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briangroth27 · 7 years ago

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Tomb Raider Review

I had a lot of fun watching the latest Tomb Raider! Having never played the video games and barely remembering the two movies starring Angelina Jolie, I essentially went into this one fresh and thought it was a solid start to what will hopefully become a new franchise. I'm a big fan of pulpy treasure hunter movies, and this certainly hit the spot!

Full Spoilers…

Alicia Vikander is excellent as Lara Croft and she’s the strongest element of the film. The script gave Vikander a lot to work with, showcasing Lara as a charming smartass, a brilliant puzzle-solver, a badass survivor, an orphan determined to survive on her own, and a daughter grappling with the apparent death of her father Richard (Dominic West). I thought Lara not signing the papers that would declare her father dead and secure her inheritance because it was his money, not hers, was an interesting and unique spin on the billionaire orphan trope (of course her reasoning was also—if not moreso—about not wanting to admit her father was dead, which played really well for me). I liked that they didn’t have her immediately turn to his money the moment she got in trouble with the police, which legitimized the idea that she wouldn’t use it even if she absolutely had to. Had Ana (Kristin Scott Thomas) not shown up to bail her out, it seemed Lara was content to be fined/jailed for the illegal street race she participated in and for me, that defeats the “fake poor” criticism I’ve seen online: Lara wasn’t just acting poor until it became inconvenient. The early scenes do a great job of showing Lara knows how to handle herself and has a likable, winning way about her despite her tragic family history, making her a captivating action hero and lead. What really sold me on the action hero part (aside from Vikander’s clear dedication to the physicality of the role), however, is that the film takes time to show Lara getting winded and hurt by her incredible feats and fights, both of which clearly take a physical toll on her; she isn't an invulnerable superhero. Vikander is great in those moments and even better when the movie takes the time to show Lara's reaction to killing someone for the first time. That desperate fight to kill or be killed was extremely powerful and it made me wish other action movies would take more time to deal with the gravity of their heroes taking lives. Lara's connection to Richard was strong, but I wish we'd seen more of their relationship than him constantly leaving her in flashbacks (though that does connect nicely to their role reversal at the end of the film and as I’ve seen pointed out elsewhere, each flashback ends with her being self-sufficient after he’s gone, which is a cool touch). In addition to the gamut of emotions Lara gets to show off and the thrilling spectacle of the gauntlet she's put through once she reaches a secret island, the film is very clear about how smart she is and I loved that she had to use her intelligence just as much as her fists. Vikander makes a meal out of all of this, playing every aspect of Lara to the fullest, and is clearly having a blast. I hope she gets to come back to this role in a sequel.

Lara's search for Richard (and ultimately, her journey towards letting him go) was a good through-line for the film and I liked what West brought to the role. Seeking out the supernatural as a way to reconnect with his deceased wife was an interesting and understandable motivation. However, we didn't need to hear about the legend of Himiko twice and eliminating Richard’s opening narration would've held the mysteriousness of the island of Yamatai until Lara finds out about it. The film doesn’t really gain anything by putting the audience so far ahead of her and I didn’t need to that hook to keep me interested. I did like that Richard’s madness on Yamatai involved seeing visions of Lara reappearing to him after he'd abandoned her all those times in search of the island, but I wish that madness had been turned into a stumbling block for Lara at some point instead of just something he talks about. He could’ve seen “Lara,” only to have it be an illusion that puts him in danger; the fact that he’s apparently cured of his madness as soon as Lara finds him felt too easy.

Daniel Wu as solid as Lu Ren, Lara’s expedition partner whose father went missing with Richard. I would've liked more to Ren finding out Mathias Vogel (Walton Goggins) killed his father; there seemed to be a lot of untapped potential there. That Lara didn't actually lose her dad could've been seen as unfair in Ren’s eyes too. Why not use Ren being such a parallel to Lara's orphan arc to create some drama and possibly division between them? I also found it movie-convenient that Ren wasn't killed for inciting a worker rebellion that lets Lara escape; even with the justification that he'd be a useful slave, he'd been shot and wasn't at full strength anyway. There really isn't a plot purpose to his being around after freeing Lara from Vogel’s work camp either, so while I liked his character and Wu’s performance and certainly didn’t want him to die, I wish there had been more justification to such a ruthless villain not just executing a problem-causer beyond "he's the co-star." I did like that Ren and Lara kept saving each other, though, and would be up for him joining her on her further adventures. I wouldn’t mind a romance blossoming between them at some point, but I also liked that this movie makes no attempt to even suggest that Lara needs a guy to swoon over.

