there's always more.

Note Tae’s devil-may-care face and Jungkook’s concentration. Babies.

Seokjin rocking his verse like nobody’s business - you show them who’s who.

… the fact that Namjoon wrote this for Yoongi…

Well, others have said their piece.

My favorite, favorite shot!! Here we are, again!

And arms. Tae’s and Hoseok’s - I gasped.

Now this is a BTS only grandeur I appreciate.

Center!Hoseok hits different. Strong finish, no less.

This color pairing is an eye-popping pleaser.

THE DUALITY

Framing Seokjin with Jungkook and Namjoon. Smart.

Did I mention that one earring?

Opposite sides, I know. I was left thinking for quite some time where I’d seen that one-handed hair-brushing, arm over head before.

The lighting here (I don’t care what you say) is sublime. Open with the lead dancers - Jimin, Center!Jungkook, and Hoseok. Of course.

Back to the pre-chorus. Before I stray any further.

“Oh, when I look in the mirror” this is a Seokjin sentence, and we know it. Self confidence and self love has never been so sexy when exuded from a man of his statue or charisma or humor. Seokjin is warmth, self-love, confidence rolled into one.

He himself is known (among us ARMYs) to have said a sentence along the lines of, “I’m surprised by my own handsomeness in the mirror every day.”

From my following of BTS, and as I’ve gotten to ‘know’ the Seokjin public persona, this outspoken self-confidence has acted as both a protective shield and source of strength for him to go on, and this is no less what we, as mere fans, are able to sense and also gain from him, from seeing his smile, from internalizing in his swagger. We, too, are encouraged to love ourselves and be kind to ourselves and be as confident as he is.

Thank you, Seokjin.

“I’ll melt your heart into 2,” the butter analogy continues. 

“I got the superstar glow, so” - “superstar” is, as of May 2021, too small a term to define or limit BTS by. They’re a genre in themselves (see also: a viral photograph of a prominent store’s album categories.)

And they really do side-stepping left and right. 

Skimming over ARMYs’ heartbeats. I’m just floored (heh) by the stretch, the shapes, and the curves of their bodies here. Just. Beautiful.

Thank God for reflections.

Still keeping the same sub unit and Jungkook’s hair a great contrast to Hoseok’s here.

Wonder what this choreo is?

+++Infinity points to Taehyung’s fingers.

NBD it’s just Hoseok’s waist and Jungkook’s missing buttons.

Look at how the men just parts like the Red Sea for Jimin gliding through here, and the angles of them turning their bodies - Tae’s, Jin’s in the backdrop, and Hoseok in the front, with Yoongi flanking his right.

I will never stop loving you, Min Yoongi.

Notice the contrast between Seokjin looking up and Jimin feeling himself and glancing down with his one finger raised to the ceiling here.

How I grasped and died.

You really, really have to give this shot to Park Jimin.

Because he does it like no other.

The curved turns. Just.

Wide angle.

Joon casually flipping hearts like buttered pancakes.

UNDERCUTS and flapping suit jackets in motion.

Know that I got that heat

Let me show you 'cause talk is cheap

The above are my absolute top two favorite lines in this entire song. “heat” carries the theme of summer, sweat, and superstar glow (a blinding white hot shade, as you may have heard) into the chorus, a snappy, confident, self-knowing smirk slapped on listeners and westerners who may have thought they knew better (and those who got the rare opportunity to interview them and barely did the research!). 

Personally I would rather hear “talk is cheap” smoothly sung as penned beforehand in careful, processed thought by a team of goal-oriented lyricists and Kim Namjoon than to date another guy whose talk literally is cheap and who is self-admittedly so cheap he stuck to merely mentioning his ‘wish’ to ‘buy me ‘one of those’ [chai lattes].’ If you can’t do it, don’t mention you ‘wish you could’ at all. 

Talk is cheap, cheaper still and cheaper even if you’re self-consciously choosing to simply “talk the talk” and not even self-acknowledge your non-intent.

TL;DR: Talk is just air if it is literally, to all intent and purposes, just fucking talk. I’m sorry, but I could treat myself better than that.

Anyway.

“Smooth like butter/Pull you in like no other.” Ha. What did I say about butter grabbing you?

Tag yourself I’m that meticulously arranged to look as a stray strand of hair dangling on Tae’s forehead.

Only he can pull off this hot, bleaching orange suit. Bless.

Again, I’ve no idea what this is called, but this type of shot is gorgeous. The negative space!

Apparently he’s Jimin’s favorite?

I went berserk over these sunglasses. Not everyone could pull them off. And look, Kookie’s heart-melting ponytail! These director-esque chairs.

This pose oozes charisma.

“Ain’t no other/That can sweep you up like a robber,” recalls none other than the mug shots previously seen.

“Sweep up” gets in line behind “breakin’” as the lighter version of ‘stealing’ someone away by means of ‘sweeping,’ making a clear ‘sweep’ or clean wipe out of someone off their feet.

“Straight up, I got ya,” I love this kind of snappy sentence. And a no less confident guy telling it like it is.

Accepting his actions like a man -  I love.

Money Shot #3. Yoongi in the middle just multiplies the adorable factor.

Press conferences (Battle of the Sexes, 2017). Somehow TDCC’s Changing of the Seasons sprung to mind the first time I watched Butter.

And yes, if there’s anyone else suited to this phrase aside from our Worldwide Handsome Kim Seokjin, it’s the heart and soul of Bangtan, Park Jiminie.

The twitter TL was yellow. Thai ARMY’s in particular. Cough, ahem ahem.

Then came the first set of teaser photos, which were... lackluster and underwhelming, to say the least. The boys’ charms and looks alone were pretty much carrying the shots.

It took a couple of days to realize they were in an elevator. And then the comparisons with Dope started.

This glow up! Pssst. Precious.

The concept clips and second set of teaser photos threw everyone into a frenzied spin.

I mean, what in the fresh hell?

The jewelry. The props. The leather. Skin. Fresh cut shorts, bare arms. Explosive hair colors. 

Skin.

Please never, ever, ever cease being you, Kim Taehyung. Whatever you view you to be at that point in life. Because I adore you.

I dunno what sort of awkward family photo this is. But it just is.

Auras from Hoseok and Seokjin - we are not surprised. We’re just in respectful awe.

Now, 하자, here’s the main dish.

Of all the teasers, the trailer definitely hit me the hardest.

I mean. Are you kidding me? 

Those shimmering jacket flaps. Performer streaks dying to break out. Dancey dance bass beats, boys covering their mouths bopping their heads to each beat like they’re relishing being great teases they are at holding back a secret they can’t wait to spill.

God. Yes.

Color the whole clip in black and white and I’m weak in the knees.

Then, as you may have guessed by now, knowing me, I made pancakes the morning of May 20th, 1 day before the comeback.

The logo didn’t quite come out as designed. But still. Kind of. Okay.

So I coated the pan with butter, maybe for the first time in my life. And I (and Dad) let the it melt. We had the heat turned up too high, and I never did get the butter melting instagram worthy content I wanted the minute I decided to side step (ha ha) my own ongoing diet and asked Dad to buy the After You wholewheat (I tried. It’s not Makai Acai’s Oat pancakes but I tried.).

But what I could tell you was butter sizzled. It melted and crackled and dissolved into little bursts of exploding fireworks, little tszzz teasers of sounds that attacked you in minuscule jabs, mini dynamites, almost.

And that’s the way BTS’s butter smoothly melted its way into your hearts. Even non-ARMY’s.

When we think, ‘smooth,’ we think one-shot motions, uninterrupted movements and cool guy swagger. An exact, precise sort of soft, pillowy flow that messes with nobody and elevates in a class by itself.

Butter is all that and more.

There’s power in using a singular word as the title, one that rolls off the tongue and can be British (but-tah) and American (butt-ter) at the same time.

It grabs you. Pulls you in. And seeps, makes its way in.

Start with a simple backdrop (there’s a high chance that, if I were chatting with you on Microsoft Teams at 11am, May 21, I was humming along to Butter) - then bring in Jungkook, just as I’d been afraid that the whole MV would be minimal as per the teaser.

Then the beat drops and in walks Jungkook - doing what he does best.

(and more. because, you know, Golden Maknae.)

And bam. We got a Michael Jackson reference right off the bat. Of course.

Hey, thanks Dynamite for getting us together, I’d hold off no limits too.

How can I even begin to describe the swag that’s oozing and flowing in his screencap?

When asked by Zach the radio host what it means to be ‘smooth like butter,’ Jungkook replied, ‘like Jimin,’ and boy, is he not wrong.

Center!Jimin in white, white!Seokjin right behind him and surrounded by all men in black? I’ll take one, please.

Look at that neck.

And those wrists.

The jewelry on them. His rings, the watch. The dangling earrings.

This man did not come to play.

Taehyung’s index finger, Namjoon’s fist, Jungkook’s hand-gun(?) in Jimin’s direction and pouty lips ready to spill secrets, Yoongi’s inward-curling hand and fingers (for what? we’ll never know), Hoseok’s gaping duo fingers and pushed up, swaggered lips. Booyah, baby. We in for something special.

Only the second line, but the MJ reference carries. Jungkook’s oozing swag, still, and he’s in character.

The lyrics continues, emphasizes the theme of ‘a smooth criminal’ that’s only too exemplified by all that JK swag we’ve come to know and love and adore to the point of charmed unadulterated worship.

Lips pressed together, eye brows closed in.

Hello, mister.

The word ‘undercover’ is a grand slap bang to the first mini bomb dropped by Butter, just 12 seconds into the song (intro included), transporting the ‘smooth criminal’ phrase into some furtive operation (to steal ARMYs’ hearts! but let’s not get ahead of ourselves), even boasting (with swag) that in disguise, under the outspoken, openly announced pretense of being someone else, bangtan will still manage to---

The money shot. We’re not ashamed of watching and rewatching this for 100M++ times. Never.

Let’s never stop gabbing about how much I love and adore KookV. Not only the portmanteau, or shipping, or anything platonic or imagined romantic bond or whatever. Just. Them.

Them being them and all this chemistry. This bond. This relationship.

Look at Taetae glancing over his shoulder, index finger pointing at Jungkook sneaking up behind him, that extended long hair curved over his adorable round face, the cheeks filling up the frame. Jungkook’s heels pointed at the floor and one shoe raised, about to walk on by in Taehyung’s backdrop.

What’s amazing about Bangtan, always, is that they never seem to steal each other’s spotlight. The harmonic coexistence, chemistry, and tangible, implied closeness is even captured in a still screencap.

“Gon’ pop like trouble,” at first listen reminded me of bubbles, to be honest, but then naturally I got to thinking of those bubbly (Hi, Colbie Caliat, lol) blisters of oily Butter that went tsz tsz tsz soon as the butter melted on the pan.

It’s not deathly harm. It’s just heated scratches - warm enough to wake you up, explosive enough to make you pause, and tinges enough to poke and nudge you to listen. 

Never imploring. Not forcing. Never heavy-handed. Because this, ladies and gents, this is swag.

