Type Triggers 2

You may remember that a month or so ago, I posted a number of flash pieces that I’d written for Type Trigger. Well, since then, I’ve written a number of other pieces. Given that I have nothing else to blog about this week, I thought I’d bring them to you. I don’t plan on making this a monthly thing, or even particularly regular, given that you can read them on the Type Trigger website, but it’s useful filler when there’s nothing else on.

So, without further ado, flash in 300 words of fewer:

Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to ashes, falling like snow. Drifting, dancing in the wind to settle atop more ash, piling up, inches deep, never melting, never disappearing, burying the earth in dull grey, choking the rest of the life out of a dead world.

The world has been burning for days now; fires raging in the heart of every city, smoke and ash being pumped into the sky, forming the blackest of skies, blotting out the sun. The sky is black, but for the red glow of the fires on the horizon.

Since the sun was taken, it's become cold. The ash could be snow; it feels like ice when it lands on bare flesh. But there's no moisture, no sustenance. The fires are the only source of heat, now. Raging furnaces, burning all that we gathered about ourselves; all the tools of our survival, all the engineers of comfort, burning bright and hot. Surrogate suns, warming our faces.

We, we sad few, we band of survivors, gather, wrapped in all that we own, our hands outstretched to the bonfires, seeking their warmth. There's hunger in our gaunt faces, thirst on our cracking lips, but we dare not leave the sanctuary of the raging infernos. We dare not venture out into the cold and the dark in search of the living. Nothing can live long in the barren, ash-covered hellscape we've painted for ourselves.

So, we wait for the fuel to finally run out, wait for our society to finally burn up and die. We are the final survivors of a society that has collapsed in on itself and dragged the whole world with it. Soon we will join the rest of those who fell into the inferno. Soon the last flame will die.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, fade to black.

Crack open the…

Crack open the world and see its insides. 

See the vicious, savage beauty. See the beast upon which we walk. 

See the lion chase down the antelope, the old, the sick, the slow antelope. The vulnerable one. It sinks its claws deep into the animal's flesh and pulls it down. Hear the scream of the prey as it sees its life about to end. Hear the scream cut short and the sharp teeth sink into the soft neck. See the fountain of blood. Smell the acrid stench of it. See the life flee from the antelope's eyes. See the lion feast. 

Over hundreds of years, see the Strangler Fig germinate high in the rainforest canopy. See the root run down the trunk of a tree and into the ground. Root after root. See the roots grow and swell, watch the bark of the tree disappear underneath the mass of roots. See the tree suffocate. See it die. See it rot away, leaving a hollow lattice of roots. 

See the bulldozers and the men with chainsaws. Carving the forest away. See the animals flee from the destruction. See the concrete and the bricks. See the builders throw up a dozen identical houses and make another identical suburban neighbourhood. 

Crack open the world and see its insides. See that the world is cruel and heartless and destructive. See that the fittest survive, and the weak and the small die. 

Crack open the world and see the rotten core. The world that doesn't care, the beast upon which we walk, and ask is it really worth saving?

Favourite Thing

Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing. You could tell because she had one eye missing, her right foot had been chewed and sucked beyond recognition and she was splitting at the seams, allowing the white, fluffy stuffing to spill out. Her mother had kept telling Sarah to get rid of it and let her get her a new one, but Sarah would have none of it. You could not simple replace Jenny. Jenny was special, Jenny was unique. Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing in the whole world.

So when her mother had told Sarah she was only allowed to take one thing with her, because they were in a hurry and had to leave, she had not even had to think before scooping Jenny from her bed. 

She'd followed her mother outside. All the loud noises had been scary, but her mother had held her close and told her to be very brave, for her and for Jenny. Sarah was not about to let either down, so she tried to breath deep and stop herself from crying. She hugged Jenny very close. 

Her mother had looked at her, right in the eyes. There was a funny look in her mother's eyes. A scared look, but also a determined look. Sarah did not understand how her mother could ever be scared. She had told Sarah that she was going into the house, but that she would be back very soon. she had told her to stay where she was and be brave for her. 

She hugged her, kissed her and said goodbye. Sarah thought she'd seen a tear in her mother's eyes, but thought she must be mistaken because her mother never cried. 

Now Sarah was waiting for her mother, hugging Jenny tight. Trying not to be scared, for either of them.

For the Taking

My soul was for the taking. And the Devil didn't want it. That was his first mistake. 

His second mistake was letting me walk out of Hell alive. 

His third mistake was letting me back in again. 

In his defence, I was his man down to my toenails. I was an evil man. One of the worst. The kind of evil man who makes murderers look like reasonable blokes. 

You would not have liked me at all. 

So when Satan decided to send the best servant he'd had in a long time back to continue fighting the bad fight, you can understand where he was coming from. 

The problem was that one does not simply walk out of the Underworld. Especially having got there through the legitimate paths. No songs for the ferryman, or wrestling with three-headed dogs. All legit. As you can imagine, God doesn't want anyone coming back from that. So Satan turned me into a ghost and sent me back. 

The problem with being a ghost is that you can't touch anything. I never had been one for jumping out of closets and scaring little girls. But let's not go into what I had been into. 

It was a bit like always going to brothels, then being told you had to go to a strip club instead. So used to doing whatever you liked, then suddenly, all you can do is look. 

I'd never really been doing Satan's work anyway, not consciously. That had never been my motivation. So I walked back into Hell, which isn't difficult when you belong there, and decided that I'd have a lot more fun doing Satan's job. 

So now I sit on the throne, torture the dead and use the devil as a foot stool. 

Not bad for a dead man.

Not the one

The man was tall. The tallest of the lot. She'd said he was tall. He wasn't fat, but he wasn't thin either, but then none of them were. One was a little heavier set than the others, one looked a little skinnier, a couple were a little chubby. He had a couple of day's worth of stubble that she didn't recognise, but clean-shaven could be fixed. 

His hair was the right colour, but it was short and very neat. The sort of neat that came after a haircut. She'd described the man as having long hair, nearly down to his shoulders. Straight and lightish brown. A couple of the others had hair that length, or longer. Long hair could be fixed as well. 

His eyes were icy blue. Just like she'd said. Looking into them sent a chill down her spine. She couldn't work out whether that was because of how they were, or just because of the memories that came with looking into those eyes. She'd had a good hard look that night. Eye colour could not be fixed, especially when you had those eyes. He was the one. 

She looked into those eyes again. Looked over the man that, in another time, another place, she might find quite attractive. What he'd done to her made it very hard for her to consider him like that. 

"He's not the one," she lied to the policeman. "I don't think so, anyway." 

A look of surprise, puzzlement and thanks flashed across the man's eyes. His face didn't change, only his eyes. He was good. Maybe he was used to this. 

She wasn't sure why she lied for him. He was the one who raped her. He should be going to prison. 

Then again, he was the father of her child.

Where it hurts

"You should just kick him where it hurts," Sarah said. She was always full of helpful suggestions. 

"How would that help?" I asked, suppressing a smile. 

"Well, he broke your heart, so you should break his dick in return," Sarah explained. "It's only fair, I mean you think with your heart and he thinks with his dick, call it justice." 

"I'm not sure that's justice, plus, I still don't see how this is going to solve the problem," I said, throwing myself melodramatically back into the sofa. 

"What problem? He cheated on you, for almost as long as you were dating. There's nothing to solve, just forget that asshole and move on. Kicking him in the dick is a great way of beginning that process." 

I had to admit, she made a convincing case. I sighed. 

"Oh god," Sarah said, looking at me in disgust. "You're not still in love with him, are you?" 

"I don't know-" I began, but Sarah cut me off. 

"He cheated on you, for a year. How can you even stand to think about him anymore? How can you even consider loving him?" She was standing now, shouting at me, her brown hair shaking in anger. 

"I can't help how I feel. I can't choose whether I love him or not. It's not something you have any control over," I protested.

"Of course you do. He's a lying, cheating, deceitful bastard who deserves to be kicked in the junk. Hard," she was still shouting. 

"How the hell would you know?" It was my turn to shout. "You've never had a real boyfriend, you've never really loved anyone, so don't go lecturing me about love." 

Her expression turned in an instant from anger to sorrow. 

I realised I’d hit her right where it hurts.

