Some things age badly – 50 Cent Blood on the Sand is not one of them

 This piece skips happily down the road with this piece, try and read them both if you have the time.

Everything ages and eventually slips into obscurity, such is life. My parents are getting older; my father’s once magnificent ginger moustache has been steadily greying for the last half decade and now resembles an ageing cathode ray television; still full of energy but not all the glorious colour of the past. It is still a pretty magnificent moustache though, all the same. My grandmother, in her mid-seventies, has recently moved from the home she shared with my late grandfather as it was simply too large for her to live in alone. Did she go straight to a nursing home, away from the bright lights of society and all its moustachioed inhabitants? No, of course not, she moved to a one bedroom ground floor flat on a cul-de-sac where a few of her friends already reside. Living there makes it easier for her to go dancing, play whist, console and inspire recently bereaved local residents, go walking in the country and partake in the numerous other activities she now fills her time with.

Writing about video games can take you to some unexpected places – The death of my granddad

This piece skips happily down the road with this piece, try and read them both if you have the time.

Everything ages and eventually slips into obscurity, such is life. My parents are getting older; my father’s once magnificent ginger moustache has been steadily greying for the last half decade and now resembles an ageing cathode ray television; still full of energy but not all the glorious colour of the past. It is still a pretty magnificent moustache though, all the same. My grandmother, in her mid-seventies, has recently moved from the home she shared with my late grandfather as it was simply too large for her to live in alone. Did she go straight to a nursing home, away from the bright lights of society and all its moustachioed inhabitants? No, of course not, she moved to a one bedroom ground floor flat on a cul-de-sac where a few of her friends already reside. Living there makes it easier for her to go dancing, play whist, console and inspire recently bereaved local residents, go walking in the country and partake in the numerous other activities she now fills her time with.

Everything ages and eventually slips into obscurity, though how quickly this happens is entirely up to us. My grandad passed in 2007, shortly after I moved to London to study film and two months to the day before my sister’s sixteenth birthday. I remember the last time I saw him, lying in a hospital bed as dying people often are, and thankfully being able to say my goodbye. “I’ll see you later Grandad” were my chosen words. Looking back they seem somewhat impotent, filled with my characteristic lack of finality and consequence, and were the farthest they could have been from the reality of our situation. Still, they staved off the sadness of the occasion, allowing us to doff our caps one last time without troublesome tears.

They came about six months later while I was lying on a stranger’s floor in St John’s Wood. I’d been out with friends and one of their sisters was kind enough to let us stay with her for the night. It had been a rather enjoyable evening, I’m sure we saw a couple of bands and we certainly shared a few beers, though nothing indicated I’d later be staring at a ceiling quietly sobbing to myself for an hour or so, and in a stranger’s living room, flanked by two friends, no less. Why those months of grief decided to emerge at that point I’ll never know, though it was strangely comforting to know that they had been there all along, hiding somewhere inside waiting to prove that I had been deeply impacted by his death. My instinctive grief had been exorcised in a way and I could now move past mourning his death and instead enjoy my memories of him, as I have ever since.

It look my grandma a while longer for this to happen, if in fact it ever fully has, and for a long time she was quieter and more introverted, she had after all, been married to the man for almost fifty years. After a time, though, she began to head back out into the world. She started to meet regularly with the support group she now helps lead and found great comfort in the community of people experiencing similar emotional upheaval. Her strength was nurtured by these people as she, albeit through necessity, became stronger and more outgoing than I’ve ever personally seen her to be. As she moved further and further away from the life she’d enjoyed for almost half a century it wasn’t just with a heavy heart, but with new courage and verve to grow beyond her terrible loss, though never to forget him.

Where does this intersect with video games then? It doesn’t really, not any more. My original thoughts were going to be about the insatiable appetite we have for ‘new things’ and, of all games, 50 Cent: Blood on the Sand, before I veered off on this tenuously related tangent. I will attempt to finish with something that is relevant to both topics though, and hopefully get myself two pieces for the price of one and a half, as it were.

Everything ages and eventually slips into obscurity, though only if we let it happen. My grandma’s life has irrevocably changed with the passing of her husband, just as my dad’s moustache has irrevocably changed with the passing of time. They are both still fantastic things in their own right though, and both my grandma and father still treasure what they have. As things get older their value often increases dramatically, allowing us to not only reappraise them, but also place newer things within a more grounded context. Fifty years is a long time to be married. Twenty years is a long time to sport a moustache, regardless of its colour. As things age they become beautiful, valuable and sometimes, as with our memories of my grandad, and to a lesser extent 50 Cent BotS, timeless things to be treasured above all other trinkets.

I locked my girlfriend in the cellar until she agreed to watch Doctor Who with me. She’s out now and I think we’ll live happily ever after.

