Violence and Entertainment

Literature, whether it books, film or video games, has constantly been under attack. Whether it the personal beliefs of the creator or one aspect of the story believed to be ‘distasteful’.

Of course as time progressed, books became a gold standard for us, and escaped any fundamental criticism, this criticism being the kind that comes from your typical suburbanized *peaches and daisies* smiling bimbo, who shrieks at her husband ‘Think of the children!’ for merely whispering ‘damn president’s a wasp’

Unfortunately, the acceptance of books in culture did not stop these pitchfork wielding activists. They instead turned on the new; first films and now of course video games.

They accuse the mediums as a whole of promoting sexism, violence and racism.

While all these accusations are incredibly disagreeable, there is one argument that these pathetic believers have levelled at all storytelling mediums, one argument that has always been around, and one that makes my blood boil like it never has before when involving art. And that is of course, the idea that fictional violence is somehow ‘wrong’, and should not be part of entertainment.  

The tone of these pathetic whinets argument implies that those who enjoy fictional violence are barbaric, and that violence is merely a device tacked on to true ‘art’ or entertainment. Their argument is silly and pointless. I don’t think this, I know this. Since as far back as the beginnings of what inspired/created our modern cultures, violence (both real and fictional) has not only been a part of entertainment, but actually was, and still is entertainment.

For example the Greek poet and Philosopher ‘Homer’ was an incredibly well-respected man, who is one of those little-ancient Greeks who is said to have had a huge influence on our culture and literature. For the sake of brevity I’m butchering a lot of huge essays on this guy, but overall, we modern people seem to think of him as a man who did everything right when it came to influence. I’m sure your typical violence hating parents won’t disagree with that. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they also wanted you learning about him. They probably wouldn’t have a shred of doubt in thinking it worthwhile to read one of his epic poems. So isn’t it quite …ironic, that one passage in Homer’s ‘Iliad’ depicts Achilles (having just killed  Prince Hector) tying the prince’s corpse to his chariot, and then riding around the city of Troy, the dead body of a hero violently getting slashed and knocked by the uneven ground, and becoming brown and murky from all the dirt. This sequence is horrific, sadistic, and is incredibly taunting to the people of Troy, these people being those whom idolized Hector. And despite this, it really seems to tell us something about Achilles, about his attitude to the war, and his disdainful personality. It does so in a way that someone merely telling us couldn’t. It’s a brilliant and arguably moving moment of characterization. ‘Oh but it’s only a book!’ the whinging parents say. ‘You can’t see it happening! Not like in a film or game!’ True, but if the writer is good enough (which in the case of ‘Iliad’ he most certainly is) the words can create an image that feels so real and close to us, that it no longer matters. It no longer matters that we can’t directly see the conflict and no longer matter if the reader isn’t particularly imaginative. The words guide us through. ‘b-but… Homer’s culture had slaves and public execution!’

Shut up. How the hell does the few bad things one civilisation does completely outweigh the good? The discoveries? and the intelligence? For Christ sakes, the ancient Greeks had a basic idea of what electricity was. And besides, if the space men of the future follow that logic, the all civilisations and generations (Including our own) will be rendered stupid.

Clever characterisation aside, I think we as all humans just generally enjoy the simple novelty of one human doing harm to another. Perhaps this is very cynical of me, but I think that deep down, even the most, noble and self-righteous prick has some anger or hate for a type of person. A certain stereotype and /or demographic perhaps. This primal rage is something I think we all feel, we just have different wallpaper for it.

Of course most sensible and clear minded people know better than to actually go through with any violent fantasies they may have about that stereotype group. So what do they do? They turn all their hatred on the bad guy. Now it’s Darth Vader and robot Hitler that embody everything you hate-not traffic wardens. You see, it’s stress-relief. It’s healthy.

-Taha

Tim Burton VS Christopher Nolan: Battle of the Bats

Among my friends, it’s no secret that I prefer Nolan’s portrayal of the Batman mythos to Burton’s. Hell, even ‘Batman Begins’ one of Nolan’s lesser films was probably better than Burtons 1989 film ‘Batman’. It just so happens that a Bruce Wayne/Batman origin story involving an interesting, if underdeveloped twist on Ras’ al Ghul, is significantly less aggravating than a facile gangster story that 1989 attached to the beloved Joker.

