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A beautiful glide of consummate skill through the profound humanity that Christopher imbued in a

godlike creature. The lyrics match in sense and sparkle the vibrant undercurrent of mortality that this
Superman always maintained in being Clark first and Kal-El second. A song suggesting the potential for
heroism in mankind - at least to me - is taken back in a picturesque manner to its roots, and the hybrid
flowers again and flourishes differently. A provocative and inspirational joy.
Harry Potter-Having assiduously avoided the trailer thus far, the impact here is phenomenal, and I cannot
discern what is "straight" and what your personal spin. The whole, however, is indisputably cohesive and
compelling. Given the handling of Albus' passing in the film, I much prefer your take, and the colour
bleed from Unbreakable Vow into the incarnations of Riddle highlights beautifully the link, often
underestimated, between the three central half-blood boys and their intertwined fates.
Like Pratchett's "Hedgehog Song", the "Avocado Monologue" just begs to be written. The tap-dancing
Othello (and, for some reason, my mind's eye instantly supplies Mr. Lenworth Henry) would also be an
inevitable joy. As ever the rapport between Hugh and Rowan as actors is evident, the fluency emergent
from long familiarity. A tiny treasure too long overlooked; thank you so much for posting.
Arriving without preconception or context, the initial tidal wave is one of unexpurgated passions, which,
from what little I known, is the cloth and fit of the source. Mr Lambert seems, in his vocal qualities,
plausible as one sauntering, rather than resident, on the wild side, and the rich palette of shades and shifts
assure the whole of a status indisputably unique. For me, it is a true joy to see "The Sure Thing" and Lois
both still striving to make their mark, often literally.
From its very inception, this piece vindicates everything you avow in its favour. The song has both
substance and subtlety, as well as puissance pure, and the set-up for the story is resonant and explicit in
the cavalcade of opening imagery. Once more an excellent advocate for the unknown, I must confess that,
predicated in isolation on the song title, my first thought was of the identically identified Linda Ronstadt
number; a mere matter of age, I fear.
A simultaneous kaleidoscope and gamut of the facets with which Mr Welling has inobtrusively endowed
the Last Son, the pared essence of the Donna Summer number appears, for one possessed of some much
vision including heat, most apropos. Your use of split screens, particularly, often evolve a simple retelling into a tale in its own right. Your considerable fantasy, and fantasies, are founded on a self-evident
bedrock, and this collage draws multiple threads into a new tapestry.
If the removal of fossilised mental blocks should fall among mankind's greatest kindnesses, then my
gratitude here likewise knows no bounds. A lingering patriotic prejudice has kept me away, thus far, from
the transatlantic offshoot of Wernham Hogg, however, based on the sheer exuberance on display, my
reasoning lacks substantiation. Irrespective of origin, I have rarely seen anything of such pervasive joie de
vivre. An unmitigated pleasure, even for one with no frame of reference.
The sheer exuberance on display here wafts this out of reach of the trite, and, admittedly in ignorance of
the source, I relish the seemingly endless optimism, although I suspect the synthetic potential of MJ
Watson and Faith Lehane factors into my appreciation somewhere. Although not remotely in the target
demographic for the original, repackaged like this, with such evident care and attention, I can imagine
whiling away an enjoyable afternoon with this film.

Given your manifold and self-evident talents, it would be a profound shame were you to allow the
"confederacy of dunces" to undermine a reasonable level of self-worth. As elsewhere, the precision of
your selection is as impressive as the considerable celerity, and the unrelenting air of suspicion
reinterprets the lyric in a manner which I had never contemplated, and, as a CH fan of some two decades
standing, that in itself is a very pleasant experience, and a tribute to your ability.
Approached with near total ignorance, the fluid flame of frames and lyrics alike weaves a most
compelling tale, Ms Yearwood's resonant tones telling of Sisyphean struggles and wars waged with self
and selfishness both. For me, as a longtime fan of her husband, this forms a gorgeous counterpoint to
"The Dance". The gentleman's physiognomy and expressions equally convey to me the cad, the modernday rake, but I may be doing a wonderful person a grave injustice. Beautiful, elegant and engaging.
Small Ville- Beyond earlier extant, the first impression is of fluidity and arcs, of colour and form
flowing, one into another and through the miasma of the music. I presume that the hospital section is from
a preview, and it more than whets my appetite for ten. The "Again" resonates in "if we "L" each other . . ."
and this likewise recurs in the monochrome memories. Lois' abandonment issues are a constant thread
also, her fear of love and "always be left behind". A spectacular return to fascinating form.
The richness of the palette you have elected to deploy offers delightful juxtaposition to the seeming
directness of the opening line. The difficulty and desperation most of us have to some degree experienced
at that key stage in our development is beautifully portayed in speaking glances and avoided gazes. There
are so many transitory moments here that, I believe, the whole is very much what the viewer makes it,
and so, without compulsion, there is a beauty, and perhaps a truth. A compact gem.
Once more there is a suitability for which words seem crude in your envisioned offspring of Euterpe and,
perhaps, an Erato of the eyes. The azure monochromatic "perfect moment" is a fable per se, and the
physicality of feeling is itself a testament both to the performances and your own appreciation of the
power of so literally visceral a sensation. Swift and GG are both things which, were it not for YT, would
have never entered my ambit, and so my thanks for so pellucid a portrayal.
As with the Golden Age Kal-L, here we are taken on a miraculous journey by means of a series of earthed
bounds, arcing up through subtly different skies with the same rainbow's end in sight. The song echoes in
the amazing niches, nooks and crannies created by your communal flair for juxtaposition and
instantaneous reversal, and has a pulchritude drawn out and displayed in a myriad of facets by the fleeting
frames which you so deftly employ. A gestalt of genuine charm and clear gifts.
Given the temporal loop and even, arguably, "my name is Legion for we are are many" aspects of
Infamous, there is layer upon layer to this Lois' proclamation of "the road more travelled", and the whirl
in Clark's Crtimson arms is a delightful variant on "this time around". Honestly compels the confession
that - reading the title - I had expected the Starship 1987 number, but this was far more apropos, and as
usual I've been left with a new lead to chase. My grateful thanks.
The frayed veil evokes the eyes of Mnemosyne in subtle shades and flickering transitions, declaring
constantly a mind and heart not in chorus, and thus drama. The idea of "Lois the messenger (angelos)",
especially in light of the S10 preview, is a tantalising one, and the lyrics reflections on wings and seeing

somehow take us away from the common "Romeo and Juliet" vibe which the couple carries. A capsule
commentary in images and sound, stirring, striking and profound.
A springboard of puissance and precision both for a reappraisal of the Clois dynamic, I must confess that,
upon seeing the title, my first thought was of Heath Ledger's "10 things" karaoke routine, which is a
rather more frivolous direction than you appear to be headed. Ambush in its layering offers a rich vein of
resource for this review, and even such matters as Flag's warning to Lucy ("always watch your six, Miss
Lane") seem eeriely apropos. The end product will undoubtedly be worth the wait.
om the opening prophecy, through the "newsreel" of girlfriends past and the delightful nod in the
direction of the comics' "grander plan" as Lois discovers her new colleague, full circle to Erica's
gorgeous, self-deprecating smile which seems simultaneous to challenge Clark to doubt her and yet to
acknowledge the outrageousness of her own assertion, this glide above the surface of the broken road
picks out many of the landmarks without ever getting mired in the detail. Charming and cathartic.
The miscegenation of minds is of an adequate calibre to preclude even the
endeavour, on my part, of distillation. In other words there is compatibility and flow
of an order which eliminates any interest in disassembly; the whole being greater
than the sum of its parts, why would one desire to render it down again for said
parts? Your opus encapsulates a thing which never struck me so forcefully before all near-successful elimination attempts on SV have been preceded by isolation.
Fascinating.
You have communally attained a congruent composite to which each brings a specific, yet not particulate,
sensibility and focus. I would presume that someone has provided an overview, a comptroller of a kind,
but every segment offers variation on the lyrical thread which holds the tapestry together, still manifesting
such shades and subtleties as showcase the specific interaction to which it is referent. Insofar as a near
decade can be distilled into a matter of four minutes, you have done so.
As an eagle-eye perspective, or at least one from the eyrie, on the ladies of SV this has a far more
"distressing damsel" ambience than the reverse, a fitting tribute to the spotlight focus which the series has
often accorded them. To that end, I'm glad that the preponderance of Lana moments were not of the
Kryptonite-infused UberGirl, but the "mere human". I'm also delighted that Martha was among the ranks
of heroines here, since so often she seems to get overlooked. An impressive melange.
Again the manifold, interwoven complexities of this much-beset blossom of love are touched upon with
sensitivity, delicacy and precision, extracted uninjured from their oft overwhelming context and laid out
with their pattern exposed and their interdependence defined. The accompanying instrumental piece
stakes less of a claim to independent identity or association than "Storybook Love". but feels eminently
suitable to your chosen slant on the tale. A unique coda (for now) to an ongoing fable.
The alacrity is impressive, but not equal to the narrative in lyric and light alike. It is a gorgeous precis of
the recent tsunami which have shaken the previously, demonstrably vulnerable base of Clois, and a full
and fitting partner to the evolution of characters in recent episodes. It expresses the essentials without
getting mired in the minutiae, and sets up the myriad possibilities which, particularly with "Ambush",
have come to the fore. A pure delight.

