Dishonored: Tales from Dunwall – Chapter 1

tell me a story


Dishonered: Tales from Dunwall

Chapter 1

from Psyop

Post by jkm/tsk

Post Thursday Christmas 25th December 2014

Gift to Game of Throne Aficionados

And Gamers Who Go Both Ways


Disturbing animation and story. It feels like the world and the US as it is developing more violence toward its citizens from the Police. And any nation in strife. Watch this. It will leave you wanting. Answers. Change. Living without Fear. Especially fear of those one is supposed to be able to trust. But no more.

Dishonored: Tales from Dunwall – Chapter 1 [Due out 9th October]

from Psyop PRO 1 year ago NOT YET RATED
For the highly anticipated multi-platform title “Dishonored,” Psyop and ROKKAN created an engrossing prequel series for Bethesda Softworks and Arkane Studios. The online series gives gamers a first-hand glimpse into the steampunk-inspired, shadowy whaling city of Dunwall, where plague is rampant and the city is in disarray and on the verge of dystopia.

ROKKAN and Psyop worked very closely with Bethesda Softworks to create a look and feel that was truly unique. Inspiration was taken from the artistic feel of the game as established by Arkane Studios, but with a twist.

The three webisodes were predominantly produced by hand. Each frame was essentially a fully rendered style frame, which was then enhanced with 3D elements to add to the painterly atmosphere, dimension and depth of each shot.

“Usually when we animate, it is largely a CG production” said Psyop creative director Jon Saunders. “After we saw the story line, we decided to draw each style frame thirty or forty times and create a cell animated look and give it a sort of a painting-come-to-life effect.”

The prequels, although stylistically different from Dishonored the game, accurately portray the story of Dunwall and showcase the fantasy worlds that Psyop is known for creating.

“After vetting several animation studios, Psyop stood out because they understood the story we were trying to tell. They were the only studio who could really bring the stories to life with their world renown animation precision and craft,” said Charles Bae, Chief Creative Officer, ROKKAN. “Bethesda and ROKKAN’s approach to the prequels was to give context to the oppressive world of Dishonored, establishing the story up to the point of the player’s immersion at the start of the game. Our primary objective was to tell a great story in the simplest and most compelling format we could, period,” added Bae.

The official release, scheduled for October 9th, is already getting strong advance reviews and is set to be a smash hit for the fall.

lights out!!! – a short film

close encounters of the creative kind
lights out!!!
Post Created by Jennifer Kiley
Created 25th March 2014
Posted Friday 18th April 2014

be prepared
don’t drink while watching this film
mj license for a hit
i would highly suggest leaving the lights on
otherwise enjoy 😉

lights out – David F. Sandberg

Writing For Television

tell me a story
Writing For Television
Rod Serling Talks [You Are Now Entering the Twilight Zone]
Notations by Jennifer Kiley
Created 8th July 2013
Posted Thursday 18th July 2013

Video Interview in Three Parts.

Rod Sterling Talks About Writing For Television [Part 1]

Part One: Excerpts.

“Ideas come from the Earth. They come from every human experience that you’ve either witnessed or have heard about, translated into your brain in your own sense of dialogue, in your own language form. Ideas are born from what is smelled, heard, seen, experienced, felt, emotionalized. Ideas are probably in the air, like little tiny items of ozone.” Rod Sterling

“Writing is the easiest thing on Earth. I walk into my study. I sit down. I put the paper in the typewriter. I turn the paper up and I bleed.” — Anonymous

Rod Sterling Talks About Writing For Television [Part 2]

Part Two: Excerpts.

“A person whose creative is an artist. No matter what they are creative in. They don’t even care about their audience. Fellini, when he makes a film, he doesn’t even care if anyone ever sees it or not.” — Interviewer

“…I create for my own sake…Is that truly a gauge of art as a form… Isn’t art a shared experience… Doesn’t art depend upon a reaction from the outside…” — Rod Serling – Twilight Zone

“…The director said he didn’t care about the audiences reaction… Bergman said the audience needed a dose of medicine and it was his to dole out… He stills thinks of the audience as an integral part of making the work. That is when he directs a scene that the audience will see it someday. …he takes the audience in to account.” — Interviewer

“…isn’t there a risk you run if you preoccupy yourself with audience reaction at the expense of your own integrity or your own artistic judgement…they will deliberately prostitute and write downward… and that which pleases me, must please you, and if it doesn’t then the Hell with you… the whole function of the art form… it is an emotional experience to be shared… it isn’t just me in my tower… it’s how people will react to what I write. ” — Rod Serling – Twilight Zone

Rod Sterling Talks About Writing For Television [Part 3

Part Three:

“Do you feel that many young writers are so anxious to espouse a cause that their characters lose believability?” — Interviewer

