//------------------------------// // Chapter 8 // Story: Wes Andercolt // by GaPJaxie //------------------------------// Channel 7: Cultural Programming “And,” the interviewer indicates Rarity with a pencil, “you hired Spike to be your director?” “No, absolutely not.” Rarity waves away the suggestion. “Why would I have? He’d never directed before. I hired Photo Finish, but three weeks into filming she was in a carriage accident and got severe concussion. She had to drop out. So then I hired Thorax, but he wanted all sorts of changes to the script to fit the changeling notion of ‘love.’ After three weeks I had to say it wasn’t working out and we let him go, and with all the staff standing around, the studio rented, we’re burning money doing nothing. So I finally tell Spike, have at it. Let’s shoot a few of these scenes and see if it looks decent.” “A decision that was heavily criticized at the time,” the interviewer says. “Reviewers described the film’s editing and cinematography as ‘amateurish’ and Like Fine Wine launched to mediocre reviews. As I understand it, you didn’t even make back your initial investment.” “And yet,” Spike cuts in. “You’re here interviewing us about it twenty years later, because reviewers can write what they like, but audiences know a good movie. Like Fine Wine was popular with the dragon community from day one. Kiln was an inspiration to many young drakes living in pony society. It became a cult hit in certain pony circles. And its popularity has only grown with time. Two years ago, the Draco-Equestrian society recognized it as a film of cultural significance, we’re releasing the extended director’s cut on laserdisc this fall.” “So, nothing you’d change if you could do it all again?” The interviewer’s tone turns interrogative, even faintly critical. “Even though it was your first time directing and you had no experience?” “Like Fine Wine was a masterpiece, and the reviewers who panned it wouldn’t know good cinematography if it bit them—” “No, darling,” Rarity laughs, reaching back to run a hoof over Spike’s talons. “Only one of us can swear or they won’t run the interview. And let’s not get too proud of ourselves. We had a shoestring budget and the forest scenes were shot in a rented public park, so I didn’t think we’d win an Oscar for Best Visual Effects.  But yes, Spike did good work. And I’m very glad to have launched his career as an independent director.” The interviewer arches a single bushy eyebrow. “It does seem like the way you told that story, it was mostly about you.” “It was mostly about her,” Spike cuts in, his tone firm. “If I’d told the story like it was mostly about me, you wouldn’t have questioned it. If you want a story where I’m the main character, you can ask me about the first time I directed a film without her, or about learning to be a director generally. There were a lot of times there I had to fly on my own. But, Like Fine Wine? No. I was her supporting cast there.” “You’re very modest,” the interviewer turns his attention to Spike, offering a small nod. “Spike is many things,” Rarity cuts in. “But modest is not one of them. As a director, he is nitpicky and demanding, insisting that what is on the film perfectly matches the vision in his head. As a friend, he’s high-maintenance. And as he alluded to his love life earlier, I promise, he absolutely does not hesitate to walk up to the most attractive mare in the room and introduce himself as the most attractive stallion. He has a very high appraisal of his own abilities.” She hesitates a moment, then continues: “But I think that, all too often, we confuse self-confidence and insecurity, because the insecure are the ones who constantly talk about how great they are. Real self-confidence means being comfortable not being the most important creature in the room. Being comfortable with not being in charge. Not being impressive. That’s what Spike is.” “It sounds like insecurity was a theme of your early relationship,” the interviewer says. “If that’s not too personal a question.” “Well first,” Rarity answers, voice quick and sing-song, “it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Second, it is absolutely too personal, and you should be ashamed. But third, yes. Yes, you’re right.” She lapses into silence for a moment, and neither Spike nor the interviewer interrupts. Her eyes turn directly to the camera, a little faux-pas, seemingly beneath such an experienced actor. The moment is uncomfortable for all involved, as her eyes seem to bore directly through the screen. “I’m past the age where I can have children,” she says, snapping out of the moment and turning back to the interviewer. “I never wanted foals. I never wanted a family. I don’t feel I missed any opportunity or… or regret that decision. But on the day I realized that opportunity had passed me, I cried. Because I don’t have the sort of real, quiet self-confidence Spike has. I have the insecure kind.” She reaches into her pocket for a cigarette, pulls out a toothpick, glances down at it and sighs. “Most ponies have that