This has been the roughest chapter to write, which may very well be a factor in why I had that huge gap in the series. I know the ending that this fan-fiction is pointing towards, and I know a couple of the stops along the way, but the rest of it has been kind of 'okay that's a decent pause, now I need to bring in this character and nudge the action in this direction'.
So for the past several months I've known that I really needed to check in with Bugs. And what can I say? His dialogue and mannerisms really don't come naturally to me the way Meg and Daffy just roll off my fingertips. It's also pretty challenging trying to translate ANY of the Looney Tunes timing in written form, much more so putting them on Disney's property. Suffice to say, I'm rather pleased to be fourteen chapters in and this thing hasn't completely fallen apart yet.
I want to draw your attention to the wonderful website KenNetti which has an incredibly thorough and insightful tribute to Snow White's Scary Adventures, the setting of this chapter and my personal recurring nightmare. I always try to include as many nods to Disney's history as is feasible, and KenNetti's site essentially handed me the elements that got the ride moving again. So thank you for being so passionate about Disney's definitive house of horror; I've learned many new things from you.
Click here for the table of contents.
The foul odor of marsh filled Maleficent's nostrils as she stared at the castle's outer wall. The passageway inside was clearly meant as an exit only, and everything from the disorientingly insufficient light to the wail emitting from the forest behind her gave the dark fairy pause.
She wasn't used to not being in control. And this structure, which seemed to be daring her to venture inside, had her at a disadvantage. But if her information was as correct as her instinct, this was where she needed to go. But Maleficent had no intention of being taken by surprise in such a place. Instead of blindly wandering into the open passageway, she turned her attention to the barely noticeable nook in the castle wall just to the right. Nothing was there, but Maleficent sensed it had some cunning purpose meant for housing an ambush to those who would exit the castle properly.
Maleficent found her eyes unable to accurately gage the distance of the landscape beyond, and a tap of her staff revealed that she was in fact standing mere inches from a wall that had been decorated with images of a hill beyond, like a painting. She must be at the edge of the artificial world.
A familiar squawk caught her off guard, and she nearly threw a lightning bolt in its direction. It was a raven. Not hers as she would have hoped, but a wild one, with its jaw gaping at the sight of her.
"Shhh," she attempted soothing the bird, "Have no fear, little one."
When the raven had quieted, she extended the back of her hand as an invitation but the creature flew away. She let her eyes follow it until it was out of sight. "Never admit your limitations," she offered up to it before turning her attention back to the passageway and stepping into darkness.
Intuition had paid off. She wasn't able to scry into more than one place on the island at a time, but she'd received much by regularly checking in on the two girls who had stumbled across her. The one called Alice had proven to be the more useful, as her propensity for reading and her inability to keep her discoveries to herself provided Maleficent with a steady stream of information.
The surrounding landscape leading to this castle matched one of the blueprints Alice had taken an interest in, and both the interior and exterior were designed to be a journey of horror. To what end, she didn't know. Alice's random musings to Megara had suggested people were naturally attracted to that which frightened them. It was a paradox that Maleficent could never fully comprehend.
But what mattered was that the castle had a history of revision, and one particular revision allegedly held a secret. What the secret was, Alice (and as such, Maleficent) didn't know; but with the signs pointing both towards and away from said location, Maleficent wasn't about to let an opportunity reach the untalented hands of someone other than her.
The corridor led her into a small alcove containing a cauldron. A quick examination revealed little as to what the pot was used for, but the nearby shelf suggested someone had been dabbling in magic recipes who had no business doing so. There was the sound of a crash coming from the nearby shelves, even though they remained intact. Likely a ghostly echo.
Maleficent felt a stirring in her gut as she stepped into the next area, which was a dungeon that held the remaining skeletons of former inhabitants. The stirring was something she couldn't explain. It was almost a feeling of familiarity that wasn't; as if at one point this place was meant for her. Insulting, she grimaced. These creatures had been left to rot. The work of someone with low ambitions.
She peered into the gem on her scepter to check in on the girls, who were apparently out of breath. For whatever reason they had ventured into the forest and had yet another run in with someone or something that they were unequipped to handle. Megara panted, "Remind me why we left the safety of the mansion," to which Alice volunteered her theory that one of the distant mountains appeared to have a human carved structural support to it, no doubt containing some clue to the island's mystery. Well that was fortuitous timing, thought Maleficent. She would have to commit Alice's discovery to memory.
Maleficent turned her attention back to the skeletons. Each one no doubt had been placed there for a reason. One had perished reaching for a water jug that was out of arm's length. Another lay stretched out on a rack, forgotten. There was one chained to the wall behind what at first appeared to be a fairly large symmetrical spider web, but closer inspection revealed the strands to be made from iron, which she had no intention of touching.
"Hello," she spoke out loud without realizing it. "And who is this?" The figure was chained against the wall with arms stretched wide apart and manacles at the wrists and ankles. His skull hung downwards as if he was still in agony. His feet were not touching the ground, which meant he'd been left to hang where he was until his death.
It was not the gruesomeness of the figure that had caught Maleficent's eye, but the feasibility. Stripped to the bare bones, as it were, the skeleton's...skeleton could support its own weight, but the addition of muscles and skin would have to have dislocated one or both shoulders in the process. Maleficent placed her fingers under the skeleton's chin and gently and looked into his empty eye sockets.
"You were hated deeply, weren't you." She examined the bars in the grate behind the skeleton and found markings where iron had rubbed against iron, and two chains dangled freely a few inches below his hands. So that's it then, she thought. He used to have a collar that bound him to the prison.
A quick search of the floor revealed its location. The collar had been casually dropped about a foot away from its owner. Maleficent tilted her head to read the inscription on it. Prince Oswald. The name meant nothing to her at this time, but the fact that someone had gone through the trouble to identify the corpse clearly had a significance. Maleficent took a step back from Prince Oswald to examine him fully. "How did you get out of that?" she wondered aloud.
"Eh," came a smug voice behind her. "Looking for this?"
She turned around to face the culprit, only to find herself staring at a rabbit. It stood upright like a man and came to half her height. He must have been the recipient of a half-curse. The rabbit held a golden key which he haphazardly tossed in the air and caught; deliberately testing her.
"Hand that over now," she demanded.
"Havin' a key in a dungeon? There's laws against that kinda thing. You could get yourself locked up." He tucked his fingers into the fur around his neck and pulled it away from his skin as if was a shirt collar, into which he let the key disappear.
Maleficent couldn't decide what to make of what she'd just witnessed. This enchantment was no kind of magic with which she was familiar. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Supposed to be?" He batted his eyelashes. "Me? I'm supposed to be in Pismo Beach, home of the Wild Monkeys of 67. You?"
Maleficent opened her mouth to speak but he rabbit instantly cut her off.
"Wait! Don't say a word!" An instant later she found herself seated at a table that hadn't been there before. The animal had his ears wrapped up like a turban and he was waving his gloved fingers around the orb on her staff. "I see you've travelled a great deestance, searching for sometheeng no? But I can see what you are lookeeng for. Eet ees close. So close. Eet ees..." he abruptly dropped the fake accent and held out his hand "$5.99 for the first minute. Be sure to get your parents' permission before using their credit card."
She yanked the staff away from him and glared down from her full height. "Do I strike you as amused?"
"Amused?" he said nonchalantly. "I wouldn't say amused. I'd say you strike me-" The rest of his sentence was cut off by the loud whack of her staff on his head. He wobbled in place for a few seconds before recovering. "Well that was a carefully timed break in the record".
"Now hand over the key," Maleficent ordered. "I won't ask again."
He leaned against the dungeon wall. "Look lady, for the past two days I've been shot at, trampled and chased by boiling lava; and for no good reason! If you want the key I want answers."
"You are in no position to demand anything. Don't be a fool."
"Fine. Point taken," the rabbit sneered, and in one swift movement he'd placed a jester's hat that he clearly didn't have before on top of Maleficent's headpiece. "You can be the fool."
The annoyance was beginning to take a toll on Maleficent's composure as she snatched the hat off her head and it instantly burst into flames in her fist. She would have erupted herself were it not for the plastic ring that had just sailed across the room hooking one of her beloved horns. Two more followed in succession.
"I did it!" the rabbit cheered. "That's two prizes! I'll take an explanation and a plush flamingo for the missus." He wasn't expecting a green bolt of lightning to come streaking at him, and he barely managed to dodge it, singeing the fur of his tail. "This is why people think these games are rigged!" he called from the hallway.
Maleficent was reluctant to use her ability to blink in such a tight space, but the rabbit was fast and she wasn't thinking strategically. With a mild clap of thunder, she vanished and reappeared further down the corridor about where she'd predicted he was. She didn't see him at first, until he came gliding in from the side hanging by an apparatus in the ceiling. His sudden appearance startled her, even if she would never, ever admit to it.
The rabbit scurried further down the hall, quite proud of himself when Maleficent appeared a second time in front of him. He skidded to a stop trying while to rack his brain for a quick idea. "Did they add more of you to match the one in Tokyo?" he asked rhetorically hoping the confusion would buy him a few seconds. Green flames flared on both sides of her, and he began to suspect that he may have antagonized the wrong person this time.
A sharp turn to the right and he found himself running straight towards one of those cells, which wasn't a good sign. But when Maleficent made the error of teleporting in front of him again, he slammed the bars shut. She made a move in his direction but recoiled before her skin touched the iron. The rabbit didn't know what the problem was, but he wasn't going to question it either.
"Aye, a fool y'are Sheelah Sugrue!" He retrieved the gold key and dangled it in front of her. "A meddlesome is she? This time we'll be throwin' away the key!"
Maleficent bit her tongue as the obnoxious creature scampered away muttering "A'right, show's over folks," to whatever audience he was imagining. Blinking through the iron was out of the question, so she had to regain her focus to morph into her wisp form. It took a little bit longer than usual, what with her rage bubbling over, but moments later she was a glowing green sphere drifting cautiously between the bars. Even as a wisp she could feel the threat of burning from the metal, like acid.
Having cleared the bars, Maleficent remained as a wisp until she arrived into the next room (a throne room from the looks of it). It had only been a few seconds, but being a wisp helped her clear her head. The rabbit was cunning, but he'd caught her off guard. That wouldn't happen again.
She resumed her natural shape and held still, feeling the energy of the surrounding area. The rabbit was close by. No sound of feet. He wasn't running. He must be trying to outwit her again.
Maleficent stood with her back to the throne, peering down the furthest hallway out where a large mirror hung on the wall reflecting back into the throne room. The angle didn't allow her to see what was around the bend in the corridor, but something about the reflection struck her as odd. A second mirror hung on the wall directly behind her, next to the throne; she could see her back in the reflection of the reflection. But something about the shape seemed a little off.
She slowly turned around to see the mirror behind her only to discover that it wasn't a mirror at all, but a gap in the wall. And standing there in a black robe mimicking her movement was the rabbit, in the most superficially thin disguise she'd ever envisioned someone would attempt. He must think me an idiot, she thought. And without a word, she sent a stream of electricity into the rabbit's body, causing his very skeleton to glow inside his skin, until he finally collapsed into a pile of soot.
