Every time I see this scene I’m just like “???? Tara???? Hark who’s talking???? YOU ARE PRETENDING TO BE A LAWYER IN A COURTROOM TARA YOU DON’T GET TO LECTURE.”
happy Easter 2 me Jesus has risen and I truly feel His presence God bless
Deanna Troi was a poorly written character and Marina Sirtis was an even worse actress.
I admit that the writers could have done more w/ Deanna b/c the TNG writers were notoriously sexist but Deanna Troi is a great character and I adore Marina Sirtis and also why are you trying to ruin my fun I mean damn
I don’t think that the TNG writers were notoriously sexist. Look at Dr. Crusher. She had a strong presence aboard the Enterprise whenever she stepped on the scene. She confidently clashed with Cpt Picard many times and never worried about anything besides the good work that she did. However,
Mz. Sirtas’s acting style was extremely bland. She was half human and half betazoid but she showed less personality than her betazoid mother and any human (besides Denise Crosby playing the super half-assed Tasha-Yar).
You do know that Gates McFadden was literally fired because she spoke out against sexism pertaining to her character, right?
Denise Crosby left the show because they gave her hardly anything to say
Marina Sirtis was constantly objectified and told she was too fat to wear the normal uniform and was only allowed to wear it when she lost weight
And I’m not denying that Star Trek has had great female characters but they were certainly not treated as well as the male characters nor were they given enough to do
Were NOT sexiest?!?! You are joking me.
Marina talked about how she was on a constant diet to fit into those insane outfits, which had spandex in them anyway.
Those scenes where she eats chocolate, they would give her a bucket to spit the chocolate out. On top, they would give her milk chocolate because she doesn’t like that and so she wouldn’t want to eat it without feeling sick, so just spit it out into a bucket. All so she could fit into her outfits.
Also the amount of times I have watched and worked on a TNG episode and note how the men are eating, but not the women is shocking.
One of her favourite episodes is a Fistful of Data’s because she didn’t have to wear one of those outfits.
Gates stood up for her character. She played a single mother yet she NEVER got credit for raising a child as smart as Wesley. It was always the men. She stood up for herself, her character and single women who don’t get credit everywhere. And her payment was to be fired. You can see her talk about this at many comic cons with Marina.
She was lucky that EVERYONE just rebelled against that and she was brought back. But too this day she hasn’t watched series 2 of TNG. And can you blame her? She asks for more depth and she just gets fired. Well you know, good on her for doing it! She deserved to be heard.
Denise. Well. Let’s be honest, I see where Denise was coming from. She did deserve more. Tasha was barley given the chance to grow, barely any words. She deserved more than to be remembered as the lady who shagged Data. She was head of security and she saved the men more than once in the few episodes she was in. She stood up, and she left. Have you seen code of honor?! Johnathon Frakes has called out what shit that is at Comic Cons defending Denise.
The fact that ALL the women of Star Trek (yes, ALL OF THEM. In EVERY series has dealt with this shit) managed to act and slay in outfits where they couldnt breath (some have literally passed out from these outfits or been left crying because they hurt them so bad) is nothing short of amazing.
I mean heck. Marina has had to deal with Deanna being sexually assaulted TWICE for plot development (which she has spoken about and how it was the hardest thing she had to do in Star Trek).
You can not say that TNG did not suffer with sexiest writers. In fact, you can’t say Star Trek on the whole hasn’t suffered with them. It is well noted how bad it has been. All the Star Trek actors spoke about it.
You can not like their acting, that’s fine and completely fine everyone enjoys different things, but you will damn respect them as women in this industry who have stood up for themselves and note the complete shit they have had to deal with.
Also while I am bloody at it. The amount of women SHITTED on in acting for having bland characters or whatever is stupid.
Have you ever thought that maybe, if they were given decent story lines this wouldn’t happen?! Perhaps if the writers actually cared about these women beyond their breast and hips size, we would of gotten better story arcs?
Note how Marina said when she was given a proper Starfleet uniform suddenly she could solve problems which Data and Geordi couldn’t even do?!
Maybe if Denise was given a chance she could have worked like the champ she is (she has worked on Gates theater stage) that perhaps she could of given more?
Actors are as good as the material they are given.
I will never not reblog a stirring defense and acclamation of Star Trek women, particularly Marina Sirtis.
Fun fact: in the Robin Hood episode Troi and Crusher were the only characters that did not sword fight (they had vases to smash over people’s heads instead) DESPITE the fact that Marina Sirtis and Gates McFadden were the only cast members who could fucking fence.
At this point, when I see a “-justice” blog (or more-or-less “REAL JUSTICE” sort of blog) I know it’s going to have shitty opinions.