Thinking back to the 1989 version, I realize that it isn’t bewilderingly special to begin with, ignoring the cultural push, the masterful set/production design and laudable performance by Michael Keaton. Batman 1989 is severely crippled, thanks in part to writing of the Joker. It completely and utterly misses the point of the notions that made Alan Moore’s graphic novel so brilliantly poignant and insightful. I am of course referring to ‘Batman: The Killing Joke’ which Burton astonishingly cites as the key influence (It’s also the first comic book he ever ‘loved’ which is far more presumptive)

‘The Killing Joke’ constructs a sympathetic origin story, in which a sane Joker is an unlucky shmuck, and an unsuccessful comedian, who is struggling to support his pregnant wife. He is anxious and sincere, and in full belief that his comedy act will pick up. Conversely, in 1989, the Joker is originally a hackneyed gangster, who happens to be at the top of the food chain named ‘society’.  He is unctuous, and temerariously jumps into situations of murder and theft in his world of organized crime. He also happens to own a lavish house, inhabited by an equally lavish super-model looking wife.  The implication in 1989, The Killing Joke, and The Dark Knight, is that the joker is a product his environment, and exists to juxtapose batman, who in both 1989 and The Killing Joke indirectly causes  the Joker to fall into the pit of acid that results in his insanity. In ‘The killing Joke’ the Joker turns up for a theft job because he can no longer cope with the countless bills, and we get the sense that the crime job slot was only available to the weakling because of Batman’s prowling legacy scaring away most professionals.

1989, TKJ and TDK all proceed to belittle Batman to a psychopath like his murderous counterpart, reducing him to the ambiguous and emotionally lost men found in the hyper-masculine noir stories of self-gratification. He is on the same level as the Joker in psychological security, and merely existing causes the Joker to emerge from the other side of society.  Unfortunately this isn’t so abundant in 1989, as Batman’s intervention in the Joker’s accidental creation merely causes the misdirection of a dastardly top class criminal, and that doesn’t even begin to touch the level of tragedy found in a poor, desperate Joker driven to crime through desperation, or Heath Ledger’s broken and obsessive ramblings about his carved face, each of his explanations being a contradiction. TDK’s Joker is drenched in contradiction and mystery, projecting his retched past onto other faces. Even his gleeful cackle sounds disjointed, revealing inner pain. 1989 however presumes to spell out Nicholson’s Joker in a way that doesn’t equate to the desired effect. It also doesn’t have a thing to do with being a comedian, as if becoming the Joker is part of a ‘buy one get one free’ offer on comic-book insanity that night. The Joker is clearly a parody of his surroundings, however society doesn’t oppress 1989’s Joker, in fact the only reason he became the Joker was because his gangster boss wanted the Joker’s wife. Furthermore, they over-expose Nicholson, whereas TDK was more of a meticulously planned kaleidoscope, allocating the right amount of time for each of the main characters.

The rest of 1989 fares better, though I found it absolutely bizarre that Alfred would allow the clueless ‘Vicky Vale’ into the cave without Wayne’s consent.

I deeply admire the audacity 1989’s screenplay takes with an amoral and more introverted Wayne, however it still felt indecisive in what to make of his condition, particularly when compared to the Nolan brother’s script, in which Wayne’s arrogance is clearly a façade to gloss over his insecurity and desperate persistence in clinging to the thought that he and Rachel Dawes can still be together.

Coming to a close, the key non-joker moment that elevates Christopher Nolan’s ‘The Dark Knight’ beyond Tim Burton’s ‘Batman’ is for me, that one sublimely subtle moment of characterization, involving two addresses and a self-aware contradiction.

