Archive for the ‘ Editorial ’ Category
"The Great Wave off Kanagawa", Katsushika Hokusai
I finally caved in and decided to do a daily blog. These entries, called “Wave Foam”, will take the form of small reflections on news I encounter in my daily internet read. For obvious reasons, they will be much less substantial than my weekly updates, which I’ll try to keep unscathed by this new addition. Nevertheless, I will make these articles as incisive, provocatory, and (hopefully) interesting as all others. Hope you enjoy it.
Like any new means, when the video-game medium originated, it was an exciting, unexplored new world filled with promise. But like in any realm of the unknown, there were no guidelines on how to garner the potential of that vast reign of unfathomed possibilities, which lied feverishly in wait in the tips of programmers’ fingers. And it was precisely in that now distant moment of genesis, that the original sin of the video-game means was committed. The moment in which that glorious plain of infinite potential was transformed into the claustrophobic gallows of technological toys. But it was not a sin that came by chance, for it was the natural course of things taking its toll.
Video-games never were anything more than virtual shapes built on intrinsic webs of computer hardware and software. Such objects, much to our dismay, could only be crafted by engineers; with their front row seat in the creation of video-games, came the comprehensible urge to imprint a technological and scientific paradigm into them. Painters and sculptors would have surely thought differently, but alas, they knew not how to program in assembly. But even engineers were nothing more than modern craftsmen; they knew not how to mold video-games on their own, and thus had to seek outside influences for inspiration for that monumental task of creation.
Inspiration eventually came from games: from sports and tennis, to board-games like monopoly or go; these were the defining models that shaped the medium. There were many reasons for that misled choice: from the playful nature of the original video-game applications (“Nimrod”, “OXO”, “Tennis for Two”, “Spacewar!”) and consoles (such as the pivotal Magnavox Odyssey and the later ATARI Pong), which seemed perfect for a younger demographic, to the estrangement that most adults had with computers, which made it impossible to reach different audiences, down to the fact that it was a language that engineers understood, whilst art for example, was something well beyond their cultural and academic background. With these two worlds conceptually intertwined at the very conception of the medium, video-games soon became the technological counterpart, or evolution if you will, to traditional games… and thus it was that the word “video-game” was born.
In a quiet instant, computer engineering companies – Capcom (originally named Japan Capsule Computers), ATARI (which stemmed from Nolan Bushnell’s Syzygy Engineering), and game/toys/entertainment companies – Nintendo (which started in the hanafuda cards business), Sega (formerly named Standard Games, a company that built coin-operated amusements), Namco (initially devoted to building children rides), Konami (percussed by a jukebox rental and repair company) – had taken the leading role in the industry side of the medium, designing hardware and software applications. The origins of these companies subtly dictated their own orientations and the mind-sets of their creators, eventually determining what the video-game medium would stand for. Despite all the good that came from these and many other companies (e.g. the later Sony and Microsoft), they still ended up branding video-games with a specific image that, in the long term, has become prejudicial to their own business.
The term video-game is not neutral or associated with a vaster conceptual ground, like Cinema or Music are; video-games are seen as nothing more than computer games made to entertain little kids and adolescents. Just think on how close the aesthetic of a vast majority of games is to that of toys, action figures and cartoon series. And how similar, on an abstract level, is the interaction of games to that of a board or sports game. How equally inexpressive all these mediums are on an emotional level. That is why games are never associated with a powerful cultural medium that can take on artistic forms and expressions. If you’ve ever been to a museum showing an interactive media work, you won’t see the term “game” or “video-game” written underneath. Yet if you see a conceptual film, the word film will surely be in its description. This is the type of prejudice that has become associated with the term game… a prejudice that, in my opinion, is completely understandable.
But what malicious archetype is this, so strong that it can dictate the complete lack of depth and maturity that is pervasive to such a potentially powerful medium? What is this thing that sucks up so much artistic vision and technical prowess, that we so rarely get to experience something that escapes its clutches? And how come so many visionary works are understated and underrated in a vast sea of glorified computer toys, that have become the de facto standard of the means?
It is the sin of games’ ludic paradigm.
[In the next part I will address the reasons why games shouldn’t be just “games” and why ludism is such a malicious influence on an artistic medium. In the coming articles I will continue delving on these issues and explore how everyone can help change the current video-game landscape.]
