"They're going to pay for what they did," [Briony] vowed, her voice hollow and misshapen.
[Toven's] gray eyes stared down at her. He moved a curl behind her ear. And he nodded.
...
If I was capable of not writing reviews without my brain screaming at me, "BUT YOU MUST! HOW ELSE WILL YOU REMEMBER ALL THE THINGS, AND THE FEELS, AND THE THINGS?!", I would leave this review here with Jess Day doing the emotive work for me. But, alas, I'm an insane neurodivergent who can't tell the voice in her head to get fucked so she can live a normal reading life where you simply remember how you felt about a story without having to write it down on the off chance that at some point in the future you might reread it. ... Therefore! I'm going to do my best to squeeze my brain for whatever thoughts it's harbouring for Julie Soto's debut romantasy, Rose in Chains, and see what gets juiced out along the way.
...
I liked it.
It was good.
It was okay.
It needs more time to develop.
Quite a lot more time, actually.
And character development.
And world-building.
And fewer side-characters lobbed in your face all at once.
And the magic system to feel more special.
And the romance to grow some teeth.
And the horror to actually feel horrific.
And maybe for this to not be the first book in a trilogy but the first half of the first book of a trilogy?
...
I think that's the problem, to be fair: Rose in Chains feels satisfactory but incomplete.
Not even the opening gambit of the story but simply the setting down of the players in their allotted squares, standing at ease for the game to begin. An inarguably vital part of any narrative, but one that should bolster the allure of the story, not lessen or detract from it. Where Rose in Chains promises abuse of power, misogyny at its most violent, and the forbidden seduction between foresworn enemies, it delivers glances in lieu of mortal blows, and refuses to engage in battle any further than that. There's no denying the premise of the story is harrowing, and all the more so because of what's happening in society this very second (sans the magic) and has been done countless times before, but it fails to press on that transgenerational wound to a degree that would make the reading of the story truly uncomfortable. The subjugation of people - specifically women, their bodies, their autonomy for the gains of their oppressors should be unbearable to read, it should make you flinch from the page and forge bargains with whatever unearthly power out there that this will never, ever, happen to you, to anyone. It should cut you down to your marrow and have you begging for fucking mercy, something Rose in Chainsin its proem stage missed the mark on. It's a pleasant enough read of fairly standard characters being routinely obtuse but interesting enough to follow to the somewhat predictable epilogue, and in my case, to the next book in the trilogy. But a story I'll think of often? Spend minutes of the day puzzling over? Dedicate a mooring in my shipping armada's dock to the main characters?
Unfortunately, I think not, and that kills me because I loveJulie Soto's writing, her contemporary romances are slotted adoringly into the Top Romances of All Time bookshelf that resides as a timeshare in both my heart and my head. Anything she writes, I will read it; she's a one-click, insta-buy, creep on her instagram for snippets of future releases and much needed bonus scenes author for me, and I truly believed that literary worship would easily pass to her foray into fantasy. I was certain of it, and it just didn't happen; but maybe that adoring belief will still come to fruition and the sophomore story will dig its claws into me and refuse to let go. I certainly hope that's the case because at this point in TheEvermore Trilogy, there's nary a jaw flexing around my pulse points, much less a pointed canine pressing down and worrying at delicate flesh.
And I'm eager for that purposeful bite. I need it in a way that feels brattish and necessary, because I put my faith in this story and by will of taste/mood/over-hyping syndrome, it let me down, and I want a do-over. A second chance to expose my book-living carotid a feel that first drugging pull of seduction.
A note on this being a Dramione fanfic: I, in no uncertain terms support Joanne; she can, and I mean this with the fullness of my heart, go fuck herself. Yeet herself into sun. Wink out of existence for all I care. She's a genocidal blight on the world and it will forever hurt me that something I once loved was created by someone so deeply evil who uses their wealth to eradicate a minority who've done nothing other than exist and harm no one in the process.
We'd truly be better off without her.
However, I am a firm believer in transformative art, especially when it takes the power from a toxic creator. Fanfic, at its core, is a love letter to it origins, a way to carry on a story already come to its end (or a route you disliked) and take it in new and endless directions. But it can also be an act of defiance, a way to liberate a work of art from its source and give it back to those who didn't create it but ultimately gave it life and presence in the world. What you read is political, yes, but what you re-write can be equally so.
I firmly believe that you can take the world of HP and make it yours again, and while you're at it, profit from it. Take as much money from Joanne as you can, make fanart she'll never see a penny from (she might sue you, though, so be careful with that), write stories altered just enough to rub in her face and let her know she can't have this world anymore, it belongs to the fans and her vile rhetoric has no place in it (especially as we'll rewrite the thinly veiled homophobia/racism/antisemitism, et al).
