Cadensia
BACKER
2023
'Those great, beautiful ships, rocking silently on the calm waters, with their idle and wistful sails, are they not telling us in a silent language — when will we depart for happiness?'
– Charles Baudelaire, Fusées, VIII, 1887 (personal translation).
One of the most difficult issues in fantasy studies is to define its contours and, by extension, its relationship to reality. In her seminal study, Fantasy: The literature of subversion (1981), Rosemary Jackson points out that fantasy violates the conventions and rules of our reality and: 'threatens to subvert rules and conventions taken to be normative [and] disturb "rules" of artistic representation and literature’s reproduction of the "real"' [1]. The capacity for deviation that speculative fiction offers is both an opportunity and a danger. Jackson points out that this subversive potential does not mean that fantasy or the fantastic are genres that always aim for social progressivism. In fact, the overwhelming majority of the pulp tradition was steeped in racist, homophobic and misogynist tropes that exerted a lasting influence on fiction throughout the late twentieth century and to this day.
The misogynist issue in Western-style fantasy
Many authors hide behind these historical precedents to conceal a conservative discourse. The existence of multiple races allows for the perpetuation of social oppression, and while female characters have generally become more active in recent decades, they continue to fit into old-fashioned stereotypes [2]. The Final Fantasy series is part of this dynamic and has always oscillated between these major themes of fantasy fiction, notably by offering a regular comparison between magic and technological modernity, nature and industry, good and evil, humanity and divinity. These dichotomies are relatively common and allow the story to touch on issues such as capitalist exploitation and the use of natural resources. However, the representation of other topics remains disastrous: Final Fantasy XIV (2010) is especially characterised by deep-seated racism and sexism, the latter partially masked by the presence of strong female characters in positions of power.
It is hard to say whether these precautions were taken to appeal to a particular audience, but it is clear that Final Fantasy XVI ignores all these concerns and plunges into the most outrageous archaism, piling on misogynistic scenes wherever possible, supposedly justified by the harshness of European medieval society. Excuses of this kind obscure the real issues. The player follows the story of Clive Rosfield, drawn into a quest for revenge after the Phoenix Gate incident, which spells the end of the Duchy of Rosaria. Miraculously reunited with his childhood friend Jill Warrick, he joins Cid's group, determined to change the situation of the Bearers – magic-capable individuals enslaved across the continent. Final Fantasy XVI is therefore a tale of free will and independence, pitting the dark nature of the world against the purity of Cid and Clive's ideals.
To create this atmosphere, as well as the division between good and evil, the title makes extensive use of violence, sex and sexual violence as narrative drivers. Lenise Prater explains that Fiona McIntosh's Percheron trilogy (2005) constructs: 'a series of juxtapositions between good and evil [...] through the representation of sexual violence' [3]. The same processes are at work in Final Fantasy XVI, from the very first narrative arc of the adventure, where Benedikta is cast as the archetypal femme fatale, ready to use her body to manipulate her rivals: the character is constantly brought back to her status as a woman, and it is the threat of sexual violence that cements her development – Annabella is constructed in a similar way. Final Fantasy XVI revels in the dichotomy between whores and innocent virgins. Despite the Western aesthetic of the title, Jill is no more than a yamato nadeshiko who is constantly sidelined by the game. She mostly serves as a narrative device to advance the plot, through her multiple visits to the infirmary or because she is kidnapped by Clive's enemies. The title denies her any agency, and her nuanced fragility is only hinted at in a few sentences before being brushed aside: it takes almost thirty hours of gameplay before Clive explicitly asks her how she is, despite her constant concern for the protagonist's anxieties.