My Top Ten Writers

Given that last week was really rather serious, and next will be even more so (just look at the date). I thought I’d take some time out to present the successor to my list of top ten novels I wrote last May. While most of these writers write novels, I’ve not limited myself to novelist; there are writers here better known for non-fiction, or screen writing, and some that I know better from their short stories. So without further ado, my top ten writers in no particular order:

• Robert Jordan – Author of the epic-in-every-sense Wheel of Time Series. While the series does begin to drag towards the end and pacing becomes more and more inconsistent, the world building and characters remain absolutely incredible. Jordan put so much thought and work into creating a world that is even more detailed and varied than even Tolkien managed. He draws from so many different cultures and traditions around the world and blends them into his own unique world that is fascinating to explore. Into that world he inserts some fantastic, strong and still dangerously flawed characters. I’ve not yet read any of the additions to the series by Brandon Sanderson after Jordan’s death in 2007, but I look forward to seeing how he ends the series

• Tom Holland – While Tom Holland does actually write some fiction, I have only read his non-fiction. He is a superb narrative historian who makes the subjects he writes about both accessible to everyone and really thought-provoking. I don’t always agree with what he has to say, but it always gets me thinking, which is what good history should do. In addition, disagreeing with him helped me in my Oxford Interview, so I have to thank him for that!

• Tim Pratt – Tim Pratt also writes novels, but I don’t know him from those either. I know and love Pratt’s short stories, many of which have been podcasted on Escape Artists (in fact he is one of the few authors to achieve the Escape Artists Trifecta of having stories published at Escape Pod, Pod Castle and Pseudopod). He writes some of the strangest and most thought-provoking stories at Escape Artists, which is saying a lot. Some highlights include Terrible Ones and Unexpected Outcomes.

• JRR Tolkien – What can one say about the father of modern epic fantasy? I’m not going to pretend that Lord of the Rings is perfect, it’s not, but the precedent he set, the debt that modern fantasy owes him, in incalculable. Lord of the Rings might be somewhat limited in scope, it might be very much a product of it’s time, it might not be brilliantly paced, or terribly accessible, but it is very good story set in a wonderfully detailed and well thought-out world. Fantasy fiction would not be where it is today without his work.

• Christopher Nolan – I’ve spoken before a number of times about how incredible films like Inception, The Dark Knight and The Prestige are, and you can add Memento and Batman Begins to that list as well. Nolan is the best writer and director is Hollywood at the moment (despite not winning an Oscar). I cannot wait for his next Batman movie, or whatever else he chooses to make next. His stories are dark, complex and thought provoking. He knows exactly what makes a good character and what makes a good story and executes it brilliantly.

• Terry Pratchett – The Discworld is possibly one of the most incredibly, ridiculous and brilliant fantasy worlds ever created. Pratchett knows how stories work and explores that brilliantly. His exploration of human nature, language, fiction and the world in general is always wonderfully witty, impossibly clever and thought-provoking at the same time.

• David Gemmell – Gemmell is one of the best historical, heroic fantasy writers I’ve ever read. He stands himself apart from most historical fiction writers who tend to just retell events of history with a few of their own characters worked into the gaps, by actually rewriting history in his fiction. He takes an interesting period and uses that as a jumping-off point to tell his own story. His work with the Troy myth is fantastic, because it does not tell a story anything like the one that Homer tells, but instead tries to recreate a historical possibility that explains the mythology, without simple copying it.

• Stephen Moffat – Moffat is best known for his work on Dr Who, which is brilliant, but he also co-wrote Sherlock, a modern re-imagining of Sherlock Holmes, and wrote Jykyll, a modern re-imagining of Robert Louis Stephenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jykll and Mr Hyde, both of which were brilliant. As well as producing the previous and current series of Dr Who, Moffat wrote some of the best episodes from back when Russell T. Davis was producing, like The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances, Blink, and Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead. Moffat is superb at creating truly creepy and original monsters, like the Angels and the Empty Child, as well as some really fantastic characters. He tells wonderful stories that are both dark and clever.

• Terry Goodkind – More epic fantasy. Author of the Sword of Truth Series, which remains one of my favourite series of all time. It is heavily influenced by Ayn Rand’s Objectivist philosophy, which really influences the series. Unfortunately, Rand’s tendency to present two extremes with no middle ground also comes through, making things a little unambiguous. However Goodkind is also a fantastic plotter and creates some fantastic characters that really draw you in. The world-building is not on a level with Tolkien or Jordan, but that’s not the idea, the focus is on the characters and the plot, both of which are fantastic. Goodkind is also fantastic at pacing, so neither the books, nor the series as a whole drag. In fact, the books race brilliantly to a conclusion, making them very difficult to put down as each story draws to an end.

• Robert Harris – Robert Harris is a fantastic historical Fiction/thriller writer. His stories are always really well researched and well thought out. They tend to fall into many of the traps that thrillers typically do, but that’s ok, because they’re always very engaging and well written. His historical works, like Pompeii and Imperium are probably his best work, mostly because of how painstakingly well researched, and hence realistic they are. He really draws you into the historical setting, which is very important for a Historical Fiction writer.

Language, Sex, Violence, Other?

I’ve been thinking a bit recently (yes, I’m fine, thanks) about how we define ‘adult’ in terms of media. No, I’m not talking about porn, although I suppose that is part of the issue. What I mean is they way in which both consumers and writers perceive what is and is not ‘adult’ content. This comes mostly from watching the recent episodes of ‘Torchwood: Miracle Day’, a self-confessed ‘adult’ Dr Who spin off.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m really enjoying ‘Miracle Day’, but I have long been of the view that Russel T. Davis, the executive producer, creator and head writer of Torchwood, is not a good writer. He’s a fantastic plotter and producer, but his technical writing is not good at all. Torchwood has always been guilty of falling into the trap of trying too hard to be ‘adult’. There have often been sequences in the stories in which everyone stops for a sex break, or plots revolving around sex itself, usually dealt with in a very crude and unsophisticated way.

My argument is that such open, often very forward and explicit attitudes towards sex is not indicative of ‘adult’ content, but is instead rather juvenile. There is no need for half of the cast to go off and have sex midway through the episode; it often does not actually add anything to the storyline, or the characters. It’s gratuitous, immature and often quite silly. Hardly adult.

Sadly, video games are usually the worst contenders for this. The Gears of War games are almost always given ‘mature’ or 18+ ratings, even though the games have no real depth or sophistication, just gore and violence. They are not ‘mature’ games, they are quite obviously immature. Similarly the portray of characters, particularly women, as gender stereotypes can hardly be defined as ‘adult’. Femme Fetalle characters wearing next to nothing being highly sexualised and often consciously objectivised is not adult, it’s childish.

I want to make clear that I’m not really taking about rating systems, but the perception of what is ‘adult’ content. However I think the point that needs to be made is that giving content that is not at all adult the label of ‘mature’ gives the wrong impression about what we consider mature. This is especially true when you consider the fact that the rating system is almost always ignored by consumers once children get above the age of 13 or so. Believe me, I’ve worked with 13 year old kids, they know all the language, they’ve seen and the gore and they know what a pair of boobs look like. If we are trying to protect teens from such explicit content, we are failing, so in giving such contend the label of ‘adult’ we are actually giving a very unhealthy impression of what it means to be mature.

Of course, this begs the question of what does it mean to be adult? This is actually a very difficult thing to define. When we describe media as ‘adult’ or ‘mature’ we mean content appropriate for adults, or mature people. Of course it is perfectly possible for teenagers to be as mature as many adults, but I don’t really want to get into that. It very much depends on the individual, which makes life hard for legislators, hence why they tend to draw a line in the sand at age 18. There is a difference between what is appropriate for children, young adults and adults and writers have to delicately balance their content to accommodate for their target audience.

Some content, themes and ideas are simply not appropriate for teenagers or children. Sometimes because it’s too complex (not wishing to sound patronising) or too dark. Often it’s simply that it deals with matters that they have no interest in or experience of, so it simple isn’t interesting or relevant to them. We should not use language, sex and violence as a measuring stick for these things.

To return to the example of Torchwood I mentioned earlier, I think Torchwood actually does a fantastic job of being quite mature. The current series deals with a phenomenon wherein the entire human race becomes immortal and digs straight into the consequences of that. People living through excruciatingly painful injuries and suffering on with no visible end in sight, a character who actually wants to die, but can’t, the moral issues now that murder no longer exists. Beyond that main premise, we have individuals using the disastrous situation to their own advantages, the power of the mob and a corporate conspiracy to name a few of the other themes that surface. It’s pretty dark. It explores some of the more unpleasant sides of human nature and of society. It’s pretty adult. It is not made more adult by random, all-together-now sex montages. In fact, next to the maturity of the rest of the series, those sequences actually look horribly out of place and almost comic.

The series is quite clearly targeted at adults. It’s not that teens should not watch it, it’s just that there’s a pretty good chance such things would go over their heads, or that they would, quite frankly, get bored by it. It’s not appropriate for less mature people simply because it’s not targeted at them.