A seed pearl of clear and seminal potency and potential alike, it is, for reasons too profound to probe in
this short space, reflective of the Zeitgeist which has hurled this imago upon the modern mirror, shattering
the serenity of self in creatures composed seemingly purely of such, dredging from the depths of strata
beyond the reach of the conscious mind a whirling vortex of unalloyed, unadultered and sometimes prehuman sentiments and emotions, a whirlpool in which one cannot take a mere dip.
With the presumption, prima facie, that what appears on the surface inadequately reflects the depths and
riptides of text and texture available to those with a comprehension of the context which arises de
profundis, I nonetheless in the immediate find clear correlation and nascent narrative of a tale yet untold,
and am put in mind of an impression formulated from a number of Heroes works - the series had a
enviable ability to portray a shifting kaleidoscope of interactive, evolving relations.
The sanguine cloth / comic book backdrop transforms its foreground once more, highlighting the
narrative component as well as the sense of a tale of texture and moral. For some reason the amortal
nature of the entities involved give this a certain "Groundhog Day" vibe; the endeavour to locate the one
version among those of a multiverse in which you got it right, and the music feels eminently suitable. I
found the impression from a soundless viewing was fascinatingly different: so many threads...
A concoction of elegance and refinement, as well as an acoustic examplar of why Dylan is in an entirely
different league as a songwriter rather than a performer. The dulcet tones take away any edge, leaving the
lyric unadorned, yet, given the accompanying pageant of imagery, this is but an advantage, leaving me to
focus upon the vision so clearly and carefully crafted. Unlike a number of such YT vids, there is a
poignant. powerful sense of two tales, which may successfully intersect.
As is the soul and hallmark of any true amalgam, any concerted confection, the discrete ingedients are
both omnipresent and simultaneously indistinguishable; the blend being so much more than the mere
mathematical sum of its parts, a phoenix of form burning away all trace of its ancestor: there is a radiant
obfuscation of the endeavour to enumerate elements. This has both borrowed plumes and integral
illumination, points of its own manufacture which aspire to lift the whole - and the viewer.
With this oeuvre in particular, you have managed to elevate the "speaking look" to an entirely different
echelon, or possibly plateau. There is an involuntary, yet sometimes seemingly conscious isolation, an
avoidance of true contact with all its attendant risks and baggage, which Erica has almost always made a
subtext, but here is gorgeously refined and highlighted, throwing into stark relief the very hazardous
endeavour that is trust for a woman raised by Sam Lane. A fable of finesse.
Given the transparent labelling of this vid, I must admit to total confusion as to what so many people
found to dislike. I'm not looking to run down others' points of view, and perhaps there are some technical
issues of which I have no inkling, but as an a cappella / feel-good piece, I'm hard pressed to think of
something to compare.
The Fortress, the literal House of El, being the place where Clark is "through with playing by the rules of
someone else's game" is a joyous conceit, and yet is in company of like calibre in the "changed" BizarroClark, the "second-guessing" Lana and eyes wide leaping Clark. Idina and Kristin soar aloft on the
updrafts acoustic, but the wake carries the visuals of Lex and Clark, among others, along for the ride. An
unfettered gem and paean of pleasure.

There is a radiant fluency to the lines and a subtle, almost cardiovascular pulse to the music in the first 10
seconds which peaks sublimely in Carter's ablution and betrayal. As I gather Oliver is the central pillar of
your vision of SV, I must say you use him with discretion, and make his suffering plain and his "mere"
humanity integral to his function. We sense desperation and darkness full measure, and heroes not entirely
in control; a fitting prelude to the Apokoliptic tsunami coming.
La joie de vivre, comme toujours, c'est l. Or to purloin Keats, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." This
bears all your usual hallmarks of care and creativity, the fantastic and phantasmagoric, the myriad marvels
which are and evolve into your visions of the happy couple. As a composition unknown I await with bated
breath the full flower, and expect no less than on previous shared voyages of discovery to be led where I
didn't know I needed to go
In keeping with the chthonic tones of the accompaniment, this is far darker than your usual fare, but
shows an appropriately expansive palette in the opening montage, and a willingness to explore the inner
demons of our heroes which may have been behind Chloe's "every Frankenstein has a human heart"
observation. I see what you mean about fast forward, but with such music a more laidback saunter would
not have suited. The explosive, ocular and infernal threads running through tell their own tale.
The snow and light rime of rapid imagery beautifully presage the Frost hommage in the lyrics, and more
than anything I've previously seen on this topic, you convey a sense of indissoluble bond without
concomitant inevitability, a mood of belonging that does not slide into guarantee. There is a recurrence in
the imagery which portrays the song's sensibility wonderfully, especially in the essential that "where we
belong" is "back". An amalgam of true artistry.
Lacking an awareness of context, I am drawn strongly to very specific points in the
piece, not least the song, which is as "gorgeous" as stated. Any series which
portrays the "white, smooth" (Guinevere literally) in such feisty and dusky shades
has set a precedent for breaking new ground, and the more-than-speaking glances
the lady gives here bode extremely well for the finished product. An amuse-bouche
of merit and potential, and I look forward with relish to the concomitant main
course.
Despite being Blighty-born I am not so based, and thus this has somehow flown under my radar, an
oversight which, due to your sterling effort here, I intend to rectify forthwith. There is an eloquently
frenetic quality to all you have used which speaks of lives in turmoil and evokes the consistent chaos with
which most of us can identify as well as the inspirationally superheroic. An opening salvo of precision
and power, and a definite appetite whetter.
Whatever the technical gremlins, your heart is unrendered, my friend. There are here both the passion and
the panic, repressed in like measure and oft for reasons also intertwined, pervading the interaction of the
binary system portmanteaued as Clois, and victim, like all, to fluctuating fronts of enthusiasm and ennui,
of danger, desparation and distrust. The emotional baggage attendant on any adult relationship is neatly
packaged here, and I'm sure the final form will do it, and you, justice.
Whilst gist and and atmosphere gel without doubt, there is a current dearth of
specificity, a lack of tethers and precise points of reference, which makes me

wonder whither the offspring is bound. The intrinsic potential, and the suitability of
the darkling frame to so sombre a piece, is self-evident, yet the iterations are
myriad and mercurial, and one might ponder the relative need for target and
journey.
For such radiant, effervescent joy neither explanation nor excuse is due. That your
children are not merely unconcerned about, but resplendent in their harmless
foolery, says much for the love with and in which they are nurtured. As a sidebar, it
is almost equally wonderful to be able to put faces to souls already known, and see
them at their best when performing initial identification. Any subs you could possibly

lose would, perforce, be but quantity without quality.


Your friend's well-lived life is here encapsulated in a wondrous display of appropriate use of
technique, blending a selection of snapshots into a transtemporal diorama, and through
superimposition, layering an image with the inherent and implicit. Someone posted a codicil to
the death of the last WWI British serviceman which is perhaps somewhat apropos here:An unmitigated joy to see such exploration encouraged and a commensurate level of honesty
applied to both form and intent - myth and logic alike
The chosen cognomen manifests multifariously in the endorsement of a couple who never fully
escaped their cocoon and likewise a piece which passes rapidly into musical whitewater from a
smoother opening glide. "Between the pleasure and the pain" seems to distil the very essence of
the vid, employing emotives with a clear sense of their precise contextual message, yet not
enirely curtailing their rampant energy, nor dissipating their potential. A powerful, impressive,
impactful oeuvre.
That anyone can undergo that scrutiny, that punitive and relentless pressure and emerge anything
less than deformed is in itself amazing, but you have here conveyed a sense of resolution, of
trials withstood and time taken, which is a relative rarity in this day and age. Given the sad and
foreseeable tragedy of his parents' partnership, one can but hope that, not rushing, these two may
manage to find their footing and go forward together
The music is most mellifluous, and yet the narrative's near staccato lends credence to the
burgeoning impression that the sepia slide into emergent memory is the waters of the past
forming a riptide around Hermione, threatening to drown potential in the clamour of almost
calamity, the intransigent doubts by which we are each assailed on our own level. The placid
surface of the lake heightens exponentially the feeling of tumult "merely" internal, and the glide
into the duet a thing of true beauty
Given the antecedents of struggle and striving through the ministries of which "Once" was
birthed, there could hardly be a more more fitting backdrop against which to unfold the ultimate
act of SV. The slow helter-skelter around the couple, the gathering of the fellowship entire, the

time dilation of a perfect moment, all these blend to blur all else around and leave us focused
upon them
Your unerring eye for an instant in the midst of an image stream has never been put to better use,
nor have I encountered a more resonant sybiotic fluidity of three interweaving strains, a haunting
melodic canvas, light sculptures worth a thousandfold their weight in words and a selection of
interludes extracted from the dialogue and reforged to form something new, and yet so clearly of
the same cloth. As a pennant of things passing, there is perhaps only this accolade adequate meet and right.
As a neophyte in all elements herein, I am impressed by the extent to which the grandeur of the
music matches the passion and deportment of the principals. The pulsating shifts in colour
saturation suggest a beat to beat existence and the uncertainty thereof, while there is throughout a
certain wistfulness, a lingering "almost link", which has the hallmarks, and thus the pull, of
tragic, thwarted love. All in all, a fascinatingly operatic panorama of the possible.
To pare so sprawling a tale and Herculean a set of labours down to so clear and concise a form is
in and of itself an art, but to feel the faith in the raw material to leave it so little embellished by
music is to clear the tall buildings of conformity in a single bound. Your vision, for such it
manifestly is, reflects in instant and nuance a full and fraught decade of decisions, illuminates an
arc which has both honoured and extended its roots from the drawn page, and enKApsuLatEs aLl
of them.
Fed only by such insubstantial flickers of comprehension as a number of such vids can provide, I
feel here a flow of emotions which lack the cutting clarity which excising them from their
context often requires - in short, I'm impressed by how much confusion you ladies have clearly
conveyed. The gentleman I presume to be Christopher seems a decent sort, and it's nice that this
doesn't appear, causally, to put him last or first, it merely is so.
Since my detailed knowledge begins and ends with the pilot, this crash course in ER
substantiates the title and in broad strokes decorates a decade-and-a-half of canvas. Given the
somewhat revolving-door status of the stars "walk away from the best of days" resonates
powerfully - having said which, such turnover feels more real than the stasis imposed in series
such as Star Trek NG in order to preserve "the team". All of you have created a rich tapestry of
shared moments and slants.
As a teacher at a theatre faculty, my first impression is the unexpurgated demonstration of the
fact that everyone has a tale, and almost all some capacity for expressing it in their own way. It is
nice to see so many discernible "quirks" and a range of face and body types among the
performers, since, in my experience, that is generally how it works; various people bring

