Spectre – Sam Mendes is the Author of All My Pain

It’s easy to forget but James Bond is one of our weirdest enduring cultural phenomenons. Each structurally and dramatically near-identical outing is a unique snapshot of the trends of its time and their concepts of traditional masculinity, which in the end are all that make up Bond as a character. Over the past few years though the series seems to have gotten stuck in a rut, in what appears to be some sort of existential crisis.

The iteration of the plot this time around is that following a personal mission-gone-wrong left to him by the late Judi Dench and opening credits featuring softcore tentacle porn (I’m not kidding), Bond and friends are introduced to Jim Moriarty from Sherlock, mugging like a jackass having clearly been told to ‘do that thing you do on TV’ and cackling about how the double-O section is outdated and he’s firing all our heroes to replace them with a worldwide surveillance system M describes as “Orwell’s worst nightmare”, just in case we missed that he’s the villain. As this plan largely sits on the backburner for most of the film it forms a sort of B-plot, whilst Bond traipses across the globe in pursuit of a mysterious man in a Nehru jacket running a global supervillain network called Spectre. An attempt is made at giving the pair a childhood backstory, but like any character whose appeal relies on being portrayed as ceaselessly cool (see also Batman) any attempt to explicitly define Bond’s childhood feels like it undercuts him as a character.

Half of this film is pointless, but I’m not sure which half. Both villains function identically running their scheme to consolidate multiple country’s intelligence services into a single world-spanning organisation, neither really depends on the other for anything and Moriarty barely has any motivation for any of this. He seems to exist solely so Moneypenny, Q and a very bored Ralph Fiennes have something to do for the climax while Bond is elsewhere. Surprisingly Spectre doesn’t feel overlong at two-and-a-half hours, but at least a third of the script could be cut without effect.

Mendes appears to have either given up or royally screwed his second go at Bond, as almost none of his splendid direction from Skyfall returns here. After a fantastic opening chase through Mexico City’s Day of the Dead festival the rest is weirdly flat and lifeless, beginning with a fight in a helicopter that largely cuts back and forth between near-identical interior punch shots and repetitive takes of the chopper steady over the parade, before frequently cutting away from dramatic helicopter stunts you’d think you’d want to show off. It only really comes to life again a couple of times during later action sequences, with a particularly fun train punch-up, but even a night-time high-speed pursuit through the streets of Rome feels lethargic. Tonally the film is shaky as well, repeatedly undercutting its general target of a lighter, jokier vibe than its predecessor with jarring death-obsessed moments that would make Katniss Everdeen flinch.

The biggest problem I alluded to earlier though, is that I don’t think this franchise knows what to do with itself. Both Spectre and Skyfall are weirdly defensive movies, seemingly made under the assumption there is some massive cultural backlash against the franchise against which it must assert itself. Skyfall went so far as to have M literally defend the franchise in court with terrorists bursting in at the opportune moment to prove her point, along with a running theme of Bond using low-tech means to save everyone from the new guard’s fuck-ups but Spectre takes it even further. Every five minutes for its first half it has M and Moriarty pop up to say first “The double-O section is outdated, I’m closing it down muhahahaha” and then “No, we totally need the double-O section” over and over again. The public distaste for Quantum of Solace seems to have sapped all this franchise’s confidence and while Skyfall had some Oedipal thing going on and Spectre makes an effort to be The Bourne Ultimatum both these films are essentially thematic tautologies: they exist to explain why they exist.

It’s also emblematic of the way Mendes is going about storytelling here. Whereas films like Goldeneye, Casino Royale and even Quantum of Solace created worlds from which the familiar Bond tropes naturally grew Skyfall and Spectre start with those tropes and work backwards to try and justify them. The bad guy has a secret desert villain headquarters with a private torture room not because he’s someone who would do that, but just because that’s what Bond villains do (apparently), just like Bond’s new car having exhaust flamethrowers and an ejector seat, and him and the female lead falling for each other for no discernible reason. The result is that Mendes’ Bond films are just made from bits of other movies without much identity of their own; the villain and scarred baddie from You Only Live Twice, the giant mute henchman from The Spy Who Loved Me (minus anything to make him distinctive) and even the climax feels like a riff on Craig’s first entry.

Spectre is ultimately little more than a hollow shell the Bond franchise has constructed around its own insecurities, and all its insistence about how relevant and vital it is in the modern age just causes me to wonder the opposite. Casino Royale deconstructed the Bond movie almost a decade ago to great acclaim, but you can only play that card once as deconstruction only examines what’s already there without adding anything new. In this new world where the series seems to primarily exist to explain why it exists, do we really need James Bond?

The Matrix as Transgender Metaphor

As one of the defining films of my generation The Matrix has always cast a long shadow, both in its incredible genre influence and its eternal tendency to bring absolute morons out of the woodwork declaring it to be the most intelligent and meaningful film ever made for suggesting the world isn’t real (with Inception nobly taking the baton for kids today). I have a different, more personal reading of this movie however as being fundamentally about one woman’s journey into the world, and it begins with its directors.


