the ramble dump
Friday, September 28, 2007
The Fight Unfinished
I'm not getting Halo 3. Not any time soon, at least. The reason is simple: I don't have an Xbox 360. The problem with following video game franchises is that they are so ridiculously expensive. If you're lucky, you'll get one or two games out of one console. Then the industry will have advanced enough to require the next generation of consoles, and sometimes franchises will switch which series of consoles they play on to make it even more complicated. This latter point is not the case with the Halo series, but it was with another favourite of mine, Oddworld. Either way, however, that's £30-40 dished out for each game these days, on top of the cost of whatever mercilessly progressing technology is required to play it. This may be a reasonable price for what you're getting, but that issue aside, the endeavour remains gorgingly uncheap.
I wish I was getting Halo 3. I want to splatter higher-definition aliens. I want to experience that familiar and solid gameplay at the next level, as well as enjoying all the exciting new stuff. I want to see how the story ends. In many ways, a post about Halo 3 is pointless, because I haven't played it and therefore can't praise or bewail things all that much. But I thought I'd share my reasons for why I liked the first two games, which I hope have made it through to the third.
Originally, I couldn't have cared less about Halo. I would happily have chosen a PS2 to get my hands on the next Tekken game, but my brother persuaded me that we should go for an Xbox because that had the next Oddworld instalment. On Christmas Day, I waited impatiently to play it, and was unimpressed with Halo and the Star Trek aesthetic of the people behind bland control panels in the Pillar of Autumn opening sequence. Captain Keyes placed his blocky fingers thoughtfully at the chin of his barely moving face in utmost seriousness, and I laughed.
But when I gave it a chance, it was a lot of fun to play. Halo succeeds as a solid game because it's not overly complicated - it essentially provides you with lots of aliens to eliminate - but what it does, it does extremely well. It feels well-rounded and the campaign battles feel well-matched and satisfying, with very few encounters that will spike your irritation too much. Depending on the level of difficulty, it's often challenging but almost always enjoyable.
The aesthetic of the game also contributes to this feeling of a happy balance. The universe of Halo is a clunky, colourful one; slightly cartoonish, but perfectly capable of introducing darker themes and creepy places. The best example of this is probably how the walls end up smeared in copious amounts of brightly coloured alien blood. It's a bit like the Harry Potter of the video game world (in more than just popularity and hype, although perhaps for the same reasons): it never ventures too far in any direction and is arguably not all that innovative in terms of its medium1 nor of the story itself, but while critics have accused both franchises of a certain mediocrity in this respect, as I already said about Potter, I think this criticism sort misses the point: in what they're trying to do - creating an entertaining and immersive experience - they succeed. And, in Halo's case, I think it exceeds. Halo hasn't marched forward in innovation, but it has expertly refined its medium, striking a successful balance with all the things it deals with.
Given that many elements of the story are pretty generic, there must something else that gives the story itself some interest. Like a Potter book, the plot is immersive enough. The story in the games themselves is really a bare minimum, but in the franchise as a whole they have a pretty good mythology going. Without knowing the ending, I don't know if it all leads to a satisfying conclusion, but so far it's been intriguing. What I find most appealing about the story, however, is exactly how they go about it.
Amidst all the generic sci-fi stuff, coupled with its unusual aesthetic, the series' story does have a few of its own unique quirks that, if nothing else, serve to give it character. I'd highlight characters like 343 Guilty Spark and the mysterious Forerunners with the novelly cryptic nature of everything about them; and then the thematic use of religious symbology and imagery in everything about the Covenant. If the Halo series attempts to make a point, the most interesting one for me is how the Covenant, in their religious conquest, wrap everything they say and do in terms of poetic, religious language. The series may or may not have anything against the religions of our world per se, but they bring this aspect of religion - and general language use - to stark, transparent ridiculousness. It's not subtle (none of the thematic devices in Halo are) and it's an almost cartoon-like dimension of the Covenant, but it's still an effective view, if perhaps oversimplified (those Elites must be extremely gullible by nature), of how these things can work.
