More than one person (meaning, I think, two) has told me that I would really like the BBC program Upstart Crow. Since the winter break started, I came down with a gnarly cold that has kept me doing precious little: A couple of the days were so bad that I didn't have enough energy to read or play video games, which, if you've ever tried those activities, are not particularly high-demand on the energy front.
To try to gain some sort of mental/physical/emotional/spiritual recharge during the break, I decided to try out Upstart Crow. (I used a free trial membership to the BBC's Amazon affiliate, BritBox, which I cancelled once I was done with the show.) This was a very wise decision, as it vastly improved my mood--it kept the sickness of my body from wearing down my too-temperamental emotions. Normally, I'm not a fan of laugh-track comedy shows, though I have a bit of a soft-spot for niche British comedies (as I'm still a fan of 'Allo 'Allo, which takes place in Nazi-occupied France and was a part of my childhood). Still, I figured I could give Upstart Crow a chance, what with it being on a free trial anyway. There's a lot to commend it. The writing is funny and satirical, with a couple of running gags throughout the whole show that I particularly enjoy: Shakespeare will often remind us all that Robert Greene "hates my gutlings"; every time Shakespeare has to commute from London to Stratford, he makes lengthy rants about the poor transportation service that is copied and pasted from most people's experience in the Underground; many of the shows are based around his plays, with some of the random, extraordinary, or downright bizarre moments being used as a way to further the plot, often with wry observations about them, culminating with a "Hang on. Hang the futuck on!" as a note that Shakespeare has cottoned onto something; the characters will comment on how Shakespeare uses language, particularly some of his (now) famous phrases, and remark how they don't make sense or they can't really see how they would ever catch on. I think what really works for me is that it is irreverent, crass, and critical, while at the same time, thoughtful, well-researched, and comes from a place of love. There are moments where modern-day interpretations of Shakespeare's works come out in lengthy analyses, all delivered with an ironic twist that made me laugh until I coughed. There were plenty of genuine Shakespearean lines--some said by Will himself, others by the rest of the cast--and there were plenty of jokes about the times that made me laugh because of the research that I've done on the Elizabethan times. I think it's fun, too, because Shakespeare is a mixture of success, competency, arrogance, shyness, and good intentions. There's plenty of conversation in the world of Bardolatry about whether or not Shakespeare was faithful to his wife. I kind of think that, men and society being what they were at the time, Shakespeare probably thought of his family, for the most part, as a hindrance to what he was doing in London. Upstart Crow, however, incorporates the family dynamic really well: Anne Shakespeare (formerly Anne Hathaway) is a major player, and Will goes from London to Stratford-upon-Avon (in the aforementioned commutes) frequently. This gives him a connection to his family, and though he has his own desires and urges and flaws, he truly cares about his family and his wife. They only really play with the possibility of Will being unfaithful in one of the stories, and it works really well--in fact, it's my favorite episode, which is the last one of the third season (not counting the Christmas special, which is now the only version of A Christmas Carol that I will probably ever want to watch). At this point, if you're reading along and thinking, I might have a go at that show, then, since Steve is such a fan, then I'll put in a spoiler for this next bit. See, as this season finale came along (called "Go On and I Will Follow"), I was able to rather predict the ending of the story: Hamnet Shakespeare, William's only son, died when he was only about 11 or so. In the episode, a lot was being made about Hamnet and his confirmation, which led me to know (or, more accurately, guess) that Hamnet wasn't going to survive the episode. I was right: Hamnet dies while Will is away, and he comes home to a bereaved family. This works in the context of the show really well because the stories have woven the homelife with the worklife in a way that makes the characters feel like his loving--if strange--family. Will doesn't feel like an absentee father, despite being somewhat disconnected from the lives of his family, and so the grief that rocks them is really profound. And, when Sue Shakespeare, his oldest daughter, asks him if he truly believes that Hamnet is still alive, that there's an afterlife, William answers her (I think) honestly, "No. I don't think there's anything else." That is a bone of contention within Bardolators (we really don't have a lot else to do, honestly), as some people think that he's fully Protestant, others that he's a closeted Catholic, and yet others that think he's a nihilist. (The late Harold Bloom says of Hamlet (whom he closely identified with Shakespeare) as being, like himself, "Of a gnostic sect of one.") I don't know what Shakespeare believed; I don't know how much of him is in the plays or poetry. But I get a pretty strong sense that he's interested in people here and now, not what we may be on the other side. As a result, this response is really potent. It stakes a particular claim about Shakespeare--as do a number of other instances--and I think it strengthens the show as a result. Now, the thing isn't perfect; the production values are pretty small, and though they do a great job with the material, this is no Game of Thrones style TV. Sometimes the jokes a touch predictable (the running gags have that as a point against them as well, yes?), and they can sometimes feel a bit too shouty for my taste. Also, it's not easily available here--though I will be poking around to see if there's a Blu-ray collection that works in the US--which is sad. On the whole, though, it's well written, funny, thoughtful, touching, and a brilliant love letter to the Bard--to that upstart crow, as Robert Greene once wrote, who changed the world. I love it. When it comes to streaming TV, I'm perpetually behind the curve. I watched season 1 of Stranger Things only after everyone was done talking about it, I've finally caught The Dark Crystal (I only saw it once as a teenager, and it was after a school dance and I basically fell asleep, remembering almost none of it) so that I can chip away at the new series based in that world, and since I try to limit how violent, swear-prone, or nudity laced the TV I watch is, I've completely avoided The Boys (I'm not even a fan of Amazon's version of The Tick, having watched a couple of episodes and feeling like the point of the character has been misinterpreted).
