Film Thoughts: The Dark Knight Rises and the Post-Nolan Era

Spoilers follow.  Seriously.  If you haven't seen the movie, watch it, then come back.

If you're looking for a review of The Dark Knight Rises, here it is: go see the movie.  Pay for the ticket, watch and enjoy the film, go home and give it some serious thought.  Then, go again.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Nolan's scope is epic and his project more than ambitious, capping his trilogy in spectacular fashion.  From the moment Bane first spoke in the opening scene until the final scene at the cafe, I never felt bored nor did I feel that the movie moved too slowly--which, considering the film's just under three-hour running time, is quite a testament to Nolan's script.  In fact, after leaving the theater, my friend and I agreed that we could have watched another solid ten or fifteen minutes of Bruce Wayne's training in the pit.  But the most commendable achievement of the film is that it brings Nolan's Dark Knight Trilogy full circle, providing closure to his Batman universe in the best way possible.  In time, we'll likely come to think of the Dark Knight movies, much like we do the Star Wars Trilogy, not as separate entries but as parts of one grand story.

Earlier this month, I wrote a post about what I think Nolan was doing with his trilogy.  To summarize that post, I find Nolan's films to be one of the most interesting experiments with the Batman mythos that has ever been attempted.  By putting Batman in a real-world setting, Nolan proposes that the introduction of the Batman to an already complex system of criminal activity and corrupt social structure (Gotham City) would result in unpredictable consequences that ramify in increasingly dangerous ways--the apotheosis of which would be the Joker in The Dark Knight.  The only way to reset the system, therefore, would be for Batman to die, the created symbol serving to inspire but no longer actively affecting the system he meant to save.  He dares to ask, "Would Gotham have been better off without the Batman?" without providing an all too clear answer.  I think what I said in that post still holds weight, so, instead of beating a dead horse, I wish to take a slightly different approach and talk about the film in terms of its legacy.  From now on, Nolan's Dark Knight Trilogy will (and should) be the standard for how to create a superhero film.  In the words of the Joker, "...I know the truth, there's no going back. You've changed things, forever."

The Dark Knight Rises, more so than any of its predecessors, is a film about superhero films.  It's comic book elements are more overt than The Dark Knight's, having a very clear act structure that felt like a comic book series.  Issue one ends with Batman re-donning the cape and cowl.  Another issue ends with the broken Bat, and yet another issue would be devoted to Wayne's training in the pit.  The structural integrity of the movie draws clear inspiration from comics like No Man's Land, Knightfall, and The Dark Knight Returns among numerous others.  And was it just me, or is the pit/prison analogous to Ra's Al Ghul's Lazarus pits (falling in and climbing out to achieve some transcendence or chance at immortality)?  Maybe, maybe not.  My point is that this film had much more in common with Batman Begins in terms of its comic book elements than it dead with the erasure of such familiarities in The Dark Knight.  I think this is by design.

The character of Bane, for instance, is pure comic book villain, falling somewhere between a Bond mastermind and a tornado.  He's fast, brilliant, exact, calculating, and brutal.  He's a faceless force of nature and conviction, something straight out of a weekly serial brought to terrifying life.  While the Bane of Knightfall is equally brilliant and powerful, the violence of the comic does not match the brutality we see on screen because of Nolan's choice to set his trilogy in a realistic world.  A proposed "real" Bane terrifies more than the fantastic comic book monster ever could.  Tom Hardy's Bane, while not as interesting as Heath Ledger's Joker, still commands the screen with savage intensity, giving the viewer a comic book powerhouse with just enough realism to make him a threat instead of a caricature.  The mask he wears dehumanizes him by obscuring his face and muffling his speech, but when his eloquence emerges, it returns some humanity to the behemoth so the viewer knows that he was a person who became a monster rather than just a hulking pile of muscle.

Realistic or not, he's still 250 pounds of f*ck you up.

The comic book world seems to intrude into the real world on such a massive scale, though, that the film calls attention to itself.  It's easy to point out parallels that exist between the Occupy Movement and Bane's goal of giving Gotham back to the people, and the film seems to have a conservative slant that Mark Fisher points out in his article for the Guardian, saying that "the new film demonises collective action against capital while asking us to put our hope and faith in a chastened rich."  His analysis is fair, I think; the connections are there.  This interpretation would be fine, for me at least, if the movie were simply holding a cliched dark mirror up to contemporary issues, but the blending of the real world with the artificial (in terms of the comic's relationship with realism in film) seems to turn the issue on its head.  The film becomes less about the actual plot because the plot is easy--the film stresses the relationship of the real with the imaginary.  The film strives to be, in the words of Alfred Pennyworth (who, by the way, has more pathos in this movie than any other character) "something more."

In Nolan's Gotham, the actions of Bane will have a much more lasting impact than the actions of Batman.  The guy blows up half the city, for God's sake!  There's no going back from that.  If not for the actions of the privileged class's poster child, the mob would have never turned to the Joker in The Dark Knight. This is the same world where the rich are fat cats, the common people are terrorists, and those caught in between suffer while the city falls around them.  When the only hope for a real city lies in the hands of a guy in a batsuit, the world will burn long before it gets better.  It's the scenario that Nolan had been building since the beginning, whether he knew it or not.  He had to provide an answer for how a world with Batman could keep going, and that answer was that the Batman had to die.  When the fantasy of the comic book world meets the realism of the actual world, there will be drastic consequences.  The binaries of rich and poor, hero and villain, become simple plot points amid a chaotic world of structural collapse.  The ending of the film, then, with John Blake's (or Robin, in the most dissapointingly handled bit of fan service in the movie) discovery of the Batcave strikes me with some ambiguity.  He hasn't yet learned the lesson Wayne has, but, should he choose to follow him, he will.

I think it's safe to say that in the wake of Nolan's movies, we can all say goodbye to great comic book films for a while.  We'll get the awesomeness of Marvel's Phase 2 and maybe some solid entries in the X-Men, Superman, Spider-Man franchises, but I'm putting my money down that there won't be anything that elevates the genre to such heights as Nolan's Dark Knight movies.  They make me think deeply about what it is about superheroes that draw us to them.  Nolan has cemented himself as an adaptation auteur willing to blend thematic complexity and blockbuster action like few have done before, and it will likely be a long time before we see something like it again on this scale.

