There are no fewer than four couples who come together in this romance. Yet Love's Labour's Lost carries a pretty dismal view of love, which is all the more ironic since the agreed-upon chronological ordering of Shakespeare's plays puts this one right before Romeo and Juliet. The plot is un-complicated - three scholars swear an oath to forgo women while they study, but fail en masse, each falling head-over-heels for one of three ladies who visit their court. Being intellectuals, they woo with language, each secretly writing poetry for their beloveds. (This is a source of comedy, but being Shakespeare, the poetry is excellent, and I'm considering using one of the sonnets for our own wedding.)
Language and its manipulators forms the real theme of this play, with lots of witty wordplay that modern readers can only appreciate at a snail's pace. As is typical with Shakespeare, much of the humor is supposed to come off as pretty bawdy - it's no surprise that these "lofty" minds are not so pure, but here the women also get their share of dirty jokes. Actually, the women seem to have a better time of it overall in this play, in contrast to the misogeny of comedies like Taming of the Shrew. One of the more fun things about Love's Labour's Lost is that the men fail entirely at impressing the ladies with cheap tricks, and end up looking like complete idiots. It's a small wonder that they aren't completely rejected, but instead are forced to hold off for a year before they can get some. In the end, it doesn't seem very likely that most of these guys will follow through with that, which makes this one of the most unromantic romances ever. (The only relationship in the play that seems like it will last begins with an unexpected pregnancy - Judd Apatow was clearly taking notes.)
Shakespeare subverts the modern ideals of love that we now trace back to Romeo and Juliet. In one of the most bizarre monologues, Berowne, who seems to me to be nearly as despicable a protagonist as Richard III, finds being in love to be a complete waste of time - according to him, the woman he loves is ugly, stupid, and probably a slut.
So in that respect the play's interesting. Unfortunately, all of the confusing wordplay keeps it from being much fun to watch in performance. Clare and I skipped the much-maligned and extremely loose Kenneth Branagh adaptation - with musical interludes, I kid you not - and resorted once again to the BBC version. They transplanted the action to an 18th century court, which actually worked quite well, since all of the witty banter is a clear predecessor to Moliere and the like. Unfortunately, it didn't rescue the play from the issues I mentioned.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The Music of Bioshock Infinite
Shortly after the main character of Bioshock Infinite arrives in Columbia, he comes across a barbershop quartet on a floating stage, singing a slow, wonderful rendition of the Beach Boys' 1966 classic "God Only Knows". The game takes place in 1912, and the song (as well as the nearby sign advertising "Music of the Future!") is our first indication that time travel will be involved in the plot.
This is one of several "anachronistic" songs that appear in the game - songs from the late 20th century that have arranged to sound contemporary to the period. Most of these are actually pretty tough to pick out, since they blend in with the music that is supposed to be contemporary. (I say "supposed" to be, since 1912 is just before the advent of recorded music, so most of the soundtrack was written in the 20's and 30's.) CCR's "Fortunate Son" is turned into a solo gospel song, and "Tainted Love" is stripped of synthesizers and turned into a high-tempo blues.
The original Bioshock was set in 1960 - it takes place in an underwater city that isolated itself from the rest of the world some time before that, so the soundtrack features a lot of swing-era jazz - no time travel involved here. As someone who listens to a lot of music from the time period, I am somewhat conflicted about the way that the series uses these songs. On the one hand, I appreciate the effort to give the game its proper historical context, and I have to admit, if I'm going to have to listen to Bobby Darin croon "Beyond the Sea", I'd prefer to do it at the bottom of the ocean. On the other hand, the developers are counting on that chilling juxtaposition between the placid, innocent music and the terror of being spotted by a Little Sister.
The real predecessor here is of course the opening cinematic to Fallout (and its sequels), which introduces its desolate nuclear wasteland to the comforting tones of The Ink Spots' "Maybe". It's perhaps the greatest cutscene of all time (I actually slightly prefer its sequel, but I'm a huge Louis Armstrong fan). But with the Bioshock games, and Fallout 3, it's veering close to cliche, similar to the way horror movies use classical music, as emotionally moving as it can be, to evoke the apathy and cold intellect of its villains. It cheapens the impact that old music can have, and besides, it's not what I want to be reminded of every time I listen to Django Reinhardt on my iPod.
Perhaps the developers of Bioshock Infinite were sympathetic, since most of the "old-timey" songs featured in the game are not licensed, but original versions. It's worth comparing some of these doppelgangers with the real deal, just to see how difficult it us to recapture the magic of the era. For example, the rather lifeless version of "After You've Gone" that appears in the main menu doesn't hold a candle to Bessie Smith's - admittedly, it's unfair to expect it to.
