The Mary Sue Awakens

      Many spoilers for THE FORCE AWAKENS and for A NEW HOPE below





        A conversation that has come up in the wake of the release of THE FORCE AWAKENS is one revolving around Daisy Ridley's character, Rey, and her strength and resourcefulness. Many seem to think that she is a bit of a "Mary Sue", or a seemingly faultless female character of low rank who manages to save the day with extraordinary abilities, usually without much difficulty. They feel that due to he apparent competence with the Force, and her absurd levels of resourcefulness, that she's a totally unrealistic (at least for the STAR WARS universe). I can see some of their point, as she does have a good deal of capability, and on first glance I thought a bit of the same. The problem is, after further thought, I could see that Rey isn't a "Mary Sue" in any way, but is a victim of poor communication by the film.
        Essentially, her (probable) lineage leads her to adeptness, but she has skill all her own from her own comings and goings in her life. She was a scavenger on Jakku for most of her life, digging through massive ships for parts; she learned the ins-and-outs of spacecraft and machinery due to necessity; she became adept at combat due to protect herself. All of those things have an in-universe explanation within the text of the film.
        "But," some would say, "she held her own way too well against Kylo Ren at the end of the film!" Well, actually, that ultimately has a text based explanation as well. Just before their encounter in the snow, Kylo was hit in his side by a blast from Chewbacca's space-crossbow, causing a somewhat serious injury. When facing Finn, he was beating the wound with his fist, either as a means of toughening himself up to it, or as a way of feeding into the pain to fuel his rage. Rey, who had been show to have extreme force sensitivity, faces him next and seemingly gets bested. Yet, she surges forth and, more-or-less, defeats him. Some would contend that this is totally incompatible with what we know of her, but this is untrue.
        Earlier in the film, during her "force vision" from touching Luke's lightsaber, we see Kylo Ren killing what appears to be a number of jedi. Immediately after this, it shows Rey being left on Jakku as a young child, with the ship containing her parents leaving the planet. Why would she be left there? Given the succession of events, it seems that she was left there to hide her from Kylo, as she may have been the last of the padawan (jedi in training) left alive. At one point, Han Solo even says that the reason Luke went AWOL was due to Kylo being turned to the Dark Side and killing all the students. If she was present with them, she had some sort of training. This explains Kylo's rage at finding out she's alive. Even more, when he interrogates her with some sort of Force ability, she resists and seems to be able to peer into his mind. In the process, she seems to learn to use mind tricks (after a few unsuccessful attempts), so that is further evidence of Force recognition.
        Given that the film seems to go out of its way to suggest that Rey is Luke's child (Kylo seeing the imagery of blue waters and green plants being in her mind, then her finding Luke on a planet that looks EXACTLY LIKE THAT), it makes complete sense that she would be naturally adept at any Force based abilities.
        "Ok...well, maybe all of that makes complete sense," they say. "Even so, if you look back at the original trilogy you see that Luke was a bit of a 'Marty Stu'!" To this, I also say no, and that only serves to highlight some of the problems of THE FORCE AWAKENS.
        In A NEW HOPE, Luke's first official Jedi training comes from Obi Wan Kenobi aboard the Millennium Falcon. At one point, his head is covered and eyes obscured, and small laser blasts must be deflected by using the Force to detect them before they injure Luke. Flash forward to the climactic ending in the trenches of the Death Star, and we see Luke flying in his X-Wing fighter towards the space station's weakness, an exhaust port opening. While in flight, he hears the voice of the now deceased Obi Wan Kenobi telling him to use the Force. He disables his targeting computer, closes his eyes, focuses, then takes a perfect shot. That then destroys the Death Star. The important thing to note in all of this is that the film sets a precedent by showing him training with his vision obscured. There is a clear growth in ability there, and that is helped by the clarity of the delivery of that information. Even more, there is emotional climax in that moment, as the Empire had killed all he knew as family. Everything was building to that moment. It all flowed to that point.
        This isn't the case with THE FORCE AWAKENS. The film's pacing goes through character moments so quickly that the emotional motivations barely stick. I'd say that the reasons for Rey to be as she is certainly lie within the text, and Daisy Ridley certainly adds a lot with her performance, but ultimately, it's the lack of clarity. Perhaps it could have been more straightforward within the Force vision? Certain elements, such as much of the Maz Katana sequence, could have been trimmed to make more room for those elements. Ultimately, within A NEW HOPE, Luke was the focus. He was the focal point of the whole work. This simply isn't the case with THE FORCE AWAKENS. It's goal isn't to be a fully functional self contained movie, but to be a continuation in a series, and I think that weakened the work overall.

Movie Review: Star Wars: Episode 7 - The Force Awakens

      (Contains spoilers or whatever)


      Well, J.J. Abrams did it. He finally made a film that I don't totally dislike, though even that can feel a bit generous of a statement. Let it be known that this is totally a J.J. Abrams film, for ill or good, as he leans a bit too much into his instincts. One would be on point to say that this film works as a bit of a remix of A NEW HOPE as opposed to the latest in the STAR WARS franchise. I couldn't help but view this as a sort of "elevated fan film" due to its insistence on making call-backs, while re-contextualizing them in ways that seemed superficial, at best.
        We find the galaxy in turmoil once again. A very Empire-like entity known as the First Order seeks to take control of the galaxy from the newly formed Republic. In order to deal with this, the now General Leia leads a Resistance against them, while also seeking the location of the missing Luke Skywalker. If this sounds familiar, it's because it is. Sometimes, it's almost exactly the same as episodes four and five. While this calling back doesn't TOTALLY drag the film down ("It's like poetry. It rhymes".), it does cheapen the experience a good bit. Jakku is just like Tatooine, but not really. The Resistance base looks suspiciously like Yavin IV. There's a peculiar looking cantina band. Really, these empty call backs for the sake of fan recognition go on and on.
        While the original films, what with their mythic nature, relied upon coincidence and fate a good deal, EPISODE SEVEN takes this feature up to its most disbelief suspending levels, further pushing the movie down the hole of fan service as opposed to thematic similarities to the originals. Partnered with this is a sense that many a character's journey is a bit weakened by the absurdly quick pacing, almost as though the pacing was so quick specifically to cover the narrative holes filling the film.
        Ultimately, it's the characters themselves that are the strongest elements. At the risk of sounding like a "film critic cliche'", Daisy Ridley shines as Rey, a scavenger on the planet of Jakku who has been waiting many years for her family to return. Ridley fills the absurdly capable character (dare I say, Mary Sue?) with immense wit, yet still manages to keep her grounded in a very sincere sense of humility. John Boyega (ATTACK THE BLOCK) gives an energetic performance as Finn, a former stormtrooper cursed with the capacity to give a damn despite the ferocious indoctrination of the New Order. It's a shame more of his character wasn't developed since he could serve as a fantastic analogue to youth growing up in a time of war and joining the military.
        Oscar Isaac (INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS, EX MACHINA) fills his ace X-Wing pilot, Poe Dameron, with boundless positive energy, making him the most straight ahead "good guy" in the franchise. Every scene he shares with Fin oozed charm and goodwill as well as inexhaustible charisma. Unfortunately, there isn't much investment in his character, so his larger moment in the end of the film ultimately doesn't work as well as it should. Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher reprise their roles of Han Solo and Leia Organa, respectively, and mostly seem to do just enough to make their characters seem to exist. Solo gets the lion's share of character work, out of the two, having what may have been his greatest emotional moment out of any of the films. Other notable performances include Domhnall Gleeson (EX MACHINA, FRANK) as the sniveling General Hux, Lupita Nyong' O as the pirate queen Maz Katana, and an extremely brief appearance by Max Von Sydow as Lor San Tekka.
        The real center of the film, and the source of its greatest achievement, lies with Adam Driver (GIRLS, FRANCIS HA, LINCOLN) as psuedo-Sith, Kylo Ren. It's with him that the film's desire to remix, and Lawrence Kasdan's writing, really do something of value. He's a perfected Anakin Skywalker, fully displaying the internal conflict of one at risk of being consumed by their anger and hatred. Even more, Abrams finds an interesting way to shoot what Kylo does, dutch angles abounding whenever Kylo menaces. The most interesting thing about Ren is that he effectively serves as a metaphor for the whole of the film. He doesn't have the same menace as Vader, and is apt to temper tantrums and angst. At the same time, he seeks to emulate Vader in every aesthetic sense. He wants to be what came before, yet wants to do more than what came before, all without solidifying the idea of the desire.
        While achieving more fan goodwill than EPISODE ONE, EPISODE SEVEN suffers from its hesitancy to stand on its own. While I'm left charmed by the cast and characters, the story's weaknesses cast a shadow over the whole of the production. The real good this film did was enthuse me for Rian Johnson's (BRICK, LOOPER) turn with EPISODE EIGHT, as that director's instincts lead him towards greater narrative cohesion, and less a reliance on recognizable iconography.