Cheers,

--David

P.S. In my last Batman post, I mentioned that I had a Batman wedding cake.  Here you go, internet:

"It's simple. We eat the Batcake."

My Thoughts on Aurora: A Fan Community's Tragedy

I'm mostly a think piece type of writer. One quick glance at my other blog entries reveal this better than I can explain here--perhaps even to a fault that they can alienate people. But in the wake of the tragedy that has befallen Aurora, Colorado, I thought I would try my hand at a different type of writing, based more on feeling than thoughts. So please, if any of you read this, keep in my that the following is simply my thoughts on the tragedy, its aftermath, and the affects on the local and wider community.

My IGN is made of fans, fans who love games, movies, comics, film, and all other aspects of our culture. We're a community of, if not like-minded, then at least like-interested individuals who genuinely care enough about said interests to come together and discuss them. It's not a stretch, therefore, to assume that many of us were at midnight releases across the country, waiting in anticipation and excitement to see a movie that we've been talking about for well over a year. Like all midnight releases, I'm sure there was an energy at the theater filled with fans buzzing about plot predictions and their favorite Batman moments. It's a routine, a ritual we all know so well, making such tragedy hit fairly close to home for many of us who are part of that culture. It's one that I've personally called home growing up when my friends and I used to share Nintendo secrets before there were websites like IGN, and it's these people with whom I'd go wait in line at one of the few theaters within 20 miles of my Mississippi home.

It wold be impossible for me try to completely empathize with the terror those people felt in that theater, when their excitement turned to pure horror. It's unimaginable, and to try to say I completely understand would diminish the tragedy that the families of the deceased and the injured have undergone. My thoughts, as well as those of the larger community I'm sure, are with them. I just can't help but feel like this heinous act has stricken the fan community harder than the media will care to cover. I think a statement from fan favorite George Takei can sum up my feelings about the tragedy:

Many victims of today's tragedy were fans of science fiction/fantasy. They stood in line to be the first to see, to be inspired, and to escape. As a community of dreamers, we mourn this terrible tragedy and the senseless taking of innocent life. --George Takei

There will be people who immediately politicize the issue. There will be people who immediately leap to the movie's defense. There will be people who immediately blame gaming culture for James Holmes' actions. And all these people will take focus away from the victims of one of the worst mass shooting in U.S. history and from the lasting effect this will have on the larger fan community. We can ponder the sources and issues later. We can wonder what this all means later. For now, we can reassure each other that the interests we share bring us together in a way that we can collectively mourn those lost while finding solace in our commonality.

My initial reaction was not to find solace in the community we've built. It was anger. Anger at Holmes, sure, but also anger at the fact that I could guess exactly how this media issue would play out. I knew, like you all did, that the culture we love would be attacked and the people harmed would be glossed over. I knew that while families sought prayers of comfort, people were already making sacrifices to god of media politics. But I was most angry at the fact that in a week or two, people will forget that all this happened. I could see it all, and it pissed me off. I felt like the community I love was targeted and victimized.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a fan of science fiction and fantasy. Maybe I don't know anyone in Aurora, but I damn sure know their interests, their passions, and their mindsets because so many of us were waiting in line for a shared experience. These were members of our community, and we all owe them our most solemn respects. All we can do now is keep the conversation going and continue to share in the culture we've grown to know and love.

My best to you all,

--David

Heroic Violence in the God of War Franchise: The Ultimate Postmodern Myth

I knew I loved God of War from the very first moment I made the pale barbarian Kratos pick up an undead warrior, dig his massive hands into the monster, and savagely rip it in half, showering himself with an arc of red blood. The motion was smooth and brutal, and the ripping, crunching, tearing sound that wretched from the rotting corpse made the beast's execution all the more satisfying. From that moment, I knew that I was in store for a whole new world of video game violence. I enjoy the over-the-top combat and epic battles of the game, and, yes, I freely admit to being fascinated by the spectacle of violence. While the franchise sometimes catches hell for being too violent, I don't think its goal is simple shock value. The game asks us to dare to enjoy the bloodshed while also punctuating the combat with moments of genuine discomfort. Over the course of five games, players have steered Kratos on his quest for revenge and see him fall more deeply into a hate-soaked frenzy, so much so that he eventually unleashes plagues on mankind that can only result in genocide. But Kratos doesn't exist in any real universe. His is the realm of Greek myth (albeit modernized) where heroes could be vicious and brutal. The result is a postmodern version of a very old world, where the violence of the tales the rhapsodes sang are given visceral life in the new medium of gameplay.

"Rage--Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles, / murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses, / hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, / great fighters' souls, but made their bodies carrion, / feasts for the dogs and birds, / and the will of Zeus was moving towards its end."

So begins Robert Fagles' translation of Homer's Iliad, the chronicle of the Trojan War of Greek (and later Roman) myth. We all know the story more or less, despite the mediocre Wolfgang Petersen film, but I want to call attention to the fact that the first lines of the poem, in its earliest written form, translate to an invocation to a muse to sing specifically about rage bears significant influence for situating Kratos in the epic tradition. His ethos stems from the aristocratic warrior archetype in Greek myth; princes and generals are the heroes of ancient Greece, and, since Kratos is the son of a god and a general in the Spartan army, it's easy to find his locus in ancient Greek literature. It is also easy to see why the Greeks looked to violent figures as heroes because it became a cultural necessity. Torture and gladiatorial combat were state-sanctioned in Athens and Sparta, and violence served as the most powerful political tool in antiquity, despite advances in philosophy that led to establishing schools of rhetoric. It's almost refreshing, then, to see a character that so perfectly embodies this cultural ethos. We'd like to believe that Achilles is as good looking as Brad Pitt or Hector as handsome as Eric Bana, but Greek concepts of beauty rarely intersected with what they thought of as "heroic." In a gaming landscape filled with handsome lovable rogues (Nathan Drake), dashing demon hunters (DMC's Dante), and attractive androgynous adventurers (pretty much any guy in Final Fantasy), it's refreshing to play as character who is ugly as sin and pissed as all hell.

A face only a mother could love...and he freakin' kills her, too. 