different gifts and perspectives to the process. You have also pulled together, distilling moments
and highlighting a vision.
As so often when I follow a friend down the rabbit hole, my expectations led me astray - I had
envisioned some permutation of the song used on Sesame Street and made famous by the
Carpenters. This is a phantasmagoria, shadow play through which one glimpses a rich, shifting
world with all the uncertain planks which need to be hammered into place whenever someone
utters fateful phrases to the effect of "let's put on a show". Both they and you have done so here
to impressive effect.
The ros not being mine in wine or music, I find myself once more quaffing an unknown vintage
and drawn by its bouquet. There is a "prickliness" to the opening lines which implies tribulations
and trials alike will strew the road ahead, and yet the bounce to the tune belies so bleak a
perspective. These juxtapositions have their peers among the pictures, and all in all you have told
what feel like a tangential tale, a "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead" for the world of
amateur dramatics.
Waltzing rapidly through this selection, I was struck time and again by the similarity of Lea
Michele to Idina Menzel - sadly I was late to that particular party. Yet here again we have the
spotlight on someone who is not model pretty, and that, albeit only in this somewhat skewed
precis, seems a positive to me. And the latter segment here suggests that vulnerabilities are
universal - that not merely to gorge the ego but to feed the soul we all need at least some positive
feedback. Nice work.
The residual on the retina, emergent from the rolling rivulents of synergised sound and sight, is
my inability to disseminate genetic from voluntary guardians, the simple fact that we cannot
force people to care not preclude them from doing so, though our actions may often tip the
scales. The dynamics of a dozen I can barely conceive, and that such only struck me at the end of
the vid says to me that you all did your job wonderfully.
As a perennial favourite, and one as often hatcheted as honoured in the reinterpretation, I
approached with considerable trepidation this piece which encompasses and elicits innumerable
memories. I can't remember when I last enjoyed a cover version of something I already loved
more. You have together run a gamut without gaudiness of permutation and seeking, and thereby
illustrated the primal link between sound and sense of self, the sense of touch and getting in
touch with oneself.
Tribute pieces are perhaps among the most intensely personal and most easily debated of regular
items to be found on YT, yet your selections and eletions here are, to their purpose, infinitely
suited, making a compelling case for the justness of the lyric at any given moment, and showing
in each lady that which her legions of fans have long advocated. As often on YT, I came in

expectation of that which already holds a place in my heart, and found something to fairly rival
it.
With Heath Ledger and Brittany Murphy both passed on, it's a delight to see some of the lighter
moments that made their names amid a cavalcade of upbeat, ebullient imagery. There is a radiant
joy to this monochrome composition which fully utilises motion and shades of grey, and by the
very subtlety of its texturing evokes individual interpretation of the memories renewed.A semiforgotten pleasure, and sublime joy.
From the first frames, and notes, the silver thread twisting and flashing through this patchwork
quilt feels like the inevitable but displaceable baggage of making it to adulthood - the things
which cling, and those we fail to brush off or rise above for whatever reasons. Although at first
unrecognised, as we moved into the number I realised I have heard it piecemeal on many
occasions, and that refrain of "sing for . . ." appears here a mantra most fitting.
Ewe are a constant wellspring of faith and fantasy alike in Rowling's rolling saga of one who was
chosen, but is not predestined, a soul seeking its own path and meaning amid the fraught and
toppling towers of certainty. Your pellucid vision embraces all that the films have done to
strengthen the sinew and brighten the fibre of this modern classic, and as a whetstone for the
appetite serves a similar standard to that which encased Excalibur. A flawless flight of fancy.
The aura/out-of-body echoes find their counterpart and point in the lyrics, in the essence of the
sacred and "surrounded by your embrace", from the Jericho walls of isolation to the mutual
manifestation of messenger - the pulse or tide of (con)currents clarion descant the sought
symbiosis, the elective bond which adorns and attracts these souls to one another, and the extent
to which that bilateral reliance offers each a most crucial port in life's tempestuous odyssey.
The emergent elf, the Nordic synthesis of dark and light bloodlines which this transitional
moment appears to manifest, has the whimsical Weltanshauung and pixieish perspective which
makes darklight of the turbulent waves which assail constantly, turning a smile into a coracle, not
merely an umbrella. As the lyric declares of the subject, one might reasonably paint in that hue
the artist - "You never seem to run out of things to say". May this kaleidoscope provide perpetual
motion and marvel.
Coming to these with chronology sliced and diced, I am struck by how clear in any case, and yet
frequently diverse, your conception is. Mr Collins Everyman qualities have been something I've
relished since the days when his role in Genesis didn't revolve around singing, and, in concert
with the aspects of the Greystokes appertaining to this piece, there is a daily and cyclic resonance
to this conglomerate which asserts how much we say with what we choose to do - and with
whom.

The shifting spotlight declares the spherical as contained in the song's title, whilst the beautiful
alignment of eyelines in the post locker-room moment establishes a believeable bond and
inclusive empathy between the principals. The hospital con-spiratorial moment, in all the
literality of such, likewise pulses with the near oxymorons rife in the lyrics, the lies from love,
the shyness taught by courage, and all in all that otherwhen this might have been is written in
their stares.
The imago of Lana, the luminous, numinous morphing offspring encircled by the arms of
Morpheus, here simultaneously blossoms and is comprehended within the seeming lens of the
earliest Fortress of Solitude on SV. "Reckoning" in monochrome has a resonance on multiple
planes of meaning as the "flashback to when", and this wends its way through a landscape of
potentiality that does convey one possible POV for Lana - that she was dealing with "a scared
little boy". Substantive and lingering.
Denouement inherent in the very title, I cannot recall an unfamiliar character so swiftly and
comprehensively made vital, such that their passing is both directly and in/on reflection a thread
of threnody, a dirge most dire. That on any shortlist of the most wrenching, inescapable of human
memories the loss of child is at the zenith (or nadir) is there in the rattle of pills and the blank
stare, yet the ebullience of those same tragic memories speaks to a life lived, however shooting
the star.
With your preface in mind, I find that this pivots on the ring return, since the young man has so
much yearning and so little hope in his gaze that the young lady is established as Helen of Troy
in the scenario, or perhaps the Apple of Discord. I like the conceit that talk mooted by a man for
once proves not to be a euphemism or mere prelude, and the exact extrusion of one head into
another clearly places the manner and degree of disruption, the turmoil within, lacking possible
assistance.
With the talewright's revisionist talent so palpably purveyed in Shrek in its sonorous symbiont,
this elevates an extant legacy of vertiginous verisimilitude with such deft touches as "saw her
face" proving, in fact, Pete's POV, and the lady's clear, captivating gaze in the elevator. Amid the
clouds of "could've been" this is an enduring form, with the gorgeous gamut of Chloes who
drifted Clarkward, and the frozen breaths which were the heartbeats of that happening, only
between instants.
In largely unfamiliar waters, my tugboat in these travels is the element Euterpean and from the
label bubble up questions concerning view of life and the possibilty of the eternal (from my
Pythonesque perspective). There is in the vivid and occasionally miasmic flutter of imagery a
core of caring, both in the characters and their deployment, which is a credit to all who strove to
adhere the aspects of this quilt, and, for me, revisiting the same souls is an uncommon pleasure
in such a setting.

This musical phoenix first took flight when "Grease" dominated the box office, and has since
(allegedly) proven the most popular karaoke number worldwide for those of a double X
chromosome disposition. I adore the goofy face Rory makes after accepting her diploma; it
somehow shifts the entire mood of the piece from the opening regret to something of true
resilience and necessary humour. The lady does appear to see variety as the spice of life, but it
seems an admirable lightness of spirit.
This has an astounding fluidity and grace, an elegance of execution, which I have rarely seen on
YouTube, and the tidal inevitability of its internal rythms is but accentuated by the symbiosis of
sound and sight, the suitability of the music, and even the gentle cadence and counterpoint
provided by the rivulet of Spanish along the bottom. A vision shared is the blessing of the giver,
and this is an enrichment to all who partake.
As Ella endeavoured to re-imagine the girl in rags for a new generation, so Smallville, and this,
strive to set and straighten records vis-a-vis the Man of Steel. I adore the atypically lethergic look
of Lois at "nobody knows this", and your fractured flow of "Arrow Time" is equally a delight.
Those manifold moments where Lois perceives herself at the precipice of participation and leaps
awkwardly back are here in several places, yet the overall impression is one of joyous protohope.
Emerson's observation (from Landor), that Shakespeare was "more original than his originals. He
breathed upon dead bodies and brought them into life.", seems most fitting here, as you have
taken whole cloth formed for another and fashioned it anew to your own purposes, seamlessly
blending that which was, dissevered, into a Galatea which shows no strain nor sign of its
Frankenstein origins. The shadow sibling which this creates to the Chloe/Clark/Tess triangle is a
thing impossible to Hyde.
beyond the evocative, embedded imagery of the music, the riptides of fate and election alike
which pull at these two perhaps more than any other SV pairing, there is in your opening shots a
silent validation of Davis' appeal, a simple earthy "thereness" which silently shouts its
disimilarity to Clark, who even when present in form is preoccupied with a thousand heroic
responsibilities and rarely, thus, truly in the moment. A possiblity to ponder, and a selection to
savour.
If one can try take two, the re-introduction of a known character, then what you have here should
at least have a transit visa for the miraculous since it handily loses all the baggage of "Lex's
replacement", and instead, in hues and cries various, depicts a woman of surpassing strength and
resilience, one whose growth, though warped by others, still strives for her own ideals, yet one
whose fascination for the flame, for power and its accoutrements, may well be her own pyre.

The focus on faces beautifully presages the panoply of perspectives here encompassed. Your
election to circle from Lois through Lana, back and on to Martha highlights certain shared airs
which had not previously struck me. The double decade invocation resonates the resilience the
series showed, whilst the elision brings the title close to tears, a fitting counterpart to the welter
of images verging on and recalling so much. A beautiful carpet ride over chasm and cloud of
thrilling memory.
Thanks to an ongoing education there is much to recollect here, a cavalcade of slices across the
plethora and diorama of recent TV, and all of it shows the care, precision and creativity of your
friends. Whilst there is cause to pause, reflect and muse, there is equally a compelling current, a
prismatic pattern which emerges only at full speed, where the kaleidoscope of conception
cascades in on itself, making rivulets of thought into waterfalls of the conceivable. A restorative
rampage.
An oversight inexplicable on my part, this trenchant, flamboyant farrago of fluttering forms and
transient temptations gloriously agglomerates the various shooting stars which SV plotted in its
decade, provides for each such reference as is requisite to tap its potential and absorb its
luminescence, and makes an excellent case for one of the Bard's most memorable observations:When beggars die there are no comets seen;The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of
princes. Julius Caesar II ii
"It's hard to move on", at least for Chloe, has never been so illuminatingly illustrated, so gilded
with guilt and festooned with false shows of bravura, as when she tries to relegate Clark to the
second place he must hold if any other is to be the true castellan of her soul and champion of her
heart. Your monochrome memories are pure and eminently evocative, and the whole seems to
serry the scene for Mr Queen's successful endeavour to prove a fitting and meet mate to this
exceptional lady.
The unalloyed, untempered temptation and terror intertwined which await Temperance the
moment she steps out of her clinical comfort zone, the fact bubble she has built to insulate
herself from the vagaries of a variegated existence, are both subtle and pellucid in the pageant of
expressions on Emily's face, whilst the beauteous ballad weaves a wafting, pervasive aroma of
verity and consequence alike through the fabric of the whole, enriching and elevating it. A
unique, uplifting tale.
As a manifestation of the sensory sensibility which must accompany superspeed, I find the beat
to beat phase shifts in state of the first minute fascinating, providing the gist but paring the
superfluous, calling for the observer to fill in the blanks. The whole, and the lack of repetition
makes it clearly such, instant to instant remakes the Superman of the moment, reforging around
the essence of Clark the cloud of identities and tsunami of potential which so often threatened to
engulf him.

