"Hush now, miscreants," I said. "We're hunting witches."
Not to be overly clichéd, but...
Goblins and miniature zombie goats and black witches, oh my!
...
I'd say that was out of my system, but... probably not, and with justifiable reason because Storm Cursed was a grisly one.
It's always an exciting time out with Mercy and Adam as they battle against whatever wicked has pricked their thumbs this time around, but with every evil they face, I'm usually confident in their ability to kick its ass and be home in time to play a round of ISTDPB4 with the fam, harbouring only a few broken bones for their trouble. It's a common reaction to spending time with a set of characters within a series, observing their skills and invariably their limits, which can consequently make your reading of them fall into the trap of seeing them as untouchable, which in turn bestows an invincibility to their existence within the arc of the story. I'm soft-hearted enough to admit that if no one died in the books (shows, movies, et al.) I love, even if it made sense for the plot, I sincerely would not give a fuck - I'm fragile and I don't need my heart broken like that in my safe space. But it is pretty invigorating to reach a point in a story like Mercy's where she's defeated every nemesis thus far with not ease, per se, but certainly confidence, to come across a battle where you suddenly think, "Oh. Well... shit. We might not make it through this one unscathed or maybe even alive". When the mortal peril is suddenly thrown back into a story's orbit, it's, for me, always a welcome reinvigoration, and one I ushered in without fanfare when I cracked open Storm Cursed. Patricia Briggs, in true Briggs fashion, drops us right back into the action with child-murdering goblins, miniature zombie goats running amuck (there was no adorable, undead parkour to be seen. Disappointing), and the arrival of a coven of black witches with their eye firmly set in Mercy and the Pack's direction.
"Something wicked this way comes", indeed.
I mean, nothing good ever comes from having a practitioner of the darkest of arts' attention fixed unwaveringly on you, but especially not when it's a powerhouse group of werewolves on the receiving end of said peeper. And when it's Mercy and Adam? Catastrophic, apocalyptic, an emotional tornado, which was, for want of better words, really fucking exciting. One of the greatest joys of reading Urban Fantasy is that it's a constant mix of mystery, high action, and character building; with each book the world-building continues to expand, the character dynamics intertwine and bloom further, and the puzzles become even more fraught with danger. And at a certain point in the series, everything clicks into place and you land, quite merrily, in a book like Storm Cursed where the characters have not only built a home, but you have, too, and now that home is under threat, and all you can do is watch and hope, and try not to spin the fuck out.
Hand on heart, my swearwolf readers, I spun the fuck out. Because everything went to absolute shit in Storm Cursed, and it was, I whole-ass-heartedly reiterate, really exciting. I was not only palpitating in the aortic region during scenes of post-mass-torture-clue-seeking, but clutching my metaphorical pearls as basement battles with reanimated critters took chunks out of characters I deeply love. There wasn't a moment to breathe within chapters where something supernatural wasn't attacking Mercy and her kin, and it was stressy but thrilling as fuck. And not only because of the immediate and very real danger facing Mercy, but because as the plot progressed you could actively see Patricia Briggs start to bring all the pieces of the story ever so slightly closer together. After Mercy's big speech at the end of Silence Fallen, claiming the Pack's territory as a safe haven for the supernatural, it inadvertently painted a bright red target on her back, and the shots are raining down liberally, without warning, and there's nothing she can do but fight back the best she can with what she's got. This is something I dearly love about Mercy, though, that she may be the protagonist of the story and is special in many ways, but she isn't necessarily a "chosen one". There isn't some grand destiny - that we know of - powering her along and granting her special treatment; she doesn't have infinite power to get her out of sticky situations; she isn't remarkable in the way a chosen one usually would be. Mercy Athena Thompson Hauptman is a coyote of fierce but not hugely above average skill. But she's scrappy, and intelligent, and her instincts save the day more often that not, and I don't know about anyone else, but I hold that kind of "chosen one" in higher esteem than the naturally blessed. Give me the underdogs who fight tooth and nail over the predestined privileged any day of the week. Give me Mercy. And Adam. And Sherwood Post.
