Old neologisms are still new to you
derogatype: an unflattering photograph
Song structure was still ahead of me, however.
The day that I figured out how to use scissors, I remember wavering around the activity room in nursery school, singing to myself “I can cut / I can cut / I can cut…”, until I snipped an awkward gash in a medium stack of construction paper. A teacher admonished me, and presented me the paper. WELL IT’S YOURS NOW, she said. I was devastated. I didn’t want the paper, but… it was mine now.
The Exposition Tyrant
That tutorial in Mirror’s Edge… good grief. After a month with the game, I figured out something that is absolutely basic, yet I never clicked on before.
It’s the leg-tuck maneuver, which I knew was there, but I was led to think its use was limited to getting over really close call leaps, for instance if you’re jumping over barbed wire. It turns out it’s useful for everything. It lets you jump onto platforms more easily: lift up your legs to get more clearance. Places where I kept getting randomly snagged when clamboring around, now I can get past without slowing down.
The tutorial, again, made no effort to explain why this move is important or how it works. It just went, PRESS THIS NOW. NO! DO IT AGAIN! (But first watch this cutscene.) NO, DO IT AGAIN! (But first watch this cutscene.) It was like playing Call of Duty 4.
Ideally you’d be following that girl without any real break in the flow, and you’d have Valve-like “Press LT to tuck your legs” prompts passively pop up in the corner. Then you’d get subtly graded. If you did it wrong, it would say “You’re doing it wrong,” and the girl would explain the theory. “Lift your legs, girl! You gonna get tripped up!” Then she’d keep going. If you felt you needed more practice, you could just replay the tutorial. They could give the option at the end.
If you executed it very well, you’d get some kind of affirmation. Maybe just a “hell yeah!” from the girl. If you did all right, it would be something less exuberent. Or just nothing.
And heck, maybe they could string safety nets between the buildings, for the tutorial? Again, just to keep the flow?
Pippenjane
Time and the Rani doesn’t particularly try to be realistic. To start with, it’s clearly written as a farce. Beyond that, several times it deliberately breaks the reality of the situation to (not to make it sound more sophisticated than it is) make some kind of meta-commentary about the show and the way it’s perceived. There’s the business about the Doctor being horrified at a vision of Mel’s face, and whatnot. If that’s not the 1987 equivalent of “the windows are the wrong size”, I’ll eat my left shoe.
The unreality of the thing has always struck me as rather the point. All the awful things in it aren’t so much awful in their own right as they are, on some level, a commentary on the lazy way the show is often put together. And in that, I think it’s mostly pretty on-target and hilarious.
I realize that the script was already sitting there and that Cartmel was less than thrilled with it, but the subversive, postmodern sense of humor strikes me as all him — rebelling against a by-the-numbers script that served no purpose and had nothing to say by turning those qualities on their heads. It calls to mind the “fanboy” in Greatest Show and the philosophical guard in Dragonfire, if a bit broader and less informed. More of an outsider’s perspective — which he was, at the time.
Davies does this all the time now — Love & Monsters, for instance. Which I realize isn’t everyone’s thing, but… well. Major difference is, he does it better.
New cafe
the hardest part of writing isn’t finding what to say, or working out how to say it. Once you’re on that level, unless you’ve already written your thing and you’re just going back through with an editor’s hand, you’re stuck.
The hardest thing is finding the mood. In preparing yourself to pour into the template that you’ve built for yourself. Actual writing — actual expression — can’t be constructed, intellectually. It’s a flow of the unconscious — of all one’s training, working out of instinct. And either it happens or it doesn’t.
In a sense, every creative process is a performance. The play is perhaps the most fundamental expressive form. Every other medium is just some sort of an adaptation. Prose is effectively a depersonalized script. Film, a cemented performance. Music, an abstracted performance. Videogames — well, they’re just theater again.
In their particapatory qualities, they are — ironically considering the gestalt nature of their literal makeup — one of the more primal, more basic forms. Or, no. I suppose that reversal — the improvisational, active interpretation element being the audience’s purview — is what makes the form postmodern.
Which is interesting. If play is the most basic form, then videogames are post-play, or play 2.0. They’re the post-structuralist theater — which may explain some of the difficulty in illustrating with them. It’s the difference between following a car from the front, as compared to the back.
I am not a natural performer. My skills of improvisation are weak, unpracticed. Yet as uncomfortable as I am, going off-script, I have very little patience for scripts. I recall in my few acting lessons, every performance became an impromptu improvisation, if for noting more than boredom. What’s been written has already been done, and probably done poorly. It”s more interesting to take the script as a thematic starting place and whittle out my own story. In retrospect, considering how hard I find it just to talk to people on the phone, I don’t know where I found that energy.