I know many won't agree with this, and I go back and forth on it constantly, but at this point in time, this is where I'm at, this is how I truly believe we win.
Maybe I'm just a crone, but teen shows are really fucking stupid, now, right?
Like... Dawson's Creek and The OC were messy but they weren't outright idiotic. ... Right?
Because what exactly did Belly think was going to happen if she let one brother "devirginize" her, and then try to marry the other all while their mother was dying and then did die of cancer? Did she think that was going to go well? That it'd be smooth sailing? That trauma really isn't a good reason to put a ring on it? Because even Marissa Cooper had a higher grade point average than that. JFC, Belly.
This was an insufferable mess, and I don't even blame it all on Belly. No, that crown of stupid fucking toxic thorns goes to Joanna Fisher who basically promised Belly to one of her thumb-sons when she was still a pre-schooler.
Firstly: ew.
Secondly: what a fucking villain.
And I used to think there was an easy solution to this diabolical mess, a single entity that could right all of the narrative silliness Jenny Han dogpiled atop us, and it came in the form of Cam Cameron, the sweater boy, ocean-loving, whale boy from season one:
But actually? Nah.
He's waaaay better off as far away from this shit-show and Belly's woe-is-me, doe-eyed parade of piety as possible.
Bitch, you destroyed a family because you can't think with anything but your vagina, you don't deserve a Cam Cameron.
Only thumb-sons for you.
(Look at them, they're the worst. I would totally turn in the opposite direction if I saw them coming)
...
I will one hundred percent rewatch this multiple time, and I will be spiteful about it every. single. time.
Tamlin Tampon the Floral-scented Sanitary Pad, you abusive, gaslighting gobshite.
May your crops perish and your tiddler equally so.
That dark-haired motherfucker with the forehead kisses is the real book husband we Feyre deserves ... With his own set of problems, of course, but, y'know, whatever. Who doesn't love a mildly problematic love interest?
Colette is without a doubt a fascinating author and and undeniable beacon for radical feminism, and I don't think this biopic does her the justice she deserves.
Plus, I'm mad at Keira Knightley, right now, so this is all the time I'm willing to spend here.
As a longterm Brontë fan, I can't say I know very much about them other than their lives were happily mundane but exceptionally tragic, with their father outliving his wife and six children, who all died incredibly young. But from all accounts they were a normal, loving family who fought and admired in equal, wavering measure. They just so happened to have three of the most influential women of literary fiction committing their genius to paper one year after the other (1846-48) and changing the trajectory of literature forevermore. Their effect still echoes to this day, we continue to talk about them, see their influence, and wonder over their personal history. How could such profound works from seemingly ordinary people come at the same time, from the same bloodline, and be so inconceivably potent?
Magic? A twist of fate? Deal with the devil?
Who knows, and it truly doesn't matter because it's enough that they existed, that they wrote, and we can continue to make films like Emily, which is purely fiction, but an intriguing idea.
What if Heathcliff and Cathy's toxic love was born from an ill-fated affair Emily experienced herself, a result of the forbidden and mishandled and mindlessly infatuating?
What if Emily pored all of those feelings into a tale of spite and manipulation, and exorcised herself with its unparalleled bleakness? What if?
It doesn't have to be true to be a compelling idea, just as those who postulate that Shakespeare didn't write his own plays - he totally did, don't be silly. It never hurts to wonder, and if we can do that whilst watching Emma Mackey spin herself convincingly in strange and elated circles, then I say bring those postulations on. And make them this sunlessly and blusterously beautiful.
.............................................
Breathing Art and the fundamental truths of art that nobody wants to talk about:
Art school brat, here, and I can tell you with certainty they will not teach you this in undergrad.
Maybe because there isn't enough time, or because they refuse to stop focusing on the same artists, or yes, because of misogyny, but you won't encounter this information unless you dig deeply for it.
I know of some of these artists, but mostly I know the more famous ones surrounding them.
I spent a lot of time delving into Hans Bellmer's work in my second year for a project on the anthropomorphism in nature, continuing on into my third year for a separate project, and not once did Unica Zün's name appear; this important, fascinating woman.
And it happens all too often, the erasure of women in art, the mistreatment of mental illness, abuse of power, and so on, and so on.
But the answer to, "There aren't very many women artists, are there?" has and will always be, "They were always there, they just weren't permitted a voice by the boy's club that is the art world."
This may elicit a deafening chorus of groans, but you can't deny history, and it's a fucking ocean of redacted genius.