The key that Maleficent sought, despite having no knowledge of its purpose, hit the stone floor with a soft thud. She retrieved it and brought the item to her eyes. So much effort for something so trivial, she thought, and turned to leave the wretched place.
She'd only made it halfway across the throne room when the unmistakable ears of her most recent headache perked up in the real mirror's reflection. "Of course you realize," he said with more volition than before, "this means war."
Why the rabbit wasn't dead was of no interest to her. But why he wasn't backing down, that gave Maleficent a bit of sadistic joy she rarely allowed herself. She stared down at the creature with venom in her half-smile. And she transformed. And grew. Her magnificent wings sprouted and her tail wrapped around the inside walls of the room to where the tip almost touched the throne itself. Her face's expression carried over into a crinkle of her new jaw and massive snout that could only read as 'you were saying?'.
The rabbit's posture had not changed but his volition from moments ago was nothing more than an echo. "Bye-ee" was all he could say before diving through the hole in the wall faster than he'd ever moved before.
Click here for the next chapter.
Return to the table of contents.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Editorial: Because I'm Alternative Batman
I mentioned a few posts ago that I'd be starting to scale back my blog postings after Valentine's Day to devote more time to The Carousel. I haven't quite figured out what that will mean, either blog posts with shorter word counts (not necessarily a bad thing) or fewer postings overall. I'm making this up as I go.
But let's talk Batman, because that never gets old. In terms of the superhero genre there's a noticeable hierarchy, kind of like athletes. There's the ones that you recognize as superheroes even if you can't name them (Empowered, love ya girl!). Then there's the ones you may have heard of like Savage Dragon, Hellboy, and Witchblade that the passing consumer knows the basic premise of even if they can't name a non-title character. Moving into the upper tier are your endless X-Men and Women, and Martian Manhunters, and dude they should totally make a Vampirella movie except they did and clearly didn't care about it man that sucked. And then there's the one percent of Thor and Supes and Spidey and Wolfie.
And finally there's Batman.
If you were to ask me who my favorite superhero is Batman wouldn't be my first choice. In fact, if I went down the list Batman would probably make an appearance in the thirties somewhere. So he's not a personal favorite, and I don't think he's the best or the most interesting, but I have to admit he's the most iconic of all superheroes. Somehow this admittedly silly concept of a self-proclaimed detective billionaire who dresses in rodent guise and beats up the poor and desperate has transcended into archetype. Papers are being written in schools about Batman based on thought exercises like "Is Batman good for Gotham" and "Should Batman kill the Joker" (where the hell were these classes when I was pulling my hair out over Tess of the d'Urbervilles?).
Batman is the escapist version of Bruce Lee, answering the question of what the human body will become if it's pushed to its boundaries. Then you have an artistic level of crime waves that require one to push even further and add in infinite resources and a bit of Batman-will-never-lose bullshit from the comic book establishment and you have a guy with all the strengths of a metahuman and none of the weaknesses. And any one of us could be Batman if we were just born into the right tragic family.
So unlike Ironman who is very clearly defined and will likely always be thought of as Robert Downey Jr., Batman is a fluid character. I've long held the idea that with the right costume, lighting, and camera angles even Gilbert Gottfried could effectively portray the Dark Knight. Which begs the question, when is Batman not Batman? Is Adam West's version too far removed from the source to really be Batman anymore? Does Zack Snyder's violation of Batman's no-kill rule effectively disqualify his movie from legitimacy? If so, why didn't Tim Burton receive this kind of criticism?
I don't think there are definitive answers because there's no definitive Batman. He's whatever the plot needs him to be. I could be wrong, so let me test the theory on a couple of alternative takes on the Caped Crusader.
Lego Batman (The Lego Movie and The Lego Batman Movie)
I could drone on about why I love The Lego Movie and what it did correctly with the story telling. First it created a world that looked visually amazing. Then it gave you a POV character that you liked. Then they gave him very real emotions (and that was the key) which made you care about him. And then they put him in over his head. And from there it was a gradual peeling back of the layers to a mood whiplash reveal of what this movie was about.
But this blog is about Batman, and Batman (voiced by Will Forte) believes everything is about Batman including The Lego Movie. To be fair, the moment Batman arrives on the scene you can feel the advantage shift in favor of the heroes. So it makes sense that Batman would think of himself as the hero of the story. But The Lego Movie is about teamwork, and Batman is not a natural team player. As such, he becomes dangerously close to burdensome as the story progresses.
This film takes a familiar strength of the Dark Knight and exposes it as a potential weakness. The it's-all-about-me mentality makes for a real obstacle when it needs to be about something more. It's refreshing to see Batman get lovingly criticized, and the plot NOT confirm Brucey to have been right all along.
The Lego Batman Movie I have to say was a bit of a letdown for me, despite its 91% approval rating on rottentomatoes.com. The heart of the first film is omitted and the emotions are only plot devices (read: fake). It's up to the humor to really carry the proceedings, and that falls flat way more than it doesn't by resorting to mere reference humor. Yeah I saw Suicide Squad. I see the filmmakers saw it too. Killer Croc's one line acknowledges that we both saw the movie but there's not any zing on the punch line. Jokes like that are there in quantity but they lack the crucial tension/release timing and subtext that comedy requires. The character still feels like Batman, but the one takeaway is just how dependent Batsy is on his challenges and obstacles to make him more than a mere logo.
Superhero Café (How it Should Have Ended)
What started as a throwaway gag in the flash animation video "How Superman (1978) Should Have Ended" grew into its own life form. The Superhero Café portrays Superman as a reasonably responsible adult, and Batman as a spoiled brat. It's a freeing take on Bats, as he's become dangerously genre savvy. He knows he doesn't have to try so hard or brood about it because the cowl blesses him with victory. How did he get into the Doctor's Tardis? Growl it with me, "Because I'm Batman!"
And he's right. This isn't a false bravado. Maybe he got in over his head by trying to take on every villain ever at the same time but the rest of his accomplishments are fairly accurate. This truly is the funniest Batman has ever been. Kevin Conroy occasionally gets in a wham line in the animated series but those are more dramatically humorous. They don't compare to the sheer audacity of his juvenile "Luh-luh-luh! You can't make me!"
So this is still Batman; all ego with only slight overconfidence (who never seems to acknowledge his poor batting average with the ladies). This is the Batman you want to see in a Deadpool movie, and arguably the only version more comfortable in the spotlight than the shadows.
I'm a Marvel (and I'm Batman)
Voice actor/coach Mike Agrusso (ItsJustSomeRandomGuy) put out a brilliant and (what appears to be) sadly discontinued video series where the leads of DC and Marvel's blockbusters riff on each other's current films. It's a labor of love for the characters as the videos essentially involve Agrusso playing with his action figures with minimalistic animations. But where the production values are limited, the stories are thoroughly written, timed out, and acted.
As with the previous examples, this Batman knows he's a fictional character. But he also knows what that character has to be, which is responsible in a way that nobody else is. This Bruce gets along quite well with Charles Xavier, has a rivalry he didn't ask for with Tony Stark, and has managed to attract Peter Parker's inner fanboy.
Superman is a little out of touch with the rules of this world, which places Batman in an unwanted mediator role. The humorlessness and brooding are back, as is his penchant for pushing people away. This action figure is strangely true to form and it's impressive to see the character regularly have to rely on his wits to overcome challenges.
Conclusion
So in the end what do we have? Even in-universe, the character of Batman is a fabrication of Bruce Wayne. He's an alternate identity that kind of takes over, much like Archie Leach eventually became Cary Grant both on and off screen. In superhero terms, Batman is the equivalent of a rock star persona. And each of these versions, as well as those which appear in comics/films/TV/games/etc. represent a slightly different take on how Bruce Wayne the person might react to his status as icon. Lego Batman embraces it. Flash animation Batman flaunts it. Action figure Batman resents it.
Batmen of the past and present may enjoy the cowl or be tortured by it. And maybe that's why he resonates so strongly with us. We all have to assume a mantel when we face our jobs or our children or the cops who pull us over to check our insurance. Sometimes that 'character' may feel better or worse than who we really are, and resolving our sense of immediate self (the Id) with our sense of long-term self (the Ego) is a struggle we all have to balance. Batman's journey is our own, and that's why there can be so many different Dark Knights.
Because we're all Batman.
But let's talk Batman, because that never gets old. In terms of the superhero genre there's a noticeable hierarchy, kind of like athletes. There's the ones that you recognize as superheroes even if you can't name them (Empowered, love ya girl!). Then there's the ones you may have heard of like Savage Dragon, Hellboy, and Witchblade that the passing consumer knows the basic premise of even if they can't name a non-title character. Moving into the upper tier are your endless X-Men and Women, and Martian Manhunters, and dude they should totally make a Vampirella movie except they did and clearly didn't care about it man that sucked. And then there's the one percent of Thor and Supes and Spidey and Wolfie.
And finally there's Batman.
If you were to ask me who my favorite superhero is Batman wouldn't be my first choice. In fact, if I went down the list Batman would probably make an appearance in the thirties somewhere. So he's not a personal favorite, and I don't think he's the best or the most interesting, but I have to admit he's the most iconic of all superheroes. Somehow this admittedly silly concept of a self-proclaimed detective billionaire who dresses in rodent guise and beats up the poor and desperate has transcended into archetype. Papers are being written in schools about Batman based on thought exercises like "Is Batman good for Gotham" and "Should Batman kill the Joker" (where the hell were these classes when I was pulling my hair out over Tess of the d'Urbervilles?).
Batman is the escapist version of Bruce Lee, answering the question of what the human body will become if it's pushed to its boundaries. Then you have an artistic level of crime waves that require one to push even further and add in infinite resources and a bit of Batman-will-never-lose bullshit from the comic book establishment and you have a guy with all the strengths of a metahuman and none of the weaknesses. And any one of us could be Batman if we were just born into the right tragic family.
So unlike Ironman who is very clearly defined and will likely always be thought of as Robert Downey Jr., Batman is a fluid character. I've long held the idea that with the right costume, lighting, and camera angles even Gilbert Gottfried could effectively portray the Dark Knight. Which begs the question, when is Batman not Batman? Is Adam West's version too far removed from the source to really be Batman anymore? Does Zack Snyder's violation of Batman's no-kill rule effectively disqualify his movie from legitimacy? If so, why didn't Tim Burton receive this kind of criticism?
I don't think there are definitive answers because there's no definitive Batman. He's whatever the plot needs him to be. I could be wrong, so let me test the theory on a couple of alternative takes on the Caped Crusader.
Lego Batman (The Lego Movie and The Lego Batman Movie)
I could drone on about why I love The Lego Movie and what it did correctly with the story telling. First it created a world that looked visually amazing. Then it gave you a POV character that you liked. Then they gave him very real emotions (and that was the key) which made you care about him. And then they put him in over his head. And from there it was a gradual peeling back of the layers to a mood whiplash reveal of what this movie was about.