I thought Vogel not wanting to be separated from his family for the entirety of his search for the tomb was not only a clever parallel to Lara, Ren, and their fathers, but gave him dimension most villains in these films don't get. Instead of wanting to rule or destroy the world—or even just getting a big payday—his biggest concern was finishing the job so he could go home. I didn't sympathize with him—obviously his methods were horrid—but I was glad he had that human quality instead of being some monstrous caricature. Vogel is also used exactly as much as he needed to be (except when it comes to the potential fallout of having killed Ren’s father); he has enough presence to be a threat, but he isn’t overwhelming and felt like the cog in a larger machine he is.

I liked that the film fleshed out several facets of Lara’s life with human connections; friends (Hannah John-Kamen), coaches (Duncan Airlie James), gym rivals (Annabel Wood), coworkers (Billy Postlethwaite and Roger Nsengiyumva), and even a lovestruck customer (Antonio Aakeel) on her delivery route gave the sense that she had a full life (despite the hole her father's vanishing left in her) with a lot of history. Even if they only briefly appeared, it was great that the movie took the time to include them rather than limiting Lara’s interactions to plot-centric dealings with Ana and Croft Holdings. I hope to see many or all of these connections continue in any potential sequels: their reaction to Lara's wealth alone, to say nothing of her new day job, would make for some great stuff. Can she keep her normal friendships and be a globe-trotting archaeologist billionaire? Will she find that she’s become more comfortable without the Croft money? Will she need those grounded connections to keep herself level? Would she bring her friend Sophie along on an adventure?

The film reveals an overarching villain and that felt fresh for a treasure hunting franchise, if not Hollywood's affinity for sequels. One thing I found kinda cool about this setup is that Lara probably won’t be raiding tombs for museums (taking artifacts away from their cultures just because), but she’d be negating dangerous potential weapons, which seems more altruistic in a modern context. I liked the reveal of Ana's true motives for wanting Lara to sign off on her father's death, which convinced me of the viability of evil entity Trinity being at least somewhat run by Croft Holdings. I wonder if Richard's search for the supernatural was the basis for Trinity and if he'd been unknowingly feeding them information until his disappearance. If her father inadvertently started/fueled it, that would make Lara's quest to stop them even more personal. Maybe he reached out to those nefarious connections out of desperation on purpose, which could create an opportunity for Lara to see her father as a flawed man, not just the idealized figure whose only sin was that he was always leaving. I'm interested to see what Trinity wants to do if they get their hands on supernatural (or just very dangerous) artifacts; I hope they're not going to be cliché "take over the world" villains. I also wonder about keeping the size of Trinity as an organization to a scale Lara can stop on her own, but that's an issue for a potential sequel.

I've seen criticisms online that the film is clichéd, and while I'll grant that it doesn't have the most distinctive voice in terms of "action movie dialogue," I still found it engaging and thrilling. It's very solidly of the treasure hunter genre and though it doesn't subvert those kinds of tropes often, it executes them very well. A boat crash, river/plane adventure, and fight through a decrepit tomb were all very exciting sequences. I loved the death trapped-tomb and thought the film's spins on classic traps were fun (as was the minor trope subversion that they were in place to keep someone in, not out). I have zero problem with these kinds of pulpy movies embracing the supernatural elements at the center of their mythical legends—in fact, I usually prefer it—but the more grounded approach worked very well here, honoring the supernatural while maintaining a sense of realism and danger. Even without playing the video game this is based on, I'm a casual enough gamer that I caught homages to modern adventure games, like Lara monkey-barring over a destroyed walkway and stealthily sneaking through the villains' camp. Honoring those source material bits didn't pull me out of the movie at all and I liked those nods to the games. On the other hand, Lara getting her iconic twin guns did feel a little more like fan service than a natural evolution of her character (she never seemed to need guns on her adventure and mostly seemed to favor a bow to picking up dropped guns), but that may also be my unease with what felt like a slight glorification of guns (though granted, this wasn’t anywhere near the gratuitous glorification of AR-15s in Thor Ragnarok). Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a little fan service and Lara can have a different opinion of firearms than I do without me disliking her character. That brief throwaway nod to the games didn't sully the film for me or anything.