I need to get over this intellectualism.
Free fall freefall
Going by the demo, which may be a dangerous thing to go by, Mirror’s Edge is pretty good. Not perfect; the tutorial segment leads you by the nose, without telling you how to do what it wants you to do, or what you did wrong when you don’t, then screams at you and forces you to start all over. As if the game weren’t hard enough.
Beyond that, I can see the difficulty they had in winnowing down the controls and clarifying what the player is able to do. The business with marking everything important in red is hackneyed, but clever in a desperate sort of way. It is intuitive, especially in how the color mirrors Faith’s gloves, and I suppose that’s all that matters in the short term. You can feel the band aids bulging, though. And it does make it just a touch more gamey. Still, I know how hard it is to illustrate these things, and how late the solutions tend to come.
I’m also impressed how they manage to continue the recent trend of strong woman protagonists without radiating that creepy Josh Lesnick aura or feeling like they’re pandering. Faith is a pretty good, no-nonsense lead, not unlike Alyx in Half-Life 2 or a Chell with a smidge of personality. Actually, now that I’m on the subject — I seem to say this about any comptently-designed Western game, and I’m not sure how I feel about that — it feels pretty Valveish. So does Bad Company, the other DICE game I’ve been playing, so maybe it’s just them. Those Swedes do tend to know what they’re doing.
…
And, yeah. Okay. I’m sold on this. The slight Gibson storyline is okay. Not sure they need the enemies; more videogame nonsense, and I don’t see what they have to do with the game’s themes. I wonder if those were at EA’s suggestion. Combined with the stunts, they give it a bit of a Jet Set Radio vibe. Except with free vertigo.
I had been noticing how, in other first-person games — like Bad Company, for instance — whenever I fall off a high ledge, my stomach quickly rises to my throat, the way it does when you watch a projection of a roller coaster. Except in this case, I feel like I’m legitimately about to die. So… I’ve been having an experience here.
EDIT:
Amandeep: the thing with the enemies in mirror’s edge –
i think up until pretty recently the game wasn’t going to have a gun or anything.
now i think there…is one, right?
and you do have to shoot shit.
i’m pretty much dead convinced that that came as some kind of order from on high at ea.
Me: Yeah, you have to shoot things.
It doesn’t fit at all.
Being able to punch guys and run away from them… okay, that… sort of makes sense, I guess.
Though it’s stll a bit awkward.
I mean, I don’t see the point of enemies. Your enemy (and friend) is the environment.
Amandeep: yeah, as recently as a couple months ago they were saying: no enemies, it’s going to be basically like portal.
Me: But if you’re going to have random bad guys after you, then a passive solution feels most natural.
Yes!
It feels like Portal.
Well. Jet Set Portal.
The Legend of Jet Set Portal.
Amandeep: the red stuff is fairly new too, i think.
before they were going on about how there’d be no hud elements whatsoever except a tiny little reticule pointing up in the center of the screen to keep you from getting dizzy.
Me: Oh. Well.
I guess I’m pretty observant, then.
These are the only things about it that I don’t like.
The red stuff… okay. It feels a bit Ubisoft, you know?
It’s not offensive. It’s just… a bit… duh.
The Humanism of Verfremdungseffect
Objectively, most Doctor Who is pretty crap. So it seems silly to get particular about what’s more crap than what, when you can just be watching and enjoying it for what it is, and reading in what you want to read in.
It’s the spirit and the ideas behind any given serial that grab me. The execution is never even close to adequate in the best cases, so who cares if it’s a shade shabbier or shinier. You just have to be affectionate. It’s the only sane way to go.
Personally, I find the McCoy era warmer than any era since Troughton and more rich with ideas than just about any period since Hartnell. So it’s a winner in that regard.
Thing is, in the end objectivity is an absurd thing to take into account.
Rarely is Doctor Who directed well. Rarely is it acted particularly well. Rarely are the costumes or sets or effects close to convincing. When they are, the lighting gets in the way or the staging makes a mockery of any sense of verisimilitude. Only occasionally is it written with more than passable skill and the faintest inspiration to color outside the lines. Rarely does any story actually take advantage of the format.
Yet the show has heart, and sometimes it’s got some real ambition. Usually it’s in those moments that the practical elements all conspire to ensure failure. But so what?
