21 Jump Street

21 Jump Street is a really good movie I had no idea I wanted to see. And I don’t think you could really blame me, either. The movie is an adaptation of a television series from the late 1980s about a couple of mismatched rookie cops who go undercover as high school students in an effort to fight teenage crime. I hear something like that and alarm bells go off. Buddy cop flicks and high school comedies are among the more well-worn and predictable genres knocking around movie theaters today, and the prospect of mashing them together didn’t sound terribly appealing. I think the makers of 21 Jump Street realized this, because their movie makes merry and merciless fun of its many influences in addition to providing a steady stream of inventive gags and adding just enough heart to keep the whole experience from feeling pointless. I get the idea that everyone involved in the movie had a blast making it, and that enthusiasm can’t help but rub off on audiences.

Any discussion of the movie’s many strong points has to start with its playful screenplay, which was written by Scott Pilgrim vs. the World scribe Michael Bacall. The film quickly makes clear that it will not be taking itself or its origins seriously. There’s an early scene where Police Captain Dickson (Ice Cube) decries the media’s attempts to repackage old entertainment and pass it off as new in the hopes to make a quick buck. The moment is played completely straight, as it has to be, and it works. Bacall also has fun toying with the templates of high school comedies past. The two undercover cops at the center of the story, smart but shy Schmidt (Jonah Hill) and dim-witted man of action Jenko (Channing Tatum), are both in their mid-20s and completely flummoxed by how much the high school social scene has changed since they’ve been away. The popular kids are no longer the coasting jocks but are instead the environmentally conscious, Berkeley-bound hipsters. Schmidt’s love interest isn’t a bombshell cheerleader but an earthy, sweetly funny theater-geek. The movie keeps throwing out little curveballs like this all the way up to the closing credits, and it’s a lot better for it.

Bacall places much of the comedy on the shoulders of his stars, and they’re more than up to the task. At this point in his career, Jonah Hill has the endearingly insecure guy-next-door thing down to a science. He’s awkwardly affecting in early scenes that show his geeky high school past and wryly self-effacing for the rest. But the real surprise here is Tatum, who up to now has been known mainly as an action star or That Handsome Guy in sickly sweet melodramas like The Vow. With this movie he shows a real talent for deadpan comedy. Better still, the leads don’t hog all to the laughs to themselves. Like last year’s Bridesmaids, 21 Jump Street makes a point to fill out the minor roles with a host of comedy veterans and, what’s more impressive, to actually give them things to do. Saturday Night Live’s Chris Parnell gets a few laughs as the spaced-out head of the school’s theater program, The Office’s Ellie Kemper amuses as a lusty science teacher, and so on. I think this inclusiveness is one of the reasons the movie feels so damn cheerful so much of the time. Even after the twentieth-odd dick joke, even as a character lay bleeding on the ground with a hole shot through his throat, the whole thing seemed so good-natured that I couldn’t help but like it.

Although the hole through the throat bit was pushing it. The one element of 21 Jump Street that doesn’t work quite as well as the rest of it are the action scenes, which for the most part feel too much like standard car chase n’ shootout fare to make much of an impact. Although at one point there is a killer gag involving an overturned tank trunk that stubbornly refuses to explode. There are also a couple of scenes, like the throat shot one, that feel a shade too violent for a movie that’s normally so easy-going. I like that the movie was willing to go there, but for me those scenes skirted too close to the line between so-sick-it’s-funny and just kinda sick.

But hey, at least the movie’s not afraid to earn its R rating. And the bulk of it is so fresh, so free-wheeling and warmly funny, that it might force me to revise my opinion of all television from the 80s. If this movie is a sign of things to come, why not go ahead and make a Magnum P.I. adaptation? Revive Doogie Howser. Call Chris Rock and get cracking on a Cosby Show flick. Good on the producers of 21 Jump Street for taking a movie people probably didn’t expect much from and turning it into something worth seeing.

The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword

.


The Legend of Zelda is a big deal. The first entry in the series came out in 1986 and represented one of the industry’s first attempts to make a game which focused on adventure over action. Nintendo spent several years refining that formula before coming out with The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time in 1998. That game was one of the first to effectively implement combat in a 3D space and featured one of the richest, most fully realized game worlds of the time. The series has spawned a swath of imitators, made a ton of money, and is partly responsible for Nintendo’s venerability as a developer. It’s a big deal.