But this blog is about Batman, and Batman (voiced by Will Forte) believes everything is about Batman including The Lego Movie. To be fair, the moment Batman arrives on the scene you can feel the advantage shift in favor of the heroes. So it makes sense that Batman would think of himself as the hero of the story. But The Lego Movie is about teamwork, and Batman is not a natural team player. As such, he becomes dangerously close to burdensome as the story progresses.
This film takes a familiar strength of the Dark Knight and exposes it as a potential weakness. The it's-all-about-me mentality makes for a real obstacle when it needs to be about something more. It's refreshing to see Batman get lovingly criticized, and the plot NOT confirm Brucey to have been right all along.
The Lego Batman Movie I have to say was a bit of a letdown for me, despite its 91% approval rating on rottentomatoes.com. The heart of the first film is omitted and the emotions are only plot devices (read: fake). It's up to the humor to really carry the proceedings, and that falls flat way more than it doesn't by resorting to mere reference humor. Yeah I saw Suicide Squad. I see the filmmakers saw it too. Killer Croc's one line acknowledges that we both saw the movie but there's not any zing on the punch line. Jokes like that are there in quantity but they lack the crucial tension/release timing and subtext that comedy requires. The character still feels like Batman, but the one takeaway is just how dependent Batsy is on his challenges and obstacles to make him more than a mere logo.
Superhero Café (How it Should Have Ended)
What started as a throwaway gag in the flash animation video "How Superman (1978) Should Have Ended" grew into its own life form. The Superhero Café portrays Superman as a reasonably responsible adult, and Batman as a spoiled brat. It's a freeing take on Bats, as he's become dangerously genre savvy. He knows he doesn't have to try so hard or brood about it because the cowl blesses him with victory. How did he get into the Doctor's Tardis? Growl it with me, "Because I'm Batman!"
And he's right. This isn't a false bravado. Maybe he got in over his head by trying to take on every villain ever at the same time but the rest of his accomplishments are fairly accurate. This truly is the funniest Batman has ever been. Kevin Conroy occasionally gets in a wham line in the animated series but those are more dramatically humorous. They don't compare to the sheer audacity of his juvenile "Luh-luh-luh! You can't make me!"
So this is still Batman; all ego with only slight overconfidence (who never seems to acknowledge his poor batting average with the ladies). This is the Batman you want to see in a Deadpool movie, and arguably the only version more comfortable in the spotlight than the shadows.
I'm a Marvel (and I'm Batman)
Voice actor/coach Mike Agrusso (ItsJustSomeRandomGuy) put out a brilliant and (what appears to be) sadly discontinued video series where the leads of DC and Marvel's blockbusters riff on each other's current films. It's a labor of love for the characters as the videos essentially involve Agrusso playing with his action figures with minimalistic animations. But where the production values are limited, the stories are thoroughly written, timed out, and acted.
As with the previous examples, this Batman knows he's a fictional character. But he also knows what that character has to be, which is responsible in a way that nobody else is. This Bruce gets along quite well with Charles Xavier, has a rivalry he didn't ask for with Tony Stark, and has managed to attract Peter Parker's inner fanboy.
Superman is a little out of touch with the rules of this world, which places Batman in an unwanted mediator role. The humorlessness and brooding are back, as is his penchant for pushing people away. This action figure is strangely true to form and it's impressive to see the character regularly have to rely on his wits to overcome challenges.
Conclusion
So in the end what do we have? Even in-universe, the character of Batman is a fabrication of Bruce Wayne. He's an alternate identity that kind of takes over, much like Archie Leach eventually became Cary Grant both on and off screen. In superhero terms, Batman is the equivalent of a rock star persona. And each of these versions, as well as those which appear in comics/films/TV/games/etc. represent a slightly different take on how Bruce Wayne the person might react to his status as icon. Lego Batman embraces it. Flash animation Batman flaunts it. Action figure Batman resents it.
Batmen of the past and present may enjoy the cowl or be tortured by it. And maybe that's why he resonates so strongly with us. We all have to assume a mantel when we face our jobs or our children or the cops who pull us over to check our insurance. Sometimes that 'character' may feel better or worse than who we really are, and resolving our sense of immediate self (the Id) with our sense of long-term self (the Ego) is a struggle we all have to balance. Batman's journey is our own, and that's why there can be so many different Dark Knights.
Because we're all Batman.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Poetry Slam: An Adolescent Valentine's Day
One of my favorite things to avoid doing is rereading any of the poetry from my adolescence about love, or my perceived lack of it. Don't get me wrong. I think a lot of teenagers really can benefit from writing what's affectionately referred to as 'bad poetry'. Your brain at that time is going through a freaking circus of hormones and other chemicals. Any way to find an artistic expression for what you're feeling is beneficial.
But alas, that doesn't mean it's good. In 1990, I really thought I was taking all of my romantic angst and imbuing it into verse that could affect the lives of other like-tortured young adults for (hopefully) the better; although just being able to affect was really where my interests lay. I had no qualms about ruining someone's good mood just so I wouldn't be the only one unhappy.
John Cleese wisely pointed out that people who write autobiographies are much more objective with their childhoods than any other period of their lives. The reason is simple: you're not that person anymore. Your adolescence, on the other hand, is destined to be an embarrassment. You're not exactly that person, but you still kind of are. In my case, I was definitely closer to the worst of myself in my teens and early twenties than the best. And nowhere is that more evident than in the love forlorn/self-destruct fantasies of my high school-into-college years.
But, you know? I had Misty. You can read about her origins in my poetry slam from a few years ago, but the short version is, she was my pseudonym for all of my poetry. I guess maybe it was easier to allow myself the permission to write poems if I did it through a persona. Misty was somewhere between me and sort of a cynical muse. In my head I picture her as a Goth (an archetype that hadn't quite caught on when I was at McKinley High), a bit smarter than me, and more resilient to the chronic depression that I didn't realize I had.
I would love to have filled up a whole book with fun stuff from Misty; limericks and that lot. But as with most muses for adolescents, she had to negotiate with insecurities and weight-of-the-world illusions and negative experiences with romance that undoubtedly felt worse than they were. I still give her credit for any lyrics I write here in my forties, but the teens-into-twenties phase was where she produced the highest quantity of work. And here as we're approaching Valentine's Day, I think I owe it to her to give at least some of it a blog post in the sun.
But I'm laying down some ground rules. I know I have a couple of entries that clearly identify one of several specific girls who happened to be the target of everything I was feeling at the time. Those are either off limits or bound for the revision chamber. I'm sure today they wouldn't do any damage but I'm not willing to test it. Likewise, I'm not going to be putting these in chronological order or time stamping them. Just, as a whole, these are from a period in my life I usually don't revisit. And lastly, I reserve full editor's rights to comment how-and-whenever I see fit. Okay, time to dust off the old notebooks.
Lee of the Rock
A tree of any other ground is just as thin and pale
My limbs and branches reach in vain. Survival is my jail
A swallow seeks its rest from pain but none are keen to nest
These burdens weigh my wooden arms until a wailing crest.
To some the gale is lack of charms, consuming all it can
But says the trunk unto the breeze, undress my leafy span.
The heavy burdens put to ease, now swirling in a squall.
They rampage through a twisted maze as droplets start to fall.
The mist of mizzle blots the rays, the rain consumes my calf,
And like the butterfly and hound we both break down and laugh.
So for the record, this (highly edited) poem was the first I ever wrote from any kind of romantic angle. Yes, the title was supposed to mean something, but as it requires a needlessly thorough explanation let's just leave it at the subtle nod to The Secret of NIMH's 'lee of the stone' and call it sanctity. There.
Iambic Tetrameter No. 239 in C Flat
I've flown alone on many nights
With innocence of childish flights.
In time, my mind was lost of sights
And I was petrified of heights.
And so I landed on the ground
Without the slightest sullen sound.
Afraid of flight, I roamed around,
And by my feet, my wings were bound.
But you ripped off my thin disguise
And held my hands and freed my eyes
I grasped your neck, you felt my cries.
We slowly rose into the skies.
And in your arms I feared no more.
We swirled the clouds and ocean floor.
As eagles dance, we'd glide and soar
And chase our shadows on the shore.
Then higher, barely kiss the rays,
Glissading in a silent daze.
We'd surf the wind and skip the sprays
And plummet in a pealing craze.
As if a dream, the nights we've flown
Had plunged the depths of love unknown.
My days of grounding, I've outgrown
And never will I dive alone.
My teenaged self would be very hurt if he saw me chuckling right now, but in my defense he only has himself to blame. Whenever this was, I'd noticed that my poetry was becoming increasingly negative, and this was an attempt to focus on the 'joy' of life or some jazz. When I was done writing this poem, I didn't like it, hence the sarcastic title. Here's why I'm chuckling now. I feel that the quality of this poem is fairly okay in as much as the bulk of what I produced at the time was fairly okay. But my teenaged self was CONVINCED that the rest of my poetry was of a higher quality which made this one of a significantly lower quality, and it's funny to me just how passionate I was about that opinion that I just had to spite the poem with said title.
A ship named St. Virginia was as gorgeous as can be.
From bow to stern a masterpiece. A vessel flowing free.
So many men of fortune came to sail her gallantly.
But when the truants filled her hull, she sank into the sea.
Yes, this is about exactly what you think it is. I'm actually quite proud to have been a virgin going into my honeymoon, but that was in my thirties. I felt very differently about it in my teens. I couldn't have understood this at the time; deep down I didn't actually want to have sex, but based on the way (and frequency) in which the world around me talked about it, I couldn't help but feel as though I was missing out on some ethereal rite of passage. It's very easy for self-esteem to get wrapped up in all that, which left me feeling rather spiteful about sex while also kind of desperate to feel wanted.
Hey, here's a little rhyme about that conflict of interest.
The question's allusion to vestian confusion
Are purging of surging emerging excursions.
Elusive cognition's abusive decision:
A version of urging a virgin's aversions.
The First Snowfall
I often dream about a place where all my hatred disappears.
I'm safe and warm in that embrace away from temper's grinding gears.
I wrap my arms around your neck and rest my temple in your hair.
If fit, I give your face a peck. And songs of solace everywhere.
Our shoulders lock with passion pressed between the rests in every beat.
I feel your pulse against my breast. The sleet of sorrow melts in heat.
You hold me tight. I feel no pain. Oh, hold me tighter. Cripple me.
Let me face not this world in vain. Tear out my heart eternally.
Two things here. One, 'The First Snowfall' was probably the first poem where I started equating sexuality with violent imagery. In fact, as I was going through all of the old notebook pages to type these things up I found several poems and snippets relating to death. Who knows? Maybe I'll rework those sometime down the road. The other thing, notice my obsession with the weather? I don't think it really meant much beyond tying everything back to the name Misty.
Here, check this one out.
The snow and the wind and the mist
Weren't aware that the sun would persist.
It melted the snow.
The wind doesn't blow.
The mist is logistically pissed.
Real quick, 'the wind doesn't blow' has nothing to do with oral sex. And don't I wish I still had enough innocence in me to where I didn't even make that connection, much less feel the need to point it out?
The mist is obviously referring to Misty, who was serving as my superego. I was the sun. The snow and the wind were two elements of my failing romantic life. But I do have to give my teenaged self some credit here. He didn't shy away from admitting his responsibility in his own demise and that it affects people around him.
