Where Hugo, I Go...

Where Hugo, I Go...

Rewatched for the umpteenth time, the lovely film, Hugo (2011). If you haven't seen it, nor read the book by Brian Selznick upon which it is based, please consider a look and a read.

We rewatch films for a variety of reasons, just as we often do for books. Always something new and different to see, to hear, to learn, to experience.

But that wasn't why I put this film on the blog. With the WGA/SAG-AFTRA strikes, now more than ever, the Martin Scorsese directed piece seems relevant. Here we have the young orphan, Hugo Cabret, living in the train station and maintaining the clocks; the timepieces that make the trains, and presumably society, run on time. Those horological machines are human made and what time represents in the lives of humans is a constant tick tock, tick tock. With every beat of our heart, every breath taken, time passes.

Hugo senses this, as does his young friend, Isabelle. At one point in the film, Isabelle questions the future and what her purpose in life is to be. Hugo thinks for a moment and remarks:

"I'd imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason, too."

And during their conversation, Hugo also states:

"Maybe that's why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn't able to do what it was meant to do… Maybe it's the same with people. If you lose your purpose… it's like you're broken."

Turning that scene over in my mind and thinking about the plot (w/o spoiling too much, it is a wonderful homage to humans and art and film and history and human connections) and the ongoing strikes...but...

How is it that we humans have so readily turned the machines into the masters and the humans who created them into the extra parts?

This marvelous film would be nothing without the humans who dreamed and created and built and moved and loved it into being along with the original work upon which it was based. The humans aren't broken, the system is. The studios/corporations must recognize the labor that gives purpose to our lives and place the technology in the place wherein it serves the greater good before time runs out.

I could contemplate this film and its themes for a long time, it is a real gem to view and think about in the context of the past, the present, and the future. Hats off to all involved.

You're welcome. Tasm!spider/peter is my fave, but writing a lead with the 'tacklebox' and helper mindset, etc was what intrigued me to see where it was leading and it went somewhere rather nice. Also, thanks for responding to the ask, I look forward to reading more whenever you post it.

You're just trying to work, but Spider-Man always has to drop by and keep you company.

or, reader is a sort-of-hero doing small, meaningful work to keep the city safe. Spider-Man can't turn down the opportunity to keep them company (i.e. tease them relentlessly).

A/N: maintenance-type heroics are something i love, so this 'verse is very dear to me. no i don't know how they transition from reader knowing spidey to reader knowing peter to reader knowing spidey is peter, but that's a problem for another fic

WC: ~1.2k

(warnings: is this the first one with no warnings? i think it is. lots of pining and teasing)

Spider-Man drops down so close to you that you can smell him – cheap laundry detergent and hot asphalt, like he’s been hanging out on a sunny rooftop. You flinch and drop your tackle box of spell components, but Spider-Man leans easily into your space to catch it. Worst of all, he takes one of your hands in his and wraps your fingers around the handle again. 

Any chance of you maintaining a cool, relaxed exterior is lost when he squeezes your wrist – gently, so gently, achingly gently considering you’ve watched him juggle cars with those hands – before letting you go.

“Whoa, sorry,” he says, so good-humored it gives the impression he’s laughing even though he’s not. “Didn’t mean to drop in on you unannounced.”

“Terrible,” you announce automatically, shaken out of your love-struck stupor by his horrible pun. “Zero out of ten.”

Shoulders drooping dramatically, Spider-Man groans and lets himself fall backwards just to catch himself in a one-handed back handspring and pop back up in front of you with a flourish. You get the impression he might be grinning and raising his eyebrows at you behind the inscrutable mask. Biting down a smile, you try to focus on your spellwork again. 

You don’t have a real-hero job like his, but you like to think what you do matters. Almost every community has a little bit of magic, natural or otherwise, woven into it, and New York is no exception. Tens of thousands of people like you have been dripping little dollops of magic into sidewalks, trees, buildings, even the subway, for so long it makes your head spin if you look at the overlapping lines of spellwork too closely. After all this time, it’s a framework that keeps a lot of the really scary magical stuff to a minimum, but it takes some maintenance. 

Unfortunately for you, sometimes following the trail of decaying magic that needs some bolstering leads you to rooftops, construction sites, and other variously dangerous places for someone without superhuman agility. Even more unfortunate, Spider-Man swept you off a ledge exactly one time and decided he would be bugging – the first of his many horrible jokes – you every chance he got, which is insanely frequent considering how busy you know he is. 

It was nice, at first, having someone who could keep you company in some of the scarier maintenance locations or help you safely reach dangerous areas. The problem with Spider-Man is that he gets more likable with every second he spends in your general area, and the problem with that is you’re much too busy to be tongue-tied in front of a local superhero when you’re supposed to be working. 

Puffing out a put-upon sigh, Spider-Man jumps up to sit on the ledge next to you. “Yeah, okay, that one was pretty weak. Still made you smile, so I count it as a win.”

“It didn’t make me smile,” you say, smiling. You swallow your next words before you can add something stupid like, you’re what made me smile. 

“Sure, whatever you say, Gandalf.” He swings his legs a little and tucks his chin into his neck to, you’re guessing by the angle of his lenses, scrutinize you. “Hey, you got the stain out of those!”

You glance down at your favorite jeans. After a mishap while straightening out some tangled arcane webs in an abandoned subway tunnel, you ended up with splotches of nasty gray-green oil staining the denim. He had been almost as distraught as you were, immediately hooking an arm around you to escort you to what was apparently his most trusted laundromat. And now here you were, stains impossibly lifted by a stern-voiced and kind-faced woman behind the counter. 

Yet another thing that Spider-Man effortlessly saved.

“I didn’t do anything. Mrs. Marcus got the stain out.” Risking a glance up at him, you add a quiet, “Thank you for introducing us.”

