Kentucky Route Zero

When is a game not a game? And does it matter? Unlike other forms of mass media, which are much more easily identified and categorised, video games straddle an uncertain line with the label of ‘game’ being almost increasingly outdated and unrepresentative of the breadth of experiences currently available.

This is especially true in the indie scene at the moment, and one of the most esoteric and talked about games to emerge this year is Kentucky Route Zero. Describing it is tricky though. It features an old antique delivery driver in his quest to make his last delivery, along the fabled Route Zero, a road that isn't really like any other road. Presented in a stark geometric art-style with a heavy emphasis on mood and atmosphere it is less a game, and more an interactive story, a Lynchian tale populated by strange characters and undercut by a heavy dose of melancholy. Each Act of the game (there will be five, so far two have been released) is split into scenes, usually labelled as you move from place to place. So far each of the Acts has been relatively short, but perfectly suited to the game's needs. Any longer and the sparse, often dreamlike dialogue and lack of interactivity may have rankled, as it is the game raises endless questions and draws you in to whatever is still to come.

Whilst the game can certainly be described as weird, it all feels of a whole. This is a game with a clear vision, aesthetically and thematically and it works so well in communicating this through its narrow focus. A version of this game with more traditional mechanics wouldn't have the same impact, the same haunting quality. At times the distorted eerie music coupled with some of the games striking yet simplistic visuals (it does some amazing things with implementing 3D spaces into an ostensibly 2D game) evoke a mood and a feeling unlike any I've played in recent times. Aside from observing locations and talking to people there is not much in the way of mechanics here, though in the dialogue you are often presented with multiple answers to questions, or lines of enquiry but there seems to be no consequence to your choices. Instead they allow you to internally paint a view of the characters, like a choose-your-own adventure game you find yourself building up a back story through these options, and that in turn filters through to how you play the game. Naming your dog Homer might not impact the game per-say, but that small aspect of customisation is enough to invest you that much more in the story.

This is very much an art-piece as it were, but it's not so wrapped in up pretensions to make the experience dry, in fact it is often absurdly funny, the question seems to be whether you are up for taking the plunge and seeing where the game decides to take you. Time will yet tell if the ideas will dry up, or whether the ending will provide a satisfactory conclusion to the groundwork laid so far. Certainly there is the possibility for it to all fall apart, but based on the Acts released so far this is a confident and intimately designed game with something to say, I just look forward to wherever the journey takes me next.

Seven Psychopaths

Following up In Bruges was never going to be an easy task for writer/director Martin McDonagh, after coming seemingly out of nowhere his debut film became something of a deserved cult hit, mixing black humour and a surprisingly touching story of a pair of mismatched hitmen hiding out in Bruges. In Seven Psychopaths McDonagh’s preoccupation with violence remains, though the film itself is a very different beast tonally to its predecessor. Lacking the deeper emotional undercurrents of Bruges, Psychopaths instead delves deep into meta-commentary regarding the notion of violence in movies and our collective enjoyment of it. Colin Farrell stars again, this time as Marty, a struggling screenwriter with a premise for a new film (called Seven Psychopaths) but not much more. His best friend Billy (Sam Rockwell) is a dog-napper, who runs a scam alongside Christopher Walken’s Hans, who uses the money to support his cancer-ridden wife in hospital.

But, following the accidental theft of a dog belonging to renowned gangster Charlie (Woody Harrelson) things start to get out of control as the psychopaths Marty seems so interested in for his proposed script start impacting on his life. There’s a certain unreality here that McDonagh plays up far more than he has done previously, the almost cartoonish violence and hyper saturated LA locations suit the larger than life characters that populate the film, Rockwell and Walken are the stand-out performances, the former initially seeming to fill his usual role as the unhinged outsider, only to have the character become something much more interesting and deranged by the end of the film. Walken embodies Hans with a lifetime’s experience with nary a word, and his stoic and deadpan sensibility give the film its emotional core, what of it there is. Farrell does a great turn embodying the cliché’s alcoholic Irish writer with pathos and his trademark bewilderment, and Tom Waits needs only two scenes to risk stealing the film, playing one of the titular psychopaths who stops by for some tea.

Structurally interesting the film starts at a pace and then slows towards the end, finally giving the characters and ideas time to breathe. Whilst it is fairly constantly entertaining and engaging, there is a certain surface level enjoyment that pervades throughout. The conceit of having characters discuss the clichés of cinematic shootouts and corny dialogue, whilst participating in the same scenarios themselves, has potential but never quite feels fully realised. The act of pointing out your own flaws never works as a way to excuse them; an aside regarding Marty’s script’s lack of female characters, and its objectification of women feels knowing, until you realise that the film itself suffers from this same issue, and no effort is made after the fact to correct this. 