The Curious Case of Boba Fett: Episode 1 - Boba Begins

        If I'm going to be honest with myself, I've never quite understood the massive appeal of Boba Fett, that oh-so-famous bounty hunter. That feeling doesn't stem from my finding the character uninteresting or anything, as I think Boba is more than a little nifty. I dig 'em. Even so, there are large numbers of people who seem to value this (minor) character as though he takes a prominence within the whole of the films. So, what causes that? What is it about this character that is so appealing and engaging to so many? To look at that, I think we need to start from the beginning.
       Boba Fett's initial appearance was actually on September 20th, 1978 at the San Anselmo county fair parade as a sort of test run. From there, his next appearance was an animated short on the infamous STAR WARS HOLIDAY SPECIAL, a debacle so disastrous that Lucas prevented it from ever being shown more than the once that it was. Most can easily say that his section, taking place between episodes 4 and 5, is the best of all of the segments in the special. In it, Luke and Friends receive a bizarre message from Chewie and Han as they seem to be careening all over the place. Seeing that they're headed straight for a large moon, Luke brings C-3PO and R2-D2 with him to try to save Han and Chewie. Unfortunately, they all end up crashing onto the planet, both ships landing into sort of ocean of pink slop.
        Immediately, Luke and droids are attacked by a large dragon-like creature, but are saved by none other than Boba Fett while he was riding his own. Introductions are made, and they all make their way to the downed Millennium Falcon. Inside, they discover an incapacitated Han who is soon joined by a suddenly unconscious Luke. Fett says that he knows where to get the serum to save them, so Chewbacca travels with him to the city to retrieve it. While "getting the serum", and unseen by Chewie, Fett contacts the Empire's attack dog, Darth Vader. You see, Vader had actually hired Boba to track down and befriend Luke and Co. and then to follow them back to the Rebel base of operations. Unknown to Boba, though, R2-D2 had already intercepted the signal...somehow. I don't think it was ever really explained HOW R2 was able to do that, but nevertheless that's what happened.
        Upon returning to the Falcon and restoring Luke and Han, C-3PO reveals that Boba is a bounty hunter hired by Darth Vader. Before anyone could get a shot off, Fett blasts off via his jet pack. Then the party leaves; a weak joke is told; they all laugh; fade to black. As far as introductions go, this certainly isn't a bad one. His characterization within the cartoon shows that he is resourceful and immensely intelligent, but that's really it. It almost makes it seem as though he's a one-off character. Not really one with a big future in the franchise, especially when you consider the fact that not a huge amount of people saw the special.
        Apparently, after the special, some seemed to think that Fett was some variation of a stormtrooper, so they took Boba on the road so-to-speak. Fett made appearances in malls and department stores, signing black and white photos as "Boba" and handing out wanted posters with his pictures on them, all in the effort to distinguish himself from the Empire. They wanted people to know that he was his own person. The OFFICIAL STAR WARS FAN CLUB got a look at Boba Fett in the summer of 1979. Appearing on the back of their newsletter, BANTHA TRACKS, Fett was revealed to be an elite bounty hunter who wore elements of the older empire military. This sort of scant information served to fuel speculation on the origin and nature of him. After this, Kenner released a Boba Fett action figure which originally contained a small missile pack that was removed due to it being dubbed a choking hazard for small children. Along with this, the color scheme was changed from the animated special, much as it had been through-out his development. Later, a 13-inch model was produced, further changing some of the design.
        So, at this point, one could argue that there was a good bit of groundswell of interest built up for Boba Fett, though even Lucas says that he doesn't understand why Boba was so popular, specifically telling the actor who played him "It's not a big role." This popularity obviously wasn't purely built up in the stages preceding his appearance in the films, so obviously there's more to the story...and that's an element we'll explore in the next installment.



     

"Super Mario Maker" and the Art of Level Coherency

            With the release of  "Super Mario Maker", many who may have only consumed video games now had the opportunity to take a small, but direct, part in the development of them. For those unaware, "Super Mario Maker" is a game that functions as a level editor, allowing anyone to make their own custom level from a variety of materials from Mario's side-scrolling escapades. Want to place the Bowser from "New Super Mario Brothers" at the very start of a level? You can do it. Want to make a level of nothing but flames and Bowsers? Go for it, you sadist.
            It's that more sadistic aspect that I find most intriguing, though. Many of the levels created are seemingly designed to infuriate the player from the very outset. The levels are packed with gaps that require hyper-precise jumping, completely unforeseen enemies that fly into view at the most inconvenient times, a number of obstacles stacked onto each other in order to create utter chaos, hidden blocks that cause your jumps to be shorter than you intended, and many others. On the one hand, I can understand the appeal of this sort of level design. It can be a fun challenge for groups of friends for each other, or even just perfect fodder for Let's Play's by YouTubers. Hours of video have been spent on trying to complete these levels and certainly millions of views have been accrued, so we can certainly say that there is a demand for the design style.
            That being said, I don't think I would necessarily consider them examples of "good" game design. They tend to be immensely convoluted with no real sense of coherency, a hodgepodge of bits and pieces that are in no way intuitive. That's not to say that I think they should all be easy, but I think there should be a level of communication between the player and the level besides "OH YES LOOK HERE YOU INFANT ALL OF THESE MOVING PARTS WILL CRUSH YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS LOL REKT." Even infamously "difficult" games like "Dark Souls" had some form of communication with the player, most often in the form of being consistent in its actions and increasing the difficulty in a way that called upon all the player had learned previously. The very first level of "Super Mario Bros." does this in a perfect way. Every single thing you do in the first level, whether it involves jumping a gap or busting a brick, you do for the rest of the game. Just by simple exploration of the controller, one can quickly learn the mechanics of the entire game, all within the span of about two minutes. Now, in no way does that mean that the game is "easy", for I'd say that it's difficulty holds up due to how coherent the levels are.
            So, what we have are many people who have consumed a number of video games, and are very familiar with the language, and they are now in the driver's seat as level designer. Unfortunately, the actual complexity of designing levels that both communicate themselves well to the player and possess a real internal coherency is something that seems to be difficult for many to achieve. What could be a possible solution for this? For one, I would advise people with "Super Mario Maker" to actually go back and play the first few "Super Mario Bros." games. A great deal of attention should be paid to how each level is constructed, and even more so, how the nature of each level is communicated to the player. Care should be given to possible themes within each level. Perhaps, the levels work on a surface and subconscious level? For even more help, one should check out Polygon's YouTube playlist for "Super Mario Maker", where actual video game developers design a level, explain some of their thoughts on its design, and play it.. It's here where one can get some first-hand advice on level design from people who have actually created works.
            I think that, given some time, there will be a larger number of more competent levels made. The clickbait-like levels will fall to the wayside, as truly thoughtful levels will remain standing. These will be levels that are truly compelling and challenging, while also instructing and empowering the player towards its completion. I even think it's fair to say that, due to the amount of presence the game has, many more future developers of legendary status are getting a start on their craft while creating some of the more ingenious levels. That certainly makes "Super Mario Maker" one of the more important console games to come out in a very long time.