Marina Sirtis did the best she could with what she was given. They all did. Bland? My Deanna? Have these people seen her trying to deal with her mother?
Seriously though: Denise Cosby deserved better. Her character deserved better: a better backstory (RAPE GANGS are you fucking SERIOUS???), a better chance, BETTER WRITERS. I mentioned this somewhere, but she was pretty amazing in one of the early “alternate Enterprise” storylines (coincidentally one of the best-written of the early storylines according to several of the actors IIRC).
What I’m really saying is THANK YOU for standing up for the women of ST:TNG, lovely bloggers that did so.
from skimming the article his argument is basically, I coulda made it crap for kids or crap for adults. Liiiiike, regardless of the intended audience ur movie is still crap.
Like seriously we don’t want it dark and edgy, we just don’t want some shitty ass watered down version of such a wonderful setting. The world of Avatar is so beautiful and enjoyable. the movie version is just bland and un-engaging. But hey, if Shyamalan wants to throw more money in the garbage making the sequel literally no one asked for it’s his problem.
Marvel:
to relate to female audience, we will have Black Widow involved in a romance with a team member
Every Girl I've Ever Heard:
I want to see Natasha Romanoff crush a man's skull with her thighs without a single hair falling out of place, and then I want her to terrorize her teammates with bad jokes and pranks
Marvel:
to relate to the female audience we will have Black Window involved in a romance WITH ANOTHER TEAM MEMBER
Beta-39 wraps the fingers of his incomplete hand around the man’s leather harness and curls his toes, bare of socks or shoes. He nods his head, then tucks his face away into the warmth of the skin he can feel through the kevlar and canvas.
“They won’t hurt you,” the man says, his voice a reverberating susurration somewhat like the static hum that had come from Beta-23’s chest, before Beta-23 had been decommissioned. Beta-39 hopes that he won’t be decommissioned now, since his left arm lacks the biosynthetic sheathing of his right. It makes him lopsided, imperfect, disposable; he steals an anxious peek at the warm man who holds him so carefully. The man catches him looking and readjusts his grip, laughing gently. “Can you say it? Crows.”
Crows. They’re pecking at the scraps of burned flesh here and there, scattered upon the ground. The sight and smell doesn’t bother Beta-39, but it doesn’t seem to bother the man, either. The man isn’t upset. That’s good. “Crows,” Beta-39 repeats, obediently. “Crows.” He says it again, because he can. The man is still not upset. That’s even better.
“God, you sound just like he did when he was your age—” The man shakes. He shakes so badly that Beta-39 tightens his grip on the straps, lest he fall. “Sorry, sorry. Beta—I need to call you something other than a letter and a number. Do you have a name?”
The man doesn’t sound strong anymore. He sounds all brittle. Beta-39 wonders if it’s because of Alpha. The man had found Beta-39 in Beta-39’s little white room. He had stopped Beta-39 from being decommissioned by his favorite guard. He had been too late to stop the decommissioning of Beta-38 or Beta-37, but he cradled Beta-51 in his arms in a way that Beta-39 had only ever seen with the researchers who were handling pieces of Alpha.
Beta-51 always, always cried, but in the man’s arms, Beta-51 was silent. The man had grabbed Beta-39 by the waist, and lifted him up, told him to hang on, hang on to him and Beta-51—they ran past the rooms holding the Betas that had already been disposed of, but the man stumbled once they reached Beta-20. The man reached out and touched Beta-20’s face, closed Beta-20’s cold, clouded eyes. The man hadn’t done that for any of the other Betas, but maybe it was because the man and Beta-20 looked to be about the same age.
They had run some more, but then Beta-13 had stepped out from behind a doorway. Beta-13 fired his gun, missing the man’s head but blowing out Beta-51’s. The man had released a terrible cry, something that could have been no, please, please, no, no, no—it was then that Beta-39 had become afraid. Beta-51’s body was left to the floor, and Beta-39 closed his eyes.
There was a crackling voice from the man’s cowl with a code of some kind; Beta-13’s cardiac motor burst. Beta-13 collapsed to the floor, and the man carried Beta-39 past him and into the next room.
Beta-39 didn’t want to see anymore. He didn’t want to see the high Betas reach critical. They were old, imprecise. The doctors had said that they had their parts replaced, not grown.
The man hadn’t put him down, not until they had reached the laboratory that held the remains of Alpha.
Beta-39 isn’t sure what he remembers more clearly; seeing Alpha’s archaic arm disassembled and suspended in the display upon the wall together with the cryogenic containment capsules for each limb and organ, or hearing the man wail where he stood on the white tile. Beta-39 had never seen Alpha’s face before. It looked sad, even disembodied in ice. Beta-39 wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be in the presence of Alpha, who was Very Important, but he was the last Beta; Beta-39 supposed that made things acceptable.