What is clear is that the performers had fun recreating the warbly, nasally vocals popular among male vocalists of the period - hear the game's version of another 80's classic, "Everybody Wants to Rule the World", which is strangely fun. My own tastes run to instrumental jazz performers, but in listening to these I've had to put up with a fair number of singers of this style. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you one of the strangest of the bunch, the utterly unique Lillie Delk Christian (who would have long ago vanished into the dustbins of history, were it not for her recordings with Louis Armstrong and most of his Hot Five.
This is one of several "anachronistic" songs that appear in the game - songs from the late 20th century that have arranged to sound contemporary to the period. Most of these are actually pretty tough to pick out, since they blend in with the music that is supposed to be contemporary. (I say "supposed" to be, since 1912 is just before the advent of recorded music, so most of the soundtrack was written in the 20's and 30's.) CCR's "Fortunate Son" is turned into a solo gospel song, and "Tainted Love" is stripped of synthesizers and turned into a high-tempo blues.
The original Bioshock was set in 1960 - it takes place in an underwater city that isolated itself from the rest of the world some time before that, so the soundtrack features a lot of swing-era jazz - no time travel involved here. As someone who listens to a lot of music from the time period, I am somewhat conflicted about the way that the series uses these songs. On the one hand, I appreciate the effort to give the game its proper historical context, and I have to admit, if I'm going to have to listen to Bobby Darin croon "Beyond the Sea", I'd prefer to do it at the bottom of the ocean. On the other hand, the developers are counting on that chilling juxtaposition between the placid, innocent music and the terror of being spotted by a Little Sister.
The real predecessor here is of course the opening cinematic to Fallout (and its sequels), which introduces its desolate nuclear wasteland to the comforting tones of The Ink Spots' "Maybe". It's perhaps the greatest cutscene of all time (I actually slightly prefer its sequel, but I'm a huge Louis Armstrong fan). But with the Bioshock games, and Fallout 3, it's veering close to cliche, similar to the way horror movies use classical music, as emotionally moving as it can be, to evoke the apathy and cold intellect of its villains. It cheapens the impact that old music can have, and besides, it's not what I want to be reminded of every time I listen to Django Reinhardt on my iPod.
Perhaps the developers of Bioshock Infinite were sympathetic, since most of the "old-timey" songs featured in the game are not licensed, but original versions. It's worth comparing some of these doppelgangers with the real deal, just to see how difficult it us to recapture the magic of the era. For example, the rather lifeless version of "After You've Gone" that appears in the main menu doesn't hold a candle to Bessie Smith's - admittedly, it's unfair to expect it to.
What is clear is that the performers had fun recreating the warbly, nasally vocals popular among male vocalists of the period - hear the game's version of another 80's classic, "Everybody Wants to Rule the World", which is strangely fun. My own tastes run to instrumental jazz performers, but in listening to these I've had to put up with a fair number of singers of this style. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you one of the strangest of the bunch, the utterly unique Lillie Delk Christian (who would have long ago vanished into the dustbins of history, were it not for her recordings with Louis Armstrong and most of his Hot Five.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
The Walking Dead (continued)
To add to (and slightly contradict) what I said a couple days ago, I thought I'd share this anecdote, part of my experience with the game. In the second-to-last episode, my group of survivors was making a quick getaway from a building full of zombies. One of the characters, whose name need not be divulged, gets in trouble, and my character Lee stops him from falling down a stairwell shaft. At this point, the game gives you the choice to drop him to save time.
Doing so would be a pretty heartless move, but the game provides some context for it. This particular character has been less than useful until now, being more of a hindrance than a help. He's well aware of this fact, and as he hangs there he actually asks you to let go of him. Also, the zombies are swarming up the stairwell, and in real life that might be incentive enough to drop the kid and run. But all this aside, it's still a pretty easy decision, and the vast majority of players saved him, as reported in the stats after the episode. Except me.
I played the game on Xbox 360, and when the game asks me whether I want to save him, I hammer on the 'yes' button. Or rather I hammer on an entirely different button, which I mistake to be the 'yes' button, but which actually does nothing. I'm an experienced gamer, but in the heat of the moment, I forgot where the X button was. When nothing happened, and the timer was about to run out (presumably indicating the zombies were about to kill me), I start to think that the game, for some crazy reason, doesn't want me to save him, and I press the 'drop him' button instead. In other words, I mistakenly, purposefully killed him.
At this point, I start to feel more than a little upset at the game, and at myself for being so stupid. Before the idea of restarting crosses my mind, I've already passed a checkpoint. The auto-save system is designed exactly to prevent re-dos, and so (probably) the only option would have been to restart the whole episode, which was nearly over at that point. I decided to keep playing, but I felt no less awful.