A case for centrism and laissez-faire
This conservative portrayal is echoed in the discourse on the Bearers. The game is moderately critical of slavery on the continent and fails to make it a structural issue for Clive, who always remains somewhat detached from the problem. This issue is structurally embedded in the way the player interacts with the world, as they are extremely passive in relation to the events portrayed in the story. While the player is aware of the political manipulations taking place in Storm, they cannot act on them directly; Clive is blindly thrown into the fray and the situation is simply resolved in a battle that depoliticises the social stakes. Similarly, the Seals donated by certain NPCs guarantee Clive's reputation in the community in a highly artificial way, removing any roughness from the interactions. Clive fights to free the Bearers because he inherits this mission from his father and Cid, but this task seems disembodied throughout the game.
Beyond the main quest, the side quests are particularly lacklustre and do little to deepen the world-building. Because they can be accessed at any point in the game, Final Fantasy XVI chooses to exclude companions from them. They simply disappear from the cutscenes and thus have no chance to react to the world around them. Since the intention is to establish Clive as an ideologically good, open and self-governing character, all side quests are resolved by Clive's ideological concessions or miraculous unifications in the face of artificially created danger, without the slightest contradiction from any of the other main characters. Only in the final stretch does someone point out Clive's hypocrisy and domineering power over Jill, but the scene is quickly swept away by the return of Gav, the comic relief of the group.
Final Fantasy XVI is more concerned with shocking, melodramatic or cathartic platitudes than with radical denunciations of inequality and oppression. Worse, these shocking scenes do not even make the world dynamic, so poor is the structure of the narrative. Two problems stand out. Firstly, the interweaving of high-intensity sequences with slower passages: instead of building up the world through genuine slice-of-life sequences, the game multiplies banalities that the player has already understood for several dozen hours. The temporality of the story is also incoherent. Clive seems to cross the continent in a matter of hours, while his rivals remain completely passive. The confrontation between the Sanbreque Empire and the Dhalmekian Republic is characterised by irrational stagnation and passivity, allowing Clive to strike unhindered. The Twins always remain static, despite long ellipses in time.
A hollow and meaningless experience
Perhaps Final Fantasy XVI should not be taken so literally, but rather accepted as the nekketsu it becomes in the second half of the game. Such an interpretation would be acceptable if the game did not take itself so seriously. However, as in Final Fantasy XIV, the writing wallows in a very uncomfortable theatrical heaviness – which the actors generally manage to save from disaster – as if clumsily mimicking the drama of Shakespeare's historical plays. However, Clive's disillusioned, self-deprecating, borderline comic character breaks up this fiction. Some characters work well, playing up their theatrical nature, such as Cid or Lord Byron, but they are quickly relegated to the background or an essentially comic role.
The shifts in tone and pacing detract from the development of the narrative, which cannot be saved by a few flashes of brilliance. The aetheric floods seem to have been imagined as a reflection of nuclear risks, highlighting the danger of Japan's post-Fukushima energy crutch, but in the end they are only used as a narrative expedient to create danger where the plot needs it. The pinnacle of dishonesty and disrespect for a title that centres its discourse on human free will lies in the choice of names for the NPC fillers. In the pure tradition of Final Fantasy XIV, they include puns and comical alliterations ('Broom-Bearer') that strip them of all substance and reduce them to ridicule. In the second half of the game, a little girl is introduced as a character of some narrative importance, but the title does not even bother to give her a name or address her living conditions.
Meanwhile, the action sequences prove to be particularly hollow. The choreography in the first few hours is quite ingenious, highlighting Clive's agility with complex movements and rather creative camera angles. As the title progresses, this aspect is abandoned in favour of fights that drag on and resort to nekketsu clichés. The duel against Titan lasts forty minutes and is a miserable succession of attacks around the stone tentacles. Final Fantasy XVI even has the audacity to end the battle not with the obvious cinematic climax, but with a dull and particularly unpleasant aerial sequence. Subsequent encounters also drag on for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate a genuine – if futile – mastery of the lightning engine.