And it's only fitting that Kratos be so brutal. His story slides ride into the lexicon of Greek myth, but with a postmodern twist. As the ancient world's most adamant atheist, Kratos actively seeks the undoing of the entire Greek myth tradition. Since Kratos is a victim of control of gods, his character is also at the whim of the imagined worlds of Greek mythology. Killing the gods is not simply a fun narrative hook--it's Kratos' escape from the narrative itself. Greek mythology kills his wife and child because Ares makes Kratos kill his wife and child. Unlike every other hero in Greek mythology, Kratos sees the world he lives in for its ridiculousness. He is almost self-aware, as if he knows that he is trapped in the song of Greek poet--or in the case of the game, a narrator voiced by Linda Hunt. He kills to be liberated from the world of the game, not just for retribution or satisfaction. For this reason, Kratos' brutality increases with each installment and his goals become cloudy. First, he wants to kill Ares, then Zeus, then the Fates, then Zeus again, then Gaia, then everyone, then Zeus... It's exhausting and convoluted, and his motivations become less convincing each time he paints a new target, especially when the death of an Olympian means subjecting the innocent people of the world to plague and natural disasters. But whereas reviewers initially saw this dissonance as one of the game's flaws, I see it as part of the game's inherent design. Kratos' pathos erodes over time and he becomes increasingly alien to the player because he wants his freedom from the world that ensnares him, and the only way he can do that is through the tools the system and the ancient Greek tradition affords him: sheer, focused brutality.

Still, it's when that brutality is turned outward toward the player when the genre of the Greek myth really starts to break down. After all, by controlling Kratos, the player is complicit in this undoing of the Greek tradition. But it becomes doubly relevant when the player realizes that, though Kratos constantly tries to break bonds (bonds of humanity, of godhood, of fate, of Ares, of lineage), he simply can't because there's still someone yanking his metaphorical and literal chain: the person with the controller. Chains appear so often in the God of War that they become a recurring motif symbolizing not only Kratos' bondage to the gods, but also the bondage of video game architecture. When the player steers Kratos as he moves up and down (and eventually breaking) the Great Chain that connects Olympus, Earth, and Hades, it's a metaphor for his moving through (and sundering) the world of Greek myth recreated in game space. As the player is involved in the breaking of Kratos' universe, so too is he/she complicit in the violent atrocities Kratos commits. Killing a helpless caged warrior in God of War, two priests in God of War II, and a vulnerable woman in God of War III all in the name of Kratos' progress toward self and societal destruction issupposed to disturb the player and solidify his/her connection in the game's hero's quest. We're controlling Kratos, and we're the very apotheosis of the inescapable shackles he longs to break.

The game finally calls attention to this relationship in God of War III when Kratos kills Poseidon, and the camera shifts to the victim's perspective:

Here, we see firsthand the unflinching savagery of the monster we control, and that violence is projected out to the person with the controller. The player presses the buttons that makes Kratos attack the camera--a macabre act of self destruction. Kratos hates Poseidon, and he hates the player as they are both cruel masters and abusers of their power. This concept is reversed at the game's finale when the perspective is switched to Kratos' first-person view as the player fights the spirit of Zeus after Kratos' reconciliation. Both the player and Kratos know that the only way for him to truly be free is through his own execution. His only option, therefore, is suicide, and, with the player's help, Kratos delivers the coup de grace to both himself and to his slavery.

When I mention that God of War is the "ultimate" Greek myth, I dont' mean that it's the best; I mean that it's the last. It is a story constantly focused on its own terminus and the end of the Greek tradition. And only through gameplay could we enact this process of myth-destruction. I'm very eager to see if the newest entry in the God of War: Ascension follows the trajectory I've mapped out, but I'm betting it does. After all, can we really have Kratos without unspeakable violence that will lead to nothing but destruction? I really hope not.

So what do you guys think? Who's amped for Ascension? Do you buy my reading of the games? Let me know, and we'll get to talking.

Cheers,

--David

In Defense of Game Criticism

We've all heard it. Hell, we've probably said it. "Don't take it so seriously, it's just game." Or perhaps, "People are too sensitive." Or, my personal favorite, "They just don't understand." As much as critics love to voice their opinions about games, they are just as often demonized by self-proclaimed adamant defenders of gaming. Here, problems arise from both sides. The critics who are constructive get attacked almost as often as those who seek the undoing of the game industry. Just to clarify, this blog post is not a defense of the latter, but rather a case for the former, for those who work to enter into a dialogue about what the cultural significance of video games. If games are indeed the artistic products that fans so desperately argue, then they must be subject to the same critical exercises that have been used to discuss art, literature, and film--which means taking the game architecture and narrative under consideration when evaluating them.

First, a disclaimer: I absolutely do not condone the actions of pundits and politicians who see games as the root of all evils in the world. The Jack Thompsons of the world have little say in this discussion, if only to provide an example of how not to be a game critic. Those who see violent video games as the cause of violent actions such as shootings, beatings, rape, or any other violence, not only lack a basic understanding of the relationship between gameplay and understanding, but also they diminish the severity of the crimes themselves. Blaming a video game for a school shooting is irresponsible because it dangerously equates the explosions of pixels across a computer screen to very real, very tragic physical actions, which devalues the physical harm of the victim. And, quite frankly, it's bullsh*t. Similarly, the sensationalism in the media about sex in games such as Mass Effect is equally stupid. While I still think games haven't really dealt with sex responsibly (the only exception maybe being Atlus' Catherine), getting parents and politicians up in arms about some titillation offers nothing but a colossal waste of air time. Sure, sex and violence have seen a drastic surge in game presence this generation, but the people who condemn games are often not the people who know the state of the gaming industry or are unfamiliar with the game title in question. Just watch the clip below to get an idea of how not to go about the discussion:

These are not the people I defend. Instead, I want to focus on the people who offer real critiques of the games they play. For example, Keza Macdonald's opinion piece "What the Hell is with that Hitman Trailer?" offers a valid discussion of why some people have a serious problem with the Hitman "Attack of the Saints" trailer:

Her argument is well-executed, pointing out specifics in the trailer that should give the viewer pause. She states the issue that concerns her very matter-of-factly, saying,

"Let’s be clear here: the problem is not that Agent 47 is graphically murdering a group of women, though that’s pretty nasty. It’s that it fetishizes the violence and sexualises the women, drawing a clear line between sex and graphic violence that makes the trailer really distressing to watch, and leaves you questioning who the hell it’s designed to appeal to."