Other characters asked me what I was thinking, what could possibly have led me to drop him, and my only response was to remain silent, feeling shame. Lee had made a mistake. Or had he? Whenever something awful like this happens, we search our memories over and over again, wondering why we did it and trying to hide from the possibility that we meant to do it. In this case, the source of my mistake was clear to me, but Lee will never know exactly what was going through his mind.
Games occasionally allow us to make mistakes. If we don't button-mash fast enough in Metal Gear Solid, then Snake will give in to the torture and Meryl will die. But even so, we know Snake meant to save her. I would argue that no game before Walking Dead, and then only by sheer accident, has let the player express frailty of will. How a game could do this intentionally?
In my experience of Walking Dead, this was Lee's darkest hour, something he could never forgive himself for, and would not even try to justify to others. Don't get me wrong - to this day, my stomach churns just thinking about it, and I wish it hadn't happened. But it was the most crucial point in my character's development, and for me, it's one of the most emotional moments in my history with games.
The most meaningful choice in this game is the one I couldn't make correctly.
Doing so would be a pretty heartless move, but the game provides some context for it. This particular character has been less than useful until now, being more of a hindrance than a help. He's well aware of this fact, and as he hangs there he actually asks you to let go of him. Also, the zombies are swarming up the stairwell, and in real life that might be incentive enough to drop the kid and run. But all this aside, it's still a pretty easy decision, and the vast majority of players saved him, as reported in the stats after the episode. Except me.
I played the game on Xbox 360, and when the game asks me whether I want to save him, I hammer on the 'yes' button. Or rather I hammer on an entirely different button, which I mistake to be the 'yes' button, but which actually does nothing. I'm an experienced gamer, but in the heat of the moment, I forgot where the X button was. When nothing happened, and the timer was about to run out (presumably indicating the zombies were about to kill me), I start to think that the game, for some crazy reason, doesn't want me to save him, and I press the 'drop him' button instead. In other words, I mistakenly, purposefully killed him.
At this point, I start to feel more than a little upset at the game, and at myself for being so stupid. Before the idea of restarting crosses my mind, I've already passed a checkpoint. The auto-save system is designed exactly to prevent re-dos, and so (probably) the only option would have been to restart the whole episode, which was nearly over at that point. I decided to keep playing, but I felt no less awful.
Other characters asked me what I was thinking, what could possibly have led me to drop him, and my only response was to remain silent, feeling shame. Lee had made a mistake. Or had he? Whenever something awful like this happens, we search our memories over and over again, wondering why we did it and trying to hide from the possibility that we meant to do it. In this case, the source of my mistake was clear to me, but Lee will never know exactly what was going through his mind.
Games occasionally allow us to make mistakes. If we don't button-mash fast enough in Metal Gear Solid, then Snake will give in to the torture and Meryl will die. But even so, we know Snake meant to save her. I would argue that no game before Walking Dead, and then only by sheer accident, has let the player express frailty of will. How a game could do this intentionally?
In my experience of Walking Dead, this was Lee's darkest hour, something he could never forgive himself for, and would not even try to justify to others. Don't get me wrong - to this day, my stomach churns just thinking about it, and I wish it hadn't happened. But it was the most crucial point in my character's development, and for me, it's one of the most emotional moments in my history with games.
The most meaningful choice in this game is the one I couldn't make correctly.
Monday, June 10, 2013
The Walking Dead (Xbox 360, 2012)
I started reading the Walking Dead comic when I was in college, and the series was about 25 issues in. I was immediately drawn by the creator's focus on what would happen to ordinary people, forced to spend every ounce of their energy on day-to-day survival. The zombies almost seem like an afterthought at times - it becomes pretty clear early on that people have to worry far more about each other than about the undead. Six or seven years later, I'm now 107 issues in, and though the characters are much stronger, and their situation is somewhat more stable, things are still pretty much as grim as ever. Life goes on - there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I'm just as hooked as ever.
As a fan of the series, and of adventure games, you can guess that I was pretty excited about the adventure game, developed by Telltale, one of my favorite studios. And it's fair to say that the game surpassed all expectations, earning game of the year accolades from across the industry press. It certainly deserves all of its praise. So with that in mind, let's talk about how this game could have been even better.
But first, some words about what Telltale was trying to do. Many critics have expressed their surprise at the resurgence of the "classic" point-and-click* adventure game, with games like The Walking Dead. The definition of the adventure game has always been more about what isn't there and than what is, so I don't have a problem with applying the label in this case. But The Walking Dead is actually part of a very new trend, arguably starting with Quantic Dream's games, especially Heavy Rain.
I understand that Heavy Rain is not to many gamers' tastes. Like Indigo Prophecy, it's a weird mix of psychological thriller and science fiction, with many plot elements that I would not tolerate in other media. It also tries hard to maintain an intense mood all the time, and doesn't always succeed, usually because the mechanics are, well, ridiculous. But when Clare and I played it, none of that mattered. The game just worked for us, mostly because by some combination of design and chance I was never forced to restart a checkpoint, always getting through every situation on the skin of my teeth, my heart racing like crazy.
