Lives of Christopher Chant animation

Hi, guys! To pass time during quarantine, I have decided to experiment with animation a bit. Anyway, here is the first three minutes of a short film adaptation of the classic fantasy novel, The Lives of Christopher Chant, which I am working on with a friend! The completed film is to run at least six minutes.

Written Epic Rap Battles of Literature - Gerard Way vs J.R.R. Tolkien

WITTEN EPIC WAP BATTWES OF WITERATURE

GEWAWD WAY

VERSO!

J.R.R TOLKIEN!

INCIPITE!

JRR TOLKIEN

I am to battle this neophyte? Don’t be daft.
A writer and a rockstar? Don’t make me laugh.
In book sales, you have fared even worse
Than GRRM- looks like you’re cursed!
I read your comic; it’s naught but insanity
With nothing insightful to say about humanity.
Not one instance of metaphor or addresse.
Not even worthy of an academic essay.

GERARD WAY
Hands off my Academy, you shade
Or I’ll slice you with my bow
and send you to the Black Parade.
I was born with the ability to write
In my teens, my work wasn’t shite.
It wasn’t my fault my band rocked.
You couldn’t even become hot.
You were adopted by a priest - lame!
Lost your girlfriend - shame!
You have the most complicated name!
Reuel? Who the hell is Reuel?
At any rate, what did you ever do-el?
You never wrote scripts, or had a Netflix series
Your art is good, but not quite serious.
Your estate’s uncompromisingly strict about interpretation
Your elf stories ended up boring the academic nation.
I can’t understand how you stood this tall.
Now I’m grown, I can make you NOTHING AT ALL!

JRR TOLKIEN
I fought for my life in the trenches of the Somme
You couldn’t even care less about Vietnam.
Your characters are idiots, your artwork is crap.
You’re an emo fop who knows nada about rap.
I studied medieval literature, you aren’t even educated.
I’m still going strong, at least I’m not dated.
Go perish in the apocalypse, with the rest of your buffoons.
Or I’ll bring back your dad and send you to the moon.

GERARD WAY
You’re frowsty and old, you’re utterly wack.
At least I have the better bars here, you hack.
Even ten years later, emo kids worship me.
Everyone else only saw your movies.
Compared to zombie Eiffel, your Sauron’s nothing.
Maybe I’ll use Martian gorilla serum or something.
Mother War sends her deepest regards, you grandiose Brit
Because your archaic writing style is a pile of shit.
You overcomplicate characters and lore
I just lay back and let the audience want more.
Go spend ten years locked in a cell
Or I’ll send Hazel and Cha Cha on you as well!

JRR TOLKIEN
You think your wimpy assassins can scare me?
Just you wait until the Ringwraiths come for thee!
CS Lewis can send some reinforcements
Your comic resorts to product endorsements!
You’re a Dark Horse if ever there was one.
Now get back in the Sarlaac pit you scum.
You think you can beat The Lord of the Rings?
Forever and always, I Return as the King!

Tribute to DWJ concluded!

Hi, guys. This night marks the conclusion of my unofficial comic adaptation of Diana Wynne Jones’ The Sage of Theare. The reason I cut it off early is because I wish to pay attention to my other creative projects. The last page here is the title page, which could be considered the sixth.

Edit: It’s official! The Sage of Theare has just been expanded with a two-page spread detailing Imperion’s travels between the Related Worlds in an attempt to get rid of Thasper. Bonus points if you can get each Chrestomanci reference.

My Tribute to Diana Wynne Jones

Hi, guys! These are three pages of an eight-page webcomic I’ve been drawing, based on the short story The Sage of Theare by Diana Wynne Jones. The aesthetic I went with for Theare itself can best be described as eighteenth-century steampunk, despite the fact that the short story is implied to be modern. Problem is, it would be hard to do without it becoming a Percy Jackson ripoff. Chrestomanci’s hairstyle has been reappropriated into something more appropriate for manga, which is the style I use.

Dallben vs Gandalf

Hi, guys! This time I have decided to move on from fiction writing and started my own series of written rap lyrics. Inspired by Epic Rap Battles of History and its many parodies, it takes various literary characters and pits them against each other. This first one is Dallben vs Gandalf... give it up!

GANDALF

YOOOOOOO! CAN! NOT! PASS!

So get off your 300-year-old arse

I am the greatest Maia, you lazy bastard

You’re just a mere human, not a master

You don’t use your magic, all you do is sleep

The power of my bars would make Coll weep.