Ergonomics, gameplay and fluidity
While Final Fantasy XVI boasts detailed environments at first glance, the facade quickly cracks. The early areas are indeed highly detailed, to the point of drowning the player in detail – navigating through the thick vegetation is quite difficult, forcing the player to use Torgal to progress – but the quality deteriorates as the game progresses. The dense environments disappear in favour of vast open areas that struggle to convey the majesty of the world. Although the cities visible on the horizon are beautiful backdrops, they fail to radiate materially onto their surroundings, which then become mere abstractions. Moreover, Clive's movement is extremely sluggish: even getting on his chocobo is an unpleasant task that constantly interrupts the fluidity of the action, while the player is condemned to an extraordinary passivity in order to get from one place to another.
In the Hideaway, this impression is reinforced by Clive's inability to sprint: in the second half of the game, getting to the backyard is a gruelling chore. The magic of this cocoon quickly vanishes, as the various characters keep repeating themselves and are only mediocrely animated. Despite the detailed scenery, the game borrows all its animations from Final Fantasy XIV, giving a very artificial tone to the discussions. The Hideaway is less a place where the player can comfortably catch up with their favourite NPCs, and more a burdensome obligation to access NPCs, side quests and the hunt board – requiring the player to physically go there to see the location of elite monsters, a design mistake that even Final Fantasy XIV avoided.
The enjoyment of the combat system is left to the player and their experience of other character-action games, but it is absurd that the player has to wait at least twenty hours to finally be given a modicum of flexibility in their attack options: Final Fantasy XVI justifies its unique protagonist with a deep combat system that encourages the creation of diverse builds, but this philosophy is only appropriate in a New Game+ where all powers are unlocked from the start. In a first playthrough, the player must suffer from an impressive slowness, to the point where the Story Mode becomes an obvious option. The title here echoes the recent problem of Shadowbringers (2019) and especially Endwalker (2021), which first designs its battles with the Extreme and Savage versions, before cutting out the most difficult sections for the Normal versions – the result is a sense of incompleteness that is particularly damaging when combined with the very slowly evolving combat system.
It is difficult to place Final Fantasy XVI in the landscape of modern Japanese video games, so awkward is it in every way. With the title still in its cycle of artificial marketing in preparation for the DLCs, one can only speculate as to the reasons for these failings. Perhaps the lack of coherence can be explained by the fractured development team working on two major games, and the highly eclectic nature of the directors brought together by Naoki Yoshida. His design philosophy is particularly well suited to an MMO, but Final Fantasy XVI suffers greatly from it: the endless succession of side quests involving the Hideaway characters just before the final battle is incomprehensible, as if the game had remembered that it needed to conclude. Hiroshi Takai and Kazutoyo Maehiro's narrative vision is a series of shocking, empty, meaningless scenes: players of Heavensward (2015) had the opportunity to suffer from Ysayle's portrayal, and it is surprising that Final Fantasy XVI does even worse, a standard-bearer for passive misogyny in modern fantasy. That Jill's theme becomes 'My Star' and denies her any agency in the game's final moments is particularly painful and aptly sums up the title.
__________
[1] Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The literature of subversion, Routledge, London, 2005 [1981], p. 14.
[2] On the topic, see for example Peter Bebergal (ed.), Appendix N: The Eldritch Roots Of Dungeons & Dragons, Strange Attractor Press, London, 2021. In the afterword, Ann VanderMeer discusses the conservative roots of pulp fantasy and of the historical TTRPG.
[3] Lenise Prater, 'Monstrous Fantasies: Reinforcing Rape Culture in Fiona McIntosh's Fantasy Novels', in Hecate, vol. 39, no. 1-2, 2014.
– Charles Baudelaire, Fusées, VIII, 1887 (personal translation).