The Wachowskis, under attack from a pink cephalopod

Lana Wachowski as you may know is transgender, and I see The Matrix as being a metaphor for a trans woman coming out and asserting her identity against a world which refuses to acknowledge her. The film runs on an extremely blunt ‘rebirth as your true self’ metaphor with a protagonist whose name literally means ‘new’ (I love Wachowski subtlety), and while on its own this could symbolise practically anything what strikes me about its execution is that Neo’s embrace of his identity as ‘The One’ against the world oppressing him is represented by his name.

In the extremely on-the-nose interrogation scene early on, Agent Smith describes him as having two lives with two different names. In public he is Mr Thomas Anderson, while in private he goes by Neo, a name he picked himself. Throughout the film he is only referred to by the former by representatives of authority, his boss and Smith (almost always specifically as ‘Mister’ Anderson), while his friends only ever use the name he chose himself.


Note the outfits

On its own this could represent anything, but what clinches it for me is that Neo’s big moment of asserting his true identity as ‘the One’ by defeating an Agent is preceded by this exchange:

Agent Smith: You hear that Mr. Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability. It is the sound of your death. Goodbye, Mr. Anderson.
Neo: My name is Neo. [Smashes Smith with a train]

Of all the possible things he could have said in the face of death, he chose to assert his name.

I think it’s also worth noting the position Neo is in at the film’s end. He’s discovered who he truly is, embraced that in the face of the world’s attempt to stop him and found his own power, but the world itself has not changed. He hasn’t led a glorious revolution and upended the status quo, it’s still in place essentially unchanged, still views him as a threat and with his newfound openness about who he is will likely redouble its attempt to oppress him.

I think queer interpretations can be found in almost all the Wachowski’s works. Besides the obvious example of Bound and Sense8, Racer X’s situation of being unable to tell his family he changed his appearance and identity could could be seen as analogous to Lana having transitioned by Speed Racer’s production, but not being publicly out at the time, and a whole book could be written on the gender-switching politics of Cloud Atlas. I’ve no idea of knowing whether The Matrix was intended the way I see it, or if Lana deliberately drew on her experiences writing the film but I certainly feel there’s more textual evidence for this reading than for, say, the popular queer reading of Frozen.

Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain Of Disappointment

It truly is the end of an era. As Konami’s public relations death spiral continues, torching their every professional relationship like a gephyrophobic pyromaniac, it’s finally Metal Gear Solid’s turn for the chopping block (at least until the inevitable pachinko machine). As a long-time fan of the series who considers Sons of Liberty to be one of gaming’s finest artistic accomplishments I could hardly have been more eager to get my grubby mitts on the series’ swan song, but by the closing credits I found myself somewhat relieved that it’s over.

Hideo Kojima’s tussles with his bosses over this game have been well-documented elsewhere so I won’t reiterate them, but in the final product he seems to be somewhat overcompensating as every single mission begins and ends with his name, a move initially coming off as a righteous jab at his former employer but which quickly feels like an almost Wiseauean level of egotism. This time the auteur’s decided to go open world, which proves something of a detriment to the series. Mechanically the game is very solid, stealth and combat are the smoothest they’ve ever been and traversing the beautiful Afghan landscape to infiltrate a base and kidnap people with balloons is natural and fluid, never feeling clunky aside from a bug causing snake to run sideways endlessly which got me killed more than once. After some initial fun however the flaws quickly make themselves apparent.

First, the open world structure kills any sense of story drive or pacing. Doing side missions or building up your base as the game tells you forces the plot to take an almost total backseat; for the first twenty hours I played after the opening doing what the game encouraged me to do almost nothing happened narratively. It also has the same problem of recent Far Cry games in that while the map is huge and expansive practically every enemy base is cobbled together from identikit buildings. None have any real personality as a result and so the map feels remarkably drab and repetitive, with even a mid-game setting change from Afghanistan to Zaire lacking any distinct change to the feeling of gameplay. There’s also very little interaction between the player and the world, for all the exploration and wildlife it’s lacking something like Snake Eater’s survival mechanics giving the player an immediate connection to the land around them, and so despite all the environmental detail the world feels very artificial. It also doesn’t help that these ostensible combat zones have no non-enemy presence. You stumble across prisoners from time to time but unlike Guns of the Patriots there are never any skirmishes or friendly troops and this supposedly active warzone feels almost peaceful. The updated version of Peace Walker’s base-building mechanic feels similarly forced and artificial, for all your headquarters’ expanse there’s nothing to do there, and no reason to return outside of story obligation.

Missions have a similar problem, practically every one is sneaking into an anonymous base and either shooting an anonymous soldier, ballooning them, blowing up a static object or if you’re really lucky ambushing a convoy on a road. Nearly every mission is interchangeable and they become repetitive very quickly, and only a few main story missions have anything to do with the immediate story at hand. This destroys any sense of being part of the larger story, which happens almost entirely offscreen. Kojima said he felt cutscenes were outdated but here he has nothing to replace them with. Here’s how the story plays out: Big Boss gets sent on a generic mission involving an anonymous enemy soldier in an identikit base. He shoots/kidnaps the soldier and then Kaz calls you up on the radio to narrate what happened while you were away. Not even a CODEC call like previous games in which two people have a back-and-forth developing both their characters, just a guy monologuing the game’s Wikipedia summary at you.

