This post will admittedly come a bit too close to my "don't talk about my beliefs" rule. It will discuss what I believed, faith-wise, as a child. It won't technically get into my religious beliefs as of right now, so I do have a loophole for my own rule already prepared. It will, however, give a general rule of what religious beliefs I am not. I'll start with an easy one; I am not currently a Zoroastrian.
It gets a bit trickier from here. But meh, nobody reads this thing anyway.
I was raised Catholic when I was a child, just like my brother. There was some conflict with this decision between my parents and against all common sense, but I won't get into detail about why that is. It was a fairly routine religious upbringing, at least around the time I was seven, when my family moved. It was about then we went to church almost every Sunday (at noon, we had some limits,) did the CCD thing (weekly religious school; like Sunday school but not on that date,) gave up fish on Lent (on only Fridays, again with the limits,) and even got confirmed in high school. Because we were late getting in, we did a lot of the basic stuff late as well. For example, I didn't do my first communion, which a lot of people do in second grade, until 5th grade or so.
And for most of that period, I wasn't just raised Catholic, I was Catholic. I was a believer, at least in the basics of the religion. Now, there were some things I was uncomfortable with, even at an early age. For example, as a child, I assumed everyone got into Heaven, because that was the only way that made sense to me. They eventually told me otherwise, but I wasn't really comfortable with that answer. I eventually also abandoned the general Catholic opinion on sex and homosexuality. On the other hand, I did buy into the "abortion is bad" argument for years. It's harder to emotionally change your side on an issue when there's something being physically killed compared to, say, two people who just love each other.
Even outside of dogma, I should have seen the warning signs that this may not be working. There was, for example, the time I threw up in communion class and had to get cleaned up in the bathroom. The girls' bathroom; the men's room was apparently out of water for some reason. Or there was the time, well after I had first communion, when I received it church but had a cough. I ended up coughing it out in the middle of church, and the priest was forced to re-bless it and...eat it himself.
And then there was CCD itself. The classes themselves were fine, but the teachers managed to be designed for maximum encouragement towards conversion...to anything else. There was the incredibly nice teacher whose business slowly was destroyed by legal problems throughout the year. Job's much more interesting when you watch it going on in the middle of class. Or the teacher who totally failed to control class, letting it fall into total anarchy. Or the ancient teacher who made us all wear nametags, constantly reminisced about the conservative paradise of the 1950s, and, well, thought I was mentally retarded. These are not the purveyors of wisdom that encourage piety.
Things finally came to a head in my freshman year of college, though. Now, keep in mind that I was an idealistic child, convinced of a sort of ideal environment for a socially-awkward intellectual misfit like me. 12 years of public school did a good job of convincing me otherwise, so I thought that college would be different. Sadly, at this point, it wasn't. The erudite sanctuary I hoped to find was nowhere to be found, and I wasn't growing in the slightest, at least not socially. At the same time, my contacts began to regularly irritate my eyes, leaving me nearly unable to even see in bright lights.
The last straw, though, was when my grandmother passed away later that year. It wasn't a surprising thing; nearly everyone has to lose their grandparents fairly early in life. But it was too much for me at the time. I remember one moment in particular; the day after the funeral, with me now back "home" at college. Still despairing over the death of a beloved relative, sitting outside with my dad and unable to even look at him, I began to really question why. What was the point of all the suffering? Oh, I realized that suffering alone does not justify conversion; I never expected a perfect life. But at this point, all my assumptions about how life was supposed to be were starting to fall apart, and I saw no clear way to happiness as an adult; the path that one was supposed to go had finally began to unmistakably fail me. At the same time, I wondered why, no matter how much I was suffering, why my prayers to God never got any response; no justification, no comfort, no connection with the entity I supposedly worshipped; nothing.
I won't tell you how long it took me to change my beliefs, or what they eventually became, but I will say that they changed at this point. And I'll also again mention that this sort of conversion is really mis-timed after already deciding to go to a Jesuit university.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Reviews: Da da da da!
This week's review is for Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. For those who haven't seen it yet, be warned that this will contain spoilers. I'll leave you some space before I start the spoiler.
There we go. Okay. So, arguably the biggest movie of the summer (or at least the biggest one not involving a flying rodent) is out now! Responses have been met with nervous expectations. On one hand, it's Indiana Jones! On the other hand, Lucas was involved, and his sequels done decades past the original movies have been...not so great. On the third hand, Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg liked it enough to be involved. On the fourth mutant hand of this horrible theoretical mutant, aliens are involved. So it could have been a wonder return of one of the biggest series of cinema history, or it could be Attack of the Clones plus a whip.