The compositional process, the interspersing and fusion of forms lyrical and melodic to reverse
the tale of Babel and restore a universal communication, is epitomised by Mr Joel's more
languorous concoctions, and here gives cohesion to all that Seeley, especially in the face of
Temperance's intemperate intellect, so often strives and is unable to articulate, at least in
acceptable terms. The support which her weird Weltanschauung has provided is depicted in
diversity, a symposium of opposites.
The myriad minutiae which make this a joy as great upon reviewing as at first draught, the
craftsmanship which has gone into so positive a parody, all these speak to a wellspring of
creativity on your part which bears full and fulsome fruit in this paradigm shift of music. To
reweave the core composition with apt and debonair descant upon the vivid idiosyncrasies which
here abound, reminds one of Lepidus: His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery
by night's blackness;
Unfamiliarity with the source leaves me utterly dependent on your re-telling, yet the tale you
weave is both clear and compelling, the veneer lacquered and brittle, the undercurrents bubbling
up here and there to imprint themselves indelibly upon events. The enduring impression parallels
the lyric beautifully, of places and people who struggle to surface from under the weight of
expectation, and the fetters to self-growth they alone have forged. Engaging and appealing, even
to a non-fan.
I am amazed by the consistency with which the lady projects, wordlessly in general, her
awareness that this relationship is not healthy\working\a good idea, and yet the plausible
portrayal of overcoming that instinct on a moment by moment basis. Even in so abrogated a
form, there is here a tension which makes the shooting and final wielder of the gun both natural
evolutions of events, while the music clarifies the thrust and dilemma central to the tale. Concise,
compelling and comprehensive.
The suggestion that the myriad incongruities which compose the Last Son are responsible for
Chloe's dazed demeanour in the hospital is a remarkable reinterpretation, opening cascading
portals to a multiverse of potentialities. The "Peter" of SV, the rock upon which Clark's growth
and journey are inscribed and founded, Chloe has been a constant, never static presence
throughout the series, and even with the marriage to Oliver and intimation of offspring, remains
at the epicentre of Clark's world.
The umbral awe-filled majesty of forces greater compelling our heroes to defy their seeming
destinies, the rudderless writhing which, by nature and nurture alike, accompanies the loss of the
keystone around which one has built one's entire existence and extant self, all drawn together and
coalesced into a puissant prism through which reflections and refractions of a purely personal
nature interact and by their mutual observation are intrinsically altered. A minute maelstrom of
the miraculous.

Drawn by the siren song of cordial preconception, I find myself in a place on the map for which
cartography is inadequate, comprising as it does the constructs of components clear and known,
yet in its topography and internal logistics a thing entirely alien to my awareness. The soaring
puissance with which Mr Aday imbues his every unfettered utterance propels the perpetual
kaleidoscope of imagery into a hypermotive state in which that which lingers is pure, raw
impression.
The reincarnate zephyr from the Windy City here finds his keystone (Kim Keyes) around which
to formulate a tantalising twister of a tale, the offspring of Dawn and the drifting breeze recalled,
and in safe sanctuary, the harbour of the haptic, to gently tether and leave to the swell of
subtleties individual and tantalisingly ephemeral a story that has weathered the tempests
besetting, and in unstinting union sought and nourished an account of possibilities unbounded,
even by the tallest building
As a cordial, a compressed concatenation from which one may distil or dilute a plethora of
pulchritudinous and powerful instants and more protracted portrayals, this bears the alchemical
hallmarks of mastery, disseminating essence and aura and applying each in fluctuating
proportion as the moment mandates. The re-run of so many ontological osculations which have,
in manners diverse, signposted and paved the rocky road of Clois anchors this whirlwind tour,
and highlight its fascinating facets.
The exigent impression, that the Galatea of "things that (he) need"s is Brennan, is mitigated by
the mantle of Mnemosyne draped by monochrome o'er its entirety, the encircling arms of
Morpheus which seem to promise dream, without stipulation as to which level that would be.
The parallel to S4's conclusion, and the exploration of potential are most meet for the one man
upon whom she focuses with the same attention to detail, and need for decyphering, which she
gives to her work.
As the Lachesis and lodestone by which his life is measured and to which it naturally turns,
Clark's words here make manifest his devotion and reliance both, leading us to the wedding, but
more to the "marriage of true minds" and all the attendant impediments, which are shown to
scale, as far lesser than the manifold threads of integral union which allow of no dissolution. The
Tiwaz to this modern Mars and humanoid Hyperion, Lois' clear and constant vision here shines
through.
The Balder-esque aspects of the Last Son, the "invulnerability save" clause, is brought to searing
light by the seemingly standard standard shaft laying him low, whilst the foregoing serried ranks
of heroes neatly bond our hero to both past and future, establishing his place in the pantheon. The
warm oneiric aura of the transient tour of Clarkdom is clashing counterpoint to Lana's jolting
awakening, which in itself adds urgency to her apparent loss. Wondrous potential.

The simple scale of the backdrop, the extent to which the film was able to employ all Australia as
its core cloth, is a thing which you have tapped into and refolded to another, equal purpose,
highlighting the "butterfly effect" of so powerful a passion, and yet that, unrecognised, it may not
be said to reach all corners of the globe. As ever the lyric matching is both lucid and eloquent,
the whole a work of originality and passion. An epic encapsulated.
Amid a flurry of frissons at the panoply of passionate glances and undercurrent-ridden instances
here on display, I am drawn in particular to the gorgeous, eloquent eyeline of Inara at "I can't
decide whose side I'm on". Mal's perspective is equally espoused, "the only time" pervasive in its
presence, yet overall the recollection which stirs is how compelling a case was made for true
love when its essence was crafted from so little in the way of raw material. A most fitting fusion.
That simple, unremarked movements and moments can place a person at the threshold of a
relationship feels like the core of this piece, and the variety of such from first sight to forever
flux on display is nourished by a musical accompaniment of equal uncertainty as to its
destination and destiny. The fact that both the Booth\Brennan and Angela\Hodgins pas de deux
are here gives this a palette often lacking in pure Bones vids, and the whole has a feeling of
fortune made as much as found.
Your map taps four color both ways; as the primary comic book pigments with their concomitant
emotional impact, and the cartographic context of shading and counterpoint. These depictions are
of unmitigated forces, of potential primal and oft savage, of the tempest in which Clark and all
who elected to remain in his ambit have been tempered to differing degrees, wrought and
overwrought. For your friend's nativity it concocts a troche of SV's pankration, easy to absorb
and enjoy.
The strife and striving, physical, psychological and metaphysical, which has composed the
crucible through which expanded selves have been shaped by all the ladies shown, is denoted by
the vast array of situations, much as the internalised dialogue each perforce performed would
serve to weave the text and texture of "all the things she said". A whistlestop tour of SV's several
female keepers of the flame and a mini-marathon of moments, many of which beg the question,
"What if . . .?"
A crafted and compelling flow of instants which both do and do not conform to memory,
fractious flickers which but in the subconscious unfold their transient tale, much as dreams may
unravel the stodgy cloth of day-to-day and therewith embroider a fleeting fantasy or immutable
image. The broken, recursive shadows on the cornea, the deja vu of simultaneous dopplering, the
echo to a Narcissus of self-made recollection, reflects marvellously the parallel journeys of the
three pivotal half-bloods.

The cyclic quality of the refrain is a metronome most suited to Temperance's emotional
inarticulacy, whilst the idea that on her personal and agnostic scale "to keep you was a sin"
suggests the inevitable, inextricable seepage which has caused each of them to develop and
retain a very fair mental model of the other. The acknowledgement that Hanah "cares" is oft
overlooked, and all in all there is here the tension, trepidation and triumph of a short story,
although thus Nike favours the bright.
The Dorian Grayness of pervasive visual media, the boon and bane of being preserved in a
capsule moment and repeatedly available in that unaging aspect is here shown in its alternate
light, the trigger to wondrous recollections and oft overlooked feelings. The line between
performer and character being acknowledged, an unfettered imagination can conceive and
construe where such old friends might now be, proving that "in my heart you will remain".
That there can be affection and insanity induced by bonds outside the family, or even one's
chosen circle of friends, that those who hurtle into our lives like a rogue comet may be on a
diverse trajectory intended to preclude our cllapse into a rut, these are the corona of what I see
here. Your own translucent and lucid love for the source radiates from the composition, and your
selections take this away from an excessive re-run of "wacky neighbour" moments, dignifying
the character with a soul.
As ever, your group shows a penchant for constructions which, though I'm certain they tell reams
more to the cognoscenti, are beautifully accessible when one approaches tabula rasa, drawing
together threads of song and sight, finding an overall feeling which each in their way may
modulate. On this occasional an extra delight was in spotting the flitting flashes of famous faces
in presumably guest roles, such as Michael Gross and Forest Whitaker. You advocate your title
with elan and conviction.
A gorgeously multifaceted gem with all the integrity and inner fire of a vast and varied stone,
displaying traits and tendencies in flickers and fused half-moments, with the requisite, natural
flaws both buried and bubbling up, wave after wave of amalgams of the first water. There are
matters meet and makeless, and, like throbbing veins throughout, the awareness that most rarely
is anyone in such a scenario of absolute purity, with the paramount desire to do no harm. Most
moving and memorable.
Amidst a welter of shifting seemings and moveable moments, without the legend to decipher this
living map, certain things stand out in relief against a tide of riptides, the spinning world and
"moving too fast" lingering shot, others presenting the peaks of such confluence, like the
apparent sustain by the singers of "we" in "we live", and all in all there is that primal power
which is the essential embodiment of the striving and competitive forces within which drive our
interaction with others.