Furthermore, her opinion is not an unpopular one. Grant Howitt at theguardian states that watching "a chap who is murdering these naughty, naughty nuns (with details that border on the pornographic – lingering arse and crotch shots, sprays of blood over cleavage … you get the idea) makes the viewing a little uncomfortable," and Dan Silver at Mirror News calls the trailer "a shameless piece of sexist tat designed to get the internet worked into a lather and millions of YouTube plays." While I think Silver and Howitt are of the same opinion, McDonald provides detailed analysis of the trailer to back up her statement, implicitly offering the reader to take into account his/her own reading of the nuances of the trailer. She ends her piece with a few questions--"Are we supposed to find this trailer appealing? If so, why? What is supposed to appeal to us about it – the violence, the sexy nuns, the slow-motion gun pans, the image of scantily clad women getting taught a brutal lesson?"--and then provides her own conclusion: "This isn’t cool. We shouldn’t shrug and accept this kind of marketing material as representative of what we, as gamers, want to see. Publishers need to stop these tactics. It’s not acceptable, and in the eyes of many, many people it does a lot more harm to Hitman Absolution’s image than good." Her writing brings together questions about violence, feminism, and spectacle as well as the central question of of what a trailer is supposed to do. This is what a critic does; asks challenging questions while providing her own opinion to spark discussion.

Then the comments section happened. Some comments offered good counterpoints, citing actual gameplay from the Hitman franchise, which often features brothels and sexual situations as well as the obvious gratuitous violence. But others just outright denied the problems the trailer presents and resort to attacking her for offering a feminist critique of the trailer. Reverse sexism is obviously a provocative lens to view the game trailer, but without offering a counterpoint with civility, the comment section devolves into a series or rants instead of giving people the opportunity to discuss the issues raised by the trailer. Feminism in video games is a great topic for discussion, yet a quick view of the comment section provides no indication that people actually know what feminism is. The critic, then, is reduced, through no real fault of her own, to a caricature of herself: a bra-burning rights activist instead of someone offering a legitimate interrogation of where she can situate her values in the game. It's not entitlement; it's investigation. It's keeping a critical eye on the industry that we love, that we want to see flourish, and that we all enjoy. But most importantly, the work of critic engages in a conversation about cultural values and how we read/play/view works of art.

Obviously, this is just one example. The problematic race issue is Resident Evil 5 brought similar criticism and controversy, and the more recent issue of the implicit rape in the new Tomb Raider game brings, again, the issue of female empowerment and victimization to the discussion table. It's healthy and though-provoking to discuss these issues, but it's not productive to automatically side with the game and demonize the critic outright. People should have their opinions. People should voice their opinions. People should, most definitely, defend their opinions. But wouldn't it be better to discuss them and engage with them with each other in ways that do not alienate our peers. It's damn good to disagree with critics, but it's even better when someone can do so by providing some sense of why he/she has come to that opinion.

I no doubt feel this way because I've been a teacher, an editor, and because I'm in the early stage of my dissertation. And I understand that it's hard to "talk" to each in the lewd alleys of a virtual community without anonymity making people much braver without the threat of consequence. But I cannot help but be disappointed when I see discussion boards turn into schoolyard sandboxes where name-calling and insults are the primary method of communication. It takes away from the function of criticism instead of sharpening it, and, without good criticism, the video game industry will inevitable stagnate, producing little of cultural, aesthetic, or (God forbid) entertainment value.

Cheers,

--David

Film Thoughts: The Amazing Spider-Man

Obligatory Spoiler Alert!

It did not take long for me to figure out where this film was going from its very beginning. I've played and given my thoughts on the game, I own copies of the Raimi trilogy, and I've read the comics (albeit over a decade ago). So, like damn near everyone else, I knew what was going to happen. But as the end of the first act approached, even though I knew it would happen, I was still shocked and hurt when Uncle Ben died in the street. I don't know whom to credit for my reaction. Perhaps it's director Marc Webb's ability to throw an emotional punch. Maybe it was Martin Sheen's pitch perfect performance as Uncle Ben (whoever cast him deserves credit as well). Or it may have been the argument between Sheen's Uncle Ben and Garfield's Peter Parker, just before the incident, when Uncle Ben completely tears into Peter the way I could see my own father do to me when I was a teenager. Whatever the reason, I saw Uncle Ben die for what seemed to be the three-hundredth time in the past decade, and it still felt tragic and powerful.

Let me be honest here: I still think it's too soon for a Spider-Man reboot. Sure, the gritty real-world aesthetic of Nolan's Batman trilogy reinvented the way we think about superhero films, and, on the surface, it would seem that Webb strives for the same type of aesthetic. But Batman Begins released a decade after the visual abortion that was Joel Schumacher's Batman and Robin, and it's only been about half that time since Raimi's Spider-Man 3. I think Raimi's trilogy still holds up fairly well, though I'm willing to admit my own nostalgic connection to it. So it came as a bit of a surprise to me that Hollywood wanted to revisit the franchise so soon. Sony, it seems, pushed the movie out the door because they wanted to keep the movie rights, and they should, considering how they need the capital.

I know you do, buddy.  I know you do.

I'm obviously not an economist or a marketing pro, but I predicted they would sell the rights back to Marvel so they could roll Spidey in with the Avengers universe. I don't know if we'll ever see that happen now. Instead, the Webslinger will be subject to things like this: 

Headline: J. Jonah Jameson Is a Jerk

Anyway, here's the bottom line: Webb's The Amazing Spider-Man is much darker than Raimi's camp-fest; however, it is certainly no less fun. It's a much more patient movie, willing to build up the scenes with Peter and Gwen (played by the always charming Emma Stone) before delivering with the action sequences we all paid good money to see. Peter doesn't even get bitten until about twenty minutes into the film, and watching him develop his powers delivers some of the best entertainment in the whole movie. I think the first-person web-slinging section could have been a solid minute and a half because it was an absolute blast. And here's where I credit Webb's directorial skills. The movie is patient, but never slow. The characters are charming, but never impossibly cheesy. The action sequences are fast and acrobatic, but never so busy that it impedes the viewer from understanding the action. Stan Lee's cameo was hilarious, but not...eh I got nothing--it was pretty awesome. If I had not known going in, I would have never guessed that the same man who directed (500) Days of Summer also directed The Amazing Spider-Man. Webb really has an eye for clear, precise action scenes that I could not have predicted. I left the theater pleasantly surprised.