Well, the good news is that, at the very least, it was entertaining. I was relieved. I'll start with the parts that bothered me, though. I can some up my least favorite element in two words: Shia Lebouf. I do not like Shia Lebouf. He could be worse, I admit, and I don't dislike him either per sec. As an up and coming Hollywood actor, he could be reasonably expected to be a complete loony, but so far he minimized the amount of career killing hedonism he could partake in. And I haven't seen him in what were theoretically his best works. What I have seen him in, however, is Transformers. To say he played an unlikable dork in that movie is an understatement. He embodied unlikable dork; it oozed out of him, or perhaps radiated out of him like a divine aura. And that essence has clung to him, like a moray eel. He can't not be it. Notably, in Indiana Jones, he played what was supposed to be a tough 50's greaser type. He looked, however, like a stiff breeze could take him. I was unsurprised but disappointed when I learned (I warned you about the spoilers,) that he was Indy's son. When he was about to put on Indy's hat on the end, suggesting that he had become Indy to carry on his father's legacy, I briefly buried my face in my hands. It didn't come to pass, thank goodness, but Lucas' dire predictions of sequels with him as the lead did not help.
Other problems include a general lack of seriousness, mostly due to the incredibly goofy stuff Indiana survived. Okay, the commie mooks couldn't hit a moving target at point-blank range with hundreds of bullets, fine. That's expected. But surviving being at ground zero of a nuclear blast because you where hiding in a lead-lined fridge? That really works? Wow, I bet everyone was pissed that they built fallout shelters in the fifties; they wasted a fortune! There was also the big where Mutt (Shia's inventively named character,) started brachiating like freaking Tarzan and led an inexplicably generated army of monkeys to attack Soviet soldiers. It felt like some of the mid-range Bond movies, like the early ones with Roger Moore, where Bond performed stunts accompanied by wacky sound effects, Beach Boy songs, and "hilarious" redneck sheriffs for comic relief.
The basic premise of the movie, the crystal alien skull, wasn't too ridiculous. Yes, aliens don't fit in with the normal Indy theme, but enough Tomb Raider games made me comfortable with kitchen sink mythologies. What did bother my was the lack of explanation on how the whole thing worked. The skull itself functioned like a skeleton (heh,) key; solving any predicament the heroes encountered. That led to an ambiguous ending where it's entire plausible that the villains didn't even die, and at any rate the history and intentions of the aliens were never really clarified.
Okay, now moving on to the good stuff! Outside of the occasional ridiculous bit, like the vine swinging/monkey army thing, the action sequences remained exciting. The best one, in my opinion, was the jeep and truck sequence in the jungle, where five protagonists, multiple antagonists, several vehicles, and the titular McGuffin complicated things beautifully. The early motorcycle chase through Indy's university, and the Area 51 sequence at the start of the movie, were also enjoyable if occasionally breaking the suspension of disbelief. The final climax, which was limited in both traps and conflict, was less impressive, especially given that lack of narrative payoff with the aliens.
The characters and acting were still brilliant, however. Many said that Ford seemed tired in his role, and that's possible, but he's not only extremely old but playing a character both cynical and getting on in years himself. However miscast Shia was, his interplays with both Indy and his mother Marion, the same love interest as the first movie, were frequently hilarious. The balance of character and story was well-done, though I was disappointed that early story arcs (like Indy's distrust of the modern FBI,) were abandoned in the movie's second half.
In summary, I recommend the movie and give it a B- or so. It wasn't as good as the original trilogy, including Temple of Doom, but it fulfilled both the mindless action film and the general comedy requirements. I laughed, I got excited, I cheered the heroes on. Given that Indy was always intended to be an homage to the pulp action movies of yesteryear, what more could you want?
There we go. Okay. So, arguably the biggest movie of the summer (or at least the biggest one not involving a flying rodent) is out now! Responses have been met with nervous expectations. On one hand, it's Indiana Jones! On the other hand, Lucas was involved, and his sequels done decades past the original movies have been...not so great. On the third hand, Harrison Ford and Steven Spielberg liked it enough to be involved. On the fourth mutant hand of this horrible theoretical mutant, aliens are involved. So it could have been a wonder return of one of the biggest series of cinema history, or it could be Attack of the Clones plus a whip.
Well, the good news is that, at the very least, it was entertaining. I was relieved. I'll start with the parts that bothered me, though. I can some up my least favorite element in two words: Shia Lebouf. I do not like Shia Lebouf. He could be worse, I admit, and I don't dislike him either per sec. As an up and coming Hollywood actor, he could be reasonably expected to be a complete loony, but so far he minimized the amount of career killing hedonism he could partake in. And I haven't seen him in what were theoretically his best works. What I have seen him in, however, is Transformers. To say he played an unlikable dork in that movie is an understatement. He embodied unlikable dork; it oozed out of him, or perhaps radiated out of him like a divine aura. And that essence has clung to him, like a moray eel. He can't not be it. Notably, in Indiana Jones, he played what was supposed to be a tough 50's greaser type. He looked, however, like a stiff breeze could take him. I was unsurprised but disappointed when I learned (I warned you about the spoilers,) that he was Indy's son. When he was about to put on Indy's hat on the end, suggesting that he had become Indy to carry on his father's legacy, I briefly buried my face in my hands. It didn't come to pass, thank goodness, but Lucas' dire predictions of sequels with him as the lead did not help.