- Taha

Great Video Games: Bastion

What makes the new indie title ‘Bastion’ so endearing, is above all, how nearly every aspect is tuned to feel personal. An experience, whether game, film, or novel, will always benefit from feeling personal to their respective viewer/player. Feeling a close connection like that is at the stem emotional attachment, and that attachment is what’s going to eventually cause someone to gush about that piece of fiction to all their friends. The exception is if you’re trying to make a point about being cold and impersonal, ala Stanley Kubrick. But chances are, you aren’t Stanley Kubrick. SuperGiant Games aren’t, but that doesn’t make Bastion any less beautiful.

Firstly, the game is made from love.  Writer and director Greg Kasavin states "Our goal is to make the kinds of games that spark people's imaginations like the ones they played as kids." And that it certainly does, evoking the fantasy images of SNES games like Zelda, Final Fantasy and Secrets of Mana, all which felt like magical games entailing their own version of the archetypal ‘heroes Journey’ But this isn’t the stagnant kind of nostalgic evocation. Bastion isn’t simply restoring nostalgic images like the Ocarina of Time remake is, it’s restoring nostalgic energy. So while Bastion may have the whimsical air of old snes adventures, it strives to be something more.

Enter the in-game narrator, voiced by Logan Cummingham, who’s exquisitely virile voice adds a world-weary cowboy sensibility to the fantasy, creating a completely unique world. This world, we see at the end, waking up as a character known only as ‘The Kid’ and finding the world in an apocalypse known as the ‘calamity’. This may seem banal, but Bastion carefully avoids the clichés of hefty exposition quickly explaining its cause and effect, or an overwrought cut- scene showing generic explosions and running civilians. Rather, it has the narrator (One of four characters in the game) gravely describe the world as you discover it. That’s part of why it feels so personal. Narration can be missed depending on your actions, how you fight, what you find, and other general behaviour. On the surface it seems simple, but the writing has a special respect for brevity and cadence, giving a melancholic atmosphere. Simple statements that are contrastingly small to the damage done by the calamity are made, and through that, the writer rebuilds the importance of loss that a world can face through an apocalypse, which is something we’ve taken for granted in narratives. ‘Words can’t describe what happened. But they’re all I got’

Logan Cumingham is a revelation. He isn’t simply a good voice actor speaking lines plainly, like Nolan North often does. He’s elevating them, and working melodically with the writing, creating an entity that can’t exist without either. Together, words and voice find a poetic rhythm, and inject it into the game’s world, giving every aspect a flavoursome Je ne sai quoi ‘The city was the most beautiful place in the world. We all knew that. But some people yearn for what they can’t see. And that’s why you go to Prosper Bluff, ain’t it?’ It makes every moment feel like some mythic ballad, furthered by its beautifully mournful soundtrack.

It may seem silly that by this point in the article, I’ve only really talked about style and narrative. But this isn’t the kind of game which you can describe as having ‘better story than gameplay’ or vice versa, because they’re one in the same. It’s through interactivity that the story is told, and the amalgamation is perfect. Never does the story overwhelm the gameplay, as the language of how you play doesn’t change when narrative elements are being implemented (except at the end) so you can essentially ignore any and all the nuances of the writing and story, since they’re so slight, everything done within the stock animations of each character/enemy type. A good example is a nice moment early on in the game, where a group of the same enemy type surround you, and their leader, a bigger version of them confronts you. Upon defeating him, I expected his minions to move in, but instead little hearts plopped above their heads. I realized that in defeating their leader, I had become the alpha-male of the pack. Bastion has lots of nice little moments like these.

The levels are mostly linear, organized with narrow floating platforms, which have no invisible walls to block you falling.. Bastion is such a minimalistic game, that it makes this appropriate. The way you use the space your given is an important part of tactics, and is directly related to the tools you use within in them. There are various weapons in the game, and each has their own rhythm to them. With two load outs, you essentially get freedom within linearity. And make no mistake; each weapon is completely unique. This isn’t the kind of game where a new upgrade counts as a new weapon. They all have their distinct language, and it’s important to see how they relate to each challenge. A careful combination can feel almost like a meticulous origami piece; firm and impressive, yet easily unfolded given the right attitude. (or in this case enemy type) The combat also isn’t separate from the narrative, each weapon getting their own lore and flavour, which again, contributes to how personal the game feels. ‘Kid falls on a Breaker’s bow that ain’t broke’

It’s nice to see a game in which the grandiose scope of the world is left mostly to one’s imagination. The writing chooses to build it up the calamity slowly, and structure it around four characters, each with distinct motivations and histories (except the narrator, who’s ambiguity puts a nice twist on the reliability of our perceptions) It gives the whole game a feeling of inward intimacy, which we don’t get as often as we should in video games.