Video Game Review: Undertale

            It's very rarely that I say a video game really moved me. Too often, I see many games either obsessed with trying to be like movies and totally missing the impact of player agency in lieu of "highly cinematic" moments (and the fact that player agency is the defining trait of video games), or just not making any real unity between the moments of agency and more traditional storytelling. Maybe this stems from the fact that many developers, and programmers, and visual artists may know less about storytelling than they think, and that they feel content piggy-backing on the exact models of other mediums. Rarely, I see something that really tries to use the mechanics of the gameplay to both characterize the characters and tell the story, instead opting to have the "story section" and "gameplay section". That's not to say these individuals aren't talented, but perhaps a bit misguided on the applications of those ideas.
            Every now and then, though, we get something truly special. Something that takes every single aspect of it and uses it to really push the medium forward or even just is very competent. Toby Fox's "Undertale" serves as a shining example of this. Its story isn't, initially, a very complicated one. Your character, a small child, falls into a hole and finds him in an underground civilization of monsters that were forced down by humans in a war that occurred some time ago. So, obviously, your goal is to leave and return to the surface. At first glance, it certainly doesn't seem like much, what with it's chiptune soundtrack and SNES-era graphics (they happen to be absurdly charming and expressive, though), and even gameplay that seems (at first) to be like most other role playing games from that era. The brilliance is just under the surface, though, for the real gold lies in how Fox makes use of the player's agency. In most games, you engage in combat with enemies (either through ambush or voluntarily), but combat often seems to be the main means of advancing things. "Undertale" gives you a new path. Here is a game that gives you the opportunity to be a total pacifist, something immensely rare in video games. Even more, choosing to engage or not engage in battles has a direct influence on how the story of the game plays out. This unique mechanic ultimately can create some wildly different experiences, and, speaking for myself, may lead to a tear or two.
            Each battle has your stereotypical RPG elements: counters that measure health, menus to go through to select what action you will take next, and a turn-based system. The major difference lies, again, in the leaning towards pacifism. It's here that I find it hard not to gush and end up "spoiling" certain aspects of the game, but suffice to say, if one were to choose the non-violent route they would find each monster they encounter responding in very interesting ways. This is even more interestingly reflected with the boss battles. For example, I chose to buy a certain item early in the game. Later on, I had to defend myself against a monster that represented those folk selling the items. At one point, after resisting attacking for nearly a dozen turns, the monster receives a phone call that says that there was a huge misunderstanding, and that there was no reason to attack you. So, by not fighting this monster, I gained an ally. That's so incredibly important to note, as your actions steadily shape how all the characters around you see you. Even your “lv” (level) and “exp) experience tie into this in a very important way. Essentially, the whole of this game is spent both embracing much of the foundation of role playing games, while also subverting so much of what has come to be expected from them. It’s an act of looking forward by looking back.
            With “Undertale” we have something truly special, something that is the perfect rebuttal to the idea that a video game’s emotional effect is increased with graphical fidelity. Instead, “Undertale” shows that the real key to making games into “empathy machines” (a term that Rodger Ebert used to describe movies) while also maintaining their uniqueness is through a good understanding of how to unite story and player agency. The mechanics of the game are used as a metaphor for your communication with the citizens of the Underground. Story is told not only through the surface text, but through the subtext of the very battles themselves. It’s something that blows me away every time I think about it. This is a treasure, folks.

Movie Review: The Martian

        If I'm going to be frank, part of me wants to consider Ridley Scott's "The Martian" as a sort of apology for "Prometheus." I mean, there are a large amount of similarities between the two, with some being in the props (the space suits the astronauts wear have the same yellow glow inside the helmets, and are even vaguely similar in design), and some being in the very structure of the film (a highly planned and detailed mission to an extra-terrestrial location goes badly). It's where and why the two films differ that serves to be the most interesting part of all this.
        The Ares III is forced to leave Mars when it is hit by a large storm. In the process of leaving, Mark Watney (Matt Damon) is struck by debris and thought to be dead. The storm threatens to destroy the Ares III, and kill the rest of the crew, so mission commander Miranda Lewis (Jessica Chastain) is forced to leave the planet, presuming Mark to be dead. As the trailers have shown, he isn't. He awakes and finds himself alone on Mars, with no way to contact his crew or the rest of NASA on Earth. From here, he attempts to find a way to survive as long as he can and reestablish communication with everyone back home.
        So, it's easy to see this film as two in one. One film: the trials and tribulations of a human on a deserted planet, forced to improvise every aspect of his survival. The other film: the difficulties of NASA trying to manage a crisis on both public and technological grounds. In the hands of a lesser screenwriter and director, the two would be an ill fit for each other, but Drew Goddard and Ridley Scott found a way to make everything fit together both visually and tonally. The two halves of the film compliment each other in such interesting ways, the discoveries and setbacks affecting both Mark and the scientists at NASA in parallel fashions. Scott, himself, said that he sees the film as one about the fact that we are never really alone, and I'm inclined to agree. Mark finds a way to keep a video diary and records entries every day. At one point he has a little rover that almost serves as a pet. Back on Earth, the scientists and engineers at NASA all pool their resources and lean upon each other to find the myriad solutions necessary to try to find a solution to their predicament.
        The interesting thing is, despite all of the drama that comes along with trying to stay alive and keep a man alive on a deserted planet, this isn't some overly self-serious piece of Oscar Bait. There are jokes, oh so many jokes, to be found in this film. That really goes a long way towards making the characters endearing, and in making them very human. Even more, there is a very clear confidence in each actor with the scientific terminology they use. It's very believable that these characters are not only real people, but very much so experts in their fields. Chastain is, as usual, in full form as Commander Lewis. She isa fully confident, and strong leader, but happens to have very feminine traits. Basically, she well-rounded and complex. You know, like an actual person. The rest of the crew bring something special as well, with strong, though somewhat brief, performances from Micheal Pena, Kate Mara, Sebastian Stan, and Askel Hennie. Some additional, fantastic performances include Chiwetel Ejiofor and Sean Bean as Mars mission directors Vincent Kapoor and Mitch Henderson, Jeff Daniels as Teddy Sanders, the head of NASA, and Kristen Wiig as Annie Montrose, NASA spokesperson. No character actually serves as an antagonist, each instead trying to make decisions to the best of their abilities in absurdly tough situations.
        The whole of this film works as another great film under Ridley Scott's belt, and a welcome return to form. It really wouldn't surprise me, given how human all the characters feel, if tons of young people who see this film decide to pursue a career in science. Really, this may have been one of the most science positive films I've ever seen. Thankfully, it's also one of the best of the year.

Video Game Review: "The Stanley Parable" and "The Beginner's Guide"

        I'm about two days out from going through both "The Stanley Parable" and "The Beginner's Guide", and I have to say: I'm not really sure what to write. That isn't because I don't have opinions about either one, for I have thousands of words worth of opinions about them (though that won't be the length of this review), but more because my describing what happens inside of each doesn't really do them justice. I may have found the first pieces of media that I think may actually be lessened by finding out a lot about them before you actually interact with them. Normally, I don't care about spoilers,  but the very nature of both of these games make your own, personal experience with each immensely important. So, this isn't going to seem like a typical video game review. I"m not going to mention the fidelity of the graphics, or the capabilities of the AI, or even how well optimized they are (since they're both PC games). Instead, I'll talk about something just as relevant to these two games, but wholly separate. If you get around to playing both (and I do recommend you play both), it may make sense why I chose this route for the review.
     If I were to look back at my own life, I would see that my own experiences have totally influenced the way I create art. I mean, that seems totally obvious, but I suppose it's one of those things that is more profound on a personal level than we may think. Now, I wouldn't say my childhood was tumultuous, as I did have two loving parents. What I will say, though, is that they certainly had some bad habits that didn't make things to terribly easy. Being quick to anger or overreacting to situations with an overabundance of anxiety or aggression; speaking ill of the other to my brother and me; arguments that amount to just being prolonged screaming matches; some combination of these things, these were more common occurrences than I would have liked. So, these things had an influence on the way I interacted with my family and the way I would think about myself. Knowledge became a refuge, as did logical reasoning and philosophy. I would listen in on their arguments to find the holes in logic in whatever they said so that I wouldn't be caught in the same traps. At the same time, I had an immensely low self esteem. Add to that the leagues of pent up aggression I had within me that I didn't know how to handle and, the massive range of emotions I had, and you have a recipe for one distraught, but intelligent person.
        Now, all that wasn't just to elicit some sense of pity from you, but more for the important fact that all of these things influenced the way I started creating art. I would go so far as to say that the articles on this blog certainly are art, so it goes even further into that, deep into the very way I reason my thoughts. That being said, one would be a bit remiss to think that those words you read are a 100% representation of myself. Even more, don't think that there isn't some small level of validation that comes from my checking the data on my Blogger page for this blog, and seeing that people have viewed/read the entries. There definitely is a sense of achievement in that, as well as with my YouTube channel. Tied up in all that is a sort of subtle, but sick kind of thing. There's an addiction there, one to that sense of validation from creative output. That's something that weighs on me a bit, given my predilection to modesty, thanks to my religious beliefs as a Christian. I can admit that I do value that validation that comes from my output, but that doesn't mean that I condone it, in the end. There's a sense of disappointment of self that goes along with it. If I'm going to be totally honest, that was part of the reason I eschewed making this a "normal" video game review. To pursue a different path in the hopes of discovering something new about either writing, or myself.
        I don't know if it was successful. Maybe I misconstrued much of what I meant to say, so it may come off as attention-seeking, or arrogant, or deeply pretentious. I can accept that. I mean, those are wholly valid takes on this. You may be more right, than not. A large part of me writes these as a therapeutic act, as well as the previously stated purpose. It involves the exploration of  ideas for the sake of peace of mind. Maybe I should be more expository? My fascination with logic, and reason, and art, and God all stemmed from my upbringing. Humor can be a bit of a defense mechanism, so I like to throw in some here and there in what I write and make. I have a very strong desire to be clearly understood, so I can tend to be a bit long-winded. I have a pretty substantial fear of rejection, so perhaps some of what I make ends up subconsciously pandering more than I may want it to. Maybe it's this openness, this sense of truly letting down my walls, that I really am seeking.
        "The Stanley Parable" and "The Beginner's Guide" reflects so much of  everything I just wrote. The exploration of why we do what we do, and the implications therein; the sense of validation that comes from sharing what we do and why we feel that; even more, the reasons why we ask those very questions. There are sure to be many different interpretations of what takes place in both games, and even more, some may be inclined to not even call them games at all due to their very nature. I, obviously, would be inclined to disagree. Not only are these two games, but I'd say they're two of the smartest games ever made. Not only using the conventions of video games within itself, but exploring the very core of those things at the same time. So powerful was its effect upon me that I felt compelled to write this very thing, and explore those same themes and how they manifest within myself.
         