Eye-Contact
There was a time not very long ago
When I was but a child of wild delight.
I'd race the wind and hold the pulsing snow
And let my dreams dance circles in my sight.
I stared into thine eyes and fell in love
With innocence untold upon my face
A magic mist descended from above
And through our eyes, our souls received embrace.
But now my dreams have shattered from their deep
My mind is full of realistic lies
The world has locked my love in chasms deep
I cannot bear to look into thine eyes.
The welded dark of logic cannot free
Mine eyes that once been blind with love for thee.
How many people write sonnets on their own time? In fact, I woke up one morning and penciled it down pretty much the way that it is now.
At the End of the Rope
She's holding tight. She always did. The weight of me she's still to rid.
She knows I need her hanging on. If she should slip then I'll be gone.
She's tried to pull. She's tried to grope. Her grip secure around the rope.
She's weakening from what I see and soon she's going to follow me.
As I gaze I realize the pain and tension in her eyes.
She does her will to make me live but I have nothing here to give.
And so instead I take away. And in my final breath I pray
That in her pain she understands the reason why I freed my hands.
I was debating whether or not this would qualify as a 'forlorn love' or a 'death wish' poem. I was in one of my darkest places when I wrote this, but as it inadvertently marked the end of one romantic wave and the beginning of another, it feels appropriate to include 'At the End of the Rope' in this time capsule.
An Overdose of What?
You raise your eyes above the skies and paint an image swirled.
Your mind is high and free to fly. It shines upon your world.
And when your mind is still outshined and burns another scar,
You wonder why the hell you try to be the way you are.
You share your creativity whenever it's implanted.
So Heaven knows why all of those should take your trust for granted.
And you whose lull adorable, your smile lets others laugh.
Oh, how they long to hold you strong and snap your spine in half.
It seems the one whose life is run with deadly wild severes
Receives the praise of loud dismays and mournful caring tears.
Although you ache of strain intake from friends' fatality
Your whole damned soul is just a role in their reality.
The title probably means nothing. I may have been going for the idea that people who lived on the wild side of life always seemed to have better stories than reasonably pure individuals such as myself. My deadly sin is envy. It's probably the motivating factor in why I'm so adamant about making stuff rhyme the way it does. I may lack confidence in my ability to express emotion or meaning, but damn it, nobody's going to tell me that my poetry doesn't roll off the tongue well!
Here's an example taken to its most extreme. I should have gone to work for Hallmark.
No deeper cave of wild or fear will must my song in you.
No sleep enslave my childish tear, I trust and long anew.
And love if be your need is gone, with bliss be whole and well.
But shovel me and lead me on I'll kiss your soul in Hell.
Ah yes, the bane of my love life was always that golden spot known as 'arm's length'. I don't doubt that I was easier to love than to like; it's terribly burdensome getting close to somebody with untreated depression, and I know I didn't take any criticism about it well. But going through the prolonged process of being held at arm's length by someone I had a romantic attraction to probably left more of a mark than any straight-up rejection ever could have. If there's one bit of advice I hope to convey, it's this: when someone lays it on the line, i.e. makes it clear that they've opened themselves up to you, they deserve a direct answer. From you. Especially if the answer is no. I've been on the giving end once and the receiving end three times (karma?); nobody said no, nobody won, everybody got hurt.
Sorry, Jenny.
One More Chance
To err is only human and forgiveness is divine.
For giving all I have to you there's nothing left of mine.
I hold my breath and wait for your return- you say you will.
And love, if I believed your vow, I'd be here waiting still.
I'm longing to be taken in your arms and in your eyes
And feel the power in your lips- those words that utter lies.
You know I'll give my all for you, my all that I can be.
I know that you'll accept it too, and that's the end of me.
One more chance is all we need to line our journey straight.
So close your eyes and take a breath. You simply have to wait.
And wait, I did. For many moons that, laughing cynically,
Advised the wishful shooting stars to take their shots at me.
Those dreams that deem to strum a chord, the quest again is cried.
A 'no' or 'yes' is all it takes. Now when will you decide?
I see...you answered long ago. Now why did I ignore
This pact you drew with someone who I've never met before?
You tell me you've been honest with me. Honest every time.
But I'm too blind to see you, and you speak in pantomime.
One more chance, let's take our road and quickly make amends.
You know that we're committed dear. We work out well as friends.
I've swallowed pride (at least- I tried, it lodged inside my throat).
I couldn't sing of anything. I couldn't strain a note.
The thoughts I grieved were not believed. This couldn't be a test.
I still don't know what makes me woe that this is for the best.
You say you really need me and you say you really care.
You tell me not to blame you since it's hard enough to bear.
Just bottle up the memories and leave them on a shelf.
It seems ridiculous that I'd set out to fool myself.
One more chance? I figured that. We've done this bit before.
I'll give my half and let you laugh and then we'll end our war.
And now I'm waiting silently. I don't know where you are.
I don't know what to sacrifice except my wishing star.
I have no doubt I'll see you soon, some up and coming day.
I also have a feeling of those words I'll hear you say.
Once more chance. And then one more. And one. And one. And one.
I'm losing sight of what it's for. Or have I overrun?
I had no expectations and you didn't let me down.
Now one more chance. We'll start afresh. We'll take our triple crown.
One more chance- Yeah, what the hell? I've nothing more to lose.
I'll give my body, soul and mind. You donate seven shoes.
I want you to release me...but I don't...because you should.
You sneer, "So who's oppressing you?" The saying 'gone for good'.
I don't know where I'd go from here, or if there's here at all.
I'd rather turn my back on fear than face another fall.
"I never asked for anything-" but took it as it came.
You're free to climb inside my heart, just toss a coil of blame.
I'd say I'm altruistic but I know it's not all true.
I wonder, are you using me? You'd tell me, wouldn't you?
"I just don't want to hurt you." Well, you've kind of missed the train.
For if this feeling's sanctity, I'm better off with pain.
"Then maybe in a year or so we'll see if we can dance.
You want a simple yes or no, then find another chance."
A chance? For what? To use me up? To bleed my spirit dry?
To let me chase a hope in vain while pleading for reply?
To give me bait to stay and wait? To tease me to the bone?
If you want one more fucking chance you find it on your own.
So what is there to take from any of this? Well, if my life were fictional, I'd say my character's story arc (at least in this chapter) is ultimately about accepting the real possibility of isolation. My teenaged self would hear that and react in horror. Alone? Are you kidding me? I'm better off dead! Well, hell, that actually was my mentality back then.
Although come to think of it, I may not be giving my adolescent self enough credit. Adolescence is a disease like chickenpox. It's inevitable we're all going to have to endure it at some point, and our skin is going to break out, and we're going to be irritable, and we're going to itch in places that we're told not to scratch. We'll be experiencing things we can't possibly understand, and certainly can't process. We'll be feeling things that we mistake for other things, and hone in on that one damned thing that seems just out of reach, that one elusive relationship or that one affirmation from that one attractive schoolmate who's dealing with their own bout of chickenpox, and think "that's what I need to be happy". Adolescence is a miserable time for every adolescent, and I'm convinced that no decent kid makes it in and out without truly feeling at some point like they're a bad kid. Why else would they be feeling the way they do?
When I look back on these years with embarrassment it's because all I see are the mistakes. That, and I remember what it felt like, and how I felt about myself. How could I have been a decent guy when I felt so...lousy? All the time? But as I look back over my poems (and smooth out a few rough edges of course) I notice that they do seem to be pointing me in the direction of- maybe I'm going to have to learn how to be alone before I have any chance of committing to someone else. I feel like my teenaged self knew this, even if he didn't know that he knew it, (he WAS a teenager after all) but maybe Misty did.
I'm married now, and my wife is a blessing. Thirty-five years of being alone before we found each other, but she was worth the wait. If I'd been seventy she would have been worth it. I'm grateful to teenage me for hanging in there even if he didn't feel like it. All those promises of it getting better, that he never wanted to listen to, were true. You did good kid. You're much happier now.
I've got one more to close it out. I know I have this one love poem somewhere that I thought would have been the perfect way to end on, but for the life of me I can't find it; I searched through hundreds of notebook pages. But in my search, I stumbled across this. It's not polished and knowing me I probably meant for it to be part of something bigger, but I think it's right the way it is.
Every time I think I fall in love
I know this one is truly meant to be.
It's different now. It's better now.
I've shed my selfish fetter now.
I care for her and know she cares for me.
Every time I think I fall in love
I've finally filled the vacancy inside.
My hope is real. The passion true.
I'm growing in to something new.
At last, the promises are verified.
Brokenness will fade into a scar
And mist will turn to clouds that float above.
Again I rise. The dreams awake.
I'm moving on for pity's sake.
Every time I think I fall in love.
-Misty
But alas, that doesn't mean it's good. In 1990, I really thought I was taking all of my romantic angst and imbuing it into verse that could affect the lives of other like-tortured young adults for (hopefully) the better; although just being able to affect was really where my interests lay. I had no qualms about ruining someone's good mood just so I wouldn't be the only one unhappy.
John Cleese wisely pointed out that people who write autobiographies are much more objective with their childhoods than any other period of their lives. The reason is simple: you're not that person anymore. Your adolescence, on the other hand, is destined to be an embarrassment. You're not exactly that person, but you still kind of are. In my case, I was definitely closer to the worst of myself in my teens and early twenties than the best. And nowhere is that more evident than in the love forlorn/self-destruct fantasies of my high school-into-college years.
But, you know? I had Misty. You can read about her origins in my poetry slam from a few years ago, but the short version is, she was my pseudonym for all of my poetry. I guess maybe it was easier to allow myself the permission to write poems if I did it through a persona. Misty was somewhere between me and sort of a cynical muse. In my head I picture her as a Goth (an archetype that hadn't quite caught on when I was at McKinley High), a bit smarter than me, and more resilient to the chronic depression that I didn't realize I had.
I would love to have filled up a whole book with fun stuff from Misty; limericks and that lot. But as with most muses for adolescents, she had to negotiate with insecurities and weight-of-the-world illusions and negative experiences with romance that undoubtedly felt worse than they were. I still give her credit for any lyrics I write here in my forties, but the teens-into-twenties phase was where she produced the highest quantity of work. And here as we're approaching Valentine's Day, I think I owe it to her to give at least some of it a blog post in the sun.
But I'm laying down some ground rules. I know I have a couple of entries that clearly identify one of several specific girls who happened to be the target of everything I was feeling at the time. Those are either off limits or bound for the revision chamber. I'm sure today they wouldn't do any damage but I'm not willing to test it. Likewise, I'm not going to be putting these in chronological order or time stamping them. Just, as a whole, these are from a period in my life I usually don't revisit. And lastly, I reserve full editor's rights to comment how-and-whenever I see fit. Okay, time to dust off the old notebooks.
Lee of the Rock
A tree of any other ground is just as thin and pale
My limbs and branches reach in vain. Survival is my jail
A swallow seeks its rest from pain but none are keen to nest
These burdens weigh my wooden arms until a wailing crest.
To some the gale is lack of charms, consuming all it can
But says the trunk unto the breeze, undress my leafy span.
