D – “Deranged”
Let’s be honest, “D” isn’t the type of game that will entertain you the way video-games usually do. It’s slow paced and introspective, and it simply isn’t meant to be fun in any way; it’s the sort of game that tries trying to engage players in a specific state of mind that doesn’t rely on actual pleasure, but in actual discomfort. In other words, it’s a true horror game.
You play as Laura, the daughter of a renown doctor who, out of the blue, starts murdering innocent people in an L.A. hospital. The police ask her to investigate why he’s gone mad, but once she enters the hospital she comes upon a strange portal. Like Laura, once you step through that portal, the comfortable, familiar reality you live in will suddenly crack open, and you’ll plunge into a nightmarish world concocted by her fathers’ mind. At first it seems you’ve only entered an old manor, but you’ll immediately notice that something about it feels distorted. It’s eerie and oppressive in every way, from the austere, claustrophobic design of the manor itself, built in weighty slab stones, to its dark baroque furniture and somber decoration patterns. As you slowly trot about, step after step after step, the sounds of footsteps echoing through the deserted halls, your eyes examining your surroundings, you come to understand that, like the dreamy fabric of your mind’s thoughts, the old house pays little heed to the enclosing limitations of physical reality. Its architecture and design is odd and impossible to replicate in the real world, not to mention that it’s filled with strange contraptions and deadly traps filled with corpses. And, like a typical haunted house, there’s always something odd and disconcerting waiting to jump out when you slowly turn the next corner.
Exploring that strange realm is handled like in “Myst“: a lonely adventure game in which you go about solving puzzles to find out more about the story that has passed. But whereas “Myst” strived on players’ sense of discovery and awe when faced with its aesthetic beauty and hidden secrets, “D” prefers to instill an eerie atmosphere of anticipation and dread face its hidden revelations. Inside that dark-stricken world, the atmosphere is cut-throat, with the slow tempo of the electronic soundtrack building up tension and giving emotional density to the limited detail of the pre-rendered visuals. But when there’s a new narrative revelation, you can see Laura’s face exploding with emotion (such boldness in an 1995 video-game!), and the game shifts into a barrage of super-fast, surreal imagery, which, like the memories of an amnesiac, are completely fragmented, only adding to the insanity and madness that surrounds you. The aesthetic and emotional contrast between those two moments is overwhelming, as you go from a vacant world of dead grays and quiet loneliness to a torrent of violent, blood-stricken images accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. This is Kenji Eno’s work at its best, crafting specific moods for the player to sink in, so that the game plays the player as if he were a piano: gently pacing him with a melancholic tune, quieting him until he settles in, only to then have him instantly revived with a powerful new crescendo that takes him to an emotional climax. It’s almost as if Eno, who sports an extensive musical background [of which you can read more about in Dieubussy's profile and interview, here], crafted the game as you’d compose music, trying to convey strong emotional impressions and abstract rationales, instead of devising something that could be deconstructed literally.
That is what ultimately elevates “D” to a horror masterpiece, the fact that its authors understood that the fundamental pillar of a horror piece lies in a sense of unknown and illogical, that can put players in an uncomfortable mindset which eventually leads to fear and foreboding. Even when the game comes into a conclusion, its mysteries are never fully revealed; what is unhooded serves only to add a whole new layer of interpretation – a frightening allegory over man’s transformation into monster – but its revelations never change the amorphous, bizarre and surreal nature of the tale. Nothing ever makes much sense in “D”, and the game is all the better because of it. At the very least, one must acknowledge “D’s” impact in its genre, with its tentaclous influences reaching the very best of the genre, from “Resident Evil” (the wonderful first person perspective doorway opening and stair-climbing sequences) to “Silent Hill” (in terms of the surreal ambiance). But “D” is a masterpiece by its own merit, a game that accomplishes that which so oft eludes video-games: the capability to provoke strong emotional reactions in players. And “D” can invoke in you such a host of visceral, sub-dermal and subconscious responses, that it will give you a whole new appreciation for horror video-games.
score: 5/5
Snatcher – “Childish Fiction”
Back in the 80’s, games couldn’t stand further from cinema; while film had already achieved its pinnacle as an art form, the state of the art for the video-game realm was embodied in the likes of Miyamoto’s “Legend of Zelda” or “Super Mario Bros.”. Good games not withstanding, these works were meant for young kids and teenagers, their cultural and artistic value being relatively small, if at all existent. It was then expected that video-game developers would turn, sooner or later, to cinema as a way of finding inspiration for video-games. The first steps in that direction were given in the late 80’s; amongst those early visionaries was Hideo Kojima.