So they’re hinting (adorably - because I view Jungkook and Taehyung through adoring, fond lens) that they’re about to cause trouble, wreck havoc, bring the pain (I’m kidding), but in that soft, self-contained imagery of the word ‘pop’ that dissociates, dissolves within seconds before you know it, before you could prepare or get ahold of yourself.

The butter pops. BTS’s buttery bubble pops. And the world’s no less than prepared.

Gratuitous shot of us with Jungkook. Look, we are right there on his palm.

 Also, because I am in love with this smile.

(It’s such a typical MV shot, but I’ll let it pass. Because. You know. Jungkook.)

(Yes. That word in and of itself is the answer.)

(No takebacks.)

At this level of detailed inspection, I can’t help wondering if Namjoon’s looking to Hoseok or someone else to check the beat. I would’ve done the same, Joonie.

But yes, right in my weakness for synchronized, uniformed (preferably suits) boys performing.

(I heard you.)

We lose.

There’s nowhere to go.

They’ve caught us.

Center!Hoseok and Jimin looking down like that to the left of the frame. Men in black in a grouped cluster behind Hoseok, Tae looking down to the middle of the left, Joon to the right, and Jungkook to Tae’s back of the neck. Seokjin almost dancing and Yoongi’s half profile turned to the camera for that reveal of this gorgeous bodyline curve in a tailor made suit.

Ok, yea.

so criminal. very swag. dead arresting.

I am taken.

So. Back to the lyrics.

“Breakin’ into your heart like that,’ they’ve told us and told us when introducing Butter that the track would melt and dissolve its way into ARMY’s hearts, and right here is Jungkook himself singing about “breakin’“ making his explosive way into the listener’s heart.

“Breakin’“ continues the theme of ‘smooth criminal,’ and ‘undercover [psst. disguises]’ committing a crime, invoking violence, splaying black on a white canvas, creating impact just to be noticed. The imagery this evokes in my head was some kind slamming, a crash-course collision, banging (what a banger! lmao) its way into someone’s innermost, close emotional space they hold dear: the heart. (An important, standout word to note: “in” - once someone is in, he/she is “in.”)

But be not afraid. This criminal is bangtan.

Taehyung’s pursed lips are the “cool” stunners here.

Side note: of course people noticed only Tae and Yoongi are the ones sporting sunglasses (me! want! give! please!... but why? in this pandemic... why....). #Taegi #GaV forever.

Cough.

Love how he enunciates syllables, rolls them like babies in his mouth for us. This almost-wet(?) look, fashionably messed up head of hair, and the ~$287K one-sided dangly Chanel earring I would kill for.

(I’ve been in love, satan, but not like this.)

Again, notice that Yoongi’s sunglasses are more Wayfarer Classic (doesn’t look as cool on my face, unfortunately. Boo.), while Tae’s is that intoxicating vintage, tinted, rounded ones. 

I’m just being basic and linking to Ray-Bans but they’re so clearly more sophisticated brands.

How perfect to intercut the horizontal group shot here (hit them where it hurts - with everything and all you’ve got.)

“Cool shade stunner” - got to hand it to the lyricists for stringing long the theme so smoothly (heheh). Here we’ve got the blatant juxtaposition of “cool” against the imagined warmth of butter, or the implied (if any) undercurrents of hot, swaggering criminals blazing their way into your hearts with violent undertones.

We all know ‘cool’ is an ironic contrast in itself, a way intrinsically defining (and inducing) a calm, collected demeanor which doubles as a slang for swag. 

“shade stunner” (guess what!) - the alliteration slips off the tongue like a charm. One of the reasons I’m in love with sunglasses is their fix-all, cure-all makeover magic for transforming the wearer into a cooler (ahem) person, arresting to eyes and a focus point for onlookers, and that’s exactly what it says on the tin here.

Tae gets two screenshots because he’s Tae.

Just going to speculate here that Taetae might have come up with this choreo reflecting the lyrics (looking to the heavens, thanking the ones above/’mother’ at the higher-up place of respect). 

Those veins. The long fingers you’d like to be wrapped around yours, and the pursed lips. This defined jawline.

Oh, please.

Of course, we love a grateful Mama’s boy (biased lens, narrow and restricted context as specified). 

“Yeah, I owe it [the swag] all to my mother.” 

World, meet Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin does not need to meet the world. Clearly. Because he already owns it.

Where do you think you’re going, with one-eye closed and finger pointed directly at me? Where do you think you’re leaving to?

A pictorial representation of Taehyung’s double-edged cuteness: deathly adorable.

The wide-open lips, his palm spread out, hand in pocket.

“Hot like summer,” a phrase sung here as in direct aural reply to “mother,” (the ‘er’ sound echoing off the walls) but also a no-brainer inclusion to this song so advertised repeatedly as a summer banger.

(#BUTTERSOTY LET’S GO PEOPLE!)

Add to the fire, let the flames burn. Make ‘em hot. Keep the thirst traps and tabs open. Like they’ve never thirsted before.

Like this rolled tongue here? Criminal.

Just another day in the life of a talented visual.

And you know, way, way superior to a look that I’m only beginning to grasp in my mind as Arctic Monkeys-esque.

Aaand - scatter! Yoongi’s such a flying cat. Jimin’s halfway through a dance move. Hoseok’s side-profiling also perhaps a dance move (THOSE. WAISTS. I’m a girl and I’m blushing!). Jungkook’s half turned, wide-open shirt.

This is only 24 seconds in.

Who gave this man a lollipop? I repeat. Who put our tiny, fragile, self-loving lives in danger? WHO GAVE THIS MAN A LOLLIPOP?

STOP.

HOLD IT.

.... [deep breaths] oh god. That was a trip.

And I may not be physically sweating through my pores - but hell, I was sweating through the pores in my heart, my head, and my mind.

It’s hold-your-breath-and-don’t-notice-it-but-just-let-go split second vibe.

The Dior sunglasses just intensified this whole marvelous split second lollipop sucking debacle of Kim Taehyung.

aaand that’s it. I will not say a word more.

His jacket’s flapping tail! I cry!

Ok. Focus. Lyrics.

Last week the temperature in my home office shot up to a staggering 36.7 C degrees, and, if Bangtan’s comparing their hotness to a sweltering summer when sweat popped up on tanned skin, this unbearable hint of *ahem**cough*ahem* smexy (i went that way, I’m sorry) tension, this was exactly it.

Namjoon whispers this, I’ve learned.

It’s the phrase right before the pre-chorus (you’re here, finally, oh my god. Hahaha I hear you.), a typical (again) phrase signaling a deeper dive into the lyrics or taking a closer zoom into them boys (because, please) and what they’re saying (inviting, selling us on).

The boys’ exact same pose mirror this. Tae’s already had his palm spread open like this a few seconds ago, and here he’s doing it again in unison with the group.

Yoongi’s and Seokjin’s are at the same degree/height of hand raised.

Jungkook’s more soft, innocent “hey, I hear you.”

Hoseok’s the cautiously curious, “What’s goin’ on, folks?”

Jimin’s is straight up, “i’mma power-moving you today, bitches.”

Taehyung’s showing off his boxy smile teeth, and Joon’s all, “I’m here. hold up, hold it.”

Everyone’s talking about Seokjin. But it was a crime to ever have stopped.

Let’s talk mug shots.

One - side profile. Two - plunging neckline on a v-neck dark tee. Three - necklaces.

Babyyyy, why’d you shut your eyes like that??

He knows what the sleeveless top does. He knows.

One squinted eye, blown up blonde hair, a hand raising his blazer at the back. He knows.

I’ve seen Bangtan before, heard of them in passing, even (slightly, really slightly - when you’re hanging out in film-dom or western doms, I doubt you’d come in contact with a full-fledged Korean dom as it is, or perhaps my circles were small and quite closed in on themselves. Regardless!) - and opened that Boy With Luv SNL performance for my parents on the TV in the living room, not long after they went on the show. But it took that one song, one full English song, for me to listen.

(sorry and thank you Namjoon for that diss. Yes, the song’s message’s definitely digestible and easy to consume - for foreign, western audiences. No one much had to care what you guys had to say way back when and they were wrong for it.)

Dynamite pretty much saved my life. (Still waiting for that damn vinyl, BigHit. Think I’ll get it come new year’s.) 

The first time I started listening, I couldn’t really stop. I think I played and replayed and replayed the song 20++ times as I did mundane household chores which were asked of me in the morning. Sunday August 24th, my life was transformed (and my digital and physical wallets along with it. Sobs.)

I had no idea who was singing which part, no idea which boy was which, but what got me in, locked and loaded and in place, were the beats, the uplifting sounds that got me dancing again after a messy heartbreak caused by a personification of immaturity who had refused to let go. I was only one week into my new job (old job again now. Such is the way of life - and we lead separate ones now, no reason to cry over invisible lives and imagined smiles or smirks of satisfactions I am not in any current position privy to - or will ever be. Thank God.) 

Then there were the messages - the lyrics - “I’m diamond, you know I glow up.” - I mean, Yes, Fucking YES - Kim Seokjin, of course I’m a piece of precious Jewel. Of course I am one and whole of myself and one of a kind (apologies for being cliches, felt good to type out loud right). Asked on Twitter who the “other black-haired” guy was and learned that it was Hobi. Spent time watching a couple of interviews, took 3 hours to tell the boys apart (”You had a lot of free time,” Shareef said, amused, and I quite abashedly admitted to him yes.), and picked him as my bias (little did I know).

I was attracted (still am) to sunshine. I needed smiles and laughters like his in my life. He stood out to me in almost every interview, beaming with his heart-shaped lips and his eternal catchphrase - “I’m your hope.” I was exactly at that point in my life when I needed to hear that. From him, in that voice, from those lips, with those eyes.

And I thought, dear god. I’m always attracted to guys who bring smiles to my face. Of course it has to be him.

(Natalie replied “You’ve joined the party!” in a reply to my screencap of Taehyung wearing those adorable black-rimmed glasses on Stephen Colbert not long after. 

That Beatles-Boy With Luv performance remains one of my favorites.)

Bangtan has since performed and performed and performed Dynamite, and to this day I and the rest of the fandom have witnessed and seen about 30++ performances of Dynamite, and it has yet to grow old on us. (Well.) I swear I can still play the song at least once a day, and that irresistible bubble of hope in Jungkook’s voice in the opening simply shines through. The rest of the song just does its magic - every single time.

I mean, “Life is sweet as honey,” “I’m in the stars tonight,”? Talk about hope, about confidence, looking forward. Straight and simple as that. I had yet to discover what BTS truly has in store.

Note 2: My favorite dance move in the performance itself is Hoseok’s, for the Japanese taping (FNS Music Festival) right here. 

After Dynamite, I burned through the usual favorites, seeing as there was a literal treasure trove of Bangtan songs to discover and listen to, thanks also to this chart.