Good Omens, on the other hand, has been on my radar since it first was announced. I'm a mild fan of both Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett; of the two, the latter, I think, is a better sentence-level writer, while the former is always ready to lean heavily into the soft magic fantastical. Due to my personal preference for harder magic systems, Gaiman's oeuvre doesn't get a lot of my attention, though I always enjoy what I read from him. The late-Terry Pratchett, as everyone knows, was one of the absolute best writers in the modern era and his death has diminished literature. Feeling this way, it's no wonder that I was excited for the show, though it may come as a surprise that I haven't read the book yet. It's one of those things where I just didn't ever find it in my To Be Read pile and so it has, so far, gone unread. (Don't worry: I plan on fixing that just as soon as I can.) So this review of the Amazon Original TV Series Good Omens is only looking at the six-part mini-series and isn't even bothering to juxtapose it to its source material, since of that I'm ignorant. The Amazon Original TV Series Good Omens is exactly half of what its title implies: It is good. It is very good. Indeed, for the majority of the series, I was giggling at the droll narration of God (which, I realize, is a tricky convention to incorporate into film--I think of how clumsy the narration of Spider-Man 3 is, for example--but is absolutely necessary in a series that derives much of its humor in the way the story is told; The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy also has this issue, but, fortunately, Stephen Fry exists, so the film didn't lose much of Adams' dry humor), or the madcap plotting, or the hilarious situations. My wife especially has much to do in the evenings, yet she postponed almost all of her costuming work throughout this weekend (we started it on Halloween and finished it last night) so that we could watch a couple of hours of it. There are a lot of things to commend it: The main characters are a delight. Aziraphale makes just enough mistakes and carefully bends the truth to be an imperfect angel, and Crowley was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when Satan's Fall happened--not his fault, really--so he's interested in helping out and only causing a really lazy, surface-level mischief to keep up his credentials as a demon. The taking of the two archetypes and melding and melting them into something unique and memorable is one of the great accomplishments of this story. I did find the reliance on prophecy and destiny a bit incredulous, but that's just a personal taste in why and how characters behave the way they do. The conceit of both Heaven and Hell vying for the end of the world and actively straining to let/make (respectively) it happen was an interesting wrinkle in the context of the world that I really liked, too. But that's the story, which is close to the book, from what I understand. (The series was written by Neil Gaiman, so I'm assuming there's a high level of fidelity.) The advantages of seeing it are, of course, the perks that always come along with watching over reading. Seeing the British countryside that I miss so much was a painful delight, and I pretty much just want to live in Aziraphale's bookshop for the rest of eternity. The acting by the leads, Michael Sheen and David Tennant, is top notch. Both decidedly British, but evoking different moods. Their costuming was always enjoyable--particularly during the '60s and '70s--and the chemistry between the two characters, Aziraphale and Crowley, is perfect. Another thing done particularly well is pacing. A six-hour investment into a story is quite a bit, but the episodes rarely lagged. It wasn't breakneck, but steady, with enjoyable quirks and mysteries that would crop up--mostly in the form of prophecies--and then unexpectedly resolve. Each episode felt like a lot had been accomplished with plenty left to do, all the way up to the end, which took care of each plot point well enough that very little of it felt rushed. The visual effects were never stunning--far better than TV shows had any right to be back in the early aughts, clearly--but they served the story well enough. The camera work was well done, and the editing clean and only occasionally tipping into the showing-off side of things. So, from a guy-sitting-on-his-couch perspective, I felt like it was really well put together. The three F-bombs were a touch much, I felt, mostly because the first one came with such great comedic delivery that it made every other use gratuitous by comparison. There's some naked butt-cheeks at the beginning of the story, which commences in the Garden of Eden--so no surprise there--but as far as streaming TV "adult content", there isn't very much. Oh, and speaking of the Garden of Eden, I loved the idea that Adam and Eve were Black. I thought that was cool. Having just come off a pretty in-depth reread of much of Paradise Lost, this story's use of angels, demons, and the bureaucracification of both Heaven and Hell--essentially turning Milton's vision into the mundane of corporate England--was perfect timing. It may, in fact, turn into an annual tradition for me to revisit Good Omens as I finish up Paradise Lost. At this juncture, it's as close as I can get to a good retelling of Milton's biblical fanfic on screen. And that's pretty good praise. Ever since Dragonball Z hit my teenage years, I've been an appreciator of anime. (I'm hesitant to call myself a fan, if only because I'm one of those trendy people who only watches what's popular and I know comparatively little about the vast quantity of content out there.) I've talked about a couple of different anime series/seasons that I've watched on here before, so it's clear that, while I do have some experience in the medium, I can't say that I'm an expert.