Returning to the question of acting, everyone seemed right for their respective rolls. Aside from Martin Sheen, Dennis Leary gives an excellent performance as Capt. Stacy. His gruff demeanor matched the character perfectly, and, even though I knew what would happen to him, his character arc served as, arguably, the most interesting. Rhys Ifans fit the Kurt Connors/Lizard's scales, but the villain had nowhere near the bombastic fun of Willem Dafoe's Norman Osborne is Raimi's 2002 incarnation. Garfield's Peter Parker outshines Tobey Maguire's, giving a bit more gravitas than his predecessor to the titular hero. He and Emma Stone really make the non-action sequences worth watching. Of course, in the great tradition of the information age, we all know where their relationship will inevitably lead.

The film does have one problem, though: it's an origin story. It's a well-told, well-acted, well-choreographed, and entertaining origin story--but it's an origin story, nonetheless. And we just got five (if you want to include The Incredible Hulk, which I am for emphasis, though I probably shouldn't) of those damn things from Marvel. Five. In the last three years. So, while I was watching the movie, I couldn't help but constantly challenge what I saw, demanding, "Convince me that you needed to be made and not tied to The Avengers." I don't think the film can validate its own existence, at least not for me. We don't need this movie because it offers nothing new. Crazed scientist due to chemical enhancement? Check. Teenage angst/love story? Check. Hero born from death of a father figure? Check. The real place this movie differs from Raimi's (besides it's darker tone) is the tension built between the NYPD (and Capt. Stacy) and the overall question of vigilantism. To be honest, I would have preferred more from this arc as it offered something new for Spider-Man. What's there is good; I just wanted more.

Overall, the movie deserves film-goers' attention. I left completely entertained, and I think I like it better than the originals (including the stellar Spider-Man 2). I also think the film will age well, maybe even more so than the Raimi trilogy, but it will have nowhere near the longevity of all the Avengers films. (That's another thing that bothers me; I can't talk about the film without using caveats and qualifiers. It's good, but... I liked the story; however...) As much as I enjoyed The Amazing Spider-Man, I can't shake this feeling of deja vu; I've seen it all before, it just happens to be better this time. I don't think that's enough to warrant making the film, but I'd be lying if I said it's not worth the price of admission--even if that means subjecting myself to watching Uncle Ben die one more time.

Cheers,

--David

Opinion: A Longtime Batman Fan's take on Nolan's Batman Trilogy

Note: This is not about video games (obviously). It is, instead a collection of thoughts on Nolan's Batman trilogy.

I've always been a Batman fan. Having read numerous comic books and owning over twenty of them, I'm well aware that my knowledge of Gotham's protector extends further than the average Batman fan's (though not nearly as far as the die-hard DC enthusiast, so if I misspeak, please correct me). One semester, I used Alan Moore's The Killing Joke in a freshman writing class in order to discuss how we read comics, and just this past weekend, the groom's cake at my wedding was adorned with the Bat Signal. Needless to say, Nolan's movies stay on constant rotation in my blu ray player, and bout midway through what was likely the twentieth time I watched The Dark Knight, I realized a possible logical terminus for the story Nolan had begun with Batman Begins. Speculation surrounding the fate of the Dark Knight abounds, and, since the first trailer released last summer, fans everywhere have been wondering whether Nolan will kill his titular hero. I must confess, though, don't find this question as tantalizing as most loyal fans do. I cannot wait to see how it all ends, but I don't really care if Nolan's Batman lives or dies or passes the mantle or any other scenario in terms of its narrative importance; the movie's going to be awesome, that's a given. Nolan's said repeatedly that this is going to be his last Batman film. He's explained that he's looking to early film epics like Metropolis or maybe Birth of a Nation in terms of cinematic scope. We know he's going big, also, because the movie is nearly three hours long.. Perhaps a more useful question than "Is Batman or Bruce Wayne or both going to die?" would be "Why would Nolan feel compelled to kill off the Dark Knight?" The key difference is that the latter question broadens the discussion of of the films in dialogue with not only other incarnations of the Batman but also discussions of American ideologies. Nolan's changed the way we perceive one of the most influential and persistent contemporary American icons, and I think it's about time we talk about what exactly that means.

"But They never talk about the mean one. The cruel one. The one who couldn't fly or bend steel in his bare hands. The one who scared the crap out of everybody and laughed at all of the rest of us for being the envious cowards we were." (Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns)

Nolan's movies are not as divisive among comic fans as one might expect. He grounds his project in a reality that asks us to think semi-realistically about what would happen if Batman would enter a real world scenario, and few people with whom I've discussed the films tell me that Nolan's tampering with the Batman universe borders on blasphemy--and we all know how loyal fans can be. I like to view his films as Elseworld's type stories (i.e. Thrillkiller or Gotham by Gaslight), a type of alternate Gotham that gives the auteur a large enough sandbox to play in. The result is a movie that "feels" like a Batman movie even though it's not the same Batman as the one ("ones"?) in the Post-Crisis continuity. The Dark Knight entertains as both a cape and cowl caper and a provocative crime drama. Nolan's films can have their cake and eat it too, so to speak.

Placing a comic book concept in a very serious, real-world context, though, should call attention to how weird it would be for a guy in a costume to swoop around the city and attempt to stop crime, but that rarely (if at all) happens in Nolan's movies--at least not explicitly. Sure, people have discussions about whether the Batman is "doing good" for the city or whether he is simply, as Gordon puts it in Batman Begins, "Just some nut." But the overall seriousness of the film suggests that its world could (or ostensibly does) exist. In this way, Nolan's trilogy offers the best experiment with the Batman mythos I have ever seen, but it yields problematic results. The films are so damn good that casual fans begin to think of Batman as a real character rather than a pop culture icon, and I'm not sure Batman can withstand the seriousness. I think the Joker in The Dark Knight calls attention to this problem directly with his (painfully over-quoted) mantra, "Why so serious?" The famous line is a meta-question not just to his victims but to the fans. Why do we need such a serious hero in a serious movie that deals with serious subjects like murder on massive scale simply to cause societal chaos?

