Atomic Blonde [2017]

Atomic Blonde belongs to a male-dominated genre and aesthetic, not only dominated, but almost explicitly anti-woman. Women exist in this genre space almost purely to get “Fridged“, rescued, or indifferently used by the hero in furtherance of his aims. The big, perhaps only, exception in a male-led film has been Ilsa Faust [Rebecca Ferguson] in Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation [2015], a rival of Ethan Hunt’s [Tom Cruise] who effectively does every feat of daring he does, rescues him when he fails, and defeats him in a chase – I very much want to see a Mission Impossible film headlined by her with an entirely new team. Before that there have been a tiny handful of female-led films like Haywire [2011], Salt [2010], The Long Kiss Goodnight [1996], and The Assassin [1993]. The rarity of a female-led spy action film makes gender the elephant in the room when thinking about this film, an elephant that the film itself is very aware of, because it needs to walk a tight-rope of expectations. A female hero in the Bond vein can’t use her sexuality the way Bond does his, because of Mata Hari; yet she must demonstrate or perform her sex, or end up a  effectively male with breasts. The Long Kiss Goodnight made this kind of dynamic explicit by pitting the spy identity against the mother identity, while the others have generally opted to lean away from the spy as a sexual being. Atomic Blonde takes my supposed dichotomy and destroys it as the limited and retrograde error of thought it is. Continue reading

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The Fate of the Furious [2017]

The response to the film by critics was by-and-large “it’s bonkers and doesn’t care”, which is critical short-hand for “I didn’t understand what this film was doing or how, but it seemed to appeal to the (stupid) masses”. Consider for example, Kate Muir’s hot take:

Oh what a cheery, trashy car crash of a movie we have in Fast & Furious 8, which does, once again, exactly what it says in the instruction manual in the glove compartment.

This dismissive tone suggests that what the film does is unplanned, haphazard, and that it’s a by-the-numbers recipe-book at the same time – a paradox. I think the inference we’re supposed to make here is that it’s the beans on toast of movies, the simplest possible thing in the world. The contempt for what is a superbly crafted story object is very disappointing and as usual, speaks far more to the predilections of the critic than the quality of the product. Of course, I know better – why else bother posting my knowledge on the internet?

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The Circle [2017]

Often when I read a negative review about a film, I’ll eventually come to the conclusion that the reviewer brought their own agenda to the review rather than coldly evaluating the work in its own terms. How valid that is as a strategy is up for debate, but I think one useful way of thinking about that decision is to look for precedents and familiar story patterns – genre. The Circle isn’t exactly a genre piece, but it is explicitly about the function of social media and its intersection with surveillance, and hence connects to a range of other similarly-interested films recently, and broadly with a major area of civil concern right now. Facebook and its analogues know a truly terrifying amount about us, both in terms of what we explicitly tell it, and in that we share information using it as a medium even knowing that every keystroke is recorded somewhere. A film about this topic, by its mere existence, posits an investigation of the phenomenon beyond the obvious facts of it that are well known to virtually everyone. Despite any good intentions I may have about letting the film speak for itself, it’s inevitably actually just a contributor to a much wider discussion that’s going on around me.

As usual, spoilers follow.

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The work of the Critic ™

A long time ago Hulk posted a scathing review of The Amazing Spiderman, and I had a riposte, and I find myself now having to come back again to defend Spiderman: Homecoming from his “criticism“. His basic problem is that this new iteration doesn’t show Peter growing or changing – let me tell you, as a long-term reader of the comics, growth and change are tiny and incremental because the bulk of what happens is about showcasing the implications of being Spiderman, not of becoming Spiderman or of Spiderman fundamentally changing what that means. Put it this way – Spiderman is not Hamlet. Once again, I cite Robin Laws’ work on “Iconic” versus “Dramatic” heroes, and the necessarily different narrative structures that surround those approaches to character.

So what? I disagree with Hulk, he disagrees with Marvel, what’s the point of rehashing all of this? For me, the point is the larger question in play, which is what the heck a critic is “supposed” to be doing in the first place, and whether Hulk (or I!) is doing that. And I think there are two main aspects to what we should be doing. Continue reading

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The Simple Art of Melancholy

The question of just what “Film Noir” is has plagued discussions of the genre since its retrospective creation by French critics in the 1950s and 1960s. As the term pertains to “Hard Boiled” detectives, whose presence was a clear signifier in early film noir, the formal distinctions have always been weak. I think we tend to fall back on Chandler’s dismissive summary of the differences between “realism” and “Cheesecake Manor” to frame how we divide Marple from Marlowe. Chandler famously picked Hammett as the true origin of the hard-boiled school, out of all the pulp writers publishing alongside Hammett he was picked as the “Dean of the Hard Boiled School”, and that reputation relies heavily on cross-promotion of Hammett as himself a real detective. This assessment of “realism” can’t sustain any kind of detailed scrutiny, as Hammett is definitively wrong on a number of matters in his non-fiction essays on the craft of detection.