“Metal Gear” (1987) was Kojima’s first video-game, an ode to Hollywood pop references of the 80’s, with “Rambo” serving as a major inspiration, but also borrowing elements from “Escape from New York” or “Terminator”. “Snatcher” was its followup, but then, Kojima chose to pay an hômage to one of the greatest movies of all times – “Blade Runner“. It’s impossible not to think too much about it, as every element in “Snatcher” seems to derive at some level, from Ridley Scott’s masterpiece: from the dark cyber-punk depiction of the future, to the ever-looming menace of a race of killer cyborgs (though in “Snatcher” they resemble more closely Cameron’s “Terminators” than the actual replicants), down to main characters’ personalities and visual characterization.
As an unofficial interactive translation to “Blade Runner”, “Snatcher” is a success. The player embarks on a noir mystery, searching for clues regarding the main character’s past, while simultaneously hunting down killer robots that mask themselves as humans. Despite the game being incredibly linear, there seems to have been a great effort in making players feel like a true Private Investigator, by making them solve clever criminal puzzles, through the discovery of each piece of evidence and its consequent interpretation. And though, in essence, the game plays like a simple text adventure game, it makes excellent use of its sparse aesthetic elements, using simple animations as a form of emulating film, and upping the tempo with well placed sound effects and music, which can heighten the sense of discovery of a particular clue or anticipate a nearby plot-twist. There are also a few shooting sequences to punctuate the investigation; these add a much needed surprise factor to whenever a cyborg is found, further enhancing tension while the player is investigating clues.
It is obvious that “Snatcher” goes as far as the medium could go at the time it was designed. Kojima creates his own devious world filled with his trademark post modern humor, and all these little references to Hollywood cinematography, but he never ceases to impregnate it with a consistency and level of detail that simply doesn’t exist in most games today, let alone those from twenty years ago. He also does a thorough background search on the scientific, social and political themes that he then molds and solidifies into an arresting thriller, filled with intrigue and drama. Like all of Kojima’s games, “Snatcher” elevates the writing quality of the means, in a search for the narrative depth that we grew accustomed to in cinema.
And yet, one can only get a bitter taste when Kojima so often invites a comparison between his video-games and the 7th art; a comparison to which all his games fall on the short end of. “Snatcher’s” aesthetic, while clearly inspired by the noir-ish ambiance of the movie, features warm color palettes [more prevalent in the later versions than in the less detailed, yet more consistent, MSX original] and an upbeat electro-jazz soundtrack, which clash severely with the gloomy dystopian mood. Kojima’s writing, though light-years ahead of his peers, is polluted with Anime tropes and immature sexual jokes that can only be seen as childish, especially when compared to the somber nature of “Blade Runner’s” drama. Not to mention that the most important story layer of “Blade Runner” – Philip K. Dick’s own existential dilemmas – is completely absent from the video-game; in exchange, we get a story about an egomaniacal soviet scientist who wants to take over the world. In film, we get a powerful existentialist science fiction drama, but in the video-game version, we get a Saturday morning Japanese cartoon… sadly, it’s the story of our means.
score: 4/5
Myst – “Journeying Through Ages Past”
When I first laid my eyes on the Miller brothers’ “Myst”, I knew it was something different. I couldn’t quite grasp what it was at the time – I was only twelve you see – but it was powerful enough to stay lurking in the back of my brain for all these years. My father, a man who appreciates cinema and classical music, but thoroughly belittles video-games, looked at “Myst” and sensed the same thing I now do: amazement. He couldn’t understand it, just as I couldn’t have, but he perceived enough to know it was special. And special “Myst” is, of that there is no doubt. It is as special as only a handful of video-games have ever been.