At the same time, The Legend of Zelda is a chore. The last few games in the series, 2002’s Wind Waker and 2006’s Twilight Princess among them, have switched up the aesthetics but kept the core gameplay more or less unchanged. Add in 2007’s Phantom Hourglass and 2009’s Spirit Tracks, and the Legend of Zelda seems in danger of stagnating.

So comes Skyward Sword, a game which has the unenviable task of paving a new path for the series while remaining faithful enough to its past to please long-time fans. It’s a fine, fine line, and while I don’t think the game always walks it successfully, Skyward Sword is still a full, lengthy adventure with a lot to offer and enjoy.

The more things change…

Although they’ve played it safe in terms of gameplay, the last few Zelda games have at least taken us to some interesting places. The Wind Waker was set on a vast ocean. Twilight Princess took place in a darker, relatively more realistic version of Hyrule. Skyward Sword continues that trend. This time, Link begins his adventure as a citizen of a floating island called Skyloft where he spends his days napping, riding around on the back of a giant bird, called a Loftwing, and hanging out with his best bud Zelda. The game spends quite a lot of time upfront introducing the player to the characters and their world. It’s nice to get an idea of who Zelda is and what she means to Link, but it didn’t take long before I was itching to get to the game part of the game. When a mysterious storm tosses Zelda off the back of her Loftwing and down to the mysterious surface world below, I was more than ready to chase after her and start adventurin’.

Upon reaching the surface, the player starts to realize just how different Skyward Sword will be from past games in the series. First up are the controls: Skyward Sword makes use of the Wii-motion Plus attachment to give the player complete one-to-one control over Link’s sword arm. Move the Wii-mote to the left, and Link moves his sword to the left. Make a downward slash with your arm, and Link makes a downward slash with his. This new degree of control is enjoyable in and of itself. It’s fun to just run around and make Link wave his arm like a lunatic, but Nintendo has also cleverly integrated this feature into the gameplay. Many monsters will block or counter your attacks unless you swing at them from a certain angle. This makes combat a touch more cerebral than in past adventures.

As usual, Nintendo provides Link with a bevy of weapons and tools, most of which make use of the new motion controls. Items like the slingshot and the bow work about how you would expect, but a few of Link’s new toys are pretty inspired. The whip, for example, lets Link swing from banisters and yank far-away switches, while an air cannon allows for some interesting physics-based platforming. Best of all is the Beetle, an airborne, remotely controlled drone that can be used to scout terrain, pick up far-off items, and air-bomb enemies. The dungeon areas, always a highlight of the Zelda games, challenge the player to use these items in inventive ways. Thanks to them, some of the latter dungeons are among the most deviously well-designed in the history of the series. There are a few points where the motion controls come off as gimmicky, such as when Link has to rotate three-dimensional keys to unlock giant doors, but for the most part they breathe interesting new life into Zelda’s puzzle and combat-based gameplay.

The changes don’t end with the controls. The geographical structure of Skyward Sword is markedly different from past iterations in the series. In most Zelda games, Link runs around a vast, interconnected over-world in search of dungeons, treasure, and whatever else. In Skyward Sword, the world is divided into a number of independent sections. First there’s Link’s home in the sky. Here, Link can interact with villages, fly to surrounding islands on his Loftwing, and undertake side-quests. Link is safe in the sky, and eventually it starts to feel like a pit stop between his more dangerous journeys to the surface world, which itself is divided into three discrete areas none of which are accessible from any of the others. Rather than try and compete with open world games the likes of Skyrim, Nintendo seems to have gone in the other direction and compartmentalized its game world to a greater degree than ever before.

This choice might rub purists the wrong way, but it definitely gives the game focus. You’ll never be confused as to where to go next; a new section of unexplored surface will be all but roped off for you. The world is also far denser than it was before. When getting from point A to point B in Twilight Princess, the player had to transverse a huge but kind of empty area that gave him freedom but didn’t provide much to do with it. The surface areas in Skyward Sword are smaller but are packed to bursting with monsters, terrain-based puzzles, and goodies placed just out of sight or out of reach. In this game, the world is basically an extension of the even denser dungeons. I wish Nintendo had found a way to connect the surface areas into a unified whole, but the smaller scale ensures that minute-to-minute gameplay is faster, more stimulating, and ultimately very satisfying.