-Taha

 

The King's Speech Review

There is a stunning moment in The King’s Speech, where we know exactly what is going to happen. Even if the film wasn’t based on a true story, our assumption would still probably be right. I am of course talking about the pre-Word War II speech of King George VI (Colin Firth), a man condemned to speaking with a stammer. As for the aforementioned moment, despite knowing the outcome I was still completely mesmerized. Outside of the King’s speaking box, we see a group of associates and family, including Firth’s wife Queen Elizabeth. (Helena Bonham Carter) She is stiff, pale, anticipating, hoping and mentally begging that the sound produced is not an awkward cut of stutters and syllables. Oh how embarrassing that would be! Not just for me, but for dear George!  I know your majesty, I feel the same way. I sat there, completely stiff, worrying about a character I cared for, and worrying that I’ll be embarrassed on his behalf for disappointing the intent audience. I can’t think of any scientific explanation as to how I felt this way, though I can hazard a guess that it just comes down to plain good filmmaking. A host of good decisions energize the film, decisions about, focus, style and treatment of its history. The decisions made with the climactic sequence of Firth’s speech all work wonderfully, and as I watched the film, I came to respect the choices more and more. They didn’t decide to simply play the original voice recording (I’m fairly certain that Firth is talking) over footage of Britain. There is footage of Britain’s reaction, people pouring into the streets, and listening with so much intent and silence that it seems as if their lives depend just as much on their King’s words as it does on the deployment of troops. We cut back to see Firth’s fearful expression, and his therapist (Geoffrey Rush) keeping a warming expression, whilst carefully mouthing the words and breathing signals. It is as charming a way to conclude a buddy relationship picture as any of the recent whimsical animated films, while also as enervating as any recent action-thrillers.

 I had two distinct fears with ‘the King’s Speech’, one was an either dull, or contrived ending. No worries there. The other, is that the film would devolve to an easily imagined proud and dignified British drama with a stiff upper lip; obsessed with its history and the tiny details which surround it. Again, I was pleasantly surprised. David Seidler wisely chooses to give little significance to the history, instead just concentrating on the characters and their development. This is part of what the film does fairly well. Firth’s character is a man who seems either forced or desperate to inhabit the proverbial royalty that is expected of him, but at heart he is a man of simple and mellow tastes. The contrasting buddy is Geoffrey Rush, who goes against what is expected of him, and is proud of his apparent eccentricity, replying ‘I take that as a complement’ when Firth notes his uncouth behaviour. The art direction too reflects the tenuous historical significance, going for a slightly more stylised look than expected. It’s still clearly Britain, and clearly royal, with opulent clothes and palaces that would have been expected. However certain sets, including the misty streets of London carry an almost haunting quality that gives the film a remarkable sense of place. The mist that covers the streets centres out the two characters walking through it, while also omitting light onto them. It feels a little like David’ Finchers usual lighting style played in reverse.

So far this review has been written in tone of a gushing critic, who just can’t wait to explain to you the artfully tuned aspects, and exclaim how it’s one of the very best of this year! But alas no, that is not the case, though the film is certainly good.