In much the same way, a middle aged character who is going through a midlife crisis, dealing with divorce, debt and stress, might appeal to adults who can actually relate to such problems, whereas teens, even people in their twenties, would probably find that incredibly dull because they cannot relate to it. It deals with issues which do not mean anything to them. It’s adult in its content because it appeals to adults, not because it has content deemed inappropriate for children.

‘Adult’ or ‘mature’ content should not be a byword for sex, violence and gore, but simple an indication of the target audience. It’s is a message that the content is not meant to appeal to younger viewers and will probably not interest them. This is what Torchwood was designed for; Dr Who that appeal to the adult audience. That would not change if you got rid of the sex.

Video Games as a medium would take a massive leap forward if it started acknowledging its audience as adult and started building games with real adult content, games that, while being appropriate for kids, would be more appealing to adults, not because of the gore or the two dimensional female eye-candy, but because of the complex and sophisticated themes and ideas conveyed. This is becoming increasingly relevant as older generations get into gaming and the generations which have grown up with games, get older.

There’s nothing wrong with gory video games, or unsophisticated video games designed to be pieces of escapism. Just as there is nothing wrong with television which embraces gore and sex. Sex, in particular, forms quite a major part of most people’s lives. It is relevant and, when appropriate, can be used in a mature way. However, we need to get away from the perception that, for something to be ‘adult’ or ‘gritty’ or ‘dark’, it needs to have gore and sex and violence. We need to stop using these things as bywords for adult content. We need to grow up about our perceptions of adulthood.

Type Triggers

Ok, so recently I’ve been doing some writing for a website called Type Triggers. The site publishes four, four words of fewer, ‘triggers’ for flash fiction, poems, musing, whatever you want to write, every day. You write it in under 300 words, and then publish it on the site for everyone and anyone to read. Awesome.

So far I’ve written 5 flash pieces that I thought I’d share with you. If you like them, feel free to head over to Type Triggers and read more of what I’ll be writing in the future, along with all the other wonderful writer who write there. You could even contribute your own piece.

Anyway, here are my contributions thus far, the Triggers are the titles. Enjoy.

Stubble

He needed to shave.

He rubbed is coarse, sand-paper chin and grimaced. As his hand passed over his mouth, his smelled the acrid smell of whiskey on his breath. His exposed armpit allowed the stench of his body odor to flood his nostrils.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things, but inertia was just easier. It was hard to get exciting about shaving.

He stared into the eyes of a stranger in the bathroom mirror. Haggard eyes with tired, black circles around them. He grimaced at himself - at what he had become - and dark stubble shifted across the contours of his face.

Trembling hands reached for the cold razor. It heavy in his hand; a weighty, solid object. It felt good. He caressed the 'on' button with his thumb, feeling the shape of it, daring himself to press it, to feel the switch give in to the pressure of his action.

He stared at it. His savior, his redeemer. He hated it. He hated the idea of action, the idea of standing up to be shot down, again.

He looked back at himself in the mirror and realised that he hated what he saw even more.

The buzzing of the razor echoed around the bathroom like an angry wasp.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things.

Too Much Coffee

Daniel charged down the stairs, into the living room, over the sofa, around the tv (somehow not tripping over the web of wires connecting it to the wall), back out of the living room, into the kitchen, under the table, past the oven, out the back door, over the cat (who looked absolutely terrified), through my tulips, around, through, over and under the climbing frame, around the house, in the front door, back up the stairs and leaped onto his bed.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he got bored of mashing his face into the pillow and decided to try to continue his training for the Olympic around-my-house dash.

That was the day I discovered that, for a four year old, any amount of coffee was too much coffee.

Heading South

It was roadtrip time.

Every year we did this. When school broke up for the holidays and the rains arrived, we headed south. South. To where the summer is. My old man had a beach house on the Sunshine Coast. Beautiful. It would be barbies on the beach, surfing, playing cricket and drinking stubbies all summer long.

Before, it had always been mum, dad, me and maybe a few mates. But dad couldn't get time off this year because of the economy, so they'd said I could go without them. Brilliant. Just me and a couple of mates. Heading south. Away from the rains and the stinking heat.

We loaded our gear onto the back of my Ute and set off down the Pacific Highway. Roadtrip. Heading South. The first big storm of The Wet saw us off. That's what we call it up here; The Wet. 'Bandenyirrin' as the abbos call it. We had to learn about all that shit at school.

It was a great summer. Mum and Dad came down for a week around Christmas, but apart from that, it was just the three of us. Drinking, surfing, rooting the sheilas who wanted some summer love. Best summer of my life.

Until a week or so until we had to go home. Lochie came into the house one day, still dripping wet from the surf.

"Turn on the TV, mate," he said, "fucking Cyclone's hit up north. Destroyed half of Cairns!"

I turned on the shitty old TV and saw the pictures. Wind and rain smashing my home town to pieces. The swell had swept through the centre of town. The whole place was underwater.

I tried ringing mum and dad, but I couldn't get hold of them.

There was nothing I could do. I'd headed south.

In the Aftermath

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I knew that just two things were true. That you were alive, and that I had to find you. I don't know how I knew you were alive, it was just inconceivable that you were not. Despite all the thousand and one inconceivable things that had happened to the world, despite all the things I did not know, that no-one knew, I knew you were alive and that I had to find you.

So I did. Well, I tried. I found my old camping pack from the ruins of my house and salvaged as much food and water as I could find. And I set off towards your house. I had to force myself not to run, not to try to sprint every step of the 100 miles.

I knew the way pretty well; I'd driven it a hundred times. It felt odd, walking down roads that I'd driven along only days before. It happens in a flash, A to B in minutes. I can get to the Motorway in quarter of an hour from my house. It took me most of the day to walk there.

I slept in the burnt out husks of cars, trying to ignore the stench of burnt, rotting flesh. I tried to ration food and water, but soon, I was thirsty. I tried doing some of the Bear Grylls stuff, but nothing works as well in real life as it does on the TV.

Tired, thirsty, stinking like death and sweat, I arrived at the ruins of your house. The one-and-a-bit walls and not even half a roof.

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I know that just two things are true. That you are dead, and that I still have to find you.

So Vain

He was just so vain, my ex, so arrogant.

I remember when I first met him. He waltzed into the room, expecting all eyes to turn to him. He talked to me as though I already thought he was a god. There was a twinkle in his eyes that I'm sure meant he knew that I had already fallen head of heels in love with him. The thing is that he was right.

He used to spend more time getting ready to go out that I did. He'd stand in front of the mirror, prodding and pulling at his already perfect hair. That's all he seemed to care about; his own appearance. Sure he said 'you look lovely, tonight.' in that deep, sexy voice of his, but it always sounded like he was looking at a mirror.

Honestly, that whole time we were dating, I don't think he ever really saw me as anything more than something to make him look good; a pretty face on his arm, a nice young girl for him to tow along so that he could look complete.

Then he ended it. I wasn't needed anymore, surplus to requirement, thanks for coming, we've upgraded to a better model, we appreciate you wasting your time for us, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, you gullible little slut as if you let yourself believe that vain piece of shit ever actually liked you you were kidding yourself this whole time and you know it men like that don't need girls like us they only need themselves the vain little fucks

God, how I miss him.

Bigger Is Not Better

This week I’ve been playing a lot of video games. I have some free time at the moment (because I don’t have a job) and the steam summer sale ended not long ago, so I have a few new games to play around with. The games I’ve been playing are Portal 2 and Assassin’s Creed 2. Both sequels to games on my top ten list, and both a whole ton of fun in their own right. I’d like to compare both games to the game which they follow, and look at the upcoming sequel to Batman: Arkham Asylum, Arkham City which is coming out very soon.

The thing I want to pick out about each of these three sequels is that they are all significantly longer than their originals. Portal 1 was only about three hours long, while Assassin’s Creed 1 and Arkham Asylum were about ten hours each. By contrast, Portal 2 is about six hours long and Assassin’s Creed 2 is fifteen hours and counting. From what I hear, Arkham City will be significantly longer than Arkham Asylum. I suspect that Assassin’s Creed 2 and Arkham City will be about twenty hours each, so let’s assume that a doubling of play time roughly a theme.

I don’t know whether other sequels fit this pattern, but it makes sense. Games cost money to make, the longer the game, the more money it takes, so an original game being given a relatively small budget by a studio because anything original is bound to be a bit of a gamble makes sense. With a relatively small budget, you can only make a relatively small game. If the game is a success, the sequel (and there will always be a sequel) is given a much bigger budget, so a much longer, more ambitious game is made.