The real strength of this new type of adventure game, if we want to call it that, is pacing. Every potentially sticky part of the genre, from puzzles to exploration, is streamlined to keep the sense of momentum, in the service of maximum suspense. And I think it's the success of this approach that is going to radically change the genre, and possibly the whole games industry with it. Both of these games were suspenseful as hell.
The tremendous pacing in The Walking Dead is under-emphasized. The back-of-the-box selling point of The Walking Dead, and a focal point of many of the reviews I've read about, is choice. As I've written before, choice is overrated.
What is crucial to all games of this type, in my opinion, is the illusion of choice. This is actually what makes Heavy Rain a significant improvement over Indigo Prophecy. The earlier game, with its many Simon Says segments, feels like playing a minigame in order to continue watching a movie. In Heavy Rain, many of the mechanics are practically as silly, but the crucial difference is that the game encourages intent. You always know exactly what your character is trying to do, and in fact you've instigated this action (even if it may be the only option available), and dammit you're going to twirl your analog stick like a fool until you get him or her to do it. The Walking Dead also has similar moments of genius, where in a flash of insight (inherited from the adventure game model) you quickly find a solution to your problem, and you do what you can to carry it out. Most importantly, you don't stand around like a fool, wondering if you missed out on any content.
There are many instances of both games where I'm not sure if there were alternative approaches to my immediate problems. I'd like to think that there were, and the game is one big, open sandbox where I'm allowed to do anything I want, but I'm never going to test that hypothesis. For me, those situations are in the past, and these are not the kind of games where I enjoy testing the limits.
Where The Walking Dead runs into issues, despite its greatness, are in the capital-C "Choices" that are featured so heavily. Occasionally, the game asks you to make an important decision. A few of these are interesting thought experiments - do you try to have morals in a world where survival is paramount? (The unexpected results of one of these choices leads to one of the more far-fetched plot elements, but that's another issue entirely.) Most of these choices are somewhat obvious, at least for the type of character that I feel the game is trying to promote. And some of these are stupidly arbitrary - do I let person A or person B die? Well, obviously I would try to save them both, but the game doesn't seem to accept that option.
Even if all of these choices were interesting, we are left with the same problem that has plagued choice-based games since Knights of the Old Republic. Without really giving anything away, I'll say that there are two major paths for your character in The Walking Dead - be the guy who tries to save everyone at the expense of the whole group, or be willing to sacrifice everything to protect the one thing you care about. Whether you choose one or the other is probably a matter of personality more than anything else. However, when you allow either one, you prevent your writers and your voice actor (who's quite good, by the way) from strongly expressing the character's personality, and in the end, he's forced to become somewhat of a cipher.
Telltale tries to compensate for this by giving the main character a reason to hide his past. In the end, I didn't really connect with Lee, because I could never quite figure out how I should be playing him. (The main NPC, Clementine, is much better defined, and it's not hard to understand why she's so beloved by fans of the game.) The fundamental problem is that personalities are complex things, and I have yet to play a game that allows anything other than the most basic dichotomy. At least in this case the dichotomy is slightly more interesting than good versus evil.
That said, the game is amazing, and I'm not trying to keep you from playing it. Extremely excited about Season 2!
*The phrase 'point-and-click' at one time distinguished mouse-driven adventure games from those with a text parser. Now it appears to denote the whole genre itself, separating it from action-adventure games. This despite the fact that many adventure games are not played with a mouse, or even a cursor. How strange!
As a fan of the series, and of adventure games, you can guess that I was pretty excited about the adventure game, developed by Telltale, one of my favorite studios. And it's fair to say that the game surpassed all expectations, earning game of the year accolades from across the industry press. It certainly deserves all of its praise. So with that in mind, let's talk about how this game could have been even better.
But first, some words about what Telltale was trying to do. Many critics have expressed their surprise at the resurgence of the "classic" point-and-click* adventure game, with games like The Walking Dead. The definition of the adventure game has always been more about what isn't there and than what is, so I don't have a problem with applying the label in this case. But The Walking Dead is actually part of a very new trend, arguably starting with Quantic Dream's games, especially Heavy Rain.
I understand that Heavy Rain is not to many gamers' tastes. Like Indigo Prophecy, it's a weird mix of psychological thriller and science fiction, with many plot elements that I would not tolerate in other media. It also tries hard to maintain an intense mood all the time, and doesn't always succeed, usually because the mechanics are, well, ridiculous. But when Clare and I played it, none of that mattered. The game just worked for us, mostly because by some combination of design and chance I was never forced to restart a checkpoint, always getting through every situation on the skin of my teeth, my heart racing like crazy.