The crackle in the man’s cowl sounded urgent, and the man wept for a moment longer before he clutched Beta-39 to his chest with both arms—he ran out with fire chasing behind them, and here they are.
The outside is nice, Beta-39 thinks, even if his exposed skin is getting cold. “I don’t have a name,” Beta-39 replies.
“Everyone has a name.” The man sounds only a little weak, this time.
Beta-39 reaches up to touch the man’s hair. Lit up by the fire and the sun, it’s bright in his eyes and soft to the touch. He touches the hair with his completed arm because it’s perfect, unlike his incomplete arm. Beta-39 isn’t even done with being constructed. He hasn’t finished his training. He doesn’t know why he merits a name—names are only given for field missions.
“I’m a Beta. We don’t have names.”
The man grunts, and his arms pull Beta-39 snug and tight. Around them, the crows flutter. Beta-39 doesn’t know how to describe them, other than, than…pretty. The man is pretty, too. Objectively, the gleam of his incomplete arm is pretty, but he tucks it into the man’s chest between their bodies to hide it from the light. “Can I give you one?” The man whispers. The man turns his face to press his nose to Beta-39’s hair.
It’s a foreign feeling, being held like this. It’s warm, which is nice, but the man is so strong that Beta-39 feels safe, too. He feels secure, which is why he concedes with another nod.
“James—no. Not that one. Jacob? Joshua? Jonah?” A big whirring comes from above, and Beta-39 flinches at the wind that smacks into his face. “Shhh, shhh, it’s ok, don’t be afraid.” Beta-39 trusts him. Beta-39 ceases to be afraid, and looks at the machine in the sky. He recognizes it as a helicopter, and when it lands, the man carries him over to it and straps himself in without releasing Beta-39 from his arms.
There are three other people in the helicopter. They are all pretty, and Beta-39 feels so secure that he tells them so. The man will keep him safe. The woman chuckles, but she looks so sad. They all look so sad. They say nothing.
Beta-39 tugs on the man’s sleeve. He wants to hear more names. “Designation,” he states, and the man’s eyes turn from clouds to stars. The man’s big hands are warm on his back.
When he speaks, it’s so soft that Beta-39 has to press closer to hear. “How about…Jesse? Jeremiah? Or maybe a different letter altogether, huh? George, Gabriel, Gregory? Ryan? Thomas? William? Elliot—”
Beta-39 stops him before he gets too far and Beta-39 forgets the one he likes best. “Je-re-mi-ah,” Beta-39 tests. He decides that yes, he does like this one after all.
The man looks like he’s about to cry. That’s fine, Beta-39 has seen him cry already, in the lab that held Alpha. “Jeremiah. Jeremy. Jerry.“ Beta-39 likes those variations, so he nods to everything. He has a new designation, a new name. It feels, it feels—he ignores the blood flaking on the man’s clothes and tries to burrow into the man’s chest because his face is getting too hot.
"He’s a clingy one, Steve,” another man comments, hesitantly. “We might need to pick up a stuffed animal to distract him so you can…wash off.”
Beta-39-now-Jeremiah’s man, whose name is apparently Steve, trembles. “We’ll get Jeremy a, a…” He flounders; his face splinters into a rictus of choking laughter. “A bear. A Bu—a, a Buck—”
Jeremiah doesn’t know what to do about the hysterics, and looks to the woman for guidance. She reminds him of Beta-19, who was, oddly, female. “A Jer-Bear,” she offers, and her voice is so tender that Jeremiah blinks in bewilderment. His eyes are getting wet.
Steve laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and his face looks like it’s leaking because he’s crying so hard. “That’s right,” he wheezes. “A Jer-Bear, for Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah wheezes, too. Steve squeezes him. Jeremiah squeezes back. Jeremiah’s sensors are picking up on his stress and they ping, behind his heart, to stop sobbing. Jeremiah doesn’t stop, because everyone at the panels which would display the error is dead. He feels like a toy in Steve’s arms, and they rock back and forth in the helicopter as it lifts higher into the sky. Jeremiah feels very small, and very safe, and very sad, because Steve is very sad. However, Jeremiah is warm. That makes up for the sadness.
Distantly, Jeremiah wonders if Alpha is warm, too. His parts were always kept frozen, and Jeremiah and Steve had left them behind in the fire. Jeremiah wonders if the parts had burned, or if they had melted away into vapor like the ice in which they were encased. Either way, Alpha had been dead for a long, long time. The dead only ever get colder.
shove a knife up my eyes, that would have hurt less.