You just have to watch the show as if you’re watching your local theater troupe. You know these people. You believe in them. You know the odds they’re up against, in portraying what they want to portray. So what if the lighting was a smidge more professional last week; it’ll never be Kubrick, and you’re only making an ass of yourself by expecting it. What you should be paying attention to is the humanity behind it all. And that’s where this show excels.
That’s also why I tend to find any flaws more hilarious than distracting. I’m not working under the bizarre notion that this show needs to meet any kind of objective standard to be worthwhile. All it has to do is engage my humanity — and there’s nothing more human than failure, or more funny than failure at something as unimportant as showmanship. Hell, Kurt Weill would be thrilled. Not all the praise for B-movies is ironic. See the affection in Burton’s Ed Wood.
The show’s abject failure at convincing showmanship is almost universal. It’s a bit more prominent in the late ’80s, but draw your own silly metaphor about degrees of gray. Again, I also find the same period warmer and more inspired than most. However poorly executed it is, it’s patently obvious that the show is being made with sincerity. And that’s the most important thing ever. That, there, is what life is all about.
Bean there; done that
Every time I open the microwave to put in a frozen burrito, I look around for the little plates I use and can only find one of them. I wash the plate if needed, position the burrito on it, and open the microwave.
And there’s the other plate, with a half-cooked burrito on it.
This has happened three times since the weekend.
Criticism by numbers
Three things to consider, when regarding an expressive work:
1) How well it says what it’s trying to say
2) Whether what it’s trying to say is worth hearing
3) Whether there’s worth to what it actually does say
When you’ve found all your answers, the order in which to weight them is: 3, 1, 2.
The Cycle
Looking back the last few months, I realize that all my big dips in energy, to the point of being sick in bed for several days, have been immediately before and after the full moon. I had noticed that it seemed to be working in a monthly cycle, more or less. I didn’t take much notice of it, though.
You can see how I’m reaching for explanations, here. The correlation is convincing, though. I know there’s a family history of seasonal affective disorder. I don’t have that, exactly. Still, this may be related?
Janus Thorn
I’m really into film and TV restoration. I don’t know if this comes out of my childhood love of archaeology. It would be hard to overstate the influence of Tintin and Uncle Scrooge… Yet I’m maybe a bit spoiled. I pay attention to massive projects like Rear Window and My Fair Lady, to revolutionary ones like the Murnau Foundation Metropolis job, and to compulsive, continually-improving efforts from guys like the Doctor Who Restoration Team. I’m used both to employing every available tool to repair material and present it in the best possible light, and extensive features geared to contextualize the work both contemporarily and retrospectively, examine its production, and illustrate its place in any relevant oeuvre. The point is to put a work back on its feet again, and send it back into mainsteam culture.
The Universal and Warner Hitchcock discs, though relatively unhailed, do a decent job at all of this. Kino is a mixed bag — even their meticulously restored Nosferatu has some amazing undergraduate blunders — yet they clearly try hard under a limited budget to present something significant.
Thing about Criterion — they strike me as sort of a lowest common denominator of film preservation. They’re not into preservation, really; into keeping works healthy and relevant and in circulation. They pander to film fetishists and collectors. They kind of do a half-assed job at both restoration and extras. For reasons I cannot understand, they don’t stabilize film weave. They don’t paint out dust and scratches, or even socket holes. They rarely clean up the sound. Most of their extras, though certainly well-researched, are off-the-shelf and dry as hell. Their DVDs strike me as academic, snooty, overpriced, and not particularly ambitious in the very areas where they claim superiority.
They do good presentation, though. And they do a good job of raising awareness of less obvious films (at least, to a point). And then they put them out in limited editions, and number them so their fans can buy ’em all (at prices around double of other publishers). They’re like the Working Designs of film preservation. (According to that article, Vic Ireland is starting a company called Gaijinworks. Oh my dear Lord Numpty…)
Criterion’s relationship with Janus also weirds me out a little. I realize that it’s basically the commercial arm of Janus, and I understand that Janus is to be credited with a certain amount of US exposure of independent and foreign films, before the boom of indie cinema. In retrospect I always find it a little weird to see their logo plastered in front of so many important movies that they didn’t have anything directly to do with. It’s almost like a corporate collector-fetishism, if maybe for the ultimate cultural good, sort of? This isn’t something I’ve put a lot of thought into; it’s just been scampering around my subconscious. It may be based on nothing but my own prejudices.
Anyway. People keep asking me what I think of Criterion. My answer: phooey!
Though the packaging to their Yojimbo/Sanjuro set is just devine.
