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Ganondorf and the Hardcore in Zelda: The Wind Waker
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| Image property of Nintendo. Source: ZeldaWiki.org |
SPOILER WARNING: Contains plot spoilers for Zelda: The Wind Waker and Zelda: Twilight Princess. Although if you haven’t played these by now WHAT THE HELL.
It’s 2003. A
young, wide-eyed Link ascends into a shipwreck penthouse atop a crooked tower.
Ahead of him stands a dark, perplexingly fat figure, as misshapen as his home,
and arguably The Wind Waker’s finest achievement.
Ganondorf
appears significantly – almost shockingly – altered from the powerfully-built,
greatsword-wielding demon first shown in the 2000 Space World demo that teased
the GameCube’s potential. Instead we are introduced to a gnomish, flabby,
kimono-dressed recluse, yet probably Nintendo’s most convincing iteration of
the antagonist to date.
Here an aged
despot clutches selfishly to his sigil of power, no longer enjoying the potency
of dominion, resigned to living out his endless days in a bleak, sea-sprayed
fortress (a ramshackle state of affairs at that), brooding on past glories and
defeats – events that now only he remembers or cares for. His bitterness
against the world runs deep, even dispatching agents to kidnap children that –
through mere resemblance to his scarred, obsessive memories – his psychosis has
convinced him to believe offer him harm.
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| Image property of Nintendo. Source: ZeldaWiki.org |
Contrast
this weakened, twisted tyrant to the godlike appearance of Ganon in Twilight
Princess (2006), who – along with much of the cast, it must be said – is as
bland a non-character as the Zelda series has ever brought to screen.
Ganondorf’s
earlier appearance in The Wind Waker helps build the antagonism that resonates
through the storyline. His nefarious activities lend him a palpable aura of
evil, whilst his flaws save him from becoming the pantomime villain he often
appears as elsewhere. It is this flawed humanity glimpsed beneath the cracked
mask of villainy that asks us to re-appraise the schemer we thought we knew,
and slew, many times before. This is a King of the Gerudos who has let himself
go, with no place in the present, no ambition for the future; his powers, his
ambitions, his worldview, are all shackled to the past.
Is it not
too hard to see the image of the loyalist fan in this Ganondorf, Nintendo’s
mirror to the hardcore gamer? The Wind Waker’s antagonist represents every
Nintendo fan who formed the loyal core up to this point in the company’s
history. Ganondorf, the veteran gamer, dreams of an older Hyrule, one lost
beneath a sea-change that, at the time of The Wind Waker’s release, was
beginning to shift Nintendo’s entire vision of gaming, games, and who should
play them.
The Wii
heralded the arrival of this new vision in 2006, but its roots can be seen
during the GameCube era, where perceived ‘hardcore’ franchises – such as
StarFox, Metroid, and F-Zero – were exiled to external developers, whilst the
big names of Mario and Zelda underwent a process of metamorphosis into the more
friendly, pick-up-and-play style the Wii consoles have become famous for.
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| Image property of Nintendo. Source: ZeldaWiki.org |
Toon Link,
as he was known and derided following his 2001 Space World debut, put a face to
this transition, an initially hated vanguard of this ‘nu-tendo’ that was not to
fully arrive until years later with the casual-friendly Wii. Set against this
new wave Link is the old-school gamer portrayed by Ganon who paints a
convincing picture of any old-hand of Nintendo gaming suspicious of the
company’s shift in strategy. Locked in their mental fortress, they care little
for the vast and shallow sea of casual motion gaming that surrounds them, convinced
Nintendo’s ‘golden age’ has been and gone, preserving their sepia-tinted memories
within a time-frozen bubble, and drawing upon such stock to judge anything new
or different that might come along.
It should be
no surprise that, rather than his hulking greatsword, Ganon draws two nimble
katanas, and we fight a Ganondorf not lacking in martial skill, but in his
dextrous prime. He blocks, leaps and parries with the sort of well-honed
reactions any self-respecting hardcore gamer will have developed over the
years.