One of the most difficult issues in fantasy studies is to define its contours and, by extension, its relationship to reality. In her seminal study, Fantasy: The literature of subversion (1981), Rosemary Jackson points out that fantasy violates the conventions and rules of our reality and: 'threatens to subvert rules and conventions taken to be normative [and] disturb "rules" of artistic representation and literature’s reproduction of the "real"' [1]. The capacity for deviation that speculative fiction offers is both an opportunity and a danger. Jackson points out that this subversive potential does not mean that fantasy or the fantastic are genres that always aim for social progressivism. In fact, the overwhelming majority of the pulp tradition was steeped in racist, homophobic and misogynist tropes that exerted a lasting influence on fiction throughout the late twentieth century and to this day.
The misogynist issue in Western-style fantasy
Many authors hide behind these historical precedents to conceal a conservative discourse. The existence of multiple races allows for the perpetuation of social oppression, and while female characters have generally become more active in recent decades, they continue to fit into old-fashioned stereotypes [2]. The Final Fantasy series is part of this dynamic and has always oscillated between these major themes of fantasy fiction, notably by offering a regular comparison between magic and technological modernity, nature and industry, good and evil, humanity and divinity. These dichotomies are relatively common and allow the story to touch on issues such as capitalist exploitation and the use of natural resources. However, the representation of other topics remains disastrous: Final Fantasy XIV (2010) is especially characterised by deep-seated racism and sexism, the latter partially masked by the presence of strong female characters in positions of power.
It is hard to say whether these precautions were taken to appeal to a particular audience, but it is clear that Final Fantasy XVI ignores all these concerns and plunges into the most outrageous archaism, piling on misogynistic scenes wherever possible, supposedly justified by the harshness of European medieval society. Excuses of this kind obscure the real issues. The player follows the story of Clive Rosfield, drawn into a quest for revenge after the Phoenix Gate incident, which spells the end of the Duchy of Rosaria. Miraculously reunited with his childhood friend Jill Warrick, he joins Cid's group, determined to change the situation of the Bearers – magic-capable individuals enslaved across the continent. Final Fantasy XVI is therefore a tale of free will and independence, pitting the dark nature of the world against the purity of Cid and Clive's ideals.
To create this atmosphere, as well as the division between good and evil, the title makes extensive use of violence, sex and sexual violence as narrative drivers. Lenise Prater explains that Fiona McIntosh's Percheron trilogy (2005) constructs: 'a series of juxtapositions between good and evil [...] through the representation of sexual violence' [3]. The same processes are at work in Final Fantasy XVI, from the very first narrative arc of the adventure, where Benedikta is cast as the archetypal femme fatale, ready to use her body to manipulate her rivals: the character is constantly brought back to her status as a woman, and it is the threat of sexual violence that cements her development – Annabella is constructed in a similar way. Final Fantasy XVI revels in the dichotomy between whores and innocent virgins. Despite the Western aesthetic of the title, Jill is no more than a yamato nadeshiko who is constantly sidelined by the game. She mostly serves as a narrative device to advance the plot, through her multiple visits to the infirmary or because she is kidnapped by Clive's enemies. The title denies her any agency, and her nuanced fragility is only hinted at in a few sentences before being brushed aside: it takes almost thirty hours of gameplay before Clive explicitly asks her how she is, despite her constant concern for the protagonist's anxieties.
A case for centrism and laissez-faire
This conservative portrayal is echoed in the discourse on the Bearers. The game is moderately critical of slavery on the continent and fails to make it a structural issue for Clive, who always remains somewhat detached from the problem. This issue is structurally embedded in the way the player interacts with the world, as they are extremely passive in relation to the events portrayed in the story. While the player is aware of the political manipulations taking place in Storm, they cannot act on them directly; Clive is blindly thrown into the fray and the situation is simply resolved in a battle that depoliticises the social stakes. Similarly, the Seals donated by certain NPCs guarantee Clive's reputation in the community in a highly artificial way, removing any roughness from the interactions. Clive fights to free the Bearers because he inherits this mission from his father and Cid, but this task seems disembodied throughout the game.