Go Go and Pied Piper are fun teases to listen to every now and then. Their Halloween dance practice and MNet countdown (I could die over Tae’s clear-rimmed glasses) are bundles of colorful energy. (Until I came across Lotte 2018 Jungkook?! Adding Best of Me here because it’s become a recent favorite. Dance moves are impeccable. There was a stint in my life where I was watching the Airplane Pt. 2 MV almost every day because of how in love I was over Taehyung’s whole look - pink hair, flowing robes, and how the boys pull off their outfits. )

I proceeded mainly through the orange branch, bought myself a few Love Yourself albums along the way, and the day I saw this Min Yoongi in In the Soop, my Bangtan life took a turn.

Yep. Simplicity.

What’s not to fall in love with?

One of my current, low-ranking regrets may include having forgotten the exact moment I first listened to Trivia: 轉 Seesaw, but I fell hard and deep. To that point of no return when I read the lyrics and that analogy Yoongi had penned.

I mean, add Autumn Leaves (the complexity of layered notes, beats, and resulting emotions... ah) and you’ve got this king of breakup songs right here.

What beautiful words, what gorgeous language. I wish I could learn Korean just to fully appreciate the message.

Another friend recommended me Butterfly and I lost my shit realizing they referenced Murakami.

More obscure songs like 134340, Paradise and Sea I didn’t get to till much later. Whalien 52 could make me cry just with the lyrics alone (I doubt my exes had ever felt that level of emotional toward me - the more tragic thing is that the doubt would always exist). Just One Day was that track I had on loop this one afternoon I had to go into town for a dinner party, and Miss Right was an accidental discovery that had me grinning and blushing to the boys’ voices alone, same as 21st Century Girl (’Cause you’re my only girl, oh yea. If you love me, just say it straight. We love a confident but committed guy.) 

*Dope is that one MV I waited to watch because of my love of uniforms and managed to get to on a day I could not recall.

*This MIC Drop MAMA performance is the hottest clothes-on, turn on performance I’ve ever watched.

Coffee was the track I first listened to on a drive back from a rather unsuccessful and uneventful beach (bitch?!) trip, and the bitter nostalgia cut me deep. Jungkook’s voice could string up my soul any day of the week. Yes, baby, I still drink Caramel Macchiato every time I think of you - the song, not the person, or any person at all.

I discovered HOME because of this comfy Kimmel performance and died over the camaraderie and obvious ties they have as a family.

Plus a blue-themed home, uh, have you seen my bedroom, sir?

Boy With Luv will cheer me up any time of day - no thoughts but blue haired Tae and bubblegum pink haired #Jimim, indeed. (That mirroring of a glow-up from the 상 남자 of Boy In Luv is genius. Girl, ‘m not begging for you no more, but letting you know that I’m whole and ready and intent on keeping you safe.)

Spring Day I listened to on an off day in October and wrenched my own heart over the lyrics, even starting off a chapter in one of my fics with the verses that hit me most in particular.

The ON:E concert re-introduced me properly to Filter, My Time (sexy personified as a performance), Persona, Interlude: Shadow, Ego, UGH!, Moon (Prince Kim Seokjin - you have my heart, and my light, always), and 00:00 (picked up through Twitter that it was the song for personal therapy and reminded me of that quote - nothing good ever happens between midnight and 2am, go to sleep. Add 2!3!, which I’d properly listened to after viewing the ON:E exhibit, to this and we are done.) 

It wasn’t until I listened to Blood, Sweat, and Tears that I went full-blown head over heels (more than I was before). I’m a musical theater kid, have always been at heart, and those boys dancing in the suits and literature and arts references. You could have just plunged that knife a bit deeper into my heart.

Needless to say that I bought Demian couple of days after (my 3rd Herman Hesse! Regrettably not my favorite.) 

Blood, Sweat and Tears joins my own mini self-compilation of songs on the attraction and sublime relishing of a toxic relationship. That sweet temptation that’s so lush in theory yet acidic in real life.

You’re willing to give it all to this person, this passion, this love, this lure of attraction, imprisonment, and just lose yourself.

You’re begging to be hurt, even when you know it.

You’re asking to stay bathed in acid, drown yourself in punishment, and you’re okay. As long as the “you” in the lyrics is ok - to have you.

You’ve signed over your mind, your body and soul - “I know well they’re all yours” - what sinful admittance, what a delicious way to say you’re under the other’s spell. Not like I haven’t been there before (fitting to think of Jimin holding that apple. God.)

“Peaches and Cream/Sweeter than Sweet/Chocolate Cheeks and Chocolate Wings” - talk about dessert, about diabetic, diabolical sweetness that both indulge and burn your soul. These are saccharine metaphors and goddamn if I wasn’t and am all over them. 

Sweet as they are, they melt - they expire, they’re tangible but transient, and you’ve chosen to have them anyway, just to taste them, just to know, to satisfy your sense and just to possess.

“There is a ‘bitter’ next to your ‘sweet’“ - this is my kind of writing. My kind of getting your sweet now and being punished for it later, the kind my friend had commented before of living for today and choosing to forgo the punishments of tomorrow that you’re all too aware of.

And here comes Hoseok! 

Kiss me, it's okay if it hurts Just make it as tight As that I can't feel the pain anymore

Goddamn. That Blade Runner 2049 phrase about how pain makes you human - this is next level of hurting just so you could feel. This is hurting to know that it’s real - that the ‘you’ exists - and this “tightness”, this tense sensation, is only reminding you that the lover(?) is worth the pain (grit your teeth and continue!)

Baby, it's okay if I get drunk I'll drink you in deep now Deep into my throat The whiskey that is you

Intoxication - another one of my favorite topics sprouting a platitude of interpretations. Aside from being a sucker (and loving it myself) of saying “baby,” (signaling intimacy, no less) - this is an artful, eloquent way to sketch another version of “love is the/a drug,” which the lover/”you” is consciously consuming with consent.

There’s a repeat in the “d’s” that definitely conjures an imagery of diving deeper and deeper into a bottomless abyss, or of drinking your bottles dry - but this is a translation so that’s that.

But where we have been (or were) in love, we could feel the other person intoxicating, consuming us, consuming our senses, straying our conscience, blurring the lines among reality, reasoning and our own thoughts and what they may have driven us to think or view, just like alcohol or drugs would lead you to do. That inebriated state would be just a self-enriching cycle of docile submission and self-driven continuance.

It doesn't matter if it hurts Tie me up so I can't escape Hold me tight and shake me up So that I can't come to my senses

Like Jimin with the cloth over his eyes in the MV, this is another conscious decision to be held imprisoned, bounded, senses so disrupted you’re choosing to stay. I don’t know about you, but there’s an inkling of weakness in me when I’d chosen to do that, to opt for that choice and stay in something I was fully aware from experience wasn’t going to last (’can’t come to my senses’) but choosing to blind myself to indulge in the fleeting sweetness anyway.

When you’re making that firm and persistent decision to beg for pain and consciously choosing to numb your senses so you could feel nothing else but what you may have thought you desire to feel - you’ve got it bad, baby. That absinth’s hit you hard.

(And we love it.)

Kiss me on the lips A secret just between the two of us Deeply poisoned by the jail of you I cannot worship anyone but you and I knew The grail was poisoned but I drank it anyway 

Yoongi’s “Kiss me”, like his “불타오르네” (and obviously “용서해줄게“)  in Fire may as well linger in my ears as my personal on-demand whisper sounds. His voice is that sexy as fuck ASMR I never knew I needed (and queue Ben Whishaw’s...) 

Here we see “poisoned” harking back to intoxication, and “jail of you,” calling back to the whole verse I’d interpreted above before. What interested me here was the couplet - “Kiss me on the lips/a secret just between the two of us” - kissing as an act of sealing a deal or secret reminds me of age old love songs, of promises made between lovers before they part. Not to mention, this is that sexy, 섹시한  way of “sealing the deal” you may have heard about. 

“I cannot worship anyone but you...” holds the lover up high, almost godlike, maybe on a pedestal. It’s that everest, that peak point when you’re more than head over heels in love, when you’re able to see no one but this person. “Worship” is that word signaling holy, direct, and submissive devotion - just powerful. 

“...and I knew/The grail was poisoned but I drank it anyway” - again the voice of submission in line with above verses, submitting yourself to temptation, same as biting into that apple despite knowing consequences. “Grail” embodies the whole MV image of the classics.

Close my eyes with your caress I can't resist it anyway I can't even escape anymore

You are too sweet, too sweet Because you are too sweet

“Close my eyes” is the same as asking to be blinded (see above). Adding “with your caress” only enhances the intensity of the speaker’s desire, of the intimate and physical nature - you know full well what that person does to you, your heart, conscience, and senses with just one simple touch or the trace of a finger on your skin - especially someone as addicted to skinship as I am. The repetition “You are too sweet...”  brings us back full circle to Namjoon’s dessert verses, intoxication, indulgence, and submission.

What a delicious song. I fall in love every time I listen.

Second song in my trilogy is Love Maze - an intoxication of a different, lighter flavor yet still an an intoxication nevertheless.

Trapped in a maze of decisions Exhausted by all the different chaos We’ve wandered around, looking for the answer Lost in the maze, in the darkness

Jimin’s first verse traverses over the trials and tribulations of every day life - naturally we’re caught in decision-making from the moment we open our eyes (ah, sigh. my major. what the hell), and that, in extreme cases, can escalate to choice paralysis). Life is a mess, to say simply. At times you can feel (and you are) lost in some sort of maze which seems impossible to escape from. 

[Verse 2: Jungkook] We ran and ran endlessly But all the fake noise Can’t tear us apart It’s true baby [Refrain: Jimin, Jin] We must believe only in ourselves Can’t let go of each other’s hands We need to be together forever

And now this is just asking your partner to hold your hand throughout the darkness, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down type of way.

[Verse 3: RM] People say That I’ll end up a fool But I don’t wanna use my head I don’t wanna calculate Love ain’t a business Rather like a fitness I’ve never been in a calculating love I know it’ll be cold like winter But I still wanna try

Yup, sure. Love isn’t logical, and we feel it when we feel it. This is a more considered version of love or succumbing to temptation/infatuation, compared to Blood, Sweat, and Tears, see here:

If you push me, I’ll fall, just raise me up again Even if I pull, you don’t have to come

Upon a close look, this is the more confident, the more ‘out-there’ you - like a rocking doll, a full human ready to get back up on its own once fallen, not a blind follower or submissive slave. What I find particularly captivating is the bottom verse - “Even if I pull, you don’t have to come” - this is a show and declaration of independence at its finest. I’ll woo you, I’ll say I want you, and I’ll grab you toward me, but you “don’t have to” be with me, [if you don’t want to.] (Plays I’m Fine)

No matter what others say, don’t listen Just let’em talk, whatever they say The more they do, the more I’m sure

Honestly this reminded me of a past relationship, where figurative hand-holding was the emphasized union to help us make it through. Would have been half the fight if it was that aspect alone, though.

Baby just don’t give a damn

This is the sentence I sing to every single time I play this aloud. The sentence.

I always think, even if eternity is hard I wanna try it, let’s be forever

My ex once asked, “How long is forever?” just ripping off that sign in a mall we walked past, and yes, that’s what I do remember about us. Part of it. Since then, mentions of eternity like this has always hit me.

And forever doesn’t exist, guys. COVID does.