Though a shiningly well-presented film, whose script bristles with deft world-play and humour, is at heart a fairly banal story. It’s furthered only by actors working with hearty dialogue, and not by the director infusing a unique visual sensibility with a well- known tale. Disney have often done this in the past, returning to their simple themes in varyingly creative ways. Tom Hooper allows the film to sit sleepily on the actors, giving them the power, as opposed to make things feel rich with cinematic flow. The exceptions are the speeches themselves, in which the direction thrusts in with full force, turning those scenes into agonizingly tense moments, working with Firth’s tremendous performance to create scenes that very much capture the trepidation and burgeoning stress that resides in public speaking/performance (I’ve felt it) Unfortunately the speeches play little to the films overall attempts at reaching narrative substance. It’s squarely tries to make Firth out as an ‘ordinary man’, and in doing so the film isn’t either hot or cold. The ‘misguided ordinary man’ tale doesn’t ever find a moment to really surprise us with profound insight, never daring to be intensely moving or despairing. Combine this with a formulaic plot, and you have a king who by the end isn’t all that interesting. The script and actors are too charming for us not to feel invested, but the solemn direction of making us try to see the king as an everyman just isn’t all that insightful or interesting. It is rather unfair for me to criticize the direction of a film in this manner, after all, it is what it is, and I should try to measure that film against what it’s trying to be, rather than what I want it to be. But the formulaic plot makes it very difficult to think of this as much more than light entertainment (barring the incredible speech scenes) and also because the customary nature of Firth’s character is drawn attention to earlier in the film. It is done so by a fantastic Guy Pearce, who seems to have walked in from a better film.

Mr.Pearce plays Prince/King Edward VIII, and does so with subtly eccentric demeanour that pervades every line, even the most sincere. I felt both cold and sympathetic towards him, his dissonance over his questionable love and what Britain want from him is jarring in a way that having a speech impediment simply can’t match. Even if you are the King. So when he gets whisked away, the focus pulling onto Firth, I feel like the carpet has been swept away from beneath my feet somewhat. Firth’s story is ceaselessly watchable, but goddamit, I want to see Guy Pearce have dinner with Hitler.

Though ultimately the film is enjoyable, filled with enough humour to counter the heavily earnest scenes. Most of why it’s worth watching comes back down to the tremendous performances by Pearce, Rush, Firth and Helena Bonham Carter. Some of them are even involved in a few moments that may have seemed a tad trite, were it not for their acting grabbing you by the collar, demanding affection. They also very much enjoy their words, every single one feeling milked for its vocal beauty (as is the stammering) On a completely unrelated topic, Stephen Fry once asked ‘But do they froth and bubble at the joy of language?’. The King’s Speech certainly does.

- Taha

Hereafter Review

At the heart of the follies I’ve found in Clint Eastwood’s ‘Hereafter’ is a matter of highly personal views and distaste, and to write about the film without its inclusion would feel insincere and incomplete. The matter of personal distaste is I don’t much care for the afterlife.  Or rather my afterlife, or those around me. I don’t care about my death, because after it nothing will matter. Whether I end up in heaven, hell, or the endless fields of Elysium; it won’t matter. I’m dead; I can’t make any meaningful actions to affect my afterlife, other than trying to be a good person, which I do compulsively anyway. ‘Hereafter’ doesn’t make me care, but it does attempt to avoid this scepticism in two ways; one includes making it more about the different ways in which the dead affect the living (and often mourning) rather than vice versa. The second way includes severing its ‘version’ of the afterlife of all cultural, historical and religious ties, which counterproductively also limits its potential level of philosophy. The thinking probably is that this way it could be an all-encompassing perspective on the afterlife, and universally tap into all human emotions on the subject, rather than alienating anyone who isn’t of any religions alignment, or not educated in ancient cultures.  The folly here is that in striving to apply to everybody, it’s ultimately personal to nobody. This is only furthered by its anti-plot structure.