Beyond the main quest, the side quests are particularly lacklustre and do little to deepen the world-building. Because they can be accessed at any point in the game, Final Fantasy XVI chooses to exclude companions from them. They simply disappear from the cutscenes and thus have no chance to react to the world around them. Since the intention is to establish Clive as an ideologically good, open and self-governing character, all side quests are resolved by Clive's ideological concessions or miraculous unifications in the face of artificially created danger, without the slightest contradiction from any of the other main characters. Only in the final stretch does someone point out Clive's hypocrisy and domineering power over Jill, but the scene is quickly swept away by the return of Gav, the comic relief of the group.
Final Fantasy XVI is more concerned with shocking, melodramatic or cathartic platitudes than with radical denunciations of inequality and oppression. Worse, these shocking scenes do not even make the world dynamic, so poor is the structure of the narrative. Two problems stand out. Firstly, the interweaving of high-intensity sequences with slower passages: instead of building up the world through genuine slice-of-life sequences, the game multiplies banalities that the player has already understood for several dozen hours. The temporality of the story is also incoherent. Clive seems to cross the continent in a matter of hours, while his rivals remain completely passive. The confrontation between the Sanbreque Empire and the Dhalmekian Republic is characterised by irrational stagnation and passivity, allowing Clive to strike unhindered. The Twins always remain static, despite long ellipses in time.
A hollow and meaningless experience
Perhaps Final Fantasy XVI should not be taken so literally, but rather accepted as the nekketsu it becomes in the second half of the game. Such an interpretation would be acceptable if the game did not take itself so seriously. However, as in Final Fantasy XIV, the writing wallows in a very uncomfortable theatrical heaviness – which the actors generally manage to save from disaster – as if clumsily mimicking the drama of Shakespeare's historical plays. However, Clive's disillusioned, self-deprecating, borderline comic character breaks up this fiction. Some characters work well, playing up their theatrical nature, such as Cid or Lord Byron, but they are quickly relegated to the background or an essentially comic role.
The shifts in tone and pacing detract from the development of the narrative, which cannot be saved by a few flashes of brilliance. The aetheric floods seem to have been imagined as a reflection of nuclear risks, highlighting the danger of Japan's post-Fukushima energy crutch, but in the end they are only used as a narrative expedient to create danger where the plot needs it. The pinnacle of dishonesty and disrespect for a title that centres its discourse on human free will lies in the choice of names for the NPC fillers. In the pure tradition of Final Fantasy XIV, they include puns and comical alliterations ('Broom-Bearer') that strip them of all substance and reduce them to ridicule. In the second half of the game, a little girl is introduced as a character of some narrative importance, but the title does not even bother to give her a name or address her living conditions.
Meanwhile, the action sequences prove to be particularly hollow. The choreography in the first few hours is quite ingenious, highlighting Clive's agility with complex movements and rather creative camera angles. As the title progresses, this aspect is abandoned in favour of fights that drag on and resort to nekketsu clichés. The duel against Titan lasts forty minutes and is a miserable succession of attacks around the stone tentacles. Final Fantasy XVI even has the audacity to end the battle not with the obvious cinematic climax, but with a dull and particularly unpleasant aerial sequence. Subsequent encounters also drag on for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate a genuine – if futile – mastery of the lightning engine.
Ergonomics, gameplay and fluidity
While Final Fantasy XVI boasts detailed environments at first glance, the facade quickly cracks. The early areas are indeed highly detailed, to the point of drowning the player in detail – navigating through the thick vegetation is quite difficult, forcing the player to use Torgal to progress – but the quality deteriorates as the game progresses. The dense environments disappear in favour of vast open areas that struggle to convey the majesty of the world. Although the cities visible on the horizon are beautiful backdrops, they fail to radiate materially onto their surroundings, which then become mere abstractions. Moreover, Clive's movement is extremely sluggish: even getting on his chocobo is an unpleasant task that constantly interrupts the fluidity of the action, while the player is condemned to an extraordinary passivity in order to get from one place to another.
