jack, he/him, 24 | professional tv enjoyer | semi-professional dnd enjoyer | amateur freak | i don't tag spoilers!! | blank blogs get blocked | follows from @uraniumglassbong
i don't doubt that armand wants to stop the great conversion out of a sense of duty, but it also has to sting so much, watching lestat throw all the vampire laws out the window, trample on them over and over again publicly and with glee as he goes unpunished while he, armand, had to watch as his maker and all the palazzo children burned for less. if everyone he loved died because of a great transgression, it means there's utility in maintaining the rules that led to that sacrifice. if there is no one to uphold those rules, then it was all for nothing. marius died for nothing, the palazzo boys died for nothing, amadeo died for nothing.
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armand, his eyes enormous: you MOCK armand? you make fun of his traumas on the stage? oh! oh! suicide for the band! suicide for the band for One Thousand Years!!!!
armand confessing to stalking daniel for 52 years, panicking when daniel doesn't find it romantic, and basically yelling LESTAT FUCKS HIS MOM!!! to divert to attention off his feelings. incredible.
At the back of my copy of The Vampire Armand, there's an old interview with Anne Rice talking about creating that novel. I've never forgotten her answer to one of the questions... It haunted me for years.
It gives incredible insight into how and why she wrote such beautiful, brutal and broken characters, and what she endured in the creation process.
BUT before you read this, I'm going to STRONGLY warn you, it goes to very very DARK places
Q: What are your work habits for a novel?
A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.
My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.
I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems meaningless—from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing.
I’m intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.
When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don’t blame them.
While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for outdoors. No one can make you go out if you don’t have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.
In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it’s warm. I am wretched. I don’t care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.
This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It’s best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.
The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It’s a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.
Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher’s, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.
While writing, I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won’t talk on the phone. I won’t open my eyes if I don’t have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams.
I want to kill myself. But I can’t. I can’t do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don’t kill myself. Besides, I don’t think it’s good to kill oneself. It’s a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances.
I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.
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being a vampire is about penetrating someone but it's also about being filled up with their fluids. in this way vampirism confuses the top/bottom dichotomy
Personally, I was under the impression that we ALL wanted him to fuck the old man. Because we too want to fuck the old man. I thought it was a given that this old man (for some reason) is INCREDIBLY fuckable, and that EVERYONE (irl and in universe) wants to fuck his damn brains out but NOBODY wants to do it more than the 500+ year old sociopathic twink who tortured him for a week straight in the 70’s. I don’t even watch the show and I know all of this, HOW ARE PEOPLE WHO ARE WATCHING THE SHOW NOT GETTING THIS??!
i like to entertain myself by thinking about Bad Succession -> (alternate reality succession where it sucks). constant sepia-tinted flashbacks to traumatic childhood memories, with echoey abusive dad dialogue. post-car accident kendall is haunted by a hallucination of the waiter everywhere he goes. shiv has girlboss moments where she triumphs against misogynistic men and they learn not to underestimate women. once you get started you can’t stop.. the ideas are endless. they would try to make kendall into a rebellious bad boy type with personal demons. he would have a scene where he stares into a cracked mirror to represent his fractured psyche
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Armand got in on the ground floor of that 20 year old loser. kept checking in on him like he was proofing sourdough until he had a beautiful geriatric fag ready to go into the oven of vampirism and emerge the perfect companion. he saw Daniel sniffing around for coke at Polynesian Mary's and said give me fifty years I can make him the hottest guy you've ever seen. and Louis was just happy he was finally taking an interest in investment because it gave them something to bond over besides missing that blond man's pussy. like it's the only long con Armand has ever successfully pulled. hard work pays off in the form of a 70something boytoy who looks suspiciously like your evil father. i'm so proud of him. my weird bug.
something so poetic about the actress change for Claudia in s2 actually. something about how she’s only defined in relation to Louis in s1, and once we start seeing her from Armand’s and Madeline’s and eventually Lestat’s perspective she’s a whole different woman. like the fact that when we see the scene where she’s turned again, see the version Lestat showed Louis during the trial, she’s quite literally a different person. we will never know what she was actually like, we only have her words and the reconstructions other people have made of her, and those reconstructions are so contradictory and incomplete that we don’t even have a clear picture of what she looks like in a visual medium. memory is a monster and it fucking ate her
The fact that we've got, on our screens right now, an old man as an object of desire really just warms the cockles of my heart.
I know a lot of folks want past devil's minion and in all honesty, I do not care about it. If they go that route I'm sure Luke Brandon Field and Assad Zaman will be great...but it's really not why I'm here.
I'm here to watch this 36 year old actor portray a 500 year old vampire pursuing this 73 year old actor portraying a 72 year old baby vampire. Inject it into my veins.
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It brings me no end of joy that a Disney released theatrical Star Wars movie (which is basically DLC for a disney plus show but that's another conversation) is getting smoked in its second weekend by two low to mid budget horror movies made by first time directors in their 20s given basically blank check creative control. Things are looking good for the movies these days