It also really doesn’t help that the few characters you do meet have been stripped of any personality. Kaz and Ocelot are nothing but nigh indistinguishable grizzled military stock characters and what supporting cast there is are almost as boring. There are no interesting villains either, the main bad guy Skull Face is a cipher without even the traditional MGS gimmick until he gets his villainous monologue explaining himself in practically the same cutscene he leaves the story in. Even the series’ colourful and engaging bosses are gone, our supporting villains are generic supersoldiers fought in repetitive and simplistic fights without any of the complexity or inventiveness of the series’ previous boss fights. Kojima does throw in a few cutscenes here and there, all done as one continuous take which does a good job of integrating them with gameplay but also aptly demonstrates that he is no Alfonso Cuaron. However most of them just consist of Kaz, Ocelot and Huey (well-characterised as an unlikable fuckhead) bickering back at base which gets old fast, and between the lack of engaging characters and the detachment of the player from the events of the story there’s no real drama here. It’s only a story in the loosest sense, and almost all context for what there is is given through optional audio recordings (the single worst expository device in gaming as you’re just asking the player to stop playing and listen to your notes you couldn’t be bothered to work into the game). The ending comes out of nowhere too, the result of Kojima having to cut its entire final third, resulting in a tale with no resolution or point to what has come before.

Then we have the problem of Quiet. Metal Gear Solid’s relationship with women has always been strange to say the least, but while its prior success in juggling wildly varying tones allowed it to create sincere drama out of the most outlandish scenarios (in a similar manner to James Bond) here it completely falls apart. Dressed like a decaying stripper and shot like a Dead or Alive volleyball match Quiet’s mere presence undercuts any dramatic tension, and while this series has featured many ridiculously dressed female characters over the years their outfits fitted with their game’s tone and world – EVA’s spy catsuit suited Snake Eater’s sixties spy motif and the Beauty and the Beast corp’s high-tech bodysuits matched their game’s slick futuristic aesthetic – but Quiet shoots through the suspension of disbelief line and never looks back. The scene of her being tortured later on by electroshocking her breasts would have been my ‘fuck it, I give up’ moment had the story ever had me.

The tonal issue is even worse as Kojima has decided to attempt a very serious narrative about child soldiers, meaning the game flits back and forth between Spring Breakers and Beasts of No Nation from mission to mission. Thankfully though he was smart enough to keep them separate save for one brief cutscene, but they just don’t belong in the same story.

More than anything though, this game feels half-finished. Not just in its utter lack of resolution but in that what is here feels desperately thrown together to meet a deadline. The vague, sketchily-told narrative, the disconnect between player action and story progression and the lack of any of the series’ signature features (colourful characters, complex boss fights et al) make it feel like a first draft of a game, lacking the polish to tie it together artistically. It’s a mess, and the first genuine failure of this series.

Really though, I’m glad this series is over. Ever since Guns of the Patriots wrapped up every single loose end this series ever had the following games have suffered from a severe case of prequel syndrome. No matter what potentially world-changing events occur none of it matters because it can’t affect anything meaningful in the future, as we know how it will all play out. We know Big Boss will be thwarted attempting to build his own nation of Outer Heaven, Liquid will take over Shadow Moses and be killed by Snake and Huey will drown himself after catching his son in bed with his stepmother. The more you add to this series the more pointless it feels and the more unlikely it seems that no-one in earlier games ever mentioned any of it (particularly Liquid). In the end I think it’s good that Kojima will be starting a new series somewhere else, unrestrained by his absurdly convoluted mythology, and I sincerely look forward whatever he comes up with. Until them though, I guess I’ll just have to find something else to fill its space and distract from the phantom pain of disappointment this game has left me with.

Pillars of Eternity and Player Motivation

Why do you play videogames? It’s a simple question, but every time you put down £40 for your latest toy you commit yourself to tens or hundreds of hours sat before a screen, so what is it keeping you interested and stopping you from putting the controller down and going back to finish Sense8?

It’s something I’ve been wondering for a while now, and never more so than while playing Pillars of Eternity, Obsidian Entertainment’s ode to the computer RPGs of the nineties like Baldur’s Gate and Icewind Dale. Funded by tens of thousands on Kickstarter (including myself) it is by all the usual metrics a success: 89/100 on Metacritic, awards from major gaming publications and the usual laudatory praise heaped on any game professing more narrative sophistication than your average Call of Duty sequel. Despite this, I and a not insignificant number of others have found it a surprisingly unengaging experience, which appears to be due to it suffering from one of modern gaming’s most damning flaws: assumed empathy.