     

A Gamer by Any Other Name

        So, full disclosure: I'd never heard the word "gamer" until I was about 21. I'm currently 25 (26 here on the 23rd of October). I found it in the articles and comment sections of game review sites and YouTube videos, it almost functioning as a sot of banner people carried. Whether it was speaking on what "gamers wanted from their games" to "gamers being well represented in mainstream culture", gamers certainly seemed to be a very real thing. At least online. The thing is, I haven't met a single flesh-and-blood human who has verbally expressed this identification with the term "gamer". It's not that I think they don't exist (I'm more than certain that they do), but I say it to preface my next statement: despite having played video games for nearly 22 years, I could never call myself a "gamer."
         What conditions make a "gamer" a "gamer?" Is it just the mere act of playing video games? What of tabletop games such as "Dungeons and Dragons", or "Magic: The Gathering?" Many would seriously argue yes. We could go further, though. What of poker, blackjack, roulette , or any other form of gambling? Those are, often, games of skill with large communities, much like the traditional definition of "gamer." What of people who play physical sports? Football, baseball, futbol, angling, archery, and many more sports are all games with rules and regulations, and all of the requisite communities. So, clearly, video games don't hold a monopoly over organized play with a large community following. So, if that's the case, certainly any person in any of the aforementioned activities could call themselves a "gamer."
         Even with that, while I like all kinds of games, I never saw the need to identify with the activity as a form of identity. I don't see a need to be defined by my enjoyment of a hobby/artform. That isn't to talk down to those who do, and seek the communities therein. Humans are social, so you will likely find communities for any and all activities and interests. Even more, within gaming (henceforth we'll be referring to video games) there are communities for specific genres of game, even down to specific games and even characters.
        With all that considered, what is it that keeps me from identifying as a "gamer?" I'm thinking that it has to do with how I consume media. For one, I don't do fandoms. I can't. Not one part of me engages in a sort of higher level, group consumption of media. Playing video games, watching movies, and general consumption of art was almost a solitary activity for me as a kid, so the idea of identifying as a member of a group dedicated to talking about and consuming any piece of media is a wholly alien concept to me. I see being a "gamer" as being a part of a fandom, this fandom obviously around games as a whole. I don't see that as a bad thing, necessarily, but it's something that just doesn't jive with me.
        Perhaps, it's the fact that I apply a distance to myself and the art I consume. I really like art, otherwise this blog wouldn't exist, but I am far more concerned with its construction than consuming it. Not to mention there is such a broadness to fandom and the title of "gamer" that I'm not even certain I could apply it to myself. How many games do I play to "officially" be a "gamer?" How long do I have to play games? Hours? Weeks? Years? Do I have to like ALL games? Only twitchy, first-person-shooters? How about a labyrinthine real-time-strategy game against the top players in the world? I could continue this for hours.
        There is one big thing that really seals the deal on my not identifying as a "gamer": there's the reality that we ALL are "gamers." Yes, every single one of us is a "gamer," top to bottom. Now, you may be sitting a bit slack jawed, incredulous to my nerve for saying such a thing. Yes, I do admit it's a bit of a "pet theory" but if you don't believe in your own ideas, then who will? Yeah? Yeah.
        So, some areas that influenced this opinion are Game Studies and Play Studies, two areas of major importance if your looking to get into game design. I won't go into tons of detail about these two subjects (they have literally VOLUMES of text within them) but, essentially, humans use play at every life stage. Now, many things can be classified as play and there are many different thoughts on what play even is. Add to this the multiple definitions of what constitutes a game, and we can easily see how things can get quite complicated. Essentially, we can turn ANYTHING into a game. "How quickly can I wash these dishes?" "How soon can I make it to work?" "How many articles of clothing can I fit into this basket to wash?"
        There is one major counterpoint: games tend to be outside of reality, as in their result has no major implications upon real life. Well, I'm inclined to think that's kinda bunk. People who are professional athletes, or play any game professionally, definitely see a major impact on their life from the results of each game. We don't then say "well, he makes his money from playing the game of soccer, so that can't be a game, now." So, with that in mind, I say we all are intimately concerned with games. Games and play are a major way for us to interact with each other and with the world around us. Even more, we tend to love structure and form, and games tend to be all about that in their structure. We are all "gamers", so I don't see a need to make a special group out of it. It just becomes redundant.
        I'm certain there will be many who will have read this and would have vehemently disagreed with me. That's cool. I'm down with dissenting opinions on art and whatnot, as it stirs on discussion. When all is said and done, you won't see me ever standing up for "gamers" beyond just basic consumer advocacy. I do think the designation is a bit of a redundancy, but I don't begrudge you if you find yourself identifying with it. What matters is that we both have a major appreciation for the art form, and hopefully that appreciation spurns on more interesting conversation on what the medium is capable of.      

     

The Kiind of Plug That's Shameless

YouTube has been one medium that has grown tremendously in the past decade. Channels for every topic under the sun have sprung up, with just as many personalities behind them. Some offer educational resources, others offer topical conversation, and others just pure entertainment. Yet, one area that has seemed to rise to the top of the heap is gaming. The top 100 gaming channels have brought in billions views, the top of THAT heap belonging to Felix Kjelberg (AKA PewDiePie), who has 39,308,823 Subscribers and a total of 10,102,088,800 views. For comparison, the official YouTube channel has only around 23 million Subscribers. 

So, clearly, there is something to this. There's something to this new form of entertainment, wherein viewers watch other people play games.What pulls so many toward it? Is it the personalities behind the channels? Is it the fact that gameplay is being shown? Is it the idea of it being akin to watching a friend play a video game? I would wager that it's some combination of those ideas. With that being said, it is here that the titular "Shameless Plug" comes out. 

I actually have a YouTube gaming channel. Granted, I'm no PewDiePie, but the intent to entertain is the same. Actually, I've technically had two channels, though this is by renaming one. Initially, it was called "FREDHEADEDED", and I played a small variety of games with a fairly dubious recording equipment: my IPad, in a case, sitting on a box in a chair, and with the camera facing my television. The video quality was awful, and was always somewhat off-center. All the same, I had quite a lot of fun with them. I learned a lot about the editing process and working with a limit on time and resources, and gained a great deal of knowledge on efficiency. After a while, though, it became impossible to continue due to greater restrictions on resources (my IPad wouldn't store data properly). With that came a bit of a hiatus for several months.

That is, until this past month. Thankfully, I was able to acquire a laptop, video recording software, and a fairly decent microphone, all dramatically improving the quality of my videos. I even renamed the channel from "FREDHEADEDED" to the simpler "Fred Head" (SHAMELESS LINK TO MY CHANNEL: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCja8slhpiCV6je5T4wZDxoA )  This came from more research on marketing analytics, an area of immense importance if one is looking to create and promote content on YouTube. I'd imagine that, as I continue to do this, I'll eventually do a write up on the nuances of YouTube gaming and Streaming gaming (like those done via Twitch, another outlet specifically geared around streaming video of people playing games). 

These channels are everywhere and increasing rapidly. In fact, they are growing so much that I could no longer ignore it and had to at least make an attempt to take part. With that, It is my hope to learn more about the intricacies of a thing like YouTube, while also creating content that I would also want to watch.  