In the Hideaway, this impression is reinforced by Clive's inability to sprint: in the second half of the game, getting to the backyard is a gruelling chore. The magic of this cocoon quickly vanishes, as the various characters keep repeating themselves and are only mediocrely animated. Despite the detailed scenery, the game borrows all its animations from Final Fantasy XIV, giving a very artificial tone to the discussions. The Hideaway is less a place where the player can comfortably catch up with their favourite NPCs, and more a burdensome obligation to access NPCs, side quests and the hunt board – requiring the player to physically go there to see the location of elite monsters, a design mistake that even Final Fantasy XIV avoided.
The enjoyment of the combat system is left to the player and their experience of other character-action games, but it is absurd that the player has to wait at least twenty hours to finally be given a modicum of flexibility in their attack options: Final Fantasy XVI justifies its unique protagonist with a deep combat system that encourages the creation of diverse builds, but this philosophy is only appropriate in a New Game+ where all powers are unlocked from the start. In a first playthrough, the player must suffer from an impressive slowness, to the point where the Story Mode becomes an obvious option. The title here echoes the recent problem of Shadowbringers (2019) and especially Endwalker (2021), which first designs its battles with the Extreme and Savage versions, before cutting out the most difficult sections for the Normal versions – the result is a sense of incompleteness that is particularly damaging when combined with the very slowly evolving combat system.
It is difficult to place Final Fantasy XVI in the landscape of modern Japanese video games, so awkward is it in every way. With the title still in its cycle of artificial marketing in preparation for the DLCs, one can only speculate as to the reasons for these failings. Perhaps the lack of coherence can be explained by the fractured development team working on two major games, and the highly eclectic nature of the directors brought together by Naoki Yoshida. His design philosophy is particularly well suited to an MMO, but Final Fantasy XVI suffers greatly from it: the endless succession of side quests involving the Hideaway characters just before the final battle is incomprehensible, as if the game had remembered that it needed to conclude. Hiroshi Takai and Kazutoyo Maehiro's narrative vision is a series of shocking, empty, meaningless scenes: players of Heavensward (2015) had the opportunity to suffer from Ysayle's portrayal, and it is surprising that Final Fantasy XVI does even worse, a standard-bearer for passive misogyny in modern fantasy. That Jill's theme becomes 'My Star' and denies her any agency in the game's final moments is particularly painful and aptly sums up the title.
__________
[1] Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The literature of subversion, Routledge, London, 2005 [1981], p. 14.
[2] On the topic, see for example Peter Bebergal (ed.), Appendix N: The Eldritch Roots Of Dungeons & Dragons, Strange Attractor Press, London, 2021. In the afterword, Ann VanderMeer discusses the conservative roots of pulp fantasy and of the historical TTRPG.
[3] Lenise Prater, 'Monstrous Fantasies: Reinforcing Rape Culture in Fiona McIntosh's Fantasy Novels', in Hecate, vol. 39, no. 1-2, 2014.
'Then he whirled around, pressing his fists to his temples, and howled — a long, roaring howl like that of a beast. A cry of confusion and desperation. A cry that tore at the hearts of all who heard it.'
– Keigo Higashino, Yōgisha X no Kenshin, 2005 (tr. Alexander O. Smith).
Played with BertKnot.
A distinctive feature of death penalty in Japan is the regularity with which it is applied, in contrast to other countries such as the United States. Even after the moratorium that followed the LDP's fall from power in 1993, there was little change in judicial practice, with no politician willing to make serious changes on the issue. In 2009, a major judicial reform was undertaken to correct the excesses of the system, notably by strengthening the rights of the defendant and limiting the value placed on confessions, which are often brutally extracted by inspectors. Some commentators have seen the introduction of jury panels as a means of opposing the death penalty, on the assumption that citizens would be reluctant to choose it in a real case that they would have followed from within. In other words, the 2009 reform hoped to bring about a slow change in mentalities and a rejection of the death penalty through its reduced use.