It’s one of the biggest story problems you can have, expecting the audience to automatically care about the world and characters set before them and making no effort to convince them to do so, and yet it’s everywhere in modern gaming, particularly in the AAA market. Call of Duty expects the player to care about the fate of the United States every time it’s under attack from vaguely defined swarthy foreigners, Assassin’s Creed long ago ditched any attempt to make the player central to the story and Tomb Raider assumes that battering the player character will engender audience sympathy just because they puppeteer her between cutscene beatings. The worlds and character models are fabulously detailed but without an emotional investment it’s all for naught. So with this essay I’ve decided to examine the five main ways an RPG can motivate its players and invest them in its story, how to make them work effectively for your game and how PoE flubs each and every one.

The first is to make the player care about NPCs in the world. This is how all non-interactive fiction works, as the audience must form a human connection to a work of art to care about it (art being a reflection of human experience and whatnot). This is typically done in games by introducing the PC as having pre-existing relationships with story-relevant NPCs, building the player’s relationships with them early on and when the story kicks off it directly affects them, so the player’s emotional investment makes them want to follow the plot you’ve laid out. This is why the protagonist’s beloved peasant village getting nuked at the end of act one is a cliché, hurting or killing the PC’s friends is a simple way to make the player want revenge on the villain (which is why people still remember Aeris’ death in FFVII).

Bioware’s wuxia epic/Bridge of Birds knockoff Jade Empire does this well. The PC is introduced as a student at a martial arts academy and their relationships with three NPCs developed: Master Li, their teacher and the school’s headmaster, Dawn Star, a friend of the PC, and the Water Dragon, a mysterious apparition who tells you she’s wounded and in need of your help. By act one’s end Master Li is kidnapped, Dawn Star wants to rescue him and your beloved peasant village gets nuked by samurai Darth Vader. The player wants to rescue Master Li and take revenge on his attackers, and you’re on your way.

Pillars of Eternity meanwhile has a surprising lack of well-developed NPCs. The PC begins the game as a migrant to the land of Eora, before quickly falling victim to a soul-stealing hurricane which leaves them able to sense others’ souls. None of the tutorial NPCs are memorable or survive this maelstrom (not necessarily a bad thing), but for a long time after there are no NPCs for the player to form a strong emotional connection to the world through. Non-companion major NPCs with strong connections to the plot are absent for some time (besides the purposefully mysterious villain) and they rarely have much to talk to the player about besides their role in the plot. The same goes for the player’s companions. Each has their personal quest and motivation to follow it, but outside of that they barely exist. Unlike NPCs in most RPGs few have any connection to the setting you find them in, or if they do it tends to make itself manifest much later as part of their quest. This has the effect of feeling like you just pick up a lot of hitchhikers who are willing to put their own desires and goals aside to suicidally charge to their deaths for some stranger they just met, and if you leave them where you find them the overall story barely changes.

To go back to Jade Empire, many of the player’s companions initially have a personal connection to the place the player meets them, which helps get the player invested in that place and the conflict within it. For example in act three the PC meets Princess Lian1, the emperor’s daughter who moonlights as a ninja and who wants to defeat the Lotus Assassins, an organisation she believes has corrupted her father. The PC is chasing these assassins, revealed as the people behind the destruction of the PC’s beloved peasant village, and Lian’s personal connection to them helps to frame the conflicts in the Imperial City and the player’s personal goals with regards to them and their local influence, giving the player a reason to care about life in the Imperial City. PoE on the other hand repeatedly drops the player into new areas with their own conflicts, but there’s little to no human connection to them so for all the effort put into creating and developing resolutions to these conflicts they’re curiously uninvolving.

The second way to motivate your players is to threaten either them or the world. In the former case something or someone is attempting to kill the player and they fight back out of self-preservation. In the latter the fate of the world (or at least part of it) is endangered, and the player cares because they are invested in the NPCs who are part of it (as discussed above), as a story’s stakes are only as high as how much they impact characters who we care about. This is why the potential end of the world has become a cliché, as it threatens the end of both the NPCs the player is invested in as well as the world they connect the player to emotionally.

The PC in Jade Empire is visited early on by the Water Dragon, an entity who guides spirits to the afterlife but has been captured by the emperor, causing the recently deceased to get lost in the material world and lash out at people. The player cares about the world through their relationships with the NPCs they know and so wants to save it, and just prior to meeting the Water Dragon the PC meets the ghost of the academy’s previous master who, unable to find his way to the afterlife, attacks them. This and the continued threat of dispossessed spirits throughout the game makes the threat felt to the player, reminding them what is at stake.

The central threat to PoE’s world is introduced in the first town, a magical curse causing children to be born soulless. This forms the first major questline, of the player trying to find a way to fight the curse, siding with either religious extremists believing they can pray it away or a scientist favouring wildly unethical human experimentation, and either defending or overthrowing the local lord whose obsession with the curse has killed many who tried to help. The problem is the player has no immediate human connection to this threat via major NPCs until sometime into the quest. One companion is personally affected by this tragedy, but she is met far later in the game and her connection to it is only revealed over the course of her personal quest. The only major plot-relevant NPCs in the first town are the religious leader, the scientist and the lord but they are only met midway through the town’s questline so until that point the threat is more abstract. As in journalism all stories are ultimately human stories, but PoE forgets this and so when the player stumbles across a grand, complex and morally ambiguous conflict they have little incentive to care.