The real strength of this new type of adventure game, if we want to call it that, is pacing. Every potentially sticky part of the genre, from puzzles to exploration, is streamlined to keep the sense of momentum, in the service of maximum suspense. And I think it's the success of this approach that is going to radically change the genre, and possibly the whole games industry with it. Both of these games were suspenseful as hell.
The tremendous pacing in The Walking Dead is under-emphasized. The back-of-the-box selling point of The Walking Dead, and a focal point of many of the reviews I've read about, is choice. As I've written before, choice is overrated.
What is crucial to all games of this type, in my opinion, is the illusion of choice. This is actually what makes Heavy Rain a significant improvement over Indigo Prophecy. The earlier game, with its many Simon Says segments, feels like playing a minigame in order to continue watching a movie. In Heavy Rain, many of the mechanics are practically as silly, but the crucial difference is that the game encourages intent. You always know exactly what your character is trying to do, and in fact you've instigated this action (even if it may be the only option available), and dammit you're going to twirl your analog stick like a fool until you get him or her to do it. The Walking Dead also has similar moments of genius, where in a flash of insight (inherited from the adventure game model) you quickly find a solution to your problem, and you do what you can to carry it out. Most importantly, you don't stand around like a fool, wondering if you missed out on any content.
There are many instances of both games where I'm not sure if there were alternative approaches to my immediate problems. I'd like to think that there were, and the game is one big, open sandbox where I'm allowed to do anything I want, but I'm never going to test that hypothesis. For me, those situations are in the past, and these are not the kind of games where I enjoy testing the limits.
Where The Walking Dead runs into issues, despite its greatness, are in the capital-C "Choices" that are featured so heavily. Occasionally, the game asks you to make an important decision. A few of these are interesting thought experiments - do you try to have morals in a world where survival is paramount? (The unexpected results of one of these choices leads to one of the more far-fetched plot elements, but that's another issue entirely.) Most of these choices are somewhat obvious, at least for the type of character that I feel the game is trying to promote. And some of these are stupidly arbitrary - do I let person A or person B die? Well, obviously I would try to save them both, but the game doesn't seem to accept that option.
Even if all of these choices were interesting, we are left with the same problem that has plagued choice-based games since Knights of the Old Republic. Without really giving anything away, I'll say that there are two major paths for your character in The Walking Dead - be the guy who tries to save everyone at the expense of the whole group, or be willing to sacrifice everything to protect the one thing you care about. Whether you choose one or the other is probably a matter of personality more than anything else. However, when you allow either one, you prevent your writers and your voice actor (who's quite good, by the way) from strongly expressing the character's personality, and in the end, he's forced to become somewhat of a cipher.
Telltale tries to compensate for this by giving the main character a reason to hide his past. In the end, I didn't really connect with Lee, because I could never quite figure out how I should be playing him. (The main NPC, Clementine, is much better defined, and it's not hard to understand why she's so beloved by fans of the game.) The fundamental problem is that personalities are complex things, and I have yet to play a game that allows anything other than the most basic dichotomy. At least in this case the dichotomy is slightly more interesting than good versus evil.
That said, the game is amazing, and I'm not trying to keep you from playing it. Extremely excited about Season 2!
*The phrase 'point-and-click' at one time distinguished mouse-driven adventure games from those with a text parser. Now it appears to denote the whole genre itself, separating it from action-adventure games. This despite the fact that many adventure games are not played with a mouse, or even a cursor. How strange!
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Comedy of Errors
Over the past few months I've been engaged in yet another completionist project in the literary realm - an attempt to read all 38 of Shakespeare's plays. After finishing the Henry VI / Richard III tetralogy, I was quite relieved to see that the next play on my list was The Comedy of Errors. Although Richard III can be considered a rather dark comedy, I was definitely in the mood for something lighter. Errors, as anyone can guess from the name, is an extremely silly farce with a simple plot. A set of twins, with matching twin slaves, is separated at birth. When full-grown, they end up in the same town, and much confusion and general silliness ensues.
Of the third Shakespeare comedies I've read so far, this is definitely the one that keeps most of its humor today - it's a little more focused than Two Gentlemen of Verona, and more politically correct than Taming of the Shrew. Interestingly, much of the wordplay is still funny today - it has fewer expired puns.
After reading each play, I'm rewarding myself by watching an adaptation of each. For this I am eternally grateful to BBC's attempt to produce every one of Shakespeare's plays, sometime in the 80's. It's actually quite surprising how many of his plays have only this one film adaptation. As to be expected, the production values are quite low, but the acting is usually decent enough, the dialogue is at a reasonable pace (I'm looking at you, Olivier!), and they usually try to use the whole script, no matter how awkward that can be in some cases.