The heavy burdens put to ease, now swirling in a squall.
They rampage through a twisted maze as droplets start to fall.
The mist of mizzle blots the rays, the rain consumes my calf,
And like the butterfly and hound we both break down and laugh.
So for the record, this (highly edited) poem was the first I ever wrote from any kind of romantic angle. Yes, the title was supposed to mean something, but as it requires a needlessly thorough explanation let's just leave it at the subtle nod to The Secret of NIMH's 'lee of the stone' and call it sanctity. There.
Iambic Tetrameter No. 239 in C Flat
I've flown alone on many nights
With innocence of childish flights.
In time, my mind was lost of sights
And I was petrified of heights.
And so I landed on the ground
Without the slightest sullen sound.
Afraid of flight, I roamed around,
And by my feet, my wings were bound.
But you ripped off my thin disguise
And held my hands and freed my eyes
I grasped your neck, you felt my cries.
We slowly rose into the skies.
And in your arms I feared no more.
We swirled the clouds and ocean floor.
As eagles dance, we'd glide and soar
And chase our shadows on the shore.
Then higher, barely kiss the rays,
Glissading in a silent daze.
We'd surf the wind and skip the sprays
And plummet in a pealing craze.
As if a dream, the nights we've flown
Had plunged the depths of love unknown.
My days of grounding, I've outgrown
And never will I dive alone.
My teenaged self would be very hurt if he saw me chuckling right now, but in my defense he only has himself to blame. Whenever this was, I'd noticed that my poetry was becoming increasingly negative, and this was an attempt to focus on the 'joy' of life or some jazz. When I was done writing this poem, I didn't like it, hence the sarcastic title. Here's why I'm chuckling now. I feel that the quality of this poem is fairly okay in as much as the bulk of what I produced at the time was fairly okay. But my teenaged self was CONVINCED that the rest of my poetry was of a higher quality which made this one of a significantly lower quality, and it's funny to me just how passionate I was about that opinion that I just had to spite the poem with said title.
A ship named St. Virginia was as gorgeous as can be.
From bow to stern a masterpiece. A vessel flowing free.
So many men of fortune came to sail her gallantly.
But when the truants filled her hull, she sank into the sea.
Yes, this is about exactly what you think it is. I'm actually quite proud to have been a virgin going into my honeymoon, but that was in my thirties. I felt very differently about it in my teens. I couldn't have understood this at the time; deep down I didn't actually want to have sex, but based on the way (and frequency) in which the world around me talked about it, I couldn't help but feel as though I was missing out on some ethereal rite of passage. It's very easy for self-esteem to get wrapped up in all that, which left me feeling rather spiteful about sex while also kind of desperate to feel wanted.
Hey, here's a little rhyme about that conflict of interest.
The question's allusion to vestian confusion
Are purging of surging emerging excursions.
Elusive cognition's abusive decision:
A version of urging a virgin's aversions.
The First Snowfall
I often dream about a place where all my hatred disappears.
I'm safe and warm in that embrace away from temper's grinding gears.
I wrap my arms around your neck and rest my temple in your hair.
If fit, I give your face a peck. And songs of solace everywhere.
Our shoulders lock with passion pressed between the rests in every beat.
I feel your pulse against my breast. The sleet of sorrow melts in heat.
You hold me tight. I feel no pain. Oh, hold me tighter. Cripple me.
Let me face not this world in vain. Tear out my heart eternally.
Two things here. One, 'The First Snowfall' was probably the first poem where I started equating sexuality with violent imagery. In fact, as I was going through all of the old notebook pages to type these things up I found several poems and snippets relating to death. Who knows? Maybe I'll rework those sometime down the road. The other thing, notice my obsession with the weather? I don't think it really meant much beyond tying everything back to the name Misty.
Here, check this one out.
The snow and the wind and the mist
Weren't aware that the sun would persist.
It melted the snow.
The wind doesn't blow.
The mist is logistically pissed.
Real quick, 'the wind doesn't blow' has nothing to do with oral sex. And don't I wish I still had enough innocence in me to where I didn't even make that connection, much less feel the need to point it out?
The mist is obviously referring to Misty, who was serving as my superego. I was the sun. The snow and the wind were two elements of my failing romantic life. But I do have to give my teenaged self some credit here. He didn't shy away from admitting his responsibility in his own demise and that it affects people around him.
Eye-Contact
There was a time not very long ago
When I was but a child of wild delight.
I'd race the wind and hold the pulsing snow
And let my dreams dance circles in my sight.
I stared into thine eyes and fell in love
With innocence untold upon my face
A magic mist descended from above
And through our eyes, our souls received embrace.
But now my dreams have shattered from their deep
My mind is full of realistic lies
The world has locked my love in chasms deep
I cannot bear to look into thine eyes.
The welded dark of logic cannot free
Mine eyes that once been blind with love for thee.
How many people write sonnets on their own time? In fact, I woke up one morning and penciled it down pretty much the way that it is now.
At the End of the Rope
She's holding tight. She always did. The weight of me she's still to rid.
She knows I need her hanging on. If she should slip then I'll be gone.
She's tried to pull. She's tried to grope. Her grip secure around the rope.
She's weakening from what I see and soon she's going to follow me.
As I gaze I realize the pain and tension in her eyes.
She does her will to make me live but I have nothing here to give.
And so instead I take away. And in my final breath I pray
That in her pain she understands the reason why I freed my hands.
I was debating whether or not this would qualify as a 'forlorn love' or a 'death wish' poem. I was in one of my darkest places when I wrote this, but as it inadvertently marked the end of one romantic wave and the beginning of another, it feels appropriate to include 'At the End of the Rope' in this time capsule.
An Overdose of What?
You raise your eyes above the skies and paint an image swirled.
Your mind is high and free to fly. It shines upon your world.
And when your mind is still outshined and burns another scar,
You wonder why the hell you try to be the way you are.
You share your creativity whenever it's implanted.
So Heaven knows why all of those should take your trust for granted.
And you whose lull adorable, your smile lets others laugh.
Oh, how they long to hold you strong and snap your spine in half.
It seems the one whose life is run with deadly wild severes
Receives the praise of loud dismays and mournful caring tears.
Although you ache of strain intake from friends' fatality
Your whole damned soul is just a role in their reality.
The title probably means nothing. I may have been going for the idea that people who lived on the wild side of life always seemed to have better stories than reasonably pure individuals such as myself. My deadly sin is envy. It's probably the motivating factor in why I'm so adamant about making stuff rhyme the way it does. I may lack confidence in my ability to express emotion or meaning, but damn it, nobody's going to tell me that my poetry doesn't roll off the tongue well!
Here's an example taken to its most extreme. I should have gone to work for Hallmark.
No deeper cave of wild or fear will must my song in you.
No sleep enslave my childish tear, I trust and long anew.
And love if be your need is gone, with bliss be whole and well.
But shovel me and lead me on I'll kiss your soul in Hell.
Ah yes, the bane of my love life was always that golden spot known as 'arm's length'. I don't doubt that I was easier to love than to like; it's terribly burdensome getting close to somebody with untreated depression, and I know I didn't take any criticism about it well. But going through the prolonged process of being held at arm's length by someone I had a romantic attraction to probably left more of a mark than any straight-up rejection ever could have. If there's one bit of advice I hope to convey, it's this: when someone lays it on the line, i.e. makes it clear that they've opened themselves up to you, they deserve a direct answer. From you. Especially if the answer is no. I've been on the giving end once and the receiving end three times (karma?); nobody said no, nobody won, everybody got hurt.
Sorry, Jenny.
One More Chance
To err is only human and forgiveness is divine.
For giving all I have to you there's nothing left of mine.
I hold my breath and wait for your return- you say you will.
And love, if I believed your vow, I'd be here waiting still.
I'm longing to be taken in your arms and in your eyes
And feel the power in your lips- those words that utter lies.
You know I'll give my all for you, my all that I can be.
I know that you'll accept it too, and that's the end of me.
One more chance is all we need to line our journey straight.
So close your eyes and take a breath. You simply have to wait.
And wait, I did. For many moons that, laughing cynically,
Advised the wishful shooting stars to take their shots at me.
Those dreams that deem to strum a chord, the quest again is cried.
A 'no' or 'yes' is all it takes. Now when will you decide?
I see...you answered long ago. Now why did I ignore
This pact you drew with someone who I've never met before?
You tell me you've been honest with me. Honest every time.
But I'm too blind to see you, and you speak in pantomime.
One more chance, let's take our road and quickly make amends.
You know that we're committed dear. We work out well as friends.
I've swallowed pride (at least- I tried, it lodged inside my throat).
I couldn't sing of anything. I couldn't strain a note.
The thoughts I grieved were not believed. This couldn't be a test.
I still don't know what makes me woe that this is for the best.
You say you really need me and you say you really care.
You tell me not to blame you since it's hard enough to bear.
Just bottle up the memories and leave them on a shelf.
It seems ridiculous that I'd set out to fool myself.
One more chance? I figured that. We've done this bit before.
I'll give my half and let you laugh and then we'll end our war.
And now I'm waiting silently. I don't know where you are.
I don't know what to sacrifice except my wishing star.
I have no doubt I'll see you soon, some up and coming day.
I also have a feeling of those words I'll hear you say.
Once more chance. And then one more. And one. And one. And one.
I'm losing sight of what it's for. Or have I overrun?
I had no expectations and you didn't let me down.
Now one more chance. We'll start afresh. We'll take our triple crown.
One more chance- Yeah, what the hell? I've nothing more to lose.
I'll give my body, soul and mind. You donate seven shoes.
I want you to release me...but I don't...because you should.
You sneer, "So who's oppressing you?" The saying 'gone for good'.
I don't know where I'd go from here, or if there's here at all.
I'd rather turn my back on fear than face another fall.
"I never asked for anything-" but took it as it came.
You're free to climb inside my heart, just toss a coil of blame.
I'd say I'm altruistic but I know it's not all true.
I wonder, are you using me? You'd tell me, wouldn't you?
"I just don't want to hurt you." Well, you've kind of missed the train.
For if this feeling's sanctity, I'm better off with pain.
"Then maybe in a year or so we'll see if we can dance.
You want a simple yes or no, then find another chance."
A chance? For what? To use me up? To bleed my spirit dry?
To let me chase a hope in vain while pleading for reply?
To give me bait to stay and wait? To tease me to the bone?
If you want one more fucking chance you find it on your own.
So what is there to take from any of this? Well, if my life were fictional, I'd say my character's story arc (at least in this chapter) is ultimately about accepting the real possibility of isolation. My teenaged self would hear that and react in horror. Alone? Are you kidding me? I'm better off dead! Well, hell, that actually was my mentality back then.
Although come to think of it, I may not be giving my adolescent self enough credit. Adolescence is a disease like chickenpox. It's inevitable we're all going to have to endure it at some point, and our skin is going to break out, and we're going to be irritable, and we're going to itch in places that we're told not to scratch. We'll be experiencing things we can't possibly understand, and certainly can't process. We'll be feeling things that we mistake for other things, and hone in on that one damned thing that seems just out of reach, that one elusive relationship or that one affirmation from that one attractive schoolmate who's dealing with their own bout of chickenpox, and think "that's what I need to be happy". Adolescence is a miserable time for every adolescent, and I'm convinced that no decent kid makes it in and out without truly feeling at some point like they're a bad kid. Why else would they be feeling the way they do?