kind of self-confidence. Particularly, I think, most mares. Society conditions us to have it. I was often told growing up that the thing in the world I most had to look forward to was finding a stallion and getting pregnant. And while I rejected that when I became an adult, I suppose on some level I saw myself like a petulant teenager, stomping her hoof and insisting she knows better than her elders.” Spike reaches down to her as she continues, his talons scratching her back like she was his cat. She doesn’t seem to mind: “There’s no way to escape it. If a mare is ugly, she’s told she’s worth less for being ugly. If she’s beautiful, she’s told she’s lucky for it. That she’ll be successful in life because of her appearance. Either way, the message is the same. A mare’s worth lies in the eyes of others. And when everypony around you says something, it’s hard not to start believing it.” She reaches a hoof back to pause the motion of Spike’s talons, resting her hoof over him there. “We’re told that if a stallion doesn’t use his strength to hurt us, that makes him a gentleman. We’re told we should be grateful. Instead of being told that’s the basic ■■■■■■■ minimum to be not be a miserable ■■■■-■■■■ of a creature. We’re told to welcome the attention, and if we don’t, that we’re ingrates.” She removes her hoof, and asides to Spike: “Though you can continue dear, my back was getting itchy.” That makes a small round of laughter pass through the room, all three creatures chuckling. It dispels the tension, before Rarity turns back to the topic at hoof. “My first ever acting role was in a pizza commercial. And yes, your dramatization got that right. I gave a stallion a ■■■■-■■■ to get it. And I felt lucky. Ugly mares wouldn’t have gotten that opportunity. Looking back, it was all so toxic. I suppose it always has been. Iron…” She trails off for several seconds, evidently lost in thought. “What Iron Will said that day didn’t hurt me because he said it. I’ve been insulted by stallions, mares, diamond dogs, dragons, griffons, changelings, alicorns, and not given a ■■■■. A minotaur insulting me isn’t any different. What he said hurt me because I already believed it. That when a mare turns fifty, her life is over. No more romance, no more foals, no more attention. All the things that my parents told me were important are over. All that’s left is knitting or cooking or some other ■■■■■■■■ hobby, and sitting around my apartment waiting for death.” “Well,” the interviewer says, “that’s hardly what you’ve done.” “No, I think I’ve had some spectacular adventures since I turned fifty,” Rarity agrees. “Filming Like Fine Wine not the least among them. But that movie wasn’t to flip Iron Will off. It wasn’t about spite or revenge, though I admit I did enjoy both of those aspects a great deal. It was about the fact that… confidence isn’t something Iron Will, or Spike, or anypony else could give me. It’s something that has to be found internally. Spike helped with that. He was very kind. He supported me when I needed support. But in the end that was all he could do. Support. I had to be the one to actually…” She then runs out of things to say, trailing off for the third time. The interviewer cuts in: “I thought you gave a wonderful performance.” “Thank you,” Rarity nods, a soft smile on her face. “I was proud of it.” “If I can ask one more question, while we’re on this personal thread,” the interviewer says, flicking his eyes between Rarity and Spike. “You two are obviously quite close. And you met while shooting a film about a romance between a dragon and a pony. Was there ever anything between you two?” “Ah,” Spike clears his throat. “A gentledrake never tells.” “Because the answer is ‘no,’” Rarity cuts in, turning her head to look up at him. “We have been platonic friends for twenty years.” “I mean, we’ve flirted.” “Have we? When? Specifically?” she counters, eyes narrow. “You are right now letting me hold you like a cat and scratch your haunches,” he insists, tone turning faintly defensive “This a very public display of physical affection!” “Well it’s all well and good that you feel affection for me, Spike,” she snorts and tosses her mane. “But that simply isn’t the same as us being in a romantic relationship.” “What are you doing?” Spike lowers his head and his voice to speak to Rarity directly. “Why are you doing this on camera?” “Why am I doing it?” Rarity grouses, hoof over her heart. “You had a harem! Do you need me as another notch on your bedpost? Is that critical to your ego?” “I did not have a harem, I was in a polyamorous relationship.” “When a stallion,” she hisses through her teeth, “is in a ‘polyamorous relationship’ with three smoking hot young mares who drip off him in public, we call that a harem. I’m glad that this is a thing for you but-” Abruptly, the picture cuts out, replaced with scrolling text. EVERYTHING IN THE CAPITAL IS FINE DUE TO A ROUTINE TEST OF TRANSMISSION EQUIPMENT, ALL TV AND RADIO STATIONS WILL PLAY THE NATIONAL ANTHEM UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE