Alan Keightley (via psych-facts)
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via abeautifullifetime)
Let me tell you about the sheer brilliance that is Meryl Streep and her creation of Miranda Priestly.
Ask any young woman what her favourite film of Meryl’s would be, and I’m quite certain that The Devil Wears Prada would come up in conversation, favourite or not. And it may seem like a generic answer: oh, a film about fashion, so obviously women would identify with it. No, that’s not it. This film isn’t about fashion. This film, as Meryl says, “is a story about a woman at the head of a corporate ladder who’s misunderstood, who’s motives and pressures on her are intense and who doesn’t have time to play certain nice games.”
And though screentime and first bill casting can indicate that Andrea Sachs is the main character, who are you really left thinking about at the end of the film?
Miranda Priestly — the woman who was written as a fictional equivalent to Anna Wintour from the novelist Lauren Weisberger’s experience as her assistant — in the novel was a raging, two-dimensional boss from Hell written only to antagonize and complicate the lives of her employees with impossible standards and even more impossible demands. She was expected to resemble Vogue’s editor-in-chief (Miranda’s office in the film a near replica of Anna’s), so imagine everyone’s fucking surprise the first day Meryl showed up on set wearing an untested wig white as snow, with a voice that never raised, where the most deadly delivery was a whisper.
But this scene on the right, this scene that hadn’t existed until Meryl went and thought, “wait a minute, there’s an imbalance of character here…” so she brought it to light and this was written. Sparingly, as it was said, yet one of the very few scenes to be altered in the entire film. This is how it went: Meryl showed up to the scene without any make-up. She walked in, didn’t talk to anybody, sat down and did it, got up and left, went downstairs and waited. She did this scene once.
And the thing is, this wasn’t meant for you to suddenly cheer for Miranda; it was to show you that she was human and that her success came with a costly price that hurt her the most. She thawed the Snow Queen, extinguished the flames of the fiery boss from Hell and gave her what she never had on paper: substance.
If completely reinventing a character from a subpar novel by giving her actual character and successfully distinguishing her from the woman she was based on isn’t considered pure talent, then I don’t know what is.
A very good explanation of why I love Meryl Streep in this movie.
Favourite Fashion: Alexander McQueen, Fall 2008 RTW
William Carlos Williams (via mankanshohku)
What if, in another universe, I deserve you?
Hear me out. There’s this philosopher from the 1890s named William James, and he coined this theory about “the multiverse” which suggests that a hypothetical set of multiple universes comprises everything that can possibly exist simultaneously.
Are you following? The entirety of space, time, matter and energy is all happening at once in different timelines: It’s the idea of parallel universes. Right? So okay, let’s presume the multiverse is real.
Well then, maybe somewhere in those infinite universes is one, or several, where I deserve you.
Maybe there’s a universe out there — happening now — where we end up together and when I close my eyes at night, I’m not dreaming the way a normal person would. Instead I’m seeing flashes of our lives in the multiverse. They’re not simple dreams because I miss you, right? They’re scientific, anachronistic visions.
In this universe, I don’t want a family, but maybe in another, I’m more of the type to settle down. Maybe there’s a universe where you hold my hand while I give birth to our daughter in a white hospital room with pink flowers and fuzzy teddy bears on the window sill. Where we take family vacations and pose for dorky pictures in our neon bathing suits on the sands of a Florida beach. Where we curl up to watch a cheesy movie at the end of a long day in our big, green, suburban house once the kids have fallen asleep.
Maybe there’s a universe where we are middle-aged and taking our child to college and bickering over where to put her dresser or what posters she should hang up. Where you kiss her on the forehead ‘goodbye’ and we drive home in contented, proud silence, your fingers grazing my knuckles, our wedding rings glistening. Where we both have gray hair and we laugh and smile and hug and drink lemonade on the porch.
Maybe there’s a universe where that’s the life I want. Where I don’t second guess everything and I’m not afraid of commitment and of the future and of love. Maybe there’s a universe without all the noise in my head and the pride that makes me so fiercely independent and the coldness in my heart that I can turn on and off like a security fence.
Maybe there’s a universe where I’m the right person for you. Where I adore every nice thing you did for me without starting to resent you. A universe where you actually end up with someone who appreciates you. Where no one becomes a doormat. Where both of us can shed our baggage and curiosity and issues. A universe where we’re happy — without wondering if that happiness is some messed-up Jenga game ready to topple at the slightest quiver. A universe where we’re comfortable and sure, and we have cats.
Maybe there’s a universe where we fall asleep next to each other every night like spoons, like two innocent bunnies — my face buried in your neck, hugging your warmth — and we both don’t want anything or anybody else. Where we don’t want more, we just want each other.
Maybe there’s a universe where I don’t covet so much all the time and where I’m content and where I don’t wonder about picking up and moving to Japan without saying anything to anyone and where at this very juncture, I can just know I’ll always want to come home and cook dinner with you.
If you think of it all this way, then it’s like neither of us did anything wrong.
You just found me in the wrong universe. That’s all. This is, as they say, the darkest timeline. Everywhere else, nay, “everywhen” else — us in the Civil War, us in Ancient Egypt, us in the swinging ’60s — we are happy.
If this theory holds, well, by the law of averages, there had to be one universe — just this one — where we don’t end up together. Here and now just happens to be it. If you think of it this way, nothing is our fault.
So see, that explains everything. We’re not together anymore because of the multiverse.
Well, isn’t that comforting?
If you’re sad, do like I do and just think of the other ‘verses. The ones where I believe in love and where I don’t hate myself and where I never feel the need to kamikaze relationships. A universe where we can have nice things. It’s helpful, right?
Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you.❞
Maybe In Another Universe, I Deserve You by Gaby Dunn (via splitterherzen)