Other problems include a general lack of seriousness, mostly due to the incredibly goofy stuff Indiana survived. Okay, the commie mooks couldn't hit a moving target at point-blank range with hundreds of bullets, fine. That's expected. But surviving being at ground zero of a nuclear blast because you where hiding in a lead-lined fridge? That really works? Wow, I bet everyone was pissed that they built fallout shelters in the fifties; they wasted a fortune! There was also the big where Mutt (Shia's inventively named character,) started brachiating like freaking Tarzan and led an inexplicably generated army of monkeys to attack Soviet soldiers. It felt like some of the mid-range Bond movies, like the early ones with Roger Moore, where Bond performed stunts accompanied by wacky sound effects, Beach Boy songs, and "hilarious" redneck sheriffs for comic relief.
The basic premise of the movie, the crystal alien skull, wasn't too ridiculous. Yes, aliens don't fit in with the normal Indy theme, but enough Tomb Raider games made me comfortable with kitchen sink mythologies. What did bother my was the lack of explanation on how the whole thing worked. The skull itself functioned like a skeleton (heh,) key; solving any predicament the heroes encountered. That led to an ambiguous ending where it's entire plausible that the villains didn't even die, and at any rate the history and intentions of the aliens were never really clarified.
Okay, now moving on to the good stuff! Outside of the occasional ridiculous bit, like the vine swinging/monkey army thing, the action sequences remained exciting. The best one, in my opinion, was the jeep and truck sequence in the jungle, where five protagonists, multiple antagonists, several vehicles, and the titular McGuffin complicated things beautifully. The early motorcycle chase through Indy's university, and the Area 51 sequence at the start of the movie, were also enjoyable if occasionally breaking the suspension of disbelief. The final climax, which was limited in both traps and conflict, was less impressive, especially given that lack of narrative payoff with the aliens.
The characters and acting were still brilliant, however. Many said that Ford seemed tired in his role, and that's possible, but he's not only extremely old but playing a character both cynical and getting on in years himself. However miscast Shia was, his interplays with both Indy and his mother Marion, the same love interest as the first movie, were frequently hilarious. The balance of character and story was well-done, though I was disappointed that early story arcs (like Indy's distrust of the modern FBI,) were abandoned in the movie's second half.
In summary, I recommend the movie and give it a B- or so. It wasn't as good as the original trilogy, including Temple of Doom, but it fulfilled both the mindless action film and the general comedy requirements. I laughed, I got excited, I cheered the heroes on. Given that Indy was always intended to be an homage to the pulp action movies of yesteryear, what more could you want?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My Inspirations: The Newish Guy. The Really Awkward Newish Guy.
I have to admit, I don't even know the subject of this latest personal inspiration that well, but then again, nobody does. Charlie Kaufman, the screen writer most famous for creating some of the strangest movies of our time, has a well-earned reputation for being reclusive, letting almost nothing of his private life to be known. But that's okay, because I'm not an admirer of him for his wild parties or anything. I admire him because of his writing.
Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Kaufman started his career in television, as writers are wont to do, but he started the relevant parts of his career with Being John Malcovich, a hilarious and surreal movie about a group of people who discover a portal into the mind of, well, the actor John Malcovich, letting them experience reality itself from a new perspective. He followed through with a number of other films, but he only really made two other movies his own. The second was Adaptation, where he tried to adapt an incredibly difficult novel about a flower smuggler. He eventually did so by making the movie about himself making the adaptation while dealing with his own personal demons as manifested by his nonexistent twin brother. The film's meta-concept went completely off the rails when he decided to be less faithful with his adaptation (in the movie,) and suddenly he (as in the actor in the movie, who was playing the writer of the same movie,) learned the flower smuggler involved a drug ring and he had to fight off gun-toting maniacs and alligators.
The above was possibly his most surreal movie, but the one with the most heart was still his most recent, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one, a hapless protagonist breaks up with his girlfriend, and soon both decide to use a science fiction memory erasing procedure so they could forget about each other. But midway through it, the hero decides he doesn't want the memories erased, so he lucidly travels through his own memories, talking with the projection of his ex-girlfriend as he remembers her and trying futilely to fight off the effects of the procedure as it happens to him.
It may not be surprising that there's at least one seen of drug use in each of these movies. But I don't think that necessarily relates. I just think Mr. Kaufman, the strange man that he is, is simply capable of imagining these worlds with an ease normally unheard of. That he can do so and then fill those worlds with real, human characters takes more than brilliance, it takes a kind of grace I only hope to have some day.
And I think it's a combination of the world he makes and the personality behind them that makes a personal hero. Charlie Kaufman, as I mentioned before, is notoriously shy and introverted. For example, when he won his first and so far only Academy Award for Eternal Sunshine, he barely could stammer a response. Someone in the audience told him, "Take your time," and he replied, "I don't want to take my time. I want to get off the stage." Presumably, he did.
Part of me imagines that if I suddenly got rich and famous, I would happily enjoy my brief moments in the spotlight to a crazy level, but for now, I think of myself in very similar terms. In my very first post, I mentioned the whole "don't speak the moon language you people call love," thing, and that's pretty much the same way my mind acts in other circumstances. My social skills are shoddy at best, and I often don't really get how people think, how relationships form, or even some basic elements of small talk. But in my head, universes are born, entire species propagate them, and heroes and other individuals come to life and their destiny. At least in the recesses of my brain, they seem to act human from my perspective; it's that reasoning that makes me want to become a designer.