If Ganondorf
represents every loyalist Nintendo fan, and old Hyrule as the games they set
the standard by, then Nintendo’s judgement is clear: the deluge that floods old
Hyrule during The Wind Waker’s climactic sequence was never meant to be
reversed; Hyrule could never be raised again. With the coming of the Wii,
Nintendo was turning its back on its illustrious past: the scene had been
reset. In a mean twist, Nintendo put the executioner’s axe into the hands of
the gamer themselves. As Toon Link, the harbinger of this new age, we have
little choice but to put an end to the avatar of the old-school. Needless to
say, without the Triforce of Power, Ganondorf dies.
The curious
anomaly to this trend, the ironic postscript, is that, in a way, Ganondorf did
win that battle: Hyrule was restored.
Twilight Princess, in spite of its drab exterior, was a return to the
pixellated epic of old Nintendo. Essentially Ocarina of Time Plus, Twilight
Princess provided some of the most memorable boss fights and rigorously-designed
dungeons the series has ever showcased.
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| Image property of Nintendo. Source: ZeldaWiki.org |
But if
anything, the shoehorned Wii version showed just how inappropriate such a design
ethic felt within this new generation. Rather like Ganon’s ramshackle redoubt
on the Great Sea, the brooding cover art of Twilight Princess appeared incongruous
amongst the squeaky shiny delights of Wii Sports and friends. This was a
gesture from Nintendo, a sinking lure, to bring as many as possible from the old
to the new: come with us.
When
Ganondorf arrives at the end of Twilight Princess, as if straight from the 2000
Space World demo all those years ago – and we banish him back just as quickly –
do we really care? The future is already here, and we suspect that of the
game’s dual-world mechanic the reverse might be true: it is the Twilight Realm
that is real, this rebuilt Hyrule is mere, invasive illusion. We fight as an
old, scarred wolf for its preservation, but in vain. Such a world is only a
dream of one.
A decade
since The Wind Waker first hit consoles, the present finds Nintendo a company still
haunted by its past. Its courting of the vast but shallow casual market proved a
fickle affair; its lesson from the Wii was that it still needed the loyalist
core to turn things around when times got hard. Despite their efforts, then, old
Hyrule refuses to fade. The Wii U (2012) is an ambitious amendment to Nintendo’s
strategy that attempts to reconcile the two powerful forces competing for the
company’s attention: the capricious demands of new, casual gamers, versus the entrenched
expectations of the loyalist user base. This dichotomy resulted in a bizarre
chimera of the Wii’s multiplayer accessibility and the single-player immersion
of a tablet controller. But the Wii U compromise does not appear to be working.
As questions
are raised concerning Nintendo’s relevance in the present era of gaming, it is
fitting that they should return to the gaming metaphor that, with hindsight,
signalled their strategic transformation in the first place. The Wind Waker HD debuted
with a packaged figurine of the same Ganondorf who was last seen petrifying as
a statue beneath the waves. As if risen from the sea, scrubbed up, and
redeployed at Nintendo’s behest, they have perhaps realised that Wisdom and
Courage alone are not quite enough to make a console: Power is also a
requisite, and the reliable source of power offered by the hardcore fanbase is
one yet to run its course. The Wind Waker’s debut on the Wii U brings to
attention a new crossroads in Nintendo’s history: where now, and who with?
The Problem with Ideas-Driven Fiction (And How to Fix it)
Theme folds in meaning to our writing. Theme gives a recognisable shape to the underlying structures that form the narrative: without theme, the narrative can feel flat or disjointed. A strong theme, however, provides an overall consistency that holds everything in place.
Scenes, characters, and events take on new poignancy, attracting deeper sympathies. Most importantly, a theme the reader can identify with locks the story in their heart, right where you want it. Theme is powerful, and as such, it must be handled carefully. Too much and you risk contrived characters and preachy sentiment. Too little, and the plot may fail to resonate, or seem entirely pedestrian. Worse, a completely soulless narrative may cause the reader to abandon it entirely.
Balance is everything. Nowhere is this more important than when the theme of the story is less archetypal (e.g.: ‘life finds a way’, or ‘love conquers all’) and more specifically an agenda of ideas the writer feels strongly about (e.g.: ‘usurp the patriarchy’, or ‘consumerism is killing the planet’): ideas-driven stories like these may be ideological or political in motivation, or involve a similarly impassioned topic. In these cases the theme is required to be clear so that the ideas can crystallise in the reader’s perception and they finish with little doubt as to what the story was trying to say. The danger here is that these ideas become so dominant in the writer’s craft that the story itself plays second fiddle: the narrative becomes a mouthpiece, a pamphlet, with a cobbled together fiction tacked on at the end.