Their production of Errors - the only one I could find - is really good, sort of a hidden gem in my opinion. They add enough physicality to make it fun, without distracting too much from the script. Bizarrely, Roger Daltrey of the Who plays the twin slaves, both named Dromio, and does a surprisingly good job. The real joy to watch is the great Charles Gray, best known for playing the Criminologist (with NO NECK) in Rocky Horror. I tell you, that guy can class up even a Shakespeare play.
Of the third Shakespeare comedies I've read so far, this is definitely the one that keeps most of its humor today - it's a little more focused than Two Gentlemen of Verona, and more politically correct than Taming of the Shrew. Interestingly, much of the wordplay is still funny today - it has fewer expired puns.
After reading each play, I'm rewarding myself by watching an adaptation of each. For this I am eternally grateful to BBC's attempt to produce every one of Shakespeare's plays, sometime in the 80's. It's actually quite surprising how many of his plays have only this one film adaptation. As to be expected, the production values are quite low, but the acting is usually decent enough, the dialogue is at a reasonable pace (I'm looking at you, Olivier!), and they usually try to use the whole script, no matter how awkward that can be in some cases.
Their production of Errors - the only one I could find - is really good, sort of a hidden gem in my opinion. They add enough physicality to make it fun, without distracting too much from the script. Bizarrely, Roger Daltrey of the Who plays the twin slaves, both named Dromio, and does a surprisingly good job. The real joy to watch is the great Charles Gray, best known for playing the Criminologist (with NO NECK) in Rocky Horror. I tell you, that guy can class up even a Shakespeare play.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Frances Ha
When I was in college, A New Yorker article turned me on to the films of Andrew Bujalski and Joe Swanberg, the key directors in the "mumblecore" movement. Mumblecore is a somewhat meaningless term that has since been applied to any independent film that stars twenty-somethings. Bujalski and Swanberg themselves didn't like the term. But the style of filmmaking they pioneered was extremely radical, and it certainly deserved to be given a title. Their films were a revelation for me - here were actors speaking and behaving, to use a cliche, nothing like actors, and more like people I would meet every day at Reed. Both directors use largely improvised scenes and dialogue, but have the aesthetic sense to create something beautiful and raw with it.
Bujalski started the movement (his first film Funny Ha Ha came out in 2002), but has only released three films - a fourth is coming out this summer. The first two are excellent, but since then his style has evolved into something that is still great, but slightly less unique. Swanberg has been incredibly prolific - he put out 6 feature-length films in 2011 alone - but his later films can be difficult to see due to a general lack of availability on DVD.
Hannah Takes the Stairs was the first mumblecore film I saw, and it remains my favorite. For a long time, I attributed to Bujalski, but in fact it's Swanberg's, although Bujalski stars in it. The real star of that movie, who shows up in all of Swanberg's best (see Nights and Weekends and LOL), is the incredible Greta Gerwig.
All of this is meant to preface my thoughts on the movie Frances Ha, which stars Gerwig, who also cowrote the screenplay with the director, Noah Baumbach. This terrific movie is certainly not mumblecore - it was made with a strong script and exacting directorial vision. However, Gerwig's character shares a lot of similarities with the one in Hannah Takes the Stairs, with a slightly more happy-go-lucky bent. And I'm pleased that Gerwig's amazing acting style has survived her emergence a few years ago into the mainstream, since she has a naturalness that is truly unique and always fun to watch.
My only complaint with the movie is that Baumbach's story arcs are always a bit conventional, even if the way that he approaches them is not. This is very much a movie about a girl who is failing at life, until she finally figures shit out. But the character herself makes the movie great.
My local theater is awesome enough that it had a Skype Q and A with Gerwig after the film. Clare asked a great question, but I couldn't, because I wasn't sure how I was going to do so without gushing about how much I love her past films. But someone did ask her about her mumblecore films, and she made it clear that she was happy with the direction her career is going - word on the street is that she has yet another movie with Baumbach in the works.
Bujalski started the movement (his first film Funny Ha Ha came out in 2002), but has only released three films - a fourth is coming out this summer. The first two are excellent, but since then his style has evolved into something that is still great, but slightly less unique. Swanberg has been incredibly prolific - he put out 6 feature-length films in 2011 alone - but his later films can be difficult to see due to a general lack of availability on DVD.
Hannah Takes the Stairs was the first mumblecore film I saw, and it remains my favorite. For a long time, I attributed to Bujalski, but in fact it's Swanberg's, although Bujalski stars in it. The real star of that movie, who shows up in all of Swanberg's best (see Nights and Weekends and LOL), is the incredible Greta Gerwig.