I don’t know about the rest of the world but I really, really like the resurrected Doctor Who. I find its mischievous, upbeat and sometimes irreverent tone utterly infectious. It is episodic entertainment working perfectly within the constraints of its format. Each episode is a fantastical adventure fraught with danger and intrigue that almost always stands up to scrutiny on its own merits. Yet, throughout these isolated tales small, tantalising clues as to the larger, currently incomprehensible overarching story are sown. I know this is basic television writing and am not suggesting that Doctor Who has revolutionised the structure of plotting over many hours. What I am saying, though, is that these clues and symbols, whether they be recurring phrases or momentary glimpses into the unknown, always, without fail, coalesce into the most satisfying season finales I’ve ever witnessed.

Gushing over, let us get to the problem with Doctor Who. In my professional life working in post production I find myself invariably surrounded by the good Doctor. From his earliest adventures outsmarting men wearing bed sheets and tinfoil, through his days as a private military contractor in Wales, the shitty Eighties where even he wasn’t very entertaining, right up to today where we see him fighting men wearing CG bed sheets and CG tinfoil. All this exposure has led to unhealthy episodes of mania where I am unable to control my consumption, often staying late into the night in the office to re-watch serials whilst simultaneously creating collages of Jon Pertwee’s utterly beautiful hair.

I do this not for selfish reasons, quite the opposite, I do it for my girlfriend. I know, simply know, that old, or classic as it is professionally known, Doctor Who will be of no interest to her, my lovely, wonderful, beautiful partner. Christ, some of them are a stretch even for me and I genuinely like the stuff. The pacing can be terribly ponderous, especially in the Sixties, and a decent level of suspension of disbelief is necessary to enjoy a lot of the lower-budget aspects of the show. I’m big enough to not try and force this onto her, however much I’d to curl up with her under Tom Baker’s scarf and live happily ever after. I’m not big enough, though, to never watch the new stuff with her, even if she thinks she doesn’t like it.  

My friend recently bought a flat and last weekend invited us around to test out her newly purchased garden furniture. Everything was going swimmingly until the recently broadcast Broadchurch was mentioned. “I really don’t like David Tennant” said my friend, scrunching her face up so completely until it resembled a potato after being thrown at a wall. “His ratty little face upsets me” she continued, oblivious to her current lack of facial beauty. “I fully agree with you, his little body is silly; his torso is so slight, he just can’t be very manly” piped up my girlfriend helpfully. Well, with that I embarked upon a courageous defence of Mr. Tennant, hitting all the bases I could in the fifteen seconds I had before gang-obliteration. Shakespearean acting chops, perfect Doctor balancing levity and dark brooding like no other, beardy narcissism in the aforementioned Broadchurch, cheeky hijinks in Casanova. I felt as though I’d defended his honour admirably, though it was all for nought. They simply didn’t see the merit in the great man’s talents; I had been bested by x chromosomes and sheer ignorance.

Undeterred, I sat my girlfriend down, partly as punishment for disagreeing with me, partly as a life lesson, and forced her to watch ‘Rose’, the first episode of the new run of Doctor Who. There I was, bouncing on the sofa in time to the running music which makes up about eighty-five percent of the episode, while my lovely partner was sitting stony-faced beside me, clearly having the time of her life. She persevered though, and slowly opened herself up to Doctor Who’s brand of rather particular, cheesy levity. First it was the wordplay and terrible Dad-jokes, then came the slapstick, and finally, last night, she was taken by the drama. In a harrowing episode which sees a previously deceased father saved from his fate only to create the most horrible of paradoxes, which kills the Doctor might I add, and then re-kill himself to set things straight, the tension in my living room was palpable. She smiled, she laughed, she gasped, and I’d go as far as saying she loved Doctor Who for the first time.

Such is the power of perfectly-written-Saturday-night-light-sci-fi. All I need do now is keep bombarding her with episodes until anything that remained of her own personality is gone and she is merely a female version of myself. For that is the real joy of a relationship, no?      

Nathan Drake makes all the games so I don’t need to play any more for a while

Tomb Raider is the best Uncharted game I’ve played since the time I played Uncharted 2, back when I still played the PlayStation 3. I began neglecting the Sony-made machine once I purchased an Xbox 360 and realized that dreadfully slow network features and a clumsy interface were not problems with all modern consoles — just the one I’d bought out of the gate. So Tomb Raider: Uncharted Adventures is probably even better because I don’t have to turn on a PS3 to play it at all.

Another thing I don’t have to do is play as Nathan Drake, a second boon for the game. I don’t have to listen to him, see him, make him jump on things, or even throw him from great heights down gaping chasms because I find him insufferable. Young Lara Croft is a fantastic stand-in for Nathan Drake because she isn’t anything like him. He’s a constant annoyance and she, well, is just a little timid and bland.
I did used to like Nathan, though, back before he careened around the world every couple of hours because he has no attention span whatsoever. There was a time when he was happy to run around an island for hours on end, climbing up the same kinds of walls and playing in streams — back when he was fun to be around and not simply a self-obsessed narcissist. But he became a celebrity, and now I can’t stand him and his incessant attention seeking.