Chris Crawford, despite being present at the very infancy of video-game development, achieved a thorough knowledge of the area, one that granted him a visionary insight over its future. In his book, “The Art of Computer Game Design”, he defined video-games, laid out the principles of game design (most of which stand today), delivered a possible games’ taxonomy out of a remarkably small number of titles, and even predicted how the industry would evolve, to a point only realized in the XXIst century – a heterogeneous marketplace (only possible today thanks to download services).
But there’s another idea in his text, one far more provocative and stunning than any of the rest – the idea that in the old days of 16 color screens, kilobyte sized memory, and assembly programming, Chris Crawford already regarded video-games as Art. As he himself admits, video-games couldn’t be further from “a Shakespeare play, a Tchaikowsky symphony, or a Van Gogh self portrait”, and yet he could already perceive the video-game equivalent of such masterpieces possible in the means! However, twenty seven years down the road, and such a statute seems far from being consolidated. In fact, most of Crawford’s criticisms still stand today: “computer games are much like candy, comic books, and cartoons”, “artistic flair has heretofore been treated as subordinate to technical prowess”, and as he had predicted, the market is still overrun “with blockbuster games, spin-off games, remake games, and tired complaints that computer games constitute a vast wasteland.”
I, for one, believe he was right, the potential for video-games to become a rightful form of art exists. One look at games like “ICO”, “Silent Hill 2”, “Gadget – Past as Future”, or my recently reviewed “Myst” and “D”, quickly reassures my heart that games can be Art. More so, the recent rise of the indie scene has allowed many new developers to find niche markets whose players have higher expectations for video-games – Jenova Chen’s “flower” and Auriea Harvey and Michaël Samyn’s “The Path” are but some of the most outstanding examples of this new trend.
And yet, despite all theses advances, the same teenager oriented industry and ludic design models remain. Talking about art in the context of video-games is still, let’s face it, wishful thinking. The small beacons of light that I mentioned beforehand are minuscule when compared to the ever growing cloud of darkness that dominates games’ landscape. Players, in general, don’t want to play new games (just compare established franchises’ sales when faced with new IP’s, such as the recent EA fiasco) or even artistic ventures (see the sales of PSN titles, of which only “flOw” makes it to the top ten). Game designers themselves, show little interest in creating interactive art instead of glorified tech toys. Publishers and producers just back up where the money is: shooters, platformers, role-playing, sports, and casual games still eat up the gross of video-game’s productions, with original titles that step out of the boundaries of tried and true formulas and established genres being harder to find than a needle in a haystack. Journalists on the other hand, instead of defending artsy ventures and breakthrough original games, as a way of helping the means evolve by educating and cultivating gamers, insist on valloring mediocre games that apply template design models, such as “Killzone 2”, “GTA IV” or “Gears of War 2”. Everyone says these games are “more fun”. Art games, on the orther hand, aren’t. In fact the whole industry seems to measure itself upon this generic, abstract equation of “fun”. Back in the ATARI days, Chris Crawford said that “Computer games are much like candy, comic books, and cartoons”. They still are. Just serves to show how little games have changed in this quarter of a century.
[In the coming articles I will delve further on these issues and explore how everyone can help change the current video-game landscape]
“Silent Hill” is often compared with its older sibling “Resident Evil”, from whence it drew inspiration, just as “Resident Evil” itself once borrowed from “Alone in the Dark”. Both however, presented a unique approach to the same set of interaction mechanics, using them in favor of their own designer philosophies. Unlike “Resident Evil”, the “Silent Hill” franchise wasn’t designed in reference to western horror, instead opting to uphold the cultural and aesthetic differences which make Japanese horror unique. Hideo Nakata and Ryoshi Kurosawa are some of the more obvious references on that front, as “Silent Hill” adopts the same flavor for the supernatural, psychological and aesthetic elements which made those movies unique in their genre. Which is not to say that “Silent Hill” doesn’t look up to western art, as there are numerous references to western authors, the most notable being “Silent Hill 2” – an obvious homage to David Lynch. But in “Silent Hill”, there are no B-movie references, no action game moods or easy scares – it’s all about anticipation, tension build up and psychological horror.