The looming threat to PoE’s PC, and the main plot proper, is also only introduced ten hours in. After the tutorial soul storm the game takes a break for the entire first town and its associated questlines to take place before the PC can discover what happened to them in the next major area, by which point the player may have lost interest in the mystery. The story then fails to make its stakes clear after the reveal, effectively that the player will go insane if they cannot find a way to keep their condition in check, by making said stakes multiple choice. The only occasions the PC’s condition can show any sign of deterioration is when responding to companions asking the PC how they feel (the flavour text gives barely any clues), but the responses range from ‘I’m fine’ to ‘AAAAAAAH!’ Stakes only matter to a story if they are imposed by external forces, and these are curiously lacking throughout much of Pillars of Eternity.

You may be wondering why Jade Empire of all things is my yardstick for RPG storytelling here, but it’s because Bioware’s incredible success as a developer, financially, critically and especially with players is because they are one of the few game developers consistently dealing in solid, functional storytelling. Nothing they’ve produced will ever be mentioned in the same breath as Don Quixote or Battleship Potemkin, but they have drama, stakes, import and meaning which make their stories so satisfying to experience. This is why their stories resonate with people to the extent of producing their massive, devoted following and why Jade Empire, a game I played as a twelve year-old, has stuck with me through all these years.

The third way of motivating your players is to make your story ultimately about them. This is the most crucial part of telling a story interactively, the player has to feel their actions affect the world around them to care about it. If nothing the player does feels like it has consequences their actions feel meaningless and continuing your game feels pointless. The clichéd RPG way of doing this is to make your PC The Chosen One, prophesised long ago by a cabal of old bearded men to be the only one capable of wielding the sacred plot device to defeat the Dark Lord and his guttural, dark-skinned minions. It’s hacky as fuck and more than a little yawn-inducing by this point (even if fantasy literature hadn’t run this trope into the ground when computer RPGs were still played on mainframes) but it ultimately works and the player feels like the story’s hero. If you’re more adventurous you can make the story about the PC’s development as a person over the course of the game, with how they act in the face of some non-world threatening situation as their defining moment. In either case, unless your story is entirely on rails and character development done solely through cutscenes (as in Final Fantasy), the method of developing the PC in your story is done through the mechanic of choice. The player is given options for how they react to characters and situations in the world and their decisions and impact on the world around them comes to define both them and their relationships with it.

Jade Empire goes the clichéd route, quickly revealing the PC as the last of the Spirit Monks, an order devoted to worshipping the Water Dragon and as such the only one who can restore her power and save the world. Choice is used throughout the game in every conversation and quest the player is involved in, but it falls into the same trap as many games by only including definite ‘good’ and ‘evil’ options, so the player can only really define themselves as either the humanist saviour of the world or its next tyrant. PoE’s developer Obsidian however often takes the more adventurous route in their work. Their deconstructionist take on the Star Wars mythos Knights of the Old Republic II is centred on the story of the Jedi Exile and is fundamentally a meditation on the concept of the force and how it relates to the concepts of Jedi and Sith. The player is given a wide variety of ways to respond to the world and characters around them, and the PC’s mentor Kreia is quick to point out the consequences and philosophical implications of every choice you make. Unlike KOTOR I which was a grand, galaxy-in-peril epic the sequel is a far lower key personal story, but the focus on the consequences of the player’s choices make the PC’s story feel more important to the point that even the villain’s later attempted invasion of a planet feels like background to the PC’s development.

With Pillars of Eternity however they completely miss what previously worked. The story is built about the PC’s journey and ultimately how they choose to act after discovering the truth behind the soul plague, but the PC is a blank slate leaving a huge void at the story’s centre. Their only backstory is a paragraph of text chosen during character creation which has no effect on the game. This is not a bad thing in and of itself but there’s little opportunity for the PC to express themself to others and so develop themself as a character outside of passing moral judgement at the end of quests, which makes them feel little more than a bland moral arbiter. Ironically the game’s morally ambiguous quest endings help make it feel less realistic, as every choice is presented as just as morally justified as any other. While it’s admirable to attempt something more nuanced than ‘give money to beggar/stab beggar’ real life does occasionally have more clearly-cut ethical problems, and their absence here feels artificial. It ultimately makes every quest feel like a constructed test for the player and not a natural product of the game’s world.

The fourth method for motivating players is to base your story around a central theme, with the PC’s journey exploring its nuances through both the main plot and subplots as the main point of the game. Planescape: Torment, a highly-regarded CRPG made by Obsidian staff when they worked at Black Isle, did this well, literally introducing its main theme of ‘what can change the nature of a man?’ outside the opening area and having the PC’s story devoted to exploring his past selves, their legacies in the world and ultimately why they differed from each other. Your companion’s questlines examined this further through exploration of their own histories. In Pillars of Eternity however they wait until its final act, over seventy hours into the game, before introducing its central point which turns out to be ‘what is the value of truth?’ There is no foreshadowing for this, no build-up, no real exploration of it beforehand in other contexts. It’s absurd, the entire (admittedly interesting) reason for telling this story in the first place is only introduced right before the end, making it feel tacked on from a different story. I mean who does that?