(Bad joke, sorry.) 

The song that completes the trilogy is one I discovered only last week. My last BTS x Steve Aoki crossover: Waste It On Me. 

Queue neon club lights and bad decision drinks. Kook being Kook, his voice in songs like these, House of Cards, and Savage Love slices you right through, like a young, impressionable boy asking you to give this love a try, to forget yourself in being attracted to him, and to waste the time you aware you’re willing to waste on him:

[Verse 1: Jungkook] You say love is messed up You say that it don't work But, you don't wanna try, no, no (You don't wanna try, no, no) And baby, I'm no stranger To heartbreak and the pain of Always being let go (Always being let go)

This verse, man. When your heart’s rusty and battered and beaten and broken enough, “Baby, I’m no stranger/to heartbreak and the pain of always being let go,” is that overwhelming elixir to slosh it altogether, like soaking your lone damn heart in warm bathwater, and with Jungkook’s inviting voice, you may have added your favorite flavor of Lush bathbomb.

[Pre-Chorus: Jungkook, RM & Jimin] And I know there's no making this right, this right (This right) And I know there's no changing your mind, your mind (Your mind) But we both found each other tonight, tonight (Oh yeah) So if love is nothing more than just a waste of your time

It’s that exact moment when it’s the night of your birthday, you’re all dressed up with only one place to go in a town where you knew a handful of people, and the guy at the bar had bought you a shot of mysterious substance to drink. So you’re here. So he’s here. And the drink’s here, between you two, and you’ve downed it in. And you’re here.

So why not?

‘Waste it on me’ is a sexy invitation in itself, that momentarily grasp for pleasure. Ok, yea. I’m all yours. 

Tonight.

[Verse 2: RM] So we don't gotta go there Past lovers and warfare It's just you and me now (Yeah, yeah) I don't know your secrets But I'll pick up the pieces Pull you close to me now (Yeah, yeah)

Namjoon’s voice has always been sexy to me. Masculine, dominating, in control, in the same way that Yoongi’s raspy, gravelly voice grabs you and stubbornly holds you close. 

Maybe this guy you’d just met in a club’s blabbering away to pierce who you may have been or who you’re presenting yourself to be just for you to be with him, and takes ahold of your waist before you could say no.

What do you say?

Yay, don't you think there must be a reason? Yeah, like we had our names Don't you think we got another season That come after spring? I wanna be your summer I wanna be your wave Treat me like a comma I'll take you to a new phrase Yeah, come just eat me and throw me away If I'm not your taste, babe, waste Waste it on me

I’m speechless over the “Treat me like a comma, I’ll take you to a new phrase,” wordplay. Most of all, it illustrated my past relationship in that all too on-the-nose way, for me and him both. English is sexy, man, please don’t ever say it isn’t.

“Yeah, come just eat me and throw me away/If I’m not your taste, babe.” I’m partial to babe as much as baby, let’s be real. Haha. The whole “come just eat me” paints that picture of the speaker being “consumed,” just devoured whole (echoing the earlier image of being “washed over” from “I wanna be your wave”) by the to-be-lover, without a care, a giving-himself-away submission reminiscent of Blood, Sweat, and Tears’ intoxication and blind bondage. The speaker here doesn’t even care if he’s not tailored to the ‘lover’s’ desire, ready to be discarded, treating himself here as disposable, even worse than Love Maze’s partnered hopefulness and teamwork or Blood, Sweat and Tears’ irresistible, spellbound attraction.

Aaand there you have it, my ramblings on Bangtan (as of now). There’s just so, so much - I’ve recently received my HYYH Pt.1 (RIMBAUD! SEXY CONVERSE!!! BOYZ with FUN!) and YNWA albums, not to mention my rap line songs, vocal line, In the Soop, Performance details, Run BTS (source of joy and laughter, more than any man has ever affected me), Premiums, and the whole “Love Yourself” concept + B.E. Itself.

I’ll be sure to pop back in very, very soon!

x

But time passed. We grew up, and I watched you, as I watched the band.

Music evolved, stalled, and strummed those familiar tunes luring us back in, no matter where I was in my life. A city, a country, a company. There’s always a memory of a One Direction collection of songs.

Then you’re lodged in one of my last fondest memories of the U.K. as part of an Edinburgh Fringe skit I dragged my good friend into, as part of the film that defined my cinematic summer, Dunkirk. The Fringe skit, Harry (named for you because it was centered around One Direction), because it exemplified more than ever the too-true double life of a fangirl co-existing with reality, and I couldn’t help pinning the button we got on my ride-or-die leather jacket. As part of Dunkirk because I honestly gasped when I first saw you. 

And your acting, to say the least, blew me away.

Then there were tales of you as the extras’ sunshine on set. Your kindness, your generosity to fans after-shows and you being your indie self, in general.

Your album release splashed London underground in pink, and I woke up on the day of your secret Angel show, on the other side of town from those lucky fans running to grab their free tickets in person.

Your songs surprised me, threw me off, as you did everyone. Poetry intertwined with music, and the deepest, deepest hollowing melancholy picked at my heartstrings, too lonely and isolated to inhibit the world of your songs further.

The fast ones did a number on me. Your crazy words, those edgy sounds and acts in the stories your voice told. I was baffled, bewitched. And now, listening to Angel’s first lines again, 'I'm still the only one who's been in love with me,’ even that lonesome artist streak snuck its way into a supposedly lively song. 

You’re complex, you’re insanely likable. You’re adorable and hot, all at once.  Your voice’s got layers and depths that seep into one’s soul, much as your poetry, and your attire’s the stuff of the trendsetting world. They name it, you pull it off.

Cannot say how thrilled I am, or how much of a whirlwind I was in when I signed up for a standing ticket to your show.

Waiting to dance them numbers and watch you play the guitar,

all the love,

x

I’d spent a significant portion of the summer following my first hectic year as an engineering student knees deep in the whole Tony Stark—Steve Rogers dynamic, it being the summer of the Avengers and Marvel had sort of (pretty much) taken over my life.

I went grocery shopping and came back with Robert Downey Jr. and Chris Evans magazines, for crying out loud.

At least, that was the way things were—the Summer of 2011—until I wised up about RDJ and his snobbish attitude toward the indie film market.

Then Marvel took a back seat, what with Thor and its theatrics (until Taika Wahiti took over, that’s for sure). Spiderman owns me, heart and whole, but that’s probably my only strong ties back to the red and white.

Tom Holland can sure steal hearts back after the pitiful losses of The Amazing Spider Man 2, aka that wonderful, beautiful disastrous flop of my soul, from which 50,000+ words of Peter-Harry relations poured out of me over the summer of 2014 and occupied my mind for a good 3-4 months.

Iron Man 3 was tolerable somewhat, with Shane Black at the helm and the caustic, sarcastic dialogues. Doctor Strange, out of my irritation for one Benedict Cumberbatch, I didn’t even bother (sorry Rachel McAdams, I love you).

Guardians of the Galaxy was a delightful 2-week obsession. The news (and evidence) surfaced that the director’s an awful sexist pig, and I abandoned and boycotted the franchise altogether.

In sum: Marvel only has me by Spiderman, Captain America + The Winter Soldier (BUCKY), (and Black Panther, we’ll take that into account, because, you know.)+ Netflix’s Jessica Jones saved Marvel by a skin—and Daredevil’s a sweetheart who inspired in me the will to keep going no matter what (we’re going to treat the last two seasons as non-existent, because I’m always going to stan #avocados lawyers.)

I’ve never been one for DC films, except Chris Nolan’s Batman trilogy that definitely awoken something in me. Suicide Squad was a colourful mess, after that hyped up marketing and lavish, extravaganza at San Diego Comic Con (god knows I’ve yet to wear the dog tags and t-shirt. PITY.)

Then came Wonder Woman, the saving grace, the superior kind, the real classy feminist and a strong, independent believer of us puny, imperfect humans that we are.

I sniffed. There were tears on the corners of my eyes. A decent, no, spectacular and heart-warming DC film that actually meant something was real.

God damn.

And her words, her short sentence right here, in Justice League, just her three words—“I’m a believer,” brought it all straight back.

We can’t have it all without losing someone we love, without missing him so.

In Sum: DC = Wonder Woman and the Flash (and maybe, just maybe Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn).

Shocking enough, but I’m still a Marvel girl.

….these days, though, I’d prefer neutral, toward whichever way my faves are at.

It’s a conundrum. It’s a question I can never answer completely. Maybe if you give me enough time, a stack of papers, a white board and a marker.

I was browsing tumblr (I’ve been on here far too long, but it’s an asymmetrical symbiotic relationship, if you’ll pardon the expression.)—and came across a post on the ongoing run of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the Harold Pinter. It’s here, I thought. Just right here. And Luke Treadaway too at that. For how long I’ve loved his twin, Harry, I’ve been meaning to watch him live in action. Not to mention Edward Albee and I go way, way back. Oh sir, way back.

This is only one of the three sources I used comprehensively (or, more accurately, obsessively) for my IB English Higher Level Paper 1. The running themes of fiction vs. reality, illusions vs. real life, which unite Albee’s celebrated work, Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman—those I can (sprinkling present tense for extra emphasis and dramatic effect, no less) never get enough of and those which has stayed with me through these formative years, seeping themselves into my thoughts, my fiction framing, and the way I approach stories and character-writing. They’re my forefathers, those that came before, those that have stayed, and those that would always be with me.

Open up Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and you’ll hear me go on long monologues back to those days when I drudged through daily timed (Ready. Get set. Go! And you thought English’s a breeze. It isn’t.) open-ended essay questions in class, scouring my brain for text extracts, juicy quotes, and relevant themes—all the more better if present in the three texts. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf was, and still is, my cup of tea. The dysfunctional relationships—the Dean’s daughter and the wimpy History university professor; the pretend gentleman of a Math (sorry, Nick—Biology!) university professor and his blond mousy wife—juxtaposed against each other, the young and the old, made fascinating, animated, and alive, when seen actually acted out in engrossing and hypnotic fashion by Imelda, Conleth, Luke, and Imogen. It’s alcohol numbing senses and humans playing psychological mind games and stimulating the worst in each other. It’s wordplay and emotional manipulation of the cruelest kinds and secrets spilled without second thoughts for consequences. It’s blood and gore and scars without physical, bodily harms and long, twisted monologues on the eternal battle between the young and the old, and history and science. It’s debates and confessions and lies on love and what it means to be by each other’s side as husband and wife in a relationship. It’s self-aware illusions masqueraded as truths, story-telling to its most sordid effects, reality warped as fantasies and words told and retold so often they became real. It’s manifestations of two joined minds of history that never did exist and a person, a glue to the relationship, that they wished (fervently) would exist.

“Martha: Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference.

George: No, but we must carry on as though we did.”

Martha: ’tis the refuge we take when the unreality of the world weighs too heavy on our tiny heads.

God, I loved it. I still do. I swallowed all that up. Mix it in with a hint of time in Willy’s fantasy escapades and we’ve got my favourite (and signature) approach to writing—in episodes and through a nonlinear timeline.