I’ve starred in a book and six lucrative flicks

You’ve only a crap Disney movie and a fanmade webcomic!

You made no big sacrifice, you fucked right off to heaven.

You’re no Welshman, sounds more like you’re from Devon.

Didn’t I hear you were blind, Kevin?

Go swallow some food from Gurgi’s magic bag

Or get it on with some big-bosomed hag

You’re so lazy that that wretched hack tonino4

made you a substance abuser who loves fucking whores.

DALLBEN

My spells were never meant to destroy, only to warn

But I’ll burn you so hard, Olorin‘s arse shall be scorched

In the fire that’ll consume Caer Dallben once I’m dead

Perhaps the Book’s lightning will scald Mithrandir’s head!

The White Rider? You’re even less of a fighter,

I saw better prowess in your veteran writer!

Even against the Balrog, you lay down and died

Lady Dôn help you if you herewith survive!

While I was raising a teenage kid and a fat white pig

You got drunk and high with a bunch of scrawny hobbits.

Magic is a great skill, as far as with you I can discern it

But wiser heads than yours will determine when you should learn it.

GANDALF

DO NOT TAKE ME FOR SOME CONJURER OF CHEAP TRICKS!

I DON’T EVEN WANT YOUR STUPID LESSONS IN MAGIC!

I’ll tie a big rope round your wrinkly balls,

And on your Fawking knees you shall crawl.

You swallowed a potion and got kicked out of home.

You got turned old, and you still continued to roam

I’m a servant of the Secret Fire, you’re nothing.

Maybe you should have chosen the harp or something.

I was helping fight against Melkor, you’re scared of eating dirt

You’re so sleepy and lax you let a boy do all the work.

You’re passive and let Arawn wreak havoc around you.

Rumours that you slept with Eilonwy surround you.

DUMBLEDORE:

Well, what about that, back on the stage again.

Now let’s see how you do in a real fight, Dallben.

Think you can beat Olorin? That’s just barmy

Grab yourself a taste of Dumbledore’s army.

Balaam’s Donkey

It was absolutely the worst time of year to set out on a trip. He knew that. Yet he also realised that there was no choice. Raising his head, he felt his way carefully to the door of his hut. He was old and very frail, a waif of a centenarian. His skin was wrinkled so that his face resembled a human skull. He was dressed in brown robes, and he wore a headdress around the circumference of his bald head. He was blind, he couldn’t see a thing, but he always knew his way around. He screamed, and the echo informed him that he was outside.

He stumbled across, feeling his way around. The feeling of thick fur met his hand. This was definitely his donkey. Bedab was her name, and she had stuck by him all his life, from the moment of purchase to this very day. He clambered onto her, and with one whack of his stick, he set off across the barren landscape.

Balaam, son of Beor, the sorcerer, sat comfortably in the saddle as the donkey sped on. He used his prognosticatory power to sense what was going on around him. These powers also helped in determining where everything was. The donkey was troubled. This venture was ridiculous, and unfair. To see so many of her species get slaughtered for sacrificial rituals, to appease some god they never knew. What was the point? The point about gods, she knew full well, is that gods never actually show up. What was worse, she would have to watch as her fellow quadrupeds died on the altar. She must do something, she must do.

She turned and left the path immediately, reluctant to watch them die on the altar.  Nothing influenced her, nothing external or supernatural- rather, it was a thing that she chose to do. Balaam, sensing something was amiss, struck the donkey with his stick. He’d been beating her for years, so the joke was on him, because the donkey had since become impervious to pain. Another hit. Again, no reflex response.

The donkey glowered, surprised at the fact that she could glower. She raised her head. The sorcerer was about to beat her again. One more attempt at pain. Well, she wasn’t standing for that. She grabbed the wizard’s stick, and hurled it to the side of the road. The sorcerer convulsed with rage, leapt down off her and jumped up and down in the middle of the road, shrieking and generally making enough noise to awaken the gods.

She looked at him, and even she could not have guessed what would happen next.

“Why you hit meeee…”

Her voice was interlaced with the braying a donkey would naturally make. Both human and donkey were unable to comprehend what was happening. What had either of them done to deserve such a punishment from the gods? The sorcerer had become white as a sheet. Disturbed by the penetration of the voice into the midst of his blindness, he crept forward and stared at the donkey, but not before travelling into the midst of the road, picking up his stick and marching forward.

Why you hit me… those had been the words. It was impossible for a donkey to speak, but there she was, talking. What punishment from the gods had he merited? He raised the stick and brought it down on her head again.

As he predicted, it happened again.