It’s perhaps the curse of trying to be too knowing and ironic, but the lack of empathy hurts the film in the long run. It’s often very, very funny as well as shocking and unexpected, but ultimately somewhat hollow. Marty’s dilemma throughout the film is how to make a film about psychopaths that is somehow uplifting and promotes peace, if McDonagh had managed to solve this conundrum then the film may have had something to say. As it is, it remains a somewhat glib but nonetheless enjoyable romp but one that never quite gels into a cohesive whole.  

Monsters University

A new Pixar film is still something I treasure, despite the company's recent dip in quality they remain the premier animation studio working today, a company with dedication to story and quality. But despite this I wasn't sure how much I was looking forward to Monsters University. I love the original film, but dislike prequels as a general concept, they generally reek of marketing gimmicks and cashing in on famous brands / names without actually narratively doing anything interesting. They are stories where you know the destination and as such they often feel inconsequential. This argument could be made against MU, for a start as a concept it's a little odd at first to base a film around a monster's desire to become a scarer, when you've already established in the original film that scaring is not what they should be doing, but ultimately it rises above this to become a worthwhile film in its own right.

The film follows Mike Wazowski (Billy Crystal) as he looks to fulfil his lifelong dream of studying at Monsters University, and sets out detailing how he meets James P Sullivan (John Goodman) and how a rivalry became a friendship. For the first two thirds the film largely concerns itself with the standard college comedy template, but given a Pixar, family friendly, twist. I wouldn't necessarily take this adherence to formula as a criticism, the characters are engaging enough, and the setting so wonderfully realised that it is a pleasure to just spend time in this world. But it's the last third that really makes the film, and elevates it from being a perfectly fine, but somewhat run of the mill Pixar entry, to one with a lot more on its mind. Because when it comes down to it the film isn't really about following your dreams and endorsing the popular message that you can do whatever you set your heart to. Instead, in a wonderfully subversive way, it points to something much more nuanced and interesting. It's a film about finding your place, but also about failure and how we respond to it. It's about what we do when things don't go our way, when our dreams fall apart, and the way it deals with those ideas in the context of this family movie about monsters that really surprised me.

It's a shame then that the first half of the film lacks much of this subtly and ambition, again it is perfectly entertaining and frequently very very funny, but it feels somewhat inconsequential and small scale, with the attachment we have to these characters from the first film doing much of the heavy lifting. There are some nice nods to the original however, and the film wisely steers away from just checking the boxes (this is how X happened, this is how Y got their job at the plant) which are so often the focus of other prequels. In fact the film's treatment of the only regular recurring character, Randall, is pretty effective, giving the audience all they need to know without making it the focus of the film.

On the scale of Pixar Monsters University still sits towards the lower end, all told, but that is largely as a result of the bar being set so high by the company's back catalogue. And whilst it may still feel slightly unnecessary as a film, I liked that they were able to take a potential cash-in and imbue it with a message and with heart that surprised me (unlike, say Cars 2). It is also far less uneven than last year's Brave and fills me with more hope for their upcoming Finding Dory. It's still a shame to see quite so many sequels emerge from a studio that made it's name with genre-bending original ideas, but Monsters University also sits as proof that we shouldn't write them off just yet.

Cloud Atlas

That this film exists remains, even on second viewing, something of a mystery to me. It feels like a happy accident, that the Wachowski’s and Tom Twyker somehow managed to smuggle a film this ambitious, daring, bizarre and potentially ridiculous past the studio heads. That someone signed off on over $100m feels like a thing that doesn’t happen in modern Hollywood. But boy am I glad they did.

Yet what I like about Cloud Atlas isn’t just that it strives for something beyond the standard summer blockbuster. Not even that it takes a somewhat silly premise, actors playing multiple roles, often under layers of make-up, and runs with it beyond what you may reasonable think. No, what is so great about Cloud Atlas is that, for the most part, it works when it really shouldn’t. Comprising six separate and interlinked stories, over a timespan of hundreds of years from the 1800’s to the far flung future the film wastes no time in dropping the viewer into each of these situations without much explanation, but masterfully drawing you in. Whereas David Mitchell’s novel separated the narratives into a concertina structure, with the first half of each moving forwards then concluding in turn, the film mashes them all together, a tactic that, for such wildly different stylistic and tonal choices, again shouldn’t work and yet it does. One of the film’s biggest weapons is the editing which, as the best editing should, feels invisible and yet is unlike almost any film I’ve seen. Events and scenes in one story are given extra weight or meaning thanks to juxtapositions in others. Characters played by the same actor can give payoffs to setups they themselves offered up by way of another time period, and by layering montages of visuals over voiceover the directors manage to find a way of making the stories feel cohesive through their shared themes and ideas, rather than characters or plot.