(Full disclosure: I have about half a dozen Criterion DVDs, from Hitchcock to Wong Kar-Wai. I’m more impressed with their “new” movies than their classic library. Mostly because they don’t require restoration or much context; all they need is nice packaging and presentation. And yes, In the Mood for Love is classy as hell.)
Annie Which Way
I’m thinking that it’s the shortcuts an artist takes that tend to date a work. I’ve had Smooth Criminal in my head for a litlte while. And it’s an excellent song, for what it is. It’s well-written — but the entirety of that album is cheap synthesizers, with MJ singing on top.
That song could have been properly orchestrated and performed. And you could trace what decade it came from, stylistically, but it wouldn’t sound “dated”, in the sense that it’s somehow… no longer as relevant? The synth is so cheap and tinny that it’s distracting. And again, the entire album is kind of like that. It was a way for Jackson to have complete control over what he was doing. Which is fine, but then he didn’t go back and flesh it out. The synth was “good enough”. So twenty years later, it sounds like a bit of a cop-out.
And I’m just projecting here, but it strikes me that many of the things that seem laughable or outdated in film or music or videogames are similarly cheap compromises. Some kind of a contemporary easy solution. Whereas the things that still seem relevant today, however you might trace them to a particular era stylistically, tend to find all their own custom solutions to their problems: The Maltese Falcon; The Good, the Bad and the Ugly; a lot of the later-on Beatles stuff.
There are phases that a medium goes through, artistically. Pop trends in simple solutions. Videogames go through a lot of them. “Oh, here’s the proper way to deal with this.” Which is one of the things that bugs the hell out of me with that Ludology business.
Ludology is the academic study of videogames. Which is, you know… it generally tries to be very objective, in studying what videogames are, and how they work right now, and what has been done before, and how to hone that model. It’s proscriptive by implication of description. So what it tends to do is it objectifies videogames as an end unto themselves. As opposed to, you know, exploring how this tool set might be used to say something new or interesting. And it’s got that whole academic sniffiness about it, just to make it the more obnoxious.
An analytical breakdown is useful, but in context. In service to a greater goal. Videogames are about communication, as is all art. Though to a certain extent more overtly than most. Any analysis should be about exploring the mechancis and ramifications of that discussion. Rather than focused on What Videogames Are.
Anyway. I guess this kind of ties into the shortcut thing — the objective treatment of a work, using the standards of the day, tends to in the long run turn the work into a bit of an artifact. So. Basically, there’s something complex going on when you throw a band-aid on and say “yeah, this’ll work.” In a few years, the patchwork will become opaque, and it will begin to define your work.
And that’s also how genres get dumb, when people say “Oh, I like that — I’m going to do something just like it!” That’s the same thing. You’re taking someone else’s solution and applying it out of context. You’re taking a subjective goal and treating it objectively. Until the solutions begin to define what things are, rather than what they’re trying to solve.
What’s amazing about something like The Maltese Falcon — the Huston version — is that there are virtually no shortcuts. There’s pretty much never a sense that anyone involved just pulled something off the shelf and said “okay, this takes care of that. No one will notice.” Even though it’s the third version of the same movie to be made by the same studio, in under ten years. So you come at it now, and everything feels like they’re figuring it out for the first time, on their feet. Everything is custom-tailored to the situation. And it’s gripping and relevant and alive, every time you see it. And this is what makes a work timeless.
Alan Wake
So, Sarah Jane is back in town. And Sladen is a bit less awkward in her acting.
I like the way (new showrunner) Phil Ford accounted for a rather tough list of ingredients — writing out Maria, giving a big role to all the Jacksons, reusing props and effects from Who, setting up some recurring story threads, following up on recent and ancient continuity without relying on it — and churned out a rather solid, pacey adventure at the same time.
Maria’s departure could have been handled so many ways, all trite, yet it felt organic, truthful, and not at all cloying. And I love the way it folds into the A plot, effectively giving her whole family a big farewell.
It’s all rather… snuggly. A shame to lose Maria and (especially) her dad. Ah well.
I quite like, also, that the story isn’t predicated on “big reveals”. Both the Sontaran thing and the America thing are unveiled halfway through the first episode (not that either was a secret coming in), leaving the rest of the story for the development of the characters’ reactions to these facts, and for the Sontaran’s own story. (The flashbacks are pretty great, too — especially the injury.) And those reactions (to start with, SJ’s coolness to Maria; the boys’ nervous yet restrained reaction to the Sontaran) were both pleasantly atypical and, again, true.