Still, I know the basics: Japanese-animation, called anime, is the broad term for a whole slew of different types of animated story. If it's animated, then the Japanese word for the thing is anime. In the case of RWBY, it's considered anime in Japan…but what is it, exactly? The thing about RWBY (which has a good synopsis here) is that it's not Japanese. Sure, it has a lot of conventions often seen in anime--boarding school for gifted kids, lots of girls in outrageous costumes, bizarre hair styles, and over the top fighting styles--but is it anime? (A similar question can be asked about Avatar: The Last Airbender series.) It sure has a lot of admirers in the anime fandom. Even anime-exclusive online streaming service Crunchyroll has RWBY on its site, with both English and Japanese dubs. If I had to choose, I'd say that RWBY is an anime in that broader sense of being enough within the parameters of anime tropes. I don't know if it's me being too precise, but I feel that, since it wasn't made by a Japanese studio (it's made by an American company, Roosterteeth) nor was it originally distributed in Japan, RWBY is more of an American-anime than pure anime. But that's something that is open for debate and I think it's healthy if others feel differently. But what drew me to the magnum opus of the late Monty Oum, an American of Asian descent (according to his Wikipedia page, he claimed a host of Asian countries as part of his heritage) who created and directed the series until he died of an allergic reaction during a medical procedure. Oum's sense of scale, pacing, and action was something that drew me to him before RWBY came out, as I watched his Dead Fantasy animations often. When I learned* that he had made RWBY, I was interested immediately. Though the first volume was rough from an animation standpoint, the writing, world-building, and characterizations were all intriguing. In fact, that's part of why I love RWBY (and Ruby, the main character, is one of my favorites, too): It's a long-form story told with confidence and panache. The action sequences are fun, of course, and they're crucial to the style of the franchise, but Oum made something enjoyable when he shifted from cartoons fighting each other for no reason and started giving his attention to the characterizations and motivations of his girls. And that's absolutely where the strength of RWBY lies: In the way the story about the girls unfolds. It's a very large story--the cast is huge and a lot is going on--but because Oum originally focused on Ruby herself as the linchpin of her crew, the world is shaded by her unflagging optimism. If Ruby loses heart, it's clear that there's something really wrong with what's happening. Ensemble stories are never easy to write. When done well, they are some of the most powerful stories we get--think of the success of Game of Thrones or the first Avengers movie--but they can also fall apart (think of the second Avengers movie) more easily than others. There's a reason why Wolverine is in most of the X-Men movies, even when it doesn't necessarily make sense (looking at you, Days of Future Past): He's a single character on whom we can focus, despite being part of a team. With RWBY, there's a strong sense that it's about the world that Ruby inhabits, yet still manages to make the plot demonstrating how world events are affecting Ruby and her three main friends. And that's another thing I find really great: I like stories wherein women are in the lead, especially when there's a lot of fun world building and action to go along with everything. As my friend said of me, "It's all girl-power, or whatever you call it." "I call it good stories with women, but yeah…" Ruby is unique among the girls for her endless optimism. Yang, her sister, has a fierce competitive streak that doesn't interfere with her caring about others. Weiss is the rich snob whose drive to improve makes her cold to others, warming up to her friends as the series progresses. Blake is the goth of the group, more removed and distant emotionally, yet still anxious to prove herself. Each girl has separate motives that coalesce into a logical whole, and they always show themselves at their best when they work together. But because of their different personalities, they sometimes forget how to do that, which leads to additional conflict--and, as we all know, conflict fuels stories. That kind of dynamic is always fun to watch. It's why the Teen Titans (and, to a lesser extent, Teen Titans GO!) works so well--the characters are distinct in style, design, motivation, and abilities. The same goes for RWBY, which is no small feat, considering the scale of the series and how many different characters are similarly rendered. I guess what I'm saying is that, if you've any interest in well-told stories, you could do much worse than watching RWBY. It's fairly family appropriate--very rarely do they say a mild swear, and there's almost no blood, with all of the violence stylized--and incredibly well done. I recommend it.** --- * I was watching the ScrewAttack YouTube channel series, Death Battle, in which Yang of RWBY and Tifa of Final Fantasy VII fought to the death. Yang beat Tifa (a verdict I still disagree with--why wouldn't they let Tifa use her materia?) but I was interested in this world where every weapon doubles as a gun. I poked around and that's how I found the series, which was only two volumes deep at the time. ** I probably should point out, if only in a footnote, that I'm not finished with the series yet. I've watched the first three volumes and I'm about a third of the way through the fourth as of the time of this writing. Each volume is two to three hours long, so there's a lot of content to get through. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Yesterday, Gayle and I went to our first anime convention. The local one is called Anime Banzai, which is an interesting name for historical reasons. The entire experience was fun--not on the level of Fan X/Comic Con, as the scale was much reduced--but it was still enjoyable. I didn't recognize a great many of the costumes--when it comes to anime, I have a handful of shows that I really enjoy and I leave the rest alone. (There are a lot of reasons for that, not least of which the fact that there's a lot of content I'm not really sure I want to see.) Gayle and I watched a series a few months ago called Sword Art Online, which we both enjoyed a lot. Gayle decided to make costumes from the series--a choice more than a little influenced by the fact that the two main characters are a dark haired guy and a red-headed girl, I daresay--so we were able to go as Asuna (Gayle's costume) and Kirito (my costume). A dozen or so people asked for pictures, which act acts as a barometer for Gayle about how well she made her costumes. We attended a few panels, played some Dungeons and Dragons, and basically had a good time the whole day. This morning, as I was thinking about what I'd experienced and learned, a conversation I overheard a couple weeks back came to mind. One student was talking to me about Attack on Titan, another anime that I really enjoy (so much so that I couldn't wait for the anime to catch up with the story, so we've purchased all twenty-six volumes of the manga). Another overheard me and said with a kind of scorn and dismay that I'm familiar with--since I have, after all, been interested in the geek scene since I was little and, on top of that, also played quidditch for half a decade--as someone who doesn't agree with another's particular passion tries to make a reasoned argument about why the area of interest isn't worthy pursuit. "Why do you watch so much anime?" asked the chider. "Because I like it and there's a lot to watch." "But there are things besides anime. A lot of it is really good," said the chider, imagining that he was being reasonable. "But I like this. Why should I watch something else?" asked the other student. The bell was about to ring, so I had to leave and not hear the rest of the conversation, but there was something that bothered me about what the chider was after and I wasn't able to put my finger on it until now: Chider thought that anime was a genre, not a medium. The criticism of watching "too much anime" is the same as "reading too many books" or "viewing too many films". There is a conversation to have about how much time a person puts into entertainment, but that conversation isn't about the type, it's about the time. And that isn't what's at stake when someone gets after an otaku who loves her anime. Instead, it's attempting to swap a medium for a genre--a case of apples-to-oranges fallacy if ever I've seen one. Anime is the Japanese term for cartoon, so there's already a generic expectation inside a Western audience. Though we have a handful of cartoons that aren't for children, they are almost entirely comedies (which receive less critical consideration than drama/tragedy). When we Americans think of cartoons, golden age Looney Toons jump to mind, or maybe some Saturday morning fare from when we were kids. Cartoons are what children watch when mommy needs a lie-down. And though there are affecting cartoons that adults love (see: Most of the Pixar film category), there is a nostalgic/reductive tendency--almost to a level of irony, I would say--that moderates the reason for an adult to like what is considered "kid stuff". That prejudice is pretty strong in our culture, but it's particularly misplaced when it comes to another's. In this case, anime isn't for kids--like, hardly at all. Sure, there are some kid-friendly anime series, and they can be a lot of fun. But anime isn't a genre, it's a medium. Within anime there are types of stories that reflect almost every facet of storytelling. There are larger-than-life titles within science fiction (Neon Genesis Evangelion is the example par excellence for that) and high fantasy (my personal favorite was Record of Lodoss War), dystopian (Attack on Titan) and urban fantasy/horror (Death Note), as well as series from much more specific interests. There are J-Pop anime and porn anime and cooking anime and--I just learned about this one--marching band anime. That's right, there's an entire series about some girls who want to be in a marching band and their struggles in the unique dynamic of band camp. (It's called Sound! Euphonium if you want to check it out.) What I'm getting at is there's as much diversity of tone, style, and substance within anime as there is inside of live-action TV, scripted dramas, and basically all other modes of visual storytelling. So why the eye-rolling response when a kid says he likes anime? Again, I think it's part of the knee-jerk disdain for children entertainment. Not all of it is very good, of course, but the idea of actually liking what is intended for a younger audience seems to be bothersome to a lot of people. And the idea that cartoons can't be anything but childish entertainment seems a given. Another reason for a lot of people's dismissal, I believe, is aesthetic. Yeah, Japanese animation and manga have a distinct style. And, to an unfamiliar eye, it can all look the same. But there's a huge difference between what you can see in Dragon Ball Z and Robotech, for example. All of this is to say that I don't think the criticism of anime can stand on as slender a branch as aesthetic/generic critiques. Is there something to say about aspects of the medium? Certainly. There is a tendency to stretch out stories beyond their scope (done for many reasons, not the least of which is that the source material isn't complete). The violence, nudity, sexuality, and swearing can sometimes be so extreme as to distract from the story. Stories often end in tragedy--particularly for the more adult-oriented series--which reflects the Eastern sensibilities that may not be palatable to some in the West. Translational errors can make already overly-complicated tales impossible to follow. Animation quality can vary a great deal, sometimes enough that the ability to enjoy the series is hampered. In other words, there's plenty of reasons to dislike certain anime or genres inside of it. There are areas of critique and consideration. But they're all within the medium, rather than external to it.