The most startling example of this is Portal. Portal 1 was originally a very small project created by a team within Valve. It was thrown into the Orange Box along with Team Fortress 2 because Valve were a bit embarrassed that Half Life 2: Episode 2 took so bloody long. On the other hand, Portal 2 was a full scale project with the whole of Valve’s production team and budget behind it. It’s a full scale game, rather than just a little throwaway, experimental, indie game.

The reason for this, from Valve’s point of view, is very simple, they can make a hell of a lot of money selling Portal 2 as a game in its own right for the same price as any other game. Portal 1 was hugely successful and popular, so a sequel was always going to sell well. The reason behind making Assassin’s Creed 2 and Arkham City much longer is not so obvious. The thing that springs to mind immediately is that they think a longer game is going to be better. They can simply fit more stuff into a longer game and increase the variety of the gameplay experience. They can write a more interesting and complex plot, fully flesh out the characters and the setting. Most importantly though, you get players playing for longer, so they are going to be telling their friends about how much fun they’re having for longer, meaning that their friends are more likely to go and buy it as well.

Only the last of those is true. A longer game does not, by any stretch of the imagination, make for a better game. Just as a thousand page novel is not better than a three hundred page novel by virtue of being longer. It is perfectly possibly to tell a good story in a hundred pages, or three hours of play time, or an hour of screen time. There’s nothing wrong with telling one in a thousand pages, or twenty hours, or two and a half, but length bring about its own problems.

I’m currently re-reading Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time Series and thoroughly enjoying it, but as I make my way through the 9^th book with no plot resolution in sight, it has being increasingly obvious that Jordan simple has too many characters and too much plot. It takes an incredibly skilful writer to deal with that much stuff happening without getting bogged down. Pacing gets harder and harder the longer and more complex your plot is.

The same is true for all mediums. A video game is just as likely, if not more so, to get bogged down in the detail when the plot starts stretching for twenty hours. Assassin’s Creed 2, thus far, has managed to get itself bogged down, partly by doing away with the very structured approach taken by Assassin’s Creed 1, and partly by simply having too complex a plot. You lose sight of the overall motivations of the characters, or those motivations simply stop meaning anything given the context of the action. This is partly down to poor writing, but the length of the game does not help at all.  I fear that the same might happen with Arkham City.

Of course, story is not as important as gameplay to most developers and most gamers. A longer game certainly meant that more gameplay can be put into the game, but then it also increases the potential for boredom. There are only so many time that one can stab an unsuspecting soldier in the back, or tie him upside-down from a gargoyle before it gets boring. Of course, after a few weeks or months break, it gets interesting again, but by that stage it’s easy to have forgotten why you were ever doing it.

Of course, a good sequel will always involve new gameplay aspects. Assassin’s Creed 2 has almost Prince of Persia type platforming sections (with all the same engine issues, but just as much fun anyway) and some really interesting vehicle sections. The latter are really well integrated into the story, whereas the former is not, so it feels a little bit pointless. That is actually indicative of Assassin’s Creed 2; there are lots of things to do above and beyond the plot, which makes it very easy to get lost and loose track of where you are in the plot. It also makes the game feel very flabby. The first game was very tight, because all the different sections of the game were tied (if a little tangentially) to the plot, whereas here, all the assassination submissions, platforming sections, rooftop races and punch ups having nothing to do with the task at hand, so they feel like they have been tacked on. This all helps to bog down an already convoluted plot, putting the pacing even further off.

I hope this is not what will happen with Arkham City, but I get the feeling that is will. From the little Rocksteady have told us, there will be plenty going on to distract from the main plotline. That sounds great, but the thing that really keeps players (or this player, anyway) playing a game is the story. I play games to drive the story forward and I find it very easy to get bored if my actions don’t seem to be doing that. The problem is that I also tend to do everything in games because I assume it’s all got something to do with the plot, so games which have loads of stuff going on above and beyond what is required for the plot tend to feel very flabby and unfocused to me. It’s the issue I have with RPGs a lot of the time.

I understand that I’m in the minority in that, but the point still stands; longer time does not necessarily make for better gameplay. New stuff has to be integrated into the plot, otherwise it feels tacked on, and more time simply means more time to get bored. After fifteen hours of Assassin’s Creed 2, I’m bored with stabbing people. I’m sure it will become interesting again in a few weeks or so, but for now I’m bored. I fear I will become equally bored after fifteen hours of Arkham City when it comes out.

Add to that the fact that a longer story is by no means a better one and you have a pretty decent argument against story driven games being longer than ten hours. In fact I think ten hours works really well for a game. It’s more than enough time to tell a really good story with interesting characters, Assassin’s Creed, Bioshock, Arkham Asylum, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time and Psychonauts all show us, and funnily enough all of those gamed are on that top ten list I mentioned earlier. It’s not that Assassin’s Creed 2 is a bad game by any stretch of the imagination, neither is Portal 2, it’s just that they’re not as tight or neat as the originals. They’re almost trying too hard to be bigger and better than their predecessors, while forgetting that bigger does not, necessarily, mean better. In fact, bigger is actually an awful lot harder to pull off. I suppose the perfect example of this would be the big RPGs like Mass Effect and Fallout 3, which are consistently flabby and overburdened.

Of course, I am in the minority. Most people, it would seem, are happy to play games simply for the sake of playing them. I suppose I am too when it comes to the Total War franchise and other strategy games. Nevertheless, I would like to see more games driven by their story, constructed around their story and with the story at the heart, not the gameplay. I firmly believe that games are a fantastic storytelling medium that needs to be exploited more. And that can and should be done by games that need not ever exceed ten hours of gameplay, because that just makes it harder for everyone involved.

Becoming Ares

This is another of those character sketches I did about the Gladiator I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. The next couple of weekend might be a bit like this, I’m incredibly busy at the moment, so I may not have time to write anything too long, of at all. I hope you enjoy this though. Let me know what you think.

The doors swung open and Anitecus stepped out into the arena of death. The crowd screamed, chanted and booed. He walked slowly out into the middle of the arena, out of the shadow cast over a third of the fighting area by the high walls. He looked around, taking in the crowd. Although he had been fighting for just over two years now, the buzz the crowd gave him was the same.

His heart raced, his senses sharpened, he could feel the blood pumping though his veins, he could feel the air around him, he could smell the city, the sweat from all the unwashed bodies, the tang of blood, the smell of garlic from the food being sold in the stands. He felt alive. He looked up to the heavens and smiled under his helmet. He felt like no one could defeat him. He revelled in the glory of the arena, he was worshiped by some, loathed by others, but he was respected by all; he was one of the best, and they all knew it.

He did not know who, or what he was facing. It did not matter to Anicetus. He knew that he could face and beat whatever the event organisers threw at him. He had gained a reputation in the past two years and when you had a reputation; people took it as a challenge to try to beat you. He had faced exotic animals, multiple enemies, men on horseback and had beaten them all. With each victory the crowd had grown to love him or, for those who had lost money betting against him, hate him. Now he stood, awaiting the next challenge.

Un-oiled hinges squealed and the door opened. A dull rumbling, punctuated with more squealing emerged from the open door. Anicetus spun on his heels just brought his shield up to deflect the arrow the skimmed off the leather and buried itself in the sand. The evasive action took him wildly off balance and he fell backwards, rolling over his shield. A mass of wood, metal and flesh powered past him. He sprang to his feet and brought his shield up in time to deflect the next arrow over his head and into the stand behind him, killing a spectator. The crowd fell silent, before erupting, even louder than before. The contest had begun.

The vicious blades on the wheels glinted in the sun as the chariot turned and began to circle the arena, horses pulling in tandem, straining as they powered around the edge of the circle of sand. The next arrow imbedded itself in his shield as Anicetus turned, watching the chariot over the corner of his shield. Arrows continued to fly towards him, some deflecting off his shield, others flying harmlessly past his head.

The chariot turned and began gathering speed, the horses powering towards him, pulling the mass of wood. Anicetus threw himself to the side and rolled over his shield, and arrow deflected off his iron cuirass and flew over the top of the stadium. Standing, he spun quickly, trying to find the chariot again, the beating hooves and rumble of the chariot wheels reverberated around the arena, almost drowned out by the excited roar of the crowd. He felt a jolt as another arrow thudded into his shield. He spun again, following the chariot at it raced around the arena again.

The chariot turned again and charged towards him. Again he dived out of the way, arrows zipping all around him. Again and again the process repeated, the chariot circled round him, occasionally turning to charge, firing arrows at him all the time. The crowd cheered and roared with every turn, getting more and more excited with every near miss. The more he dodged and dived in his heavy armour and ungainly shield, the slower he became and the closer the razor sharp scythes came to cutting his back to ribbons, or slicing his limbs off, the closer the arrows came to piercing his armour and finding his flesh. The crowd, sensing his exhaustion, rose in anticipation. Some bayed for his blood, others encouraged him, but all Anicetus heard was a load roar drowning out the rumble of the chariot.