UntitledBesides David Fincher.

The final way is to create an interesting and alluring world the player wants to explore. This works best in stories where the PC is discovering a whole new world and Planescape: Torment pulled this off beautifully. The PC is an amnesiac who comes back from the dead to find himself in the city of Sigil, a place where anything can be a portal to another dimension, demons and gods walk the streets and the local pub is heated by a man who accidentally turned himself into a living conduit to an elemental plane of fire. The games builds wonderfully on the imaginative and original world of Planescape, which is actually necessary for the game as it initially fails to create much of a driving force for the story besides the player’s curiosity, but the world is interesting and fun enough to explore on its own.

PoE aims for this as well, but it fails because the world it creates looks and feels remarkably boring. This is due to it falling into one of fantasy storytelling’s more recent traps, that of ‘grounded’ or ‘realistic’ fantasy. The problem with this is its basis in the common modern idea that prior to the 1500s everything was miserable and drab, and what results is rarely anything more than the fairytale depiction of the Middle Ages with any attractive edges sanded off, so everyone wanders around in rags and the rich and powerful are distinguished by not being covered in shit. It’s by no means unique to games as anyone who saw that terrible ‘realistic’ King Arthur movie with Clive Owen can attest, but while this style can be used well in stories meant to parallel real-world issues (as in A Song of Ice and Fire and The Witcher) it adds nothing to PoE. Much of the game’s plot involves character’s relationships with gods, who are entities you can talk to and demand help from and a ‘realistic’ visual style adds nothing here. It also makes the related mistake of assuming that humourlessness equals realism, so there’s barely any levity throughout the game. It’s never grimdark by any means, but the perpetual po-facedness becomes quite dreary after a while.

It also feels unimaginative because it’s stuck in the post-Tolkien mindset unable to see outside of Lord of the Rings. All the usual elves, dwarves and orcs (blue-skinned here) are present but unlike their inspirations they don’t represent anything. Tolkien’s elves were what he saw as the best of humanity, which was a bunch of obnoxiously perfect tree-huggers, but PoE’s are just there because that’s what this genre does. Between that and the setting choice of a magical version of fourteenth century Western Europe this world feels barely any fresher than Eragon’s.

It’s all part of Pillar’s of Eternity’s strangest facet to me, which is that it’s weirdly conventional. Many of Obsidian’s previous works (particularly those written by Chris Avellone) have relished in deconstructing and examining CRPG tropes, but here they plays it straight. KOTOR II dissected the concepts of the party and experience points, the former being the PC’s unconscious ability to influence others to trust and follow them, and the latter the PC absorbing other’s life force as a hole in reality. Planescape: Torment explored player death with the PC’s immortality making respawning literal and eschewing normal CRPG stakes. With PoE he plays strictly to convention: characters will immediately throw themselves in front of a sword hours after joining you for little reason, animals assault you every few feet in the countryside and you massacre untold hundreds but no-one ever cares or reacts in any way. It even commits the classic post-Tolkien fantasy sin of assuming a story can only be good if it’s long, stretching ten-to-twenty hours worth of story over four times that. All in all it’s the anti-KOTOR II, unintentionally showing how blind adherence to stock RPG tropes warps your story instead of working with them to create it.

It’s ironic really, this genre was spawned by fans of tabletop RPGs like Dungeons & Dragons, in which convincing players to follow your story is one of the most crucial skills a DM can have. PoE’s highest Kickstarter reward even included playing a D&D game with the developers, and yet here they seem to have forgotten everything they learned. People ultimately play games and read books and watch films because they care about the stories being told and the fates of the characters within them, and in a game your audience is the main character. As a game developer you’re not just telling a story, you’re directing it as it happens and as for anyone directing actors the most important thing you have to get across to them them is their motivation. Everything else is window-dressing.


1Yes, they technically met in act two, but only here did you learn her identity and motives.

Edited on 19th September to correct wrongly attributing Chris Avellone as lead designer/writer.

Jurassic World

I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner. In an age where audiences are lured to the theatre by the Pied Piper of Hollywood dangling their favourite childhood experiences before them, and then pulling back the curtain to reveal a vacuous, hollow entity on the screen draped in those movie’s skins like a cinematic Buffalo Bill, it was only a matter of time until they reached Jurassic Park. Again.

Jurassic Park must be one of the most financially bulletproof franchises this side of Star Wars, but it’s always been poorly suited to franchising the way Terminator has. The original is a complete, self-contained story with little room for follow-up, but like Terminator (with Genisys also out this month) we somehow keep returning to it with increasingly diminishing returns. This time it’s Colin Trevorrow’s turn to bring the defibrillators to the franchise, as Hollywood’s latest inexperienced indie directors chosen to headline blockbusters so the studio can micromanage as much as possible, but even taking into account the myriad script rewrites and studio interference he is way out of his depth here.