It’s a remarkable feat all told, and one that feels effortless when you watch despite the complexity of design that sits behind the surface being almost unimaginable. Yet the film does stumble, some segments are better realised than other, some actors excel in some roles and feel horribly out of place in others, and some of the cross dressing / multiple roles are somewhat ill-advised. On occasion the overt earnestness of the story verges on camp, but it always pulls back from the brink to wow you with a sequence, or moment that feels revolutionary. The film should not be praised purely for having something to say, not treating the audience like an idiot and having ambition, though these are all positive things that surprisingly few big-budget films manage to achieve these days. But even outside of these Cloud Atlas just works, it is a thrilling, strange and constantly engaging piece of art that never lets its contemplation of more weighty themes get in the way of its primary purpose: to entertain. A world away from the maudlin philosophising of the Matrix sequels, this feels like the best of the Wachowski’s, the hyper-kinetic editing and playing with structure from Speed Racer (which I still think is a criminally underrated film), to the techno-noir cool that made their name. The addition of Tom Twyker to the pair can’t be dismissed either, directing half the segments himself he brings wonderful humanity to the picture with a deft touch, whilst his musical contributions bind the film together beautifully.

This is a film I’m sure I will revisit many times, and enjoy showing to unsuspecting friends and family. I can imagine seeing new connections and deft touches with each new viewing. It’s not perfect, but I love it flaws and all for its clear-eyed positivity, and its brazen desire to break all the rules. I’m still not sure how it got made, but I will always be grateful for its existence: a rush of pure cinema that was somehow let loose into the world.

Ryan Davis

I woke today to the tragic news of the passing of Ryan Davis on July 3^rd. If you are in any way connected to the videogame industry then you may have heard of him, or the news as it broke late last night. What surprised me, and speaks to his personality and influence, was how crushed I felt as the reality of what had happened sunk in.

He was only 34, he was very recently married. These things are tragic and yet don't fully explain how devastated I felt. I did not know Ryan Davis. But I did.

For nearly three hours every week, as part of the Giant Bombcast, a gaming podcast, I listened to Ryan and the rest of the crew chat, joke, mess around and occasionally talk about videogames. That adds up to a lot of time over a few years. Giant Bomb as a website, if you are unfamiliar, is all about personality, and front and centre of this was Ryan. He was the glue that held the disparate parts together, his way of wrangling order from chaos was unmatched, his warmness, sense of humour and force of will, singular.

It feels selfish to put what has happened in the context of me, but it's all I know. Along with much of the internet today my thoughts and prayers go out to those who really knew him, who worked with him and loved him. I'm just a fan, a listener who will never again get to hear him excitedly announce a new show, or make a fool of himself on camera for the pure amusement and entertainment of others. I'm struck by how, in this modern age you can feel a connection with people you never meet, who live lives completely removed from your own. It's a wonderful gift. But today it hurts.

The comments that have poured out today speak to this, thousands revealing of how their lives were made better by another as tribute. That speaks to the best of this world, in times when so often on the internet the opposite is all we see.

But mostly it speak to Ryan and the person he was.

I didn't know him, but I miss him all the same.

The Hunter

It watched the man step out into the bitter night. It saw the gated door slammed shut and the man's breath clouding, a shudder not far behind followed by ginger steps across the wooden porch. The ice from this latest spat of unseasonal weather remained, invisible as it may be, and the old timer was taking no chances. Bereft of his cane he steadied himself against the railings and began descending the steps. Even for winter it was a bitter night, the observer didn't feel it though. Its concealed presence on the other side of the street cast no shadow onto the snow-dappled ground. Its breath formed no condensation. Its narrow-slitted eyes unwavering in their attention.

The old man was at the bottom of the steps now. He took a quick glance back at the brightly lit porch before pulling his chamois coat tighter and pressing on down the path ahead. The figure smiled, a patient smile. A smile born of experience. It had been the same as this for the past three nights, the slow shuffle to the path followed by a turn to the right, to collect logs for the fire. On the previous nights though the man had emerged earlier, when the sun was still setting and the darkness yet to close in. But not tonight.

The figure crouched, a brief release of excitement in an otherwise controlled performance. It was so close now. Its last kill had been a week ago, it wasn't like it needed to feed but the thrill, the joy of it drew him ever back. Its senses felt sharp, its muscles taut. As the man disappeared from view the creature crept forwards. Its soft leathery feet making no sound on the hard concrete, its eyes clearly making out the way despite the lack of anything but the moon for guidance. It had been leaving the town when it had come across this place, and the opportunity seemed too good to pass up. Isolated at the end of a long, hilly road the cottage was well set back from the road and lay alone, surrounded by dense woodland and fields. In the day, when the light burned it, the creature took refuge in the woods. What little sunlight made it through the persistent cloud subsequently failed to break through the tightly packed leaves and branches leaving the creature relatively free to wander. From this shaded position it had come to observe the life, as it was, of the old man currently struggling to lift logs into his feeble arms. He lived alone, and stayed indoors mainly. Only venturing out when the postman came, for a chat, or to clear the fallen snow and ice from his patio and garden.