Micro Review: IT FOLLOWS and EX MACHINA

The power of IT FOLLOWS lies in how well it uses every element of itself. The blocking, music, lighting, acting, camera movements, and editing work in a way many films don't, making everything in it all the better as a result. Maika Monroe stars as Jay Height, a girl who, after having sex with her sort-of boyfriend Hugh (Jake Weary) becomes haunted by a creeping specter that can take the form of anyone. Only she can see it, and the only way to get rid of it is to have sex with someone else and pass it on. The catch is, if that new victim gets killed by it, the specter will come back to Jay, then to Hugh, then on and on to the very first person.

We are put right into the seat of the tension of the characters from the very first moments of the film. A camera sees a house in the distance and we sit in the street. A girl exits the home and begins running to the right, as Disasterpiece's dark, synth-heavy score purrs in the background. The camera follows her in one slow, deliberate movment, turning as if on a carosel. She stops in the middle of the street and stares back at the home, fear obvious on her face. She then runs further to the right and back around to the house and then inside. The carosel the camera is on continues. She exits the house again with keys, jumps into what can only be her father's car, and speeds off, the camera pursuing slowly. Disasterpiece's score goes from a purr to a roar. Next, we see her sitting on a beach, back to the water, and illuminated by the headlights of the car. She's talking to her father on the phone, appologising for making various mistakes. We cut to her P.O.V. and we can see the woods near the beach illuminated with red light by the break lights on the car. The score begins to pound and knock, growing in volume until near bursting. Just before it becomes too much, we cut to the same girl in the daytime on the same beach, but she is pale and very dead. She lies upon her back, legs snapped so severely that the bone is exposed. 

This sets us up for the rest of the film. The camera serves to put us in the seat of the specter as well as the characters, while also functioning to provide tension. Slow pans to suggest the specter is moving, showing the specter just out of sight of the characters but completely in sight of the audience, and providing just enough information at any given moment to open the audience up to wild speculation of what will happen next. IT FOLLOWS serves as a master class in modern suspense and horror. 

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EX MACHINA is a film comprised of questions, and it isn't entirely keen on answering them.   

Domhnall Gleeson plays Caleb, an employee of the world's largest tech company, who is chosen to fly to the island of the company's CEO. While he thinks he is merely there as a sort of vacation, the CEO, Nathan (Oscar Issac) reveals that Caleb is actually there to perform a modified Turing Test on an A.I. he's been working on. That A.I. is given the name Ava, and her performance by Alicia Vikander is the focal point of this film. 

Vikander finds a way to imbue Ava with so much: joy, sensuality, fear, power, and some combination of them all. It's this very performance which fuels the main questions it asks of the viewer, namely "Who is the 'good person' in this film?" Since Caleb is the protagonist, wer're inclined to empathaize with him and his perspective, but there is a strong reading that suggest that he may not as pure as he seems. Often we see full-body reflections of the characters upon glass surfaces, and that happens enough that I think there is thematic meaning to it. 

Every character has a duality to them. Nathan claims to want to create the latest form of A.I. but, by doing so, reveals his toxic view of women, as he makes every model of the A.I. as a conventionally attractive woman that he deactiviates when they deviate from what he wants and he turns them into objects of his pleasure. Caleb, our protagonist, seems to be a "good person" who takes issue with many of the things Nathan does...but remains somwhat neutral (which is totally a form of action) except in the case of Ava. Through a dream sequence, we see that he sees himself and Ava together romantically, even though he has only known her for less than a week, and has spoken to her less than five times. Even more, Ava is a composite of his internet search history, so she's literally a projection of his desires. In his desire to save her, he strokes his ego, especially since he doesn't have the same desire to save the other A.I. that also exists. Finally, with Ava, we have a wholly different perspective. While Nathan and Caleb had their own projections they put upon Ava, she has one desire: freedom. Nathan keeps her in a litteral box, and Caleb only sees her personhood within the context of a romantic relationship, so her rebellion and the means through which she does it makes complete sense to me. 

Is what she does at the end totally warranted? Does Caleb deserve what happened? Were there an abundance of similarities between Caleb and Nathan that Caleb subtly accepts? The film doesn't make any of it too clear, and I'm inclined to think that your answer to these questions says more about yourself than the film. 

Level Grinding, Grinding Gears

I can say with certainty that I have a deeply rooted love/hate relationship with "level grinding" in RPGs (Role playing games). On the one hand, I can see the intent. It seems to be an extension of tabletop games, like "Dungeons and Dragons", what with all the the numbers representing different attributes of your character. Those very numbers can be increased through myriad activities within the game. In the case of many RPGs, it's through combat and the use of those abilities that does this.

Then, there's the aspect of it being the means through which the player interacts with the content of said game. Interactivity is the way we engage with a game (moving characters around, going through menus, etc..) and, in the case of RPGs, represents the growth in skill. For example, let's take the game "Final Fantasy VII." In it your characters move around the larger part of the game world viabin what's called and Overworld (or at least, I call it that), and within each town or cave there are smaller areas as well. On the Overworld and some of these smaller areas, moving the character around the screen can trigger random moments of combat from unseen opponents.

Each battle uses menus and statistics (the amount of health characters have, any negative effects that may have come upon them, when it's their turn to attack) to allow the player to have an easily observable means of keeping up with what's happening. From here, it can even be argued that the random encounters serve to metaphorically refer to the journey the characters are going on as an almost short hand. Grinding then is the focused effort to use all of these means to increase the combat viability of the characters you control.

On the flipside (because you know there was going to be one), there is a distance between this and the story within the game. It almost feels as though I'm engaging in two wholely different activities: I'm engaging in a game similar to older tabletop games, and I'm viewing this story being told. Obviously, the gameplay and story relate to each other, as I'm playing as characters from the story, but for characters to not even mention all the progress they're making in their abilities and physicality only seems to alienate the two. I can fight a boss, almost lose, escape, level grind, come back, then beat them. After all that, not one character will mention the near death and act of focused training. The player has to engage with and disengage from the story to interact with the menu based portions, then vice versa.

Now, that isn't to say I'm wholey against any of this (as FF9 is one of my favorite RPGs of all time, and it has some of the same issues as FF7), but more to say that I have some frustrations with the way it's done. There have been games that have attempted to find a unity between the story aspects and the menus. "Infamous: Second Son" comes to mind as a more recent example. The main character in it can upgrade his different abilities, and the player ineracts with this aspects via a series of menus. The thing is, the character actively acknowledges that they can upgrade their abilities and even mirrors the player's desire for more strength and capability. It's a small thing, but it has a huge impact.

At the end of the day, I will engage in level grinding if I enjoy the overall experience of the game. At the same time, I can hope that more efficient means of combining gameplay and the more straightforward storytelling are found in addition into what we already have.

A Look Back: The Fast and the Furious

I'm more than a little inclined to think that the "Fast and Furious" franchise is fairly remarkable. Somehow, an entire mythos and complex chronology was created out of, what essentially was, a "Point Break" remake. I found this so interesting that I decided to rewatch every film in the series (excluding Furious 7) in an attempt to better understand what makes it what it is. It should be noted that I am a person who is very much so into these films, but I had never sat down and watched them all in an attempt to see what they are and how they all work. So, I start this trip with the first film, "The Fast and the Furious."

"The Fast and the Furious" serves as an interesting psuedo-remake of "Point Break." An undercover police officer infiltrates a group of people engaged in some sort of extreme activity (in the film's case, underground street racing) that are also suspected of some sort of illegal activity. The officer then begins to, sincerely, become close to them emotionally. From here, he is faced with a dilemma: turn them in, or let them go? What's interesting isn't its nature as an almost remake, but in the way it plays itself out. By no means is it stellar, for flatness in acting and characterization are everywhere, but it plays itself very well in a few areas.

The most articulated characters are Vin Diesel's Dom Toretto, Paul Walker's Brian O'Connor, and Jordana Brewster's Mia Toretto. These three stand out the most because, well, they're the only ones with any real development. Every other character is basically the same throughout the entire film and only vaguely defined. Even so, this film excels on a number of other levels. I should say that it's important to note the film's place within the Fast and Furious franchise. I would dare say that the impetus of many of the car-based stunts in later films are built off of the truck heists within this one.

This is its greatest accomplishment, for what it lacks in quality of dialogue it more than makes up with well choreographed stunt work. The largest of these is on of those said truck heists towards the end of the film. It's one that happens multiple times throughout the film, but at this point we see it in daylight, with all the identities of the players revealed. Dom and the rest of the members of the heist encircle an 18-wheeler with their cars in an attempt to highjack it and its cargo to sell to a fence. We are given clear geography of the scene; at any given moment we know were each person is. It's pure cinema, with each action leading to the next, telling small stories that are mostly visual. This is the case for the majority of the film.