Like the player, the game’s main character is literally thrown into an island covered in mist, surrounded by an endlessly sprawling sea. Left entirely alone, the player is invited to embark on a voyage of discovery through a strange world, in hopes of deciphering its origins, and the reasons behind its emptiness and desolation. Faced with the ceaseless solitude, you can hear the gentle sound of the waves hitting shore, the sea breeze blowing softly, even bird’s chanting at times; your mind gently enters a state of calm and introspection. As you explore the scenery, lulled by its soothing ambiance, you encounter a dreamy realm, filled with breathtakingly beautiful natural scenery, but also an eerie mix of human constructions, from an impressive dome of classical architecture, to a sunken ship made of stone, not to mention a Jules Vernesque flying rocket. These remnants of the island’s inhabitants are the narrators of the story, as each building holds inside its history, either literally inscribed in it, in the writings of lost journals, or present in more subtle ways: imbued in its architecture, decoration or secret puzzles.
The puzzles thereby serve as the perfect metaphor for the unveiling of the hidden mysteries of the land. Solving them is a delight, not only because the game’s simple interface and elegant design makes them brilliant exercises of deductive reasoning, but also because they blend beautifully in the landscape, becoming a seamless part of that world. Simply put, every image, sound and object in “Myst” is a clue, making the aesthetic itself a part of the puzzle, a physical materialization of the secrets of the realms of “Myst”. The haunting atmosphere also becomes the embodiment of that story of ages past, with its atmospheric soundtrack (Robyn Miller) and realistic sound effects (Chris Brandkamp) serving as a natural complement to the surreal imagery.
“Myst” is a spatial painting that players are invited to explore with their senses, but also an enigma which they must decipher with their minds. A hypnotizing interactive museum built in a world of utopia, where players are enticed to unveil the shrouding mystery that covers its past. More than anything, it’s a journey through many different, fantastic universes, a mesh of places where magic and technology merge into physical marvels that one can only observe in wonder; places where the most idyllic dreams of men have become a reality… All of this, condensed into an arresting piece of interactive entertainment and art. In other words, a Masterpiece.
score: 5/5
Project Zero II – “Dark Corners”
Japanese folklore is riddled with ghost stories, dark tales of the occult about strange rituals that occur somewhere in the long forgotten villages of the Japanese countryside, where the light of rationalism hasn’t yet shun way obscurantism. To westerners such as myself, these tales are bizarre and shocking, reveling in a paraphernalia of symbols and religious undertones of which we have but the shallowest of understandings. Their inherent estrangement to our cultural and aesthetic frame of reference makes them intriguing and fascinating, not to mention particularly effective in the conveying of fear. Thanks to the success of films such as “Ringu” and “Ju-On”, these tales have become obligatory pop-references around the world. Unfortunately, in the video-game landscape, with its regional and linguist protectionism, horror-themed Japanese works are a rarity to those who live in the left half of the globe. Even “Silent Hill“, which shares a spiritual relationship with traditional forms of Japanese Horror, dilutes it in a sea of western influenced ideas and themes. It’s for this reason, that video-game series like “Project Zero” or “Siren” are somewhat special, as they are the few glimpses of traditional Japanese horror that we have access to. In that regard, “Project Zero II – Crimson Butterfly” is as close to that specific universe as we’ll probably ever get.
“Project Zero II” is a tragic tale of horror, featuring a pair of twins who one day, wander around a forest, only to find themselves trapped in a ghost town, named “All God’s Village”, which… no longer exists. It’s similar, on many levels, to its predecessor, featuring a traditional tale about sacrifice, the upholding of tradition, the respect for higher powers, and its inevitable clash with each individual’s spirit and feelings. However, this time around, the story focuses more coherently on the relationship between the main characters (the two siblings), achieving greater emotional impact and depth in characterization. It’s post-”ICO” in that way, but whereas in Ueda’s masterpiece the love relationship was implied in narrative and deepened through interaction, “Crimson Butterfly” settles with the former. Despite that, putting emotional drive on the forefront of a game is rare, especially considering the delicate nature of “Project Zero’s” female protagonists.