This isn't to say his works are negligible, regardless of the mind behind them. I gave such detailed explanations of them because there are only a few samples of his work I know well, but also because there are such strange, wonderful concepts behind them that they require such explanations. Of course, I can't say how much they altered my life and development, as the first came out less than a decade ago, so I only knew him as an adult. But it is good to know that his work exists, and it serves a model to the kind of artist I hope to one day become.
Okay, now I want to get off the stage.
Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Kaufman started his career in television, as writers are wont to do, but he started the relevant parts of his career with Being John Malcovich, a hilarious and surreal movie about a group of people who discover a portal into the mind of, well, the actor John Malcovich, letting them experience reality itself from a new perspective. He followed through with a number of other films, but he only really made two other movies his own. The second was Adaptation, where he tried to adapt an incredibly difficult novel about a flower smuggler. He eventually did so by making the movie about himself making the adaptation while dealing with his own personal demons as manifested by his nonexistent twin brother. The film's meta-concept went completely off the rails when he decided to be less faithful with his adaptation (in the movie,) and suddenly he (as in the actor in the movie, who was playing the writer of the same movie,) learned the flower smuggler involved a drug ring and he had to fight off gun-toting maniacs and alligators.
The above was possibly his most surreal movie, but the one with the most heart was still his most recent, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one, a hapless protagonist breaks up with his girlfriend, and soon both decide to use a science fiction memory erasing procedure so they could forget about each other. But midway through it, the hero decides he doesn't want the memories erased, so he lucidly travels through his own memories, talking with the projection of his ex-girlfriend as he remembers her and trying futilely to fight off the effects of the procedure as it happens to him.
It may not be surprising that there's at least one seen of drug use in each of these movies. But I don't think that necessarily relates. I just think Mr. Kaufman, the strange man that he is, is simply capable of imagining these worlds with an ease normally unheard of. That he can do so and then fill those worlds with real, human characters takes more than brilliance, it takes a kind of grace I only hope to have some day.
And I think it's a combination of the world he makes and the personality behind them that makes a personal hero. Charlie Kaufman, as I mentioned before, is notoriously shy and introverted. For example, when he won his first and so far only Academy Award for Eternal Sunshine, he barely could stammer a response. Someone in the audience told him, "Take your time," and he replied, "I don't want to take my time. I want to get off the stage." Presumably, he did.
Part of me imagines that if I suddenly got rich and famous, I would happily enjoy my brief moments in the spotlight to a crazy level, but for now, I think of myself in very similar terms. In my very first post, I mentioned the whole "don't speak the moon language you people call love," thing, and that's pretty much the same way my mind acts in other circumstances. My social skills are shoddy at best, and I often don't really get how people think, how relationships form, or even some basic elements of small talk. But in my head, universes are born, entire species propagate them, and heroes and other individuals come to life and their destiny. At least in the recesses of my brain, they seem to act human from my perspective; it's that reasoning that makes me want to become a designer.
This isn't to say his works are negligible, regardless of the mind behind them. I gave such detailed explanations of them because there are only a few samples of his work I know well, but also because there are such strange, wonderful concepts behind them that they require such explanations. Of course, I can't say how much they altered my life and development, as the first came out less than a decade ago, so I only knew him as an adult. But it is good to know that his work exists, and it serves a model to the kind of artist I hope to one day become.
Okay, now I want to get off the stage.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
My Ideas: Something New For Once
That's right, tonight's idea is fresh off the vine! Well, it's relatively new, at least, being less than a year old. But that's still recent, at least for my work, and I'm sort of eager to get a new idea off of my chest instead of recapping another decade+ old idea.
Today's project is called A Tale to Tell, and it was inspired from Odin Sphere, among other things. Odin Sphere is a two dimensional action/RPG game for the Playstation 2, but the details aren't that important right now. What is important is that the game has a framework of a child who reads about the exploits of the main characters through a series of books, each about one of the game's protagonists. The game is notorious, however, for its long loading screens, periods of required grinding, and extending time spent cooking recipes, mixing potions, and watching plants grow. Seriously. These aren't too distracting in-game, but it struck me as amusing how this must have read in the book. "Then the hero sat around, watching a magical plant grow. Then he spent two hours fighting random monsters. Then he tossed everything out of his pouches and put them back in to organize his items better. Then he..."
It was a funny image for me, but it didn't become an idea until I expanded the idea of "game=storybook" until it became the central theme. Instead of a little girl reading alone, A Tale to Tell is about a grandfather reading the story to his grandchildren. The story is, or at least was, a classic tale of high adventure and fantasy in a traditional setting resembling Middle Ages Europe, with Lord of the Rings being a classic example. The grandchildren warped the original concept in to funny ways. First, they get to be critics to the story, mocking the conventions of the video game's story and game play elements as if they were written in the story. More importantly, though, they got to be the story's editors.