But that razor-sharp focus has some unintended consequences. Because the game made my objectives so very clear so much of the time, I started to become very aware of the fact that I was playing out a pre-set pattern rather than embarking on an adventure. Go to a new area. Explore it, make your way through the dungeon, beat the boss, and repeat. This tedious predictability is especially stark in the early goings when the areas explored are most similar to those from Zelda games past, and it takes some of the gee-whiz fun out of the experience.

…the more they stay the same.

That experience is helped and hindered in about equal measure by the game’s story, which is probably among the more robust tales the series has told. That still makes it pretty slim by modern standards, but there are some unexpectedly impactful moments and the principal characters are charmingly drawn. Link remains a mute, but thanks to the game’s effective facial animations he is a very expressive mute. The character of Zelda, who is often relegated to sitting in a tower or getting spirited away to a demon dimension early in the game, is well-developed. I was surprised how easy it was to sympathize with Link’s desire to find her after she is, inevitably, kidnapped.

One character I could have done without is Fi, this game’s version of Navi the fairy. Ever since introducing us to Navi in Ocarina of Time, Nintendo has felt the need to saddle Link with an ever-present partner who occasionally gives unsolicited information about what he should do next. Fi, a spirit who lives in Link’s sword, is easily the worst of this lot. She pops up at the slightest provocation to interrupt the flow of the game and impart incredibly obvious bits of wisdom. A sample: Link enters a room in search of an item. Fi: “The item you seek is in this room. Find it and complete your task.” I loathed her. This is one Zelda tradition I would be very happy to see taken behind a shed and shot.

That tension between tradition and progression is apparent throughout. Skyward Sword’s best sections throw enough new material at the player to make him forget that he’s playing the fifteenth entry in a long-running series, while the worst remind him that parts of the series remain stuck in the past. A section involving a search for a pirate ship on a time-traveling ocean is unexpected and delightful, while an Ico-inspired protect-the-tag-along trek up a familiar mountainside is deeply tedious. One water-based dungeon features eastern-inspired architecture, a giant statue that figures prominently in several puzzles, and a mysterious lower level that gives it a real sense of place. Another dungeon, the fire one, doesn’t do much to stand out and feels like an excuse to present us with yet more blow-up-the-false-wall puzzles. Nintendo made some brave choices with this game, but I think they should have made even more.

One tradition I do support is Nintendo’s continued commitment to excellent production values. The game’s score, which is fully orchestrated, sounds very rich and features a number of memorable tunes. Graphically, the game is bright and bold with more than a few artistic flourishes. The art style is a combination of the Saturday morning cartoon look from Wind Waker and the relatively realistic vibe from Twilight Princess. I think it’s a good look for the series going forward.

It feels a bit petty to complain about Skyward Sword’s failure to reinvent the wheel when I know that, shortcomings aside, it’s still a excellent game. It’s consistently entertaining, polished to a shine, and in some respects is very inventive. But I know Nintendo is capable of more. They CAN reinvent the wheel; I’ve seen them do it, and if they want the Legend of Zelda to remain the big deal it is they may have to do it again. Skyward Sword isn’t quite up to that challenge, but it remains a fine, fun game more than worth your time and money.

Midnight in Paris

My, did I ever smile while watching Midnight in Paris. I started almost immediately. The movie opens with a series of shots showing Paris on a dry morning that passes into a rainy night. The sequence is unabashedly romantic and completely effective. I smiled when we meet Gil, played by Owen Wilson, who’s visiting Paris with his mismatched fiancé Inez. He’s an unsatisfied screenwriter who dreams of living and working in the City of Lights as it was in the 1920s, a time when writers like Hemingway and Fitzgerald walked the streets in the gathering dusk and labored to create things of great beauty. She wants to shop. And I really started to smile when Gil, alone and a little drunk on some Parisian street corner, is beckoned into a passing car and borne back into that Paris from the past. I didn’t really stop smiling until I was well out of the theater.