Just to address the portrayal of religion in general: it's not clear to me if any other point against it is being made. With the story drenched in so many references and symbolic allusions, especially with the Covenant, you'd think maybe there might be, but if this is so, really everything is too morally black and white (aliens vs. humans) to be an accurate representation or allegory of any one religion or of religion as a whole. The Covenant is categorically and blatantly evil - even when the Arbiter is introduced in the second game, that's really only to chronicle his escape from the Covenant's illusions and mental clutches rather than to balance their portrayal. Thematically, at least following this particular line of thought, while it offers some simple, effective illustrations, you can't go very deep with Halo before you hit that cartoon factor again.
I think the structure of both the narrative and the gameplay was better in Halo than it was in Halo 2. The first game has garnered many accusations of being repetitive, and a good portion of the levels are done backwards later on in the game. Gameplaywise, this didn't bother me much, because I thought the rearrangement made it fresh enough. Storywise, it gave the narrative a nice symmetrical structure. It begins with the escape from the exploding Pillar of Autumn, and the game ends with a return trip to the ship's creepy ruin, made all the more creepy because we'd seen it before in better conditions (then, of course, followed by an amazing countdown finale). The unexpected appearance of the Flood in the middle of the game really adds to it in this way, transforming both the story and the gameplay despite the level repetition.
Halo 2 was a bit messier. The introduction of the Arbiter's storyline was interesting, but I don't think it quite worked in some ways. For one thing, I always found the Elites more menacing when they weren't speaking English, and while this might be narratively important for showing some sympathy towards Elite-kind, they seemed like more of a threat during gameplay, somehow, in the previous game. I felt there was generally a slight increase in the cartooniness of the proceedings, especially with the appearance of the Prophets and Gravemind. Halo 2 also lacked the narrative structure: the ending wasn't half as interesting and was, of course, notoriously abrupt. The opening attack and the appearance of the Flood had been done before, and though I did like the civil war stuff, and it was generally a solid game, it didn't achieve quite the same balance as its predecessor.
Despite some slight shortcomings, however, the sequel shared many of the original's positive attributes, and both games are excellent. In gameplay, they're good--extremely good--at what they do. Combine this with Halo's quirky (albeit slightly cartoony) character, and it makes for an appealing series of games. Probably some of my fondness for the series comes from the familiarity I gained when I chose to explore it for that certain parody, but weird sentimentality aside, Halo has a lot going for it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy of Halo 3 along with an Xbox 360, feel free.
See also: Master Beef vs. Master Chief 2007.
1 Halo is a pretty straightforward shoot-'em-up; Rowling's writing is technically nothing amazing in any artistic or linguistic sense, but as an entertaining and absorbing read, it's very successful.
I wish I was getting Halo 3. I want to splatter higher-definition aliens. I want to experience that familiar and solid gameplay at the next level, as well as enjoying all the exciting new stuff. I want to see how the story ends. In many ways, a post about Halo 3 is pointless, because I haven't played it and therefore can't praise or bewail things all that much. But I thought I'd share my reasons for why I liked the first two games, which I hope have made it through to the third.
Originally, I couldn't have cared less about Halo. I would happily have chosen a PS2 to get my hands on the next Tekken game, but my brother persuaded me that we should go for an Xbox because that had the next Oddworld instalment. On Christmas Day, I waited impatiently to play it, and was unimpressed with Halo and the Star Trek aesthetic of the people behind bland control panels in the Pillar of Autumn opening sequence. Captain Keyes placed his blocky fingers thoughtfully at the chin of his barely moving face in utmost seriousness, and I laughed.
But when I gave it a chance, it was a lot of fun to play. Halo succeeds as a solid game because it's not overly complicated - it essentially provides you with lots of aliens to eliminate - but what it does, it does extremely well. It feels well-rounded and the campaign battles feel well-matched and satisfying, with very few encounters that will spike your irritation too much. Depending on the level of difficulty, it's often challenging but almost always enjoyable.