One important aspect of this movie that was echoed throughout a few of the other films is the theme of family. Dom serves as the patriarch (resonating even to his prized possession, a car he and his departed father built) and the sincerity of his concern for those in his family (read: gang or crew) is palpable. Dom, and many of the other characters work much like Rocky. Particularly, from the first "Rocky", that is to say they are dopey but emotionally sincere. For me, Dom's strongest moment with dialogue comes when he is giving Brian the history of the car he and his father built. He describes the tragic death of his father in said car, which he renovated in the years after, his nearly beating the driver responsible for the car wreck to death, and all of the subsequent trouble from that. Dom concludes by describing how his worldview has changed since the accident, saying that he lives life "a quarter-mile at a time" and that "during the ten seconds in that car, in a race...I'm free."

The entire movie thematically stems from that line. The people who race in the movies are not merely people who drive cars very quickly, but people whose cars are an extension of who they are. When they race, they feel alive, much like an athlete would when performing in their sport of choice. It is a blend of practical movement with artistry, each driver learning the ins and outs of their vehicle to better perform. A very likely reading is that each car represents some aspect of each character driving it. Perhaps, it wasn't intended and just happened to be there. Either way, it elevates the film from a mere film about racing to a film more about why they race, though only slightly.

The Tyranny of The Spoiler

Dear America,


At this point, all of us of have encountered the dreaded specter of The Spoiler. So frightening is this beast that it forces us to preface numerous articles and comments with the tag "spoiler warning", as though revealing such information will traumatize the reader beyond repair. It seems to have the power to ruin entire television series and movies, books, and even video games. It tempts us with desires to wander over to Wikipedia and peak ahead in a series. It even frames how we conduct ourselves in conversations, making whole chunks of information unmentionable. Well, folks, I'm here to tell you that we don't have to fear being haunted by this vision anymore. The reason for that, quite simply, is because spoilers don't matter.

I've put a lot of thought into why we care so much about spoilers, and I've settled onto a few things. For one, we may worry so much about spoilers concerning a certain character due to our  attachment to said character. Knowing that they die, or that some other unfortunate circumstance finds them, may lead us to not consume said media anymore. Folks, I'm here to say that we're mistaken in doing so. We've put our emphasis on the wrong thing, for when we place all our emphasis on the one character, we neglect to acknowledge the whole of the narrative. This is crucial, for to do so is to neglect the extent of the story being told. We must place that character in the context of the story, for the character is a part of the story. We may then see that the series or movie was quite different than we originally thought.

Another reason we may hold so dearly to spoilers is our elevation of the freshness of our experience with a piece of media. This one, I think, is the easiest to see as misplaced. The truest and deepest sort of spoiler is the first time we consume the media, for all context is gained then. All of the nooks and crannies of the story unfold themselves in the immediate viewing and upon our time looking back at it. We can clearly see character motivations, and the little details of each moment, and we are armed with this knowledge the subsequent times after. The obsession with the sanctity of the First Time holds us back from, again, taking in the whole of the narrative. We focus upon the possibilities of what may happen within the story, and not the story itself.

So, what would it look like to put this greater vision of the narrative into play? The best place to start may be a very well-known film: The Empire Strike Back. One of the most famous moments from this film was the line, "Luke, I am your father." At this point, I hardly think we would consider this to be a spoiler since this line has permeated so much of our culture. Yet, I don't doubt that some of us would feel inclined to offer some sort of protest as to not spoil the moment. Well, I can tell you that we should not worry, and we should not protest this piece of information. For, this piece of information is not the most important part, on its own. Its power is granted by the context gained by observing what came before, and reflecting back upon it by seeing what came after.

Luke, a farm boy on a desert planet, learns that he the latest in a line of intergalactic warriors known as the Jedi. He also learns that one of the leaders of the Empire, the oppressive force dominating the galaxy, is also a Jedi, though an evil one. Luke develops as a warrior over the course of the first film, even going so far as to destroy the Death Star, a massive space station that the Empire uses to destroy planets. The second film, The Empire Strikes Back, finds Luke continuing to assist the Rebel forces in their battle against the Empire. He continues his training with the Jedi Master Yoda on the planet of Dagobah, where he learns to confront his own fears and learns of an element of this dark Jedi, Darth Vader. While training, he learns that Vader has his friends held hostage, so he rushes to Cloud City to rescue them, all the while Yoda tells him he is not prepared.

He arrives, attempts to fight, and is promptly defeated. One of his hands is cut off by Vader's lightsaber, and he is dangling for dear life upon a spire. Vader looks down at him and asks him if he knows of his father. Luke says that he knows enough; that Vader killed his father. Vader then says "I AM YOUR FATHER!" Luke is distraught, crushed, and dumbfounded. He screams out in rage and pain. This man, his actual father, is responsible for the death of millions and the death of Luke's adoptive parents, his uncle and aunt. All of Luke's search for purpose and meaning contained an element of the search for where he came from, and now he knows: he comes from the darkest source of all.

Now, it should be clear that the importance of the moment wasn't in the moment itself, but in what lead up to it. The important part wasn't the iconic line by Vader, but what that line meant for Luke. Knowing that Vader is his father means nothing in the first film since we haven't had the context of both films. The line is a culmination of moments that requires the moments before for meaning.

So, good people, we need not bow to the Sacred Cow any longer. It has chained us down, and held us back. The only reason spoilers have any power is because we give them such. Stories are made of many parts that work in conjunction with each other that lead us to feel something and to say something to us. Disproportionately elevating one part of this Whole only serves to, in the long run, cheapen the experience. Due to the interplay of our consumption of stories and the artists that create them, embracing stories based only on shock or stories based on their ability to trend (the kinds of things that seem to really fuel the idolatry of the spoiler) can suggest to the artist and the patrons of the artists that this is what works. We deserve better. We can have stories that resonate with us, while being tightly plotted, while also being fun. We can learn more about the language of storytelling so that we may be more educated consumers, thus being more open to the whole of a narrative. It may be a hard road, America, but I think that it's possible. I've come to melt down this Golden Calf, Spoilers, and remold it into a throne. Upon this throne, we shall place Elevated Narrative Appreciation. It certainly makes for a much more worthy idol.


          Sincerely,
               Your Baby Boy,
    Fredrick Maxwell

Growing Pains in Art Criticism

Yesterday, I attempted to write up a review of the first season of Netflix's "Daredevil." I say "attempted" because, after two hours, I had only two paragraphs. That's certainly less than anticipated, and it lead me to wonder why it seemed so difficult. I had watched every episode, fully intent on catching every detail and plot point. What was it that kept me from producing a review of resonable length that I felt satisfied with? Eventually, I came to a conclusion: I was attempting to review an entire season as though I was reviewing a movie. The two have totally different formats that just don't lend (at least for me) to similar reviews.

It took me breaking it down on a basic level. A film is, usually, an entire story that is told and concluded within one sitting (clearly this excludes franchise based films). This can run around a maximum of three hours, and is easily consumable. A television series, on the other hand, takes much more time to consume. For Daredevil, that would mean around thirteen hours of material to sort through, and that certainly more difficult than a mere three.

Going further, television is in the business of longform storytelling. Each episode can be seen as a chapter that is also self-contained. For example, something like "Game of Thrones", may function as a minature film during each episode, telling an entire story but functioning within the larger picture of a season. Reviewing such a thing would take my looking at the first episode and the parts within, then doing the same thing with the second but putting it in context with the first. This would go on and on until the end of the season.

Now, I've heard a variety of suggestions of how to "correctly" watch television. Some have suggested waiting until the end of a season to decide how I feel about it. That means watching up to twenty hours of material just to decide something that could be decided in the initial three. Even more, that would mean that one mindlessly consumed nearly a day's worth of material before beginning to have any sort of critical thought on it. That seems too close to "turn off your brain" media consumption for me to even begin to take that seriously (I mean, honestly, why on Earth would someone think that "turning off your brain" is an appropriate way to consume media...that kind of thinking is literally the fuel for the majority of reality television, something I will go on record as saying is garbage). Perhaps, it relates more to the reality of the majority of people that consume media not really understanding the language it uses.

At any rate, my official stance is to view a show a few episodes at a time, then review those chunks. I concidered doing one episode at a time, but I don't really have the time to review each episode in the detail I'd like to. Then again, this may change tomorrow, as I'm prone to wildly changing my mind on certain things. I chock this up to my still being a bit green when it comes to this whole "art criticism" businesss. The best thing for me to do is to keep consuming all sorts of media, write a lot, write a lot, and write a lot.

