimensional images of her brain and body as the doctors explained where they were cutting and why.

 

The implants in her brain. Carbons in her bones. Artificial muscle grafts and fullerenes to strengthen her and heighten her reflexes.

 

She was recovering from a knife in her gut when the man from the government visited her. He smelled of the curry he’d eaten for lunch and he had a spot on his cheek where he had missed it when shaving. He discussed her record, her former military service.

Policing was becoming militarised and once the military had installed the enhancive program, deploying them in Venezuela, it became a matter of time and public acceptance.

 

Politics was downriver from culture and culture was downriver from biology. A woman officer was good optics and the man explained it all in a warm, soft voice which cut through the fog of painkillers and antibiotics. She was thinking about the box cutter digging through the skin of her stomach, how her last thought had been if she lived, she’d never be able to wear a bikini again.

 

Two years later, she walked into the squad room, claps on the back and hard hugs, the wary light in the eyes of her crew as she sat with them.

 

Imogen closed her eyes, visualised the teeming mist of the valley and the warm, damp earth beneath her feet. An image of tropical perfection, part of her meditative practice as she ignored the rumble of the road beneath her feet. The darkness was a blanket draped around her shoulders, and she sank into it as they drove to the warehouse.

 

Her crew were quiet, saving their nerves for the job.  

 

The car stopped and she felt a hand at her shoulder. Imogen opened her eyes and smacked her lips.

 

She knew her enhancements frightened them and she compensated by going on point. It kept them alive, and grateful for having her there. Detective Imogen Capaldi was better than any vest, any gun but they didn’t know the cost she paid to be a better breed of cop.

 

Imogen got out the car, breathed in the warm, dank air of a summer midnight in New York and looked at the scarred front door of the drop house. Precognition ran its nails down her spine as she checked her revolver and looked at the rest of her crew.

 

They asked her if she saw their deaths but she shook her head.

 

It was what she told them if they pressed her.

 

She knew it would be another eight years, defusing a dirty bomb planted in Grand Central Station, without a child or a family to mourn her passing. The job would bury her with reverence, but it was no comfort against feeling her flesh melt on her bones from the brutal waves of radiation.

 

She smiled and nodded towards the building, watched the future roll towards her as she smiled and went to face it.

Standard
women, writing

Thank You

I don’t always take the time to say this but each like and comment matters to me. We risk ridicule when we post our art and if something I’ve written has entertained you or distracted you then it’s been worthwhile in the time spent doing it.

So this post is for you. Your attention is currency spent on days when I doubt myself and I could slump in front of the TV.  I hope you keep reading and continue to engage with me here, because you’re a beautiful bunch of people and I’ll keep writing to entertain and express.

Matt.

cropped-untitled-1.jpg

Standard
poetry, writing

In Motion

In motion,

The nights aren’t so cold,

And I am thinking,

Putting together the

Ideas into marks,

On paper

Zeroes and ones,

Working towards

Goals and finding joy,

Along the way,

Craving sweetness,

But I practice

Delayed gratification,

Seeking the space,

To think and connect,

Bold enough to fuck up,

Over never risking at all,

A student with a deadline,

Imposed upon myself,

Back into the warm,

Before the cold steals,

My fingers ability,

To dance with the words,

A tango,

A drugged grind,

Yet indomitable,

In answering the call,

To dance but now,

I walk in,

Coffee and air blue

Thick with smoke,

So, freed at last,

I begin to write.

 

Standard
beauty, social media, women, writing

Announcement

I am launching a Patreon page where you can sign up to exclusive offers and prizes in return for your ongoing support.

The page will go live on 19/02/2018. I will post updates and then go live with it on the Monday evening. It’s time to take this up a notch and I hope you will be part of it.

https://patreon.com/preview/3c268f17ddb346b5880b1ed17ee5eb66

Have a look and see, I hope you’ll join me in the next phase of my career.

cropped-untitled-1.jpg

Standard