When I look back on these years with embarrassment it's because all I see are the mistakes. That, and I remember what it felt like, and how I felt about myself. How could I have been a decent guy when I felt so...lousy? All the time? But as I look back over my poems (and smooth out a few rough edges of course) I notice that they do seem to be pointing me in the direction of- maybe I'm going to have to learn how to be alone before I have any chance of committing to someone else. I feel like my teenaged self knew this, even if he didn't know that he knew it, (he WAS a teenager after all) but maybe Misty did.
I'm married now, and my wife is a blessing. Thirty-five years of being alone before we found each other, but she was worth the wait. If I'd been seventy she would have been worth it. I'm grateful to teenage me for hanging in there even if he didn't feel like it. All those promises of it getting better, that he never wanted to listen to, were true. You did good kid. You're much happier now.
I've got one more to close it out. I know I have this one love poem somewhere that I thought would have been the perfect way to end on, but for the life of me I can't find it; I searched through hundreds of notebook pages. But in my search, I stumbled across this. It's not polished and knowing me I probably meant for it to be part of something bigger, but I think it's right the way it is.
Every time I think I fall in love
I know this one is truly meant to be.
It's different now. It's better now.
I've shed my selfish fetter now.
I care for her and know she cares for me.
Every time I think I fall in love
I've finally filled the vacancy inside.
My hope is real. The passion true.
I'm growing in to something new.
At last, the promises are verified.
Brokenness will fade into a scar
And mist will turn to clouds that float above.
Again I rise. The dreams awake.
I'm moving on for pity's sake.
Every time I think I fall in love.
-Misty
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Editorial: A Video Game Case of Sequelitis
I'm sure we've all had the debate about whether or not original films are always better than their sequels, and I think most of us come to the conclusion that the pattern seems to hold. We find a handful of examples that defy the theory, but the majority of evidence points in favor of the first film.
Why? I read a pretty good explanation on that from some writer's website a while back. If you're doing what you're supposed to be doing with a film you're taking a story about a character or community or concept and conveying the single most important chapter in the grander picture of that story. And once you've successfully accomplished that, do you have anywhere to go except into slightly less important territory? Now I could probably explore that idea into a completely different blog, weighing the examples that support or challenge the explanation, but for this blog I'm just going to accept it at face value in favor of moving on to video game sequels; something not as frequently discussed.
Ever since the 1993 film Super Mario Bros. sent a collective migraine through the optimism of the nerd community, video games and films have demonstrated over and over how well they don't play together. You wouldn't think it would be so hard to translate Tomb Raider into a watchable movie with 115 million dollars. And then the Prince of Persia film proves that Hollywood refuses to learn a damn thing. Silent Hill did pretty well, but ye gods, what was that sequel even about? It can only be concluded that films and video games really are two differently paced mediums. Maybe we'll get better translations down the road. I'm not holding my breath.
But for the purpose of this blog, let's put some video game series through the sequel test and see if maybe we can uncover any fundamental difference between what makes a game work as opposed to a film. I've made a list of various video game sequels I've played (and there are quite a lot of them). Let's see where I think quality rises and falls.
Games where the first was better:
Banjo-Kazooie (Banjo-Tooie) -too much busy work
Chrono Trigger (Chrono Cross) -the latter tried too hard to be different
K.C. Munchkin (K.C.'s Krazy Chase) -the Pac-man knockoff was simpler in a good way
Tomb Raider (Rise of the Tomb Raider) -the sequel was similar but had less heart to it
Games where the sequel improved:
Bloodrayne 2 (Bloodrayne)
Galaga (Galaxian)
Infamous 2 (Infamous)
The Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks (The Phantom Hourglass)
Majora's Mask (Ocarina of Time) -personal preference
Ms. Pac-man (Pac-man)
Outlaw Golf 2 (Outlaw Golf)
Pitfall 2 (Pitfall)
Super Mario Galaxy 2 (Super Mario Galaxy)
We Love Katamari (Katamari Damacy)
In these cases it feels like the gameplay benefits from the second go-round, adding better gameplay options and/or improved graphics. Bloodrayne 2 and Infamous 2 both expand on the established stories of their predecessors and feel a bit more personal, whereas Spirit Tracks limits the traversal but seems to have more fun decorating the world. And Zelda finally gets to go on the adventure.
Toss-up comparisons:
The 7th Guest/The 11th Hour
Dragon's Lair/Dragon's Lair 11: Time Warp
Kingdom Hearts/Kingdom Hearts II
Shivers/Shivers II
In these cases the games came out pretty similar in nature with a focus on one element or another. In the end, both entries had strengths and weaknesses but the overall quality seemed pretty balanced.
Now I've got one more batch to do for comparison, but here are the trends that I'm noticing. In a video game, story is often periphery. Particularly with the older titles, it's practically non-existent. And maybe that's where the problem lies in translating game to film. When YOU are Lara Croft, you play her a particular way. Maybe you're more jump and shoot. Maybe you take cover more. Maybe you're obsessed with every option treasure (guilty and proud). And maybe you're more speed-run savvy. The point is, there's not really one Lara Croft, there are as many slightly different versions of her than there are players. As such, it's likely more people will look at Angelina Jolie and not see Lara than will.
In video games, and in some books, the lack of definition in a character is a strength. In film, it's a punch line. Take Twilight (please). The book series likely resonated with its audience because Bella's blandness allowed them to fill in their own details as they saw fit, whereas Kristen Stewart kind of made that blandness a definable character trait. And, not necessarily to defend her, what other option did she really have? If she'd given the character a personality, how many fans would cry "That's not Bella Swan!"?
So in a video game series that's not really heavy in narrative, the quality hinges on things like fun factor and gamer satisfaction. More of the same but a couple of new elements and you have a superior sequel. Stray from the formula too much and you support the 'They changed it, now it sucks' trope. Films are more likely to fall into a been-there-done-that rut than games.
But this isn't really getting us anywhere. Let's examine some game series that have an actually immersion to them; the kind where you can identify where the creativity spiked and dissipated.
Batman: Arkham
Ignoring the portable side titles, this series is made up of Rocksteady's Asylum, City, and Knight, with Origins tossed in as a filler pre-quell episode. Asylum was first, and it gave us the near-flawless game mechanics. You got to BE Batman in a way that had never been possible before. It's also seen as a spiritual successor to the animated TV show with Kevin Conroy and Mark Hamill reprising their roles and Paul Dini serving as the head writer. City followed two years later, giving Batman some city streets to fly around in. Asylum was delightfully claustrophobic and 'dungeon-centric' while city gave more of an open world feel, more side quests and a more complicated story.
Origins was a decent follow-up. The bigger world felt more like work but the story was still engaging and the settings creative. The crime scene function and boss battles were particularly memorable. Then came Knight which introduced the Batmobile, a few new menus, and ultimately just overreached. The story was still good, but you just notice how much of the earlier games you miss (playing as Catwoman, the conciseness of the Riddler trophies, and it feels like we're missing a few bad guys).
Conclusion: Second game narrowly wins over the first, with a struggle thereafter.
Donkey Kong Country
More obstacle course than story, but there is still a sense of destination. The first game, DK and Curious George travel through a reptilian army to retrieve stolen bananas (dude, they grow everywhere, get over it). Second game, DK is kidnapped and Dixie takes the helm. Third game, DK and Diddy get kidnapped and that rat bastard Kiddy Kong makes you throw your controller at the television.
Plot wise, the second game makes the most sense. There's also a feeling of completion with the Lost World and a better use of the bonus rooms. So like a lot of games, DKC2 builds on the mechanics of the predecessor. For DKC3, Rare pulls out all the stops with some creative level design but they don't flow together as well. DKC2 built the pacing and challenge carefully and added Dixie's kick-ass ponytail spin. Dixie and Diddy dating doesn't really factor into the plot but their cooperativeness leaves you feeling like you have a positive investment in their relationship. Kiddy on the other hand is Dixie's purgatory. There are a bunch of bears that don't really add much and some collectables that feel forced.
Conclusion: Second game wins with pros and cons of both bookending entries.
Jak and Daxter
Three platformers, a racing game, and then something I never got around to trying. I'll leave it at the platformer trilogy. The first game was fun, and pretty quick on replays. The second? Hoo-boy, talk about a jump in the narrative. A simple series of fetch quests turns into a mission based political rebellion involving time travel, betrayal, guns, and a level resentfully referred to as 'arachnophobia: the chase scene'. And it just keeps going. You almost wonder if the programmers at Naughty Dog forgot they weren't making an RPG.
The third game is a worthy follow-up, and maybe my expectations are too high but it feels like it's half an act short. The first couple of times I played through it I was kind of jostled by the realization that I was starting the endgame. More than any other game series, Jak and Daxter follows the arc of the original Star Wars series, with the middle entry being the darkest and the last one being satisfying but also kind of not.
Conclusion: Second game, hands down. And on a personal note, I really got attached to Anna Garduno's voice. Why didn't she come back for the third game?
Myst
I think there was a Myst V that I never got around to playing but I think I get the basic idea. Nobody talks about Myst anymore which is unfortunate because the game redefined the term 'atmospheric' (to mean pretty, but slow). In the original game you had to read, and you had to take notes, and you had to click everywhere because your cursor didn't change. It was beautiful and serene, but overwhelmingly isolated. It's what happens when introverts design Hell for extroverts.
The sequel had a lot riding on it and the Miller brothers were happy to spend more time designing the massive environment. Unfortunately they seemed to forget that living people with living attention spans would be trying to solve the puzzles. Imagine trying to open a safe with a seven note musical combination. Now imagine each note is on a different page of sheet music scattered over five islands. Now imagine the codex that tells you the order of four of the notes is in Europe. It's tedium incarnate.
Myst 3 has Brad Dourif, and with him comes an actual sense of something being at stake. The puzzles are less esoteric and the conclusion is much more satisfying. Myst IV hits a few speed bumps but it still finds a nice array of puzzles from convenient to hair pulling, and in spite of the lopsided acting the end is quite poignant.
Conclusion: The third game is the best of all worlds, combining the serenity of the original with the motion of the sequel, and adding a truly heart breaking story with a moral grey area. And Brad Dourif.
The Prince of Persia
I'm specifically looking at the Sands of Time trilogy. Sands of Time is a three hour (if you know what you're doing) obstacle course with alternating bouts of swordplay. That by itself is enough for a great game, but Ubisoft went the extra mile by texturing the most beautiful uses of sand in gaming history, matched only by the artistically renowned Journey. And then you have the princess Farah accompanying you. Together, the prince and Farah do what very few game couples can do, they make you give a damn about them.
It takes real skill to present a credible relationship in fiction, much less a developing one, but the prince's attachment to Farah feels very real. When you separate from her in patches, you feel her absence. And when the game arranges it to where you're the one who f**ks up, you find yourself desperate to atone for it.