On the next turn the chariot thundered straight for him again, but this time Anitecus sprinted as fast as the fatigue and heavy armour would allow him at the charging platform of death. The crowd fell silent as the gladiator charged at the huge and deadly chariot. With the straining mass of muscles, bone and wood almost upon him, he dived forward and to the right, jamming the wicker bound shield into the spinning blade and used the leverage to swing round to the back of the chariot. Ignoring the pain that ripped his arm apart, he reversed his sword and plunged it between the neck and collar bone of the archer, putting it deep into his rib cage, puncturing his heart, ensuring that Hades would take him.

His momentum flung him off the back of the chariot and onto the sandy floor, carrying the dead body of the archer with him. There was a rattle as the bow skittered to the floor a few meters away from Aniticus. As he tried to pick himself up, pain stabbed up his left arm. He saw blood soaking the sand and knew it was his. He could feel that his hard had been ripped to shreds by the scythes of the chariot. He shoved the pain to the back of his mind and focused on the chariot again.

It wheeled round, heading towards him. Anicetus dived out of the way, crying at the pain that jolted up his arm as he landed on it. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. Fumbling on the ground, his hand clasped the shaft of the bow that he had landed on. The pain burned in his arm and he lifted the bow and grabbed an arrow from the floor. Putting it to the bow, he lifted his eyes to the chariot. Blood, sand and sweat made his vision blur, but he blinked them away, ignoring the way his eyes stung like a thousand bees were all stinging his eyeballs at once.

The chariot wheeled round again, charging him, looking to finish off the injured warrior who was crouching in the sand. He pulled the bowstring back to his cheek, blocked out the noise of the crowd, blocked out the pain in his arm, blocked out all distractions. He had to be able to shoot under any pressure; this was that pressure. In his mind there was only him and the target. He took a deep breath and loosed, the arrow flew true, the horse screamed as the arrow pierced its windpipe, its legs fell from beneath it and the whole chariot exploded into a thousand pieces of wood and metal. The charioteer was hurled forward in the destructive collision of forces and landed head first in the sand a foot in front of Anitecus. The force of the impact snapped his neck. Splinters flew like arrows towards Anitecus, who only just brought his shield up in time to protect himself, he screamed in pain as they thudded into the open wound in his arm.

Trying to ignore the agonising pain, Anitecus stood and walked to the centre of the arena, now half bathed in light, half darkened by shadow. He stood on the edge of that shadow. The crowed roared in adoration. He lifted his sword in appreciation and let out his own roar. The pain in his arm was nothing, the stinging in his eyes didn’t matter, the exhaustion in his legs was a sign that he was alive.

Anitecus’ shadow fell so that it looked as though a giant warrior stood on the top of the arena, watching the games. He stood on the cusp between light and dark, between day and night, between life and death. He decided who would live and die in the arena; he was the god of battle. He was Ares.

Entering the Arena

This is a bit of a character sketch for a gladiator who I first envisioned a number of years ago. I really like the character and would love to return to him at some point. He's very fun to write. I have some other stuff I've written about him that I might touch up and put up here.

Anicetus sat on the bench, head in hands; he could hear the roar of the crowd above him, the never-ending buzz, rising and falling as the duel raged. It drowned out all noise as he sat, waiting for his turn to enter that theatre of death. He had sat all afternoon as, one by one, the men and women he had trained with for six years walked out of the door and the end of the long, undecorated and ill-lit room and up the ramp to dance with death for the first time. He did not know how many had lived and how many had died in that fierce pit in which one either gained fame and adoration, or a passage down to the dead. He was the last. The last battle of the afternoon, the climax of the day’s bloody entertainment would be his to fight.

He was last because he was the best. Everyone in the school knew that he was the greatest fighter to do battle today. His strength, speed and skill were unmatched. He was expected to become a gladiatorial legend, one of the greatest fighters ever to walk the sands of the arena, hallowed in blood. Today was the day that he would graduate from the sadistic school that he had hated and grown to love since the age of twelve. He had been trained and prepared for the arena and today was the day that he entered it and became a gladiator; became a man in the eyes of the trainers he hated and respected. It did not matter who he fought, so long has he spilled the blood of another in the sand he would complete his education. He would be baptized in the blood of another, or another would be baptized in his blood.

His heart was pumping; he could feel his body shaking. He breathed deep as fear and excitement battled for dominance. He stared at the dull, stone wall of his cell, anticipation made the battle raging above him last forever. The cries of the crowed still filled his ears. He fingered the coarse horsehair plume on the large iron helmet that sat next to him. Beside it was a short sword, flat and straight along one edge, but undulating along the razor sharp edge. It had been laboriously sharpened until it could cut through flesh and slice through armour. Leaning on the bench beside him was a large shield, made of interwoven wicker and covered with hard leather.
 An extra large cheer went up above him as another warrior fell in battle. His heart beat doubled; he knew he was the next to enter the dance. He rose to his full height and drew in a deep breath. Bending, he grabbed the leather belt buckle, on which his sword was sheathed, and fastened it around his waist. He donned his all encompassing helmet, the great iron mass covered his ears and cheeks, stretching down to protect his neck. The helmet caused illusions in his hearing, creating a sound much like that of the sea washing up on the shore, reminding him of home. He could no longer hear the crowd. He picked up the large shield, slung it over his shoulder and put his arms through the loops in the middle.

He walked slowly to the end of the room, his heavy breathing extenuated by the confining helmet. The sound of the sea battled with the roar of the crowd. He turned and looked up the ramp at the sun beating down at him. He had not seen the sun all afternoon. He paused, blinked a couple of times, and started walking slowly up the ramp, emerging from the underworld beneath the Area onto the living sand of the theatre in which he would give his first performance, and maybe his last. He walked into light and life and the possibility of glory, or the end of life and a return to that gloomy underworld for all eternity.

The crowd drowned out the sound of the sea now that he was out into the open. The cheer as the newest piece of fresh meat emerged from below was deafening even from within the iron cage of the helmet. He looked around the stands; the crowd was enormous, the entire stadium was full, they were all cheering and chanting and screaming. Hungry wolves, waiting to see blood spilled for the last time in the day. Drunk on the blood they had already seen and the beer that had flowed like water all day. The sun ducked behind the stand as he walked across the arena and he was bathed in the darkness of the shadows. The sand itself was awash with blood from the day’s entertainment. The sand soaked it up and thirsted for more.

The arena was empty but for a lone giant, standing in the middle of the sea of sand. He stood, bathed as Anicetus was, in shadow. He was naked from the waste up and wore no helmet; his greasy blond hair framed an ugly face. In his enormous hands he held a huge hammer, blunt and dangerous in the hands of one so huge.

The two stared at each other; cold blue eyes met cold blue eyes, unblinking and unemotional. They measured each other up, two lions readying to fight, challenging the other to make a move. The crowd screamed and bayed for blood, but the two warriors merely stood and stared at each other, unmoved. Sweat trickled down Anicetus’ face. Despite the fact that they stood in the shade the arena was still oven-like. All day the sun had beaten down and the sand was hot under his feet.

A steward approached them and explained the rules that they already knew. This was one of those battles where there were no rules; the winner would take the glory, the loser would die. The steward called for them to begin and raced from the arena. Anitecus ripped his sword from his hip and brought his shield up. The crowd rose in anticipation. He rose onto the balls of his feet and his muscled tensed. He watched his opponent over the rounded shoulder of his shield, his sword rested alongside its re-curved edge. His opponent did not change his stance, nor did he avert his gaze.

They circled one another, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The noise of the crown only grew more intense. He shut it from his mind and focused on his opponent, who watched him intently, dragging the hammer behind him, creating a circle in the sand around the two fighters. Sweat continued to trickle down his face and down his arms. He could see sweat covering his opponent’s face too.

Suddenly the giant charged at him, hefting the hammer and readying himself for a swing. Anitecus charged his opponent and raised his shield to block the hammer blow. At the last second his opponent shifted his swing, deftly handling the huge weapon. Anicetus only just managed to bring his shield down to block the blow, but the power of it sent him hurtling through the air.

Anitecus rolled as he hit the floor and brought his shield up just in time to deflect the next powerful hammer blow. This time it caught him full on in the centre of the shield. His vision exploded and he screamed in pain as the bones in his arm shattered. He cried in pain and flecks of fiery white pain danced in his eyes. He recovered he composure in time to roll away from the next blow, but pain shot up his arm and stunned him as he rolled onto the broken arm.