Can't lie, it's been so long since I'd read my last Mercy book, almost two years to the day, and I'd pretty much forgotten who Sherwood was, and I'm kicking myself for it because he is fascinating. An amnesiac werewolf with a leg that won't regrow (an aberration in the regenerative, lupine species)? A wolf inside him that he can't communicate with? Eerie witchy powers that can bespell and banish the corrupted through his beautiful singing voice? And soft spot for kittens? Uhhhh, how exactly did I forget this man? And why is Bran hiding his past from him? And did he send him purposefully to Mercy because he knows something even worse than black witches is on the way? So many questions for a man who is basically monosyllabic, but this is becoming a habit of Patricia Briggs: introducing intriguing characters and withholding information about them (see: Ben, Asil, Stefan, Larry - I'm especially intrigued by the latter; the Goblin King's got jokes). None more so than Wulfe, the witchborn, wizardborn, maniacal teen vampire with a penchant for terrorising Mercy. This weird little guy, he's been creeping his way through the pages of the series for eleven books and I still know fuck all about why he is the way he is, or what he means in terms of the plot. But I sure do love to see him spin in bloodied, giggling circles, and Silence Fallen is the first time we get to spend some quality time with him. Recruited by Mercy near the end of the book to put a stop to the Hardesty Witches and their reign of tyranny, within a few pages we see a different side to Wulfe where he's almost a team player, using every weapon he has to fight the villain off instead of joining their forces. It's almost as if... he's not a demented boy-child who solely wants to watch the world drown itself in blood so he can sup through a straw? And he's on Mercy's side? Actively protecting her? But that can't be right. Surely? Not freak boy. Not my pointy toothed little weirdo. The bigger worry, however, is what in the hell did Mercy do to him, and why is he making grass angels after whatever that something was, and where'd she get those necromantic powers?
I raised my hadst to the skies and twirled like a top, a naked top. I probably looked like a fool. But there was no room for self-analysis in me at that moment. I turned and turned and gathered them all, all the shiny, wispy threads of spider silk and all the zombies. Every last one, every creature born unwillingly to unnatural life, I held them in my hands, wrapped around my body.
They would have done my bidding more eagerly than they had done the witch's. I knew it, knew I held the power of an unstoppable army in my grasp. They could kill they witches, destroy any threat to me, to my pack, to the people I held dear. I held power in my hands such that had never been available to me before.
But in that moment in time, there was only one thing I wanted from them, one necessity that drove me.
I gave them my order.
I know I said Mercy's your everyday coyote with a legendary dad, but maybe... not? There's a lot of question marks happening here and that's because Silence Fallen fucked everything up! Everything I thought I knew about the world Briggs has created, about the characters, and where I reckoned the series was heading has been shot to hell with one pocket-sized book (mass market paperback is the best size of book, fight me), and I'm very much not mad about it. There's something to be said for an author "shaking shit up", rattling the narrative cage and abruptly rousing their readership from their complacent slumber. It's not always a foolproof plan, it can often feel shock-jocky and deviate too wildly from the plot that it makes no sense, but Briggs quite clearly has a plan, and she's being extra bloody sneaky about, because like I said, I have no idea what's going on, and it's kind of the best thing ever? ⬅ there go the question marks again. But I mean it with sincerity that I'm truly thrilled to be in the dark with this one and wondering what mad thing is going to befall Mercy and her rabble next.
Adam grinned at me. "That which doesn't destroy us . . ."
"Leaves us scratching our heads and saying, 'What's next?'"