"No, I don’t keep count. But you do. And I love you for it." (Joker to Batman in Miller's The Dark Knight Returns) 

Christopher Nolan's Batman is played seriously because he's in a serious universe that would never involve Killer Crocs, Clayfaces, or have the main hero hanging with aliens, yet fans are willing to forget (or they just don't know) that the universe(s) of the comics contains these characters and incidents. As a comic book character, Batman is no more grounded in reality than Spider-Man or Superman, nor is his origin more tragic--hell, as much as I don't like Superman, he lost an entire planet along with his parents. Nolan, however, draws on the aspects of the Batman mythos that humanize rather than immortalize the Dark Knight, and, by doing so, deceives the viewer into thinking of not just his Batman but the character in general in terms of his realism. Others, of course, have tread this territory before, but they did so by exploring Batman's humanity in an unreal universe. One story that comes to mind is Grant Morrison's Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, in which the inmates of the titular madhouse take over, and Batman wanders Arkham's halls, battling inmates and his inner demons. But the difference here is that Batman is humanized in a world where the supernatural (aliens, mutants, Solomon Grundy, etc.) exists alongside the natural, whereas Nolan's Batman attempts to become "more than a man" in a purely natural world. At any rate, it's made it much more difficult for me to recommend Batman comics to friends who just know the Nolan movies...though everyone should read the top five graphic novels in IGN's list.

"People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy, and I can't do that as Bruce Wayne. As a man, I'm flesh and blood. I can be ignored, I can be destroyed. But as a symbol … as a symbol, I can be incorruptible. I can be everlasting." (Batman Begins)

So what happens when we introduce Batman to real world besides bad ass action sequences and damn good storytelling (despite the fact that three men can meet on a rooftop while one wears a bat suit and no one takes a step back to say "Wait a minute...what the fu....")? We get a world of consequence. In Batman Begins, the main conflict is about administering justice to preserve balance. Gotham is a functioning system of political corruption and underworld crime, and Batman serves as a destabilizing element. When Batman stops Ra's Al Ghul's League from dismantling Gotham's infrastructure, he does so to give himself time to destroy the criminal structure of the city, but the increased pressure on the mob prompts them to employ a mercenary psychopath who, in turn, spreads chaos through the city in a way that neither the mob nor Gotham's protector could have anticipated. It's textbook chaos theory, in which a single alien element introduced in a system has the potential to ramify unpredictably. By the end of The Dark Knight, Batman understands that in order for the system to be reset, he must remove himself from the equation, giving the police someone to hunt (himself) and someone to idolize (Harvey Dent). Then, eight years later, something ambiguous happens (though the trailer in which Selina Kyle cryptically warns Bruce Wayne has clear overtones of the occupy movement) which awakens the Batman from his eight year slumber--Bane brings hell itself to the streets of Gotham. And we all know why Bane's dangerous...

  

I am Bane -- and I could kill you... but death would only end your agony -- and silence your shame. Instead, I will simply... BREAK YOU! Broken...and done. (Knightfall: Broken Bat)

It's only appropriate that Nolan endshis trilogy with Bane. The Joker essentially "wins" his battle against Batman at the end of The Dark Knight when the Gotham police hunt Batman just as the Joker predicted:

Don't talk like you're one of them! You're not... even if you'd like to be. To them you're just a freak, like me. They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out. Like a leper. See, their morals, their "code"... it's a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you. When the chips are down, these uh, these "civilized people", they'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve.--The Dark Knight

Since Batman has had his struggle with Ra's al Ghul and the Joker (my two personal favorites in his rogue gallery), the logical terminus for this trajectory is brutal, punishing agony. Bane provides Nolan with the perfect vehicle to kill the Batman, to kill Bruce Wayne, or, on the other hand, to provide the greatest physical and mental challenge for the Dark Knight. Ra's al Ghul strives for order and obedience. The Joker thrives on chaos. Bane utilizes pain with surgical precision to break Batman physically, mentally, and spiritually. He is a brilliant tactician and a juggernaut of hurt. If there is anyone capable of delivering the killing blow to the Bat, it would be Bane, and that seems to be Nolan's goal here: to punish the Batman for upsetting the system that keeps not only the microcosm of Gotham working, but also the macrocosm of the perceived real world.

Thus, my long belabored point emerges: I think Nolan's films illustrate that being Batman in the real world is a potentially bad idea, and we're about to find out if Bruce Wayne's choice to become the Batman was the right one. By that, I don't mean it's a cautionary tale about why you shouldn't dress like a bat and fight crime--that's a terribly obvious lesson. The lesson runs much deeper. Much like Alan Moore's Watchmen, one way to read Nolan's films is to say, "Thank God all we have to deal with in real life is nice, clean organized crime. Because when people actually become superheroes, things...go awry." Batman enters a fragile system as a chaotic element, and we see these repercussions in The Dark Knight more clearly than any other Batman story I've encountered. It'll be interesting in The Dark Knight Rises to see how deep the rabbit hole goes. All in all, I think Nolan's films are about consequence rather than about character. Perhaps people do need a dramatic symbol "to shake them out of apathy," but Nolan proposes a scenario that explores what happens after the system that symbol disrupts fights back. Whoever wins, fans will have a lot to chew on and debate for years to come.

Cheers,

--David

Existential Horror and Gameplay Compulsion in Dark Souls

Horror in video games is a fairly well-trod region. Some developers approach the genre through grotesque enemy design, pitting the player against hordes of disgusting monsters, often with a fair degree of gore (e.g. Splatterhouse). Others focus on place and time, building games in Gothic settings (e.g. Castlevania). The best, though, strive for an atmospheric approach to horror that combines narrative, setting, action, and gameplay mechanics to provide a totalizing horror experience. When used to its full potential, the video game medium provides an authentic horror experience that film and literature simply cannot achieve.

Like so many others, I had my first taste of horror in the medium when I played Capcom's Resident Evil in 1996. After watching a ridiculous cut scene in which unintentionally hilarious B-movie style actors delivered some semblance of story my young could not care less about, my friend handed me his controller, gave me a brief rundown of the controls, and set me loose in a mansion infested with walking corpses. Unused to the Playstation controller, I took a while to learn how to move Jill Valentine across the screen, but, after some practice, I began navigating the halls like a pro--until my first encounter with a monster whereupon I forgot what any of those damn buttons did. In that moment, everything came together--the shambling corpse, the lack of ammunition, the limited visibility of awkward camera angles, the knowledge that my character's death would lead to a restart that would undo what felt like significant progress--and created not just a great moment in my subjective gaming history, but also a sincere state of panic. This, I thought, is what horror feels like: hopelessness in the face of a foe that I knew meant certain death. Jill Valentine did not survive the encounter, and it was purely my fault. That instance would never be duplicated for me in a survival horror game. Sure, I had my fair share of scares in Dead Speace, and I felt the bizarre atmosphere of Bioshock. But nothing came close to replicating that moment of genuine terror...until I started playing Dark Souls.