What’s true. What’s not. Why must we continually fool ourselves, despite knowing so, to go on living? What’s escapism and believing, investing so heavily in a fantasy?

Then there’s the talk of academics. University professors. Drinking. Oh, god. I know. I know. It’s all in there. It’s all in there.

I’d never been to (or in) Harold Pinter before that Monday, when I got that fateful email about [REDACTED] which, looking back, would be one of the great regrets of my life—but how could I? When you had to choose between flying home and [REDACTED]—out of my homesick heart, what would you have done???? 

To this day, I still feel like I turned down [REDACTED].

But whatever. This is not about [REDACTED] [REDACTED].

This is about the play, about the actors, about that fateful stagedoor, about the conversations that ensued afterwards, and about one particular UCL girl.

The production design was impressive—that compressed, tight-knit set (which Rach’s already described as inducing that very innate claustrophobic sense the play was supposed to instill in its audience. Oh yea, you’re not there for comfort. No. These aren’t your friendly neighborhood parlor games.) of George and Martha’s house. From the door (I still remember the details. That, or because I snuck in a last-minute photo before I left, out of sheer awe that I finally got a chance to watch that play that became my life—overstatement? Hyperbole? I think not.—live and brilliantly acted.) to the books adorning the walls-as-shelves on the left and right of the stage, the couch in the middle of the way between the door and the rug , the art pieces, the rug (later Nick’s and Martha’s sensual dancefloor, to George’s numbed dismay and Honey’s dizzy drunk mind). There’s even a fireplace, stage left. And a workdesk, stage right.

Lamps worked, as actors turned them on and off throughout. Music flew in and scenes happened before you, with no escapes of the yard outside or the bar as offered by the film (We did watch the film in English class. Bless. I do realise I have to thank Mrs. McCarthy for changing my life.)

After the play, came the stagedoor. My first ever (imagine that. In March. How far I’ve come.) I wasn’t sure. But it was Luke Treadaway, and I had to.

There’s a few (too few) of us crowded around that stagedoor, shivering in the cold. Rachel was the one Asian, another familiar face I saw. Luke came out, beanie and checkerboard/lumberjack jacket, passable as an ordinary Brit wandering the streets. No one would’ve spotted him. He said ‘yes,’ to requests, and tried signing again when my pen didn’t work the first time (I didn’t even bring my Sharpie—what an amateur. And I had them—him and the others—sign the programme. I should’ve asked for the ticket, keeping in mind how much I travel. Then again, amateur hour. A mistake not to be made twice.) I asked for a selfie, and the picture turned out damn adorable (because he was pointing at me and smiling, and I treasure it to this day). Rach asked for a selfie. Afterwards he lingered around and asked, “Anybody else?” We all said, “No,” and “Thank you,” and he left, another figure rounding the street corner.

It’s those little things an actor does that stays with you. Luke is incredibly sweet for having done that, just as Jack O’Connell was for turning my ticket the right side up before signing (ugh. You have to love him.) and taking the time to ask me, “You mind if I use your pen for a bit?” and returning me the pen.

Later Imelda came out, signing everything with a flourish and voicing (loudly) her refusal to understand social media hype.

“Why’d you do this play?” some girl asked her, and, one’d have to give her credit for that frankness (we’re not going for interview quality answers here), because she answered simply, “Someone asked me to,” before disappearing into her car and into the night.

Conlenth came and signed and went. There was nothing much there, except us telling him how great he was.

Imogen was one of the major reasons I came, aside from the play itself. My alternate tag for her is ‘sunshine,’ because her smile to me is exactly that, so you could imagine my disappointed surprise when she did not show.

Rach and I gushed about Luke, about his sweetness. We talked and talked. I’ve no idea—it has indeed been awhile—how I got the conversation started. But I did remember talking first. Maybe it was about asking her if she’d read the play before. If you’d read her side of this story, I too am not one to start conversations, but that moment just felt right.

(Like when I caught eyes with the Korean girl at the Sons gig.)

It’s hard to explain. It’s serendipity. It’s fate. It’s just something that happens. Something that just is. Something that you just know.

And with her, my hunch turned out to be for good.

We exchanged Facebook, I think—or was it Instagram too, on our walk back to the horses at the Haymarket streetlights (oh, how I’ll miss it. Good ol’ Londontown. I’m further away from you every second now.) And somehow I found her on Instagram.

And we hit it off, we did.

We made plans. Got to her place and binged on Sainsbury’s discounted Ben & Jerry’s (was it Phish Food?) and chocolate lava cake (good times.) and watched Branaugh (that 1993 version) and a bit of the Joss Whedon one (me having too many pieces of Rach’s delicious fudge in the process—mhm.)

Chatted about my romantic misfortunes (I give up. It wasn’t even romance.), obsessions, and life. She’s the most receptive, reassuring listener and I turned into my extroverted, fast-talking self so quickly around her. It’s like we’ve known each other longer than we did.

Now we’re in touch via Facebook, and Tumblr. And I can say, with guarantee, that while long-distance relationships may not work, long-distance friendships can last. I’ve carried on the same lines with my other Malaysian friend for 4 years (and met up with her twice in the UK), and this one with Rach, I truly believe and hope it could and would last.

Because we get each other. Because she understands. She’s there for me, and I promise with all my heart I would always be there for her.

I’d never been to a gig at a pub before. I was loitering in the front for a good two-three minutes, before gathering up my courage to wander inside.

Ordered a pint of Guinness (price was upped. But hey, it’s my way of paying for the Free Entry performance, I guess?), stood there sipping for a while until I caught eyes with a friendly-looking Korean girl. Her name is Soohee (Sonny), and we became fast friends, chatting and screaming about Ezra, the band, Doctor Who (Matt Smith), and, of course, Harry Styles (her phone wallpaper).

Lilah walked past from behind Soohee, from the pub’s backdoor to their Reserved Area. She’s so cool, calm, and collected. I was in awe of the all-black get-up and the polished expression on her face. Josh had already passed, at some point (I don’t quite remember this), so Ezra was next. A few minutes later, there he was. Very in the zone. Just cutting straight through, behind us.

We were sitting there, and I regretted screaming a bit already—because I, on a rare occasion, had someone to scream with/to.

So we chatted and waited, and a queue formed before we realised, toward the front of the pub. I forgot the venue was in the basement. And people gathered. We went downstairs, managed to snatch second row seats, and waited for the longest time before the opening act, Jamie Lee, appeared on stage spewing quite decent (self-described as ‘mediocre’) poetry and an acapella song. He spent a few minutes prior to his start picking and choosing through his pile of papers—we were wondering what exactly he was up to.

Think around almost an hour passed (my bad. I’m looking at the photo of the sign now and it’s there, in black and white, that the Sons were up at 9:30pm, not 9pm, as I’d thought.)—before the pub’s runner came out and placed mini water bottles at the front of the stage, by the drum kit (Ez!) and the keyboard.

I remember reading beforehand that they each would write a song and that each could play all their three instruments.

Was chatting animatedly to Soohee while waiting (taking a nap somewhat).

Then the bodyguard came out, followed by the Sons themselves. Just as they were about to start, he grabbed us both and dragged us out to the front.

Breathless with surprise was an understated description of us at that point.

No one was blocking our view. We were, quite literally, the girls in the front row. Dangerously. Intimately. Close to the band.

It was happening, and it was insane.

Live music has its perks, its charms. I, for one, had never thought I’d have a chance (and so close to me leaving dear old England, imagine that) I’d witness one of my favorite actors so immersed in his art, his band that I know he’s been in for 6-7 years, before my own eyes.

I wasn’t there just for Ezra, of course. I wasn’t. It’s the music, the band, and I’m not writing this as a post-mortem excuse to justify my presence there or manipulate my image either.

“Thank you, thank you for coming,” said Ezra, and he pulled out his phone, “This is so amazing. I’m going to take a picture of you guys.”

(Oh. God. So I made it—definitely did—into Ezra’s phone now, no joke. There’s that. Not bragging or anything, but there’s that.)

See, the guitar, blended with Lilah’s magnificent voice (the lush. The layers in her tone, her words, her caressing of those lyrics, the expressions. AH.), Josh’s upbeat, relentless keyboard playing, and Ezra’s powerhouse of a drumming, was a spectacle to behold, a glorious, glorious gift for the aural and visual senses.

Because they were so into it, because they were there and putting all of themselves into it.

Ezra’s bringing the house down, the cymbals and the drumsticks and his face shaking to and fro while playing, contorted and screaming and eyes closed, so into the music.

They broke into an acapella song in the middle (roughly) of the set, coming together at the front of the stage to sing a number about bringing down white supremacy and not stopping until the killing of black men is treated with the same respect and equality as that of the white. To which we all screamed, YES! HEY! YES!

I was holding my phone, and filming the clip, but I raised my arm up high, and screamed.

The rest of the time I was standing there, did some headbanging, closed my eyes, and just soaking it in, the experience, the music, the beats, the voices, losing myself to the music as much as they did.

Ezra took out his phone again at the end. No idea how these would turn out. I’m dying to see them though, fingers crossed should he (or the band!) ever post them.

It’s their first headlining gig outside North America (I know! My sun, my stars, my dreams. I thought I’d never….), after all.

Then came the part where we were a bit of idiots ourselves.

People crowded outside the Reserved Area after the show, waiting for Ezra. Some fans got quick selfies in and left, the rest of us were behind the crowd. He went outside (I saw Josh) for a smoke, not before saying something about (I might have been drinking Guinness on a semi-empty stomach) downstairs and arts and crafts.

So we waited at the exit for the longest time, until one of the security guys told us to go downstairs.

A crowd’s already there. We were quite late, and he’d have to leave soon.

But we stuck it out, and hung around the queue, waiting for our turn. A picture would be enough, we thought.

“Hi,” he said, his voice warm, eyes alert, when he got to me. Again, my coherence and articulation escaped me.

“Hi, hi,” I replied, and managed a, “You were so good!” to which he said, “Thank you!” (I ruminated on this for the longest time, as Soohee can attest, but I should have said: the band. Oh. Well.)

And then I asked:

“Can I get a hug?”

And you know, if you’d been reading this blog, that I’d never asked anyone I met for a hug at that point, until Ezra, whom last night was our second encounter (I thought this morning about how I should’ve told him about the press junket—but it’s not like he’d remember.) and whom I knew I could ask for one.

“Yes, of course!” Then he came in close, those muscled bear arms enveloping me. It was warm and pure and fizzy—and it wasn’t captured on camera, sure, but hug pics don’t always turn out recognizable. It’s two people, faceless, in an embrace, and only you are aware of the meaning behind the photo. (Drumroll.)

I was afraid it was going to be awkward. I was afraid I was not going to know when to let go. But I held on, and he held on. For the longest time. Longer than those fake hugs I’d imagine fleeting encounters consist of. And his arms. His vest. I could feel the fabric. The pressure. Just him being there.

With me.

And then he let go (Bless). I asked him for photos, of course, and said, “Can we do one good pic, one funny pic?” to him (again, when reflecting on this—I have no idea what possessed me to ask him that at that point. I have never.)