As the concept of the game changed, I decided that this wasn't just a story; the fantasy world of the book existed as an alternate plane of reality, and for it to sustain itself, the story must be told to a fresh audience through the book every generation or so. But the book the grandfather (who is also a Gandalf-style wizard in the fantasy land,) reads it the last of the first printing, and thus the last one capable of keeping the realm restored. Thus, the grandfather doesn't just want to tell this story to his grandkids; he has no other choice. If they lose interest, his world dies!
And so the grandfather must bend over backwards as the grandchildren, all modern kids of ages ranging from about 5-12 or so, impose their own views of fantasy on the book. The theme of the game, therefore, becomes how the idea and means of expressing fantasy evolves, and this is not a battle between right and wrong. Sometimes, the children are wrong as they disrespect tradition, mock old heroic archetypes, or (in the case of the twelve year old,) fill the story with juvenile titillation. Other times, they're insightful, noticing that the heroes are all pretty much straight white people, with the female roles barely acknowledged. Other times, it's more debatable, as the more tech-savvy children compare the story to modern cartoons and, in a bit of meta-commentary, video games.
Mostly, though, the game is intended to be humorous. The grandfather and his family are sometimes seen, but most of the story takes place inside the story. There, the children can be heard as echoing voices in the background, their every demand (and the grandfather's occasional rejections,) altering the world in real-time. If the kids are bored with a monster, it suddenly gets much bigger. If an argument about how many monsters the party must fight breaks out, their enemies literally poof into and out of existence. As for the actual characters, they are normally unaware pawns of the story, not even looking surprised as their world shifts. Between chapters, though, they meet and discuss the changes, sometimes afraid of what they are becoming, and other times welcoming the improvements.
There are other gameplay elements tied to the game's core concept. Fighting earns the player AP (Awesome Points,) which can be used to turn one of the children to their side, earning a beneficial alteration to the world. This can be as simple as a scan of an enemy's weaknesses orgaining new special moves, weakening monsters or forcing them into passive roles, or skipping fights entirely. And the multi-party action-rpg format, which I'm tentatively planning for at this early stage of planning, allows switching using the "paragraph" system. That is, the player can't switch at any time; another character's battle is still being resolved in the story. But stick with one character for two long and the paragraph gets long and boring, weakening that character until the player switches to a new one.
These are just the starting ideas, though. I see some interesting plans in the story, from rivalry between children siding with "good" and "evil" paths of the story to the growth of the children through their appreciation of the story, however mangled it may be. Scared ones become confident, and cynical ones find themselves emotionally invested in the story as well.
But I need suggestions for this one more than most, assuming I get anyone to read it. As a new idea, the concept is both exciting and modern, requiring less revision, but it is still very indistinct in my mind, with few characters even created. I can use my own semi-appreciative but edit-happy audience on this one.
Today's project is called A Tale to Tell, and it was inspired from Odin Sphere, among other things. Odin Sphere is a two dimensional action/RPG game for the Playstation 2, but the details aren't that important right now. What is important is that the game has a framework of a child who reads about the exploits of the main characters through a series of books, each about one of the game's protagonists. The game is notorious, however, for its long loading screens, periods of required grinding, and extending time spent cooking recipes, mixing potions, and watching plants grow. Seriously. These aren't too distracting in-game, but it struck me as amusing how this must have read in the book. "Then the hero sat around, watching a magical plant grow. Then he spent two hours fighting random monsters. Then he tossed everything out of his pouches and put them back in to organize his items better. Then he..."
It was a funny image for me, but it didn't become an idea until I expanded the idea of "game=storybook" until it became the central theme. Instead of a little girl reading alone, A Tale to Tell is about a grandfather reading the story to his grandchildren. The story is, or at least was, a classic tale of high adventure and fantasy in a traditional setting resembling Middle Ages Europe, with Lord of the Rings being a classic example. The grandchildren warped the original concept in to funny ways. First, they get to be critics to the story, mocking the conventions of the video game's story and game play elements as if they were written in the story. More importantly, though, they got to be the story's editors.
As the concept of the game changed, I decided that this wasn't just a story; the fantasy world of the book existed as an alternate plane of reality, and for it to sustain itself, the story must be told to a fresh audience through the book every generation or so. But the book the grandfather (who is also a Gandalf-style wizard in the fantasy land,) reads it the last of the first printing, and thus the last one capable of keeping the realm restored. Thus, the grandfather doesn't just want to tell this story to his grandkids; he has no other choice. If they lose interest, his world dies!
And so the grandfather must bend over backwards as the grandchildren, all modern kids of ages ranging from about 5-12 or so, impose their own views of fantasy on the book. The theme of the game, therefore, becomes how the idea and means of expressing fantasy evolves, and this is not a battle between right and wrong. Sometimes, the children are wrong as they disrespect tradition, mock old heroic archetypes, or (in the case of the twelve year old,) fill the story with juvenile titillation. Other times, they're insightful, noticing that the heroes are all pretty much straight white people, with the female roles barely acknowledged. Other times, it's more debatable, as the more tech-savvy children compare the story to modern cartoons and, in a bit of meta-commentary, video games.