I don't believe it as perfectly axiomatic to say "Don't knock it 'til you try it," particularly when there are some things that don't need to be tried to know they're a bad idea (drugs and adultery are two ready examples). But when it comes to anime, I think that there has to be some exposure to multiple types before a full-fledged rejection of the medium is justified. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! The first part is here.
When Sword Art Online ends the first season, it feels completed. Yes, Kirito and Asuna will have to figure out a life post-SAO, but that's doable. That's an epilogue that the viewers can write themselves. The conflict of the story is essentially over. Even if there's supposed to be justice to the guy who turned an MMORPG into a death game, that justice doesn't require our main characters to be there. It's done. So when season two starts up, I didn't know what they would be exploring. Maybe how to rebuild after immense trauma? Kind of a look at PTSD in the kids who somehow survived two years stuck inside a game? Maybe the difficulty they have with coming into a real world when they'd been living inside fantasy where they had so much of their lives taken care of? I mean, when I discuss video games in a critical setting, I always like to focus on the idea of the ideal: The game is the ideal in sundry ways. In an RPG, the entire world relies and awaits the player. There's nothing going on that isn't instigated and solved by the player. That's the point of those games. And though an MMORPG is different in some ways, there are ideal things about them. For example, players in Sword Art Online (and real-life counterparts like World of Warcraft) don't have to physically carry around anything. Their menu system lets them haul around weapons, money, items, and anything else they want. With a single movement, SAO players can conjure up food, look at their equipment, and any number of additional things. Even Asuna points out when she's making a dinner for her and Kirito that cooking is easier in the game than real life. She pulls out a kitchen knife, touches the ingredients, and they morph into perfectly prepared slices, ready for the pot. To me, that's what season two should have been looking at: How do the kids adapt to real life when they've gone through this deep trauma that, in some ways, was superior to reality? How do the adults reacclimate to society after being in a digital coma for two years? There's a lot to explore, a lot to consider, a lot to build upon. In fact, what I thought would be the real conflict would be internal: That Kirito, despite everything he'd been through, still found the allure of VRMMO games too strong to resist. Like a junkie going in for another hit, he would be found in the next VRMMO, playing again despite the potential risks. And season two does see Kirito in another game, ALfheim Online. This one's different because there's magic and they can fly, and their avatars have elf ears. It's…cool. Alfheim itself isn't as interesting as the previous world, and it's less well developed, which works against the investment of the second part of the story. ALO has more logic to it--like, people can log out and they don't die in real life if they die in the game. But the stakes feel reduced. That's not really surprising--it's just a game, not a life that people have tried to carve out whilst held hostage inside a game. In order to up the ante, Asuna's been kidnapped. And that's my main problem with the entire second season. Even though there were a lot of interesting ideas that they ignored, I could have forgiven that if Kirito and his adopted sister's relationship were the primary focus. ALO could have been the playground in which some of their relationship issues are worked out. That would have been fine. But they had to have Asuna kidnapped. Ugh. It's so frustrating. Asuna's character goes from an intriguing, powerful, capable, multi-dimensional woman in the first season to a to-the-T Damsel in Distress. She's literally locked in a cage for the majority of the season. Yeah, she gets out once--and the way she does it is cool and much more in line with her character from before--but she just…isn't interesting as a character. At all. To try to make the danger against Asuna real, an actual villain comes into play, a creep of a guy who is despicable from the outset and has no real motivation except that he's a perv and likes having power--which is why he's in charge of an MMO. And he wants to be a god in the game. I mean, anime, as a genre, is kind of weird to an American sensibility. So that preceding paragraph is, generically speaking, not too bizarre, as far as anime goes. But there's weird and there's bad: this second season was bad. I'm glad that there's a season three just to wash the taste out of my mouth. Why? Well, at the end, the villain chains up Asuna, rips off her clothes, and moves in like he's about to rape her in front of a defeated Kirito, only to lose when Kirito--a la Neo from The Matrix, except less convincingly--gets access to the code of the game and turns the tables. I'm going to pause here for a second and say that Kirito, as a character, has often been shown as thoughtful, compassionate, and, despite his own hang ups and loner attitude, concerned about other people. So, when he defeats the villain (whose name I never bothered to remember) and spends a couple of minutes talking smack and posing with his sword, I got really upset. He's in charge of the game: He should get Asuna out of her chains and generate her clothes immediately. Like, she should have been his first priority…but she isn't. Gah. It bothers me so much. Not because it happened, but because of who it happened to. I really enjoyed both of the characters in the first season, and to see them so terribly reduced, to have their nuance stripped away for a tired and troubled trope--it just makes me sad. I don't think the writers meant for it to come off this way, but it did. You know what else is strange? To be so frustrated with a franchise and eager for the next installment anyway. Part of it is that I hope SAO II will redeem itself. I've watched the first couple of episodes, and I think it's on its way. But more than that, I want to have some of the bigger implications, the larger questions that the premise introduces explored. I want to give it another chance. Here's hoping that season three leaves me with a better feeling. Whoo-boy.