Like in any Japanese horror flick, “Silent Hill’s” main characters aren’t heroes, but ordinary people. In the first game, for instance, you play as a household father, Harry Mason, who is in desperate search for his missing daughter. He walks in a clumsy way, runs slowly and with considerable effort, panting heavily after any physical strain. He can’t shoot straight, or defend himself with a knife – he’s an average guy, just like you and me. If you manage to identify with him, it’s normal that you should feel afraid because he’s helpless towards the oppressive environment which surrounds him. Monsters abound in “Silent Hill”, allegoric figures which seem to be wrought by the deep corners of a Freudian nightmare, meshes of twisted sexual tendencies, perverted desires and bottled up hatreds, all molded into bizarre corpses of flesh and blood. They move in disturbing fashion, clumsily trotting, slithering like reptiles, or simply crawling in strange manners; the sounds they make are equally unsettling, screeching and growling in ways you simply have never heard anywhere else before. When you meet these macabre creations, you’ll try to figure out ‘what’ they are, how they move and, most importantly, how to avoid them. But even when forced to fight these monsters, “Silent Hill” never seems to focus on actual combat elements, such as quick reflexes, special moves or tactical positioning, instead opting to explore how these creatures make you feel through their aesthetic elements, behaviors and inherent symbolic nature. Combat is clunky and definitely not fun, and rightfully so, because its meant to make you feel uncomfortable. Most times, when trying to survive attacks, you simply shoot with whatever weapon you can find and hope to live through it, a fundamental difference from “Resident Evil”, where the focus is on the adrenaline rush of killing of monsters with powerful weapons. And though weapons do exist in “Silent Hill”, they are usually underpowered (there are one or two unfortunate exceptions), going from metal pipes to world war II carbines, none of which work particularly well in the hands of “Silent Hill’s” weak main characters.
But the game goes deeper than fleshing out weird beings to attack you, choosing to instill fear mostly through the anticipation of events, rather than the events themselves (a characteristic Japanese take on depictions of violence and horror). For example, one of the first items you get is a radio which emits an eerie static whenever monsters lurk nearby. Immediately after a few encounters, you start dreading the sound, because you know what it means – danger. The association of this simple sound effect with the existence of an upcoming menace is a simple example of how elegantly “Silent Hill” designers make you fear the unknown. And “Silent Hill” is definitely unknown territory. Preferring a surreal conceptualization over the Hollywood-esque pseudo-realism of “Resident Evil”, the gameworld is never bound by the laws of physics – anything can happen in “Silent Hill”, and I do mean anything. You may walk through a road only to find it ends in a gigantic, bottomless pit; day may turn into night in a blink of an eye while the sound of a military siren is heard from afar; a strange and brooding mist covers all buildings. There simply aren’t reliable rules in this fantastic world, and even the trusty radio and flashlight may fail when you least expect for some unknown reason. Strange and unique events constantly mess with preconceptions: a dark ghost may appear running out of nowhere, screeching like a little child, impervious to your actions; a room may have a giant head lurking with its eyes squirming with spasms; a mocking talk-show host can be heard when you’re riding the elevator to a floor which doesn’t exist – the sense of being lost in an alternate dimension, a “Twilight Zone”, is always present, making you feel discomfort, and really fear the twisted and unexpected events that occur in the game-world. Even human characters talk in strange ways, babbling about doomsday and strange occult rituals in mostly incoherent discourses, their facial features and emotional expressions, while definitely human and intensely dramatic, feel awkward and freakish, as if they were part of a hazy dream or a dark nightmare [you can check out some of Takayoshi’s glorious CG work for Silent Hill 1 and 2, in his website here].
The overall ambiance of the environment is what really sells the eerie phenomena which occurs in the accursed town. The white grainy fog which never goes away, blocking out sunlight from every frame of the game; the industrialist metallic constructions and sounds from the otherworld, oppressive in their constant bleakness and brownish, rusty red hues, which seem straight out of depictions of purgatory. Even as an art work, “Silent Hill” excels brilliantly, thanks to its wealth of visual influences, of which Francis Bacon seems to be a primary figure. Every single sight, sound and interaction is meant to produce an undeniable sense of displeasure, whether in the form of grotesque fiends or bizarre locations. To put it simply, “Silent Hill” is aimed at messing with your mind’s inner workings, instilling an unsettling sense of fear and foreboding. The problem now, is that all of these aspects which make “Silent Hill’s” so interesting as horror games were built on a Japanese conceptual frame, which makes me look with skepticism to the departure of the series to American studios, that are bound to interpret “Silent Hill” in a different way than the original Team Silent… something I’ll get to in the upcoming review.
[Next up is the proper review to “Silent Hill Homecoming”. These two texts are far from exhaustive, as I never intended to create a detailed meta-review of survival horror; I simply tried to show, in a simple and easily comprehensible way, what distances “Silent Hill” from other survival horror games, such as the “Resident Evil” series. Hopefully, this preamble will make my judgment of “Homecoming” all the more transparent.]
