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Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy I really wanted to get this vid made before season 3 started, as I had no idea what would happen to my villainous girls.

I attended the vidding bootcamp this year and made a vid for the DC Slash con vidshow as my final project. It’s the first vid I’ve made on my own, as well as being the first vid I’ve had a hand in making for over a decade. I guess old dogs really can learn new tricks.

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Jason Momoa by Steven Pan | GQ. 2017

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The famous La Marseillaise scene from Casablanca.

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You know, this scene is so powerful to me that sometimes I forget that not everyone who watches it will understand its significance, or will have seen Casablanca. So, because this scene means so much to me, I hope it’s okay if I take a minute to explain what’s going on here for anyone who’s feeling left out.

Casablanca takes place in, well, Casablanca, the largest city in (neutral) Morocco in 1941, at Rick’s American Cafe (Rick is Humphrey Bogart’s character you see there). In 1941, America was also still neutral, and Rick’s establishment is open to everyone: Nazi German officials, officials from Vichy (occupied) France, and refugees from all across Europe desperate to escape the German war engine. A neutral cafe in a netural country is probably the only place you’d have seen a cross-section like this in 1941, only six months after the fall of France.

So, the scene opens with Rick arguing with Laszlo, who is a Czech Resistance fighter fleeing from the Nazis (if you’re wondering what they’re arguing about: Rick has illegal transit papers which would allow Laszlo and his wife, Ilsa, to escape to America, so he could continue raising support against the Germans. Rick refuses to sell because he’s in love with Laszlo’s wife). They’re interrupted by that cadre of German officers singing Die Wacht am Rhein: a German patriotic hymn which was adopted with great verve by the Nazi regime, and which is particularly steeped in anti-French history. This depresses the hell out of everybody at the club, and infuriates Laszlo, who storms downstairs and orders the house band to play La Marseillaise: the national anthem of France.

Wait, but when I say “it’s the national anthem of France,” I don’t want you to think of your national anthem, okay? Wherever you’re from. Because France’s anthem isn’t talking about some glorious long-ago battle, or France’s beautiful hills and countrysides. La Marseillaise is FUCKING BRUTAL. Here’s a translation of what they’re singing:

Arise, children of the Fatherland! The day of glory has arrived! Against us, tyranny raises its bloody banner. Do you hear, in the countryside, the roar of those ferocious soldiers? They’re coming to your land to cut the throats of your women and children!

To arms, citizens! Form your battalions! Let’s march, let’s march! Let their impure blood water our fields!

BRUTAL, like I said. DEFIANT, in these circumstances. And the entire cafe stands up and sings it passionately, drowning out the Germans. The Germans who are, in 1941, still terrifyingly ascendant, and seemingly invincible.

“Vive la France! Vive la France!” the crowd cries when it’s over. France has already been defeated, the German war machine roars on, and the people still refuse to give up hope.

But here’s the real kicker, for me: Casablanca came out in 1942. None of this was ‘history’ to the people who first saw it. Real refugees from the Nazis, afraid for their lives, watched this movie and took heart. These were current events when this aired. Victory over Germany was still far from certain. The hope it gave to people then was as desperately needed as it has been at any time in history.

God I love this scene.

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Not only that—real refugees from the Nazis were in the movie, itself!

Peter Lorre (Ugarte), Marcel Dalio (Emily), S.Z. Sakall (Carl) were all successful Jewish screen actors in the 1930s who had to flee Europe with the Nazis on their heels. Two actors playing minor roles, Curt Bois (The Pickpocket) and Ludwig Stössel (Mr. Leuchtag), were also Jewish refugees.

Conrad Veidt (Strasser), another well-known German actor, not only refused to divorce his Jewish wife, Lily Prager, for the sake of his career (as many of his “friends” suggested), but also registered himself with the government as a Jew in defiance. They fled Germany together, and moved to Hollywood.

Paul Henried (Victor) aided a Jewish friend in escaping Berlin, and then became such an outspoken Nazi critic that he was eventually designated an “official enemy of the Third Reich,” and had all of his assets seized. He fled the country shortly after.

Not only that, but the director, Michael Curtiz was a Hungarian Jew who had come over to United States in the 1920s. As his Wikipedia article says “While Curtiz himself had escaped Europe before the rise of Nazism, other members of his family were not as lucky. He once asked Jack Warner, who was going to Budapest in 1938, to contact his family and help them get exit visas. Warner succeeded in getting Curtiz’s mother to the U.S., where she spent the rest of her life living with her son. However, he could not rescue Curtiz’s only sister, her husband, or their three children, who were sent to Auschwitz—where her husband and two of the children died.”