The conceit behind the movie is immensely appealing, and it is made all the more so by Allen’s decision not to try and explain it. At midnight in Paris, Gil passes into the past where he rubs elbows with famous figures from the age. Gil accepts it, we see it, and nothing more need be said. The mechanic provides Allen with many opportunities to surprise and delight the audience. It’s a kick to see his take on Ernest Hemingway, who speaks in strong staccato statements which seem taken straight from his books, or Salvador Dali, who approaches even ordinary topics with the bizarre flourish befitting a surrealist. There’s always a new nugget to be unearthed, and those possessing even a passing familiarity with the period will be very charmed.

Key to the movie’s success is Owen Wilson’s low-key portrayal of Gil, this film’s stand-in for Woody Allan. As an actor, Allen has a fidgety, nervous presence. No matter what’s happening on screen, we get the sense that he’s not really enjoying it. Wilson is different. He’s laconic, relaxed, and earnest. When Gil meets his literary heroes he’s stunned into delighted silence, and we buy it. His humility is one of the things which make him attractive to Adriana, a simpering French siren played with the perfect touch of understated vulnerability by Marion Cotillard. It’s easy to see why Gil prefers Adriana, who lives in the 20s, to his materialistic fiancé, played by Rachel McAdams, although the script doesn’t really give the latter a chance to show off any redeeming qualities.

Ultimately that doesn’t much matter, since Midnight in Paris is principally about setting a mood and a tone. At this Allen has become an expert. Paris as observed here becomes very nearly as bewitching to the audience as it does to Gil. The colors are rich and everywhere there is soft light. Dreamy music unfolds slowly from the background. At one point a character comments that Paris looks most beautiful in the rain. As she and Gil walk across a bridge while lights twinkle in the distance and rain patters on the cobble-stones, we’re hard-pressed to disagree. This may be a post-card Paris, but as seen through Allen’s camera, with its lingering long takes and highlighting of landmarks in the night, it all seems impossibly romantic.

Which, incidentally, is the point. Allen eventually makes an observation about the folly of this kind of unattainable romanticism, but the appeal of the movie, I think, lies mainly in its willingness to embrace it. This Paris is the kind of sparkling, shining place one visits in their unbidden daydreams. It’s exciting and sexy and soft in a way that exists only in the movies, and for that I think it deserves respect, and a sigh.

Shame

The main character in Shame is named Brandon. He’s young, good-looking, rich, and lives in a plush Manhatten apartment. He's also a sex addict. At home he spends a lot of time looking at pornography. At work he ducks into the bathroom to masturbate. He doesn’t go on many dates but hires a lot of expensive call-girls. His life, in short, is full of meaningless sex for which we are given to believe he is ashamed.

So we are given to believe, but we don’t really know. The film, directed by artist Steve McQueen, is maddeningly vague. Brandon is played by Michael Fassbinder as a guy who spends a lot of time staring silently at things. He stares silently at married women on the subway. He stares silently as his bumbling boss fails to pick up women in a bar. I don’t know what he’s thinking during these moments and I feel like I should. Eventually, I got tired of guessing.

Michael Fassbinder is a talented actor. He’s the kind of sculpted, slow-burning method man you would want playing a sex addict. And there are moments, most of them near the end of the movie, when he finally lets the audience in on the self-hatred at the root of Brandon’s addiction. Those moments work. Fassbinder is also game for the movie’s many sex scenes, during which he does things many actors would be unwilling to do. His willingness to take chances is admirable, but without context those scenes don’t make much of an impact. Most of the time Brandon is an impassive mask, his eyes smoldering with… something… buried deep within. Good as the performance may be, it can’t overcome the strangely incomplete script.

The best example of that frustration is the character of Sissy. Played by Carey Mulligan, Sissy shows up out of the blue one night at Brandon’s apartment. Brandon is surprised to see her, and as the two argue the audience tries to figure out how they know each other. Is she his girlfriend, his wife, or something else? It turns out that she’s his emotionally needy sister, but we don’t learn that until well after she’s introduced. The movie is full of these little oversights, and most of them blow past directorial subtlety into the realm of the deliberately obtuse. The film refuses to give us a context in which we can sympathize with the characters, so we don’t.