The action throughout the film was solid and surprisingly brutal. The only sequence that I thought felt extraneous was Lara's chase after—and then flight from—a trio of muggers in China, but it was a well-structured chase and did include a moment of Lara hesitating to leap off a dock after them, showing some early limits to her derring-do. That chase also coincidentally leads her to Ren, and he could've been introduced as belligerently drunk (entertainingly so, for sure!) to Lara by herself without having to scare off the thieves. Otherwise, the action was great and had a really nice variety to it. There were only four or five shots where the CGI was noticeable; in the other action sequences it was totally convincing (if there at all). The sense that they were doing practical stunts (even if they weren't) and the danger in Vikander's expressions definitely helped sell the impact of the injuries Lara sustained as she narrowly escaped death over and over.

Despite a few missed opportunities for greater interpersonal conflict among the heroes and perhaps a need to punch up the dialogue beyond what's expected of this genre, Tomb Raider is a blast! The mystery is cool, the action is great, and Vikander is outstanding. I'd definitely follow her on another adventure and absolutely recommend this one!

Check out more of my reviews, opinions, and original short stories here!

#tomb raider #alicia vikander #lara croft

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spamzineglasgow · 6 years ago

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Exits in Video Games: Immanence and Transcendence (Calum Rodger)

In this essay, Calum Rodger explores the poetics of exits and transcendence in video games, via the vectored planes of ‘Victorian-thought-experiments-turned-quirky-novella’ Flatland. Read on for reflections on the secret ecstasies and eeriness that accompany discoveries of glitches, nonsensical infrastructures and metatextual moments in the likes of Sonic the Hedgehog, Monkey Island and, of course, the virtual sublime of that San Andrean Heaven.

> Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions is the weirdest little book. Published in 1884, written by schoolmaster Edwin Abbott Abbott, and pseudonymously attributed to ‘A Square’, it describes a strange and awful world of only two dimensions. Its inhabitants – lines, triangles, squares and polygons – are organised according to a totalitarian caste system wherein rank corresponds to the number of one’s sides (nobility are hexagons and above; priests, the highest class, are circles; women, the lowest, are lines). Not that these shapes are conventionally perceived as such by Flatland’s residents: with no way of stepping outside their flat plane of existence, their world appears to them as a series of monotone straight lines in various shades of brightness (colour – the ‘chromatic sedition’ - is brutally suppressed, compromising as it does the ‘intellectual Arts’ of Flatland and, with it, the nobles’ hold on power). ‘Irregularities’ of all kinds - ‘an infant whose angle deviates by half a degree from the correct angularity’, say – are summarily destroyed at birth. Not only must Flatland be an awful place to live; it must also be interminably dull.

> The book is remarkable for the head-spinning extent to which it imagines how a world might be liveable in such dimensionally-limited conditions. It is a necessarily dystopian world: how can one conceive of liberty in a world literally without depth? Flatland is totalitarian by its very form, lacking a structure from which liberty might emerge; there is, in other words, no exit. Only after the narrator’s encounter with a ‘Stranger’ - a ‘Sphere’ from ‘Spaceland’ - does real exit become possible, as the visitor enlightens his incredulous host:

What you call Solid things are really superficial; what you call Space is really nothing but a great Plane. I am in Space, and look down upon the insides of the things of which you only see the outsides. You could leave the Plane yourself, if you could but summon up the necessary volition. A slight upward or downward motion would enable you to see all that I can see.

Unlike conventional dystopias, where the potential of exit is immanent to the system itself (in the irrepressible human parts: love, desire, freewill, etc.), exit from Flatland is transcendent in the genuinely metaphysical sense: a ‘climbing over’ (cf. immanent, ‘remaining within’) one’s dimensional limits, a ‘slight upward or downward motion’ beyond not merely the plausible, but the possible.