I'm really just thrilled to be here inside the Mercyverse and having a hell of a good time, which I was decidedly not with the previous book I was reading. The much anticipated book I wrenched from TBR pile number forty-two after struggling for a month and half to pick up a physical book (neurodivergence is fun, fun, fun), and took a devastating fall into an insufferable sea of forced whimsy and a staggering abuse of exclamation points. ... It was hellacious, and I struggled on for a good third of the book, but at some point I could actively see it was taking a toll on my overall mood. I was grumpy and resentful, and would, at any cost, put off picking this damn book back up again, and as a Reader (necessary capitalisation), that's a crushing place to be because I not only depend on stories to bring me joy/comfort/excitement/thoughtfulness/etc., but to keep me sane. Books and the tales they hold inside them are the safest places for my overstimulated brain to hole away in, to escape reality and be somewhere else together, and when that safety's hindered by grammatical warfare and bad storytelling, it feels like a betrayal. It feels as though something essential's been taken from me and I find myself, inevitably, in one hell of a funk, and I don't always have the common sense to know what to do about it. Fortunately, this time I knew exactly what to do, because whilst reading the trapped-in-whimsical-hell book, I'd been eyeing up Mercy all along, checking out her spinal font and thinking "Damn, you're looking good enough to eat with my brain." And thus, a pivot occurred, and I swear on the ashes of the Library of Alexandria, I could feel my grey matter relax its shoulders and take a huge, gulping sigh of relief. There is nothing like opening a book and instantly feeling at home, knowing you're exactly where you're meant to be, and so this is a PSA from your resident Swearwolf Book Goblin to any reader out there who is feeling disregulated, and every book you're picking up is only exacerbating that feeling: read an author you love, re-read an old favourite, or, like I did, read the next in a beloved series and feel the serotonin flood greedily back into your brain with each familiar word.
I promise you, it'll feel fucking wonderful, and you won't regret a minute of it.
.............................................
Apparently we're in the era of lady knights and I. Am. DOWN:
Oh yeah, I could totally believe this is the kind of gremlin behaviour that happened during the Black Death if you were a moneyed little bitch with a villa in the country to hide away in. It's basically Made in Chelsea, but the fuckboys are rats and the epidemic isn't entitled mansplaining but bubonic plague.
It totally tracks that the world wouldn't end with screams of pestilent horror, but with an unhinged, horny giggle through a pustulating neck wound.
And if that's what you're into, which apparently I am, The Decameron is one hundred percent the show for you. Funny, weird, and unrelentingly bonkers with epic costume design and cast of actors who very clearly read the assignment and came to get demented as shit. No hesitation, just down to fuck around and find out, quite literally most of the time, and I loved it. I'd heard about the collection of short stories before; they do kind of live in crazed infamy, but this is my first experience of them and, well, Giovanni Boccaccio? You were a depraved weirdo and bless you for surviving and turning one of the greatest tragedies into tales of pettiness, greed, smut, and above all else, that love and sex and devotion can present in the most unconventional ways.
...
But mostly the unhinged stuff.
You can absolutely see where Monty Python got their schtick from.
This is my bad, I hated season one, so I only have the completest in me to blame for continuing on with season two (and probably season three when it airs - I know, toxic relationship much) but Jesus fucking Christ, I don't know if there has ever been a more unbearable assembly of fictional characters than the cast of The Buccaneers. They are the worst, and I can't excuse any of their rife with miscommunication, gut-feeling narrative motivation with little to no payoff behaviour. They're all a bunch of whiny, self-involved, horny-eyed villains, and this one's the worst!:
Nan is the classic holier-than-thou, "beer-flavoured nipples", butter wouldn't melt female lead who's always in the right, even when she's fucking everyone over and calling it "feminism".
I hate her so much; may the conclusion of her story start with a carriage right and end with a grisly fall off one of those cliffs the director loves to have her hang around in the drizzle looking virtuous and sanctimonious.
There's no denying this is a masterclass in animation and staying visually faithful to the source material, but having read only the first volume of the manga, even I could tell there was something vital missing from this adaptation. Something that watered down the intensity of the relationship between Teacher and Shiva, a bond that's pure and gentle, and sparks an aching within anyone observing it.
Even key moments are omitted entirely for some reason, narrative instances that are essential to understanding the conclusion of this section of the story, and their absence is felt keenly in the anime.
