Spoilers ahead. Also anger.
You’ve been warned.
I don’t like ranting about shows like this. I’d rather not. It’s just that I have a big problem with Ros’ death at the end of “The Climb”, and very, very few people seem to be talking about it. So here I am, ranting about a tv show death on tumblr. I can’t even blame it on being drunk.
Ros was created entirely for the series. They could have done anything with her. The possibilities, as they say, were endless. At first, the writers took that to mean that the possibilities for nudity were endless, but the longer Ros was in the series, the more interesting their choices for her got. She was smart, observant, and climbing her way into the Game. She was looking for a way to make her mark before her patron/pimp Littlefinger left her behind. I had no idea what they might do with her. She was a wildcard. After her scene with Varys (where she tattled on LIttlefinger) I was really, truly excited about where her plot might go.
That was the last we saw of her. Well, the last we saw of her alive, anyway. She returned for nothing more than an offscreen death at the hands of one of the show’s many sadists, used as a prop for Littlefinger to show what a great Bond villain the series has turned him into. They didn’t give her a single line of dialogue for the two episodes before they cut to her, strung up, half-naked, with a crossbow bolt in her breast.
This is some straight up Women in Refrigerators bullshit.
It’s not that they killed her, it’s how they killed her, how they used it in the story (here’s some shock!), how they shot it, and how they didn’t even let her be a character before they turned her into a serial killer victim.
This was why they put Ros in the show? To vanish her for a couple of episodes before giving her this death? Look, it’s Game of Thrones. Characters get killed off suddenly and brutally all the time. It’s how this works. What the series decidedly does not need, though, is more stuff where the females of Westeros get mistreated. I’ve defended both the books and the tv series before as portraying sexism, not being sexist, but Ros’ death crosses the line for me. Maybe, if they’d let her be an active character in the episode; maybe if it hadn’t been used simply for shock value; maybe if they’d revealed it or shot it differently…maybe if any of that, it wouldn’t have bothered me. Or, at least, it wouldn’t have bothered me as much.
(This is all leaving aside the fact that choosing to kill someone who betrayed him by handing them over to Joffrey for that makes Littlefinger a one-dimensional, ranting villain. Based on his speech at the end, this seems to be exactly the direction the writers decided to go. THERE IS ONLY THE CLIMB MUA HA HA.)
I hope the decisions Game of Thrones makes after this are…better.
Thus ends the rant.
people who leave right after a Marvel movie ends
This was my face watching all the people leave the theater after Iron Man 3. I’d say two thirds actually left. WTF people do you not understand how this stuff works?
Our theater was packed full. As soon as the credits started rolling, all but about a dozen couples left. I guess people never learn, or just don’t care.
LINKS FIXED. (That’s what you get for trusting Tumblr’s html editor.)
This is a follow up to a previous post. This time I share my own thoughts on Andy based on his own writing and the reports of people who have dealt with him first hand. I am convinced that Andy is building up a little niche for himself in the Destiel part of the Supernatural fandom and that, as before, people will end up hurt. As a fandom, we should take a little responsibility for taking care of each other. In this case, unfortunately, our ability to care for each other is limited to sharing information to ensure that people know who they’re dealing with when it comes to Andrew Blake, aka andythanfiction.
My motivation in doing this is a sense of protectiveness about our corner of fandom. My last post in this blog got just under 400 notes so far and there are thousands of Destiel fans. 400 notes means it’s reached only a tiny fraction of the fandom. This has to reach more people. With every new post there’s a chance of more people seeing it. Please reblog and tag #destiel for maximum visibility.
The line I took for the title of my post, “And I’m prouder of that than if I’d simply been ‘good’ from the beginning”, comes from a post of Andy’s here.
Let’s start by unpacking that. Andy doesn’t say he’s ashamed of what he did, he doesn’t say he’s sorry. For every admission in this post, there’s an accusation to cancel it out. He says he has “gotten past it”, “sought help” and therefore he is now “proud”. You know why? Because this overcoming-of-obstacles storyline is just another tale Andy is telling. Stories like that usually end in pride that a person has overcome their problems, and that’s the story Andy wants us to believe. What he has not addressed here is that he was the problem that other people had to overcome. Abbey Stone has a right to be proud; Andy does not.
If you’ve never read this post by Abbey, Andy’s ex-girlfriend and one of the people hurt most by his lies and manipulations, read it now. It details the stories Andy told and wove together in his cult days. Bookshop has written an article on cults as broken RPGs and Andy’s cult was an example of one such broken RPG, where real life and fantasy life blend and people become victims. Andy cons with stories. He’s very good at it. It’s a skill he’s been honing for ten years. And here is the current story in a nutshell: Brave Andy has overcome his own mental illness and the tragic death of the woman he loved and is now just trying to take part in fandom, write his meta and write his fanfiction in peace.
What a touching tale.
What a load of crap.
I feel a little odd reblogging this, since Abbey is one of my best friends in the world, and I worked with her and Jordan/Andy on Hollywood Boulevard, but I know too many people in the Supernatural fandom not to reblog this, just in case. Fandom has it’s share of crazies, but this guy is just beyond the pale and I’d hate to see anyone else I care about get roped in by his manipulations. He’s dangerous.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.