Anime. Okay, so, on Netflix, they have twenty-five episodes of an anime called Sword Art Online. The series started in 2012, so I figured that, with two seasons worth of episodes, I would wait until I finished the series before writing about it. Turns out, there's a third season that's out now, so the story isn't really done. That's kind of frustrating because, had I known, I would have written up some thoughts about just season one (which is vastly better than season two, spoilers spoilers) instead of having to deal with both. Oh, well. That's my life, I s'pose. At this point, if you're not interested in having the story spoiled in any way, you'd best skip out on this essay. If you're not interested in the series at all…well, you'd probably spend your time better elsewhere, for obvious reason. We all set? Okay. Tl;dr from the get-go: Season one of Sword Art Online raises all sorts of questions, and though it falls into The Chosen One trope a bit too much by the end, there are enough subversions and interesting premises that it can be forgiven for some of those storytelling barbs. Season two is a frustrating reversal of all the progress of the first season, with a Damsel in Distress motivation and an embarrassing ending that's one part deus ex machina and another part rape-as-plot point. I'm surprisingly frustrated with SAO. Long form goes like this: The premise of Sword Art Online is to take the obsessive nature of MMORPGs and their addictive properties, the thrill of VR gaming, and pushing it to (pardon me) the next level. Before the first episode is over, we have spent a handful of seconds in the "real world" where the main character, Kirito (yes, I know he has a real life name, but I always think of him with his avatar's name), plugs into SAO with his "deep-dive VR", which essentially hijacks a person's nervous system and makes it so that whatever happens in the game is directly controlled by the player--but the outside world is kept out. In other words, the thought of running with your legs would mean your in-game self would run using those normal mental commands, while your real life legs are stationary in your bed. That is an interesting idea. Because we're heavy on the idea of immersive realities (just look at the premise of Ready Player One, for example) even now, this in-the-near-future is a tantalizing glimpse at what could be. By the end of the first episode, however, Kirito and the other 10,000 players learn that their systems have, much like their nervous systems, been hijacked. The creator of the game has sabotaged it so that all of the players are stuck inside the game. If their NERVGear (the deep-dive VR system) is removed by, say, a parent or spouse, it will fry their brains, killing them. And if their character dies in the game, they die in real life. That premise is fantastic. Well, not for anyone stuck in it, but as far as a story goes, that's pretty interesting. The logistics of what's happening to the "real world" people's bodies isn't answered until the end of the first season, but the story's less interested in establishing how this could work, but what would happen if it did. Season one shows Kirito go through personal growth and trials as the virtual world becomes more and more his actual world. He's an exceptional player, and he gets to be good enough that there are very few challenges. Nevertheless, he decides, because of a trauma early on in his time in Sword Art Online, that he won't join a guild. Themes of isolation as a form of protection for someone's feelings are underscored by the way that Kirito is physically isolated from his entire life, yet he's integrated fully into a fictional world. But within that fictional world, he chooses to isolate himself, as well. He mentions at one point that playing games was where he felt like he had an identity, where he felt as though he fit in. Kirito's struggles to help beat the game through escalating levels of difficulty shifts when he meets Asuna. Asuna is a strong fighter in the game, and as a character she's an excellent foil. Their relationship and personalities are also opposite-yet-complementary. While Kirito is interested in working alone, Asuna is an integral part of her guild. Asuna is fiery (a standard redhead in that sense), while Kirito is more cool and aloof. Heck, Kirito wears black and Asuna white. Despite their differences, the two soon begin working together and discovering that they have grown to care for each other. And that's what I liked so much about season one. The two characters grew together--both as a couple and as characters--to the point that they end up getting married "in game". This is an interesting point, because it raises questions about what a relationship means. There are plenty of people who meet in real life, have courtships online, and end up meeting, marrying, and having happy relationships. But that isn't an option for Kirito and Asuna. While they live close to each other--they both go to the same high school (meaning they're teenagers when they get kidnapped by the game--because anime), for example--they never knew one another before Sword Art Online. The person they fall in love with is a digital manifestation of a true self, but because the game world is so convincingly rendered, they're falling in love with almost the person in real life. While the legalities of saying they're married are obviously less than germane here, it intrigues me to consider the implications of what this kind of connection means. Often, people poo-poo high school relationships as being trite or trivial. I won't deny that many--perhaps even most--high school couples