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be funny because of my face,” he added, arm around me, and I kept asking in my head, “Why---what made you say that, Ezra!! Your face is not funny.”

He gave me movie star smolders (swoon). I did not get the outrageous pictures Ezra was famous for with fans—but this was incredible enough in and of itself.

We’re back again when it’s all a blur to me. Soohee confirmed we did say ‘thank you,’ twice—I hope I did, because right after he took photos with me he greeted the couple after us, and I had to ask him if he could take pictures with Soohee.

“See, we’re back at this angle again. Just getting this circle of energy going!” Ezra said as Soohee stepped up to him for her photo (I’d taken mine with him at another angle of the room, and Soohee’s were 180 degrees of mine).

We skipped out of the crowd, toward the basement’s exit, Soohee not having asked him for his signatures, because right before us, we heard him saying, “I’d say let’s hug each other, take pictures, and keep moving!” in his cheerful way. “They’re going to clear us out soon.”

(Curse us. Why did we ever go upstairs.)

And the bodyguard (who’d seen us from the beginning, bless his heart) asked if we were okay. We nodded yes.

So that happened. So I’d met Ezra Miller a second time. What a conclusion. What an end to this London life.

It was two minutes, maybe, us there. Talking to him, but it lasted.

It was all too opportune, too timed. Too perfect, like the gods had foreseen everything beforehand. They have no stagedoor, I was thinking, this was going to be tricky. And then, god bless, I walked into the Almeida at the same time Ben came in for his prep (usual estimated time for pre-show encounter: t-2 hours before show time, but it wasn’t as though I’d planned this one. I care way too much for the actors going into prep/pre-show rehearsals to intrude on their time, especially Fionn—who, noticeably in the Twitter images, barely smiled and was in a prolonged state of blank shock during his pre-show encounter)

I sat down at the long black cushioned bench, turned, and suddenly there he was. (Not as dramatic as in the story of meeting Fionn but)

Lithe, tall, with messy wavy hair framing that gorgeous, amiable face, wearing a white shirt and black dungarees, clutching a water bottle in his grasp. Ben’s got one of those black Swedish backpacks on, and I just couldn’t –couldn’t believe my eyes that it was him.

He’s within an arm’s reach, vivid, real, and there. Can you imagine.

Two guys were asking him for pictures, and a couple of girls were waiting in line, along with two middle-aged ladies.

I was last.

I’d asked one girl to take pictures for me (thank – I realized now I should’ve mentioned for her to take pictures of when I talk to him. The two girls who went after the men apparently had met Ben before. I heard something like, “Time flies!” from him when talking to them. He gave one of them a hug. I should’ve asked. Honestly. But we’re both—I am thinking and I think I know this for a fact—shy and reserved with people we’d just met for the first time.

He had his arm around one of the girls, too, but I dared not ask. Again, I did just meet him for the first time. And when it was my turn, there I went again with the fountain of jumbled words, (after asking “Could you sign my ticket please?”)

“I’ve loved you since Perfume, and I love you in the Hour. I just wish it wasn’t cancelled.”

I don’t think I could look him in the eye. It’s too much, too much for me, and too surreal, too, too unreal that it’s happening. Because he is, if there is a ranking, he simply is my number one, no exceptions.

He’s beautiful up close, gorgeous greens reminiscent of Fionn’s (you know my weakness by now).

“Thank you, thank you,” he kept saying, and “Aw,” I think it’s what he said.

“I wrote you a—“ and I handed him my handwritten card of the Bright Star poem and the last verse of e.e. cummings from the Hour. “Aw—that’s sweet of you—“ I think he was on the verge of saying, when I handed him the marker.

“Do you want me to sign it?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I managed, throwing in a, “Could you sign it with my name, please?”

He’s already writing the “To,” on one corner of the card (bless him. BLESS HIM THIS SWEET MAN. HELP ME.) when I said, “Anji,” and he said, “A—“ I spelled my name out for him, and Ben finished signing, adding a kiss at the end, as he did for the ticket.

Then there’s, of course, the obligatory ask for pictures. The girl took pictures for me, and I had to ask for selfies.

(Because who knows how everything’s going to turn out.)

“Thank you,” Ben said, if my ears weren’t mistaken. I wish I could have said more ‘thank you’ to him, because he means so, so much to me, but that was a miraculous amount of words I forced out, way more than when I met Dan. I didn’t know where I got the courage from, because right after the selfies, it’s all a big blur in my head.

“Take care, Anji” he called after me. I think I’d already rushed to one of the tables in front of the café to gush about what was happening. Yea, I’d ascended, tumblr-speak, was gone, pretty much.

I’m going to stay and talk to him again after the play. If I can….God knows I will try. I will try.

I can appear vaguely distant and awkward when I meet my favorites, but that’s because I am. I love them so. I wouldn’t have freaked out so much if I didn’t love them and if it hadn’t been—if I hadn’t waited half my life to meet them, to talk to them, to tell them how much I love them.

Note: Thanks to iPhone’s live photos I found this afterwards and now I’ll never be able to get over Ben’s smile, or the fact that he was looking at me (!!!).

There’s a direct correlation between the amount of speechlessness to my love. And with Ben, what I’d managed to get out was incredulous as it was.

I think I looked him in the eye just as I was walking to the table (it’s all a jumbled mess, so if you’ll excuse me, strongly). Those wide green eyes. Those eyes, ladies and gents. Those eyes. I hope there was a smile on my lips—maybe there wasn’t, maybe there was. I don’t know. But god, I wanted to say thank you, I really do. I want to say thank you to Ben Whishaw a million fucking times.

I had a chance to attend the pre-show Q&A for Hamlet on 14 August with lead actor Andrew Scott (Hamlet) and the production’s director, Robert Icke. The following is an edited, compiled highlights from the discussions. 

Icke and Scott revealed the idea to work together on a production came to them two years ago, when they started discussing Princess Diana’s funeral and its meaning in the modern context. This production’s particular approach to Hamlet, with its newsreels sandwiched between scenes and television screens decorating the stage, was borne out of questioning what it means to be royal, the concept of being in the public’s eye as a public figure, and how differently Hamlet’s events would unfold if the characters were of a normal family. Scott, asserting that he views everyone as the same, told the audience playing a prince was “a hard thing to get a grip on.”

The concept of family dynamics ran through rehearsals. Icke and Scott discussed the oddness in communication within Hamlet’s family, under the preying camera, with Scott describing it as “don’t say that I’ve said these things to you,” and describing the characters as, “having a real inability and lack of interest in speaking in an emotional way.” Scott expanded on the titular prince, commenting that he is “grieving,” and that the character might have turned out for the better if he had been given more time, while Icke pondered the numerous messages rushing through Hamlet’s head during the play’s turbulent times, asking “When do you cross [from sadness] into madness?” If other characters were well-acted, added Scott, the ambiguity and reliability of the central character came into question, as people became gripped and related to him, seeing characters in Hamlet as not purely black or white.

The pair praised Shakespeare’s genius in recalling their relationship with the famed script. Scott voiced his commitment to be truthful and authentic to the famous lines. He was proud of the long journey toward making his Shakespeare acting debut on stage. Though not a classically trained Shakespeare actor, Scott confessed he has “always loved words,” since his experiences performing Shakespearean excerpts in small stage drama competitions when he was around 15-16 years old. Shakespeare’s words, continued Scott, have “rhythm, like all plays, but are most actable and pleasurable to act [out].”

Referring to the ongoing performances, Scott said he “genuinely feel that people understand the rhythm, the feeling [in the play],” which influence the way people absorb a narrative experience. Icke termed the play as having a “rhythmic authority.”  

On the play’s tragedy genre, Scott reflected, “Tragedies are sad….If there’s no comedy, love, or other good things in life, there’s no tragedy. What was it like before? When there’s life?” He indicated another human view of the doomed Danish prince: “What happened to Hamlet is tragic, but it’s not because he’s tragic. It’s because he’s full of life.”

Icke and Scott concluded the session by relating the play to life itself. “Doing soliloquies have to be as live as I’m talking to you now,” said Scott, describing Hamlet as a character pulling different dispositions during a very turbulent time in his life while playing various roles of a prince, lover, and son, trying to “iron it all out and be what you are at that moment.” In answering how he related to Hamlet personally, Scott told the audience, “There is no real ‘Hamlet.’ He doesn’t exist,” comparing the character to “a jug, and then you pour in whatever.”

As for the advice he would give to his 13-year-old self, Scott answered: “You’re told when you’re younger that it’ll get better, which is not helpful, but what about now? What about today? You can only be where you are.” The definition of an adult, he said, is the comfort with which you can say, “I don’t know.”  To which Icke, answering a question on his process as a director, added, “Do what’s right there in front of you. Try to be as honest as possible to who they [the characters] are—to what you’re trying to build…The way you thought your life is going to go is not necessarily the way it goes.”

Hamlet plays at the Harold Pinter Theatre until September 2. A limited number of tickets priced under 30 pounds for under 30s is available for every performance at the box office.

England is Mine chronicles the (fictional) life of young Steven Patrick Morrissey, in the early days before fronting the Smiths and rising to become a British icon for indie rock and one of the world’s noted and most scrutinized lyricists.

It’s been roughly 30 years since the Smiths disbanded when director Mark Gill pitched the idea of making a pre-Smiths Morrissey film around 2014-2015, with the aim to tell the story of a young man from the north struggling to turn his ambitions to reality, while subtly imbuing Smiths references into the story. Originally from Stretford, Manchester like Morrissey himself, Gill wanted his film to celebrate the rainy city, filling scenes with shots of windscreen, motifs of water, and Sodium streetlights. He referred to the earlier Control (2007) biopic of Joy Division’s lead singer as reference for depicting the beauty in the ugliness of 70’s post-industrial England. Gill chose to focus the film’s 90 minutes duration on Steven’s struggles to find his place in the world, surrounded by the women in his life. 6 months later, Jack Lowden was cast.

Gill knew instantly who was right for the role. “He’s a nice guy,” said the director of the moment he met Lowden for the first time, to Lowden’s laughter, “I can work with him.” Along with Lowden, Gill assembled the best actors “not in the public eye,” for the rest of the cast. The fact that Lowden garnered attention and praise for his role as RAF pilot Collins in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk (2017), released a few weeks ahead of England Is Mine, was a happy coincidence.

Lowden discussed his approach to portraying Steven on screen. He was struck most by how funny the script was, describing the “sarcastic, cynical,” humor as similar to where he came from, “what we live and die by [in Scotland].” The actor did not grow up listening to the Smiths—whose music he described as “amazing,”—hence his decision to focus on “get[ting] it [the role] right,” while bringing the script to life, rather than worrying himself with the pressures of portraying an icon. “No matter how hard you try to mimic someone,” said Lowden of his character research, “It’s never going to be—it’s kind of pointless trying. So we were trying to come up with something that felt natural, believable.” His role as the introverted Steven allowed him to play the observer, away from the centre of attention. The film also gave him the opportunity to invent Steven’s physical quirks, a unique touch I love about his portrayal. “The physicality of a character always interests me more than what’s going on in his head,” said Lowden, referring to the quirks as “very old school acting,” seconded by Gill as “tiny little things [he] hadn’t seen before,” in his last screening of the film a week prior to the Q&A.

