@catholickabuto / catholickabuto.tumblr.com
hey guys I’ve had this page since I was like 14 and I no longer have the energy to mass edit every time I want a clean start lmfao so if anyone is inclined to refollow me I’ll be over at this new url !! I’ll keep this page up in some capacity for archive purposes but I won’t be checking activity/messages/etc on here
Interesting essay on the specific Korean context of Parasite that keeps getting erased in order to highlight the unversality of the film. Goes through the entire movie so if you still haven’t seen Parasite don’t read it.
“Parasite has made history, which is a euphemism for achieving Western recognition — history’s qualifier. Recognition itself hinges on the gaze, and the imperial variety suffuses Parasite’s critical reception. In an early and emblematic review, Manohla Dargis[1] notes in The New York Times: “The story takes place in South Korea but could easily unfold in Los Angeles or London.” Parasite’s setting is rendered an obstacle that must be transcended as a precondition to its recognition.
In other words, the film has to be made applicable to “Los Angeles or London” to become legible. Dargis’s review isn’t particularly egregious, but it’s emblematic of the conceit of many critics, exceptions notwithstanding. The emphasis on universality is achieved through a negation of the particular in a typical display of liberal chauvinism. Consequently, the more Bong Joon-ho’s masterpiece is regarded, the more it seems to vanish in the spectacle of its acclaim. Parasite has made history; never mind how history has made Parasite.
This is not a charge against any attempt to relate Parasite to other contexts. Bong’s social critique concerns the international conditions of globalized capitalism, but particular to Korea’s neoliberal and neocolonial present. Examining the film as a story of class in the neocolony shifts it from a decontextualized tale of rich and poor to one of compradors and the colonized. This lens takes Parasite from an allegory of “class conflict” to one of imperialism, and illuminates the film’s recurring motifs of English, militarization and appropriated Indigenous material culture.”
me, lying in bed with my gamer wife: sorry babe. i’m just not feeling very epic tonight. :(
gamer wife: oh no! f :( is there anything i can do?
me: thanks for paying respects and for respecting my boundaries. and no this is something that not even your epic gamer love can fix. you’re the best thing to ever happen to me and i thank gamer jesus everyday that i met you while you were taking out the trash at the gamestop and i was dumpster diving behind the gamestop.
whats agriculture
THIS
those westerns finally make sense now. it’s like honey i’m going into town. i’ll pick up sugar, flour, beans, salt pork, bullets, and kerosene. do you want a bolt of calico? some maple syrup? i’m taking the wagon i’ll be back in three days
everyone in awakening: im haunted by my past… i joined the wardens to get away from it all… begin anew… make amends…..*sheds a tear*
anders, who is only here because the warden said so:
wives on tv are like *putting on lotion* youre home late.
*sigh* *releases toxic spores*
so, gentleman jack, huh,,
TW: Child Abuse
Hawke’s first memory is of templars. He’s four. Maybe five. He’s made of limbs and dreams and nothing can shatter them. No tree is too high, no future too big. His world is made of little boys’ magic, and not the magic of men.
He’s in a market. Not the market, because he can’t remember which town or what shop, just a market. The summer sun glints off the blue glass of a child’s bauble, and he wants it as much as a child wants anything. But glass costs coin, and his father explains they don’t have the copper Hawke knows is in his pocket.
It’s not a tantrum - it’s not - it’s just a question. Why not? Why not why not why not, but his father isn’t listening to him, isn’t even looking at him, and so he asks again, a little louder every time until he’s screaming it and his father is dragging him into an alley.
There’s no lecture. No discipline. No cuffing, pinching, or spanking. His father smothers him - one giant sweaty hand swallowing up his face and all his protests. Shut up, Malcolm snarls, and in that moment he is Malcolm and not father and Malcolm is mad and so Hawke shut ups.
He sits in that alley, suffering, suffocating, his father’s bulk hunched over him while a procession of templars marches past. More than anything, Hawke remembers their swords. The rattle of metal in wooden sheaths, the sunbursts emblazoned on their hilts, the idle hands that finger them. He hates those hands because he can’t hate the one on his mouth.
side by side
Just horrifically online this week. Horrendously so
media is pretend and not real but sometimes the way people mischaracterize my favorite pretend little dudes makes me feel very real rage
tops aren’t LGBT
Damn y'all got internet in Ancient Rome?
please don’t insinuate that i’m italian
stews are great they’re like what if soups weren’t gay
Teen Anders commissioned by @tinyfierce for @specks-of-infinity; thanks again!
“That was Flint’s treasure that we had come so far to seek, and that had cost already the lives of seventeen men from the Hispaniola. How many it had cost in the amassing… perhaps no man alive could tell.”
Treasure Island - Chapter 33: The Fall of a Chieftain