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| Source: Wikipedia |
Consider Aldous Huxley’s satirical classic, Brave New World. The first fifth of the novel is a masterpiece in world-building, evoking – through powerful imagery and a structured beat – the dystopia of his nightmares. Beyond this strong start, however, the integral flaws of the narrative begin to show: flat characterisation, poorly paced development, and a dull plot severely compromise the reader’s sympathies and suspension of disbelief. The ideas are given too much precedence. Leading from the front, they get in the way of the story, and so the entire narrative suffers.
By contrast, George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four paces the discussion of his ideas alongside the developing desires of the protagonist. Winston’s need for self-expression is continually hindered by the oppressive regime he lives within. The ideas at the heart of Orwell’s satire have a narrative function: they act as a buffer against which the protagonist must continually rise against if he is to succeed in fulfilling his desire. This continues until it is no longer self-expression but survival itself that is being fought for: the ideas become ever more potent and dominant but Winston’s desires increase to battle them. Characterisation is balanced in a taut dyadic with theme.
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| Source: Wikipedia |
Structure, then, can be an excellent tonic to balancing the demands of powerful, ideas-driven fiction. But it can be a daunting task for any writer with an agenda and a blank page in front of them. Where do we start? Stephen King suggests, in On Writing, that theme is largely the reserve of the editing process. Theme, therefore, is latent in your writing. It is the writer’s job, in the edit, to excavate this and bring it forward into a recognisable and resonant state. The problem for ideas-driven writers is that often this isn’t enough: there just isn’t sufficient control over the process – too much is left to chance. The theme may end up not as powerful, or perhaps entirely different to what you were looking for. But is this the fault of the writing or the writer? If theme is latent in our work, then it stands that whatever we care about most will likely manifest within the text we create. If you really believe in the ideas you want to give voice to, then a voice will come through. Having faith in this process is simply part of the writer’s job. If the theme isn’t what you expected, than the question to ask is: did you really care about those ideas enough to begin with?
By focussing on plot and characterisation and letting the theme come through naturally, you create a more authentic and resonant fiction. Your readers will thank you for it.
An edition of this article first appeared at LiteratureWorks on 21st March, 2014
Gravity: Film Review
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| Image property of Warner Entertainment |
Gravity has been fetching rave reviews and heralded as revolutionary and a game-changer in cinematography. But does it really deserve the praise festooned about what is essentially very simple storytelling?
First things first: yes, it’s A Good Film. If you’ve been dithering about whether to see it or not, go and see it. Right now. Go on. Preferably on as large a screen as can be found with as good a 3D as possible: if any film was made for Imax, it was this one.
The CGI is impressive, demonstrating a strong understanding of force and motion that is so often disregarded in films that favour stylistic yet contrived effect sequences. The camerawork is spot on. Close and claustrophobic, with viewpoints resting over the shoulder or inside the helmet, the sense of isolation in space is felt with a convincingly icy terror. There’s also a welcome rebuttal of Hollywood’s craze for ‘cool’ action shots. You know the type: unnecessary bullet time, irritating speed-up/slow-mo sequences, stupidly fast editing. The film is instead given a chance to breathe, allowing the camerawork to speak for itself. Long, pendulous takes do an excellent job of building suspense: right from the beginning you’ll feel a slow mounting of tension that is hard to shake.
The 3D is generally good, but I’d argue screen size is the more important factor, allowing for a greater sense of the vertiginous dimensions of space. The 3D can also be counter-intuitive at times, drawing too much attention to itself and reminding us where we are. I didn’t count the number of times an errant screw drifted out into the theatre but it happened a tad too often for my liking. At one, admittedly tender, point one of Sandra Bullock’s tears floats out serenely into zero gravity, the depth of field bringing it sharply into focus. The film is left behind as this strange revenant hovers above the audience. It’s undeniably pretty, but – alongside the wandering screws – ultimately feels rather gimmicky, and worse, threatens to undo the film’s otherwise sterling efforts of narrowing the distance between the story and our involvement with it. This cardinal sin is unfortunately the hubris of 3D in general, but is tellingly this film’s only excess.