Choosing not to include any Smiths song in an obviously pre-Smiths film, Gill saw the film’s music as a “character,” a reflection charting Morrissey’s emotional journey throughout the film, such as his playing girl group numbers (The Shangri-Las’ “Give Him a Great Big Kiss”, Millie Small’s “My Boy Lollipop”) as mental space to retreat to when stressed.

And England Is Mine’s Steven did spend a couple of scenes stressed out, on his way to becoming the Morrissey at the film’s penultimate scene. Lowden painted Steven as a young man who has “15 different versions of himself in his head and [is] too afraid to try them on,” concluding that England Is Mine is about “hesitation. I didn’t even realise it at the time, not until I watch the film—hesitation. Hesitation can kill you. Can stop you. It really can. Stop you from doing things you want to do. Being who you want to be. And if you think of the amount of time we spend in our lives wasting… ‘I wish I could say, I know I was going to say that…’ and you just waste so much time, because you’re so terrified of making a mistake, and certainly as a kid, I was like that. I hesitate like mad. I still do. And I’m constantly trying to fight my own hesitation.” The actor encouraged people to act, to make mistakes, voicing his admiration for “people who try and make mistakes,” and advised aspiring actors to “Make it for you. Everything. Just have it in your own world,” despite the distractions life can bring.

(Honestly I should’ve picked the seats to the right of the theatre, but I wouldn’t end up with a clip of me asking him my question as I did. Forever thankful to the Indonesian girl sitting next to me.)

I walked into the theatre so surprised at how casual and low-key the event was. There was no stage, just chairs. No distance, just a table and water bottles within eye level. He’s going to be sitting right there, Jack. And Mark Gill, and the MC (whom I’d spotted when I dropped in at the Genesis around 2pm with my copy of War and Peace - for a 6pm Q&A. I was that keen. But also without knowing how intimate it was going to be.)

My heart raced when I took my seat. I tried talking to the girl next to me to calm myself down, branching out to trivial topics like messenger apps and all that.

“You must really like him,” she said, referring to my anxious gestures, including my spread-out palms rubbing both knees and shallow breathing (he wasn’t even in the theatre yet, guys. That’s the degree of pre-Q&A anxiety I had, if you wanted to imagine it.)

“N—I, well, it’s like this with anyone I come to meet,” I said, after taking quick pictures of the screen with my all-too-flimsy paper ticket (which is unfortunately lost, as of the time of writing), the empty chairs, and the Q&A slide.

“I just can’t believe it’s happening,” is what I think I said as an afterthought to her, before the MC came in and launched the event.

Here we go, I was thinking. Time’s ticking. Time’s now. In less than an hour and a half and he’ll be in here.

Him!

I had to come see him - was my thought when I saw that tweet. I was (quite rightly) shocked out of my mind that he’s attending the Q&A. I’d met Fionn and Tom before, and did not plan for this at all.

But Dunkirk fan tendencies aside, I genuinely love England is Mine, as you could probably tell from my gushing about the film infused with my utter helpless adoration toward the Mark Gill-penned young Steven Patrick Morrissey (god, I love the full name. Every. Single. Time.). Jack’s Steven is my favorite role of his to date. To date. No other. So to be able to hear Jack and Mark elaborate more on the film was a dream chance turned reality I hadn’t expected before.

I’d been looping the Hanlodge Productions’ England is Mine playlist on Spotify all week, for God’s sake.

(Especially Give Him a Great Big Kiss—and we all know why. I need an entire musical please. Oh man, that’s another thing I should’ve told him!)

By the time the final shots on Stretford and Manchester concluded the film, I’d already pulled out my pen, blank paper to take notes, and (obviously) phone.

I was going to write down the Q&A. I know it was being recorded, but all things be damned. I was going to.

(For my National Union of Students article, no less. So be on the lookout for that. This will be a fan experience blog entry.)

The film ended, and the MC gave the duo a grand introduction—“Mark and, the man behind Steven himself, Jack Lowden!”

They came in, sat down and grabbed water bottles.

And that was just it –Jack Lowden was in front of me.

(Whoa. Okay.)

The Q&A started with preliminary questions from the MC, as most Q&A’s go. My hand shot up the minute they opened the floor for questions, having rehearsed the ‘script’ in my mind for two days prior to this (self-explanatory as to why Steven’s introverted eyes and his skulking around corners of clubs in spite of the need to be around people and the music he loved resonate with me so).

“Hi Mark, Hi Jack,” I started, “My name is Anji (sad they didn’t say anything. It felt extraneous and ridiculous now, throwing that out. But whatever. It happened. I was cringing two hours afterwards, but that’s just me. I wouldn’t have said it if not for Katherine Pearce’s character in the film. It’s a trip every time I hear him say the line, “They’ve been like that for years, Anji,” in Steven’s voice, about six-ish minutes into the film.) This is my third time seeing the film.”

“Wow,” Jack muttered (and I wished that was recorded haha.)—even Mark Gill had a bit of a surprised look on his face.

“Thank you for the film. I love it.”

(There’s a whole lot of me wanting to say how much I love the cinematography, Jack’s performance, his take on Steven and the music….but I didn’t want to take up too much time. Then again, it was that voice in the back of my head talking to myself, no one else. Anxiety—TM.)

I’ll be honest here. I have no idea where I was looking when I was asking the question. I was so spaced out, verfremdungseffekt wise. I couldn’t even look at Jack. It was surreal and a bit too much that it was happening.

(Leave space for post-Q&A embarrassment room here.

Why, that must be some look on your face, Anji.)

But Jack was staring straight back at me, intent, when I was asking the question, listening, actually listening to me.

“My question is—I love Steven’s quirks—how’d you come up with them?”

“The physicality of it, you mean?” asked Jack, and I was thinking, oh god, I’m talking—I’m talking to Jack Lowden. He’s asking me a question. We’re conversing. We’re …having a conversation. An actual, honest-to-god conversation.

(I’d researched interviews before this, wanting to ask a question he hasn’t been asked before. And the quirks were the ones he brought up in an interview, proud that he’d thought of them himself. I wanted to hear him elaborate  on them.

And if you’re wondering - he’s exactly as he is in the clips in person. Scratching his beard, fingers grazing his ear, eyes cast down at the floor when Mark Gill’s talking, a ridiculously short outburst of a charming laugh, and those gorgeous, beaming eyes that could brighten someone’s day.)

So it went (as per the clip), and I told him, “The more I watch it, the more details I notice,” and he was nodding, smiling for the slightest second when he said, “Great.”

(Ah. Well.

Well.)

One girl asked him right after the Q&A, “Can you sign this for me?” And I knew it was go-time when he said yes.

Got off from my seat, books and notes and all (I’m a girl with many things. I’m a girl with two black rings.)

It was chill and casual and intimate beyond belief. Basically a bunch of us standing, crowding around him and talking. The girls praised his brown hair, and he turned back to the screen, said, “It was brown!” I was laughing along with them, trying to fish out my friend’s drawing.

(“What’s this? What’s this?” Jack asked, his voice surprised, incredulous, more like.

“It’s you,” I pointed out, quickly, “My friend drew it for you. She loves you.”

“Oh, oh wow,” and he’s glancing down and inspecting the drawing, “It’s amazing. It’s amazing.”

I asked him to sign it, of course, and, after a while (switching rounds with other girls) asked if he could take a picture with the drawing.

“Like this?” he asked.)

He had his arm around me when we took our selfie (over way too soon and way too fast, I think). His hand was so warm, and that I’ll always remember. (The first word on my Instagram caption of the selfie was warmth.)

He’s loud and friendly and funny, asking one of the girls (Holly, from our little Dunkirk events girl gang) if she’d bump him in the head again (after she’d told a story about accidentally bumping her head with his at the Dunkirk premiere), miming a boxing stance (HONESTLY!).

After a Korean fangirl informed him of the film’s presence at the film festival starting today, I had to step in and tell him.

(Nope. #ThailandRepresent. Had to. Wouldn’t not to. Couldn’t not to. More than my introverted self and the thoughts circling my head at being in that theatre at that moment, seeing him and sensing him and hearing him and watching him—was my pressing need to let them know we exist. That Thai fans love him so.)

“You have a lot of fans in Thailand,” his eyes widened when I said this.

“Oh really,” he replied, eyes locked on me (!!! I know. Same. The human equivalent of the exclamation marks, I was. And still am. If writing at 2:13am’s any clue.). He’s listening, truly listening all the way through.

“They all really love you, and everyone wants to watch this film, but it’s not in Thailand yet.”

I think I ran out of steam by that point and was basically the end of a tape—you know, when the filling’s used up.

I just kind of stopped, and then he didn’t say anything back, aside from nodding.

I know. Don’t look at me. I know.

(“And this mute here is Steven,” said Linder, in the film.)

So the girls hugged him and I was standing there wishing I could, but then there was no one to take a picture for me. And I couldn’t find a moment to.

Someone came and got Jack. He had to leave, but still found time to take selfies with Cora (another one of our gang). “The lighting’s better here too,” he said to her.

He’s joking around a lot with them. It’s lovely.

I rushed in, asked for another picture (“Can I have a picture too?”) and he took my phone, “So why don’t you just--?” and took a picture with him smiling behind me (bless).

(It’s the height difference. It must be. My timing’s not so good since we were in the middle of the hallway, but I didn’t know we were moving out after Cora.)

Then he had to go (for real), and we all trotted after him like the loyal, lovestruck groupies we were (and are, I guess. I just ordered the Making of Dunkirk book, thanks to Amazon’s one-day delivery and so forth).

He got up on the staircase to the right of the theatre (leading up to the Bar Paragon and Screen 1) and was looking down at us and waving.

“Bye guys!” he said.

“Bye Jack! Bye! Bye!” I was saying, along with the other girls, just awestruck and still riding on that high.

While I was standing there at the staircase, my brain was still processing that it was happening—had happened. Did happen. My eyes taking mental photographs of those smiling eyes and wide-stretched lips on his warm, friendly face. Those hands waving.

It’s the same with Fionn.

Would’ve taken a photo but was too busy taking in reality.

I’d met the man behind Steven Patrick Morrissey. I’d talked to him and saw him live, in real life, in the flesh. And he was a whole bundle of warmth, of abundant amiable nature and an infectious sweetness that lingered with his smiles.

I miss his voice already.

(Blame my in-depth digging into Armie and Elizabeth Hammer’s Instagram feed during their time in Northern Italy. Didn’t do any cool ‘in-set’ printed vs. real location picture stunts here because my sources were Instagram posts as opposed to real trailer captures. My trip was in late June, booking where the flight tickets were cheapest—I am but a poor international student.)

Even my Italian friend was surprised. “Those are….unusual places to visit,” he said, when I named the cities. He’d yet heard of the film (not unexpected), and assured me there wouldn’t be a flock of tourists for them cities, out of their remoteness.