are that: They're based upon mutual attraction, an overabundance of hormones, and often rest more on physicality than any depth of love. But there are exceptions: I've been in love with my wife since we were in high school, way back at the turn of the millennium. It's possible for a relationship to be substantial and real, even at a young age. So what does that mean for Kirito and Asuna? They are in one of the most traumatic experiences that they're ever like to face (until the next season, of course) and they're not only surviving, but finding love in what is, essentially, a protracted, digital Hunger Games. They're forced to fight to survive, with real life death on the other end of their digital mistakes. They're kidnapped and having to navigate a complicated, complex world, complete with politics, game rules, and a requirement to push ever onward if they ever hope to get free of the game. That is a deep trauma that they're pushing through. Little wonder they turn to each other to find consolation, hope, security, and, yes, love. The end of the season comes along and, sure enough, Kirito manages to defeat the final boss and free everyone from the game. He's killed in the process, but through some random twist that's not explained, he manages to survive dying in game and not actually dying in real life. Maybe it was because he killed the boss at the same time, so the death algorithm didn't count it? I don't know. The point is, Kirito becomes the savior of Sword Art Online, both the game and the anime series, and he's a stronger, more interesting character at the ending than he was at the beginning*. Then season two happened. Well, that's a critique for another day. Would I recommend it? Yup. As far as animes go, it's not particularly bizarre, and though there are some distinctly Japanese sensibilities within it, the story is so competently done (for the most part) that it's quite enjoyable. The voice acting is a little better than I'm used to with anime--it's an acquired taste on that front, to be sure--and the animation is always great to look at. I really enjoyed it. So…yeah, check it out, if that's your bag. Um…sorry about the spoilers if you're going to watch the series. Then again, if you are, why did you read through this essay? Your fault, yo. Not mine. --- * Kirito is a good kid from the outset. Yeah, he has his quirks, but, despite his goth getup, he's not a brooding, moody hero. Asuna is spunky and high-spirited, but she doesn't give me the Manic Pixie Dream Girl vibe that some love interests have. She pulls him into a partnership…but he also takes her out of her guild. In other words, they both leave their comfort zones in order to be together. That's an enjoyable story arc, in my mind. Back on Friday night, I got hit with some bug. I got hit hard, harder than I've had sickness almost ever in my life. I can count on one hand how many times I've felt this crummy. Not that I wanted to die, but I sure wasn't looking forward to suffering through the next few days.
Now it's, what, Tuesday, and I got out of the house for the first time since the sickness. It was to visit the doctor, who told me that it was a virus and there wasn't a lot that could be done save rest and patience. Since the semester ended on Friday, I have that small relief: I don't have to figure out subplans or worry about my job. I'm on Winter Break and becoming permanently attached to my bed. As a result, I've not had the energy to write at all for the last couple of days (though I managed not quite 200 words by hand the other night, which left me exhausted). Even playing video games has been hard to do, though I've put a lot of time into Final Fantasy VII, what with it being on my phone, and that is not in and of itself a waste. Nevertheless, I found myself without the energy to write, read, or play games. Instead, I picked up the Netflix series Daredevil season 2, which I had started awhile ago and thought it would be interesting to return to it. And it definitely was interesting…among other things. First of all, the second season is significantly more violent than the first one, which is saying a lot. And while I expect Daredevil to be a gritty, bloody brawl, the violence got stale for me. This isn't to say I didn't cringe or look away during some of the more gruesome moments--torture in movies/games always makes me uneasy--so I'm not saying that what they did to the characters lacked ingenuity (if you want to call it that). No, it's that I stopped caring about the punches, shots, kicks, cuts, slashes, stabs, and other things going on throughout the series. Part of this is because the end result is a given--Daredevil is going to win. But a bigger part is that they were action sequences that served no purpose save as an obstacle to Daredevil and his posse. That is, the violence had turned almost like a video game, where the "gameplay" segments are used simply to string together the "cutscene" segments, plot points strung together like pearls on a necklace. Could more care have been put into the action scenes to make them feel more significant? I don't know. I don't know budget or time constraints. As with all of the Marvel Netflix series, this felt two or three episodes too long, so it's possible that some of the action could've been taken out and the series wouldn't have suffered because of it. The additional bonus would be that the violence would feel a bit more real if there weren't so much of it. Daredevil gets shot through with an arrow, stabbed, punched, kicked, shot, and a lot of other things--yet he seems pretty much okay. The permanent consequences of his behaviors are