Warrior Within is seven years into the future, and it's much grittier. As such a lot of people didn't like it, but the gameplay is honestly solid. This easily represents the prince's breaking point. The Two Thrones closes out the trilogy. The platforming is still strong in this one, but everything else suffers from sequelitis. Farah is back but she's much less engaging. The Empress of Time, leftover from the previous game, can only narrate events that you can clearly see for yourself. This one feels more like an expansion pack than a fully realized game.
Conclusion: First game wins hands down, but the second game deserves more respect than it gets.
Sly Cooper
The Sly Cooper series came out around the same time as Jak and Daxter, and both franchises' trilogies mirror each other fairly well. The first Sly is also predominantly a platformer with individual levels, this time featuring an anthropomorphic master thief as the protagonist. Sly 2 features a huge jump in gameplay where the focus is on the trio of Sly and his buddies as they carefully plan heists and have to think on their feet when things go wrong. Maybe it's not quite the advancement of Jak and Daxter, but it's still impressive. And then there's a third entry that feels a chapter or two short but still manages to hold together as a fitting sendoff (until the fourth game).
So like many game trilogies, the first game gets you used to the mechanics. The second game is where the developers really get to pull out all the stops and build something special. The third game is treated as the finale, whether or not this turns out to be true, and generally feels disjointed in ideas. Almost like the production team has to come up with SOMETHING to use the leftovers that didn't make it into the second game.
Conclusion: The second game. Sly 2 is bigger, darker, and really tests the inner strength of the characters.
Ultima
Where do I begin on this one? Even omitting Ultima Online and the side games where Richard Garriott went into fractions, Ultima comprises nine main games, or a trilogy of trilogies. The games that are remembered as great are IV, V, and VII (although I for one will always have a love of Ultima III).
The first trilogy, or the Age of Darkness, was essentially a series of build your character(s) up until they're horrifyingly powerful enough to wipeout the card carrying bully of the countryside. The second trilogy, or the Age of Enlightenment, had no big bads to beat down. Instead the focus was on becoming a virtuous being using a creatively mathematical system of philosophy. The third trilogy, or the Age of Richard Garriott is Moving On and Wants to Go Into Space, is a chaotic mess. The seventh game really is well developed, but it ends on a cliff hanger that is never really given the care that it requires.
Conclusion: Taken as a whole, my money is on the fourth game. The fifth game has a better story, but it also has some fun-murdering mechanics like the visually impairing night sky; realism doesn't always equal inviting. Taken as a series of three trilogies, second trilogy wins. Taken as separate trilogies, I'd go game three, game one, game one.
Uncharted
Also coming from Naughty Dog (the Jak and Daxter people) we have a third person shooter/action/adventure/platformer where the voice actors also recorded the motion capture, resulting in one of the most cinematic game series ever released. Nathan Drake is a modern treasure hunter with a knack for rolling natural twenties and ones in equal doses.
The quality throughout the whole series is pretty consistent, so it really boils down to the story and individual standout levels to distinguish one from the other. The first game is just a straight up adventure; try to get the treasure and don't die. It's not really about anything beyond that. The second game pushes more into who Nathan is versus who he could be. He's given several opportunities to choose the path of the mercenary over the path of the hero, and his choices ultimately keep him on this side of villainy. The third game is about his relationship to Victor Sullivan, his surrogate father figure. And the fourth game is about his loyalty to his brother and how dangerously close he comes to taking the wrong path.
In terms of action sequences, the first game is remembered mostly for the zombie horror mood whiplash, while the second game is known for the handful of stages on the train (horizontally and vertically). The third game has a wider variety of settings, the plane crash, the desert crawl, the ship graveyard, the burning chateau, those mother-f**king spiders, and several on foot chases. The fourth game has a lot of non-lethal levels mixed in and more chances to just relax and explore.
Conclusion: It's a hard pick, but I'm giving the third game the edge. The second game may actually be the best story but it doesn't have quite as much happening. And while the fourth game may have as much to cheer about as the third, it also has some uncharacteristic dead space.
Zork
The grandfather of text based adventures. For this topic I'm only considering the original Great Underground Adventure in three acts (because the computers of the late seventies didn't have the processing capabilities to handle so many words. So Zork I, Zork II, and Zork III, better known as the thief, the wizard, and the dungeon master.
The Zork games are hard. They're like the Myst games without the visuals, but funnier. This was pre-internet so you had no walkthroughs unless you bought them straight from Infocom along with a magic ink marker. Barring that, you had to map the dungeons out yourself, never grasping how one could go north and then south and wind up in a different location than where you started. You die a lot in these games. Even worse than dying was the fact that you can easily place the game in an unwinnable state and not know it. Oh, you carried that buttered biscuit into the stream with you? Well kiss away your hope of getting that sapphire key from the laundry attendant. It's that kind of game series.
So what do we have? In Zork I you have to solve a couple of mazes, say "Ni!" to a Cyclops, and literally go to and from Hell to retrieve twenty treasures just to access a stone barrow, making for the single most over the top lock and key puzzle in the history of sadism. In Zork II you're tormented by a mischievous wizard and this time have to negotiate through a bank, a volcano, and a baseball diamond (no, seriously) to appease a demon to get the wand to raise the menhir to do a couple of other leaps of intuition to wind up on and endless stairwell. Zork III involves collecting some crap and not killing a couple of punks who desperately deserve it just so you can replace the dungeon master, which has apparently been the goal the whole time?
Conclusion: Second game again. Zork I is the longest and most utterly perplexing of the triology, and as such is missing a certain fun factor. Zork III is a gratifying and somber ending, but dealing with the Wizard of Frobozz is simply enjoyable over and over. There's a valid reason you're collecting treasures, and while the puzzles can be taxing they're never rage quit inducing.
Is there anything to take from this? Yeah, a few. One, unlike a film, video game audiences can deal with more of the same. Watching a film is a passive activity, and it's easier for us to get bored. But a game is more active, and stomping on Goombas never gets old for us. Two, video game sequels tend to have a better batting average than film sequels. Probably because the first entry in a video game series isn't required to have any kind of story, much less a solid one. Video games initially need to be a virtual playground, which isn't a luxury films have. Hence, the second game has the advantage of using the playground to create a narrative, and it's almost always the same production team so they've already been kicking these ideas around. Third, if you treat the video game sequels as the first 'real' story being told that's when you find games and films run into similar issues regarding how to top what's already been done.
But the bottom line is, I have a suggestion for Hollywood. If you're going to try to make a video game series into a movie, don't do the first game. Focus on the second one. Or maybe cram the events of the first game into the first act (or scene) and then move on to the second game. Try that and see if you have a bit more success translating one format to another.
Why? I read a pretty good explanation on that from some writer's website a while back. If you're doing what you're supposed to be doing with a film you're taking a story about a character or community or concept and conveying the single most important chapter in the grander picture of that story. And once you've successfully accomplished that, do you have anywhere to go except into slightly less important territory? Now I could probably explore that idea into a completely different blog, weighing the examples that support or challenge the explanation, but for this blog I'm just going to accept it at face value in favor of moving on to video game sequels; something not as frequently discussed.
Ever since the 1993 film Super Mario Bros. sent a collective migraine through the optimism of the nerd community, video games and films have demonstrated over and over how well they don't play together. You wouldn't think it would be so hard to translate Tomb Raider into a watchable movie with 115 million dollars. And then the Prince of Persia film proves that Hollywood refuses to learn a damn thing. Silent Hill did pretty well, but ye gods, what was that sequel even about? It can only be concluded that films and video games really are two differently paced mediums. Maybe we'll get better translations down the road. I'm not holding my breath.
But for the purpose of this blog, let's put some video game series through the sequel test and see if maybe we can uncover any fundamental difference between what makes a game work as opposed to a film. I've made a list of various video game sequels I've played (and there are quite a lot of them). Let's see where I think quality rises and falls.
Games where the first was better:
Banjo-Kazooie (Banjo-Tooie) -too much busy work
Chrono Trigger (Chrono Cross) -the latter tried too hard to be different
K.C. Munchkin (K.C.'s Krazy Chase) -the Pac-man knockoff was simpler in a good way
Tomb Raider (Rise of the Tomb Raider) -the sequel was similar but had less heart to it
Games where the sequel improved:
Bloodrayne 2 (Bloodrayne)
Galaga (Galaxian)
Infamous 2 (Infamous)
The Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks (The Phantom Hourglass)
Majora's Mask (Ocarina of Time) -personal preference
Ms. Pac-man (Pac-man)
Outlaw Golf 2 (Outlaw Golf)
Pitfall 2 (Pitfall)
Super Mario Galaxy 2 (Super Mario Galaxy)
We Love Katamari (Katamari Damacy)
In these cases it feels like the gameplay benefits from the second go-round, adding better gameplay options and/or improved graphics. Bloodrayne 2 and Infamous 2 both expand on the established stories of their predecessors and feel a bit more personal, whereas Spirit Tracks limits the traversal but seems to have more fun decorating the world. And Zelda finally gets to go on the adventure.
Toss-up comparisons:
The 7th Guest/The 11th Hour
Dragon's Lair/Dragon's Lair 11: Time Warp
Kingdom Hearts/Kingdom Hearts II
Shivers/Shivers II
In these cases the games came out pretty similar in nature with a focus on one element or another. In the end, both entries had strengths and weaknesses but the overall quality seemed pretty balanced.
Now I've got one more batch to do for comparison, but here are the trends that I'm noticing. In a video game, story is often periphery. Particularly with the older titles, it's practically non-existent. And maybe that's where the problem lies in translating game to film. When YOU are Lara Croft, you play her a particular way. Maybe you're more jump and shoot. Maybe you take cover more. Maybe you're obsessed with every option treasure (guilty and proud). And maybe you're more speed-run savvy. The point is, there's not really one Lara Croft, there are as many slightly different versions of her than there are players. As such, it's likely more people will look at Angelina Jolie and not see Lara than will.
In video games, and in some books, the lack of definition in a character is a strength. In film, it's a punch line. Take Twilight (please). The book series likely resonated with its audience because Bella's blandness allowed them to fill in their own details as they saw fit, whereas Kristen Stewart kind of made that blandness a definable character trait. And, not necessarily to defend her, what other option did she really have? If she'd given the character a personality, how many fans would cry "That's not Bella Swan!"?
So in a video game series that's not really heavy in narrative, the quality hinges on things like fun factor and gamer satisfaction. More of the same but a couple of new elements and you have a superior sequel. Stray from the formula too much and you support the 'They changed it, now it sucks' trope. Films are more likely to fall into a been-there-done-that rut than games.
But this isn't really getting us anywhere. Let's examine some game series that have an actually immersion to them; the kind where you can identify where the creativity spiked and dissipated.
Batman: Arkham
Ignoring the portable side titles, this series is made up of Rocksteady's Asylum, City, and Knight, with Origins tossed in as a filler pre-quell episode. Asylum was first, and it gave us the near-flawless game mechanics. You got to BE Batman in a way that had never been possible before. It's also seen as a spiritual successor to the animated TV show with Kevin Conroy and Mark Hamill reprising their roles and Paul Dini serving as the head writer. City followed two years later, giving Batman some city streets to fly around in. Asylum was delightfully claustrophobic and 'dungeon-centric' while city gave more of an open world feel, more side quests and a more complicated story.