The puissance of "whole world" and "evening shadows" reflecting Temperance's two parents
glides effortlessly into the panoply of hugs and simple leaning contact which you have so
interwoven as to flawlessly support this edifice of your construction. Emily's most eloquent eyes
convey the mute, immutable yearnings which experience has taught Bones not to articulate, and
that Booth's fantasy is the manifestation of "no doubt in my mind where you belong" is but the
capstone of monumental endeavour.
From the hat roll to the air punch there is a vitality and vim to your selection, leavened with
enough unexpected yet fitting dark moments to avoid any risk of the saccharine. Though I'm
unfamiliar with the series, that was no obstacle to enjoying thoroughly so crafted and
conscientious an endeavour.
The unfamiliarity of source matter - doesn't. This is a mini, monochrome fable, a bubble universe
which conveys graphic sorrow, and an elision of imagery and notes which draw out and from
each other buried strengths. What was and shall not be again is self-evident, as is the care and
craft with which concept and construction both occurred, and the preponderance of positives
suggests than one day there will be a happier recollection of this union. Fluid, fascinating and
elegaic.
There is a plangent, pervasive tone to the visuals here, a silver cord glimmering on the edge of
awareness declaring a longeval bond, a soulwrought flame of the Grek fire persuasion. Given
Temperance's obviously stilted social interaction, I fear I have overlooked the extent to which
she provides him with completion, as much as vice versa, and the bowtie scenelet is proof
thereof. The former sniper does indeed seem to have narrowed his sights, looking to be but her
hero.
For a journo like Chloe the Pathe-style memories are beautifully suitable, whilst the AU environ
unfurls an otherwhere in which Clark's was the unrequited passion, a breathtaking premise per
se. The frustration in the crescendo is wonderfully tidal, peaking with the kind of regret we all
feel at futile last words, the comments and conflicts we'd give anything to rescind. Chloe's
commitment to Clark always transcended this plane of reality.
As ever, your passion entails precision, and thence are drawn forth details which lingered on the
edge of awareness, transposed into the spotlight and, like a quilt, in places vivid, warm,
somnolent and evocative, redolent with the afterimages of earlier days, and occasionally eclipsed
by harbingers of things to come. Your customary care and craft are somehow focused this time to
pinpoint with perception the flickers that presage the wave. Enthralling, enlightening and
entertaining in equal part
A charming example of what someone with skills and the courage to take a risk can do - the
editing of others work is a joy, but the pleasure in hearing someone interpret a piece they love

can rarely be matched. Your empathy with the role is clear, and lifts the piece away from a
simple exercise to a true rendition, whilst the quality of your voice adds to the text in numerous
ways. Bravissima.
A stunning, roiling tale kept pace with by a scintillatingly suitable song, there are an entire
necklace of gem moments strung together here. The core conceit alone is one of lustre and
brilliance, but certain links, e.g. "afraid to show the other side" for Kal-El, merely polish that
which already glowed. Since, unlike her cousin, Lois is not a casual contact person, her repeated
silent reaching for Clark speaks volumes. This synopsis of superdom suceeds merveille.
Whilst subscribing to ANW's other assertion that "there are no whole truths; all truths are halftruths", I believe you make your case beautifully, and in many cases so seamlessly that it takes a
moment to recognise that we've jumped series. The duality of old school is amply demonstrated,
and, with the timeline of vampires in the mix, means perhaps rather more than usual. There is no
sense of retracing your steps, merely, and ever, onward. Sic itur ad astra.
The inspiration/aspiration bio-rhythm of the piece is harmonious with the your shot selection,
and I cannot recollect so profuse yet varied a set of hugs from a single show vid. With so much
demand for "in your eyes", I like the fact that not all of the characters are head on to camera at
that moment. Not being an aficionado, I rely on impressions, and overall this shows me how
many relationships the series involved, something I hadn't fully grasped before. A compelling,
charming insight.
As ever with your work, the echo and assonance, of form or sentiment, between lyric and line is
joyous, offering a slightly shifted perspective on a vivid panorama, whilst the concatenation of
colour and clarity of message in the song means that the line between fortune and luck is for
once a distinct and definable one. Unfamiliarity with the original makes the extent of your
innovation unknown to me, but perhaps above all I delight in the lack of any sense of
inevitability or bonds of destiny.
there is here flamboyance and finesse alike in balanced measure, much as the spotlight thespian
and solar can in immoderate amount burn and scar, yet there is unquestionably an aura of
attainment and aspiration to each, the bated breath of an opulent future, glittering and gilded with
promise. This version of the song has an impetus which impels an integral impression through
the collage of clips, by aggregation and association drawing in its wake a concerted feeling of
reaching for the stars.
The shining shoot has ever been at the epicentre of all I have most savoured of SV, and here
between you you explore those entracing facets, the green growth, dark wrath and puissance, the
steadfast beacon gleam with which she has called our hero back to hearth and home on manifold
occasion. Each of you has embellished and engraved in light some singular aspect, bringing it

into relief, and evoking all its wondrous potential. An amazingly compendious collage of
character moments and movements.
As a vivid, vertiginous whirl through the manifold decades of desire and deceit which have
clearly been practised here, this offers a glittering globe, brim full of flickering moments and
indelible impressions, the golden ball which song and sight alike make clear the hero was never
meant to fully grasp. The search for veracity is beautifully played out, and reminiscent of Terry
Pratchett's "The Truth", in which a wonderful newspaper typo declares "the truth shall make ye
fret."
Having expected the Cocker/Warnes classic, the song selection was a surprise, but upon reaching
"we've been ready for far too long" its logic became lucid, its charm irresistible. The plethora of
glances, culled from the whole run, fully justify the "back", whilst the "winding road" is shown
to be, in some measure, its own reward, rather than simply (heat-)seeking the destination. An
enchanting endorsement of the opulent opportunities inherent in so rich a relationship.
Bill's wondrous, passion-fueled ride being what it was, I for one can't help but speculate what he
would have said about things like YouTube, and above all the fantastically twisted, and
occasionally eeriely apropos, funhouse mirror version of his words as rendered by the closed
caption system. This already inspired and stimulating segment is exploded into a myriad of new
possibilities by the endeavours of the machine to grasp so human a soul.
Starting from a springboard of soaring Steinman, each of you has unfurled your colours,
glittering, shimmering wings of translucent inspiration, to form a flying flotilla of vessels
variegated and vivacious, an armada of assays on the state of play in a wide range of
relationships which, here at least, seem to have much in common. The juxtaposition of such
unknowns as Moonchild with Clana, or the span betwixt Wonderland and Brokeback, these are
but some of the dizzying array of joys.
Whether considered a Sixties or Seventies piece, this has a longer shelflife than the majority of
music used on YT, yet the old-fashioned, ethical values to which (generally) Chloe and Clark
each and together adhere make it eminently suitable. Allowing something other than physical
passion as the bedrock of love, then these two have enjoyed SV's most enduring amour, as
evidenced here, and even the finale suggests Chloe's continuing key role in the evolution of
Superman.
Your setup establishes a symbiotic and seemingly self-destructive relationship which lends
credence to the lyrics gamut of conflicting characteristics, the latter being the reason why, much
as I enjoy the song, I could never conceive of a truly suitable character. Whilst the motherdaughter and romantic interactions tend to take centre stage, I think the "merely" friendly hug for

"nothing in-between" inspired, as, in an instant, it shows the young lady capable of something
positive and giving.
The immense challenge of distilling seven years into something other than a blur (pun intended)
or bad luck is met and surpassed here, whilst the powerful primary colours indissolubly bind our
protagonists and the other core planets of their system. There are, I would imagine, almost the
entirety of most people's favourite memories, yet the gorgeous gamut of moments has a
momentum all its own which you have painstakingly preserved, and of it made a kind of
perpetual motion.
The tessellation of text and tint with lyric and light is all you have led us to expect of your
superlative efforts, whilst the zest of the number contrasts and counterpoints the gravitas with
which the once and future king make his pronouncements of passion and permanency. Above all,
I think, I relish the compatibility and yet variation inherent in his chosen four words at the 0:44
mark. The modern slant on these classic tales is clearly, between the series and yourself, in very
good hands.
Incandescent as ever, this amalgam showcases those moments when Ron's instincts, his inherent
bravery and loyalty which intelligence, in the interests of self-preservation, occasionally
countermands, seek their referent, his Tiwaz - Her. The gamut of a decade is here disgorged in all
its glory and betimes garishness, the mute movements and stilted silences as much as the rare
music of the spheres interludes; thus, by the end, there is no "tone of surprise". Uplifting and
innovative.
The elegaic effervescence of palpable emotion, the evocative use of monochrome and a fluid
selection of moments mean that, however much more the cognoscenti may garner, I feel there is
nothing inaccessible here, merely because I've never seen an episode. The sacrifice and price of
moving on are wondrously laid out and inventoried, the cost in self of being something that
doesn't fit, and the concomitant loss with any casual disregard for the seeming peripherals in life.
The pervasive impression is that such succinct suitability must mean that, at least most of the
time, you begin from a series of moments in mind, rather than trawling a series or episode in
search of material, and this mental archive has clearly served you merveille. There is an
openness to the generality of moments which, I feel, leaves ample room for personal preference,
and is, perhaps, a large part of why, fandom irrespective, I find your opus so charming and
enlightening.
An astounding amalgam of movement and words, each displayed for their strengths and blended
without any impairment to the flow, as with the brass ensemble and many others, this number
makes me feel there was a certain almost "Jekyll and Hyde" quality to Mr Barker, the introvert in
private life through whom Gerald Wiley provided so many classical scripts. Whilst it is sad he is