.............................................
October Overtures:
I cannot stop listening to this, it's so beautiful:
🎵What if we met where mountain meets moon?
And mystery's heavy, just call when you're ready, I'll head to you soon
The overriding feeling after watching three of my ultimate rewatch faves is: they deserve so much more.
Granted, Sex Education got four seasons, but it ended on such a weirdly bleak note and introduced a whole cast of new characters I was supposed to care about but really did not, but maybe with more time I would've? And that's why it needed more time, one more season to finish college and run amuck into the future with not all loose ends tied - they're teenagers, ffs, it's all loose ends - but a more clear idea of where everything's heading.
They went to effort of creating a new version of High Fidelity, a book I love and film I love even more, and making the show just as good, maybe even better, and just when things are getting messy but hopeful, they cancel it?!
"Nine percent", goddammit! I wanted to see that nine become a ten, and a fifty-four, and ultimately one hundred percent! It would've been so damn good because Zoe's fucking brilliant and the supporting cast equally so, and the updated tone plus gender flip is fucking genius. It's all just so...
One season is criminal, a treasonous act, which is much the same way I feel about leaving us with only one jaunt along the witch's road with Agatha and the coven.
Yes, fine, I know it was a limited series, so that was always the plan, but *screams into the abyss* YOU CAN'T PUT KATHRYN HAHN AS A HOT ASS WITCH ON MY SCREEN AND NOT EXPECT ME TO WANT MORE!
It's a statistical impossibility. She plays the deviant, and I pant after her like the Toto pup I am.
And it was so good, right? A total change from the superhero crud Marvel's been foie gras-ing down our maws for the past decade, expecting us to napkin our mouths and say, "Thank you, evil soulless corporate overlords, may have I some more" like genre-choked orphan children. Agatha was a real change, a real villain, with a twisted little story of deceit and fucking around finding out while the sapphic vibes run absolutely riotously.
What more in life could you possibly want in life than Aubrey Plaza and Kathryn Hahn flirting so aggressively the pheromones start to osmose out the screen and into your thirsty ass pores?
And I don't get more of it?!
.............................................
Kelly Bastow's little ghost guy (he needs a buddy, stat!):
I will freely admit that I'm kind of despicable when it comes to cartoons: I either like them or I have no interest in trying to like them.
The number of beloved animations I've started and subsequently abandoned because they didn't tickle the particular part of my brain wired for them is pretty unforgivable (not gonna name them because I know exactly how much I'll be shouted at. Not today, you intense weirdos, not today). And I know if I keep going I might fall in love with them, I do know the potential for that is ever present, but like I said: despicable, and thus I choose violence every time and ditch their cute little faces faster than I dropped out of Brownies - real fast, so fast, cartoon motion fast; no one told preteen me what to do! So, when I fall head over ass for a cartoon, you know I really mean it. It happened with Yummy Dungeon, Bob's Burgers, Bee and PuppyCat, Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss, Adventure Time(which I still haven't finished!), Arcane, Chainsaw Man, Yuri!!! On Ice, others I can't even remember right now but totally exist and I'll kick myself for not mentioning later, and now with Knights of Guinevere.
It's only aired its pilot and I'm already gnawing on my screen for more of this fucked up, Disney-esque, droid-apocalypse trash world and whatever fuckery it has in store for us.
I'm already deeply in love and traumatised by the cast of characters, tickled entirely pink by its aesthetic and the insane quality of the animation, and I really need to know what the hell is that little girl/grown as woman's damage.
You don't yank your pet droid's guts like a leash and qualify for an upstanding member of society.
Normal pint-sized poppets don't do that!
And I need to know more. Like, a lot more. All the mores. But who knows when we'll see episode two?
I have all the love and respect for independent artists working with small animation studios, but the wait is interminable for an impatient goblin like myself, who just wants to gorge themselves on 2d biscuits.
I'll wait, though, however it long it takes because I'm almost entirely sure me and Knights of Guinevere? It's going to be an epic love story.
Giving the end to this story only three stars hurts my heart a little, but I had this sinking feeling after finishing the second season that it was always going to be this way.
When you build your show around two actors who have incredible soulmate chemistry, who's connection radiates so vibrantly from the screen they eclipse the other actors around them, and then separate them for the conclusion of their story, it's never, in my opinion, going to end well/give the audience what they need. Dale and Helen are two incredibly complex characters who, while being quite different, mesh together seamlessly. From the first episode it's evident that they simply "get each other" and will always have each other's backs. It's indisputable and gorgeous to watch, and if you remove their back and forth from the story, set them in two disparate narrative directions with very little communication between them until the very end, it's going to diminish the impact of the show.