Mostly, though, the game is intended to be humorous. The grandfather and his family are sometimes seen, but most of the story takes place inside the story. There, the children can be heard as echoing voices in the background, their every demand (and the grandfather's occasional rejections,) altering the world in real-time. If the kids are bored with a monster, it suddenly gets much bigger. If an argument about how many monsters the party must fight breaks out, their enemies literally poof into and out of existence. As for the actual characters, they are normally unaware pawns of the story, not even looking surprised as their world shifts. Between chapters, though, they meet and discuss the changes, sometimes afraid of what they are becoming, and other times welcoming the improvements.
There are other gameplay elements tied to the game's core concept. Fighting earns the player AP (Awesome Points,) which can be used to turn one of the children to their side, earning a beneficial alteration to the world. This can be as simple as a scan of an enemy's weaknesses orgaining new special moves, weakening monsters or forcing them into passive roles, or skipping fights entirely. And the multi-party action-rpg format, which I'm tentatively planning for at this early stage of planning, allows switching using the "paragraph" system. That is, the player can't switch at any time; another character's battle is still being resolved in the story. But stick with one character for two long and the paragraph gets long and boring, weakening that character until the player switches to a new one.
These are just the starting ideas, though. I see some interesting plans in the story, from rivalry between children siding with "good" and "evil" paths of the story to the growth of the children through their appreciation of the story, however mangled it may be. Scared ones become confident, and cynical ones find themselves emotionally invested in the story as well.
But I need suggestions for this one more than most, assuming I get anyone to read it. As a new idea, the concept is both exciting and modern, requiring less revision, but it is still very indistinct in my mind, with few characters even created. I can use my own semi-appreciative but edit-happy audience on this one.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Reviews: Go Migraine, Go!
My review is for something I technically watched a week ago. Sorry about that. We'll start with more substantive TV season stuff next weekend. For now, the discussion is about Speed Racer: The Movie: I already was mocked once for paying money to watch it.
And I could see why; the previews and ads were dubious at best, and the movie bombed both at the box office and with reviews. As for the film itself, I can't completely disagree with that response. Until I saw this movie, I didn't think I still could be over-stimulated, but Speed Racer had to go and prove me wrong. Seeing a movie on the IMAX was a good idea in theory, but I question if digital film is still sufficient, no matter what Lucas thinks. Some scenes with a lot of action or motion were blurry to the point of being incomprehensible. But there were times when incomprehensibility wasn't the film's fault. Much of the movie was so full of bright colors and elaborate backgrounds you were overwhelmed immediately. A scene in a large city in particular was so garish it could create headaches.
As for the plot, it was simplistic as expected for this sort of movie. Speed Racer, the aptly-titled hero, and his family work as professional race car drivers and builders. While happily independent, after a major victory by Speed, they attracted the interest of an ominously named corporate executive who wants Speed as part of his crooked team, where he would have to take the fall if ordered, or out of the racing circuit entirely so his goons can control it.
Not surprisingly, this plot does not lend itself well to complex looks at morality, nor does it try to. Even so, it has its moments of, if not depth, at least reflection. The story may be about good versus evil using kung fu cars, but the theme is about family and its importance. This can be seen in the continued questioning of Racer X and whether he really is Speed's older brother, who is believed to be deceased. Unlike the cartoon, which humorously reminded us that he really is every episode or so, this movie actually managed to make the question ambiguous.
Less appealing were the antics of the movie's comic relief, Sprattle (Sprittle? Either way,) and Chim-Chim. This was clearly aimed at the younger part of the audience (if it had an audience,) and was only a bit less annoying than their cartoon variants. If you liked the cartoon variants, by all means go nuts.
All that being said, I liked parts of the movie, especially the second big race; a cross-country rally. Of all the movie, this felt the most like the cartoon's feel. The natural tracks were less distracting, the cinematography was impressive for the right reasons, and it's the only time the Mach Five has all the tricks it did in the cartoon. It even featured a mid-race fight against ninjas!
Overall, I'll give the movie a C+ with the reservation that I'm nostalgia biased. It certainly is a movie that inspires the imagination, at the very least, and it had some moments of heart. If it challenges the stomach as well, though, you might want to leave the theater or at least move back a few rows.
And I could see why; the previews and ads were dubious at best, and the movie bombed both at the box office and with reviews. As for the film itself, I can't completely disagree with that response. Until I saw this movie, I didn't think I still could be over-stimulated, but Speed Racer had to go and prove me wrong. Seeing a movie on the IMAX was a good idea in theory, but I question if digital film is still sufficient, no matter what Lucas thinks. Some scenes with a lot of action or motion were blurry to the point of being incomprehensible. But there were times when incomprehensibility wasn't the film's fault. Much of the movie was so full of bright colors and elaborate backgrounds you were overwhelmed immediately. A scene in a large city in particular was so garish it could create headaches.
As for the plot, it was simplistic as expected for this sort of movie. Speed Racer, the aptly-titled hero, and his family work as professional race car drivers and builders. While happily independent, after a major victory by Speed, they attracted the interest of an ominously named corporate executive who wants Speed as part of his crooked team, where he would have to take the fall if ordered, or out of the racing circuit entirely so his goons can control it.