gone, he leaves a body of work so effervescent and uplifting as to belong with the best the
English language can offer.
Capsule complexities too manifold to mention in the delineation of a decade, yet each and all
have allowed their fancy to spring from instant to instant, bursting forth and imploding to forge
rivulets of narrative down which the torrent of ideas may freely flow. You have a cohesive
comprehension of SV, and that essential unanimity gives every facet its own sparkle which does
not detract from the lustre of the whole. An outstanding overview of a sesquicentury of
enthralling hours.
Tabula rasa ab origine, the pageant of Americana, the boundless tapestry of possibilities and
normalities which your nation seems to encompass are here in living cross-section, and it does
appear well worth watching as a series. The search for certainties, or even a place to make a
stand, comes across, at least to me, in the welter of imagery, yet the whole has that intrinsic
internal order which is the touchstone of chaos theory. An amouse-bouche to whet the appetite.
The monochrome memories merge and bleed into the "hand-holding" which has been such a key
component of the Booth/Brennan pas de deux, the intimacy that each has rarely shared
elsewhere. Likewise the juxtaposition of a preponderance of joyous, by her standards jubilant,
moments in the mind with her "present" distress increases the impact and displays, as did
Temperance, what would happen to her world without her counterweight. A beautous and layered
vision.
The complete cross-section of key characters alone is immensely impressive, and clearly bookbased, whilst the musical inconnu seems to be draped in details all aporopos, both to itself and
the tale Rowling so wondrously wove. The manual moments highlight and focus the song and
scenes alike, and you have found so many similarities, from the departures of Dumbledore and
Fred to the half-blood boys' wand-wielding styles, with which to leaven and link your unique
vision
Unfamiliar as I am with what I presume to be an array of roles, there can be no doubt that your
instinct for synthesis of sight and sound is as sharp as ever, and the whirligig of times and places
is most puissant and persuasive in its evocation of eternity. The old West to the modern covers a
plethora of backdrops and lifestyles, and suggests that the gentleman must have impressive range
to convincingly portray so multifaceted a set of characters. An intriguing, beguiling assembly.
Brief, puissant and compelling, it distils and displays the loss that occurred for film when Heath
passed away. In the context of the longer work, it highlights the peripheral paths which both men
have chosen, and the near-impossibility of anything which would fit a close to standard
definition of love in either of their lives, although perhaps the acceptance of that chilling fact is
both Joker's greatest madness and supreme source of strength. Enjoyable as ever.

I cannot recall a more evidently "baffled king" in any of the many forms of this song, and whilst
lacking knowledge of the series, your tale stands superbly on its own two feet, and bespeaks a
bond and friction spanning decades. The breath in a kiss, the atma (soul) which is both the goal
and dearth of the vampire, is beautifully evoked in the gentle osculation here, and all in all I am
put in mind of Klytus (Flash Gordon) "Even the hopelessly fallen have their personal gods."
Having come to this song through "How to lose a guy in 10 days" I find the mere concept of
concoction a fascinating one and the lyrics are sublimely apropos. The lack of super-breath
generally in SV helps keep "breathing deeper" cardiovascular, and the "somebody like you"
expresses all the looking for love in exotic places that Clark has experienced, as well as implying
that there is an uncommon equality in their need for one another. An elegant conceit,
superlatively executed.
Being for most tastes excessively inclined to varied transitions, I relish this panoramic dissection
of the possiblities for shifting. Like you, I have (and have had) some wondrous souls in my life
whose faith was both clearer and stronger than my own, and this piece does seem almost
perfectly suited to such. Your aunt clearly made much of her life.
Knowing almost nothing of the series, the first and lingering impression, manifest and melodic,
is of cost, of the ultimate risk and betimes sacrifice called for by a life devoted. The relief in
which the, I presume, hero stands to his background simultaneously punches him up and cuts
him off therefrom, whilst harbingers and memories alike are shown for their potential as "rabid
dogs of war"; apropos, for here we see "Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge With Ate by his side,
come hot from Hell".
The last section was simply a reworking of the concept of "truthiness", in that what works for
anything with the lifespan of a vampire need not bear any resemblance to reality as a human
understands it - "All that glitters is not gold", in other words. These are merely visceral reactions,
the first emotive impressions formed almost solely (in series' terms) from what you have here,
which I greatly enjoyed, just in case I failed to make that clear.
As ever an enchanting vignette of alternative vintage to your manifold Gwen/Arthur pieces, set
against a backdrop of Mr. Dwight's musical delight from 1970 in suitable cross-section to
highlight but that small measure of the lyrics which so admirably intersects with your intent. In
your version the gentleman depicts in glance and gesture alike how heartily he concurs with the
motion, and how entirely the world revolves around the lady and her orbs that "twinkle in their
spheres".
There is a narrative immediacy, flow and relevance, a balladic Jagannath in chariots of Phoebus
adorned with literary and light touches alike which renders moot any need to dissect the selection
of song. The lie in question seems a sin of omission, a self-protective skein woven around an

integral, pearl truth which is the gyroscopic centre of Ron's being, his id that tethers identity,
which is to say the daughter of Logios, who strews his path as Charidotes and Eriounios,
Oneiropompos incarnate.
Resonant, engaging, and, like this interpretation of the iconic detective, doing plenty with the
entanglement of roots to make the endgame unclear and surprising even for the cognoscenti.
Sherlock's self-diagnosis as a high-functioning sociopath makes the percentage breakdown even
more plausible, as does the quest for the thrill which keeps him teetering on the brink of selfdestruction, a quality the excellent Brett and Cushing versions, for me, underplayed, but which
has been here throughout.
The interweaving tendrils of song and script, the conflict and coincidence of words written and
uttered, create sonic peaks and troughs which, carrrying quanta of their own, intersect and
interact to adorn the screen with a new, unanticipated chiaroscuro, where the viewer's own
anticipations are a buckyball, structuring, splitting and splicing the incoming image to refract,
insect-like, what we choose to reflect - on. Another insight into the joys of GG.
The spirit/flesh dichotomy in vampires comes through clearly in this amuse-bouche, and the
glide in celluloid shadow o'er the slumbering maid is somehow both poignant and aprorpos,
holding out considerable promise for the finished product.
The feeling is of an endless, engaging tapestry from which you have never been called upon to
trim your tale to fit your cloth. The richness of the raw material, both in vibrancy and heft, means
that your particular vision can call upon subtle wafts of flavour and fleeting feelings to evoke and
imprint on a moment the essence of a pocket eternity, which is surely among the most wondrous
and fulfilling of uses of this aborbing medium. As thrilling and enthralling as ever.
There is something in the portrayals which speaks of characters on the cusp, personae pupate and
transitional, a suitable setting since, as I understand it, this is a newly-minted season in all its
spice and savour. Du Lac here seems to possess the "gaijin" status of his original intrusion into
the Celtic-rooted, earthy accounts of the Romano-British hybrid who defied the selfsame Saxons
in whose tongue he would be immortalised. A generous glimpse of a tale clearly worth revisiting.
Each of these characters has had their drought times, in terms of capacity for true
communication, and the early "just by being around" sets the tone beautifully, as does the
singer's rich relish of the lyrics in toto. As the close of the fast approaches rapidly, this was a
kaleidoscopic trawl through waters past, juxtaposing a number of fragments, such as the rock
god wish and Master Sergeant reality, in ways sparking new hopes and concepts for tales to
come. Gorgeous.

With so omnipresent a song (on YT) one does not necessarily anticipate innovation, at least in
the core component, yet this male POV piece is the first of several leaps away from the tried and
true which work merveille. The intersecting past/present of "flashback" wonderfully
interweaves with the granite glare which is its own manifestation of "confusion is nothing new",
though not the one most would select. A clear labour of love and a sparkling addition to the range
here on YT.
The choral character of the piece is but the first of several twists in the tale, all of them eminently
suitable and contributive to the puissance and pulchritude of the whole. The fatal rotation seen to
and from Clark, the sanguine nails - on Lois, the Clark dwelling on Lana who can't see what's in
front of him, and the general fluidity of a work so clearly alinear, yet internally consistent, these
are, like the lady said, "a few of my favourite things". A spot-on high note on which to go out.
There is a lucent and lucid, in the literal, deployment of illuminants and the angling thereof,
which casts into contrast and limelight alike a serried selection of comingled moments, and from
their presence and passage both distils a heady brew, a meet mead out of the tantalising tune and
attendant allusions of light. This is, as ever, the Utgard/gaijin perspective, but the piece seems to
revolve, in a gyroscopic manner, around "came so close to giving it up", and the defiance in not
so doing.
The impression out of the gate is largely shaped by the "Stopping by woods" lift around 0.25,
which feels like the sluice for a cavalcade of moments from Euterpian springs. The cyclic
strophe themselves eddy back in iterative forms, demonstrating the micro-, meso- and
macrocosmic similarities and shifts, the extent to which the visuals likewise embody Gimli's
observation on Saruman and Gandalf. Based on no knowledge beyond the presented, "all the
places we have been" seems most fitting.
"True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of
adversity before it is entitled to the appellation." George Washington.
As a libation in light and auditory amuse-bouche, this ode to the osculatory both confirms and
presages the trials and tribulations which beset the couple, and the surpassing bond which carries
them through all such. With no possessing spirits or allotropes of Kryptonite responsible, this is
the launching of the good ship Endeavour, the first wake of an endless odyssey, as the original
much in the god-like.You and Emily clearly have cultivated a sapling of promise, when the fruit
proves so sweet.
Given the modern-day Ra roots of Kal-El, and by extension the Aurora and "rosy-fingered
Dawn" who anchors and inspires him, a more fitting title is indeed difficult to envision. Lois'
insuperable spirit has been her indomitable strength and greatest obstacle alike, acceptance being
as alien to her nature as humanity to Clark's, and each acquired only at great cost and sacrifice. A

