"I believe in Sherlock Holmes""Yeah, well that won’t bring him back."
Let’s talk a little about this scene. Sherlock’s mind referenced certain people as he was dying, but upon review they weren’t random. They were those who had kept him alive for the last two years.
Molly, the inside man.
Mycroft, the confidant.
And, Anderson? Yes, and it’s beautiful…
Anderson, the believer.
He kept Sherlock alive in the way we did. Not by being integral like Molly, or important like Mycroft, but by simply believing in him. By coming up with theories and starting a fan club all on the basis of believing that if anyone could defy death, it was Sherlock Holmes. So when Sherlock thought he was really going to die and that there was a minimal chance of survival - his mind palace also turned to Anderson. To the person who, despite all evidence to the contrary, believed he could survive.
why that fuckin plant move
we have a whole hiatus to find out …
this is it. This is my favorite post that this fandom has created, I’m in tears.
When Walter blasted Skyler as an emasculating shrew, an obstructionist, a “bitch,” he absolutely meant it. When he spat poison at poor, late Hank, he meant it. That on some level he means it in no way contradicts the notion that he felt horrible about Hank’s death, and perhaps equally horrible about mistreating Skyler all this time, and about bringing death and shame on other people he theoretically loves, including Walt Jr., who dropped a dime on him to protect his mother and himself.
But remember what happened a few minutes after Walter’s silent scream/cry over Hank: He had Jesse dragged out of hiding and sent on to imprisonment and torture and probable death, and twisted the knife by telling him something he didn’t know: that he watched Jesse’s beloved girlfriend Jane choke to death on her own vomit.
Walter is a sad, misguided, good man. Walter is a hateful, vindictive monster. Neither statement excludes the other.
These contradictory emotions and readings are all present, all essential, all of a piece. People are more than one thing simultaneously, always. There are lies in truth and truths within lies, in life, and in art.
Breaking Bad gets this. The phone call scene totally gets this. That’s what makes it art.
If you seek to deny or minimize the parts of art that don’t fit your reductive interpretation of Walt as a basically decent man, or a man who moves with a purpose and is somehow “badass,” as opposed to the complex monster the show has actually presented over five seasons, you are in fact, as Nussbaum wrote in her piece on the scene, watching the show wrong. In fact, you’re trying to turn a smart show into a stupid one. And you really should ask yourself why.
Why is it so important to you to believe that Walt doesn’t really hate or resent Skyler or Hank? Why is it so important to believe that equally intense elements of love and hatred, protectiveness and resentment, purposefulness and chaos, cannot exist in the same scene? Why must the scene be made simpler than it is? Why must it be made dumber than it is? Why do you need it to be so?”
I’m so tired but I can’t go to sleep without this post on my blog and I couldn’t find it so here I’ll just make it myself.
In the original stories, Holmes came back disguised as a bookseller.
The Adventure of the Empty House:
As I did so I struck against an elderly deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up I observed the title of one of them, The Origin of Tree Worship, and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir; here’s British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War—a bargain every one of them.”
GATISS TURNED THE BOOKS INTO PORN.