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More observations into the vortex

The new series is most well encapsulated in the opening and the ending of The End of the World — all of the melancholy wonder there, that the series always seemed like it was trying to get across yet which had never before been so concentrated. About how fleeting life is, and how important it is to understand and appreciate what you, while you, can.

It really is the overarching message of the series — the new one, in particular. It’s kind of the message the Ninth Doctor gives us. Everything has its time and everything dies. He especially is doomed, by his own head and hand. And yet when Rose’s father figures the reason he’s never done anything important is that he was meant to die, he’s told that “it doesn’t work that way”.

The new series is doing a really good job of commenting on the nature of life by crossing it with the nature of time. Being and Time; Heidegger argues they’re the same thing. It’s not a bad argument, from a subjective standpoint. From a human one. From the only perspective we can know.

Which is, incidentally, the new perspective of the series — now that it’s focused on the companions again rather than the Doctor as-such.

Some people have expressed dismay at how they no longer can appreciate the original series as they used to, much to the derision of the hardcore. I think the problem is now there’s a frame of reference for the old stories. Before, they were all that existed — so it was easy to take them for what they were. Now you get to compare with the current production. You can’t help it, really — even if it’s not really a fair comparison. Since there is a “New Who”, the old who by nature becomes “Old Who” — with all the baggage that entails. One of those unavoidable details.

The question then becomes, how do we reconcile the distinction? It’s something each of us has to answer on his own, in his own way.

You know what’s the least dated? The black-and-white stories.

Really. It’s obvious they’re from another era. They’re old. They’re crackly. There’s a completely different headspace to black-and-white film, compared to color.

Check out Tomb of the Cybermen, for instance. It holds up nearly as well as, say, Lang’s Metropolis. There’s enough distance that you have no real inclination to compare it to the new material. It simply is what it is.

Once you introduce color, though, you run into a whole host of psychological problems.



In response to some message board shenanigans

Most of science fiction is magic in the end: you make an assumption for
the purpose of illustration (usually of a social or political issue),
and as long as everything around it follows in a reasonable manner, you’ve got a successful gimmick.

Doctor Who has never been any different; the difference is that its key
assumptions, on a long-term basis, tend to be more for dramatic than
hypothetical purposes. To provide solutions rather than ask questions.
The sonic screwdriver exists, for instance, to resolve any physical
impasse. Davies has had fun with this and, flying in the face of JNT,
has made it even more of a panacea. (Note Boom Town and the
teleportation.) This is fine because this one magical assumption allows
us to skip the obligatory procedurals (that frankly have little to do
with story) and go more directly from cause to effect, on a narrative
level.

The TARDIS has always been another magical device. It works how it
needs to work to do what the writers want to do. That Davies is having
more fun with this than earlier writers and producers just follows his
whims and — frankly — the demands of the modern format of the show.
And of modern standards in storytelling.

That montage at the start of Rose tells all, really. In two minutes we
know all we need to know about her, and all we really get are setup
shots. It would be pointless to fill in the blanks, as that’s not what
the story’s about. We get all we need to know from what we’re shown,
and we can fill in the rest ourselves. Take that, expand it, you have
Doctor Who in a nutshell. All Davies has done is boil it down. And in
most places, it’s effective in the end. If you really need
explanations, you can make them up on your own. Fans are good at that.
They’re kind of irrelevant to the purpose of the series, though.

Thus concludes my review of Metroid II.



The Art of Selling Out

by Eric-Jon Rössel Waugh

Originally published by Next Generation.

Katamari Damacy ends with the player roaming the Earth, ripping up all of its nations and rolling them into a ball. Hard to follow up on that.

The sequel is, therefore, the exact same game as the first. It had to be, really; that’s how sequels work. You capitalize on the investment of the first game by recycling your work and cashing in on the good will the first game bought you. The curious detail is that this sequel knows what it is; it was made with knowledge of the first game, and of the success of that game – for without that success, there would have been no sequel. And more to the point, it was made knowing just what people expect in a sequel.

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Tarnish

I had a dream about the N-Gage.



Devils in the Details

by Eric-Jon Rössel Waugh

Originally published by Next Generation.

All right, so Lament of Innocence wasn’t so hot; the next game would be the real clincher. Lament did have a good engine. And Leon controlled just right. There just wasn’t much to do with him, was all.

So what does Igarashi have to show this time? As it turns out, not much — yet. As of E3, Curse of Darkness strongly resembles its predecessor: another 3D Castlevania that feels nice to play, but has the level structure of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That in itself would be fine; Castlevania began as an action game, and it worked then. What is worrisome is that Igarashi wants to make this game nonlinear.

( Continue reading )