What it gives us instead are a series of scenes and shots so self-indulgently artistic that they seem to exist merely to draw attention to themselves. A sample: Brandon and Sissy have a long argument while framed in profile. A black-and-white cartoon plays in the background. I don’t know why. Brandon goes on a nighttime run through the streets of Manhatten while the camera tracks his movement for at least forty seconds after the audience has lost interest. Easily the worst offender: Sissy, a nightclub performer, stares into the camera and sings “New York, New York” so slowly that the club could have closed and opened several times over before she finishes. Maybe if I knew who Sissy was, or who Brandon was, or what they had at stake, I would have been intrigued. As it stood I was just bored.

The most frustrating thing about Shame is that its biggest mistakes could have been avoided by giving us just a little more information. As I read it, Brandon and Sissy share in some secret pain from their past that has badly damaged them both. I don’t know what that pain is. I think I would have enjoyed the film more if I did. Things do pick up near the end, after Brandon has dragged himself through the seventh circle of sexual hell and we get a better idea of what he and Sissy mean to each other. But by then it’s far too little, far too late. Michael Fassbinder’s star is rising very fast and this film won’t slow it down, but it won’t be remembered as a milestone in his career either. I look forward to things better, brighter, and a bit more clear.

Chop Shop

Chop Shop is a movie that takes several roads less traveled. It’s set in New York City, but on the outskirts of Queens among a network of factories and gnarled roads rather than in glittering Manhatten. It is about children, but Chop Shop’s 11 year-old Alejandro is a far cry from the plucky street urchins of Oliver! and Slumdog Millionaire. Ale is a tough customer, a prematurely mature survivor who works long days to support himself while the kids across the bridge go to school. The movie is about the impoverished, but it neither demonizes nor deifies them. Chop Shop is a bug’s eye view of American life, and it sees it with a tender eye for detail.

The story begins as Ale meets his 16-year-old sister Isamar at a train station. They appear not to have seen each other for a while. We don’t know where she’s been or why she’s back, nor do we know where their parents are. We can assume that their lives up to this point haven’t been easy, but the details aren’t very important and the movie has more pressing things to address. What is immediately apparent is that the two have a very warm rapport borne out of a long relationship. Ale is the dominant personality. He gets Isamar a job as a short-order cook and finds her a place to sleep: with him in the room above the titular garage where he works one of his many jobs. Isamar approaches this new life reluctantly; she’s been disappointed before, we sense. Meanwhile, always-active Ale assures her that the job is good, the room is big, and that soon the two of them will be making money hand over fist. A pattern emerges.

The movie is not plotted like most movies. It has an arc, but not one built out of an increasingly tense and meaningful series of scenes. The bulk of Chop Shop is made up of little moments, things which give us insight into the lives of these people and the dreams they must bury to live them. There is a shot of Ale waxing a car while a more seasoned garage worker guides his hands. In another shot, Ale and his friend chuck a few rocks in the city sun. Director Ramin Bahrani is adept at suggesting the plights and thoughts of his characters in simple, effective ways. In one memorable shot, Ale climbs onto a squat rooftop after a hard night’s work and pauses to look at Shea Stadium, aglow in floodlights, towering in the distance. The crowd cheers, and we know everything Ale is thinking.

This economical filmmaking serves the movie well. As could be expected, Bahrani shoots this material in a rough, kinetic manner. There are a lot of hand-held shots and simple set-ups. In terms of style, the movie has been likened to Italian neo-realist films of the 1950s, but that comparison does the movie a disservice by aggrandizing it. The movie shows exactly what it needs to show to get its point across; it is clean, direct, unobtrusive. Any comparisons that can be made to other films are incidental; the movie is just itself. In an attempt to keep things as grounded in reality as possible, Bahrani uses non-actors for pretty much all of both the major and minor roles. The movie is a slice of life in the truest sense of the phrase.

At eighty-four minutes, Chop Shop is a quick ride, but is no longer than it needs to be. It’s refreshing to see a movie about poverty and the impoverished that has no particular axe to grind. Ale and Isamar work very hard, all day and every day. They have fun, they dream, and we get to see them do it for a little while. They’ll keep at it after we’ve left.

Movie Review: Barry Lyndon

Herein is contained a review of the film Barry Lyndon, its title character’s rise and fall, its methods, and its view of the world.