My research into Dashiell Hammett ended up focusing on the ways in which he re-purposed the “classic” formal structures of detective fiction as practiced by the likes of SS van Dyne, Agatha Christie, et al, and enshrined in the rules of the Detection Club [1]. Raymond Chandler was fond of “doubling” his mysteries, so that a crime in the deep past was usually the key to solving a crime in the present – a technique also favoured by one Agatha Christie. Hammett’s career can be seen in some ways as as gradually succumbing to the lure of the formal approach, because Red Harvest and The Dain Curse use detective tropes without meaningful use of clues, the defining genre feature [2], while The Maltese Falcon uses clues to power a melodrama, before The Glass Key features a classic whodunit to motivate its gangster drama, and The Thin Man is actually a perfectly conventional whodunit.

Hammett’s work was converted into films in approximately reverse order – The Thin Man (1934), The Glass Key (1942), The Maltese Falcon (1931 & 1941), The Dain Curse (1978), and (debatably) Miller’s Crossing (1990). The Big Sleep (1942) and The Long Goodbye (1973) were transmogrified almost without important mysteries included – who killed Owen Taylor indeed [3]? Just as Hammett was singled out as the first “true” practitioner of the Hard Boiled school, The Maltese Falcon (1941) is commonly identified as the first “true” Film Noir. My favourite aspect of thinking about The Maltese Falcon as the first film noir is the way it was constructed in its marketing campaign, as a “story as exciting as his blazing automatics”, which is a great selling strategy for a film in which there is not a single gunshot. The Maltese Falcon is missing, or only has in relatively low levels, many of the key aesthetic and structural features identified as “Film Noir” – so-called “Dutch Angles” are used only a few times, the lighting is fairly mainstream, the good guys broadly win. Yet there is something distinctively different about it.

The lynch-pin of The Maltese Falcon is Sam Spade’s masculinity, his through-and-through toughness, the toughness that allows him to remark of his partners death “Miles had $10,000 in insurance, no kids, and a wife that didn’t like him”. He instructs the repainting of the office door straight away and as Polhouse remarks was “in too much of a hurry to look at Miles’ body”. The sense we get is not of someone whose armour of hope and optimism allows him to overcome all emotional buffets – if anything, quite the reverse, someone so inured to the school of hard knocks that he doesn’t even notice any more. His toughness has a definite quality of fatalism and nihilism, which are the hallmarks of Film Noir. We have a word for this – “Melancholy”.

Chandler will double-down on this aspect of the detective in Marlowe, who constructs his identity through the medium of loss, indefinite sadness, discontent, and a sense that the world is arranged principally to kick men like him in the teeth. It’s a short leap from the melancholic reverie of Marlowe to the resigned determination of the genuinely disadvantaged VI Warshawski and Easy Rawlins, who more properly occupy the role of the outsider and underdog that Marlowe regards as his lot in life.

This makes the sense of melancholy a potentially far more useful tool for understanding the difference in approach between the two great schools of detective fiction, because, as noted above, they are formally often indistinguishable. All detectives question suspects, search for clues, and use “ratiocination” to identify the murderer; not all detectives suffer from melancholy. Holmes, for example, is only melancholic when not detecting, at which times he diverts himself in other vices.


[1] Wright, Willard Huntingdon. “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.” In The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Howard Haycraft. New York: Biblio and Tannen, 1928.

[2] Moretti, Franco. “The Slaughterhouse of Literature.” MLQ: Modern Language Quarterly 61, no. 1 (March 2000): 207–27.

[3] DeFino, Dean. “Killing Owen Taylor: Cinema, Detective Stories, and the Past.” Journal of Narrative Theory 30, no. 3 (October 1, 2000): 313–31.

[4] Mooney, William. “Sex, Booze, and the Code: Four Versions of the Maltese Falcon.” Literature/Film Quarterly 39, no. 1 (2011): 54–70.

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Kong: Skull Island [2017]

Kong: Skull Island is the kind of film they don’t make anymore: an unabashed pulp tale of spectacle, heroism, exoticism, and a giant frickin’ ape! Except that they still make tonnes of this kind of film; in fact, far, far, too much of it. And I’ve just contributed $16 to that problem. Je ne regrette rien! This is the kind of film that it’s not easy to imagine being taken seriously by a Real Critic ™, and I think the reviews will focus on the aspects of spectacle, especially Kong, and not probe too deeply into the film because it’s a slick lightweight bit of Hollywood mass production. I, conversely, found it a fascinating battleground on various fronts, showing how far some topics have come and how far some topics still have to go. I think too there’s a fundamental problem posed to a film like this, which is primarily about a sense of Awe and Wonder: can it ever succeed as an artistic construct without creating an Other to Exoticise?