Not surprisingly, this plot does not lend itself well to complex looks at morality, nor does it try to. Even so, it has its moments of, if not depth, at least reflection. The story may be about good versus evil using kung fu cars, but the theme is about family and its importance. This can be seen in the continued questioning of Racer X and whether he really is Speed's older brother, who is believed to be deceased. Unlike the cartoon, which humorously reminded us that he really is every episode or so, this movie actually managed to make the question ambiguous.
Less appealing were the antics of the movie's comic relief, Sprattle (Sprittle? Either way,) and Chim-Chim. This was clearly aimed at the younger part of the audience (if it had an audience,) and was only a bit less annoying than their cartoon variants. If you liked the cartoon variants, by all means go nuts.
All that being said, I liked parts of the movie, especially the second big race; a cross-country rally. Of all the movie, this felt the most like the cartoon's feel. The natural tracks were less distracting, the cinematography was impressive for the right reasons, and it's the only time the Mach Five has all the tricks it did in the cartoon. It even featured a mid-race fight against ninjas!
Overall, I'll give the movie a C+ with the reservation that I'm nostalgia biased. It certainly is a movie that inspires the imagination, at the very least, and it had some moments of heart. If it challenges the stomach as well, though, you might want to leave the theater or at least move back a few rows.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
New Update: Tomorrow
Sorry, today was a distracting one. I got a new roommate, which took up much of my focus. Admittedly, it didn't take up much of my time, but it did keep me from making a coherent schedule. Sorry about that; expect an update tomorrow.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Rantings: The Advantages of Video Game Art
This concludes the initial trilogy of me cheerleading art in video games. In the last updates, we covered if video games are art (yes, usually, for those who missed it,) and if video games should aim towards art, both in general and in the narrative sense (also yes.) This time, we cover why, beyond long-term profitability, people should bother making art in video games? Are there any advantages to making video game art? Is a video game really a better art form?
Yes! Wow, these questions are much easier when you have your own blog.
Okay, fine, no, it's not that's easy. It's more accurate to say that video games aren't better art; simply a more complex form. For example, some of the simpler art forms include literature, as it only has one channel to communicate to its audience. A movie has the textual method of books, the visual element books lack (with some exceptions, like House of Leaves,) and the audio method. Video games are another step in complexity. It has the narrative element, the visual one, the audio, and the interactive.
What are the advantages of that last element, though? If a video game is so similar to other modern art forms, why bother? Why make the next Silent Hill when you can make the next Descent, for example? Well, there are various advantages.
1) Immersion. Simply put, a video game character has the ability to make an event more personal than it does when you are merely a spectator. This is especially true in games where the main character is undefined or customizable; it enhances the element of self-definition, though at the cost of characterization and the character's role in the meta-stories of the world. But even games with clearly defined characters force you to react to the world more intimately. Your ability to freely move within it, altering the environment's appearance from your viewpoint, alone gives you that freedom. But this element is strengthened by some of the other advantages below.
2) Risk. One problem with other narrative structures is the results are entirely predicable and unchanging. You might be surprised the first time, but with very few exceptions like the movie Clue, once an ending is known, it will never vary. Similarly, even if you don't know how a story will end, you do know that the result is inevitable. This has some strong narrative elements; a good tragedy or horror story often relies on the inevitability of failure as a narrative device. But on the other hand, if victory is expected, and given how often happy endings are the standard they usually are, then that fear is removed. At worst, the question becomes how will the protagonists get out of the problem and not if they will. Similarly, even a slight understanding of narrative structure will let a viewer/reader recognize the limited nature of conflicts and obstacles in the middle of a story. Video games add uncertainty to every obstacle; it might be the one that ends the hero's story in failure, however temporarily.
3) Choice. The last option is the ability to alter the story. This comes in two forms: the ability to branch the main plot, leading to several different endings, and the ability to focus on what elements of the story matter most to you as the player. Maybe you don't carry about random PCs 3, 4, and 6 in your RPG, but you do care about the minor NPC innkeeper you meet in the first town, so you focus more of your attention on her. It might affect how the game itself unfolds, or it might not, but it affects how you react to the game. Obviously, this is true in movies etc. as you get favorite characters and emphasize them emotionally, but in a game, you transform that into time spent on that character, talking to him/her, even potentially changing him/her in game. Plus, in other art mediums, you can get frustrated with how the characters react to events; they could behave like nitwits in a battle, poorly plan a scheme, or miss the obvious clues needed to solve a mystery. Such things are certainly possible in a video game, as you never have full control in a programmed environment, but you usually have at least some options in combat.
You may complain, however, that at least two of these advantages counter my earlier support of the narrative environment. How strong can a narrative be if you can free alter it at many points. In general, the answer is "very strong," due to the concept of branching paths. Imagine a game where you are only given one choice in its entirety. There's no combat or other uncertainty, just one time where you get to pick between, say, two different buttons to press. From there, the story will continue until its conclusion on each path. This is still a narrative system; it merely has two branching narratives, each enclosed with its own full story and ending.