Every once in a while during Stanley Kubrick’s 1975 costume drama, a title card like that will fade onto the screen, announcing the film’s intentions. The movie also has a narrator, a voice of calm British detachment who tells us what turns the plot will take long before they arrive. Clearly, the movie is not interested in keeping us in suspense, and even without the narrator’s help we sense the direction the story is taking. The movie chronicles several years in the life of its title character, observing his transformation from a penniless Irish nobody into a member of the 18th century British nobility and his subsequent return to his original status. But the events of the movie are not as important as the movie’s attitude towards them, and as observed by its director they are a long, empty endeavor devoid of any human warmth or meaning.

It’s definitely a Stanley Kubrick movie.

The movie’s bleakly ironic outlook is established in its first shot. Two men are seen in an extreme long shot, staring each other down from opposite edges of the screen. They are each pointing guns at the other. The narrator informs us that Barry Lyndon, born Redford Berry, was the son of a lawyer and was destined for a great future in the law… Pop! A shot rings out and one of the men falls dead. …had his father not been killed in a duel. Already, Kubrick has made clear how little value life has in this universe. We never see the men’s faces; their persons are tiny against the daytime horizon. We have only known Barry’s father for the space of a single shot, not long enough to sympathize with his fate. And even if we knew him better, the calmly mannered narration lets us know that his death is something to be observed rather than mourned. Kubrick will cultivate and encourage this level of detachment throughout the length of the film.

One of the principle ways he does this is through the photography. In the early stretches of the movie, Kubrick often shoots his characters from far away, isolating them within large, beautifully panoramic shots of the English and Irish country-sides. There are vast, foggy Irish moors and verdant English hills; the movie soaks up landscape. These shots are wonderful to look at, sometimes seeming more like paintings than moving images, but their austerity sets an example the characters in the story cannot quite live up to. The life of Barry Lyndon is one filled with power plays and petty grievances, and neither he nor anyone else seems to notice the natural beauty around them. In one early passage, Barry has an awkward lover’s quarrel with his cousin Nora, who is leaving him for an older, richer English captain. They squabble in one corner of the screen as we look past them to a lake so picturesque it might as well have been painted right onto the film. Kubrick always finds a way to prevent us from getting too involved in the character’s plights.

Barry uses one opportunistic trick after another to improve his status in life. He goes from an Irish farmhand to an English soldier, from an army deserter to a professional gambler and finally to a member of the English upper class after he woos and marries Lady Lyndon, an aristocrat’s daughter and heir to a large fortune. At this point the film leaves the wide-open spaces of the first half and retreats into interiors. Much has been made of the fact that many of these scenes, in particular those lit by candle-light, used no artificial lighting whatsoever. Perhaps because of the limitations inherent in using such low-light conditions, the actors in these shots are barely allowed to move but for small jerks of their heads and hands. As the earlier exterior shots resembled landscape paintings, so do these interiors resemble precisely arranged still-lifes. The characters are quite literally trapped in space, posed for our viewing pleasure. They have only their faces to express themselves.

Curious then that the actors seem to have been directed to look as blank as possible. Kubrick has chosen as his principal players Ryan O’Neil and Marisa Berenson, who play Barry and Lady Lyndon respectively. O’Neil was a heartthrob at the time the movie was made, and Kubrick uses his matinee good looks as a kind of mask to cover whatever thought might be stewing inside Barry’s head. The narrator tells us that Barry is angry, or sad, or in love, but O’Neil’s face doesn’t change very much, and his voice doesn’t rise. As Lady Lyndon, Marisa Berenson is even more an impassive figure. In one shot, Kubrick slowly zooms out on her face as she sits, elegantly posed in her period dress, on a sofa. The narrator tells us that she feels depressed because of Barry’s philandering, but we can’t help but think that she looks like nothing so much as part of the furniture.


If all of this talk of detachment sounds critical of the film, it is not meant to be. Most movies are fascinated with their characters. They want to get to know them, and they want the audience to sympathize with their problems. In Barry Lyndon, Kubrick all but dares the audience to keep as great an emotional distance from the characters as possible. The events of Barry Lyndon are the stuff of high adventure. Over the course of his life, Barry is robbed at gunpoint, participates in the Seven Years War, becomes a Prussian spy, marries into opulence and fights not one but two gentlemanly duels to the death. Yet all of it is regarded with as much interest as are cornfields passing outside of a car window. The movie discourages audience involvement to the point of being audacious.