The story this time focuses on two children so lacking in personality I can’t recall their names, sent by their divorcing parents (whose marital difficulties are forgotten twenty minutes in) on a holiday to Jurassic World, a gaudy, deeply unpleasant-looking theme park managed by their aunt Bryce Dallas Howard. Weirdly, the film seems deeply upset at the idea that the boss of a massive theme park based around dangerous animals wouldn’t want to spend their day babysitting kids, and so her character arc through the film is going from not wanting children of her own to realising that as a woman her uterus is all she’s good for. It’s an arc so absurdly and overtly misogynistic it almost reaches The Room levels of unintentional hilarity.

Chris Pratt rounds out our set of heroes as a raptor trainer whose villainous boss Vincent D’Onofrio wants to train them to fight for the army, the exact motivation of countless Aliens spin-off villains which is somehow even less believable here. This may be because no-one has anything resembling the vaguest semblance of character consistency or arcs. Each of the kid’s scenes has nothing to do with any of their others, after the divorce subplot is dropped we keep getting payoffs for set-ups that never happened and unlike the first film at no point do they accomplish anything relevant to the plot. It’s actually quite surreal, for most of the runtime I forgot why I was even meant to dislike D’Onofrio’s character and started rooting for him against Pratt (who comes off as a self-righteous arsehole).

Our main plot (if it can be called that) is based on the idea that the public have lost interest in dinosaurs since the Park opened (which must have happened some time after it was overrun with dinosaurs), so the management have started genetically modifying bigger, more impressive spectacles for the viewing public, starting with the new and improved Magic Dinosaur (TM) created from the DNA of a thousand Mary Sues. This gives it the ability to do whatever the plot demands, from knowing how modern electronic tracking systems work well enough to use them as bait to turning invisible. Yes folks, we have a camouflage dinosaur, which was notable for the sheer pitch of my hysterical cackling echoing throughout the theatre. Every power this thing has comes out of absolutely nowhere, is used once and then forgotten, including its thermal vision with which it later fails to notice our heroes standing in front of it. It’s also clear no-one in the film’s production has ever spent time around animals, as perfectly normal animal behaviours like sororicide and killing for fun (seriously, cats are bastards) are presented as proof of the Magical Dinosaur’s evilness.

The strange thing is, it’s all trying to come together into some sort of theme about the nature of modern blockbuster cinema, painting them as flashy spectacle nostalgia grabs with hardly a brain cell to share. It fails to realise however that it is exactly the sort of film it despises, leading not only to a movie that seems to loathe it’s own existence but presents a truly wonderful argument why it should not exist. For all it’s utter contempt for modern film audiences – every time a character uses a mobile phone we’re invited to sneer at the waste of human life daring to use the conveniences of modern technology, instead of gasping in awe of our CGI dinosaurs only made possible by modern technology – it never comes close to presenting any alternative it thinks they should be watching instead (unless they’re female in which case they should apparently only want children and nothing else).

The CGI is a major issue here. Colin Trevorrow has no clue how to sell either CGI or spectacle; everything that could possibly be computer-generated is and whereas good filmmakers like Spielberg and Del Toro know how to ground giant effects sequences with realistic camerawork Trevorrow seems almost to do the opposite. Nothing ever feels real, which isn’t helped by how he has apparently never heard of depth-of-field, making every giant dinosaur attack feel flat and lifeless. The only real exception is the most horribly misjudged death scene I’ve seen in years, in which a minor supporting character, who has done nothing to earn the audience’s ire, is brutally tortured by pterodactyls for literally a minute.  It feels like someone spliced sixty seconds of Saw into a Marvel film.

I had almost no emotional reaction during the film’s second half, beyond the aforementioned death scene and one moment I loved in a rather hateful manner. During the climactic Magic Dinosaur vs T-Rex (who is never mentioned before this point) showdown the scene of the unconvincing CGI new dinosaur briefly seeming to have killed and cannibalised the original film’s icon was a perfect visual metaphor for this movie.

Really though, I’m not this film’s target audience. I have no particular nostalgia for the original and that’s all this movie aims to deliver on, throwing in one pointless reference after another (I think they may have flat-out lifted a stampede shot) and climaxing with a deus ex T-Rex. This film is a great summation of the problems of modern blockbuster cinema, a lazy cash-grab aimed at people desperate to relive their childhoods, and with box-office only beaten by Titanic and Avatar it seems we’ll be getting this shit for some time to come.

Avengers: Age of Ultron

So it’s finally here. After all these (three) years and Marvel’s most forgettable (IM3, Thor 2) and best (GotG, TWS) films we’ve arrived at the latest massive franchise crossover destined to siphon children’s pocket money the world over. Joss Whedon, returning to the world of blockbuster filmmaking from his famous Much Ado About Nothing adaptation, has crafted his grandest, most ambitious and apparently final Marvel opus, and while it’s in many ways a step up from its predecessor I can’t help but feel a little underwhelmed.