Pushing Aside Nostalgia: The Act of Criticism

I can say, with certainty, that I am only nostalgic towards one thing: Super Mario Brothers on the NES. I remember plenty of times as a a five-year-old when my cousins and I, or my parents and I, or my brother and I would get together and just dig into that game with the intent to wring everything out of it we could. We would search for every secret, get as many extra lives as we could, and even beat our own speed records. These were good times.

That being said, my fond memories attatched to that game in no way influence my feelings on the game's own merits. Don't get me wrong, I think it's an amazing game that saved the video game artform, but that's because of the work done by the game itself. I say this, because it seems we live in the Age of Nostalgia, an age of revisiting old works from one's youth and attempting to judge them not in light of itself, but in the light of our fond memories surrounding it. 

I'm more than inclined to think that any attempt at objective criticism will be hurt by the attempt of the person making the criticism trying to include their own sense of nostaligia into their final asessment.** A good example of this sort of thing is some people's reactions to the "Transformers" films. I've heard many a person say that "it's like all the toys and the cartoons, come to life!" and that, seemingly, be their only assessment of the film, as everything else they say about it ends up revolving around that initial statement. To say what they said, and to mean it, says that they ignored massive sections of the films in favor of the (rather poorly done, dramatically) action sequences. They ignored the character inconsistencies and "maturity" (sexual innuendo, tough-guy posturing, borderline R-rated violence) in favor of the identification with their childhood. 

To state a critique of anything, the best rule of thumb is to take it on its own terms. It doesn't particularly matter if some older iteration of that thing was something you loved as a kid, because this new iteration is just that: a new iteration. It's something different. I don't see any real way to give a film, or movie, or book, or whatever a fair shake if we weigh them down with our nostalgia. 

The same can be said with updated versions of older childeren's works (looking at you again, "Transformers"). It seems some of us wish to age them up with us. As though we aren't content with them simply being works intended for children that we can enjoy as adults (I don't really see anything wrong with that), but that since we are mature then the work itself  must also be mature. That's simply not true. Pixar makes a killing off of creating works aimed towards families, as in, many different age groups. There's the superficial layers of their films and those appeal more to the children. Yet, there are deeper thematic layers for the older ones in the audience, and these things work not with posturing, but with emotional sincerity. 

You have to be willing to look at something you enjoyed as a child and say that it's not so great. If your own emotions towards the piece are stopping you from seeing the possibility of you not particularly thinking that thing is that great, then you are going about critique all wrong. There has to be an openness to reconcideration. Otherwise, you're essentially refusing to grow. 

** Of course, by "objective criticism", I mean approaching a work and judging it on it's own terms. 

The Posey Test

''All these relationships between women, I thought, rapidly recalling the splendid gallery of fictitious women, are too simple. [...] And I tried to remember any case in the course of my reading where two women are represented as friends. [...] They are now and then mothers and daughters. But almost without exception they are shown in their relation to men. It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of a woman’s life is that [...]" -Virginia Woolfe 


The Bechdel Test first appeared in a comic strip by Allison Bechdel, entitled "Dykes to Watch Out For", as a sort of look at underrepresentation of well rounded female characters in movies. One of the characters in the strip, an unnamed woman, states that she won't watch films unless they fit the following criteria:

1. The movie has to have at least two women in it
2. These women talk to each other
3. The women talk to each other about something besides a man

Now, while this in no way guarantees that said movie will be well recieved, or even free of sexist content, it serves as a broad guideline for writers to keep in mind. Another such test was proposed by my friend Jess Posey and is respectively named, The Posey Test. It functions in a similar fashion to the Bechdel Test in that it broadly applies a few rules in order to better diversify the portrayals of women in media, in this case with comedy. 

The rules are:

1. There is at least one female character
2. That character is cast among a strong presence of male characters
3. The character's comedic moments aren't dependent on a male character for setup
4. The character serves as the sole or primary source of comedy

The idea isn't to strictly adhere to these rules, but to keep them in mind as you write. It should be noted that there are ways to not use the Bechdel Test and Posey Test and still see the kind of characters and comedy that resonate with people. For example, "Orange is the New Black" connected with many people, passes the Bechdel Test, but fails one of the conditions of the Posey Test. Does this then mean that the Posey Test is invalid? Of course not, because the rule was to be broadly applied in the first place. 

Aside from the two tests mentioned, there are a few others, like the Russo Test, the Mako Mori test, and the oh-so-hilarious Sexy Lamp test. All of these tests serve as broad guidelines for creating more rounded characters, and while they may not all guarantee that your work will connect with audiences, they will at least lead you to more emotionally realistic characters. 

An Interesting Thought on Fan Theories

So, I didn't write this. I wish I did, because It's brilliant, but that credit goes to the person who goes by the screen name ChateauArusi. It's an essay length response (which I'm usually against), but this is so well articulated that I had to share. So without further ado... (here's the link to the original article the comment was on; it's pretty swell too: http://birthmoviesdeath.com/2015/05/21/why-the-latest-mad-max-fan-theory-is-a-crock-of-shit#comment-2037935460)

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"Time for me to share a pet theory. Not about the continuity of Mad Max, or about fanboys. But about the human impulse to take stories apart and understand them.

Because this is a very, very old impulse. It predates movies and comic books. You can find the instinct as far back as you look.

Let's take Bishop James Ussher, who is most famous for going through the Bible, carefully sequencing the events and begats, adding up all the characters' ages, and in general attempting to apply fanboy-style obsessiveness to Scripture. He wound up pinning the date of creation to exactly the year of 4004 BC. Not 4000 plus or minus, but precisely 4004.

There were two responses to this, which make perfect sense in retrospect: some people latched onto his analysis, and regarded it as authoritative; and a lot of other people rolled their eyes and/or just laughed at him. And not years later, but at the time.

There is something about narrative that tickles us very deeply in the root of our brain. We appreciate narrative not just as a collection of events, but as a sequence of events that teaches us something and illuminates the world. The more coherent that sequence, the more internally consistent it is, the more closely dependent the subsequent events are on preceding events, the more satisfying the narrative is to us.

Look at a movie like Hot Fuzz, where there is barely a wasted shot or line of dialogue. We find that insanely satisfying, because of how beautifully constructed, how tight, it is. No matter how deep we dig, we find consistency and cross-reference. And we love it.

But some of us, as observed in the article, take it to an extreme. Every movie, every television show, every novel and short story and serially published penny dreadful, has continuity errors. Some of their creators made, and make, mistakes. Some were sloppy. And some didn't care at all to maintain tight quality control over the sequence of events.

Look at how many people have devoted so many hours to figuring out the continuity of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Where, exactly, did Watson get shot? Was he shot only once, inconsistently described, or was he shot twice, and each time it comes up, he simply fails to mention the other one? Either way, why?

The obvious answer is that Doyle didn't care overmuch. It's an author's error, insofar as a gap in the verisimilitude of the story can be said to be an "error" at all. It's a work of fiction. You either enjoy it or you don't. Most people enjoy Sherlock Holmes just fine, and ignore this and a hundred other little inconsistencies. For a minority of people, working out how to reconcile these inconsistencies is an additional source of enjoyment. And for a small minority, the existence of these inconsistencies ruins the experience. It must be perfect, or it didn't happen.

Which is the key to my pet theory: the idea that all of this "happened."

It's fiction. Obviously it didn't really "happen" in any sense of objective reality. But there is something about storytelling, about narrative, that allows us to imaginethat something happened. And it is exactly that act of imagination that triggers something fundamental in our brains, and provides insight into the way we see the world.

Look at a non-fiction newspaper article. What do we call it? A "story." We use a word that we normally think of as applying to a fictional vignette to describe a piece of factual reportage. Then, on consideration, we realize that we tell each other stories all the time. Here's the story of how I got thrown out of college. Here's the story about how I got drunk and felt up my own mom in Mexico. Seriously, it's a true story. And then think about that phrase, "true story." We say that when we promise that the story we are telling "actually, really, happened, no foolin'." And that causes us to engage on an even deeper level.

Consider this fact: Every single religion in the world encodes its teachings in the form of narrative. Jesus's lessons aren't just a list of things you should do; they are delivered in the context of a speech he gave standing on a hill. Buddha doesn't tell us to beware of our limited perspective; he tells us a story about five blind men fondling various parts of an elephant. The Islamic imam doesn't just tell you that using profanity is bad, he tells you the story of Mahmoud walking down the street and meeting an old woman with a potty mouth.