So what does the movie gain by separating itself so thoroughly from the audience? It draws our attention to the sumptuously photographed environments, for one thing. But its main function, I think, is to present us with a certain point of view. By robbing us of suspense, by photographing the story so dispassionately, and by giving us performances more mannequin than method, Kubrick gives us no choice but to view the storied life of Barry Lyndon with cool indifference. It is an attitude that seeps into the audience throughout the movie, and perhaps even lingers afterward. It is an attitude that most movies, even most Kubrick movies, do not engender.

Kubrick never really made films that were autobiographical, but this one strikes me as one of his most personal. His movies were often criticized for being cold and lifeless. With Barry Lyndon, he admits that while this may be so, that does not make them any less worthwhile. It merely means that while most movies see the world one way, his movies see it another.

Silent Hill: Shattered Memories

.


Long, long ago, in 1999, Konami released a game called Silent Hill. That game cast the player as everyman Harry Mason and followed him as he groped his way through the decrepit, fog-drenched titular town in search of his young daughter Cheryl, who he finds to have disappeared from his side following an unfortunate car crash. Eleven years, five games and one feature film later, and Konami is right back in the driver’s seat. Silent Hill: Shattered Memories is a unique horror game which recycles the set-up of the 1999 original while changing just about everything else. Some characters and set pieces are re-imagined while others are replaced or discarded altogether. The series’ well known otherworld of ruin and rust is replaced by a hell of ice and snow, and the game jettisons the clunky combat of its predecessors for a quieter, cleaner style of play. It’s not the Silent Hill players are used to. It’s a bold new vision for the town with its own cache of new ideas. It can still scare players sleepless, though; welcome back to Silent Hill.

I became a fan of the Silent Hill games in 2001 with the release of Silent Hill 2 for the Playstation 2. The moment I began a long walk down a quiet hillside and into a dense blanket of fog, something was different. Most horror games, Resident Evil, Fatal Frame, and more recently Dead Space among them, are content to startle the player. Every time you walk past a window, or a broken door, or a rickety grate, you know something foul and ferocious with teeth like razors is going to burst forth and start to claw at your face, and that’s scary. But it isn’t haunting. From the very beginning, Silent Hill didn’t just want to startle the player: it wanted to stick with him. The series was never shy about fucking with the player’s head, unleashing its unique brand of nightmare imagery right when it was least expected and making the player wonder whether any of it was really happening. It doesn’t just yell out “boo” and call it a day. Silent Hill wants to get to know you before it scares the shit out of you.

Shattered Memories takes that idea and runs with it. Most of the game plays like other entries in the series, with the player exploring the town of Silent Hill in all of its crumbling glory. But Shattered Memories adds several new wrinkles, not the least of which is when it literally subjects the player to psychotherapy. During these interludes, the player sits in a chair and stares immobile at the confines of a comfy office while a therapist wanders about talking of death, guilt, sex, and more. You will fill out questionnaires, play with a coloring book, answer personal queries and otherwise reveal yourself to the game. Or not. There’s no requirement that you be honest with your therapist, but the game keeps closer track of your answers than you might think, and it becomes quickly apparent that what you do in the doctor’s office is reflected outside of it. It’s an interesting layer, it’s not something games usually do, and it underscores something that has always been unique to the Silent Hill games: the horror here is personal.

That’s something Harry Mason learns the hard way, and his quest to find his missing daughter will take many a horrific turn before it concludes. Narrative has always been an important part of the Silent Hill games, and the best ones consist of slow but sure pacing, an atmosphere thick with uncertainly and a steady descent into the surreal. Shattered Memories keeps pace nicely with the best of its predecessors, presenting the town not so much as a damned place infested with Hell-spawn than as a mirror for Harry’s own fears. The series has always located horror in the familiar, in side-streets and shopping malls, in hospitals and family homes. We're not in a Gothic mansion or on a derelict spaceship; Silent Hill is a small town the likes of which many players might recognize, and that allows it to slide under the skin in a way that more fantastical games cannot. The plot unfolds elegantly, circling around questions never quite answered until the player has sunken deep into the mystery. Harry will interact with other characters who aren’t quite right; their identities merge, fall apart, and reconstruct themselves before Harry’s eyes. If the game weren’t paced so swiftly all of this ambiguity might begin to wear thin, but the developers are always nudging the player on to the next area or scene. When answers finally do come, and they do, time has passed quickly.