Origins was a decent follow-up. The bigger world felt more like work but the story was still engaging and the settings creative. The crime scene function and boss battles were particularly memorable. Then came Knight which introduced the Batmobile, a few new menus, and ultimately just overreached. The story was still good, but you just notice how much of the earlier games you miss (playing as Catwoman, the conciseness of the Riddler trophies, and it feels like we're missing a few bad guys).
Conclusion: Second game narrowly wins over the first, with a struggle thereafter.
Donkey Kong Country
More obstacle course than story, but there is still a sense of destination. The first game, DK and Curious George travel through a reptilian army to retrieve stolen bananas (dude, they grow everywhere, get over it). Second game, DK is kidnapped and Dixie takes the helm. Third game, DK and Diddy get kidnapped and that rat bastard Kiddy Kong makes you throw your controller at the television.
Plot wise, the second game makes the most sense. There's also a feeling of completion with the Lost World and a better use of the bonus rooms. So like a lot of games, DKC2 builds on the mechanics of the predecessor. For DKC3, Rare pulls out all the stops with some creative level design but they don't flow together as well. DKC2 built the pacing and challenge carefully and added Dixie's kick-ass ponytail spin. Dixie and Diddy dating doesn't really factor into the plot but their cooperativeness leaves you feeling like you have a positive investment in their relationship. Kiddy on the other hand is Dixie's purgatory. There are a bunch of bears that don't really add much and some collectables that feel forced.
Conclusion: Second game wins with pros and cons of both bookending entries.
Jak and Daxter
Three platformers, a racing game, and then something I never got around to trying. I'll leave it at the platformer trilogy. The first game was fun, and pretty quick on replays. The second? Hoo-boy, talk about a jump in the narrative. A simple series of fetch quests turns into a mission based political rebellion involving time travel, betrayal, guns, and a level resentfully referred to as 'arachnophobia: the chase scene'. And it just keeps going. You almost wonder if the programmers at Naughty Dog forgot they weren't making an RPG.
The third game is a worthy follow-up, and maybe my expectations are too high but it feels like it's half an act short. The first couple of times I played through it I was kind of jostled by the realization that I was starting the endgame. More than any other game series, Jak and Daxter follows the arc of the original Star Wars series, with the middle entry being the darkest and the last one being satisfying but also kind of not.
Conclusion: Second game, hands down. And on a personal note, I really got attached to Anna Garduno's voice. Why didn't she come back for the third game?
Myst
I think there was a Myst V that I never got around to playing but I think I get the basic idea. Nobody talks about Myst anymore which is unfortunate because the game redefined the term 'atmospheric' (to mean pretty, but slow). In the original game you had to read, and you had to take notes, and you had to click everywhere because your cursor didn't change. It was beautiful and serene, but overwhelmingly isolated. It's what happens when introverts design Hell for extroverts.
The sequel had a lot riding on it and the Miller brothers were happy to spend more time designing the massive environment. Unfortunately they seemed to forget that living people with living attention spans would be trying to solve the puzzles. Imagine trying to open a safe with a seven note musical combination. Now imagine each note is on a different page of sheet music scattered over five islands. Now imagine the codex that tells you the order of four of the notes is in Europe. It's tedium incarnate.
Myst 3 has Brad Dourif, and with him comes an actual sense of something being at stake. The puzzles are less esoteric and the conclusion is much more satisfying. Myst IV hits a few speed bumps but it still finds a nice array of puzzles from convenient to hair pulling, and in spite of the lopsided acting the end is quite poignant.
Conclusion: The third game is the best of all worlds, combining the serenity of the original with the motion of the sequel, and adding a truly heart breaking story with a moral grey area. And Brad Dourif.
The Prince of Persia
I'm specifically looking at the Sands of Time trilogy. Sands of Time is a three hour (if you know what you're doing) obstacle course with alternating bouts of swordplay. That by itself is enough for a great game, but Ubisoft went the extra mile by texturing the most beautiful uses of sand in gaming history, matched only by the artistically renowned Journey. And then you have the princess Farah accompanying you. Together, the prince and Farah do what very few game couples can do, they make you give a damn about them.
It takes real skill to present a credible relationship in fiction, much less a developing one, but the prince's attachment to Farah feels very real. When you separate from her in patches, you feel her absence. And when the game arranges it to where you're the one who f**ks up, you find yourself desperate to atone for it.
Warrior Within is seven years into the future, and it's much grittier. As such a lot of people didn't like it, but the gameplay is honestly solid. This easily represents the prince's breaking point. The Two Thrones closes out the trilogy. The platforming is still strong in this one, but everything else suffers from sequelitis. Farah is back but she's much less engaging. The Empress of Time, leftover from the previous game, can only narrate events that you can clearly see for yourself. This one feels more like an expansion pack than a fully realized game.
Conclusion: First game wins hands down, but the second game deserves more respect than it gets.
Sly Cooper
The Sly Cooper series came out around the same time as Jak and Daxter, and both franchises' trilogies mirror each other fairly well. The first Sly is also predominantly a platformer with individual levels, this time featuring an anthropomorphic master thief as the protagonist. Sly 2 features a huge jump in gameplay where the focus is on the trio of Sly and his buddies as they carefully plan heists and have to think on their feet when things go wrong. Maybe it's not quite the advancement of Jak and Daxter, but it's still impressive. And then there's a third entry that feels a chapter or two short but still manages to hold together as a fitting sendoff (until the fourth game).
So like many game trilogies, the first game gets you used to the mechanics. The second game is where the developers really get to pull out all the stops and build something special. The third game is treated as the finale, whether or not this turns out to be true, and generally feels disjointed in ideas. Almost like the production team has to come up with SOMETHING to use the leftovers that didn't make it into the second game.
Conclusion: The second game. Sly 2 is bigger, darker, and really tests the inner strength of the characters.
Ultima
Where do I begin on this one? Even omitting Ultima Online and the side games where Richard Garriott went into fractions, Ultima comprises nine main games, or a trilogy of trilogies. The games that are remembered as great are IV, V, and VII (although I for one will always have a love of Ultima III).
The first trilogy, or the Age of Darkness, was essentially a series of build your character(s) up until they're horrifyingly powerful enough to wipeout the card carrying bully of the countryside. The second trilogy, or the Age of Enlightenment, had no big bads to beat down. Instead the focus was on becoming a virtuous being using a creatively mathematical system of philosophy. The third trilogy, or the Age of Richard Garriott is Moving On and Wants to Go Into Space, is a chaotic mess. The seventh game really is well developed, but it ends on a cliff hanger that is never really given the care that it requires.
Conclusion: Taken as a whole, my money is on the fourth game. The fifth game has a better story, but it also has some fun-murdering mechanics like the visually impairing night sky; realism doesn't always equal inviting. Taken as a series of three trilogies, second trilogy wins. Taken as separate trilogies, I'd go game three, game one, game one.
Uncharted
Also coming from Naughty Dog (the Jak and Daxter people) we have a third person shooter/action/adventure/platformer where the voice actors also recorded the motion capture, resulting in one of the most cinematic game series ever released. Nathan Drake is a modern treasure hunter with a knack for rolling natural twenties and ones in equal doses.
The quality throughout the whole series is pretty consistent, so it really boils down to the story and individual standout levels to distinguish one from the other. The first game is just a straight up adventure; try to get the treasure and don't die. It's not really about anything beyond that. The second game pushes more into who Nathan is versus who he could be. He's given several opportunities to choose the path of the mercenary over the path of the hero, and his choices ultimately keep him on this side of villainy. The third game is about his relationship to Victor Sullivan, his surrogate father figure. And the fourth game is about his loyalty to his brother and how dangerously close he comes to taking the wrong path.
In terms of action sequences, the first game is remembered mostly for the zombie horror mood whiplash, while the second game is known for the handful of stages on the train (horizontally and vertically). The third game has a wider variety of settings, the plane crash, the desert crawl, the ship graveyard, the burning chateau, those mother-f**king spiders, and several on foot chases. The fourth game has a lot of non-lethal levels mixed in and more chances to just relax and explore.
Conclusion: It's a hard pick, but I'm giving the third game the edge. The second game may actually be the best story but it doesn't have quite as much happening. And while the fourth game may have as much to cheer about as the third, it also has some uncharacteristic dead space.
Zork
The grandfather of text based adventures. For this topic I'm only considering the original Great Underground Adventure in three acts (because the computers of the late seventies didn't have the processing capabilities to handle so many words. So Zork I, Zork II, and Zork III, better known as the thief, the wizard, and the dungeon master.
The Zork games are hard. They're like the Myst games without the visuals, but funnier. This was pre-internet so you had no walkthroughs unless you bought them straight from Infocom along with a magic ink marker. Barring that, you had to map the dungeons out yourself, never grasping how one could go north and then south and wind up in a different location than where you started. You die a lot in these games. Even worse than dying was the fact that you can easily place the game in an unwinnable state and not know it. Oh, you carried that buttered biscuit into the stream with you? Well kiss away your hope of getting that sapphire key from the laundry attendant. It's that kind of game series.
So what do we have? In Zork I you have to solve a couple of mazes, say "Ni!" to a Cyclops, and literally go to and from Hell to retrieve twenty treasures just to access a stone barrow, making for the single most over the top lock and key puzzle in the history of sadism. In Zork II you're tormented by a mischievous wizard and this time have to negotiate through a bank, a volcano, and a baseball diamond (no, seriously) to appease a demon to get the wand to raise the menhir to do a couple of other leaps of intuition to wind up on and endless stairwell. Zork III involves collecting some crap and not killing a couple of punks who desperately deserve it just so you can replace the dungeon master, which has apparently been the goal the whole time?
Conclusion: Second game again. Zork I is the longest and most utterly perplexing of the triology, and as such is missing a certain fun factor. Zork III is a gratifying and somber ending, but dealing with the Wizard of Frobozz is simply enjoyable over and over. There's a valid reason you're collecting treasures, and while the puzzles can be taxing they're never rage quit inducing.
Is there anything to take from this? Yeah, a few. One, unlike a film, video game audiences can deal with more of the same. Watching a film is a passive activity, and it's easier for us to get bored. But a game is more active, and stomping on Goombas never gets old for us. Two, video game sequels tend to have a better batting average than film sequels. Probably because the first entry in a video game series isn't required to have any kind of story, much less a solid one. Video games initially need to be a virtual playground, which isn't a luxury films have. Hence, the second game has the advantage of using the playground to create a narrative, and it's almost always the same production team so they've already been kicking these ideas around. Third, if you treat the video game sequels as the first 'real' story being told that's when you find games and films run into similar issues regarding how to top what's already been done.
But the bottom line is, I have a suggestion for Hollywood. If you're going to try to make a video game series into a movie, don't do the first game. Focus on the second one. Or maybe cram the events of the first game into the first act (or scene) and then move on to the second game. Try that and see if you have a bit more success translating one format to another.
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