okay but why don’t more people talk about Night at the Museum like
poc characters and people being portrayed by poc people
this movie is so good
and it has one of the funniest, best, most ridiculous friendships in movie history
and you have Robin Williams as Teddy Roosevelt I mean
and if all that didn’t convince you there’s also a t-Rex skeleton that plays fetch with one of its own ribs
THIS MOVIE
DON’T FORGET THE QUIRKY AND FUNNY IMMORTAL VILLAIN SQUAD LED BY DICK VAN DYKE
OR THE EASTER ISLAND HEAD THAT LOVED BUBBLEGUM (or, as he called it, gum-gum)
OR THE FACT THAT THEIR HISTORICALLY-ACCURATE CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS DIDN’T SPEAK ENGLISH
Ok that’s a pretty good pitch.
Night at the Museum is seriously one of the most underappreciated movie franchises – and one of my favourites. A a giant history and film nerd, it was so refreshing to see such ACCURATE portrayals, without losing any of the huomor or the heart. I love it
It’s also just so damn funny
DUM DUM WANT GUM GUM!
Hi you also forgot to mention how fucking gay the cowboy and roman are like even my unknowingly gay 10 y/o self could tell
One’s a cowboy and the other’s a Roman, of course they’re gay.
The toe tapping is thought to be a way to draw the attention of insects away from the predator to the insect-like motion. Whatever it’s actually for, it’s clearly a gesture of excitement at seeing food, and it’s cute.
Mink Wells is an acclaimed goblin author with a lot of enemies. rival authors have hounded her for most of her career. not because they hate her work, no, because they’re obsessed with it. from plagiarism, to slander, to typewriters set on fire, they’ve done everything they could to get her to stop writing. she’s just so good at it! its disgusting!!!! and everything is always on time? bullshit. and rumor has it she’s only had to knife fight a editor once? and she won? super mega bullshit 64.
she had to go.
but she hasn’t gone. she hasn’t gone in the countless years she’s seen her rivals come and go. and everybody is stumped because what they haven’t told each other is that there have been invites to tea with cyanide-laced almond cookies and late night work sessions with hand axes taped under office chairs and mysteriously large sticks backstage at book signings. she’s always back at work the next day.
actually, no.
there was one time she missed a day. the only time she was ever late. she was very young, just starting on her second novel, when the murder happened. a frustrated and aggressive rival, a break-in, a knife against her throat. they found him in a pool of blood in front of her writing desk. she didn’t react more than answering questions to the police milling around as she continued her work. treatment was refused. she wore a thick scarf that she refused to take off. things had to get done after all, and she’d already wasted enough time.
so is she just a fast healer, or is she a litch who is completely powered by tea and spite? no one knows. its one thing to attempt murder on someone, its another to , you know, ask about it. the answer is probably terrifying. she is terrifying.
That is so cool! Do they eventually migrate into the water in part because of the massive weight of their shells? So their surface area allows the water to help support them and their poor knees?
Also do they travel? Or do they root themselves in place? They’re so cool!!!!
yes!! the ocean lessens their heavy load. Furthermore, they seem to enjoy seeing new places but by the time they’ve reached maturity they move so slowly you can hardly tell they’re moving. this not only conserves energy but also gives the biome on their shells time to adapt to different temperatures!
He-Man: I do not know, but I’m sure JKR does, and it’s possibly racist.
I reckon Dementors are what people become after a few centuriesnof immortality having drank Unicorn blood. I imagine it was all the rage when people first realised it made you immortal (hence unicorns being so rare to this day), but after a while the curse caught up with them. The light bled out of their lives, all the magic they attempted went wrong, caused damage that ultimately had them driven from their homes and lives, and they were miserable. Constantly.
The phenomenon was tested, and eventually it was discovered that the ingestion of even the smallest amount of unicorn blood caused the soul itself to erode. That was the curse, the half life. You lived forever, but you didn’t get to keep your soul.
The longer these people lived, the more twisted and less human they became. Soon the world wasn’t only colourless, but completely invisible. They’d gone blind, as well as deaf, but their lost senses were made up for in other ways. They could feel the emotions of people—real people, not what they’d become. Vicariously, they were begining to feel human emotions for the first time in hundreds of years. And they were hungry for it. In droves, these bare shells of humans would descend on towns and villages only to stand around people’s homes, black robes hanging over their impossibly skeletal frames, moaning and wailing, guttural perversions of voices that often drove the victims of their presence to madness.
Hence the name Dementors.
It was then that the first of them recalled how they’d come to be this way—the power of the consumption of blood. How pure and invincible that first gulp of unicorn blood had been. Of course, it had turned out to be a terrible, terrible idea, but but then they’d lost all sense of morality, of right and wrong. All they cared about was the possibility, the slimmest chance that they might get even the smallest taste of that again.
It was then that the first Dementor followed a young man on his way home into the darkest stretch of road and sank his teeth into his throat, drank his blood until the body was drained dry of it.
And it worked, in a way. Consuming the life-force of a human being was powerful, certainly, but emotions didn’t run in blood. It wasn’t where the feeling hid.
None the less, killings became more and more common after that, the new knowledge communicated without sight or sound between them. But they wondered how they could get a more powerful high still, and thoughts returned to the essence of their condition—the essence of themselves.
Their souls were rotten. Perhaps… perhaps if they could take the souls of the living…
So they sought means to do so. It was terrifyingly easy for them, to do something so terrible, warped as their magic was. And the more souls they consumed, the faster and faster their last vestiges of their humanity left them.
So many centuries after their fatal (or rather the opposite of fatal) errors, the Dementors were no longer recognisable as having ever been human at all. They no longer walked along the ground but drifted through the air, ominous like shadows caught in the wind. And souls became all that they fed on—particularly the happy memories that lay there. Because though they could no longer remember that they had once been people, that all they’d wanted was for light and colour and joy to return to their lives, some intrinsic part of them followed the instinct all the same—sought happiness even if only stolen, because they were no longer capable of feeling it themselves.
And that kids is why we do not drink the blood of unicorns.
BettSplendens Tumblr Evac 