You need these two together, you need their love and anger and friendship to make sense of why we're even watching this show about nineteen-eighties tv news reporters and what goes on behind the scenes. There's no show without them behind that news desk, either together, or one in spotlight, the other in vital shadow. Sure, Dale's hysterical downfall from news royalty, his struggle with depression and bisexuality, and his ongoing imposter syndrome/outcast complex is fascinating to watch. The same for Helen at last dealing with her anger issues, her bipolar disorder, and what it means for her to have her own show and take control back from the men who are constantly trying to handle her is equally so. But it doesn't hold a candle to these two stories intermingling, which can be one hundred percent backed up by the fact that the final episode is the series' best, with Dale and Helen reuniting, sorting shit out, and showing that vulnerability we love so much about them.
Those last few moments with Helen behind the desk and vulnerable but recognisable Dale out in the field just feels so right, so essential to their characters and their relationship, and exactly where the show started. We've gone full circle and I couldn't be happier to have been run in the chaotic, highly emotional spirals by these unstable gremlins.
The teasers for season three were driving me to fucking distraction, and I was planning a rewatch anyway, so it was fated I'd pitch myself head first back into the "stormy romance" soap opera of my beloved vampire couple and their roof shingle progeny.
It's funny, I have eons-worth of things to say about this show, I could talk about it all day, every day, and the ease of which I can slip it into conversation is unsubtle and brazen. And on my... sixth? Seventh? Rewatch, I continue to have new thoughts and feelings about this truly perfect adaptation, but for the life of me I cannot put it down into words. My brain enters screensaver mode, murmuring dopey, adoring things instead of forming sensical insights, and hyper-fixating instead on the length of Lestat's hair in every scene.
If there was a written test on this show, I'd fail it immediately because I'd be eyeing the responsive shape of Louis' mouth to whatever emotion he's miring through, or the cadence of Claudia's voice as she goes from frolicking vampire child to scheming vampiress. But tempt me to a little gab session about unreliable narrators and how YOU CAN'T BELIEVE A FUCKING WORD IN THE SHOW - which is a genius move for keeping the viewers on their toes - then I am down.
These remind me of something, maybe from my childhood, I'm not sure, but they're sparking a memory of something I enjoyed running my eyes and fingers over with interest.
Twin Peaks really fucked over every other surreal, small town with a sinister vibe show from the moment it was aired, didn't it? Just dominated the entire sub-genre with zero fucks for future endeavours and basked in its Log Lady absurdity.
I know one day, someone'll match its bizarro majesty, but it won't be Wayward; I love Mae Martin and Toni Collette, but damn, this was boring and way too try hard weird.
As a kid, my sisters and I were obsessed with the og 80's cartoon, it was basically a staple in our kid diet, and I've been waiting ever since for someone to have another bash at the iconic bros and their rat daddy, and make it, well, not horrifying (see:the Megan Fox travesty).
Sooooo many attempts to recreate that nostalgic, sibling bro-y-ness, and sooooo many failures, but now? My turts, I think they crushed it.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle: Mutant Mayhem is everything I could've possibly wanted from an updated but still true to the original adaptation of something beloved. It was funny, like, belly laugh funny.
For once it felt like the brothers were actual teenagers - being played by teenagers helped.
the story's bonkers but in a way that didn't feel messy or underdeveloped; the soundtrack slapped and hit that nostalgia button hard; Ayo Edebiri, love of my life, as April is *chef's kiss*
And then there's animation style.
I read an article a while ago about Sony Animation and that their current credo when it comes to "style", is that they refuse to have one. With every film they make it's going to look different to fit the tone of the story; there may be visual crossovers at times, and I can definitely see Spider-Verse in TMNT:MM, but they will never limit themselves by sticking to a house style, instead focusing on broadening their techniques and embracing new visuals.
And that just blows my mind.
At this point, even Pixar, an animation house I used to love, has fallen into the trap of every movie looking the same, and it's, to be harsh, really fucking boring. Animation has always been a door to the impossible, a way to excite the senses the way reality simply cannot, and I still watch Into the Spider-Verse and lose my fucking mind over how crude and frenetic and insanely beautiful the art of it is. Same goes for the creators of Arcane, Vivziepop and Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss, Bee and PuppyCat! They nothing alike, and it's the most vibrant, exciting experience, and TMNT:MM provides that same level of kid-like wonder.
Like... Sony, whatever's in your Kool Aid, keep it coming because I'm more than delighted to gulp it down.
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