The opening of “Max Payne” shows the inside of an ice laden lake enshrouded in shadows, with only a small ray of light piercing the dark blue waters. Mark Wahlberg is drowning, his body floating away into the darkness as he mutters a gloomy monologue in his trademark coarse voice. Surrounding him, chained to the bottom of the lake, dozens of dead bodies lie afloat, completing a beautiful visual metaphor concerning Payne’s pain. Even if his monologue is deprived of the lyrical punch associated with “Max Payne’s” text (a product of its “hard boiled” novel roots), the initial thought that comes to your mind was that perhaps they finally got one right… but then the movie starts proper and you realize it was just a hope-filled illusion. As characters swerve by the screen, uttering unspeakable dialogue in wooden, robotic fashion, you start waking up to the fact that, once again, no respect was given to the source material. As if the plot was built on the game’s synopsis by thick writers (Beau Thorne) who didn’t even bother to sit through the game, characters, events and sequences are constantly removed from context, remixed and dumbed down so that their substance can match the density of the paper in which they were written, all as to produce a horribly ludicrous plot-holed script. The stylization of the game’s script is completely absent, its metaphors and allegories lightened into literal pieces of producer-friendly Hollywood trash. Characters only manage to keep their name, having new (and absurd) trappings and back-stories, like Jack Lupino, here transformed into a guinea pig for a super-soldier experiment gone wrong, complete with the visual apparatus of a comic book character (all muscles, no hair, always naked from the waist up, filled with menacing tattoos), and what do you know, he also moves like a badass comic book villain, lurking from rooftops, spying on the innocent, jumping all the time, and screaming like a gorilla whenever he needs his fix of Valkyr. It almost looks like a lame camp joke on “Batman” or “Spiderman”, but no, the movie is actually trying to keep it ‘serious’ for the masses. The lesson here, as in other adaptations (and yes, I’m looking at “Silent Hill”), is if you’re gonna translate a story from a game, might as well try to be faithful to it, because apparently, Hollywood writers commissioned to translate these adaptations can do a worse job then the allegedly mediocre videogame writers, and “Max Payne” is a text book example of this.
The actors, stuck with the horrible lines the idiotic writer penned, are usually as bad as he is (Mila Kunis and rapper boy Ludacris), and even when they aren’t (Mark Wahlberg and Beau Bridges), they can’t seem to deliver them with a straight face, as if they were conscious of the mediocrity of the whole affair. Needless to say, the director (John Moore) seems to have snoozed throughout the entire shooting, because he left some pretty awkward moments in actor performance go by the editing room untouched. Or maybe he was just too busy getting the stylized visual of the game right, because that at least, seems to be coherent with “Max Payne’s” aesthetic, even if the “chiaroscuro” effects have a CG-like quality that make it look a tad plastic. Worse even, is the attempt at using visuals and CG to further lighten the subtlety of some of the game’s themes, most notably, the Norse Mythology influences. As to make it perfectly clear that Valkyr junkies are mad, the movie actually shows scary and dark winged angels flying about, a foolish attempt to create tension in the audience. You’d think that such a crude undertaking of making the original work acceptable to no-brain masses would at least be able to amaze you with some dazzling John Woo shootouts, filled with explosions and broken sets… this is “Max Payne”, the shooter, right? Wrong. There are only a handful of action sequences, all so straightforward and forgettable, you’ll think why they even bothered putting them there. And of these, only one bullet time sequence… Yes, one. Not two, not three, just one. And you know what? It’s horrible, like everything else in this godforsaken movie. By the time you get to the ending, you’ll watch the intro again, now placed in context, and you’ll notice that it never was a metaphor or anything remotely deep. Max Payne was simply thrust by the bad guy into the lake to die (though only after carefully “explaining” the conspiracy to Max Payne, even if any spectator with half a neuron could figure it an hour before). And so, here is Max, surrounded by the victims of the big bad conspiracy, in the bottom of an icy lake, drowning… just like the movie. I, for once, hope it stays there. Unfortunately, the movie is open to a sequel (watch the after-credits sequence), and its box-office results are superb (it’s doing better than “W.”). And gamers still wonder why bad adaptations are made? It’s simple, people watch them and love them (gamers included), even when they’re pure waste of time and money, like “Max Payne” is. Thank God I don’t have to pay to go to the cinema.
