Star Wars

[sus]

It was a good try but you've defended the screenplay rather than the film itself. Everybody knows it was a horribly executed movie, an aesthetic abomination. I think you will need to do some more unpacking to convince the rest of the world.

You must be confused. The prequels are gorgeous.

 

[Mr. Tea]

You must be confused. The prequels are gorgeous.

One of them had CGI fruit.

 

[craner]

You must be confused. The prequels are gorgeous.

It looks better in these pictures than it did on the screen.

 

[Mr. Tea]

One of them had CGI fruit.

Look at this gorgeous and almost believable pear!

 

[Clinamenic]

Yeah, man.

Mature of you to admit it - you’re officially invited to Gus and Stan’s 2024 Brooklyn Austurbane Odyssey

 

[sus]

What does this weird fruit obsession of Tea's mean?? Ya reckon it means he's fruity?

 

[Mr. Tea]

What does this weird fruit obsession of Tea's mean?? Ya reckon it means he's fruity?

Two posts counts as an obsession now? And fruity as in gay? Come on, that's lame even for you.

I just think it's funny as a representation of the nadir of the SFX industry's over-reliance on CGI.

 

[sus]

🍐 🍐 🍐

 

[Clinamenic]

Not sure if Tea's gonna recover from this one, Gus has left him utterly impeared.

 

[Mr. Tea]

🍐 🍐 🍐

I BURN YOUR PEARS, SIR!

 

[Clinamenic]

 

[sus]

He’s just a farm boy, slave boy, sure, but he’s nowhere near the fields. His fate is outside this desert metropolis with its steel and concrete and flaky paint. He’s a born pilot: You can't trust the sand, he says, but you can trust the oil of an engine, spinning wheels, mornings down by the racetracks.

@version

 

[version]

I pasted that quote into a search engine to see where it was from and it came up with some dodgy sounding erotic slave boy fanfiction.

 

[sus]

I pasted that quote into a search engine to see where it was from and it came up with some dodgy sounding erotic slave boy fanfiction.

it's from my booklength defense of Attack of the Clones, obviously! but I thought you'd enjoy the riff on Underworld's prologue

 

[version]

I haven't read Underworld, but it's a nice three sentences.

 

[sus]

I haven't read Underworld, but it's a nice three sentences.

Version!!

 

[sus]

I haven't read Underworld, but it's a nice three sentences.

He speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eye that’s halfway hopeful.

 

[sus]

It’s a school day, sure, but he’s nowhere near the classroom. He wants to be here instead, standing in the shadow of this old rust-hulk of a structure, and it’s hard to blame him — this metropolis of steel and concrete and flaky paint and cropped grass and enormous Chesterfield packs aslant on the scoreboards, a couple of cigarettes jutting from each.

Longing on a large scale is what makes history. This is just a kid with a local yearning but he is part of an assembling crowd, anonymous thousands off the buses and trains, people in narrow columns tramping over the swing bridge above the river, and even if they are not a migration or a revolution, some vast shaking of the soul, they bring with them the body heat of a great city and their own small reveries and desperations, the unseen something that haunts the day—men in fedoras and sailors on shore leave, the stray tumble of their thoughts, going to a game.

 

[sus]

The sky is low and gray, the roily gray of sliding surf.

 

[sus]

He stands at the curbstone with the others. He is the youngest, at fourteen, and you know he’s flat broke by the edgy leaning look he hangs on his body. He has never done this before and he doesn’t know any of the others and only two or three of them seem to know each other but they can’t do this thing singly or in pairs, so they have found one another by means of slidy looks that detect the fellow foolhard and here they stand, black kids and white kids up from the subways or off the local Harlem streets, lean shadows, bandidos, fifteen in all, and according to topical legend maybe four will get through for every one of them that’s caught.

They are waiting nervously for the ticket holders to clear the turnstiles, the last loose cluster of fans, the stragglers and loiterers. They watch the late-arriving taxis from downtown and the brilliantined men stepping dapper to the windows, policy bankers and supper club swells and Broadway hotshots, high aura’d, picking lint off their mohair sleeves. They stand at the curb and watch without seeming to look, wearing the sourish air of corner hangabouts. All the hubbub has died down, the pregame babble and swirl, vendors working the jammed sidewalks waving scorecards and pennants and calling out in ancient singsong, scraggy men hustling buttons and caps, all dispersed now, gone to their roomlets in the beaten streets.