But it is still very beautiful, and that fondness I feel from Shiva and Teacher remains strong, but this was... middling, at best, and it deserved a hell of a lot more.
Look, I had a really nice time, especially when Miles crossed over to Mumbattan - jfc, there were scenes in that which rivalled Miles' leap of faith moment in the first movie, which, without fail, I almost always gets choked up at when he jumps - and meeting Peter's adorable, sticky baby, but Across the Spider-Verse is very much a set-up movie. You could've covered most of the plot in the first half hour of what will be the next and final film in the trilogy and it not affect the overarching story. There was absolutely no reason for this movie, which, I'll be honest, didn't piss me off until I starting thinking about it.
I love this franchise, it's done incredible things for animation, and the story's just fucking great, right? And I'll never snub my nose at getting more time in the Spider-Verse, but seeing as though we're only getting three movies, I wish the creators had just gone for it, avoided the set-up movie chasm of doom, and made each individual movie stand alone and stand narratively proud.
Can I blame Peter Jackson for this? I feel like I can, yeah? Because who is actually out there loving on The Two Towers? Who truly enjoyed Merry and Pippin extreme hiking with the Ents and getting fuck all done? No one, that's who.
Second. Entries. In. Trilogies. Do. Not. Have. To. Be. Set-up. Entries.
When will Hollywood finally get this through their money-embalmed skulls?
I've started a dozen or so sentences on how I feel about this movie, and I still can't quite land on a concrete emotion, so here's a list of its successes and failures:
🎬 It's told solely from the female perspective.
🎬 It omits, bar two short scenes, involvement from the police. Because there wasn't any, and that highlights their tragic failure to protect the people Rodney Alcala injured, raped, and murdered during the decades he was active.
🎬 The non-linear timeline works especially well with the construction of the storytelling.
🎬 Anna Kendrick is fantastic, as usual, but I really appreciated the range of emotions she went through during this.
🎬 Daniel Zovatto is unnervingly good at this role, managing to fully inhabit the thing women fear the most: that even the nice guy is going to tie you up and murder you.
🎬 Autumn Best is the star of this and Woman of the Hour is only the second thing she's been in. Her performance totally blew me away and I'm really excited to see what she does next.
🎬 The tension felt a little lacking in this, but that might actually be a positive because it didn't try and hyperbolise on what happened, it didn't try and make it into a Hollywood movie but more a dramatised accounting of a terrible man and the people he hurt. The real life happenings are terrifying enough, they needed no elaboration and I respect that.
🎬 The helplessness of Nicolette Robinson's performance as Laura (fictionalised character) and the way she's dismissed entirely by law enforcement is a true reflection of the lack of help given to women who are assaulted/reporting assault. Law enforcement has and probably always will fail women until something changes, and I don't see it happening any time soon. Maybe not in my lifetime.
🎬 I wish the movie had been more about Sheryl Bradshaw (Anna Kendrick's character), and less about Rodney. Actually, I kinda wish Alcala was less detailed entirely because it gives a monster more airtime when it should be his victims highlighted.
🎬 The parking lot scene is somehow the most terrifying one because yeah, that's just being a woman in the world and that's fucking devastating. I was afraid of the dark when I was a kid because of monsters under my bed (still kinda am, ngl), and now I'm terrified for exactly the same reason, the only difference being now I know the monsters aren't under the bed.
🎬 Was this an entirely successful movie? No. But I'm still thinking about it weeks later and that says something for Kendrick's directing abilities (bold choice for her first outing) and the horror of the true crime, one I wasn't aware of, that she brought to the screen. Can't help but admire that and see what else she's got in store for us.
I figured out years ago that the key to a successful rom-com is that it's got to be kind of fucked up: story, characters, vibe. There's got to be a degree of "these people are deplorable and would totally get arrested for this behaviour irl" (see: You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, Overboard, etc., ad infinitum), and Plus One has it! In fucked up spades!