All of this is meant to preface my thoughts on the movie Frances Ha, which stars Gerwig, who also cowrote the screenplay with the director, Noah Baumbach. This terrific movie is certainly not mumblecore - it was made with a strong script and exacting directorial vision. However, Gerwig's character shares a lot of similarities with the one in Hannah Takes the Stairs, with a slightly more happy-go-lucky bent. And I'm pleased that Gerwig's amazing acting style has survived her emergence a few years ago into the mainstream, since she has a naturalness that is truly unique and always fun to watch.
My only complaint with the movie is that Baumbach's story arcs are always a bit conventional, even if the way that he approaches them is not. This is very much a movie about a girl who is failing at life, until she finally figures shit out. But the character herself makes the movie great.
My local theater is awesome enough that it had a Skype Q and A with Gerwig after the film. Clare asked a great question, but I couldn't, because I wasn't sure how I was going to do so without gushing about how much I love her past films. But someone did ask her about her mumblecore films, and she made it clear that she was happy with the direction her career is going - word on the street is that she has yet another movie with Baumbach in the works.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Zelda Runthrough: Majora's Mask
One of the most important duties of the critic is to give proper due to forgotten and underappreciated works of art. With this in mind, I posit that Majora's Mask's relatively recent change in the public eye, from poor OoT copycat to beloved black sheep, is one of the greatest achievements of gaming's community of critics. This game has finally gotten the recognition it's due, and plenty of gamers now consider it their favorite in the series (and depending on my mood, I occasionally join them).
I have a complicated history with this game myself. After using my paper route money to buy this game and the N64 expansion pack I needed to play it, I was so disappointed with this game that I left it unfinished until a couple years ago. There are plenty of reasons for fans of Ocarina to be disappointed by its successor. The graphics look almost identical (despite the expansion pack), and the re-use of every single character model and mini-game makes Majora's Mask reek of cash-in. The three-day mechanic throws you for a loop, adding a layer of anxiety and claustrophobia, in contrast to the pre-GTA open world feel of Ocarina. And there's no sign of adult Link, one of my favorite aspects of the previous game.
One of the most bizarre things about Majora's Mask is that the game feels so different from Ocarina, despite looking and playing almost identically. If Ocarina is about being a kid dreaming of adulthood, then Majora's Mask is about facing harsh realities during adolescence. Suddenly, you're aware of the clock ticking, and of everything being about to change forever, and you struggle to hold on to the last vestiges of childhood.*
Majora's Mask is the darkest Zelda game since Zelda 2. If you let the three days pass without playing the Song of Time you watch a horrifying cutscene of the world ending (and lose three days worth of work, which I found out the hard way). The Sword of Damocles in the form of a giant, angry ball of rock hangs over your head at every instant. Yet there are pockets of light in the form of the wonderful side quests, where you bring joy and solace to the inhabitants of Termina. And even though you know that these accomplishments are completely erased with every rewind, you can't help but stay in the moment.
I may never put my finger on what makes this game so good, despite its many flaws. The original name of this game was Zelda Gaiden (Sidestory); this fact gives me the impression that the designers wanted to make the game personal, that they knew it wouldn't appeal to everyone. Along with all of the greatest Zelda games, Majora's Mask exists to invoke the past. What sets it apart is its willingness, for just three days, to take off the rose-colored glasses.
*I first played this game when I was 13 and my parents were getting divorced, so my interpretation is quite personal.
I have a complicated history with this game myself. After using my paper route money to buy this game and the N64 expansion pack I needed to play it, I was so disappointed with this game that I left it unfinished until a couple years ago. There are plenty of reasons for fans of Ocarina to be disappointed by its successor. The graphics look almost identical (despite the expansion pack), and the re-use of every single character model and mini-game makes Majora's Mask reek of cash-in. The three-day mechanic throws you for a loop, adding a layer of anxiety and claustrophobia, in contrast to the pre-GTA open world feel of Ocarina. And there's no sign of adult Link, one of my favorite aspects of the previous game.
One of the most bizarre things about Majora's Mask is that the game feels so different from Ocarina, despite looking and playing almost identically. If Ocarina is about being a kid dreaming of adulthood, then Majora's Mask is about facing harsh realities during adolescence. Suddenly, you're aware of the clock ticking, and of everything being about to change forever, and you struggle to hold on to the last vestiges of childhood.*
Majora's Mask is the darkest Zelda game since Zelda 2. If you let the three days pass without playing the Song of Time you watch a horrifying cutscene of the world ending (and lose three days worth of work, which I found out the hard way). The Sword of Damocles in the form of a giant, angry ball of rock hangs over your head at every instant. Yet there are pockets of light in the form of the wonderful side quests, where you bring joy and solace to the inhabitants of Termina. And even though you know that these accomplishments are completely erased with every rewind, you can't help but stay in the moment.