This is the method most video games use, even if they don't explicitly label the endings as such. In some cases, yes, the branching is a deliberate part of the story. Many games, for example, offer a bittersweet "bad ending" and a "good ending" if certain conditions are met, or games with many potential romantic leads offer different endings based on which one or ones you show affection towards. However, regular gameplay also branches in the form of failure. Every time you lose the game, you essentially "choose" a branched path towards an ending where the hero falls and evil, presumably, wins. Some games spell this own, either all the time or in specific points where especially climatic battles are lost, but this ending is implied in each case.
These branched endings give credibility to the three strengths mentioned above, but there is a risk in over-branching. After all, there are finite amounts of resources and time available to make a game, so by definition every branch requires some investment of these resources and could result in a plot weaker than a branchless game. But this really only becomes a problem when the game becomes so open-ended that the potential endings become nearly infinite, and in that case it is assumed that narrative has been deliberately abandoned by the designers anyway.
Are these the only advantages to video games as an art form? Almost certainly not. Therefore, expect this trilogy to continue on some day from now, as this concept is explored further.
Yes! Wow, these questions are much easier when you have your own blog.
Okay, fine, no, it's not that's easy. It's more accurate to say that video games aren't better art; simply a more complex form. For example, some of the simpler art forms include literature, as it only has one channel to communicate to its audience. A movie has the textual method of books, the visual element books lack (with some exceptions, like House of Leaves,) and the audio method. Video games are another step in complexity. It has the narrative element, the visual one, the audio, and the interactive.
What are the advantages of that last element, though? If a video game is so similar to other modern art forms, why bother? Why make the next Silent Hill when you can make the next Descent, for example? Well, there are various advantages.
1) Immersion. Simply put, a video game character has the ability to make an event more personal than it does when you are merely a spectator. This is especially true in games where the main character is undefined or customizable; it enhances the element of self-definition, though at the cost of characterization and the character's role in the meta-stories of the world. But even games with clearly defined characters force you to react to the world more intimately. Your ability to freely move within it, altering the environment's appearance from your viewpoint, alone gives you that freedom. But this element is strengthened by some of the other advantages below.
2) Risk. One problem with other narrative structures is the results are entirely predicable and unchanging. You might be surprised the first time, but with very few exceptions like the movie Clue, once an ending is known, it will never vary. Similarly, even if you don't know how a story will end, you do know that the result is inevitable. This has some strong narrative elements; a good tragedy or horror story often relies on the inevitability of failure as a narrative device. But on the other hand, if victory is expected, and given how often happy endings are the standard they usually are, then that fear is removed. At worst, the question becomes how will the protagonists get out of the problem and not if they will. Similarly, even a slight understanding of narrative structure will let a viewer/reader recognize the limited nature of conflicts and obstacles in the middle of a story. Video games add uncertainty to every obstacle; it might be the one that ends the hero's story in failure, however temporarily.
3) Choice. The last option is the ability to alter the story. This comes in two forms: the ability to branch the main plot, leading to several different endings, and the ability to focus on what elements of the story matter most to you as the player. Maybe you don't carry about random PCs 3, 4, and 6 in your RPG, but you do care about the minor NPC innkeeper you meet in the first town, so you focus more of your attention on her. It might affect how the game itself unfolds, or it might not, but it affects how you react to the game. Obviously, this is true in movies etc. as you get favorite characters and emphasize them emotionally, but in a game, you transform that into time spent on that character, talking to him/her, even potentially changing him/her in game. Plus, in other art mediums, you can get frustrated with how the characters react to events; they could behave like nitwits in a battle, poorly plan a scheme, or miss the obvious clues needed to solve a mystery. Such things are certainly possible in a video game, as you never have full control in a programmed environment, but you usually have at least some options in combat.
You may complain, however, that at least two of these advantages counter my earlier support of the narrative environment. How strong can a narrative be if you can free alter it at many points. In general, the answer is "very strong," due to the concept of branching paths. Imagine a game where you are only given one choice in its entirety. There's no combat or other uncertainty, just one time where you get to pick between, say, two different buttons to press. From there, the story will continue until its conclusion on each path. This is still a narrative system; it merely has two branching narratives, each enclosed with its own full story and ending.
This is the method most video games use, even if they don't explicitly label the endings as such. In some cases, yes, the branching is a deliberate part of the story. Many games, for example, offer a bittersweet "bad ending" and a "good ending" if certain conditions are met, or games with many potential romantic leads offer different endings based on which one or ones you show affection towards. However, regular gameplay also branches in the form of failure. Every time you lose the game, you essentially "choose" a branched path towards an ending where the hero falls and evil, presumably, wins. Some games spell this own, either all the time or in specific points where especially climatic battles are lost, but this ending is implied in each case.
These branched endings give credibility to the three strengths mentioned above, but there is a risk in over-branching. After all, there are finite amounts of resources and time available to make a game, so by definition every branch requires some investment of these resources and could result in a plot weaker than a branchless game. But this really only becomes a problem when the game becomes so open-ended that the potential endings become nearly infinite, and in that case it is assumed that narrative has been deliberately abandoned by the designers anyway.
Are these the only advantages to video games as an art form? Almost certainly not. Therefore, expect this trilogy to continue on some day from now, as this concept is explored further.
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