“I’m not a typical beauty.” - Benedict Cumberbatch, BAFTA NY In Conversation [x]
But you are a rare beauty.
Post reblogged from Channelling Efunsetan, Ahebi, Alaba Ida, Nzinga... with 24,952 notes
Let’s not forget to acknowledge Alexandre Dumas this Black History Month
The writer of two of the most well known stories worldwide, The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo was a black man.
Let’s not forget that he was played on screen by a white man. And the fact that he was black is barely ever mentioned or the book he wrote inspired by his experiences.
Other things not to forget about Alexandre Dumas:
- chose to take on his slave grandmother’s last name, Dumas, like his father did before him.
- grew up too poor for formal education, so was largely self-taught, including becoming a prolific reader, multilingual, well-travelled, and a foodie, resulting in his writing both a combination encyclopedia/cookbook (which just— is fucking outrageous to me) AND the adaptation of The Nutcracker on which Tchaikovsky based his ballet
- he also wrote a LOOOOT of nonfiction and fiction about history, politics, and revolution, bc he was pro-monarchy, but a radical cuss, and that got him in a lot of hot water at home and abroad.
- even beyond that, he generally put up with a lot of racist bullshit in France, so he went and wrote a novel about colonialism and a BLATANTLY self-insert anti-slavery vigilante hero (which he then cribbed from to write the Count of Monte Cristo, the main character of which, Edmond Dantés, Dumas also based on himself).
- (…a novel which also features a LOAD of PoC beyond the Count, and at LEAST one queer character, btw, bc EVERY MOVIE ADAPTATION OF ANYTHING BY DUMAS IS A LIE; seriously, at LEAST one of the four Musketeers is Black, y’all.)
- famously, when some fuckshit or other wanted to come at Dumas with some anti-Black foolishness, Dumas replied, “My father was a mulatto, my grandfather was a Negro, and my great-grandfather a monkey. You see, Sir, my family starts where yours ends.”
- for the bicentennial of his birthday, Pres. Jacques Cirac was like, “…sorry about the hella racism,” and had Dumas’s ashes reinterred at the Panthéon of Paris, bc if you’re gonna keep the corpses of the cream of the crop all together, Dumas’s more widely read and translated than literally everybody else.
- and they are still finding stuff old dude wrote, seriously; like discovering “lost” works as recently as 2002, publishing stuff for the first time as recently as 2005.
This is IMPORTANT!
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My uni is having me fail the year, essentially attempting to force me to leave formal education altogether because I have a physical disability.
Apparently that’s still a thing which happens in England.
I can’t go into complexities because I’m still considering my options in regards to defence and adjudication but it literally came down to you’re disabled therefore you’re unfit to practice theatre.
So that’s why I’ve not been about lately. On the bright side, looks like I’m gonna have a buttload of free time soon.
Man this series makes no fucking sense
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So I got my man a dozen roses for Valentines and he went home today which means walking through this proper English village and on the way he sees a dead pheasant so he takes a single rose and lays it across the corpse.
I have to live with this for the rest of my life oh my
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It’s 3am we’re in McDonalds and they’ve closed the loos for cleaning. Random dude needs a piss. Staff take ten minutes and three keys to open the disabled loo for him. Then a lady shows up needing to go and he gentlemenly allows her to go first. Then when she’s done the dozy thing shuts the door behind her. He almost cries. The staff look lost. I wander over and unlock it for him (the locks on dis loos are universal and if you’re crip’d you can own the key). He looks at me as if I am an angel. ‘HOLY FUCK, THE MAGIC KEY MAN, THE LORD OF THE KEYS’ he screams. When he’s finished he offers to buy me something; when I defer he babbles for minutes about how THE MASTER OF THE MAGIC KEY MUST BE REWARDED. So I cave and get a black coffee, which he takes to be the secret of my wizardry, once again proclaiming me his master. He then returns to his girlfriend, looks her right in the eye and says with the most pride I have ever heard: “If you need a piss I know a guy.”
I did actually make an appointment to see this at the archive but then I got distracted by She Stoops to Conquer *shifty eyes* I’ll try again…
My my, you really should. This was the production - this very night, indeed - that made me realise I’m a director. Look at all these phenomenal people; there are not words for how high they make my heart sing.
Texas Sportscaster Gives Best Response to Michael Sam’s Coming Out Ever
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Why do people find reason to insult others? I can give as good as they come, and if you give me reason to hate you I shall loathe you to the ground and ensure you and everyone within a five hundred mile radius knows it. In order to get that from me, you don’t have to hurt me – you can brand fire upon my tongue yet I shall remain silent until you turn upon those I love.
However, there is simple psychology. There’s the kid pulling the hair of their admired, there’s the way I turn from my lover when he’s stumbled over his words, there’s the one kicking out at the world. There’s the people who don’t try to hurt others, who perhaps don’t even realise they’re doing so, who strike at still bleeding wounds in order to apply bandage to their own. I can understand the reason; I do not feel reason is ever an excuse.
I’m not a pacifist. I’m not even a humanist. I can erupt with irrational anger and feed devils with the corners of my eyes like anybody else – but I cannot understand why people like to hurt people. I cannot understand why someone would hurt a stranger to comfort themselves. If you don’t know what your action could do, then you probably shouldn’t do it. If you know what it could do to you, then you definitely shouldn’t do it.
If I don’t like you, if you’ve only ever hurt me, then you probably think I’m your friend. Perhaps that deceit is worse than anything else, but I’d rather you were misguided than distraught. Just because I’m not a fan doesn’t mean you’ve any less claim to life than I do, doesn’t mean you’re any worse of an impact upon the world. I would never say a word; I know what other’s lines have done to my state of mind. I’d be far too scared of what my words could do to you.
I don’t nightblog like everybody else, do I?
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