A Few Inarticulate Thoughts on the 2012 L'Homme Qui Rit

anonymous said:

How do you feel about the newest l'homme qui rit?

I know you sent me this question last week, anon, and I apologize for not answering sooner. I have a lot to say and yet no words have been readily available, but I figured that I had dallied long enough. When I have a better and more eloquent answer, I will be certain to let you know.

I’m assuming you mean the 2012 film? (There have been many stage productions in recent years including the Russian musical so if you meant one of those, I’m sorry that I misunderstood. And, if you did mean the Russian musical, let’s talk off anon because I don’t know anyone who has seen it yet.) And I reblog things about the 2012 movie, but I know I don’t talk about it quite as much as I could or perhaps should.

It’s not because I don’t appreciate it. I do. I have seen it quite a few times, a great deal more times than anyone knows about. I treat it a bit like contraband, relegating my watching habits to when I have the apartment alone because it sets me off for days, to the point that, for well over the past year when I have been moody or unusually melancholy, the first question is always “what’s wrong?” followed immediately by, “you didn’t watch l’homme qui rit again, did you?”

The first time I saw it was with my love. She knew that I had been waiting for it to come out and she’s the one who studies French in this household, so it made sense to experience it together. We cuddled on the couch as it played. She had tears in her eyes by the end. Meanwhile I had spent the whole movie silently weeping into her hair. Not my finest few hours.

I could write a great deal about how I feel about it, and maybe I will eventually when I am capable of processing it without being so profoundly affected. While it is not the most book-accurate, it is the most vicious version, not due to the tragedy of the story set as a fairy tale but in the small incidental ways that are more than rooted in reality. When he spills the wine on himself while drinking for example, it is not secondhand embarrassment or even the resulting laughter from those attending his fête that makes me lose it (yet again). Some people carry pens or breath mints or band aids wherever they go; I carry straws with me because I will spill otherwise. And no other version illustrates these daily realities and difficulties or offers this brief and brutal exposure of insecurities quite like this version. There’s a real and terrifying humanity at play. And it’s painful. And it’s beautiful. And it’s cruel.

The Perils of Going Solo

There was a concert tonight at a park not far from where I live. I made plans with a coworker (Amra, if you’re following along with my coworkers) to go. I got there on time, waited at the designated location. Fifteen minutes go by. Thirty minutes go by. I called her up, can’t get a hold of her. Hour later, I get a text that she couldn’t find a parking spot and decided to turn around. “Forgot” to tell me sooner.

Now, that doesn’t really bother me so much. I get stood up (and I mean that in the most platonic way possible) quite a bit which, although not ideal, has helped me be a little more spontaneous when other opportunities present themselves. I am also a capable adult who can attend a concert on his own, which I did, settling myself under a tree not far from the bandstand.

What bothered me was that there were very many people, and while I am a capable adult who goes about his daily life like anyone else, that many people scare the shit out of me. In truth, what are they going to do to me? Nothing. I know that. But my self-consciousness skyrockets. And with someone else, I am able to keep myself focused on my company and my purpose. I never make plans to attend such a large event on my own because I know this about myself.

I also get treated better in company. With someone else, people tend to refrain from approaching me or saying anything to me. When alone however, the bad behaviors come out en force. I got the dirtiest looks from some aged woman sitting in a rusty lawn chair not far from me who felt the need to pull everyone in her party into a group huddle and when they broke, they stuck their heads up like meerkats and just STARED at me. I waved at them and that sent them back to their regularly scheduled programming. A group of teen-aged boys walked by me and shouted to me that I was a “sick fuck” among a couple other choice descriptors and towards the end of the concert, one of them actually kicked me in the back (while I was sitting beneath the tree) and then they ran off laughing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been physically attacked, but it does happen. I’m an easy target too since I look wiry, spry, and youthful, not big, beefy, or imposing, although I probably have almost two hundred pounds of muscle and ten years on them. Fortunately nothing more than my meager pride was wounded, not that there would have been much recourse anyway should it have been otherwise. But here, illustrated, is precisely why I try to keep company whenever I can. I think I’m having a few glasses of wine tonight.

Had My Hair Done, Eep

Sandy works part time at a salon nearby and she’s been insisting on doing my hair for a very long time (apparently a guy with long hair is a rare treat for her?). Now that the black has faded to some really horrid mud-colored thing, she volunteered to fix it. 