The aesthetic of the game also contributes to this feeling of a happy balance. The universe of Halo is a clunky, colourful one; slightly cartoonish, but perfectly capable of introducing darker themes and creepy places. The best example of this is probably how the walls end up smeared in copious amounts of brightly coloured alien blood. It's a bit like the Harry Potter of the video game world (in more than just popularity and hype, although perhaps for the same reasons): it never ventures too far in any direction and is arguably not all that innovative in terms of its medium1 nor of the story itself, but while critics have accused both franchises of a certain mediocrity in this respect, as I already said about Potter, I think this criticism sort misses the point: in what they're trying to do - creating an entertaining and immersive experience - they succeed. And, in Halo's case, I think it exceeds. Halo hasn't marched forward in innovation, but it has expertly refined its medium, striking a successful balance with all the things it deals with.
Given that many elements of the story are pretty generic, there must something else that gives the story itself some interest. Like a Potter book, the plot is immersive enough. The story in the games themselves is really a bare minimum, but in the franchise as a whole they have a pretty good mythology going. Without knowing the ending, I don't know if it all leads to a satisfying conclusion, but so far it's been intriguing. What I find most appealing about the story, however, is exactly how they go about it.
Amidst all the generic sci-fi stuff, coupled with its unusual aesthetic, the series' story does have a few of its own unique quirks that, if nothing else, serve to give it character. I'd highlight characters like 343 Guilty Spark and the mysterious Forerunners with the novelly cryptic nature of everything about them; and then the thematic use of religious symbology and imagery in everything about the Covenant. If the Halo series attempts to make a point, the most interesting one for me is how the Covenant, in their religious conquest, wrap everything they say and do in terms of poetic, religious language. The series may or may not have anything against the religions of our world per se, but they bring this aspect of religion - and general language use - to stark, transparent ridiculousness. It's not subtle (none of the thematic devices in Halo are) and it's an almost cartoon-like dimension of the Covenant, but it's still an effective view, if perhaps oversimplified (those Elites must be extremely gullible by nature), of how these things can work.
Just to address the portrayal of religion in general: it's not clear to me if any other point against it is being made. With the story drenched in so many references and symbolic allusions, especially with the Covenant, you'd think maybe there might be, but if this is so, really everything is too morally black and white (aliens vs. humans) to be an accurate representation or allegory of any one religion or of religion as a whole. The Covenant is categorically and blatantly evil - even when the Arbiter is introduced in the second game, that's really only to chronicle his escape from the Covenant's illusions and mental clutches rather than to balance their portrayal. Thematically, at least following this particular line of thought, while it offers some simple, effective illustrations, you can't go very deep with Halo before you hit that cartoon factor again.
I think the structure of both the narrative and the gameplay was better in Halo than it was in Halo 2. The first game has garnered many accusations of being repetitive, and a good portion of the levels are done backwards later on in the game. Gameplaywise, this didn't bother me much, because I thought the rearrangement made it fresh enough. Storywise, it gave the narrative a nice symmetrical structure. It begins with the escape from the exploding Pillar of Autumn, and the game ends with a return trip to the ship's creepy ruin, made all the more creepy because we'd seen it before in better conditions (then, of course, followed by an amazing countdown finale). The unexpected appearance of the Flood in the middle of the game really adds to it in this way, transforming both the story and the gameplay despite the level repetition.
Halo 2 was a bit messier. The introduction of the Arbiter's storyline was interesting, but I don't think it quite worked in some ways. For one thing, I always found the Elites more menacing when they weren't speaking English, and while this might be narratively important for showing some sympathy towards Elite-kind, they seemed like more of a threat during gameplay, somehow, in the previous game. I felt there was generally a slight increase in the cartooniness of the proceedings, especially with the appearance of the Prophets and Gravemind. Halo 2 also lacked the narrative structure: the ending wasn't half as interesting and was, of course, notoriously abrupt. The opening attack and the appearance of the Flood had been done before, and though I did like the civil war stuff, and it was generally a solid game, it didn't achieve quite the same balance as its predecessor.