The storyline itself is blindingly simple, and turns out to be both the film’s key strength and underlying weakness. It plays out as the first lesson of plot-writing in action: make the character want something, then put as many things in their way that prevents them from getting it as is feasible. In Gravity, the isolation of character and setting only draws attention to the starkness of this plot. Bullock’s character is stranded in space, desperately wanting to get back to earth in one piece, with a somewhat linear sequence of environmental hazards arising unavoidably to hinder her. The fact that she is highly likely to overcome these obstacles in order for the story to progress hardly registers: the episodic sense of peril and her flaws of character ask us to root for her survival, and demand that we believe in the tangibility of the threats that assail her. The nearer she gets to achieving her goal, the more she wants it, but the closer she comes to despair. Our desire for her to push through heightens proportionately, as does our rejection of the logical narrative outcome.
This denial that her survival is unquestionable is perhaps emphasised by another element of Gravity’s simplistic storytelling: it is very much like a video game. There has been an increasing trend lately where films – long the influence and vision for many narrative-driven action games – have in turn begun to be influenced by games themselves. Star Trek: Into Darkness suffered heavily from this, being a long chain of poorly set up action sequences, paced much like an onerous quick time event in an action game. Gravity’s action sequences bear similar criticisms: the behind -the-shoulder camera angles and long takes emphasise the impression of a computer game playing itself on the cinema screen. As Bullock’s character pulls herself hand over hand around the satellite, we wonder if perhaps we should be helping out with a few button taps or control-stick wiggles.
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| Image property of Warner Entertainment |
Despite this, Gravity suffers far less than Star Trek, and perhaps even benefits from this influence: unlike a film there is no certainty that we will make it through to the end of a video game in one piece. Perhaps this uncertainty transfers unconsciously to Gravity’s narrative pull, making us fear for Bullock’s predicament not because the story would suggest it (it doesn’t), but rather because these pitfalls and perils are all too familiar to us in worlds we have visited ourselves, gamepad in hand. A phantom Game Over screen hovers above Bullock’s space-based platforming, an empathic fear that we, as gamers, have encountered many times before.
The mellowing influences that bring Gravity back to film territory are the delicate moments of introspection and despair. It is the emphasis on character in these momentary ‘safe’ places that break up the action and allow for a touch of the human to come through. By themselves, neither Bullock’s sparse back story nor Clooney’s dull anecdotes are especially arresting, or even convincing. Take a step back, however, and you can see how the subtle resonance between the protagonist’s emotional development and the film’s themes manifest symbolically, and with a certain majesty, in the overall structure. Ultimately Gravity is revealed as an internal trial, a metaphorical setting for the psychological struggles experienced by the protagonist as she seeks to overcome personal trauma. The isolated environment, ‘in the blind’, helps convey this sense of a solitary, internalised struggle, the uterine absence of space providing a canvas to untangle the mind. It is here that the uncontrollable consequences of force and motion bear witness to their parallels that carry and buffet us through life itself.
A special mention deservedly goes to Steven Price’s evocative work on the soundtrack. This is also a welcome departure from recent Hollywood trends: the single-note horn blasts of Inception and the rising strings of the Dark Knight trilogy are gratefully absent. What we have instead is a marriage of retro-influenced space ambience – a conglomeration of electronic hums and whistles, alongside some shivering, icy notes – and a simple, two-note signature reminiscent of the Jaws theme tune. Here, of course, the spook of nature is gravity itself: the imminent approach of orbiting debris is heralded by this sinister theme, rising to a crescendo when the shit really does hit, before vanishing in an air-locked instant the moment Bullock’s character reaches her dry ground.
The bravery and integrity of Gravity derives not from any revolution of form but rather from its stripping away of current filmic trends, of cutting down and narrowing in. The sense of drama and epic is allowed to arise naturally through an uncompromising focus, whether this is through the simplistic psychologically-charged storyline, the claustrophobic camera angles, or a single teardrop detaching itself from the screen. At times this focus reveals flaws rather than strengths, but overall the result is a film that impresses with its portrayal of helplessness in the face of relentless consequential motion, and its structural subtext of turbulent introspection. It is, if anything, an escapist fantasy in its purest sense.
An edition of this article first appeared at StudentCom on 9th December, 2013
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