I may never put my finger on what makes this game so good, despite its many flaws. The original name of this game was Zelda Gaiden (Sidestory); this fact gives me the impression that the designers wanted to make the game personal, that they knew it wouldn't appeal to everyone. Along with all of the greatest Zelda games, Majora's Mask exists to invoke the past. What sets it apart is its willingness, for just three days, to take off the rose-colored glasses.
*I first played this game when I was 13 and my parents were getting divorced, so my interpretation is quite personal.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
The Swapper (PC, 2013)
The indie game movement has brought back a lot of genres that larger publishers weren't willing to touch anymore. First and foremost among these is the puzzle platformer. The forerunner of this movement, Braid, channeled themes from Super Mario Bros in a way that a lot of gamers found pretentious. I've read pieces, even from game critics I respect, who happily ignored the text at the beginning of every world. While I wasn't especially taken with the "story" of Braid, I did admire that its developer Jonathan Blow wanted us to explore the symbolism of his mechanics, and by proxy, those of SMB as well. (Nintendo should really be paying more attention to Blow, since SMB desperately needs to get out of its own damsel-in-distress rut.)
The Swapper is the latest game of this type. Here the mechanic is instant cloning. You have the ability to create clones of yourself with a sort of projection gun. These clones copy your exact movements. Your gun also allows you to transfer your "consciousness" between clones, since only the clone you're in control of can use the projection gun and pick up items. The puzzles here grow quite elaborate, as the environment has lights that partially restrict the use of your guns, and late in the game, gravity switching is involved. I'm a pretty seasoned puzzle lover, but I found some of the later ones in this game extremely difficult - one maddeningly simple-looking room kept me occupied for close to two hours.* When I finally figured it out, the accompanying elation made my day.
The game has a surprisingly strong story for being so short and puzzly, a sci-fi space venture that references the meaning of consciousness, and involving some telepathic rocks. I never got too involved by it though, especially since the game's interpretation of consciousness is akin to that of Freaky Friday's, and not to be taken too seriously. Although I'm not against a story in a game like this, it was the puzzles are what kept me engaged.
What absolutely needs to be said about this game (and Braid too) is that it is beautiful. This game, in its own 2D way, replicates what it would feel like to be in space far better than most games and movies, and some of the coolest sections in the game are these puzzleless zero-gravity areas, where you're using the force of your swapping gun to push yourself around, trying not to be too distracted by the gorgeous space scenery behind you.
Metroid is the obvious reference here (with the perspective, and the doors replicated exactly). I have to say, if the next Metroid game visually looks anything like this, I'll be thrilled.
*I tried taking a break, but my mind kept wandering back to the puzzle while I was watching the Judd Apatow comedy This is 40. This is not to speak ill of the movie, which was terrific. I'm not sure this is worth its own blog post, but I've found Apatow's later comedies to be strikingly good, despite their rather droll-sounding premises (Adam Sandler has cancer and is mean to everybody, and so forth).
The Swapper is the latest game of this type. Here the mechanic is instant cloning. You have the ability to create clones of yourself with a sort of projection gun. These clones copy your exact movements. Your gun also allows you to transfer your "consciousness" between clones, since only the clone you're in control of can use the projection gun and pick up items. The puzzles here grow quite elaborate, as the environment has lights that partially restrict the use of your guns, and late in the game, gravity switching is involved. I'm a pretty seasoned puzzle lover, but I found some of the later ones in this game extremely difficult - one maddeningly simple-looking room kept me occupied for close to two hours.* When I finally figured it out, the accompanying elation made my day.
The game has a surprisingly strong story for being so short and puzzly, a sci-fi space venture that references the meaning of consciousness, and involving some telepathic rocks. I never got too involved by it though, especially since the game's interpretation of consciousness is akin to that of Freaky Friday's, and not to be taken too seriously. Although I'm not against a story in a game like this, it was the puzzles are what kept me engaged.
What absolutely needs to be said about this game (and Braid too) is that it is beautiful. This game, in its own 2D way, replicates what it would feel like to be in space far better than most games and movies, and some of the coolest sections in the game are these puzzleless zero-gravity areas, where you're using the force of your swapping gun to push yourself around, trying not to be too distracted by the gorgeous space scenery behind you.
Metroid is the obvious reference here (with the perspective, and the doors replicated exactly). I have to say, if the next Metroid game visually looks anything like this, I'll be thrilled.
*I tried taking a break, but my mind kept wandering back to the puzzle while I was watching the Judd Apatow comedy This is 40. This is not to speak ill of the movie, which was terrific. I'm not sure this is worth its own blog post, but I've found Apatow's later comedies to be strikingly good, despite their rather droll-sounding premises (Adam Sandler has cancer and is mean to everybody, and so forth).
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