The structure here follows three separate protagonists on their very own stories which all intertwine at the end via coincidence. They include: Matt Damon, as man who earned a great living by exploiting his ability to communicate with the dead. He gave it all up, for the obvious existential reasons. Now he works a difficult construction job, trying to step out of the dead’s shadow (which his opportunistic brother continually reminds him of) There’s a French reporter whose career and lifestyle change drastically upon facing an NDE, which gives her powers similar to Damon. Finally a young British boy, who’s been taken away from his alcoholic (albeit loving) mother to stay with foster parents. Conveniently this coincides with the loss of his twin brother (who he treated as an older leader)

This is called an Anti-plot structure. It has its merits (Pulp Fiction, anyone?) but here it stifles the characters. As I’ve already said, from a philosophical standpoint the films idea of the afterlife is flawed and uninteresting at the first hurdle, but there is potential in making a story that highlights the personal woes of people whose lives revolve around the dead, and thus begin to lead morbid lifestyles. Unfortunately the mostly amble along meaninglessly.  The English boy spends all his time in the film looking to communicate with his brother, and finding nothing but pretentious speakers who don’t help. These scenes contain not a shred of development or rich characterization, and it’s only through sheer luck that he achieves his goal. And yet when that happens, the conclusion to his fraternal relationship amounts to nothing more than a generic ‘You have to grow up and stop needing me’ and ‘Mum needs you to look after her’ (Not exact quotes) The French lady is similarly ambling, as she essentially just takes a frenetic interest in the afterlife, eventually losing her job and becoming a writer. That’s really it, except drawn out mercilessly, with pointless meetings she has at work and with a one dimensionally demonized ‘bad boyfriend’  It’s hard to understand the point of the scenes with the boy and the woman, or where they’re leading, or why we should care. The screenplay does try so shamelessly hard to make you sympathize, though, with some graceless exploitation of real world events (the Boxing Day tsunami, and London underground bombing) which don’t amount to anything, and look as if they had walked out of a chintzy Roland Emmerich disaster film. It seems awfully backward for a screenwriter as acclaimed as Peter Morgan

The exception and highlight is the bulk of Matt Damon’s story, exempt of any manipulative exploitation. His dilemma is compelling from the outset. Building his career as a communicator with the dead brings up obvious existential stress. Is a man who talks more with the dead than the alive truly alive? Or a ghost? He is established as not very social, which seems to make sense. His only co-worker at his previous job was his brother, and the glimpse we get of his construction job has him working with relatively older looking men.  He has an awkward disposition and a cute fascination with Charles Dickens, both of which traits that Damon’s naturally plain honesty is suited to. He joins an Italian cooking class, and gets paired with an attractive and single woman (Just like always) Sure it has the air of a silly sitcom, but the lightness and humour is appreciated when the rest of the film is so indulgently lugubrious. It gets appropriately darker when Damon brings the girl home so they can cook dinner for themselves. There’s a growing sense of escalation in how Damon constantly tries evading any discussion about his past life, which makes for some healthy tension. Eventually she finds out (thanks to the omnipresent film entity known as the ‘automatic answering machine’) and begins to politely press him to show her. Again, Damon’s natural honesty is suited to when he eventually does. We learn that the girl had a complicated past with her father (alluding to sexual abuse) after finding out how real Damon’s powers were, she politely leaves. She isn’t at the next cooking class, nor in the rest of the film. The story is poignant on its own, but it also works as a tragedy on a symbolic level.  In order to commune with the dead, Damon must hold hands, which triggers a rush of that person’s mourning-related anxiety. Both in fiction and real-life, the reaching out of hands (particularly when in joining with another hand) is a universal sign of intimacy, and is used marvellously in a film like ‘Moon’, in which the extension of the hand marks the characters blind attempt to search for any sense of emotional attachment. Through this we learn, that symbolically Damon has been cursed to find a rush of cold emotions every time he would try to reach out and forge his own warm emotions. Despite this, his story is of too much paucity to make the film worth recommending, especially since Damon also has a disappointing conclusion. (His story ends on a romantic note, but it’s even more contrived and underdeveloped than the earlier cooking class dynamic)

Most disappointing though, is that this is a Clint Eastwood film. As with the most popular directors, Eastwood has achieved ‘auteur’ status, with his own idiosyncrasy; which is often a merger of the traditional iconic heroes he played, and his own original sensibility as a director. (See: Unforgiven, Gran Torino) That kind of unique filmmaking voice combined with a wide philosophical subject matter like the afterlife should amount to more. Eastwood instead distances himself stylistically from the film, much the same way its version of the afterlife is from any profound cultural or philosophical implications.

 - Taha