Personally, I think that narrative — a structured series of events, with a beginning state, subsequent development, and resulting outcome — is the oldest form of human technology. It is a tool, just like a flint for starting fires, or a net for catching fish. It is a mental tool, but it is a necessary prerequisite for physical tools. Start with this black shiny rock. Hit it like this, and like this. Observe how it breaks off in flakes. Touch a flake. Note the sharp edge. Keep striking the main rock. The result: a large sharp axehead for hunting, and several small stone blades for cleaning the animal and scraping its hide afterward. Without the first-then-finally conceptual structure, you don't even bother start hitting the rock except by accident.

Narrative is planning. Narrative is illumination. Narrative is meaning.

The fanboys who are trying to "make sense" of the overall Mad Max story are, obviously, doing it wrong. They are reading the type of story incorrectly. It is mythology, a loose storytelling tradition that is intended to teach lessons and offer insight into life and existence, much more than it is journalism.

But even mythology has been subject to this impulse. There are hundreds and hundreds of years of musings about the "proper" order in which Hercules performed his Twelve Labors. It doesn't matter at all. But people still do it, because for some reason, it's important to them.

My point is that, yes, the attempt to rationalize the continuity of Mad Max is futile, and more importantly it's based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the kind of narrative being laid out. But it is also shortsighted and damagingly smug to simply dismiss that impulse to rationalize as being some sort of modern phenomenon, a man-child dysfunction born of comic-book obsession by people on the spectrum. It's not. It's a very old and very human need to try to make our stories make sense. And the more meaningful we find those stories, the more deeply we need those stories to hold together, because that makes them more "real" and therefore more meaningful.

End of pet theory."

I RECCOMEND: Falling for Lionheart

      I've always thought that self-expression is something intergral to a person's quality of life. Being able to say how you feel to those who you care about, without fear of judgement, is something I'd say the majority of Humanity desires. Ilias Kyriazis found a somewhat novel way to do this via his graphic novel "Falling for Lionheart." Through the guise of superheroes and indie comics, he found a way to explore some human truths that may just touch the majority of his readers.

      The book revolves around Leo "Lionheart" Hartfield, member of the genetically modified, superhero-filled organization known as Squad, who enjoys making small indie comics on the side. His teammates are cliche'd meatheads and the only woman in Squad (who he is madly in love with) seems to not care about him in any capacity. He certainly seems all alone, until he meets Cassandra. She is a fan, and somewhat of an artist of, thoughtful indie comics and adores some of his sketches. From here begins what amounts to a painfuly adorable, yet cutting story of love and openess.

      The part that struck me most is the fact that Leo's own comic makes up the physical pages of this book, adding to the overall sense of who Leo is and of his feelings. By doing this, Ilias really finds a way to endear Leo to the reader, juxtaposing the somewhat rough and punchy aesthetics of the main comic to the low-fi, two-tone aesthetics of Leo's own work. We see the inner thoughts to this misunderstood man, and this informs all other aspects of the story. Even more, if you visit  http://letspretenditsnotmyheart.blogspot.com, you can actually SEE Leo's comic. That touch elevated this work to the top, for me.

      Simply due to how well it articulates and explores the human desire to connect and be understood, as well as due to its artwork and inventiveness, I feel obligated to champion Kyriazis's "Falling for Lionheart." It's thoughtful, exciting, bursting with charm, and works like the best romantic comedies.

MOVIE REVIEW: TMNT (2014)

      There's something seriously wrong with this film. It's as though every single component was focus-grouped to death, until all that was left was a sprawling, ineffectual mess. It's a shame and a half that this is the case, because beneath the fever dream of a movie we were given lies something much more interesting. The moments of clarity come so rarely, but strike so fully, that I almost feel I imagined them.

      First, let me get the good out of the way, because there are some good things that stood out to me. The vocal performances by Johnny Knoxville as Leonardo, Alan Ritchson as Raphael, Noel Fisher as Michelangelo, and Jeremy Howard as Donatello feel natural and seeing their personalities and interactions really brightens up an otherwise mute affair. While on the topic of the Turtles, let it be known that the points that struck me the most (pun intended) were the brief moments during their fight sequences where the camera just lets them exist. While Bay is in the Producer position, this time, it certainly seems as if his bizarre-yet-sometimes-effective camera work has rubbed off onto director Jonathan Liebesman.

      I honestly hope that somewhere in the Multiverse exists a rip-off of "The Raid" made with the Turtles. The sequence within their sewer hideout is the stand out moment, for me, bringing to mind an entire film revolving around the Turtles attempting to defend their home from a variety of enemies, or their attempting to scale some sort of tower. It's an old premise, but it's one that would have given plenty of room for their personalities to shine and play off of each other. Unfortunately, that isn't the film we have.

      This film makes the odd choice of positioning Megan Fox's April O'Neal as the lead, then putting next to no substance within her, then pairing her with Will Arnett's similarly empty Vern Fenwick. You could have removed both of these characters from the film, and it wouldn't have been much different. Actually, O'Neal was moderately useful in the beginning, but served as mostly a plot device, only to be shoved to the sidelines to let the Turtles run amok, only to push THEM back out of the way. Brilliant.  William Fitchner's Eric Sacks serves as wordier, more mustache-twirling of the film's two villians. The other is the most boring Shredder of all time.

      It's remarkable how shallowly created some of these characters are, and I know this kind of thing can bring out the "it's just a movie for kids" claim, but I don't see that flying. The three "Toy Story" films, and the majority of Pixar's output is aimed towards childeren, but often impress those within and surrounding the industry with their strength of storytelling. They find ways of touching upon and expressing deep human truths both through the spoken dialogue, and the visual elements, all while exploring a variety of topics. Much of Disney's animated output of the 90's to present posesses the same elements. So, suffice to say, I want a bit more for the youth than films made only to sell officially licensed products.

      Even more, It should be known that this film is the latest in the inane trend of films whose story revolves around "magic blood" and it's application by the antagonist to do...something. Usually something completely overdone. So if you just LOVED this element in "Amazing Spiderman 2", "Star Trek Into Darkness", or "Prometheus" then OH BOY. Is this the film for you.

      Perhaps, in the future installments of this franchise ( a fact which both intrigues and frightens me) the screenwriters and directors will wise up and minimize the hollow characterizations of the non-turtle characters, let the martial arts speak for itself and not use such superfluous camera work, and avoided retreading already tired plotlines. I mean, think of the children.

500 WORDS OR LESS: #1

Facebook is the bane of intellectual conversation. I know, this may seem hyperbolic, but after using Facebook for nearly ten years, it's a reality that seems more likely every day. It's the very structure of the site/app/empire that does this.

Let's say, for example, Hank posts a status stating his dislike of a popular film franchise. Fran then comments that she disagrees and states the reason for her disagreement. So far, so good.

At one point, both parties post a comment at the same time, one adding to a previous comment, the other responding to said comment. Now confusion brews.
 The two parties now must sort out the error in posting. They refresh the page; they find someone else has joined the conversation. Now there are three sets of comments to be concidered.

In face to face conversation, this would not be so bad, but here it has unforseen difficulties. All three post at the same time. Any stream of conversation has been broken, and now all three parties must actively address all points (seemingly in an effort to remain relevant to the conversation) or merely back away totally. Soon, a comment is misconstrued. A party is offended. A random observer "likes" the offending comment, which in no way indicates agreement, humor, or really much of anything. All the same, this doesn't help the offended party.

Now, I'm certain we have all encountered situations like this. People could have no ill-will in mind, but the very structure of the medium may be creating these confusions. It's more difficult to convey tone other than just blatantly spelling everything out, and many comments seem to come off as walls of text, rather than open conversation. The subtlties of face-to-face conversation is lost upon us in conversations like this. The detachment is seemingly inevitable sometimes.

Is there a real solution to this? Is there a viable option to the cacophony known as Facebook? As far as I'm concerned, nothing really compares to flesh and blood conversation, but the realities of distance can make this difficult at times, so perhaps the refresh button dependent "comments section" of many websites isn't the best option. Perhaps, it may lie in a Facebook message? Or a tex? Or a phone call? Perhaps many of us have become far too used to the illusion of convenience that Facebook can create, and have become hesitant to the impact of flesh and blood interactions?

In the end, while I would like there to be a real ground for "intelligent conversation" on Facebook, I'm constantly fighting the battle between wanting the stimulating interaction, and the malaise I feel towards taking any of it seriously.