Capital punishment, public opinion and Japanese detective fiction
While the 2009 reform has been effective in changing concrete aspects of police investigations and increasing public confidence in the judiciary, its impact on the application of the death penalty has been particularly disappointing. In the 2010-2018 period, the capital punishment was adopted in 68 % of cases where it was requested by prosecutors, compared with 56 % for the 1980-2009 period [1]. This higher figure can be explained by a more careful choice on the part of prosecutors, who restrict the death penalty to the least ambiguous cases. It is worth noting, however, that juries are fairly consistent in following the recommendations of prosecutors on this issue and remain particularly conservative. Japanese public opinion thus remains attached to the death penalty and its application. This situation is not surprising: liberal nations that have abolished the death penalty have often done so against the tide of general opinion and under more progressive governments.
One feature of Japanese opinion is the moral and ethical value it places on the death penalty. It is considered both inevitable (yamu o enai) and necessary to avenge the victims [2]. Although governments are content with this situation in order to avoid reforms from above and going against the tide of public opinion, Japanese detective fiction was quick to question this phenomenon and felt compelled to take a stance on the issue. Among popular works, Kindaichi shōnen no jikenbo (1992), featuring a rebellious detective growing up in the Lost Decades, emphasises the tragedy of killing and the detective's function in society. This desire to understand the criminals serves to build a discourse in favour of rehabilitation. Alternatively, Meitantei Konan (1994) presents an idealised detective in a society where the police institution is characterised by exceptional probity: Gōshō Aoyama, despite his social conservatism, passively opposes the death penalty, as his universe seems completely unaware of the concept.
Master Detective Archives: RAIN CODE, which inherits the comic and violent aesthetic of Danganronpa, also revolves around these themes, but offers an overly vague and conservative moral. The player takes on the role of Yuma Kokohead, an apprentice detective flanked by Shinigami, a goddess of death whose powers allow mysteries to manifest physically in a Labyrinth. While these powers allow Yuma to solve various cases, the price is the soul of the guilty party, who inevitably dies after solving an investigation. The events of the opening chapter lead Yuma to investigate the secret of Kanai Ward, alongside the various one-off cases he encounters. The title takes a disturbingly lighthearted approach to the death penalty, and never manages to make the moral dilemma facing the detective believable.
A chain of references serving as a parody
This frivolity is understandable, given the game's representational choices. Kanai Ward is immediately reminiscent of Final Fantasy VII's (1997) Midgar, and RAIN CODE never hides its inspiration: Amaterasu Corporation is literally a copy of Shinra, and the similarities extend to the interiors of buildings and laboratories. The title piles up references constantly: the Mystery Labyrinth is an odd borrowing from the Palaces in Persona 5 (2016), while the cases crudely parody stratagems found in Ace Attorney: Dual Destinies (2013) or Meitantei Konan. The series of locked rooms in Chapter 1 is particularly clumsy, and the subsequent mysteries are astonishingly simple – Chapter 4 gives all the solutions to the investigation straight away, but drags on for several hours, deliberately avoiding the obvious answer to the mystery. Instead, the player is forced to spend two hours investigating a trivial murder mystery, before spending an hour and a half traversing the Mystery Labyrinth, only to suffer two more recapitulations of the investigation.
Because the progression is so sluggish and the pacing so helpless, it is impossible to take the various characters seriously. In Danganronpa, the Trial mechanic created a genuine, if clumsy, discussion between the characters, and swept the player into a storm of contradictory and naive opinions: this approach suited the game's premise. RAIN CODE tries to be more surgical, but above all it comes across as more ridiculous. The Reasoning Death Matches, similar to the Non-Stop Debates, lack substance because the gameplay has been simplified by the more action-oriented gameplay of RAIN CODE, which forces the player to dodge the opponent's sentences. To compensate for the mental strain, the game steers the player significantly more towards the right answer. The irony comes to a head when the most interesting questions within the mysteries are clearly considered too complex and are solved by simple QTEs with no choice. More generally, Kazutaka Kodaka has chosen to spend more time on mini-games, which follow each other for several dozen minutes with very little variety.