cloth of consonant image and incantation, wondrously woven and carefully crafted to bear its
precious burden.
The near-total dearth of others in the frame provides an emphatic visual counterpoint to the "all
for love, and the world well lost" undertone of the music, and the sheer suitability of shot
selection, its blend of acknowledged high spots with the fruits of less cultivated corners of SV,
evolves into a symbiotic entity with a life of its own, one which the finale derived intrusion of
the wider world merely serves to make sparkle; a gem, not a bubble, ideal supplanting idyll.
The first quantum of impression is of the diurnal schism, of those verities which are intrinsically
night-blooming, of temporary truths fully intended but lacking the root complex to withstand the
burning scrutiny of the sun. Obviously, the sanguinarily-impaired nature of one set of
protagonists feed directly into that imagery, but, culled essentially from your other GG vids, I am
left with a comparable view of Literati - that commitment and constancy are not conjoined by
any adamantine bond.
Whilst clearly possessed of a most mellifluous instrument, you also imbue the piece with that
which Stephen Sondheim so often found lacking in singers, the sound variation of action
associative. There is a clear suggestion of immediate stimulus, of a Euterpean impulse rather
than a Mnemosynean feat, of a world in which performer and audience are all, and thus may
reshape their reality with a well-worded "Fiat". Elegant and engaging, and a wonderful harbinger
of the imminent Advent.
Each encounter with your work unlocks, without entirely exposing, a fascinating facet of your
panoply of vocal performance. Here there is the non-arboreal pine, the lambent longing for a
location intimated to be of the Parisian variety, which is to say, a moveable feast. The yearning
seems to yawn before you, and yet do so as much in manifestation of comfort as risk of
devouring. An enveloping musical embrace, with enough inherent warmth and aspiration to
invite and welcome without constraint.
Although I adore Karen's voice and skill, the opening stills here have caused me to wonder What, beyond her brother, did her eyes see? Her body image, given her weight loss, must have
been other than what we observed on camera, but for the first time here I noticed how rarely her
gaze is at rest during a performance, the sole common exception, that I've noticed, being
Richard. A tragic loss, but I'm uncertain how far she was truly with us.
As ever, a confection of craft and creativity, pellucid and pulchritudinous by turns, and whilst
"the final straw" takes this far beyond a roll in the hay, out into the uncharted depths of
confluence, there is a lingering spark of the Dauphin, the "child of 25", which, for me, forges
chasms in the background, echoing canyons in which can betimes be grasped the lingering
strains of "I just can't wait to be king".

Both the piquant, impactful vid and your own comments raise an interesting point, to an outsider.
How far is a monarch an impersonal conservator, stripped by their very "elevation" of the right
or opportunity for individual judgment and intrinsically as hidebound as the laws they are
(generally) sworn to protect? That the words he utters fill the form and function of his role are
perhaps, from his standpoint, all that is required of them, humanity being an optional extra.
The synthesis is seamless, the message redolent and resonant in incandescent image and
mellifluous music alike, and the whole possesses the quality shared by all the best of the work
work here on YT - the capacity to rob the viewer of the recollection of a time when they had not
encountered it. The extent to which the seemingly impatient Lois bided her time, learnt (as a
first) about the man inside a guy she liked, all of this is conveyed with clarity and warnth by your
beauteous composition.
The wergild aspect of Chloe's rare, illicit moments of attention or meaningful contact with Clark,
the fact that they almost only came after she had literally shed her own blood in his defence, adds
a poignancy, a "nightingale and the rose" self-sacrifice, which is but elevated by the inestimable
Eva and her transcendant tones. The full series span also highlights how much Clark was her
hero from day one, long before any powers were known, and thus how loyal and true a friend she
was.
That the primal response is literal "photograph", that which is written in light. instantly elevates
this ambitious and amazing amalgam, tapping those shortcuts which any true relationship
evolves and betimes effervesces, soaring to the supernal, placing the Last Son, rightfully, among
the modern pantheon. This composition of great composure likewise possesses the rare trait, the
sonorous XX vocal clarity notwithstanding, of seeming absolutely balanced in its relevance to
either, and both.
The opening, with the exchange that so explicitly yet nonverbally displays Lois' shattered heart
that she is once more not good enough to be truly loved, lays the groundwork for a far longer
brief journey than is typically tackled here, and so impresses right out of the gate. Thereafter the
avoidance of a progressive arc allows us to chart our own journey through choppy, often murky
waters, leaving matters open. A work of beauty and insight. Ksznm szpen.
Given my adoration of Ms Hynde's vocal puissance, I did not expect to find a substitute
acceptable, let alone enjoyable. So thank you for removing another pointless prejudice. As a song
it embodies so much of the otherwise ineffable in Chloe's willing bond with Clark, the yearning
yoke which she set upon herself, and the way she grew out of it without leaving him behind. The
Last Son took flight due to multiplicity of factors, but the bedrock from which he launched was
his parents - and Chloe.

Given my adoration of Ms Hynde's vocal puissance, I did not expect to find a substitute
acceptable, let alone enjoyable. So thank you for removing another pointless prejudice. As a song
it embodies so much of the otherwise ineffable in Chloe's willing bond with Clark, the yearning
yoke which she set upon herself, and the way she grew out of it without leaving him behind. The
Last Son took flight due to multiplicity of factors, but the bedrock from which he launched was
his parents - and Chloe.
As a synthesis of two beloved elements my expectations were both high and inflexible, but you
have unquestionably exceeded them all. The lingering strain, that Clark himself was unaware of
the profundity of his bond with Chloe, is recurrent throughout, and manifest in Tom's
wondrously subtle shifts of expression, whilst Chloe runs the gamut of all the emotional
pyrotechnics the potential of Kal-El compels him to suppress, for fear of hurting others.
Beautiful and compelling.
In complete accord with your musical pronouncement, I was compelled to view on by the
beautifully apropos lyric-matched opening, which simultaneously supported the song, yet
showed how much more there was to the tale. More so perhaps than any other SV character the
"empty space" in Chloe's case is an almost discrete, definable entity - without his parents he
wouldn't be Clark, but without her he could never have grown into Superman. An utterly
engaging, enthralling ride.
As the linewalker and pragmatician trapped between the poles of Storybrooke, the man "from a
grey home" has proven a fascinating and oft incalculable factor in the flux that has been the story
so far. The seeming oxymoron in the Sheriff as Prisoner blossoms becomingly here in this
compact, compelling retelling of the trio of relationships which rend him, and still somehow
encapsulates the genuine regret his murdress feels - the extent to which this, even for her, places
her beyond redemption.
The tracing and embroidery which with relief discerns the rich waft and weave of this tangled
tapestry, the concurrent and causal threads which intertwine to elevate the mere mixture to
astonishing amalgam, these are proximal consequence of material and motivation alike. The
recurrent but not repeating strains of story, the conflicting demands of narrative imperative and
realism allow us as audience to be enthralled anew by the view around the bend, each time. Their
tale renews, time after time.
In a manner no less than one would anticipate or wish, you have taken that quirkily passionate
thread which was the quintessentia of Chuck, and wrapped it anew in a brief fable, through
sound and image narrating the too-brief journey in all its whistle-stop glory. The conceit that
Sarah is the bedrock of reality, that her past in the con and present in the shadow world do not
detract from her grounding capabilities, is a joyous notion, boding naught but well for the
silhouettes on the beach.

To encompass the key relationships from the catalyst (Bryce) to the last major piece (Sarah's
mother), to intertwine the moments that humanised "Agent Frankenstein" (to quote the series'
Bond) from bonsai to the "one thing the Russians do well", this almost vertiginous variegation,
this pellucid palette is here deployed in manner most meet to tag and release the wondrous,
prismatic, sparkling hopes which Chuck embodied for the fantasy that who we are is not all we
must be. Idyllic and idoneous.
Carrying "love gone wrong" from its immediate exemplar into the palpable tension between two
Hs is but the first of many deft and defining juxtapositions to be found here, such as "what is
lost" falling within Harry's active memory, simultaneously bearing the echoes of the fundamental
detriment which inflicted such scars. The concluding segment, in particular, calls to mind how
far this is the tale of three half-bloods, their entangled journeys and differing directions.
Beautiful and beguiling.
A comprehensive cataract of recollections, from the first trickle released by the one truth
(Vegetarian, no olives), through the vertiginous vortex of vineyards and stations of Europe and
rendered real once more by an understated but categorical proposal, all the way back to the beach
where independent life first crawled out into the show, this expresses and explores the
personalised reality which the series strove to embody, encompasses the pleasure and passion,
and is in itself a joy.
This atypical endeavour still bears those inherent hallmarks of rhythm and reason which
distinguish the more regular result of your effort, but this encapsulation and encomium of the
siblings' healthy interdependence also sheds new light on the recent wrap-up for the series, the
wrenching that perforce Ellie experienced in truly allowing Chuck's life to take place away from
her own, and also the bond that must have been a thing incomprehensible to the incoming,
isolated Sarah as the tale began.
As the film manifestation of that Camelot which was evoked in reference to the Kennedys, as a
fluid testament to the skills of Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave, and, more recently, as a
reminder of what we lost with Natasha, her daughter, this works wondrously to weave the
timeless enchantment that is the tale of true love, here manifest seemingly perchance through
those of highest estate, and offering down through the years the ephemeral, elusive essential
hope
As a promo piece, your amuse-bouche both tempts the palate and whets the blade for what is
clearly the antithesis of a "simple" chick flick. Whilst the geek in me perceives the instant Trek
connection between the two male protagonists (Tom Hardy was "Nemesis's" villain, Pine the
new Kirk), I have to say that, since this is the first I've heard of the film, this definitely makes me
want to go and see it, so, thanks, and congratulations - the trailer works, at least for me.

That this is a tale of the faery but only betimes the fair is beautiful presaged in the poet's portal
upon which Fate, in all his youthful zest, comes here knocking, and the cultivated uncertainties
of the series blossom in "they don't know who they are" succeeded by images of the glittering
pyrite. As a cornucopia of the twinned, twined threads which have thus far spilt forth this lays
out, without imposition of purpose, the manifold manifestations, and bid us draw from them
what we will.
As an amalgam of memorable melody with more recently rewritten myth, the aspects of Ra in
each are redolent and effervescent. There is a bounce and vibrancy in the music which
complements Clark's whimsy and counterpoints the arrow-flight of Kal-El, whilst the "just me"
refrain grounds us as the audience in that former incarnation. That "too good to be true" is the
"Crimson" Lois is a further layer of (con)fusion which allowed, when this was made, for the
confabulations to come.
As pellucid as pertinent, and as mobile as moving, this idyll of Iris stands foursquare across
many much-loved pairings, from Literati to LoVe, Chara to Clois, forming a beauteous and
benevolent Bifrost which spans your eclectic palette and draws from such in their manifold
juxtapositions new wafts of meaning and opportunities to reassess those ingrained judgments
which might otherwise go unchallenged. A thing of beauty, as Keats observed, is a joy forever.
Given the Levi link there is, upon second sight, so Gordian a bond betwixt these two as to make
their symbiosis seemingly inevitable. The shrouded, secret origin and its combustible influence
on the present runs along interweaving and yet apparently parallel lines, whilst the music
liltingly lifts the tale of the escapees and makes it clear all are such. The mutual preservation
imperative is a lesson learned by all four, and here at the crossroads you have erected a most
illuminating signpost.
As a symposium of libations ad lib, this is a heady brew, and all who concocted it are to be
congratulated. There are swirls of scent and temporary tangs in the free-flow interaction of the
known and less so which create edible eddies, vortices of voracious delight which nibble at the
awareness and stimulate the sensibilities. This amalgam owes its tensile strength to common
threads with nothing of the mediocre, to a comprehensive assessment which endeavours to
encompass boundless love.
A pageant and panoply of the pulchritudinous, the serried ranks of SV, from the farm to the
pinnacle of the Planet, are here arrayed and assembled to essay explication of that bond which
Tom and Erica so subtly and continuously conveyed - the gestalt Superman. Egypt as the place of
peace found, yet the fields "again", this juxtaposition is both beauteous and provocative,
reminiscent of the lady herself, and in so short a space you have brought forth and polished the
quintessence of this series.