So yeah, Casablanca was not merely inspiring for refugees, but really a rallying cry by refugees encouraging the Rick’s of the world to wake the fuck up.

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It is the 1990s, and you are a vidder who would love feedback on your vids. There is no streaming or downloading and vids are still being made using two VCRs and videotape. The only way for someone to see your vids is if they send you $5-10 and you mail them a copy of the tape or you shell out even more money to attend a convention in person. Or you find a friend who is willing to do do this for you.

As a vidder, your main feedback is in person if you attend conventions and are in the audience listening to their reaction. But what do people really think about your vid? And what if you are not at the convention? Or are hiding out in the hotel bar because “OMG people are watching my vids live!!!”

Enter the Vid Comment Form, developed by Sandy Hereld and Rache in the 1990s.

From Fanlore, the fan run wiki about media fandom:

“A vid feedback (or comment) form was a sheet of paper handed out to vidshow attendees at the Escapade and Zebracon conventions in the late 1990s asking them to offer comments on each vid as they watched. As one fan described it: “the Escapade vid show pauses for thirty seconds after every vid to allow people to write down comments if they wish.”[1] After the vid show, the forms could then be cut into sections allowing vidders to take their comments home. However, before this happened, vidders would gather around a table containing the forms immediately after the end of the vid to read their feedback (sometimes aloud) and marvel at both the perspicacity and obtuseness of their vid audience. The idea, which originated with Sandy Herrold and Rache was eventually abandoned in the early 2000s as the feedback was often superficial and some audience members found it too distracting to watch the vids and write feedback in a 4-5 minute span in the dark.“

There was a strategy to the questions on the forms. By the 1990s, vidders realized that the audience’s like and dislikes of vids were mainly influenced by their love of the show and their familiarity with the music used in the fanvid. By 2003, the comment form added a “technical” section to see if a vid’s reception could be due to the viewer’s perception of vidding technique. In 2002, vidders held their first vid-themed convention Vividcon to help fill the gap in both viewer feedback and technical discussions.

#good use of video clips don't fight in the snow

Fanfic: the first feature documentary film about fanfiction - A brand new feature documentary exploring the amazing world of fanfiction and the people who write it, read it and love it. - http://kck.st/2dEJPqR

I’m going to be one of the interviews for this documentary, talking about when we trained parrots to repeat television programs and printed zines using carved potatoes. Or at least the transition between the pre-internet and post-internet ages in my subculture of media fandom. I’m really excited to be a part of this.

#fandom #fan history

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I haven’t drawn traditionally since the Gem War

🐾 Commission Info 🐾 Patreon 🐾 Youtube

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I am absolutely in love with Pearl and Mystery Girl.

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professor willow loves every pokemon transferred to him

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“In Communist Romania in the 1980s, a young translator became an unlikely voice of freedom. She illicitly dubbed thousands of foreign films, distributed on VHS tapes, turning B-movie stars into heroes.”

On Netflix now.

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Really amazing. I remember the way people exchanged Blake’s 7 video tapes before it ever showed in the US, and the way Professionals and other shows were kept alive though video tape exchanges. And this is oh, so much larger than that. It’s Fahrenheit 451, with VHS

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A patronus, Harry tells Hermione, is acing a test and the warmth of a butterbeer between your hands. It is your friends holding you when you fall, and Ron’s sparkling eyes when you whisper hi. And there’s an otter, swimming, and Hermione is blushing.

A patronus, Harry tells Ron, is Ginny’s shaky smile lighting up the world at the end of second year. It is winning the Quidditch World Cup, unwrapping yet another knitted jumper, and your startled surprise at the sight of Hermione punching Draco in the face. And there’s a dog, chasing the otter, and Ron is laughing.

A patronus, Harry tells Luna, is the feeling of starlight on your skin and grass between your bare toes. It is snow melting through your fingers, the magic your mother used to make, something singing in your heart when you stare at the impossible. And there’s a hare, jumping, and Luna is shining.

A patronus, Harry tells Cho, is Marietta shouting the lyrics of her favourite song, dancing in the rain during a storm. It is the look on Cedric’s face when he saw you at the Yule Ball, his hand holding yours and never letting go. And there’s a swan, sliding, and Cho is crying.