I had played it's predecessor, Demon's Souls, but I never got into it. I gave it two serious tries, but I found that the game required more time to put into it than I actually had to give. But something about Dark Souls' open world and disturbing beauty drew me to it. In Dark Souls, the player's character is a nameless undead who wanders around landscape ripped straight from someone's darkest, depraved nightmare. Beginning at a place called the "Undead Asylum," the player journeys beyond the walls of his/her prison to fulfill some prophecy about something because some demons did bad stuff and it needs fixing, maybe. And that's about all you get, if you don't go to great lengths to find out the story, and it, like so many of the game's oddments, is, by design, withholding. I have no idea why my character must do what he does, and the game gives little to no direction (so much so that an internet community has grown up around trying to help newcomers and experts alike). The player must find his/her way through a demonic hellscape, and damn near everything out there is hunting for blood. It is this initial feeling of despair and unknowing that sets the tone for the game.

I was neither / Living nor dead, and I knew nothing /
Looking into the heart of light, the silence. --T.S. Eliot

The tone of utter hopelessness is not the only link the game has to the horror genre. Dark Souls offers a vast array of demonic creatures and terrifying bosses that leave the player literally shaking after a narrow victory. They attack with ground-shaking power, and they outmatch the player at every turn, if he/she is not careful. The game is not merely content with providing a borderline insurmountable challenge; the developers designed the character models to be visually revolting and intimidating. One look at the Gaping Dragon guarding the key to Blighttown is enough to turn the stomach of any seasoned player:

"I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies
of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me.
But I do not think my life will be long. " -- H.P. Lovecraft

The Gaping Dragon plays off the player's initial disgust at the creature as it emerges slowly from an abyss, and, while the player's shock at seeing the demon has not subsided, it advances on the player with devastating attacks, leaving the player helpless. It will kill you numerous times before you kill it. Another ungodly creature is the Butcher, a large masculine-looking creature, which the player finds out via an NPC is actually a female. She carries a giant cleaver--a Freudian symbol for castration if ever there were one--which she uses to hack and slash at the player, and a burlap sack obscures her face. This faceless giant is quite reminiscent of Silent Hill 2's Pyramid Head, largely believed to be the most horrific video game monster ever created (likely due to his own status as a metaphor for perverted masculinity). These two examples of the horrors the player elects to face when he/she boots up the game. Everything wants nothing more than to eviscerate the player in the most brutal fashion possible.

Though I have mostly compared Dark Souls to games in the survival-horror genre, Dark Souls is not a survival horror game. Its mechanics stem from a strict RPG tradition, so much so, in fact, that the game can easily alienate the unseasoned gamer--which is, of course one of the game's many goals. Casual gamers need not apply. The game is so alienating, in fact, that its multiplayer component (a complex system of entering others' game worlds for good or ill, cryptic messages, seeing ghostly apparitions of other players, and replaying the last moment's of another player's in-game by touching bloodstains left on the ground) is only hinted at through NPCs and item descriptions. Since player is almost always alone, seeing the specter of another player reminds the player that others share his/her fate--but they remain separated by some force that has sundered the world. The ultimate payoff is that the player must evaluate what it means to play with someone online. The connection online gameplay provides is only fleeting and superficial, but when strangers team up to take down an impressively difficult boss, the feeling of gratification is on par with beating an entire game. Players blink in and out of each others' worlds, and as well, each others' lives, inviting a metatextual pondering of existence and connection in a world of abject despair. Can we really know the people we play with? The game posits that we cannot, that they are just hollowed shells of people projected on a screen--bodies turned into ghosts by ones and zeroes. These interactions, nevertheless, are meaningful in that they help us traverse some virtual wasteland, and maybe that's all we can ever ask for in online interaction. The game offers a grim truth, beautiful in its bleak frankness.

"Those who have crossed / With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom /
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost / Violent souls, but only /
As the hollow men / The stuffed men." --T.S. Eliot

It is here in which the true horror of Dark Souls stirs, opens it jaws, and howls.  Whereas most horror games choose to keep the elements of horror within the game itself, Dark Souls dares to reach out and infect the player's psyche.  In her review of Dark Souls, Keza MacDonald writes, "It appears to be FROM's mission to send you into harrowing spirals of despondency and self-pity at every opportunity," acknowledging that game is designed to infect and twist the player's psyche.  Should one choose to play the game, he/she will inevitably ask the question, "Why the bleeding hell do I keep playing?"  And then it strikes.  The player no longer plays because it's enjoyable; he/she plays because success after repeated failure is an addiction.  Gaming becomes compulsion, not unlike gambling, except the player constantly bets hours instead of chips.  The player willingly undergoes the constant threat of failure in a world where respite is a luxury not afforded when it is often most needed.  Danger lurks not only around every corner but also long after the system is powered down, as the player constantly wonders about better strategies to get past that one boss that seems impossible.  Losing thousands of souls due to a misstep or an unknown ambush is certainly cause for despair and anger, but the persistent player continues to fight, using each failure as a teaching tool.  Death and punishment serves as the game's central pedagogy, turning the player into a student.  The game actively trains you to rethink what it is to die in a virtual space.  Through some perverse game coded witchcraft, the developers turn failure into progress, an uncomfortable inversion of what we assume video games should do.

The horror influences in From Software's Dark Souls are clear in creature design and Gothic architecture, but it is the horrific nature of punishing gameplay that pushes the bounds of what video game horror can be.  A novel or film can linger in the reader/viewer's mind, but only in games can the player actively participate in his/her own waking nightmare.  As I make my way through the dilapidated hellscape of Dark Souls, I can't help but be reminded of the poet T.S. Eliot's poems The Waste Land and The Hollow Men (both from which I have quoted in the picture captions above) which are both known for their beautiful bleakness.  The same could be said of From Software's Dark Souls (as well as its predecessor, Demon's Souls), as the game design is both elegant and horrifying.  It's a journey into a Nietzschean abyss that doesn't just stare back.  It rends the player with claw and fang and leaves him/her with questions as to why he/she continues to play while spurring the player downward into a world of unspeakable horror, only claw back out again.