Despite some slight shortcomings, however, the sequel shared many of the original's positive attributes, and both games are excellent. In gameplay, they're good--extremely good--at what they do. Combine this with Halo's quirky (albeit slightly cartoony) character, and it makes for an appealing series of games. Probably some of my fondness for the series comes from the familiarity I gained when I chose to explore it for that certain parody, but weird sentimentality aside, Halo has a lot going for it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy of Halo 3 along with an Xbox 360, feel free.
See also: Master Beef vs. Master Chief 2007.
1 Halo is a pretty straightforward shoot-'em-up; Rowling's writing is technically nothing amazing in any artistic or linguistic sense, but as an entertaining and absorbing read, it's very successful.
Labels: halo, harry potter, i am the ramblemaster, language, morality, oddworld, tekken, the aberration, videogames
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Life Pursuits
'University!' said I, looking ahead with mixed excitement and anxiousness.
'Indeed,' said the Floaty Wise Thing. 'Think of all the opportunities! The life experiences! The pursuit of vast knowledge! The academic triumphs! This is a time when you can really make something of yourself, if you go about it in the right way.'
I nodded several times, lost in my own trail of thought. 'Drinking!' I said.
'Drinking?' questioned the Floaty Wise Thing.
'Yes!' I declared. 'I hope to be unconscious by the end of the week.'
'Indeed,' said the Floaty Wise Thing. 'Think of all the opportunities! The life experiences! The pursuit of vast knowledge! The academic triumphs! This is a time when you can really make something of yourself, if you go about it in the right way.'
I nodded several times, lost in my own trail of thought. 'Drinking!' I said.
'Drinking?' questioned the Floaty Wise Thing.
'Yes!' I declared. 'I hope to be unconscious by the end of the week.'
Labels: floaty wise things
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Dreams, Films and Stirred Emotions
I've been reading The Power of Movies: How Screen and Mind Interact, by philosopher Colin McGinn. I discovered the book after reading one of his essays on the Matrix films, in which he mentioned he was working on something like it. In the book, McGinn discusses the reasons behind the immense appeal of films, first establishing their physical and metaphysical properties in relation (and as opposed) to different media such as novels, theatrical plays and small-screen TV, and discussing exactly what it is we are looking at, how we interpret it, how we are engaged by it and how this affects us. He goes into detail about the structure of the image presented: the psychological effects of close-ups of the face, of black-and-white, of dancing and movement and so on. It's all very interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
The movie watcher seems abnormally suggestible, open to persuasion and propaganda--which is why movies have often been used to this end. It is comparatively easy to arouse the viewer's emotions and convinctions. Again, if we ask why this is so, the dream theory has an answer: in simulating the dream state, the movie watcher enters a kind of heightened suggestibility. This state is not as extreme as the dream state, but it approximates that state; thus beliefs are easily encouraged, opinions shaped. [...] Perhaps there should be a new category added to the ratings system: B, for "liable to lead to beliefs in unsuspecting viewers." Once you have someone in a dream state, just as a hypnotic state, you have him where you want him, belief-wise.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
Those windows are super-bright patterns of light, typically telling stories of some sort, and receiving the upturned gaze of the devotee. They tell of a world beyond and give off an aura of the supernatural. They afford visual pleasure, treats for the eye. They transform the human body into a creature of light and radiance [...] You gaze enchanted at the glorious mosaic of the glass as the plangent organ music accompanies your vision [...] Psychologically, there is an emotional stirring, a sense of great themes, a moral focusing, and sometimes a state bordering on trance.
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
Labels: dreams, films, i am the ramblemaster, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Indeed
I've been clearing out my room ready to head off to Uni. These sort of diggings always unearth some interesting, forgotten old stuff, although having done this before and stored many things away for safekeeping in a myriad collection of files and folders already, there wasn't really much left to find this time around. But I did find this thing, which I guess is a sort of sequel to this:
Kind of appropriate, considering I just fired up the old PlayStation to play Tekken 3.
Also, this:
I've been singing it. I think I remember it now.
Kind of appropriate, considering I just fired up the old PlayStation to play Tekken 3.
Also, this:
I've been singing it. I think I remember it now.
Labels: fat men in tweed, sketches and doodles, tekken, videogames
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