(no subject)
The Stardust. Harry’s club. Harry’s secret love. His connection to the legitimate side of life. A product of the fifties. Gangsters and stars having their pictures taken together. Frank Sinatra, Frankie Laine, Patti Page, Johnnie Ray, Georgia Gibbs and Elvis bloody Presley. Doo Wop and swing. Brunettes and peroxide. Pop art and Frisbee’s. Korea and Doctor Zhivago.
The club was still a success in the sixties. Not called the Swinging Sixties for nothing. Drink till you drop, dance till you faint. Bugger beatniks and hippies and spend, spend, spend. Money was never more important. Everyone wants it, everyone’s expected to have it. Rock and roll and drugs and bands playing for the buzz of it. Long hair, the Beatles and peroxide down the drain. It’s all about the real thing and real LSD.
But the sixties moved on and over the years Harry’s club became more dust than stars. He was never able to pinpoint why people stopped coming. He’d been busy with scams, but he had always kept an eye out for his club. And yet it still felt like it had gone from packed to dead in the course of a single day. At first, it didn’t matter. Harry just changed the format. Exotic dancers and va-va-va-voom.
And then the punters stopped coming to that too. Only men in stained raincoats stayed. But Harry didn’t have eyes for his club anymore. He was too busy running. Running towards the murderers of boys who never deserved it and away from the clutches of the Old Bill. But he lost. And he was caught. Imprisoned. And the Stardust rose again, in memory this time, all bad things forgotten; the club became the embodiment of a happier time.
So when he discovered a film-roll called ‘Stardust’ between reels of films he had seen a dozen times, he was curious to see what it would be.
What he saw was not what he expected. It was a cute fairytale love-story by the looks of it. He would never call it a cute fairytale love story, of course, but he was starting to like it. For now anyway.
For now, no medieval long-haired, posh-talking evil Prince version of himself had appeared on screen...
((OOC: More or less a canon puncture thing. Harry is watching Stardust, and will shortly see someone uncannily like himself (Mark Strong) as Septimus, one of the seven nasty Princes. Everyone’s seen this film, yeah? Robert de Niro in drag, Michelle Pfeiffer as witch... Anyway, Harry’s reaction to it will vary depending on who tags. Might not be all too pleased...))
The club was still a success in the sixties. Not called the Swinging Sixties for nothing. Drink till you drop, dance till you faint. Bugger beatniks and hippies and spend, spend, spend. Money was never more important. Everyone wants it, everyone’s expected to have it. Rock and roll and drugs and bands playing for the buzz of it. Long hair, the Beatles and peroxide down the drain. It’s all about the real thing and real LSD.
But the sixties moved on and over the years Harry’s club became more dust than stars. He was never able to pinpoint why people stopped coming. He’d been busy with scams, but he had always kept an eye out for his club. And yet it still felt like it had gone from packed to dead in the course of a single day. At first, it didn’t matter. Harry just changed the format. Exotic dancers and va-va-va-voom.
And then the punters stopped coming to that too. Only men in stained raincoats stayed. But Harry didn’t have eyes for his club anymore. He was too busy running. Running towards the murderers of boys who never deserved it and away from the clutches of the Old Bill. But he lost. And he was caught. Imprisoned. And the Stardust rose again, in memory this time, all bad things forgotten; the club became the embodiment of a happier time.
So when he discovered a film-roll called ‘Stardust’ between reels of films he had seen a dozen times, he was curious to see what it would be.
What he saw was not what he expected. It was a cute fairytale love-story by the looks of it. He would never call it a cute fairytale love story, of course, but he was starting to like it. For now anyway.
For now, no medieval long-haired, posh-talking evil Prince version of himself had appeared on screen...
((OOC: More or less a canon puncture thing. Harry is watching Stardust, and will shortly see someone uncannily like himself (Mark Strong) as Septimus, one of the seven nasty Princes. Everyone’s seen this film, yeah? Robert de Niro in drag, Michelle Pfeiffer as witch... Anyway, Harry’s reaction to it will vary depending on who tags. Might not be all too pleased...))