Exploring “All God’s Village” is facing the dark and the oppressive: the dead silence of the surrounding woods is only matched by the decrepit nature of the ancient village, with its crumbling edifices casting their shadows over the scarce moonlight. The dirty halls of the houses pave room for an astonishing mise-en-scéne, with careful lighting patterns illuminating the dark corners of the haunted halls and traditional Japanese decoration establishing the set’s mood with consistency and attention to detail. Akira Nishimura, art designer, accomplished a real feat here, by being able to produce such an intricate set, while resorting to a relatively small budget.
However, as is so common in the means, things get fiddly on a purely interactive level. Whilst Makoto Shibata (director) and his “Project Zero” team show that they’ve come to understand how traditional Japanese horror works in literature and cinema, they fail in properly adapting its structural form and aesthetic to the interactive dimension. Though “Project Zero II” is, most of the time, a by the numbers, well paced action-adventure game, with simple puzzles and exploration sequences, its main grab comes from its combat system, implemented by the “Camera Obscura”, a camera capable of exorcising demons and other-worldly figures. Never mind the verisimilitude of such an item, the bottom line is that it works as a way of putting the player face to face with the ghosts that the game throws at him. And by using the first person perspective, the game heightens the subjective feel of the apparitions, playing with players’ tension and making them all the more conscious of the game’s protagonist’s sensation upon encountering such spirits. However, it seems the game designers thought this game mechanic to be too good to avoid exploring to its fullest, and so, to what was a natural, aesthetically unobtrusive battle system, they added a plethora of game-y interfaces and power ups, not to mention a point driven level up system, as ways to enhance the system’s ludic aspects. Suffice to say, they hurt the dramatic core of the game’s narrative, and its aesthetic cohesiveness, adding an excessively noisy design layer to what should obviously be a moody experience.
Unlike “Silent Hill”, “Project Zero” isn’t able to come to full fruition as a horror video-game, mostly due to its lack of maturity in the interactive department, with its game-y ideas breaking away the foreboding atmosphere that the art design and soundtrack so laboriously work to achieve. However, “Crimson Butterfly” can still translate to the video-game means most of what makes traditional Japanese Horror unique, by serving as the perfect embodiment of its aesthetic and narrative expression. That is what ultimately allows players to be taken to that unpleasant place to which they dare not go: the dark corners of the human mind, those dark recesses of evil, where fears take the shape of monsters and the dead shadows of the past come back to life… that frightening place where we must face our sins.
score: 4/5
The Longest Journey – “The Hero’s Adventure”
“The Longest Journey” is a classic Adventure game… it almost sounds like a dirty word calling it a “classic adventure”. It’s probably the result of the genre withering away, turned into a past memory that isn’t always the most pleasing. There’s certainly a reason for the death and subsequent shun of the genre, and it partially resides on a range of defects shared by all adventure games; “The Longest Journey” is no exception. Illogical or obtuse puzzles and the thorough use of pixel hunting (the obnoxious habit of devious developers to hide obligatory items in the visual clutter of 2D scenarios) were the only vehicles used in the genre to generate difficulty and challenge, therefore transforming a narrative experience into a game ‘proper’; the truth is that these elements would just end up spoiling the experience. But, putting genre idiosyncrasies aside, as they aren’t really that important, especially in this day and age (we’ve got GameFaqs to thank for that), “The Longest Journey” is a wonderful game because, like all the greatest references in its genre, it focuses on narrative instead of gameplay.