Age of Ultron is the story of the roughly three-week age of Ultron, a global peacekeeping AI project built by Tony Stark, who having never seen Terminator forgot AI’s exist only to enslave or kill mankind and assumed his world-controlling supercomputer would be all sunshine and rainbows. Shockingly, Ultron decides to kill mankind and it’s up to the Avengers to track down and defeat him. His given motivation is something about helping mankind evolve and meteors but it feels like half his scenes were left on the cutting room floor (the film was pared down almost an hour before release) and for all his pseudo-philosophical monologuing he rarely feels more than Generic AI Supervillain #4325.

The remaining cast fare a lot better though. Stark, as always, takes front and centre to mope about creating a monster and Downey Jr does a fine job selling his character’s distress, but the film spends most of its character moments developing its less popular Avengers. Hawkeye gets some genuinely heartwarming scenes with his wife and kids, and a (fairly believable) romance blossoms between Black Widow and Hulk, though the former suddenly announcing she’s sterile is one of the most tonally incongruent things I’ve seen since I spliced five minutes of A Serbian Film into Spirited Away.

We’re also introduced to the two new Avenger siblings Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver (sadly not the Ultimate versions), played with the finest Russian accents since The Hunt For Red October by Elizabeth Olsen and Kick-Ass, respectively. They hail from the generic Eastern European nation of Madeupia, a country populated exclusively by screaming refugees and which we’re never properly introduced to in a way that suggests Whedon was wading knee-deep in film by the end of editing. Quicksilver is fun, though less so than his X-Men counterpart, and Scarlet Witch’s powers are seemingly random depending on the plot, which puts a damper on the drama when we don’t quite understand the stakes.

On a technical level this film far exceeds its predecessor. Whedon’s direction has vastly improved from the televisual style of the first film, and he’s developed a fondness for snazzy tracking shots, one of which kicks the movie off in spectacular fashion through an equally improved action setpiece. It’s much more even overall as well, keeping its excitement and pace throughout whereas the first film took an hour to really take off, and this time the potential end of the world actually feels like a threat. For all that works here though, something feels missing. The first Avengers felt like the culmination of all that preceded it, the climax of its story. But Age of Ultron just feels like a stepping stone to Avengers 3 (teased in the credits), an episode of something bigger. This makes it much less dramatic and memorable (as well as lacking individual moments as memorable as say, Hulk smashing Loki), and as a result it’s a less satisfying experience. It’s still worth seeing, don’t get me wrong, but it’s no Avengers 1, and the seams of this universe plan are showing.


You’d never think it, but despite a mediocre and disappointed reception Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland completely reinvented Disney’s movie output after making a billion dollars (being the first post-Avatar 3D blockbuster helped). Once the house that Mickey built sensed monetary blood in the water every animated classic is receiving a fresh coat of reboot, beginning with the bizarre Sleeping Beauty/I Spit on Your Grave crossover Maleficent and soon to continue with live-action versions of Mulan, Beauty and the Beast and Anastasia (yes, really). So Cinderella is something of a vision of the future.

Unlike Maleficent however, Kenneth Branaugh (or his Disney handlers) has elected to simply reiterate Cinderella’s story for a new audience instead of putting a fresh spin on the material, leading many speculators to wonder what purpose its existence serves (besides padding Disney’s coffers). This is something the film seems to struggle with as well, it clearly expects audiences to know the story it’s telling, so it rushes some parts and feels like it’s going through the motions for others. There are also many jokes at the original story’s expense, but they feel out of place as it’s not offering any new take on the tale.

This film also serves as a great example of why Disney’s original ran a mere 74 minutes. While the protagonist’s childhood is glossed over in montage her adult years are stretched out beyond reason, with pointless subplots only highlighting how thin the central story is. The characters aren’t given much to flesh them out either, Ella (the film spends five minutes explaining her titular nickname as if it’s embarrassed by it) is little more than a kind and gentle Mary Sue, though Lily James acts well enough to prevent her being irritatingly so, and while Cate Blanchett’s evil stepmother gets a token motivation for her villainy it’s rather nonsensical (her husbands died so she’s evil and never remarried for some reason).

Richard Madden makes a decent Prince Charming, and the two have enough chemistry it took me until the ninety minute mark to question what they have in common besides physical attraction. The remaining cast are alright if rather unmemorable, given how little the story gives them to work with, and that sums Cinderella up really; it’s exactly what you’d expect and nothing more, two hours of pretty dresses, smiles and cinematic candyfloss. The most interesting thing about it is probably the weird contrast of preceding it with a Frozen short, given how that movie summed Cinderella’s entire premise up in ninety seconds of For the First Time In Forever, and then deconstructed the hell out of it. As a result I spent Cinderella’s entire runtime expecting someone to tell the Prince “you can’t marry a girl you just met”.

As a film, Cinderella is moderately entertaining if completely forgettable, but as a vision of the future it’s a little bleak. If this is the standard for what’s to come, and with over $400m worldwide it certainly is, then we can expect little more from Disney than pretty but pointless stories identical to what came before.