Chrissie is another example — how she gets roped into the story. Again sidestepping the tedious, she just squints at Alan and says she believed him, because his mouth didn’t twitch. Which was a bit pat, yes, but it both fit her character’s line of thinking and for the first time illustrated a good side to the way she processes things.
The story’s full of subtle little things like that, making grace of moments that should have been annoying. It was as if the story elements were there to explore how the characters might react, rather than the characters behaving in a particular way so as to allow Things to Happen.
Even the corridor-running has a nice lateral energy to it.
The only criticism I have, really, is that whoever did the production design for the inside of the radio telescope, and the computer graphics, really… sucks.
That’s something that always bothers me, the bizarre TV/cinema notion of how computers and computer displays work. It’s kind of amazing, considering that everyone working on this show and nearly everyone in the audience must use a computer constantly. What’s the point of the wacky-flashy graphics?
You have to shrug off some things, of course — the dad’s “hypnotized” acting, “totally creeped-out to the max”, constant potato jokes. Kind of the price of admission.
. . .
So consider this. The next full series of Who isn’t airing until 2010, leading people to label 2009 the “gap year”. Between December and then, there will be just five specials, a half-series of Torchwood, and probably a third series of SJA.
At twelve half-hour episodes, a season of SJA is nearly the length of a McCoy season of Who. This is more or less what aired each year, between 1986 and 1989.
At five hours, so, actually, is the rest of Davies’ Who run, through 2009.
At five hour-long specials, so is the length of Torchwood 3.
Altogether, that’s about 900 minutes (or fifteen hours) of Whoniverse programming in 2009. That’s compared with ~1000 minutes per season in the ’60s, 650 minutes in the ’70s to mid-’80s, and 350 in the late ’80s. And, of course, a total of 90 minutes between 1989 and 2005.
Some gap year.
Deus Ex Machina
Whoa.
Supernatural just got more awesome.
Mirrormask review (***)
by [name redacted]
For all the grumbling from the peanut gallery, Mirrormask is one of the better children’s movies to come around in the last couple of decades. Something that I can imagine annoying some is a certain deliberate lack of urgency to the tale. Fair enough, one might assume, since the opening scenes establish that all which follows is a dream. Logically enough, then, at some point the heroine will wake and everything will be more or less okay. What happens in between is important on on the basis of peril but in terms of character development — a bit of Lewis Carroll allegory crossed with your Peter Pan or Narnia-flavored psychological metaphor. The issue at stake is our heroine’s emotional state and whether and how she makes sense of the problems in her real life through the tools provided by her subconscious.
Another potential problem is the magpie-like way that Gaiman evokes snippets and tropes from his favorite fantasy and children’s stories then rearranges them to color his own work. In some of his work, like Coraline, the appropriation is overbearing and feels like a stand-in for actual development.
Here, though, the story treads carefully to avoid feeling like it’s simply borrowing pop-Gothic furniture. It’s knowing, though not smug. There’s a sincerity in the story’s execution, particularly in the way it’s shot, and in the acting.
If you’re not paying attention, you could accuse Stephanie Leonidas of seeming a bit wooden. Clearly most of the movie is shot against greenscreen, and you do get some of that glorious “where am I?†acting that comes with the territory. Yet otherwise she’s a bit of a revelation — quirky, sensitive, yet rational and well-adjusted. She’s written like a developing adult, and played like one. It’s rare that children are written as smart and individual characters to the extent that we see in Helena, making her a lovely role model for the intended audience.
Curiously, for all its clear artifice the movie rarely gets caught up in whimsy just for the sake of whimsy. Though it often seems in danger of vanishing in a puff of affectation, I don’t recall feeling like it got carried away. In the end I was impressed by the movie’s restraint. For all its glam sensibility, it has a head on its shoulders.
I won’t call this a great movie. It’s a very good one, though, especially for the genre. I like to think of it as empowered. It’s a film about learning empathy and responsibility, and distinguishing one’s own wants and needs from the expectations of others. And it manages to avoid being overbearing about any of that. It’s very light movie, all around. As I said, from the start it’s clear that there’s never any real danger. It’s just an hour and forty minutes of self-exploration and musing.
These are the sorts of topics that I think distinguish “young adult†fiction from children’s stories. Whereas the children’s fiction might just dwell in the fantasy and metaphor for its own sake, a growing mind feeds on this kind of film; on the exploration and gradual understanding of one’s own self, and through that the surrounding world. Often using very clumsy metaphor. Which is also true here.
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