It also passes easily, thanks to some well-conceived and implemented gameplay ideas by developer Climax. It goes without saying that the game controls better than early entries in the series, which had characters that moved like broken tanks. Shattered Memories smartly locks the camera behind the player’s shoulder, allowing him free range of movement and the ability to look around the world at will. It is the innovation of this game to keep the player very firmly planted in that world. The game makes excellent use of the Wii Remote Controller, letting it stand in as the player’s perpetually useful flashlight. Want to see what’s in that dark corner? You need merely point to it. Want to read that sign? Wave the Wii-Mote at it and zoom in. The implementation is so natural and practical it’s a small miracle more developers haven’t tried it.

Also adding to the sense of immersion is Harry’s handy cell phone, which allows him to do everything from calling other characters to checking his whereabouts on a GPS map to saving the game. Like the flashlight, it’s a natural inclusion which both serves a vital gameplay purpose and makes sense within the context of the narrative. Thanks to smart design decisions like these, navigating through Silent Hill has never been easier.

Of course, the lack of any combat may have something to do with that. In a major break from Silent Hills past, Shattered Memories features absolutely no fighting. There are no monsters stalking the town's snowy streets, and for the most part Harry's only task is to weave his way through the haunted town on the lookout for new passageways to plumb and fresh puzzles to solve. Atmosphere takes center stage here, as the player is given ample opportunity to take in his lovingly detailed surroundings. The developers have filled their world with an assortment of eclectic clutter that gives the town real presence. Harry will come across ghostly visages he can reveal with his camera-phone. He can call up numbers scrawled on walls, manipulate objects with well-implemented Wii-controls and collect mementos left scattered across town. All of this interaction gives the town a wonderful sense of place that is indelibly creepy, monsters or no.

And then there are the moments when Harry has to run away from screeching, faceless terrors that want to rape him to death. Like past Silent Hill games, this one has an otherworld, a nightmarish mirror of what was already a pretty eerie area. Unlike past Silent Hill games, the player’s visits to this frightening realm are the only time when they will have to deal with any kind of external threat. They’re also one of the few times that the game stumbles. Because the angry creatures populating the otherworld are invincible, Harry has no choice but to run from them until the town regains some semblance of normalcy. And make no mistake: running in a blind panic from a horde of lumbering monstrosities is pretty damn scary. The problem is that the player too often doesn’t know which way to run and can only find out through trial and error. When that happens, fear can give way to frustration. These sequences don’t take up too much playtime and ultimately do what they’re supposed to do, but at their worst they feel like a chore.

One wonders if the game would have benefited if it were divided less discretely. When the otherworld takes over, you’ll know it. The music drops off, ungodly creatures begin to crawl out of the walls and the whole town is enveloped in sheets of blue ice. It’s a scary effect, but it lets the player know all too clearly that danger has arrived. The merely creepy town of Silent Hill begins to feel like a safe haven. Perhaps blending the two worlds a little more at the edges would have made both feel like more of a whole.

But considering how successful most of the innovations in this game are, I’d rather the developers experiment with new play styles than fall back on what has (and hasn’t) worked in the past. Silent Hill: Shattered Memories is a rousing success of a video game. It finds ingenious new ways to lock the player into the experience while staying firmly rooted in the world of the series. If the developer chooses to make another Silent Hill title in the same style as this one, I will eagerly await it. And yet if this is the series’ swan song, I think I’ll be just as pleased. Shattered Memories delivers on the central metaphor of the series more effectively than any game since Silent Hill 2: Silent Hill isn’t just a sleepy town infested with demons. It’s a dizzying nightscape sucked right from our heads and oozed onto a disc. It can scare us because it knows us and we it. You are now leaving Silent Hill, but you’ll be back. You’ll always be back, new game or not.