Scrambling to his feet, he readied to defend the next onslaught. Exhaustion and pain addled him and sweat made his eyes sting. Rage filled the giant’s eyes as he stomped towards him, preparing for another attack. He lifted the hammer up high and swung down with almighty power. Anitecus danced backwards then leaped up, onto the back of his opponent’s weapon which was half buried in the sand and used if for leverage. He reversed his sword in midair and plunged it down in-between the shoulder and collarbone to the left of the giant’s neck. The keen blade sliced down into the fleshy space inside the ribcage and pierced the man’s heart. The crowd erupted over the sound of the sea in his ears.

Anitecus landed in the sand behind the falling giant, who had gone to his knees, the life draining from him. With one step he cleared the small gulf between them and retrieved the sword still embedded in his heart. Blood fountained out of the wound, soaking his face with the blood of his dying opponent. The giant fell face down in the sand, all life gone from him; his lifeblood spilled onto the sand. It soaked into the sand as though the area were consuming it, gorging on the blood.

Anitecus smiled. Looking around at the cheering crowds he could no longer hear the sea in his ear. He unbuckled his helmet and threw it into the sand. For the first time he heard the crowd at full volume. It was deafening. He raised his sword into the air and forgot the pain in his shield arm. His roar was drowned out by the crowd as they acknowledged their new hero. He had killed for the first time; he had graduated. He had entered the arena; he had become a gladiator. 

Top ten novels

I’m a massive fan of fiction, so I’ve wanted to do some top tens centred on novels and writers for some time. I haven’t because, while I love reading, I tend not to read as much as I should and I tend to only really read a select few authors. A lot of the stuff I love is epic fantasy. The kind of epic fantasy that had dozens of novels in one series. But I decided to bite the bullet and do a top ten of my favourite novels. You will notice that almost all of them are fantasy, which tells you a lot about my tastes. Again, in no particular order.

• Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand – for those that don’t know, Atlas Shrugged is an 11,000 word tomb by Ayn Rand, which expounds her objectivist philosophy with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I read it in about 10 days. The thing at about Atlas Shrugged is that the protagonists are really interesting and the plot is great. Rand is also really good writer. The novel does a great job drawing you in. It is a little black and white, which is disappointing and the philosophy is very unambiguous. Rand does not really make us thing about her philosophy, nor does she present it in a way that is terribly balanced. It is a piece of objectivism propaganda more than anything else. Fortunately objectivism has something of a soft spot in my heart, even if modern proponents can be a little frustrating.

• 1984, by George Orwell – Need I really say anything? I love dystopias, I especially love them when they deal with an over-protective state. 1984 is great. The plot is incredible, the characters are interesting, the setting is just brilliant and it’s written in such an understated and subtle way.

• The Eye of the World, by Robert Jordan – aaaaaaand we’ve reached the epic fantasy. Jordan is probably the first epic fantasy writer I ever got into and his Wheel of Time (WoT) series remains one of my favourite series ever. The world building in WoT is brilliant; very organic, very well thought out, referencing all kinds of different mythologies and cultures without just copying them. The Eye of the World is the first in the series, so it retains a special place in my heart, although in reality it’s really very hard to choose between the first half dozen books or so. The Eye of the World establishes all the major characters brilliantly and really makes the reader connect with them. It also begins the world building, always giving away just as much as we need to know to understand the action without giving away too much. It definitely leaves us wanting to read more about both the characters and the world in which they live.

• Troy: Lord of the Silver Bow, by David Gemmell – Heroic Fantasy this time. I’m a huge fan of Greek Mythology, in particular the Troy myth. I was somewhat put off by the fact that this is a historical take on the myth, rather than staying true to the real story. I soon warmed to this, however, as Gemmell makes the story his own. It’s a very interesting take on a well know story and characters, set in a very interesting and well researched historical possibility. The other two books are just as good, although the writing does fall off, especially in the last book (although this is mostly because Gemmell’s wife, Stella, takes up the writing duties following David Gemmell’s death, and she’s not quite as polished)

• Faith of the Fallen, by Terry Goodkind – Back to epic fantasy. Goodkind’s Sword of Truth (SoT) series is like WoT in that I got into it in my early teens and it has been something I have continued to enjoy ever since. We find smatterings of Randian Objectivism throughout the series, culminating in the sixth book, Faith of the Fallen, which is my personal favourite. It deals with the main character striving for individual success and acclaim while trapped in a communist dystopia. It’s a much more subtle take on the philosophy than Atlas Shrugged, although it’s still fairly blunt. The series is very well written and the characters are just awesome. The emphasis is more on characters and plots than of world building, in contrast to WoT.

• The Golden Compass, by Phillip Pullman – I didn’t actually read this until after seeing the film Northern Lights, because I wanted to know what had actually happened in the film, which was hard without reading the book. The Golden Compass is actually really interesting and well written. The plot and characters are brilliant. I was not so happy about the later books in the trilogy, the last in particular just got silly, with some really bad plot holes and Deus Ex Machina.

• Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien – how could I leave out the father of modern epic fantasy? I know it was later split into three, but the original Lord of the Rings (LotR) was all one big book. While the writing can get a little highbrow at times and Tolkien takes some shortcuts with the action scenes, the plot and characters are simply incredible. The world is also really well put together and the writing hints at something much bigger without getting bogged down.

• Dracula, by Bram Stoker – ahhh, a nice bit of gothic horror. The epistolary format of Dracula wears a little thin after a while, but even so it’s a really good example of how to do it. The horror itself is subtle and interesting, with the details of Dracula and his powers drip fed. It lost some of the effect when I already knew most of it, but that’s not Stoker’s fault. The super-natural element of Dracula was maintained really well – how he became who he was is never really explained, which makes him that much more mystical.

• Confessor, by Terry Goodkind – The last book in the SoT series. It really finishes the whole thing in a suitably epic and well thought out way. The plot revisits some of the plot devices from the very first book and wraps the whole thing up in a mind boggling way. I wanted to put two of Goodkind’s novels into this list to illustrate just how much of an impact he has had on my life as both a reader and a writer, as well as the influence he has had on my personal philosophy.

• Lord of Chaos, by Robert Jordan – likewise Jordan really solidified my love of fantasy. I’ve recently reread the first eight book of the series and will reread the others with an eye to finally finishing the series when the final novel comes out in 2012. The series took a bit of a dip after Lord of Chaos, which is the sixth of the series. It maintains the great pace of the earlier book (which some later ones fail to) and has a really outstanding plot. The characters introduced in the first book just keep on developing all the way through the series in a way that is very organic and natural.

So that’s my top ten novels. As I said, I’m a fan of fantasy, epic fantasy in particular. I might tackle authors next time I get round to doing one of these.

Thor

There are many things that I like in fiction, but two of the things I like most are modern retellings of old myths, legends, fairy tales and stories, and Superheroes. It is hardly surprising, then, that Thor was always going to strike a chord with me. There’s something about figures from ancient mythology re-imagined as superheroes that just sounds awesome. That’s not to say that Thor is actually that good. I mean it’s not bad, but it could have been so much better.

The thing about superhero stories in particular, the thing that draws me to them, is that they are character studies. The superhero is at the centre of the story and his/her development is what drives the plot. This is how I like my stories – character focused and character driven. It’s what makes me such a fan of Christopher Nolan films. It’s why I said The Green Hornet was not a Superhero film.

I said back then to wait for Thor if you want a superhero film. I was not wrong. Thor is, indeed, a very character focused film, with Thor’s development driving the plot. It’s not a character arc typical of superhero films; it involves a fall-from/return-to-grace more typical of heroic fantasy, but then, the mythology which underlies the story makes that inevitable. You see, most superhero stories start with an origin story and the character coming to terms with his new super-ness, Batman Begins a perfect example of this. Thor, on the other hand, does not need to explain how Thor became Thor because he always has been, he’s a God; it’s just what he does.

Instead the film tells the story of an arrogant hero who is banished from his homeland and stripped of his power for doing something monumentally stupid. During his banishment, the hero comes to realise his faults and becomes a better person, returning home to save the day from the consequences of the thing he did to get banished in the first place and regaining his rightful place as a hero to his people. Now, this is all a fairly typical character arc that does not present anything new. I’m sure we could all think of some story that employs essentially the same framework. Assassin’s Creed does it, for example.