The journey mentioned in the title is that of April Ryan, a normal young woman, full of aspirations and dreams, who’s working her way through college. One night, her dreams become strangely vivid, even though inside them, she encounters a magical realm where dragons and other creatures abide. Later, of course, she finds out that the dreams really were real: images and sounds from a dimension that was once a part of our world… and so she embarks on a journey to save the universe from chaos and destruction. I’m serious, that’s how the story goes. The plot is a by the numbers application of “The Hero’s Journey” (a structure common to most mythological and religious texts, as extracted by Joseph Campbell): it involves an other-wordily place unbeknownst to all but a select few, a young hero that has been chosen by prophecy to save the universe and restore balance, forced to travel to that other-world in search of some magical artifacts, in the process facing numerous trials that allow for his coming of age and the transcending of his inner flaws, and by doing so, eventually freeing the world from evil. “The Hero’s Journey” is a framework like any other, it’s effectiveness is determined solely by the quality of the writer of the work, and how he develops the narrative structure into a story proper. Ragnar Tørnquist (producer, designer and writer), has a vivid, colorful imagination that blends High Fantasy, Sci-Fi and even some New Age religion into a lush magical world populated by original creatures and civilizations. His writing is engaging, cohesive and extensive, not to mention marvelously brought to life thanks to the stunning art design, which transforms each fantasy piece into a breathtaking digital painting. Like in all fantasy novels, there’s a certain sense of wonder and bewilderment on the account of the aesthetic beauty, as if you were staring at a bright, yet hazy dream, an odd mix of the alien and unknown with the idyllic engulfing your senses and bringing about your inner child’s imagination. Tørnquist’s world is so intriguing and inviting, that you can’t but help delve in, just as April Ryan does.
However, though the world is detailed and its lore superbly written, the characters that populate it aren’t always so. In part because of the work’s relationship with the “Hero’s Journey”, but also because of inspiration taken from classical LucasArts’ adventures (“Monkey Island”), “The Longest Journey” characters often are a high fantasy archetype stripped to its barest form (the hero, the villain, the mentor), adorned with some nonsensical, post-modern humor traits, which seem straight out of a comedic cartoon. These are, for the most part, not funny, and mix poorly with the high fantasy aesthetic, not to mention that they trivialize characters, some of which, who are later involved in dramatic episodes that end up losing some of its impact. The main character is the biggest downfall, as she keeps hopping from a compassionate and intelligent youngster, worried about the fate the world and its people, to a dumb, pompous brat, shooting silly one-liner jokes left and right, and always whining about “why won’t nobody tell me the truth?”, “why must I be the chosen one?”, “why must I sacrifice everything?”, etc, etc. It’s inconsistent, annoying and a constant mood-breaker. That’s not to say that there aren’t powerful, dramatic, or incredibly funny scenes (the sidekick, crow, is a good example of a comedic character that isn’t disruptive), but all it takes in one ill-devised dialogue line to breakup suspension of disbelief. The voice acting that comes with the characters is on par with the text: it’s extensive and elaborate, but when it goes down the path of predictable comedic tropes, it tends to stumble, becoming absurd and unfunny.
Despite the disastrous attempt at mimicking LucasArts’ humor, the storyline is what eventually makes “The Longest Journey” a thrilling experience. The universe devised by Tørnquist is truly amazing, and the plot’s climax, with its twists and turns, is sure to make you jump out of your chair in enthusiasm. It’s not Tolkien, it’s not even Lucas, but in videogames, what is? Sure, it can lack the proper tone, and the absence of a meaty subtext to all of the story can be a bit disheartening (at least, one that goes beyond “The Hero’s Journey” main themes), but there’s such a shortage for good (fantasy) writing in the means that it is doubtful anyone will care about such a small mishap. Whatever case it may be, the simple truth is that “The Longest Journey” is an astonishing game inside the frame of its genre. It wasn’t innovative or groundbreaking at the time of its release, and certainly isn’t today, but it exuded a care with aesthetic and narrative uncommon to most videogames; the fact that it came from a Norwegian developer only adds to the value of such a delicate, pondered work. And to enter this mystical land of fantasy all it takes is your commitment to look past the oddities that doomed Adventure games to extinction… and that’s not such a steep price for such a magical journey, is it?