Among the many morsels and moments of delight here there would have to be the physical
"flashback" for the Army brat who can only express herself with an arm punch, and Clark on the
phone trying to halt Lois with a word. The General's daughter unquestionably sought to rule the
roost, but what comes across here is how rapidly and utterly every suspicion and grievance
melted whenever Clark was truly endangered, and how capable a helpmeet Lois was, the
Cassandra of the Man of Steel.
The idea of the Man of Steel incarcerated in one of the few places that could hold him, the
confines of his own mind, is an idea with the filigree of genius in itself. To counterpoint that with
physical inertia on the part of one second only to Bart in celerity, and have Lois let him know
he's unbounded, are points of pellucidity, and somehow the enclosed encounters highlight that
the heliovorous Kryptonian has found his own perpetual power source and soul of his solar
system. Beautiful.
Giving the country boy city polish is a constant theme of heroic journeys, but the music here
takes the urbane and of it forges the cosmopolitan. The "Bride" show (0:40-3) of utter
absorption, the need to actively ingest every element of her presence, speaks volumes, while
Lara is the very embodiment of "two steps back". Your selection of moments also possesses an
unusual degree of balance in the area of instigation, each of the duo touching as much as being
touched. Charming and innovative.
A wondrous conceit, and flawlessly executed, this puts the spotlight on a relationship which,
because the new arrival wasn't going to be allowed, by comic book convention, to supplant Lois
in any significant field, lacked the claws and bite which your reworking provide. Cat's
graphically good intentions and rigid ideology make her a near perfect fit for Galinda, whilst
Lois as the green-skinned girl who's not quite She-Hulk is, in itself, ambrosia for much
cogitation. A shard of brilliance.
As a four-color fantasy, the heavy, block titles are entirely apropos, and the concept that, from an
ET/male POV, Lois seems unreal or at least indecipherable is utterly in keeping with sound and
sight alike. The Army brat's dissociative issues, when it comes to liking people and showing it,
are a constant thread, and the gamut of girls living in the one body have rarely been so
comprehensively addressed. Compellingly different, and food for much thought.
om the stadium-style reverb in the opening voiceovers, through Clark's silent contemplation and
the mutual "watching" with its intrinsic reticence, via the juxtaposition of freshly-broken hearts
ant the "thin, thin line" of a tear track, this shows the tessellating strengths of the couple and
counterpoints them with the gruff delivery of sentimental lyrics, a dichotomy with which Lois
above all should be able to relate. Joyous and wondrously constructed.

Despite a profound lack of familiarity with the series, your beats are so clear and the characters
so rapidly established that there is not the slightest difficulty following along. Kristin brings a
verve and flair to every endeavour, and your heroine seems equally feisty - I particularly enjoy
the visual for "won't be there", and the tabletop POV in preparation for combat is a pure delight.
All in all, a compelling set of reasons to look into this show, and a beautifully executed tribute.
As the tripod upon which, in large part, the edifice of Superman is constructed, this trinary star
system is the key constellation in the unlimited skies of our favourite Kryptonian, and the song
and video both reflect the manifold elements which compose these shifting priorities in Clark's
life. Within the timeframe of SV there is also, arguably, an element of the Fates, with Chloe as
Clotho, Lana Lachesis and Lois Atropos, the designated ending and culmination. Beautiful work.
As someone who can never overdose of BfS I was already predisposed to like this, but your
excellent job of matching and enhancing the moments, both in music and motion, with lingering
traits from the other make this an unalloyed joy. "Singers that are mad at their dad" has rarely
been more apposite, and the occasional insertion of the Dark Knight somehow keeps the tone a
littler lighter than the crashing chords might otherwise create. Fun, beautifully put together and
surprising, like the lady.
Given the temporal looping which entwines Storybrooke, this operatically influenced, clearly
modern piece, exuding the same strong, traditional roots and fresh blossoms as the series, is a
wondrous accompaniment. There are such manifest forms of love, tried, true and tested beyond
breaking, in the vid as to portray with a pellucid palate the many lessons which were distilled
into folk tales. The endurance called for is called forth in the imagery, and the panoply of evil
and circumstance seen.
Like so much of grace and genius this has a gorgeous inevitability, but only in retrospect. There
are so many moments which gel in simplicity and essence, a multiplicity of meanings potent and
potential in such a simple phrase as "that passenger seat", thanks to the artistry and care with
which this was so clearly assembled. It was said of Shakespeare that he was "more original than
his originals", a heresy I cannot claim here, but as original is truly wondrous. Captivating and
flawless.
As expected from both Evanescence and yourself, there is a compressed power to vid and song
alike, a rapid recap of the classic and innovative elements which OUAT brought to the tale long
known. For myself, I particularly like the contrast I feel between the passive princess and the
active companion in the quest, since Aurora represents that "unawakened potential", in
psychological terms, and the Mulan figure is a carver of her own destiny. Evocative and
enthralling, as ever.

A fantastically plausible and redolent amalgam of imagery, harvested with such pellucid love the
term labour seems inapropos. There are such enthralling parallels betwixt and between Hermione
and Lily that it makes a kind of sense, particularly as portrayed here. For those who feel the
Greek fire within Severus which was never assuaged after his loss of love, there is a poultice of
perchance offered here. Innovative and bewitching - what more can one ask?
A thing of myriad beauties and a consummate joy - in other words, your usual impeccable
standard. The underlying thrumming pulse of the piece is elegantly reflected in those shards of
moments you pluck from the Clana plumage, and the sense that the world revolves around its
binary stars is enhanced by, for example, the fact that Lois doesn't come into focus as Clark
views Lana's farewell. Unfamiliar as I am with the specific song, it will hereafter be here
associated.
The only way a steel chair should be used, given what happened with Chris Benoit and countless
others to a lesser degree. If it's acknowledged as 'sports entertainment' I for one don't need the
blood, and I certainly don't need someone pointlessly sustaining severe and lifelong damage for
my amusement. Eddie's face as the 'unexpected opportunity' presented itself was proof of how
well a story can be sold and told without excessive injury.
'To a land of what might have been' summarises the Harm dynamic for somany, and this piece
wonderfully encapsulates the myriad protoverses in which something came of that possibility. I
particularly adore the use of the Lake task recovery for 'sudden silence, sudden heat' and the
wonderful way it seems like Harry's fault when Hermione is distressed after the ball. All in all, a
beauteous vision of great pith and clarity, weaving the threads of might have been from the cloth
constructed.
I cannot recollect another occasion or video where I have felt so clearly that a cloth of one
cutting has been more wonderously retailored by another. Every fold and waft of the garment, be
it song or sight, is redolent with intrinsic and recurrent imagery, every breeze of lyric or shift of
focus shaping the extant to new purpose. A truly breath-taking and breathing amalgam of what
could so easily have proven an assembly of off-cuts. A joy to which I shall, with undiminished
pleasure, return.
A beautiful glide of consummate skill through the profound humanity that Christopher imbued in
a godlike creature. The lyrics match in sense and sparkle the vibrant undercurrent of mortality
that this Superman always maintained in being Clark first and Kal-El second. A song suggesting
the potential for heroism in mankind - at least to me - is taken back in a picturesque manner to its
roots, and the hybrid flowers again and flourishes differently. A provocative and inspirational joy.
A scintillating, multifaceted reflection on one of the less highlighted pairings on SG-1, this
shows a profound insight into the interactions of two wonderfully skilled underplayers of

comedy. Your selection of moments is subtle, succint and utterly indicative of your chosen
theme, the 'flicks' between Daniels on 'Honey, Honey' hilarious, and (as noted) the possible
consequences of the 'limited gene pool', however fascinating, is highlighted to enthralling effect.
A true gem of the first water.
A compelling account of the many masks worn and traded by Vala, your agglomeration achieves
amalgam status thanks to the care and forethought which have so clearly attenede every element
of its construction. Purely personally, the varieties of 'fire within my soul, Ori and Goa'uld, as
well as the flickering instants which culminate in the vortex of 'Unending' aboard the Odyssey
serve gorgeously to elucidate the binary, bilateral pull which shrank a collapsing universe into a
mutual haven.
As ever, a gorgeous intertwining of lyric and light, verse and video, and whilst the destructive
globality of the title has the repetitive, pounding power of its namesake, the leitmotif of 'let me
in' threaded throughout the core of the piece counterpoints this drive with a conciliatory intent.
It's been a long time since this heady concoction was a part of my weekly intake, but as ever your
recipe blends the familiar and the quirky to deliver the original and unique.
The very essence of yearning in vocal velvet, the osculatory obfuscation that Clark so often
provided to take Lois' mind off the matter at hand, particularly when that moth of inquisition
fluttered too near the candle of his true identity, all these fold together in gorgeous layers to
create a concoction once more far greater than its glorious ingredients. A thing of beauty, and
thus a joy - forever.
The sense of an overwhelming Lois with whom even the metahuman Kal-El cannot entirely cope
is a compelling and intriguing image. That this is followed by a collage of moments in which
Lois' brittle and spiky armour comes to the fore in self-defence serves to highlight both, and the
'should've walked away' line reminds me of the wondrous balancing act performed in SV which
left me at least, a lifelong DC fan, with the feeling that Clois was far from inevitable - and
relishing that uncertainty.