Where Assassin’s Creed differs, however, is that Altair does not simply return to becoming a run-of-the-mill Assassin by the end of the story; we do not simply return to the status quo. Thor ends exactly as it begins. Thor is the prince of Asgard, heir to Odin’s throne. The only difference is that he is ready to become king. Unfortunately the Mythology of Asgard means that Thor will never become king. He will continue to wield Mjollnir in the name of Odin until Ragnarök. Of course this mythology is not set in stone – it’s a reimagining, remember, if they wanted, the writers could have had Odin die and Thor take up his throne, but that’s not what happened, so the ending ends up being rather unsatisfactory. Nothing monumental has changed in Thor’s life; things are not vastly different from how they were at the start. If the evens of the film had never happened, life would only be very slightly different for most people.

The only person for whom life has changes is Jane, the woman who Thor fell in love with in his short visit to earth. The problem is that we’re never really made to care about her. She gets some pretty rushed and unconvincing characterisation, which never really fleshes her character out enough for her to really matter. As a result, the romance between her and Thor is equally unconvincing, especially when we consider that they only really knew each other for a very short amount of time.

The disappointing thing is that, although Jane and the rest of the people on earth are fairly poorly characterised, everyone on Asgard is really well characterised. All the way down to the Heimdall, the gatekeeper. The focus of the film is clearly Asgard and the politics going on there. This is a problem, because the focus really should be on Thor, given that the film is all about him. It makes the development of the character seem to play second fiddle to the other things in the story. All the shadow-play between Loki and the Frost Giants, the conflict of Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral and Frigga between obedience to their king and support for Thor is very interesting, but it was overplayed in comparison to the really rather uninspiring scenes on earth. Thor really didn’t seem to go through very much personal torture or great soul searching to resolve his eternal conflict, nor did he and Jane really have enough screen time together to really make their love anything more than a typically tacked-on Hollywood romance.

Thor, then, suffers primarily from a misdirection of focus. It is a character driven story in which the character is not the focus of the story, making it difficult to really find him convincing. It spreads itself too thinly over ground that is perfectly good. While the character arc is fairly typical, there is no reason why that should make it inherently bad. In fact it would be a perfectly good basis upon which to build a very interesting story.

Where Thor does triumph, however, is the setting. Credit should probably go more to the original creators of the story at Marvel, rather than the makers of this adaptation, but to be fair to the latter, they do a fantastic job of portraying the universe in which Thor is set without falling into the obvious trap of simply telling us. Through the film we find out about Asgard and how it links with the world we live in a very natural way. There is some narration near the beginning, but this is only to set a bit of back-story in place and actually works because it’s supposed to be Odin telling his sons all about the war between the Asgardians and the Frost Giants.

Likewise the aesthetic is fantastic. Sci-Fi and Fantasy are combined really well to make it seem very believable and natural. Asgard feels simultaneously like the citadel of a highly advanced civilisation and the home of a bunch of Norse Gods. The film very much feels like a mixture between Fantasy and Sci-Fi, between science and magic.

Indeed the way in which Thor and Jane approach things is very interesting. Jane is striving to find the scientific explanation for the way in which Thor and co are able to travel between worlds and looks at everything from a rigidly scientific perspective. By contrast, Thor explains things very much in terms of magic and mythology. His explanation of the way the worlds are linked in terms of a tree, a motif from Norse Mythology is a typical example of this. It’s an interesting contrast, but in some ways a missed opportunity as it wasn’t really explored terribly well.

As I said earlier, the credit for the setting itself must go to the folks at Marvel, rather than the film makers, but even so, the idea that the Gods of Norse Mythology are actually other-worldly being of great power is simply incredible. The good thing is that Norse Mythology is not simply taken whole and unaltered. It is changed and switched around to fit the purpose of the story. For example Loki’s role is dramatically altered. This is a good thing; to simply take Norse Mythology and plant it into a sci-fi setting would be somewhat lacking in originality. The best reimaginings use the original as a basis and create from that, rather than simple taking from the original without adding to it at all.

Thor is most certainly a triumph of aesthetic and setting. It looks great. The problem is that it focuses too much on the setting of Asgard and everything happening therein to the detriment of the character at the heart of the story. While Thor and his actions ultimately drive the story, the focus seems to be more on what Loki does in his absence. Had the focus been on Thor and his relationship with Jane, the film would have been far, far better. Similarly, the ending should have been somewhat different – something should have changed by the end, rather than the status quo being returned.

Despite all my criticisms, Thor is actually a pretty solid film. It’s worth seeing, especially if you’re a fan of either superheroes or Norse Mythology. There are a number of other superhero films upcoming from Marvel in the next few moths, all leading up to The Avengers in 2012. I think it will be really interesting to see how Marvel knits together a number of different films and characters in a way that has not really been done on the silver screen before. We had a bit of a cross-over in Thor with a mention of Tony Stark. I think it will be great to see a superhero universe developing in film as it has done in comic books and, to a lesser extent, other mediums for a while now.

Incidentally, if you do like modern reimaginings of Norse Mythology, I encourage you to check out a short story on Pod Castle called Wolves ‘till the Wold Goes Down, by Greg van Eekhout. If you like that, then you’ll probably also like his novel based on the same sort of thing, called Norse Code.

Something a little bit nautical

So as you are all well aware, the royal wedding happened yesterday. I didn’t watch it, because I think the very fact that we have a royal family is an abhorrent affront to justice and democracy. Wait, that sounds familiar… bugger, I’ve done this before. Well, this is awkward.

Here’s the prologue to a series of short stories that I want to write about a recurring character.

“Captain! Captain! Over there, on the starboard side! Look! On that island, there’s a person on that island!” Jamie yelled, his bare feet slapping on the wooden deck as he ran towards the captain. “It’s a little girl! We have to save her.”

 “No Jamie, we don’t. Best that we stay away from her,” the Captain replied, punctuating the last word with spite.

 “But, she’s just a little girl, she’ll die out here. That’s barely an island, it just a rock. You can’t leave her there.”

 “I can, cabin boy, and I will. She’s more trouble than she’s worth, that little girl.”

 “How do you know? She’s just a little girl.”

 The captain turned to look at him, a deadly serious expression fixed to his grizzled face. “She’s more that just a little girl, boy. I’ve been sailing for longer than you’ve been alive, trust me, you don’t want to get involved with that girl. The seas are vast and mysterious; they hide secrets and truths that no mere mortal can understand. We are only a tiny spec, travelling in something so vast that we cannot even begin to comprehend it. We are strangers here, travellers, alive only by the grace of the seas. There are things out there that don’t want us to be here and will do all they can to get rid of us. Trust me when I tell you that little girl is one of them. Now get out of my sight and don’t think on her any longer.”

 “Yes, captain,” Jamie said quickly and scampered off again, avoiding the starboard side of the ship. He went down below deck and started on some chores, trying not to think on what the captain had said.

 Not long after, Jim Porter lowered himself down the ladder and sat close to him, fiddling with an old pocket watch. Jim was as old as anyone on board and had been sailing for as long as anyone could remember. There wasn’t a lot about the sea that old Jim didn’t know.

“Don’t let the captain scare you, boy,” he began in a husky voice, “that girl’s not as bad as he makes out.”

 Jamie looked into the ruddy sailor’s face. No matter what expression he wore, Jim always looked ugly. His smile was broken by a rude scar that rose from his chin all the way through his mouth and up through his right eye, dissecting the closed and ugly socked. He had lost most of his teeth as well and half he left ear had been chopped off. “What do you mean?” Jamie asked.

 “That girl doesn’t cause anyone, any harm. She only tells them what harm will befall them. She’s a prophetess, as old as time itself, appearing to sailors and telling them of all the ills that will befall them. Nothing you can do will stop her prophecies from coming true.

 “When I was barely older than you, a ship I was sailing in, The Duchess I think, picked her up once. She was sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean, just like you saw. We brought her on board, despite the warnings from some of the older crew members. She didn’t say a word, so we assumed that she spoke another language, or was dumb or something. Even so, we fed her and gave her something to drink and she seemed content enough. Some of the men, though, looked into her eyes and swore they saw hatred dancing in them. That night, she came to Bill Jameson, a new sailor, just like I was at the time and spoke to him in riddles. I was sitting right next to him and I remember her words like it was yesterday.

 “‘Homeward bound, William?’ she whispered. He tried to speak, but she cut him off. ‘Your house is a home no longer, brittle, broken by lust and hate. You should never have gone to sea, William Jameson. The flames of hate will consume you, butcher.’ She told him, spite in her voice. Bill just sat there, unable to say a word. She walked away and none of the crew saw her again that night.

 “When we got back to port, Bill went home – he was married, with a little daughter and wanted to see them again more than anything, more than he wanted to get drunk with the rest of the crew. Well, he came back not long after and launched into the rum like no-one else. Didn’t say a word to anyone, just drank till he could barely stand, then he left with a pistol in his hand. Later we found out that he’d gone home to find it empty. A neighbour had told him that his wife had gone off with an old friend of his who’d promised to look out for her for him. Apparently she couldn’t bear to be away from him for so long while he was at sea. So he got blind drunk, took a pistol and hunted them down. Shot them all, his wife, his friend, his own daughter, then put a bullet in his own head, all as the little girl has predicted, if you think about it.”