“The way I see it, people who take care of the city should be taken care of by the city, you know what I mean? And you and Mrs. M are vital cornerstones of the city, so. Iconic team-up.”

You can hear the smile in Spider-Man’s voice. You wish you could see the smile, but that’s not really in the cards for you, is it?

“You’re so,” you start, shaking your head and finding that you don’t know how to finish the sentence. He’s leaning in awfully close, big blank lenses zeroed in on you. You settle on, “Silly.”

“I’m silly?” Spider-Man asks, delighted. 

“You are!” 

“Tell me about it, toots,” he says, affecting a really terrible old-timey accent.

Dipping the fingers of one hand out of mundane reality and into the whirring whimsicality of arcana, you hook around the frayed line you’ve been following all day and then pause awkwardly. Like he’s reading your mind, Spider-Man hops down and takes your component box from you. He flips the latch and then opens it, holding it out at just the right height for you to use your free hand to pick out the little bits of magical paraphernalia that you need. 

Despite his propensity for whip-fast conversation and endless teasing, Spider-Man is actually really good company when you’re working. It’s like he knows exactly when you need a few seconds of quiet to really focus on something, and he also has a preternatural gift for guessing what you need and providing it before you even really know what would help. It more than makes up for the way he makes you feel fluttery and flushed just by existing in your general vicinity. 

The world narrows in focus while you finish up your mending, but Spider-Man is still right next to you when you slip back into reality. His mask twitches a little near the cheeks when you blink up at him. 

“Hey there,” Spider-Man says, steadying you with a warm hand under your elbow. “All done?”

“All done,” you confirm, trying not to think about how he must give really incredible hugs. 

“Am I gonna get to buy you dinner, or are you cooking tonight?”

Just like that, he has you flustered and smiling again. Taking the component box from him and shaking your head, you resist the urge to shove at his chest like some high schooler just learning how to flirt. You’re trying not to flirt with him at all, but you’ll settle for not flirting badly. 

“You’re not buying me dinner, Spider-Man.”

He slaps a hand over his heart like he’s affronted. “Back to full-naming me? I thought I was officially your Spidey? Just for that offense, I should be able to buy you dinner.”

You had caved and started calling him Spidey, but you’ll die of mortification before ever calling him my Spidey. 

“That’s really not how this works,” you inform him, and then, sensing you’re not going to win, propose, “How about I buy you dinner, then? For helping and keeping me company.”

“Please, I should be paying for the pleasure of your company.” He holds out a hand and meets you in the middle. “Final offer, you can buy your own dinner, but I’m buying dessert.”

Even without dessert, you would be walking away with a rare treat – it’s not every day that you get to see Spider-Man roll up the mask and reveal his pretty mouth and lovely chin. 

You shake his hand and manage not to swoon at the way his fingers close around yours. “Deal.”

Ditto.

Perhaps if a term does not yet exist for a collection of commas, it could be called a 'waterfall' as in a *waterfall of commas. For example, "The passage was so eloquent, so riveting that the waterfall of commas describing the scene flowed across the page."

*From Coldplay's Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. (2011)

Sometimes I cry when I read, sometimes I cry when I write. It seems to fit, ya know?

verity what are your thoughts on oxford commas ?

i am an oxford comma groupie

@sincericida So, I saw that top photo of Mr. Garfield and thought If Taylor Swift can compose a song for one of her besties, then I'll just write a song about AG for a mutual like you. (Okay, okay, I know I'm no Taylor Swift; it was fun to write though) Someone gimme a good sick beat:

Make Me Scream

Leather jacket with that James Dean look

Them big brown eyes that read me like a book

You know what I been thinkin' and it ain't cause I been drinkin'

O baby I am sinkin'

Cause I'm into you. Yeah, I'm into you.

Maybe I will and maybe I won't

Maybe you do and maybe you don't

All I can see is the trouble I'm in

Cause baby you a saint who looks like mmm...sin.

O baby be into me, cause I'm into you. Yeah, I'm into you.

Chorus:

I'm not dream-ing, I'm just scheming

How to get with you. How to get with you.

I'm not dream-ing, I'm just scream-ing

When I get with you. When I get with you.

Long and lean, you the best on the screen, I'm watching that scene, mmmhmmm.

See your lips and I'm moving my hips, cause you got them drips

If you know what I mean, my thoughts ain't clean

They so obscene

Cause when you into me, baby, yeah I'm into you.

Sometimes act a man and sometimes act a boy

But you move those hands and I'll be your toy

Come play with me, run away with me, won't you stay with me.

Cause when you into me, mmm baby, I'm into you.

Chorus:

I'm not dream-ing, I'm just scheming

How to get with you. How to get with you.

I'm not dream-ing. I'm just scream-ing.

When I get with you. When I get with you.

*(7/24/23) This song was not AI generated. Real live human bean art is the best art cause it's alive. Reblogs yes, copy on other sites: no.

Tag anyone ya think might enjoy a little AG love.

@blooming-violets Tagging you because that rainbow road comment made me laugh so hard.

ANDREW GARFIELD's (unknown for me) photoshoot.

Owwww babe... 🤩

She delivers wonderful performances in so many roles I'm hard pressed to pick a favorite. A gem of an actress.

Academy Awards, 1999 Photographer: Bob Riha Jr.

*Best Supporting Actress win

And Stuff. And Ken. You Don't Say...

Took me a minute, but Ryan Gosling's character, Holland March, (from The Nice Guys) telling his daughter,Holly, "and don't say and stuff" and him going on to play 'and Ken' in the Barbie movie is career serendipity at its peak.

If you haven't seen Gosling and Russell Crowe in The Nice Guys, it's worth a look. (Note: adult language, etc)