Cheers,

--David

Beenox's Amazing Spider-Man: An Issue of Trust

In an earlier post, I explained why I was excited for Beenox's new Spider-Man game. I did not like Shattered Dimensions, so I didn't bother playing Edge of Time. Nevertheless, I felt drawn to The Amazing Spider-Man simply because I wanted to swing. After reading Greg Miller's IGN review (and several others), I decided to buy the game despite its lukewarm reception. Now that I have completed the game and spent substantial time with it, I find that the game can be a lot of fun, but I do not think I'll return to it. I agree with most reviews that if you come in with low expectations, you'll be pleasantly surprised. Overall, though, Spider-Man fans and gamers alike should ask for more control and nuance, as well as a certain level of trust in the relationship between player and product.

The Amazing Spider-Man has its great moments. Beenox really nails the Spider-Man aesthetic--not so much in the comic book sense, but it seems like a world where Spider-Man fits. The story and characters come together and create a genuine atmosphere, and in no where is this more present than Spider-Man's swinging movements. The camera's close focus on Spider-Man's movements brings the web-slinger to life as he thwips around Manhattan. The web rush mechanic, although simple, sets in motion some stunning traversal animations. Just looking at this gameplay video reveals the elegance of Spider-Man's swing animation:

Bringing the game back to Manhattan proves successful. As I said in my earlier post, Spider-Man needs his concrete jungle to be Spider-Man just as Batman needs Gotham to be the Dark Knight. It's an absolute thrill to swing around the city, and the numerous comic book pages scattered throughout give the player impetus to explore every corner of the island. The buildings shine, and the changes in time of day breathe life into the city. Due to poor to middling draw distance, though, sometimes the streets look deserted, but this changes as Spider-Man falls toward them, catching himself at the last moment, whether you want to or not. And therein lies my biggest gripe with the game. Beenox does not trust the player to control Spider-Man.

The repetitive mission structure doesn't bother me. I am more or less unfazed by the indoor missions; they neither interest nor bore me. The sometimes awkward or uninspired character models have no real bearing on my dissatisfaction with the title. And I could ultimately care less about spoilers for the upcoming film. The problem I have with The Amazing Spider-Man is the fact that the game does not seem to respect the player's ability to work to become the titular hero. In what is undoubtedly an attempt to be more cinematic, the game moves Spider-Man almost automatically, wresting control and consequence from the player.

IGN community members (myself included) have made comparisons between The Amazing Spider-Man and Rocksteady's Batman: Arkham City, and these are not without warrant. Beenox borrows heavily from the Arkham formula, especially in combat and stealth mechanics. Spidey strikes from the shadows, and he takes on groups of enemies with the Batman's method of attack, reversal, jump, and stun (in this game, you can stun enemies with webbing). While this combat system works, most encounters left me feeling bored and cheated. The system works in the Batman Arkham games because Batman's combat style is precise and punishing, incapacitating enemies with surgical efficiency. Spider-Man's fighting style relies more on speed and disorientation; the character flips, webs, punches, kicks, and bounces all around the combat area in order to confuse his opponents while administering a barrage of pain and wisecracks. Beenox clearly understands Spider-Man's spectacular style as the character moves quickly in combat, but the Webhead doesn't perform these actions because the player makes him--he moves this way because simply pressing one button will launch the character into a dynamic finisher involving web shots and a beatdown that the player can watch without touching his/her controller. This problem occurs most glaringly in boss battles when Spidey leaps over giant robotic limbs and kicks the crap out of weak points, all with the press of a button.

Yes, you eventually fight it. Or, rather, game kind of does it for you, but it still counts, right?

Now, gamers are not strangers to quick time events, but we usually weaken the boss first with a (hopefully) intricate and intuitive combat system. Most of the boss fights here, at least the larger ones, employ a "strike here" type of gameplay where you web rush to a certain point on the enemy, watch the attack action, and retreat. Lather, rinse, repeat. Spider-Man performs wildly acrobatic and impressive moves without requiring complex inputs, thus negating satisfying feedback to the player. As a result, I never felt like I could control Spider-Man. I felt like a mediator between the onscreen Spider-Man character model and the internal systems of the game that make him move. It feels like Spider-Man lite, not a Spider-Man experience.

These issues appear in the locomotion of the character as well. Simply holding the web swing button down allows for what appears as radical flips and gravity-defying feats. As I mentioned, web rush moves look impressive, but for the player, it can also feel cheap. I wanted to be able to place the webs on the buildings with a mechanic similar to Activision's Spider-Man 2. (Note: I will never understand why a developer cannot keep the swing mechanics from Spider Man 2 in tact and build an open world game with an original story from there) I wanted to save Spider-Man at the last millisecond of free fall with a flick of his wrist right before he becomes a red and blue on the city street. But it's hard to feel satisfied with a quick save when the underlying architecture removes fall damage from the game. This twisted Manhattan--where potential death at the hands of physics is no cause for alarm--undercuts the importance of Spider-Man's sacrifice for the city and its citizens because in a world without danger, being a superhero is profoundly less super. An invincible hero, after all, is a boring hero...or Superman (I'm kidding, kinda).

I can honestly say that there are parts of the game I enjoy. I love swinging, and the combat works fairly well. For Spider-Man fans, it's worth playing. But I have my reservations about the way Beenox insists that this game provides an authentic Spider-Man experience when it removes complexity and nuance from the controls. Unfortunately, this move is indicative of the current state of video game development that infantilizes the individual with the controller in his/her hand. So seldom do games trust the player enough to find his/her own way in the game's system or take time to learn complex controls that, when it happens, it becomes novelty or niche (i.e. Dark/Demon's Souls). In order for the game to teach the player a satisfying input system, the developers need to trust the player to fail and to use that failure to learn. The Amazing Spider-Man swings along at great height and top speed, but it does so with a safety web the player does not need nor should want. We're all still waiting for a great caliber Spider-Man game, and this one is far from that ideal. Maybe the figure on the screen can do whatever a spider can, but he does so without much help from the player, which makes me wonder whether I actually played the game at all.

Cheers,

--David