She, um, fixed it this morning. She did a lot of other things in the process. My hair is much lighter brown. Much. And copper. I have no idea how I feel about it. It’s definitely different. Different is good, right? Right?

Pics will come, probably this afternoon. Then you can judge for yourselves.

----the afternoon happened, then came my follow-up---- 

So here’s the new color(s). Sandy straightened my hair too, so I have no idea what to do with it (at least it isn’t a Mrs. Brady flip though). If I didn’t have somewhere to go, I’d go rewash it in the hope that it would bring back the natural wave. It is currently back in a ponytail but that makes me look like I’m twelve. I need a cut very badly too. It’s at That Stage. (It’s a nasty pic too, but it’s not like you haven’t gotten tons of those before)

Seeing Pheeb's Family

Phoebe’s car was in the shop today so I drove her to go see her sister and brother-in-law (but really, we all know it was for her nieces, shhhh). The sister and brother-in-law know me from the few years that I lived with Orson and Phoebe while they were married, but now that they’re divorced, I don’t get to see the rest of Phoebe’s family that often. It makes me a little sad since they have the kids now, but it’s a treat when I get to see them. And the girls are smart and sweet: Colette who is seven and Simona who is five.

Simona apparently has a little crush on me too which is really cute to watch. She had to sit next to me the whole time and she told me all about school and her friends and the play they saw. She told me about her favorite foods and the movie they watched in class and then she sang me her favorite song although she got too embarrassed to do the accompanying dance.

When Pheebs and I were leaving, I knelt down to give the girls hugs. Simona launched herself into my arms, kissed both scars (to make them feel better, she explained when I asked her what the French kiss-on-each-cheek was for, but she said it looking at me with an indulgence one might bestow upon an especially dim-witted puppy) and then declared that she was going to marry me when she grew up.

Of course I smiled and told her I was too old for her but I think that’s one of the sweetest compliments a child can bestow even if they forget it five minutes later. Their concept of the institution is so innocent and naive that it doesn’t mean marriage. It says that they feel safe with you, that they think you’re fun to be with, that they like talking to you and spending time with you, and that they want to be as special to you as you are to them, and they call it marriage because they don’t have the capacity to explain all the nuances of why. It’s incredibly sweet.

Being Underestimated

I have much longer thoughts on this matter, but people constantly do it to me and here's a quick bit of advice:


Don’t underestimate me. I am not shy or timid or passive. I am quiet. And quiet people quietly rule the world.

Frequently Asked Questions

I was getting a lot of questions on my Tumblr account ( the-guy-who-laughs, if you are interested) so I wrote up a FAQ for it. Then it occurred to me that I should probably put one over here. This one has been adapted for the journal (rather than the Tumblr) although the subjects are more or less the same. Many of these questions have been posed to me over the course of my (limited) time on the internet.


Q: Your name is listed as Colin Gwynplaine. Is that your real name?
A: Colin is my legal first name. I have been using Gwynplaine as my middle name for many years. It is also my official moniker at work, on my work ID and everything. I use it in place of a last name online since I cannot think of any reason anyone online might need my surname.

Q: What gender are you and what pronouns do you use?
A: I am male and I use male pronouns, thank you for asking.

Q: How old are you?
A: All my legal documents say I’m 28, so let’s go with that.

Q: You look much younger.
A: I know! Isn’t it great? When I’m forty, people are still going to ask me what grade I’m in. By the way, that wasn’t a question.

Q: What do you do for work?
A: My main job is one I do not talk about much. I love my coworkers and we frequently have a lot of fun, but I really hate what I do and I am, in no small way, embarrassed about it, but I must pay the bills somehow. I also tutor in a variety of subjects. And I have my MBA, so I have recently taken on work as a freelance bookkeeper while I look for a job in my field. Right now, I'm also a dance instructor at a local studio.

Q: I have seen the selfies you post. Are they of you?
A: Yes, they are.

Q: Why do you post so many pictures of yourself?
A: Because I’m a total narcissist, and because I’m knock-out drop-dead sexy of course.

Q: No, really, why did you post them?
A: Oh, very well. The truth then. I find it very difficult to look at myself. I dislike being looked at too, which, as you can guess, makes things like, oh… existing for example, unnecessarily stressful. I put on a good show of confidence most of the time, but my core is nothing but anxieties, insecurities, and extreme self-consciousness. The entire point of coming online was to force myself to be more open, to have to look at myself, to learn not to be terrified of a camera, and to get comfortable with the idea of people looking at me…without actively having to be looked at, an idea which is surprisingly liberating. I did the exercise most begrudgingly at first, but between getting into the habit of doing it and the overwhelming support and encouragement of the sweet people I have met online, it has helped significantly.

Q: Are those scars?
A: Yes, they are.

Q: What interests do you have and what fandoms do you belong to?
A: Many. Most notable is L’homme qui rit/The Man Who Laughs (in any incarnation) because it is significant to me and needs extra love since it’s a very small fandom. Other specific fandoms of mine include The Little Prince, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, Howl’s Moving Castle, Pushing Daisies, and Singing in the Rain. More general media interests include Victorian literature and movies based upon it, silent films, film noir, French films, Vincent Price/ Peter Cushing/ Basil Rathbone/ Christopher Lee films, and over-acted anachronistically-costumed quasi-period films (bonus points if it has Ray Harryhausen animation in it). Other than that, I like sunshowers, thunderstorms, foggy days, books, handmade scarves, the feeling of silt between my toes, the smell of coffee, ballroom dancing, financial security, and long walks on the beach.

Q: Is The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit your favorite story?
A: That’s a hard question to answer. Let’s say that The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit has roots more firmly embedded in my identity than any other. To quote Wuthering Heights, “my love for [other stories] is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for [L’homme qui rit] resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”

Q: Your scarring and love of L’homme qui rit… coincidence much?
A: Less coincidence and more intentional analogy. I have chosen to embrace a story that resonates profoundly and makes me that much stronger. When I became enamored of it at twelve, it was precisely because I could relate. At last, there was a disfigured man not cast as the villain but as a vulnerable and gentle human being whose personal strength overcomes all those terrible insecurities when it matters. That’s powerful. And I like to fancy that, could I meet Gwynplaine, we’d be best buds and have a secret handshake.

Q: You often refer to Dea. Is that her name? Is she your girlfriend?
A: It is her name, only not legally… yet. She’s often discussed getting it changed because no one calls her anything else except maybe her doctors and school administration. Yes, that was my doing. I regret nothing. And no, she is not my girlfriend. She has a boyfriend, but all boyfriends are called Charmin because she goes through them like rolls of toilet paper in a household of ten. I, on the other hand, am consistently unattached.

Q: Will we see pictures of you two together?
A: Probably not although there are a couple I would love to share because they’re silly and we look happy and those are the ones that please me most. But I would never put up pictures of anyone without their consent and I am a coward and haven’t told her about my online escapades because last year when Orson suggested doing this and I considered it, she became very upset by it.

Q: Is it okay to ask you a question even if it may seem indiscreet?
A: If it’s intentionally rude/ anon hate, you can guarantee that I will cut you down and sass you out. If it’s just a matter of not knowing how to phrase your inquiries, go ahead. I don’t believe in judging people who are trying to learn. That being said, I am still a fairly private person and may respectfully decline to answer, at least until I know you better, or request that we take the discussion elsewhere.

Q: Does that still mean I can ask you about your scars?
A: That depends. Are you going to give me the benefit of asking me off-anon or sending me an email so that I can talk to you as one person to another? If so, feel free. Or did you think you would hide behind a generic anonymous icon and ask me things you wouldn't have the nerve to do in person? Because if that's the case, no, you cannot. All anonymous inquiries about my scars will be treated in accordance with my mood that day, which means you will receive: sarcasm, comment deletion, or a link to my latest outburst of frustration. You will not receive an answer or a notification that I have deleted your question.

Q: Cake or Death?
A: Death, please. Oh! No! Cake! Cake! Sorry. I meant cake.


Do you have a question I didn’t answer? Send me an email at colin.gwynplaine@gmail.com.

Twinsies?

The other day, I posted about Sandy having finally seen L'homme qui rit (2012) and making the comment that there was a strong resemblance between the actor and me, "nose up, of course" she specified, because she's tactful that way, the sweetheart <-sarcasm alert. I was going to paint my scars up in a similar fashion to see how far I could push the film resemblance, but I had no red makeup and Dea wasn't home and I won't rummage through her things (...sketchy....) without her permission.