“Why you hit meeee….”

The sorcerer fell to his knees, his robes becoming submerged in the mud, and making the sacred prayer sign of the Baal, and desperately prayed. The same thing, over and over. Baal, forgive me. Baal, forgive me. Baal, forgive me.

“I seee-donkey.” This had been what he had called her, when he had purchased her from a merchant in earlier days. Of course, it had actually been “she-donkey” but she had only just begun to speak. This title was what she felt best to call herself. “Seee-donkey.”

“Baal, forgive me,” breathed the blind old sorcerer one last time. Then a realisation hit him. If this donkey could refer to herself as his “seee-donkey” as she put it, then chances were that she had been mimicking his speech and, to some extent, all manner of human speech. She’d been making noises that could be considered evocative of human speech, but not quite human speech. Just as an infant or a toddler, when it learns to speak for the first time, learning to speak by repeating what other people in its presence have said, but with “f” in place of “s”, and all that time its speech gradually becomes more and more articulate- so too was her speech.

“I don’t bloody care what you are,” he replied. “You’ve humiliated me, you revolting animal. If I were armed right now, I’d kill you.”

The donkey looked at him pleadingly. “I seee-donkey,” she replied, repeating it twice for emphatic effect. “I seee-donkey.”

Then the old prophet sighed. There had been news sweeping the country that a certain ethnicity was coming to presumably invade Moab. He wanted to make them go away with his magic, and that meant slaughter. If he arrived late, he would be sentenced to death. He understood his donkey, even without the speech.

“I’m sorry,” he said, caressing her muzzle gently. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you. If you are a god and if you have possessed my donkey”- an indignant braying- “Then you must understand that I have a task to do. I need her to complete my task. If you don’t like that, it’s fine, but please, let me do it.”

“Sak-ree-thiiisss,” she replied, desperately trying to convert her newfound ability into the sound of the word. She stared up at him, imploringly, protestingly, reluctantly. No she would not go to watch her fellow animals being led to the slaughter, nor watch the blood stain the altar while the high priests look on.

“But if we don’t, you understand, then you will punish us. You will send fire and sulphur and Kamas only knows what else. Animals die so humans can live. I really don’t know what’s going on, and I can’t really bloody see anything, but even I’m pretty damn sure you must understand that.”

So he spoke, and he climbed back onto the donkey and, a settlement having been reached, they sped forwards to the city of King Balak. Humans, thought the donkey contemptuously. Humans. It was always about the humans. So self-centred, always unconcerned with the welfare of other animals over their wellbeing. To that end they would lead bulls, goats and pigs to the slaughter just to appease some delusion of gods who never really existed.

Little could she have known what would happen next. Once they arrived at King Balak’s domain, the king had something important to tell the aging prophet. “My horse has started to talk,” he said. The prophet raised an eyebrow, as he felt his way off his donkey. Then he raised his stick, and brought it down on the donkey’s head again.

“Why you hit meeee…” came the voice from her mouth, just as on cue as he had anticipated, just as on cue as the time when she had diverted herself from his path. King Balak stood there, amazed. He made the ancient prayer signs of his fathers, and thought about what to say next.

“Sorcery!” he cried. “If you have been enchanting all the animals so as to avoid work, Balaam, old boy, I am afraid you’ve been worsted for sure.”

“Nay, blame me not,” wailed the sorcerer, raising his hands. “In my grandfather’s time, his before him, and his grandfather before him, there never was a reason for animals to just start talking. Trust me, when I say this, my lord: this is an omen from the gods. Either that, or the gods have decided to convene with us. They do not support animal sacrifice. Apparently they say it must be warded off.”

“Sak-ree-thissss…” concurred the donkey, raising her head and braying in a sort of piteous position. The aging wizard stood there, dazed at what was happening. He was already unable to comprehend the great changes unfolding around him. He could not even begin to imagine what would happen next. The sacrifices were made, but he could not bear making them, and even he had to overcome his urges to kill them. Balak’s horse stood by, neighing “Do no do da.” Tears streamed down the blind wizard’s face as he did it.

By the time it was done, he was so overcome with terror and trauma that he collapsed. The king of Moab waited until he had stopped breathing. “He is dead,” he considered. “S’po too mush,” replied the donkey, which continued to make Balak jump. Even so, the king considered that, yes, even though the donkey could speak, she was right. He was dead, he remained dead and the stress had killed him.