 “Who is she?” Jamie asked, his chores forgotten.

 “No-one knows for sure. Some say she’s a witch, some say she’s a demon, some say she’s a goddess, some say she’s just a damaged little girl. All I know is that she don’t like sailors much and enjoys telling them that evil is coming their way. Best not to go near her, boy, she’ll only tell you what you don’t wanna hear.”

 “But surely what she says is going to happen whether she says it or not.”

 “True,” Jim paused for a moment, “thing is, poor Bill fretted for the rest of the journey home, wondering what she meant. Some of the older sailors told us all about the girl and Bill was filled with the worse sense of dread over what she meant. That’s why he hurried home so fast. That’s not something you want to be tortured with for any amount of time.”

 “Is that why the captain snapped at me like that?” Jamie asked, the thought occurring to him out of nowhere.

 Old Jim roared with laughter. “Well, boy, you do see some things, don’t you? More that just a slight hand and a turn of speed on you, eh boy? You’ve got something up here that most sailors wish they had,” old Jim tapped his head a couple of times. “You’ll go far on the high seas, boy, I can see that now. You’re right, of course, the captain’s seen that little girl before, years ago. He’d never told anyone what she told him, but he’s been mighty cautious ever since, watching over his shoulder, looking for something to come and be the death of him. Not many of the crew know this, though, it’s no good for sailing if you think your skipper’s got a bloody destiny to look forward to.”

 “Aren’t you afraid of what’ll happen, Jim?”

 Jim shrugged. “whatever happens, happens. I’ve been in plenty of storms and fights, seen plenty of dark destinies envelop ships and crews. I figure if it’s my time to go as well, I might as well go without trying to run from it. I’ve seen too many men run from that little girl’s words to know it never ends well.”

 With that, Jim rose and climbed the ladder back up on deck. Jamie returned to his chores and tried to get the image of that poor little girl sitting helplessly on the rock out of his head.

Obviously the girl is the recurring character. She had an interesting story that I’d love to tell, and there are a lot of other stories about her that I want to tell as well, obviously most of them won’t end particularly well…

Limitless

An unexpected (and free) cinema trip on Wednesday brings you all an unexpected (and still free) film review. Limitless is a speculative thriller starring Robert De Nero and Bradley Cooper, about a failed writer who has his life utterly turned around by a drug that allows him to access the eighty percent of his brain that is usually inactive, turning him from a useless slob pretending to write a sci-fi novel into an absolute genius in about thirty seconds.

Limitless wins two massive gold stars from me straight away because I am both a (failing) writer and fascinated by the idea of anything that allows us to tap into our latent creativity/brainpower. I suppose the two go hand in hand; artists are always struggling against themselves, writers block, the hassle of living and various other excuses, so an ability to magically do-away with those excuses and actually do all the things we want to do with our creativity is bound to appeal to us. I for one have about a dozen stories of varying lengths that I’d love to write and more being generated all the time, but only about half of them have even been started yet, let along are anywhere near completion. What I would give to be able to just sit down and write without getting distracted and without floundering over what exactly to write.

And that’s exactly the point. What would I give? The Fantasy podcast I plugged a month or so back,

PodCastle recently ran a story called State Change, which also touched on this in passing. The premise of the story was that each person’s soul was represented by an object individual to that person. One of the characters mentioned in passing had a candle for a soul, which she lit whenever she needed inspiration. Of course, burning the candle uses up some of it. We never actually see what happens when the candle burns down. Limitless imposes a similar catch – once you start taking the pill, you can’t stop. If you do, your body shuts down and you die. You can’t take too many of the pills, or go too long without food or drink excessively, or your mind goes into overdrive and you wake up having lost several hours/days of your life with no memory of what you did.

It would be nice if this dilemma was at the heart of the film. If the question of just how far you would go to continue being a genius was the conflict that drove the plot, but it wasn’t. As I said, it’s a thriller. You see, our hero, Eddie, doesn’t buy the pills, he steals them. And the people he stole them from want them back. Several other people also want them, because let’s face it, who wouldn’t? Of course, as a genius, he can usually handle them, until he starts running out and needs to find some more.

The film doesn’t even focus on what the pills mean for an artist and what they can do to inspiration. Eddie writes a novel in four days at the start of the film, but soon turns to the stock market and ends up working for Carl Van Loon (Robert De Nero), a powerful businessman. I suppose Eddie finds writing so easy after taking the pills, that there’s really no point in exploring it too much – there isn’t much left to explore. Even so, the turn to the world of finance does seem like a strange move for a failing writer to make. It completely and dramatically shifts the tone of the film in a way that is somewhat jarring. His entrance into finance is initially explained by the fact that he has a plan for something big that he needs money for, but that just gets left by the wayside.

Actually a fair bit gets left by the wayside through the course of the film. Eddie finds his ex brother-in-law dead, but there seems to be no hint of a police investigation into what, exactly, he was doing there. He’s also accused (possibly rightly) of murder, but nothing comes of that. After possibly killing someone and almost dying, he promises to come off the drugs, which he never shows any interests in doing. There were actually quite a few little plot-holes and loose-ends that were never really tied off, which seems very sloppy indeed.

In fact I would go as far as to say that, in parts, this story was pretty badly written. For a start, the first two thirds had one of the most pointless narrations I have ever heard. Almost everything that was told to us in the narration was shown to us onscreen at the same time. The little bit that was not immediately shown to us could have been, with a little effort.

I’ve mentioned a number of times that I really dislike narration in films, so it’s past time I explained why. Films are, at heart, a visual medium. We watch films; we don’t listen to or read them. When applied to film, the mantra ‘show; don’t tell’ means that, as much as possible, a film should use visual cues to show the viewer what we are supposed to gather from a certain scene, rather than telling them with written word or narration. The viewer is not stupid, (s)he can work out what is happening if those visual cues are done well enough. There are some instances were it is necessary, such as if there is some kind of story within a story being told, where one of the main characters is narrating the story over the top of the visuals. However, it should be used sparingly, as something that goes against the norm, rather than being the norm.

So, between pointless, patronising narration and unresolved plot-threads left unsatisfactorily hanging every now and then, Limitless is not a triumph of screenwriting. It is a triumph of cinematography, however. Once Eddie has taken the pill, the entire film literally lights up; the aesthetic goes from being a dreary, dull, colourless misery to being vibrant, energetic and colourful. This aesthetic shift is, in some ways, rather jarring, but it’s still very effective. Even more effective is the way in which the camera shifts to take in a much wider view and the editing becomes much sharper and faster. This builds up to the extremely impressive breakdown about half way through the film, which involves some fantastic and very confusing sequences.

This complete mental breakdown from abuse of the drugs and the after-effects of it are really a turning point. Up until that point I’d been really enjoying the film. It seems as though Eddie had experienced the all-time low that shows him that something has to change. I would have expected some kind of realisation of his faults and a subsequent change in character. It’s one of the principle character arcs upon which a story can rest. However the arc almost got to the end then broke down. Rather than Eddie moving on and learning something concrete about himself from his experiences, he simply changed the way he was acting slightly, became somewhat more moderate and continued in the exact same vein. The plot stopped being driven by him and started being driven by other characters. This is where I really started to loose the story. I could forgive the pointless narration and the odd unresolved issue, if the story had given me a satisfying character study with a resolution that worked. The character development stopped, however and the film became a run-of-the-mill thriller with two dimensional characters and an uninspiring plot.

The ending of the film was particularly disappointing. Eddie seemed not to have really learned from his experience. The conflict that had underlain the rest of the story had disappeared without any decent resolution. Eddie had all the benefits, but none of the drawbacks, and he’d not had to really do anything to achieve it. The thing that had made the story interesting and the thing that had made Eddie an interesting character were both gone, but this all happened after the main story arc was over and done with. It was all done through a massive Deus Ex Machina that left a very sour taste in the mouth.

Limitless is worth seeing, especially given that there’s bugger all out at the moment, but it doesn’t get close to the list I posted last week. Excellent cinematography and a fantastic concept was let down by some poor writing and a really shoddy ending. The thing that bugs me about this film is that it could have been really excellent. With a very small amount of effort it could have at least been very good. As it is, it’s merely decent, not bad, ok, mediocre. It had a hell of a lot of potential, but really didn’t live up to much of it. So many missed opportunities and unexplored possibilities.