If you liked the opening paragraph, there’s more like that with mild spoilers – let’s be honest you know exactly what happens in this film already! – below the line.

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[This was originally posted on Gametime, please post any comments there.]

I was very excited when BubbleGumshoe was announced because it seemed like the first iteration of the game engine that would be about detection first and foremost. What was the last roleplaying game you played that didn’t have a weird factor? Magic, super-powers, faeries, monsters of some kind: the weird is ubiquitous. Each of the iterations of Gumshoe so far has used the investigative chassis to drive some other kind of story, so that Fear Itself is really about survival horror, Esoterrorists is really about existential survival horror, Trail of Cthulhu is really about chthonic survival horror, Night’s Black Agents is really about vampiric survival horror… and BubbleGumshoe is really about surviving the horror of high school. In the formal modular structure of the game engine unspeakable horrors that haunt the nightmares are replaced by that bullying jock from PE 5th period. Investigators don’t bleed, they lose their cool; instead of toting Tommy guns, they remember that dress Ash wore to junior prom, you know, the hideous day-glow-orange number with the frills? When I think back on High School, I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather take my chances with a Shoggoth.

That’s a mostly-glib summary of one of the big design features of the system that’s been under-used in most versions of the game, which is its modularity. Robin Laws deliberately designed it to be a system where different kinds of things could be switched in and out to create a different genre feel within the same basic mechanical framework. But, just like most versions of d20 felt pretty much like Dungeons and Dragons Lite, especially most fantasy versions, most iterations of Gumshoe have felt very similar. I’ve never played Ashen Stars and Mutant City Blues, which at least seem like they could offer quite a different experience from the base established by Fear Itself. Night’s Black Agents provides a tonne of useful advice for the GM in terms of structuring events in the game, but Hite’s system adaptations don’t really go that far – “Heat” for example, feels like an afterthought rather than the crucial metric of espionage success that it probably could have been (check out One Last Job for a version of the Heat mechanic that is integral and does ratchet up tension within scenes). BubbleGumshoe really exists to show just how adaptable Laws’ basic modular system can be, because it uses the core mechanics to provide a distinctly different experience at the table that very closely matches my genre expectations.

In summary, the key mechanic of Gumshoe as a system is that it’s about resource expenditure; the most dramatic resource is health and/or sanity, but every game-mechanical action is a decision about whether to spend resource to achieve a goal. This works very well for its original iteration Fear Itself which is pretty much about the characters running out of resources as they’re slaughtered by an unspeakable evil. There is a reasonable element of system mastery required to gauge how much to spend so that you neither running out of efficacy too early nor end the session with a string of failures but points left in the bank. The element of judgement, of careful resource husbandry, has always sat uncomfortably with Gumshoe as a free-wheeling over-the-top action adventure. This mechanic made more sense in genre terms to me in Fear Itself and Night’s Black Agents than in Trail of Cthulhu because in Trail I always feel like the narrative structure is for the characters to gain insight and support over the course of the adventure to the point where the characters confront the Monstrous Other at the height of their powers; in the old Call of Cthulhu you could think of this as exchanging sanity for the capability of dealing with the threat. Since this basic mechanism of the system is to break characters down as the game wends along I can’t quite imagine an iteration of Gumshoe for High Fantasy because it’s a genre that is inherently aspirational. On the other hand, it seems like a perfect fit for the Hard Boiled detective, and I cannot wait to give Cthulhu Confidential a spin. Thinking about whether BubbleGumshoe works as a game is partially about thinking about whether there is a resource that’s expended in the inspiring fiction.

The primary resources that are expended in BubbleGumshoe are “cool” and “relationships”. “Cool” is the analogue of “Stability” in other games, but what’s great about “Cool” is that it has a meaning within the fiction. This means that it is available for story purposes as well as a simple mechanical measure of stress. The leaders of school society have a high “Cool”, which they can then expend to go into grown-up spaces, or in contests for political supremacy within the school hierarchy.  But “Relationships” is where things get really interesting. As kids, the characters don’t have a range of skills and resources that the typically-adult characters have in other games; instead, they have relationships with a network of other children and adults with useful skills. One example given in the book is for someone whose parent is a coroner, which gives the character access to a suite of forensic skills, but at the cost of putting strain on their familial relationship. In terms of processing and following a sequence of clues, this is almost a simple equivalence: the relationship “Mom” instead of the skill “Forensics”. In narrative terms, however, it’s extremely powerful because it transforms a huge range of what would be simple skill checks into story possibilities. “Mom’s” matriarchal beneficence is a far more interesting thing than an abstract points-pool. This integration of the fictional lives of the characters with the mechanical lives of the players is a huge leap forward for the Gumshoe engine, because it becomes almost a self-perpetuating story: using the skills you need in order to solve a particular mystery generates the concomitant melodrama that is the substance of the characters’ lives and will be a substantial part of the activity at the table.