***

The year 1000 BJM (Before Janzus Maschiach)* has been widely considered to be the start of the Animal Era. True, it was a very, gradual process that was regarded cautiously by humans, but sooner or later people began to accept that talking animals existed outside of stories. Animal sacrifice, unfortunately, was not abolished. It continued up until animals had fully learned to speak.

From that point on, that is the Greco-Roman period, animals were considered full-blooded citizens. It is to that end that the practice of animal sacrifice was abolished during that particular time period. From then on, animals were considered legible not just for citizenship but for the right to enter public office as well.

At first there were close relationships between our kind and humans, but they became fragmented over time, and so our divine rulers, the canidae, took control of the British Empire, then the most powerful military power, and even now it continues its dominion over the waves.

And it all stemmed from one donkey. Truly, it is hard to fathom just how implausible such a thing should be, and to this day, no dog of science can provide answer to my question. But I have noticed, in my quest to purchase a copy of every book in the world, that, before that moment, there were no talking animals in the world.

Thus, we have the she-donkey of Balaam to thank for providing us with the leap towards sentience.

• Professor Bardolph Fowler, (Doctor of History, Sheepdog), 1898

*Janzus Maschiach: The mythical sage and crippled lioness whose ideas supposedly formed the basis for Maschiachity.

Macedonian Nights- review

Long ago, in ancient Greece, the evil Lykaon of Athens was writing abominations of Old Comedy which permanently scarred the reputation of the Dionysian Festival. But then, one fine spring day, while walking in the marketplace in Athens, he stopped and thought.

"Wait a minute!" he said. "I could do so much more in settings outside Athens and Greece than those damned tragedians ever did!" So off the evil Lykaon of Athens went to write Macedonian Nights, the only surviving work of his, but only on account of the fact that, despite being in a thousand fragments, it stands out as the most terrible Ancient Greek comedy ever performed, and his most evil abomination back then. Now, in this farcical production at Hampstead Theatre, all the awfulness of the original comedy has been restored, and, despite the fragments, discovered by the mad archaeologist Wilson Ford in 1983, we can fully work out the plot.

It centres on a trio of young men living in Macedon and their farcical misadventures; farting, having sex and generally being a pain in the neck to everyone else. But these young men, Lycius, Antipotmos and Zithos, do their stupidity in style, so much so that the gods take notice of their drunken antics and decide to punish them in equally stupid ways. The fun gets out of control, when Zithos has sex with the priestess of Zeus, which serves as the fatal catalyst for all the horrible punishments that result.

Now, I love Ancient Greek comedy as much as the next man, but this is the absolute worst. It’s filled with nothing but bum jokes, sex jokes, horse jokes, murder jokes, and defilement of horse jokes. Things like, what, sixteen-year-olds making fun of middle-aged men’s weight are considered by Lykaon to be humorous. The scene where they accidentally kidnap a baby seems forced and heartless. "You kidnapped my baby," cries the angry nurse. "What do we bloody care?" cry the young men. The comedic raping of Zeus' priestess is interesting, especially because it predates the infamous rape scene in A Clockwork Orange by two-thousand years but also has Antipotmos sing a song during it called "Singing on a Wheel", which, due to the melody being lost, is set to the tune of "Singin' in the Rain" in order to amp up the humour.

And don’t me started on the stupid ending. You know the endings of animated films where everyone starts dancing at the end? Well, imagine that but where everyone is having sex with everyone else, and you get the dumbest, most idiotic ending that Ancient Greek comedy has ever produced. However, the saving grace is that, unlike The Hangover, our three protagonists at least realise their faults and are repentant about them.

Yet, for all its faults, Macedonian Nights was a play ahead of its time. It was the first Greek play to feature a balance between onstage action and dialogue, rather than having the action scenes happen offstage, as, indeed, was the custom for Ancient Greek theatre. It was also the first not to have a distinctive skene, as noted in the chapter of Aristotle's Poetics which states, "Our distinguished colleague Lykaon, whose works bear the bridle of rustic moronity, has introduced several new techniques into his dramatic work, such as the absence of a distinct set of houses next door to each other. In his words, it has to be nowhere so it can instantly be anywhere." Indeed, this balance of action and dialogue works very well in this performance, thanks to the efforts of the Greeks, Romans and monks among which it had a cult following for so many years. Now, with the advancements of theatre to include action and dialogue, Macedonian Nights can have a better reception than it did back in Ancient Greece.

Archaeologists and professors have considered Lykaon "the Adam Sandler of his day" and it shows in this production. After two-thousand years of waiting, it has been performed again, in front of an audience of around 2,000 people and, let me tell you, it is not even funny.