Jack Quaid and Maya Erskine are such goblin people in it, behaving like sociopaths whilst being obnoxiously perfect for each other and making me laugh. Out loud. I genuinely can't remember the last time a rom-com legit made me lol, and that's an insult to entire genre.
Actually, that's a lie, Fire Island (2022) is hilarious in a purely genuine way (no slapstick) and also makes a fantastic "pick me up" movie when you've just cried your post birthday blues cry of the year because you're really fucking overwhelmed.
Was this meant to be the feminist sequel to Eyes Wide Shut or something?
Because nobody wanted that. Ever. And especially not as weak as this.
Babygirl could've been a real game changer, as well, y'know? A real kick in the lady balls but in a nice way, an uncomfortable but unburdening way, a way that actually delved into women's sexuality, especially powerful, older women, instead of whatever this heavy-breathing soundtracked mess this was.
I spend a term in my second year of art school hyper-focusing on the mythology of Yew trees and their arboreal cousins for a project on the anthropomorphism of nature, and it ate my brain.
Ate it right up.
British folklore is wild.
And yes, when I look at these little druids, I can see only one thing:
But I actually kinda like it, and it's my greatest pleasure to let these goblin characters alter my dialect because they're precious, precious idiots I'd watch for as long as the television people let me.
Which isn't very long because Why Are You Like This got cancelled (I think? There's no real confirmation), Heartbreak High's ending with its third season sometime this year (hopefully? I need schoolies, immediately), and The Newsreader's just wrapped up with its third and final season, which just uploaded on the iPlayer, for anyone interested. And you should be, it's fantastic, and I'm not just saying that because I'm obsessed with Sam Reid as Lestat de Lioncourt and watching this bisexual brat of a man embroil himself in toxic relationships whilst having full on mental breakdowns.
The vicious cycle of "you've got to do the thing, but you can't fuck it up because then you're unworthy to ever do it again."
...
A cycle of suck.
I'm undiagnosed, and have no plans to get tested due to the wait times being insane, but the more I read and encounter works like Daph Chan's - which is gorgeous, her illustrations give me colour theory envy, the more I think, "Yup. Yup. Yup, yup, yup."
Even if I'm not on the spectrum but just your regular old neurodivergent with a dash of extra flavour, seeing the things I experience out in the world is beyond comforting. It's reassuring and grounding. I'm not "difficult" or "broken" or "attention seeking", I'm just a neurodivergent in a neurotypical world, and that takes a fuck ton of effort but it's okay. It's perfect, actually. Because I'm not alone, and I don't have to tie myself in pretzel knots for anyone.
The internet's a pretty toxic place, but I'm glad it exists because without it, I wouldn't have the access I need to information like this from my fellow "weirdos".
Rehoming the Brasil cutting I was finally brave enough to propagate into this very cute corked glass beaker.
(Which makes rainbows when the sun's shining. Bonus whimsy)
And the new offshoot from wound.
(I know I'm not personally growing this shoot but it's my child, now. A curse upon on any who dare to mess with it)
And a surprise new shoot.
(This is what plants do and I still can't get over it. Like... where did you come from, bud? ⬅ I did laugh at my own pun; do with that information what you will)
This little collapsible basket for tromping around the garden taking book photos instead of trying to carrying them all in my arms like a lunatic.
(I've dropped so many books, this is, for real, a lifesaver, and it's cute as hell)
The first time I watched Challengers it was a year after its release when the hubbub had died down, but I was full of anticipation and my expectations were very high, and for most of the movie I was in a state of "this is good, but not great. I like it, but I don't love it. Why don't they just bang and let Zendaya watch instead of edging each other in every scene?"
And then the final montage hit and it was like I could feel all my molecules fizzing awake, and I got it, at last. This was why everyone went so nutty (plus Zendaya's c*nty bob and general boss bitch, edge-lord, fucks to give performance).
And they were right because it's one of those electrified moments in film that grants no deviations in attention without saying a word, and filmnostalgia breaks it down perfectly.
Ps.filmnostalgia's overall post aesthetic is very pleasing.
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