“…valid point. What are you dealing with now in terms of plot points? Themes? Concerns now? The world and everything in it. Hunger. Poverty. The anguish of the human race. The desperate sense of self destruction that we entertain all the time. The deep pervading gloom that comes with our inability to cope… Carry with you at all times your sense of caring and concern…” — Rod Serling – Twilight Zone

Golden Earring — Twilight Zone

Admission & Jurassic Park

Admission & Jurassic Park
Post Created by jk the secret keeper
Created & Posted 03.30.13

The film Admission trailer. This film stars Tina Fey and Paul Rudd. From viewing the trailer I feel the possibilities of this film to be amusing if not hysterically funny rests at a high scale in probabilities. That is why I want to offer this to you to check out for yourself. However, from one source, which I shall check out more thoroughly, thought it was not as funny as it should be & should have let Tina Fey write the script. Now to check out Rotten Tomatoes before I close out what the critical acclaim is on Admission. jk the secret keeper

REVIEW OF ADMISSION: Draw your own conclusions. From this review I would want to see the film.

You know how you sometimes cut a movie way more slack than it deserves, just because there’s something about it that gets to you? That was my experience with Admission, Paul Weitz’s comedy-drama about a Princeton admissions officer (Tina Fey) whose tidy life goes into freefall when she meets a young man she suspects may be her biological son. Admission is all over the place narratively and tonally; its blend of rom-com slapstick and heartfelt drama never quite gels, and its multiple plotlines (there are at least four of them) don’t so much tie up as just … trail off. But I found myself curiously willing to overlook Admission’s weaknesses, or even to reinterpret them as strengths—couldn’t those inconclusive endings be seen as a refreshingly un-rom-com-like embrace of life’s open-endedness and complexity?

In putting my thumb on the scale for Admission in this way, I may just be operating under the influence of the film’s heroine, Portia Nathan, whose problem is precisely her inability to stop cutting a worthy but flawed candidate too much slack. Portia’s motives may be nobler than mine—it’s not every day that the baby you gave up for adoption resurfaces in your life as a brilliant but materially disadvantaged autodidact whom you are uniquely positioned to help. But in my defense, romantic comedies that truck in real human emotion—that make you, however intermittently, squirm and cringe and laugh and cry—don’t grow on trees either.

Admission, adapted by Karen Croner from a novel by Jean Hanff Korelitz (who herself briefly worked in the Princeton admissions office as an application reader), doesn’t aim to satirize the institutional elitism of the Ivy League admissions process but to illuminate its workings from the inside. It may gently mock the excesses of the dog-eat-dog selection system at top-tier universities—the pushy parents, the cloyingly earnest personal essays, the ever-more-arcane lists of extracurricular interests—but it also ultimately affirms that system’s value (and, by extension, the value of an undergraduate liberal-arts education). This would be a good movie for a parent to watch with a high-school-age child facing down the college admissions slog—it’s mildly snarky but resolutely uncynical.

for the conclusion to review CLICK ON: ADMISSION REVIEW CONCLUDES

I, also, add the film trailer for that old favorite Jurassic Park, which if when you saw it on the screen for the first time didn’t scare the sh*t out of you. I did a great deal of screaming. It is back for those who are into 3D but I am just posting it here for nostalgia. Even the trailer brings back feelings of terror as the velociraptors still scare me. This film has scared me more times than Alien or any of its sequels. Enjoy both trailers.

jk the secret keeper

Admission — Movie Trailer

Jurassic Park — Movie Trailer


“The first step – especially for young people with energy and drive and talent, but not money – the first step to controlling your world is to control your culture. To model and demonstrate the kind of world you demand to live in. To write the books. Make the music. Shoot the films. Paint the art.” ― Chuck Palahniuk

“Give them pleasure. The same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.” ― Alfred Hitchcock

“The moment we cry in a film is not when things are sad but when they turn out to be more beautiful than we expected them to be.” ― Alain de Botton

“Film as dream, film as music. No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” ― Ingrid Bergman

“Up until then, whenever anyone had mentioned the possibility of making a film adaptation, my answer had always been, ‘No, I’m not interested.’ I believe that each reader creates his own film inside his head, gives faces to the characters, constructs every scene, hears the voices, smells the smells. And that is why, whenever a reader goes to see a film based on a novel that he likes, he leaves feeling disappointed, saying: ‘the book is so much better than the film.” ― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir

“It’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it is about it.” ― Roger Ebert

“Oh how Shakespeare would have loved cinema!” ― Derek Jarman, Dancing Ledge

Happy Birthday Edgar Allan Poe 01.19.13

Happy Birthday Edgar Allan Poe 01.19.13
b. January 19th, 1809 d. October 7th, 1849
Tell Tale Heart
James Mason Narrates
Animated Version
Post Created by the secret keeper
Posted 01.19.13

The Tell Tale Heart-James Mason Narrator

The Tell-Tale Heart

Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or, “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND — MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“NEVERMORE…” Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”
― Edgar Allan Poe