> There is an obvious religious subtext to Flatland (it’s telling that Abbott was a reverend and a theologian), with an exit into Spaceland and subsequent transcendence into a God-like omnipresence analogous with enlightenment and epiphany. But this is neither the most timely analogy nor, really, the most revealing. Among Victorian-thought-experiments-turned-quirky-novellas Flatland is surely singular, insofar as it could, conceivably, be accurately ‘translated’ into a 1980s-era home computer game (albeit a very difficult and boring one). And what are the ‘Spacelands’ of contemporary games but extensions of the formal principles of Flatland: virtual worlds constructed according to arbitrary limitations, underpinned by mathematical ‘realities’ to which we mere inhabitants are never granted access? The analogy, then, is between the immanent exits of the games themselves – their deaths, save points, level ends, level ups – which only ever lead to more game, and the transcendent exits lurking imperceptibly somewhere between the game and the code, a ‘slight upward or downward motion’ (which is to say a whole world) away from the limits and objectives set in advance by the game’s structure. It’s an idea which has long interested developers and, more recently, players, with whole subcultures dedicated to finding those exits through which one might ‘look down upon the insides of the things’. But what do transcendent exits look like? Are they even possible? And why – since games are not dystopias we are cursed to inhabit but fictional closed systems in which we participate willingly – do gamers ‘summon up the necessary volition’ to seek transcendent exits at all? While the answers to these questions are beyond the scope of this essay, the transcendent quirks of three classic games can, perhaps, point us in the right direction.

> First: the ambiguous ‘GOAL’ of Sonic the Hedgehog (1991). In Sonic –probably the first video game I ever played – there was one thing that always got me. In the vertigo-inducing bonus stage, your goal was to reach the ‘chaos emerald’ at the centre of a maze. But the maze’s numerous exits, which you endeavoured with rising panic to avoid, were all emblazoned with the word ‘GOAL’. Why, my perplexed seven-year-old self asked, did all the exits say ‘GOAL’ even though they were emphatically bad? What was in the least bit ‘GOAL’-like about these terrifying immanences? My childhood geekery led me to the Westernised version of the game’s back story, which revealed that the villain of the piece, Dr. Robotnik, had designed the mazes as traps. These apparently nefarious exits, then, were but sweet blessed releases from these endless, timeless labyrinths. But that explanation didn’t satisfy me. Leaving aside the fact that the game explicitly rewards you with extra lives for staying in the maze as long as possible, what kind of fool would go chasing the ‘GOAL’ exits, ‘scored’ as with an all-too-simple nudge left on the control pad? What kind of absurd universe was this anyway? Curiously, this was the only aspect of the universe that troubled me. Liberating tiny animals from robot shells with a mutant blue hedgehog I accepted as perfectly logical; the ambiguous ‘GOAL’ just didn’t make sense.

> I later learned that the ‘GOAL’ anomaly was probably due to a mistranslation in the Japanese-designed game, which Western distributors tried (with limited success) to accommodate in their back story. Two things to say about this: one) it makes me like it even more; and two) while this doesn’t involve transcendent exits per se, it frames the ‘flatlanding’ limitations of immanent exits. That’s why it didn’t make sense: it rendered both ‘GOAL’ and chaos emerald (failure and success) as ultimately one and the same. This error in translation – this glitch, you might say – is the accidental ‘Sphere’ that demonstrates such is the case. By extension, there is no essential (‘transcendent’) difference between the GAME OVER screen and the end credits the player is treated to once beating the final boss. Both say ‘now play again – or do something else’. But neither, the ambiguous ‘GOAL’ suggests, offers transcendence. As the theologian wants the real beyond the real, so the transcendent player wants the game beyond the game, the virtual beyond the virtual; like the ‘Sphere’, to ‘leave the Plane’.

> Second: the infamous ‘stump joke’ in The Secret of Monkey Island. While the ambiguous ‘GOAL’ of Sonic is a kind of poetic fortuity, the Monkey Island developers – primarily writer Ron Gilbert, a legend in a certain vintage school of game design that prizes narrative and humour over adrenaline and point-scoring – played with and extended the conventions of gaming to an extent that remains visionary today. Monkey Island has many of the generic hallmarks of postmodern fiction and cinema: intensely metatextual and ironically self-aware, its protagonist breaks the fourth wall more often than Mario and Luigi break crudely-pixellated blocks. But it’s the ways in which the game self-reflexively plays with its own medium – significantly, its exits – that are truly innovative. For one thing, you can’t die, subverting what is perhaps the most common gaming trope of all (this is partly a dig at rival developer Sierra, whose adventure games are infamous for the frequency and ease with which players pop their avatarial clogs). But even more amazing is the ‘stump joke’. Like all PC games of the time, Monkey Island was published on a number of floppy disks (in this case, three) which had to be switched around when moving between game areas (that is, at various immanent exits). The stump joke comes early on in the game, when attempting to interact with a nondescript tree stump in a labyrinthine forest. The player is told to ‘Insert disk 22 and press button to continue’, the first of several requests for high-numbered non-existent disks. Eventually the game resumes as the protagonist says, with characteristic understatement, ‘I guess I can’t go down there. I’ll just have to skip that part of the game.’ Joke is: there is no ‘down there’.