A patronus, Harry tells Seamus, is Dean’s funny expression when he is about to burst into laughter and the sound of a explosion that turns out right. It is the fireworks, bright flowers blossoming in the night sky; and the fire burning in your lungs as you fly. And there’s a fox, running, and Seamus is smirking.

A patronus, Harry tells Ginny, is the world expanding underneath you and the wind playing with your hair. It is dancing and laughing until there are tears on your cheeks, Molly’s disapproving voice and Arthur’s amused eyes after one of the twins’ pranks. And there’s a horse, flying, and Ginny is grinning.

A patronus, Harry thinks, is that weird feeling that lives in his chest when the Room of Requirement glows silver, speaking of times when the world was golden.

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A patronus, Harry tells Neville, is the scent of freshly turned earth and the feel of the sun through the Greenhouse glass. It is working with your hands in a garden, helping fragile plants and tender seeds grow. It is being buried under friends at a Closing Feast, having won the victory through a different kind of courage. But there’s no victorious moment here, no animal appearing in swirling silver. Just a puff of smoke, insubstantial and insignificant and isn’t that just the way of it for him?

You’ll get there, Harry tells Neville. I mean, it took me ages to learn. You’ll find the right memory. Though Neville sees an uncertainty in his eyes when he says it that he’s all too used to.

And Harry is wrong. Neville doesn’t get it. Not that year, not in the year that follows, and not when Harry disappears and Neville is left to try and fill a space he knows he will never fit into. It’s his secret, the one he doesn’t tell anybody, that their leader, their hero, their general, can’t produce a patronus of his own.

A patronus, he tells so many others, is the feeling of your mother hugging you goodnight, of your father telling you he’s proud of all you’ve done. It’s family-filled Christmas mornings and sun-drenched summer days and the knowledge that you are protected, that you are safe, that you are loved. He feeds them the memories he wishes he had, and it works, for them, and he is proud of their successes. He is. He is.

And then, when the battle comes, as he always knew it would, they appear, black and lethal and full of despair. And he watches them swoop down on the battlefield, watches them prey on his friends, his soldiers, his comrades, and he fills with fury, that they dare come here, that they dare try to hurt the ones he has sworn to protect.

He is filled with fire, and he doesn’t even need the words. He points his wand, and a silvery shape explodes from its end, banishing the Dementors with its strength and size and power and fury. And as the massive lion makes its way back to where Neville stands, he knows the truth.

A patronus, he thinks, isn’t the feeling of dirt on his hands or the smell of the lilacs that grow outside his bedroom window. A patronus is a sad story told in bubble gum wrappers and vacant stares, a lifetime of criticisms and reprimands and knowing that he’ll never be good enough. It is a childhood with not enough happy memories in it, and a child who somehow overcame all that to stand where he is today.

Someday, a patronus will be the scent of flowers, the laughter of his child, the feeling of his beloved in his arms. Someday, it will be all those moments and memories he fed to others. But today, a patronus is seeing with his own two eyes that even in a world as dark and bleak and black as this one has become, there are things and people and ideas worth protecting. It is doubting yourself and your abilities and your worth, but in spite of that, never once doubting for the briefest instant that protecting those things and people and ideas matters so much more than protecting yourself.

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Wow, that was amazing, thank you for adding it, intelligencehavingfun

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@fairytalewitch

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Martian (2015), The Martian - Andy Weir Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Chris Beck/Beth Johanssen/Mark Watney Characters: Beth Johanssen, Chris Beck, Mark Watney Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Team as Family, Touch-Starved Summary:

Mark didn't come away from Mars completely unscathed.

#science the shit out of this #the martian #fanfic #writing #hurt/comfort #yuletide

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stargate Atlantis Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, Elizabeth Weir/Radek Zelenka Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Elizabeth Weir, Radek Zelenka, Evan Lorne, Laura Cadman Additional Tags: earthside, Holidays, Domestic, Banter, Romance Summary:

"You're wrong, Sheppard. There is no fun to be had here."

#sga #rodney mckay #john sheppard #writing #sga santa #domestic life on earth

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago Characters: Amy Santiago, Jake Peralta, Gina Linetti, Rosa Diaz, Charles Boyle, Ray Holt, Madeline Wuntch Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Ensemble Cast, Magical Affairs, Misses Clause Challenge Summary:

Amy Santiago is under investigation by Magical Affairs

#brooklyn nine nine #harry potter #yuletide #writing #fusion #ghost!scully #seer!gina #Charles's Bertie Botts Blog

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When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.