This flow and exchange is something that I think you can see playing out in some of the source fiction. I can’t think of anything like this in The Three Investigators or The Hardy Boys, but Veronica Mars “uses” her friends and family all the time, generating interpersonal melodrama along the way. The key is that the relationships in Veronica Mars are durable and persistent, whereas the kind of generic “contacts” used by the likes of Sam Axe in Burn Notice or the Winchesters in Supernatural are often not even named or featured on screen. Veronica’s relationships are key resources for her, but they are also important to her. System and narrative are in accord.

This makes BubbleGumshoe my favourite implementation of the mechanics, and so I was very keen to give it a whirl with a group that would grok both halves of the equation: the detection, and the melodrama. I found myself in Auckland recently and turned to a motley crew with, as the filth might say, “form” in the genres.

Despite knowing the group very well for a long time I started the session in a low-key way. I think we’re quite used to turning up to one-shot games and diving straight into the action, but the human brain, any human system really, needs time to acclimate to its new task and orient itself. We started with a quite casual discussion on teen detectives, and the discussion tended towards trying to think about groups of detectives. One fairly defining trait of most detective literature is the singularity of the detective – Veronica Mars, Hercule Poirot, Mike Hammer, and virtually any other detective you can think of, have friends and resources but professionally they’re very isolated. Even groups like the Three Investigators or the gang in Scooby Doo tends to split the actual detection a little unevenly. The discussion managed to avoid going to the obvious wells for groups, – Fighter/Wizard/Thief/Cleric, or Decker/Rigger/Street Sam/Mage, Ventru/Tremere/Toreador/etc etc.

The discussion very naturally pointed us all toward one of the school institutions which draws together a variety of different “types” – the school musical. I wish I could claim credit, but it was our youngest player who provided the real vision and impetus for the solution. The overt thread linking the characters’ lives was the school production of Hamilton. Lucretia in a single stroke of genius provided an overarching connection, a cast of characters (haha), and an obvious procedural target for the necessary maleficence. The different characters easily assumed different roles in the production, and I had the easiest part to play as the semi-disinterested teacher who hadn’t quite gotten around to reading the script and hence left the important decisions where it belongs, in the hands of the players.

Cobbling together a basic mystery was very simple. The trouble in writing mysteries for roleplaying games is usually in devising a sequence of clever, but not too clever, clues in a chain. The basic difficulty with Gumshoe has always been the difficulty of actually devising a sensible set of clues; it’s insightful approach of “no clue left undiscovered” can still easily have the GM devise a mystery impossible to solve. You see that all the time in the so-called Fair Play Mysteries from the Golden Period, where sometimes the solution was so ingenious that “only a half-wit could see it”. However, in BubbleGumShoe the bulk of the information is likely to be encoded in GMCs, and it’s a matter of social leverage to get the information required, allowing a healthy dose of useful interpretation to be included if needed. I had encouraged the players to leave unallocated a certain proportion of their points for buying relationships with GMCs in case they needed to create someone useful on the fly.

Once things got going, the game functioned very much like I thought it would from my reading. In particular, by encoding the clues in GMCs, the pursuit of more information was dynamic and entertaining rather than a series of static descriptive scenes: obtaining information from a GMC naturally means engaging them in conversation, whereas searching another crime scene for fingerprints is effectively passive reception of information. I had worried that “expending” relationship points to convince GMCs to do things against their overt best interests might feel too mechanical, but instead it added some mechanical heft to bolster the role-played experience. I can easily imagine developing this basic mechanism into a quite good relationship economy – you assist the helpless geek in recovering the lucky charm stolen by the jocks and are hence rewarded with a relationship point to be expended when you need that computer hacked, or, as probably, vice versa. By building the basic currency of the mystery into the basic activity of roleplaying a character you get a natural synergy.

In the end, the game delivered precisely the experience I’d hoped for. It was a slightly unfair test, in that I think the group I gathered most probably could have had a great time playing something truly unwieldy, but I think everyone left the game having had a good time and open to playing more. Even with the best intentions and best groups, that’s far from always the case. Unequivocally, this was the best outing that I’ve had for any variant of the basic Gumshoe game engine.

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