...all this pain is an illusion...

Reblogged from marielikestodraw

marielikestodraw:

le-captain:

“It’s nice to meet you, Sebastian.”
“My pleasure, John. Can I call you John?”

Michael Fassbender as Sebastian Moran

I have lost the ability to can.

Holy Shit yes forever.  Colonel Sebastian Moran.

HEAD CANON ACCEPTED.

(Source: lesassycaptain)

Reblogged from hystericalwoman838

There you go, hystericalwoman838:

Homo Eroticus:

Actor of the moment

Michael Fassbender is perfect in the part of a self-destructive and devious sexual predator. Only one doubt: was he really reciting a part?

It’s two in the morning and I find myself in the Palassina Grossi, the club in Venice where the actors are having a drink, away from paparazzi and the chaos of the Lido. We’re not even halfway through the Festival but the conversational topic is already only one: Michael Fassbender. Journalists are talking about it between one screening and the other (“Have you seen this Fassbender? He’s really insane”); they talk excitedly about him the guests at parties, on the boats full of VIPs (“What do you say, shall we leave?” “No way, we’re waiting for the Fassbender”). When I get into the club, he’s there with his friend Eli Roth. He asks me what I’m drinking. I answer Vodka Tonic. The glass is not even in my hands when Roth, really pissed off, drags me and my friends in the middle of the party. Fassbender stays at the bar. He doesn’t talk with anyone. He’s quiet. He observes. One of the central scenes of Shame comes to mind, when Brandon and the boss go out together. The boss is his usual idiot and boasting self. He’s also married, but that night he needs something else. They go to a club and they hook up with a blonde. The boss is insistent, he showers her with compliments. Brandon doesn’t. He’s quiet, he observes. He’s a predator, he knows exactly when and how to strike. The night ends (illegible) with him and the blonde having sex in a dark corner of Manhattan, with their clothes still on. For a fraction of a second, with him leaning alone on that counter, the sensation is that Fassbender was not playing Brandon. In that moment Fassbender is Brandon. Maybe he’s become him. Maybe he always has been.

Reblogged from imogenation

Newsweek Oscar Roundtable (x)

Oh George.

(Source: francodave)

“The day I decided that Fass is an appropriate synonym for my first name”

…or…

“The man whose penis deserved an Oscar nomination as best supporting actor”

I was unsure on how to name this post, but then I realized that no one was going to actually read this text, so there.

He didn’t receive his Oscar nomination, we all know. What a shame (oh the pun I am so funny). But really, it’s a shame. I guess the Academy got themselves a little case of willy-envy (no-one to blame there), or they weren’t ready to give an award to an actor who spent 99% of screen time on his latest flick thinking about/plotting for/working at/having sex. Whatever.

Joking aside, the guy’s a really great actor. Not to mention hot. Very hot. Blindingly hot. Scruff, I love you. Lovely, lovely ginger scruff… ahem. I was saying. You haven’t seen Jane Eyre, yet? SHAME ON YOU (guh mother of the puns I am).  Go watch it. It’s worth every minute.

And ooooh, dear magnetic Erik how much we loved you.

(There’s no shame, Jimmy… he has that effect on everyone)

Last but not least, I can’t not mention HUNGER. Steve McQueen, people. That movie is GLORIOUS. Heart-wrenchingly, guttingly, horrifyingly glorious. Go watch that too. Now. Multiple times. Prepare the tissues.

Speaking of hungry… I wonder if this:

is the effect that meeting the Fass has on people…

Sure would work on me.

Well, I guess it’s all for today… Thank god Tuesday’s gone.

Off to dinner, then I’ll go watch Warrior. (Again)