So I tossed on a bandanna and took this for Sandy instead. I didn't realize it before, but it's kind of freaky now that it's been pointed out. It's definitely the eyebrows... and the soulful gaze. Rawrrrr.

All Backbone and No Apologies

anonymous asked:

I've been catching your posts on and off (your posts, not reblogs and stuff although those are great too) and it seems like you go about living your life just like anyone else which is a good thing (right?). Where do you get your courage? Where does that bravery come from?

This is a question I get on occasion from people I meet or interact with in person, one of those things that gets asked after someone has spoken to me for more than half of an hour, but not much more. Because, at its surface, it seems like a really solicitous and admirable thing to ask, and by asking, it is implied that I embody the qualities of courage and bravery, both which are generally considered good and noble things to be. And for those people who would think I have them, I will be gracious and take the compliment. So, Anon, thank you.

At the center of the question, however, is also the implication that I have something I need to be courageous and brave about. And of course, when I say that to anyone who asks that question, they immediately respond, “but your scars…!” And yes, my scars indeed. They are completely unacceptable in society, hence the need for bravery and courage to go out in society at all, correct? And yet, should I be called brave and courageous for just doing what I should be able to do without remark? Perhaps instead, it is the unspoken rules that make me unacceptable to society that should be called out instead of my so-called courage and bravery.

Because, I will tell you the truth: I am not brave and I am not courageous. I am a terrible little coward who just tries to live his life as best he can if only because there is nothing else to be done. I hide my face behind a scarf in winter. I keep my hair on the longer side so that I can somewhat hide behind it the rest of the year. I like high-collared coats and jackets. I find unoccupied corners in public places, keep my face down when I don’t have to interact with anyone, and strategically hide my mouth with my hands while looking studious and deeply contemplative. On the bus to work, I always try to get a window seat so that I can pretend to be looking out when other people board. When I wash my hands in the bathroom, I won’t even look up into the mirror because I know what I’ll see looking back at me. I know I’m a cowardly little shit and I find reasons not to stray beyond the people and places with whom and where I am already familiar. But there are two reasons why I might appear to exhibit the fine qualities of courage and bravery that you think I do: necessity and fatigue.

Necessity is cruel. You know how you said that I ”go about living [my] life just like anyone else?” You know why that is? It’s because I don’t have a choice about it. I have to contribute to the household. I have to eat. I have a car I need to pay off. I have to have insurance for it. I need gas for the car. I need the bus pass for work since I don’t want to put too many miles on the car. I need the train pass if I want to continue my job interviews in The City. I need a little recreational time. And I need a way to pay for it all. So I work. So I go grocery shopping. So I take the bus and the train. So I walk places. So I go to the post office. So I go to the park. So I take Philandros for walks and play fetch with him. So I, surprise, live my life pretty ordinarily. I don’t have the luxury of being a shut-in, recluse, or agoraphobe. I leave the apartment and go out among humankind because I have to.

Fatigue is another of those annoying reasons why I don’t just hide myself away completely. Do you know how tiring it is feeling like I need to be ashamed and hide myself all the time? Let me assure you, it is damn tiring, not to mention demoralizing. I get tired of being treated poorly or just plain dismissed, of feeling guilty if my face makes someone else uncomfortable, or of being made to feel like I’m repulsive. It’s a constant effort of will not to get down on myself when I’m terrified people will look at me and, the horror, see. And while the discourtesy of others often gets me angry, I am not an angry person by nature and it quickly translates into weary resignation. Being treated like a plague victim is par for the course and it gets old. And because of it, some days I just wake up and think, “fuck that.” And I go out and do normal ordinary things and think, if someone doesn’t like it, sucks to be them. But those days aren’t frequent enough.

Of course, the real irony is that I know all of this quite clearly about myself, the cowardice, the insecurity, the extreme self-consciousness, and yet I am widely told that I am (not necessarily brave or courageous but) one of the most confident people [the people telling me this] have ever met, “all backbone and no apologies.” Admittedly, the confidence is so much more “fake it ‘til you make it” than real personal strength even if I do call people out on their bullshit when I have the opportunity, but I will agree that I have no apologies. Why should I when I should be able to, as you say, “go about living [my] life just like anyone else” without being called brave or courageous for doing so?