missing. Yeah, they give him scars--which is good--but hardly enough time to recuperate from his injuries. Maybe it's because I’m sick right now, but the idea that "he's so tough!" as an excuse to get him dying on the floor in one scene and then up and at 'em in the next rings hollow. I'm not a tough person, but I know that healing takes time, which Daredevil never avails himself of. The second thing that stood out to me was the Punisher. I know a lot (comparatively) about comics, and the Punisher interested me for a few minutes when I was a kid. Originally a Spider-Man villain, he really was too dark an anti-hero for the web-head to tangle with too often, so he drifted around the comics. I saw some of the original Punisher movie, the one with Dolph Lundgren, when it was on TV when I was a kid. There weren't a lot of comic book movies back then, so I was interested to see what it was all about. I was disappointed when the guy didn't even have the right costume--no large skull on his chest--and it made the movie such a poor connection to the source material that I lost interest. As I've grown older and my feelings about things have ossified, I have less and less sympathy for Frank Castle. He's a killer, even if he only kills "bad guys". There's no gray there. From a moral point of view, the guy's wrong to do what he does--and he likely doesn't care that he's wrong, either. Remorseless and ruthless, the guy is one of the more grotesque of the Marvel lineup. Yet… I found Jon Bernthal's portrayal of the Punisher entrancing. I couldn't possibly root for the guy, but his soliloquies--particularly the one in the graveyard when he's talking to Daredevil, early in the season--are so well rendered I found myself glad the director hadn't intercut the conversation with flashbacks. Not only would that have diminished his words, but the whole point was for the Punisher to explain something to Daredevil. As a result, we gain the same insights the same way. That put me on the same emotional moment as the two characters, which pulled me in more deeply than I expected. I think the last bit I took away from this season was that they set out to do a lot of stuff at once, and as a result, the focus became scattered. In season 1, the focus was always on the Kingpin. In this one, Punisher, Elektra, and the Hand all crop up in unforeseen ways. I disliked that broad approach--it became too splintered so that, by the end, there wasn't a feeling of having tied up all of the loose ends--but I admire the audacity. I don't think I'd ever revisit these shows, but a single pass gave me some food for thought. The characters wrestled with some large questions, and though they didn't ever really come to a conclusion, they did create a sense of exploration of the themes that I appreciated. And that's not bad for a sick boy on his Christmas break. Note: Welcome to the first of my regular essays here on my website. I hope you enjoy!
Over the last year or so, I've striven to watch more TV and movies. This may sound a touch strange, since a lot of advice out there urges you to, y'know...not watch as much TV or as many movies. I mean, I'm not touching the national average of five hours (and change) of TV a day that is consumed in America. Even if you allow that I'm "watching a movie" when I'm showing segments of Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet to my class, that adds about one hour of TV time to my day--and that's only during September. I squeeze in about an hour, maybe an hour and a half during the evenings, though very often that's in the form of video games. And, despite having more time to myself (comparatively) on the weekends, I don't find myself watching a lot of television during that time, either. It took two days just to watch The Dark Knight Rises this past week. So, while I'm saying that I'm trying to watch more TV and films, that isn't to say that I'm even approaching what a "typical" American consumes. Instead, however, I'm trying to look at these similar--yet different--forms of entertainment as a writer, picking apart what does and doesn't work in a piece. I'm becoming more aware of film-centric critiques--editing, for example, is becoming more visible to me--and trying to think of how the compressed stories that I'm watching on screen could translate to written long-form. In fact, I think this may be part of why I'm interested in seeing the film version of It. Aside from the fact that I enjoyed that book much more than I expected, I'm really curious to see how they took the elements of the novel and adapted them. And while I know there are plenty of articles articulating those differences, I'm curious to see if I can do as much myself, without others guiding my thoughts. The downside is I'd have to watch It, and I'm not much of a horror guy. So, that's a bit of a conundrum. Anyway, the fact that I'm trying to immerse myself in these alternative modes of storytelling is because of the aforementioned compression. What story elements are compelling regardless of their medium? How can I improve my writing by sitting and watching? How can character motivation be conveyed, particularly when the benefit of internal monologue isn't a viable option? What can I emulate on the page from what I see on the screen when non-diegetic shortcuts and atmospheric contributions are rendered moot? How can I create strong emotion in readers when we're so much more accustomed to connecting our emotions as viewers? As I'm exposing myself to more of the stories that move me, I hope that movies will help me make more moving stories, too. |
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