From outside looking in it seemed a waste. A waste of life, to be spent in such isolation, in such mundanity. The creature was incensed by this. It's bloodlust growing with every thought, its patience tested with every day spent watching, waiting. But it had to be cautious. Time the great teacher had imparted that lesson and it heeded it well. Its continued existence was testament to that, its relative rarity compared to the past a constant reminder. The confidence of power is foolishness, and so he watched and waited. Until tonight.

Moving closer still the nameless creature entered the gate silently and made for the cover of the trees to the left. It's inky black skin made it hard to detect but it was taking no chances. Meticulous hunters they may be, but a frailty that had never been bred out remained, the creatures were no match for gun or flame, the development and use of which had diminished the once thriving populations to what they were now. Ancient they may be, but it was only a select few who survived the upheaval mankind wrought on the world. An age, a second, a century but a blink. Their perception of time shifted so that it seemed a blur, this ascension. This infestation of a once empty planet. So they retreated to the shadows, what remoteness remained provided shelter, but the instinct remained. The urge to hunt and to kill. They could not bend to it, they could not adapt. So those smart enough, cunning enough, forged a life as best they could, picking on the old and frail. The weak and alone. Somewhere deep inside the shame of this burned, but those flames had long since been dimmed. Survival had prevailed and any semblance of fairness swept aside. As the creature watched the man now, struggling to balance logs in his arms, his body quivering in the cold, it felt momentary disgust with all that had lead to this point. But the rage was entering its eyes now, it was ready to throw caution aside. Why worry about one little old man, a legacy of pain and death and triumphant destruction pared down to this? Its last victim, an old lady it had found walking the long road back to town one night was a distant memory now. At the time the taste of her had been as sweet as any it remembered, but the thrill never lasted these days. With no challenge, no righteous competition it was a hollow victory. It was a slave to its impulses. To its past.

The man turned away now, this was the chance. The creature made his way up behind, its feet expertly navigating the icy patches that remained, the snow that had settled muffling the sound. It raised its hands, that familiar rush coursed through its very being, its claws outstretched it leapt. The old man had no chance, he hadn't even moved.

Except.

Except... blinding pain rattled the creatures skull knocking it backwards. Light shimmered and the sky encircled. It lay on the freezing ground as the figure of the old man swam into view. In his hands was held a large axe, the logs lay fallen to the side. The axe handle came down again, the stricken creature was now the helpless one, unable to move, it gasped as new waves of pain drowned its meagre consciousness.

“Disappointing.” The old man grunted as he grabbed the unconscious creature by the legs and began dragging it along, “I was hoping for a bit more of a fight.”

*

When the creature woke it was strapped down to a wooden table, the room was dark, but the nearby embers of a fire provided illumination enough for it to take in its surroundings. Sparsely decorated, the kitchen was rustic but modern. It tried to move, fruitlessly and awaited the end.

The man entered soon, except now he was different. There was a spring in his step, his ambling gait had been replaced, his withered tiredness replaced by an oddly youthful excitement.

“I wanted you awake for this” the man spoke calmly as he approached, the axe still in his hands. “We do best to abide by the old customs, and at least for that you deserve a death of some honour.” The creature understood him, but could not respond. It regarded him with a look as icy as the old man's tone.

“You do what you were raised, same as me I reckon. Heard rumours of one of you in the village last couple weeks, wasn't hard to clock when you turned up here. Your kind never can resist this place, especially with such easy prey lurking within.”

The man leant on the axe now, surveying the creature with contempt, but little joy. “Have to admit you were more cautious than the others. Tricky one I've got here, I thought. But still predictable. I'll not prolong it, just so you know. But wanted a chance to see you. To remember. It's bigger than us, my dad used to say, this war. I don't know much about that but I do my part. Mostly though I wanted you to hear this. To hear that we will end you, your entire parasitic race. To let you know that you lost. To see that look in your face.”

The creature's eyed narrowed, its release was coming. This world wasn't theirs any more. It refused to close its eyes as the axe swung down.

*

The man mounted the head above the fireplace, as he always did. The creature joined its brothers, their lifeless eyes staring forever ahead.

Stepping back down from his handiwork the old man grabbed another log from the basket and threw it on the softly glowing embers of the fire, before sitting back down in his armchair, his feet resting up on the nearby table. In front of him the fire sparked back to life.