As always, here’s the map:

Planned around my Airbnb SuperHosts’ convenience, I opted to fly to Bergamo first, then take the train down to Crema, and fly back from Bergamo.

Arrived in Bergamo where I chose to stay in the Old Upper Town (Citta Alta) which could be reached by the funicula from the Lower Town.

It’s a lovely city, with well-preserved streets and buildings. It was real refreshing the first day, to enter my 7-floor tall tower of an Airbnb and breathe in the views.

My Airbnb was like a museum, a particular favorite.

At night, I used to sit by that window and listen to songs while writing lyrics in my notebook (it’s a chilled-out trip, for me to hermit my heart out, much as I pleased, during those five days in remote Northern Italian cities.)

This shot in the trailer brought back memories of the balcony, especially the one in my room (taken from the Airbnb host’s website).

Bit more of Bergamo, though I’m not exactly sure where they shot scenes.

I did get this shot of the Main Square in the city, where its university is and where, during my first walk of blind exploration, I let out a delighted grasp at simply being there. It was free, it was sizzling hot, it was open-air Italy.

One pure delight of Bergamo (which you must, absolutely must try, if you should ever find yourself in the area) was its original dessert, unique to the city: Polenta e Osèi. Polenta is boiled cornmeal, associated with Northern and Central Italy, and this dessert was a delicious mix of sponge cake, chocolate, butter, hazelnut cream, and rum. A decadent, indulgent chewy mess.

Having some peach for breakfast :)

My second day in Bergamo I jetted off to Sirmione, a location on Armie’s Instagram of this legendary seaside shot:

And of course this:

Sirmione is actually a tourist-filled holiday island, surrounded by Northern Italy’s Lake Gerda and  reachable only by ferry from Descenzano Del Gerda. It wasn’t until after I got to Descenzano Del Gerda for a while that I realised I had to take the ferry. But first, the shots from Descenzano (also a lovely, lovely resort town. Beaches, short shorts, swim suits and sand. Summer in Italy. Ah.) :

The waters were that nice colour as shown in this shot in the trailer here:

The beaches were filled with swimmers and, as it were that blistering day in June (had yet another gelato when I’d promised myself not to), some sort of a duathlon. So the most decent picture I got of Sirmione (the others I decided not to take, out of the scene being so commercial and populated) was the one from a distance as the ferry was approaching:

Shot of the train station at Descenzano.

The next day, I packed my bags and headed by (two connections) of train rides to Crema. Now, barring anything else, I would not return back. Crema’s a quiet, vast, middle-class suburb of a city, without much to do. (Hence my decision on my last day in Italy to go off to Verona for a day trip.)

After settling in, I explored the city. I’m not saying they should hire me for pre-film Call Me By Your Name tours, but they should hire me for film tours. Walked around and found the locations purely by a map, without any aid of GPS whatsoever.

A technical note: Crema is divided into Old and New Towns, the latter being the first location you enter through the train station). The parts shown in the film’s trailer are in the Old Town where my Airbnb was.

The main highlight is the Square.

They’d removed all the restaurants’ tables and chairs and set it up as it would’ve looked in 1980s. Here’s how it looks in 2017 (Taken when approaching the Square from the New Town (a 15 minute walk):

A view not dissimilar to Armie’s night/dinner kebab (there were literally two kebab places in Crema. The one I managed to hunt down sucked, despite my 60% certainty it may have been the one Armie bought.)

Didn’t come out at night as the town was quite deserted by then – and I had a long walk alone back to my Airbnb.

Once you walk a little of the way into one of the buildings in the Square itself….

Taken when approaching the Square from my Airbnb in the Old Town:

Reached a new level of fangirling when I managed to identify the exact spot he sat for breakfast, when he dropped into Crema some time after filming wrapped.

Finally got to have cioccolata calda (Italian Hot Chocolate) again, after having my first in my undergraduate university city in Canada and have been sorely missing it ever since. Italian hot chocolate’s a gooey, melt-in-your-mouth, no-nonsense, full-on chocolate goodness. Try it, and I promise you won’t ever forget the experience.

Scoured the Old Town until I found this spot through a narrow alley. Turned out it was a car park. Surprise. Lingered there for the longest time, but no one was to help me take a decent full body picture. So I was left with the remaining option of a selfie (Sorrows of the Solo Traveler).

I remember this trailer shot as the way leading into this car park (I could be wrong, but this is post-trailer, investigative work.)

On my way to catch my train out of Crema, I lingered, staring at that alleyway leading to this parking lot for the longest time, honestly.

Crema’s full of alleyways like this, reminiscent of a shot in the trailer.

Thanking my June self so hard right now for taking this shot of the war memorial to be featured in the film.

It’s in reality a car park, and that building on the right of the picture a makeshift crafts market.

Details can be found here.

This Piazza I incidentally found, thanks to Armie’s post (and such blessings for his adorable daughter!)

That same brick wall…. (why oh why didn’t I see this picture before!)

It being summer (and because I’m a crazy person), I got the peach flavoured granita (crushed ice with sugar and syrup—ah, Italia.) from a popular joint with queues stretching beyond the entrance.

Ordered once in English, and the entire place was staring at you as one.

The Crema villa used in the film as the Perlman’s (Elio’s family’s) retails for  €2.450.000,00. 

And that wraps up my Bergamo-Crema (#DroppingInOnElio) Trip in anticipation of future Oscar Nominee, Luca Guadagnino-directed Call Me By Your Name!

England is Mine chronicles the (fictional) life of young Steven Patrick Morrissey, in the early days before fronting the Smiths and rising to become a British icon for indie rock and one of the world’s noted and most scrutinized lyricists. This review, in its entirety and personal honesty, will focus on the film and film alone, post-1980s Morrissey excluded. It ends where the film ends.

Pre-fame Morrissey is a shy, introverted teenager who’s a shell unto himself. A t-shirt wearing, wavy haired poet who hides behind his rimmed glasses and writes words of the world into his notebook. A well-read loner who retreats into his solitude inside his bedroom and listens to the New York Dolls while practicing his bows to the unseen crowd in his imagination. He skulks the Manchester music scene in his duffle coat, listening to the small bands and Sex Pistols, orders beers and refuses to talk to those he deems of no interest.

He exists. He’s there. Scanning the crowded bar floors, tangled thoughts and big dreams too far ahead of himself, oldies playing on the vinyl in his mind.

“There’s no job that’s suitable,” says he, to his father’s obvious disapproval, a picky aspect to his character and the false sense of entitlement he chooses to adapt all too easily, up until reality comes a’calling and he is forced to take a dreary office job at a place where his boss barks, “Why can’t you be like everyone else?”

“Stop sulking,” chides his best friend, Anji Hardie, and is immediately met by Steven’s “I’m not sulking.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asks. Steven falls silent, and admits, after a moment, “Sulking.”

He sits at his typewriter, whiles away the days filling the pages with the thoughts crammed in his head and sentences of fancy words judged too ‘posh’ for the people around him. He bangs his head at the typewriter and struggles to write in the way me, a part-time writer watching herself from the outside, can only understand too well.

Jack Lowden, in a dramatically different role from Dunkirk and A United Kingdom that truly showcases his intricate acting and places him (justifiably) as the leading man of the film, plays Morrissey with subtle sincerity, a layered performance that lets you in to the young Steven’s maze of a mind, a refreshing candor, a frankness that allows you to empathize and sign yourself up for the ups and downs of the journey with him. There’s those minute gestures, the details he infused into Steven’s tics that I absolutely love, like his quick glance at and away from Linder the first time they talk in a park, his nose nuzzling and cheek caressing the phone in longing while talking to her when she’s down in London and he’s still stuck up in Manchester, and his left hand holding onto his teal shirt’s sleeve during the Nosebleeds’ first gig.

Jessica Brown Findlay is no less excellent as Steven’s outspoken, firm companion and poetry-quoting partner, Linder. Findlay and her decisive, sharp turn as the punk rock artist bring a playful dynamic to the duo’s conversations and reveal to us, as third person observers, a glimpse of what Steven is, who he is trying to be, and who he could be.

The camera sweeps over the typewriter, the music scenes, and the vinyl spinning on the turntable. The motifs of water—the rain, the puddles on the ground, the glass at the sink spilling with unfiltered tap water—with the colours of the shots at the windows, raindrops and late, late, yellowish orange glow of a bedroom are gorgeous.

Then there is the music. Those soft oldies playing over the club dancing scenes and on the vinyl as Steven’s in his bedroom got to me. I adore the scenes and couldn’t help laughing, sniggering, and chuckling with the script.

The fictional Steven the film paints is, initially, the boy who would rather contemplate the world from his bedroom window. The poet who retreats from the world and hesitates to reach out to those he judges beforehand, those he deems would not understand him, the one too artsy and engrossed in, and too stubborn a believer of, his own religion, of his own faith, to believe in somebody else’s. Steven is the boy who would rather sit with, and perfectly complements, the girl who addresses his boredom with her, “And here I was going to shoot you,” than the flighty, talkative office colleague whose “Can I help you with anything,” prompts him to ask, “Do you have any bullets?”

Steven is the determined, self-proclaimed genius who states, “My alphabet only has one letter,” but falls to pieces when his sure-fire plan disintegrates before his eyes. His drastic change in appearance after his guitarist Billy gets the record deal instead of him is all too relatable to me, a last resort act of someone grasping for control, for any sense of control in a life he sees breaking apart in front of, and all around, him.

Gone are the waves clouding around his glasses and shaping those round cheeks. In place is a short, no nonsense hairdo on its way to the gelled Morrissey ‘do of fame.

“I don’t know how to carry on,” he cries to his mother, wrings his hand, to which she, clutching his Oscar Wilde hardback, asks, “Who are you? Are you the boy who stood up on the table and sang to me, or are you just like everyone else? Do you remember why I bought you all this? The books, the typewriter?”

To which he replies, “This world isn’t for people like me.”

And she says, “Then create your own world,” echoing Linder’s earlier coaxing of Steven to, “Do something,” to write, to sing, to create, for the world to remember him by.

I’m not going to lie that the film doesn’t leave me hanging right at the end, just before Steven, on the eve of becoming Morrissey, opens that door at Johnny Marr’s house. It’s a perfect little indie film by itself, no faults. The music’s lovely, the performances commendable all around, and the cinematography a thing of melancholic, nostalgic beauty for days gone by and long lost coloured lights. I left the theatre, head spinning, reeling and brimming with the Lowden-as-Steven’s voiceover pouring over his life philosophy, missing intensely that young Steven who’d one day become Morrissey. The young, volatile, bookish and quirky geek who asks, point-blank, “Why is everyone concerned with my happiness?”, and who only reveals to his closest and dearest his real stance on happiness. One who’s as dreamy as he’s kept to himself—the kind of artistic soul I am attracted to and fall in love with too easily, out of seeing a reflection of myself, the kind my mother once cautioned me to stay clear off, for fear of the uncertainties and liberties that accompany artistic freedom ( “Where’s the security of a long-lasting relationship in that?”). The Steven portrayed with a flawless finish by Lowden in the film.