Look at his games’ cover artwork, for instance. The first time around, he was perfectly happy to look like a male model vaulting over a rock — all understated athleticism with a hint of brooding purpose. In the second go around, he changes completely, evidently not satisfied with looking anywhere near the everyman he purports to be. This time, Nathan Drake wants you to look at him and his daring — his foolhardy greatness and unfazed cool — or anything, really, as long as everyone is looking right at him and nothing else.

Yes, he is hanging precariously from a train over one of my favorite chasms, but he is merely using the train, the snow, the dropped gun, and that long, long fall that could await him to focus our eye on him. Try looking at one of these things for a second, and your gaze is inexorably drawn back toward Drake — your every thought focusing on his predicament. How will he climb back into the train? What will he do without his weapon? Why has he removed it from its holster and dropped it in the first place? Is he at all cold in the snow, wearing only a stylish V-neck for protection? Every part of this image’s mise-en-scène is cynically positioned to make us think entirely about Nathan Drake and his pitiful, attention-seeking ways.

The worst part of this sordid aspect of his person is that he never actually posed for this photograph in the first place. He mocked the whole thing up on a green screen. If you look at the original image, you can clearly see he is not grabbing the train at all — he’s barely touching it. He wasn’t holding anything but simply standing on one leg and sticking his arm in the air for the photographer. The rest, as they say, was done in post. Nathan Drake isn’t your friend. He is a fame- and money-hungry liar who will stoop to any level of deceit to feed his addiction for gawping applause.

Young Lara Croft, on the other hand, is as uncynical as they come. Barely out of high school, she is clearly out of her depth when it comes to daring international archaeology. This makes her a believable, relatable, and, most importantly, empathetic character. After being shipwrecked on a strange and dangerous island, she must learn to survive using only her wits, a bow, a pistol, a shotgun, an assault rifle, a climbing axe, and a number of nifty dodge and evade maneuvers. In addition to dealing with such a paltry and impotent arsenal, Lara must also overcome her instinctive aversion to killing her fellow man and the island’s fauna if she — or, more accurately, the player — wishes to survive.

For as much as this is a touching story about Lara Croft and her difficult journey into adulthood, the game itself does nothing to help this young woman to blossom on her own. Neglect the controller for a second, and you will likely condemn Lara to a terrible fate. The game is fervently against giving her any means of sustaining her own life without the guiding hand of the player and is far too protective of her child-like innocence. That isn’t to say that Tomb Raider is Lara’s tearful mother, unwilling to let her fly the nest and forget all about her. Rather, it’s her aged neighbor who splits his time between fantasizing about all the ways he would “teach that girl a lesson.”

At almost any point throughout her adventure, Lara can die. If she isn’t climbing, jumping, or shooting, she is most likely careening down a hill or through the air right toward a sharp protrusion, and damn you, player, if you aren’t concentrating while she does this because she will happily, happily, let herself be poked full of holes.

There are a couple of instances throughout the game where Lara is covered from head to toe in blood after concluding a particularly gruesome bout of woman-on-man sparring. Considering the leering nature and rabid frequency of her instant impalements, I have to assume that the developers would have much rather she were covered in a different though no less nauseating bodily fluid.

Which brings us to the unavoidable conclusion; Nathan Drake makes all the games. Not necessarily singlehandedly, but he oversees the entire operation to be sure. When not starring in them himself he is creating others that are just different enough to keep people interested, though not too unfamiliar as to have people forgetting about him altogether. Drake is very similar to Ben Affleck before he started starring in his directorial efforts; a suit I’m sure Drake will be more than happy to follow when the time is right. Possibly with an Assassin’s Creed style expansion game that incorporates ideas from a similar, though less fruitful or satisfying project. Like thus:

Just like Ben, some of the projects Nathan works on behind the scenes far surpass those he has seen his face plastered across, others, like The Town and Nathan Drake presents: Tomb Raider are very enjoyable yet serviceable continuations of a well-worn groove. That is all well and good for Sir Affleck who has currently directed only three films since Gone Baby Gone in 2007. Sir Nathaniel Drake on the other hand makes hundreds of games a year and it is he we can thank for homogenising videogames to the point of self-parody.

Tomb Raider is essentially Uncharted in disguise. Lara Croft’s touching journey from adolescence to womanhood through the valley of the personal strife is, pause, adolescent male power fantasy torture-porny nonsense in disguise. Telling this origin story because ‘it needs to be heard’ is attempting to justify making a video game in the first instance and nothing more, again pause, in disguise.

After all that bile I must admit that I liked Tomb Raider quite a lot. And therein lies the problem. Nathan Drake has convinced the world, and vicariously me, that for them to be fun, all games must play like his. Just as I didn’t play Uncharted Three, I can’t see myself jumping on Lara any time soon for fear of not enjoying it as much as the first time. I am therefore going to lock myself away from the evil Nathan Drake and Sons Co. and their vile videogames, all the videogames remember, and sweat it out until something changes or we all destroy the World. Not quite sure which one will, or even should, happen first.

*As a side note, Nathan Drake did not have anything to do with the development of Flower. That is why it is the best game ever made.