omaewokorosu | #reading

Pixar's Sexist Boys Club

Basically, the cracks started to show with Brave:

Emma Coats, a former Pixar story artist who worked on Brave, told BuzzFeed that Brenda would advocate for those who were often talked over in meetings. “[She] would quiet the room and be like, ‘Emma, you started to say something,’” helping Coats to realize that her ideas were worthwhile and reminding others to listen. Coats eventually left Pixar, and animation all together, because of how disheartened she was about what happened to Brenda in 2010.

“To me, she could’ve behaved exactly the way any of the male directors behaved, but it would have been taken differently,” Coats told reporter Ariane Lange. “Without Brenda…there’s nobody I can look up to… Imitating the guys isn’t gonna give me the same results as it gives them… When she was removed from her project, I felt kind of lost,” she said. “I can’t see why what happened to her wouldn’t happen to me,” Coats concluded.

Because Brenda Chapman treated her female colleagues with respect instead of telling them to suck it up and take abuse from the men, Pixar got butthurt and fired her.

Between this and Pete Docter kissing the asses of homophobic parents and completely neutering one of their movies as a result, I'm calling for the complete dismantlement of Pixar. The sexism, homophobia, and racism that were their guidelines should consume them alive as they scream and beg for mercy, only to have their pleas ignored... you know, just like how they treated those they considered below them.

"Weh weh Pixar's been going downhill since Lasseter left!" Reminder that Lasseter directed Cars 2 and that his solo ventures since being kicked out of Pixar have been utter flops and rightfully so.

💭 sick

shamanicshaymin

Uggggh, I hate getting reviews from AI and bots. You can tell they didn’t read my fic at all. :/ They might even be worse than flames, 'cause at least flames can be funny.

💭 irritated
🎶 Daniel Lanois - Fire

counterphobe

Already I adore our various furnishings. Already I am familiar with your wit. Should our bearings be a single inch to the left, I would trip over, no doubt, mistaking the edge of a misaligned event—that is how we met. But—can feel it out without looking—can trust it in the dark. Not having a choice in the matter, and that’s less noble than honesty, I’m simply compelled to admit.

Then there’s the nonphysical extension of space between our worlds. From your priming inhale I can approximate what sort of sentence beckons arriving. Your considering, pleasurable hum draws my breath out flat against the tabletop. I’ll peel off our words. You could get into the groove. We don’t listen to music, but; you look so good under it.

Take us outside: it’s always about to rain. Coming down now. It hailed after it snowed, the reticent ground yielded us these hard little pellets. A seed I’d plant for one more minute than we get. Your swaying gaze loosened across the room pathlike ribbon, knotting in the interstice.

Somehow, your body bends beneath my fingernail’s blunt overhang. There are things you want above sleep, but there are things you need more than that. Your hair doesn’t pull back, but sweat contours the loose brushstrokes to a fair outline. So then I see you, all at once.

Our chronic clock sums to the numerological equivalent of a nominative determinate. Simultaneous. We wobbled, with your damn heavy legs, and my clumsy tongue—between the oasis and the ferns, the ferns and the mud, the mud and the sky; as all origins go: the mud and the sky. I brace myself, drinking from my palms at an ever inefficient rate. You just watch, yeah. I curve around and my feet move quicker and kick up sand flecking my shins. I want your bruise, your name. Your shape. In as much color as you’d take.