> Simple enough, you might think. But while I figured there was something amiss with the ambiguous ‘GOAL’, the stump joke in Monkey Island – which I first played around the same time as Sonic – was a meta conundrum way beyond my understanding. I was desperate for it to mean something: for the ‘down there’ to exist. And I wasn’t alone. The ‘joke’ was too confusing for many players (many of them grown-ups, I should add), and it was removed from later versions of the game. As ‘A Square’ is obliged to return to Flatland and, in an ending Plato could have predicted, is considered a lunatic and is promptly incarcerated for the social good, so the stump joke was just too transcendent for 1990s gamers’ mores. But games – and gamers – have changed a lot since then. The faux-transcendence of the stump joke has given way to a player-driven pursuit of transcendence, that ‘slight upwards or downward motion’ which breaks the game’s syntax, revealing it – even if momentarily – as something other than it claims to be. The increasing complexity of virtual game worlds, and the concomitant impossibility of testing its every ‘slight upward and downward motion’, has inspired gamers to play the game against its grain until it breaks, finding the glitch that reveals ‘that part of the game’ – the world inside the stump – which we were never supposed to see.

> Hence, third: ‘Hidden Interiors World’, or ‘Heaven’, of 2005 title Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. It is difficult to describe, to a non-gamer, the sense of awe I have experienced on entering the world of San Andreas: its vastness; its character; its endless complexity; and, above all, its absolute liberty. But this liberty, I am aware even within my awe, is an illusion. All gamers know this (though the moralising press might disagree), but only the transcendent gamer, ‘summon[ing] up the necessary volition’, can see it for themselves. Such a gamer reaches for ‘Heaven’. As one how-to video on YouTube puts it:‘The Universe of Hidden Interiors or Heaven refers to [a] “universe” […] placed high in the sky, far from the fly height limit. Once inside Heaven, the normal world of San Andreas disappears.’

> In crude materialistic (virtualistic?) terms, ‘Heaven’ is where San Andreas keeps its interior areas, probably to limit loading times when passing (immanently) between them and the main external area. But this prosaic explanation is much too ‘superficial’ to do justice to ‘slight […] upward motion’ and the vision it begets! It’s the sudden collapse of space and distance, the eerie silence, the solitude. It’s the fact you’re in on a secret, have seen something few others have seen (seen it from the insideas well as the outside). It’s also the tranquility, a surprisingly affecting counterpoint to a game-world defined by its constant movement, violence, and energy. That said, I have to concede that its revelation, such as it is, bears little comparison to that of ‘A Square’. The excitement of being somewhere phenomenologically elsewhere is tempered – or perhaps it is exaggerated �� by the knowledge that this world is merely an accident of design; its transcendence not a ground, but a figure’s remainder. And that too is its pleasure. ‘Heaven’ is a place where nothing ever happens – but we dream about it anyway.

> Poet and critic Ben Lerner has written of his ‘hatred of poetry’; actually, a frustration at poetry’s inevitable imperfections, borne of an idealistic love for it. He recalls, in his childhood, ‘speaking a word whose meaning I didn’t know but about which I had some inkling’, locating in that ‘provisional’ sense the essence of poetry. Once a word was ‘mastered’, it ‘click[s]’, and is no longer poetry. ‘Remember how easily our games could break down or reform or redescribe reality?’ he asks. Games have their poetry: their transcendent exits, metaphoric apertures nestled deep within the metonymic totality of their worlds. For innocence and experience, for order and liberty, for squares and spheres, they are exits worth chasing.

Text: Calum Rodger

Image: Sonic the Hedgehog (SEGA, 1991)

#essay #video games #Calum Rodger #Ben Lerner #Sonic the Hedgehog #SEGA #special stage #poetry #virtual sublime #critical games studies #Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas #Monkey Island #joke #glitch #Edwin Abbott Abbott #Flatland

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