In some respects, RAIN CODE is reminiscent of the structure of Meitantei Konan & Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo: Meguriau Futari no Meitantei (2009), with a series of small cases and simple puzzles, but without the strong interactions between the characters of two historical detective series. RAIN CODE only has one-dimensional characters, either because they are immediately discarded or because they have to lose their memories to justify the game's mechanics. Similarly, Kanai Ward is never built as a coherent universe with a genuine social texture. The game is content to pile on a few noir fiction clichés and offer side quests whose hollowness is rare in the medium. There is something particularly ludicrous about the way the inhabitants of Kanai Ward interact with each other, and this only serves to undermine the game's twist, whose pretentious revelation is undermined by the fact that it is one of science fiction's most famous narrative twists.
Kazutaka Kodaka: morals and fetishisation
While Danganronpa simply highlights the tragedy of the desperate actions of high school students, RAIN CODE attempts a broader discourse on democracy, corporatism, social organisation and capital punishment. Firstly, it is hard to take any ethical considerations seriously when Yuma is flanked by Shinigami, who combines all the most outrageous elements of sexualisation – the Shinigami Puzzles, reflections of Hangman's Gambit, seem completely out of place with the beach aesthetic and Shinigami in a bathing suit. Until chapter 4, RAIN CODE never manages to get away from the idea that justice is about maintaining order and that the death penalty is a necessity (yamu o enai). Even afterwards, the title absolves the player through a series of events that allow Yuma to shrug off any responsibility. The discourse on finding the only truth – a rehash of Meitantei Konan's catchphrase, stupid as it is – is particularly hypocritical when even Aoyama's manga argues against the death penalty.
Above all, RAIN CODE spends its time sexualising female characters in all their forms, from schoolgirls to maids: at least two characters regard women as sexual objects, and are portrayed as comic devices. The game feels much more voyeuristic than Danganronpa, as there is no strong character who can really stand up to Yuma until the very end. The resolution of the final chapter is particularly muddled, attempting to rehabilitate the characters for the heinous murders they have committed based on the belief that everything fits into a carefully thought-out 'perfect solution'. That criminals had to be slaughtered to achieve this solution hardly seems a problem. The title's audacity culminates in the epilogue, where one character finds a magical and simplistic solution to Kanai Ward's central predicament, effectively rendering all the tragedies pointless.
In many ways, RAIN CODE takes its cues from Danganronpa, but in a crude and unpleasant way. The game suffers from an excessively slow pacing and always feels perfunctory in the way it treats its characters. Technically, the game is particularly abysmal, suffering from substandard graphics and a soundtrack that is nowhere near the chaotic and enjoyable explosiveness of Danganronpa. Given the disastrous and conservative way in which the death penalty discourse is handled, there is reason to fear that the very likely sequel to RAIN CODE – buoyed by its very satisfactory sales in Japan – will, if the post-credits scene is to be believed, explore the violence of the Californian riots of the 1980s and 1990s.
__________
[1] David T. Johnson, The Culture of Capital Punishment in Japan, Palgrave Macmillan, London, 2020 [2019], p. 85.
[2] In particular, the victim's relatives can plead directly before judges and juries, explicitly requesting the death penalty for the defendant. These proceedings are marked by theatricality and intense emotions that directly and negatively affect lawyers, magistrates and jurors. On this subject, see Yūji Itō, 裁判員の判断の心理:心理学実験から迫る, 慶應義塾大学出版会, Tokyo, 2019, pp. 48-66.
– Keigo Higashino, Yōgisha X no Kenshin, 2005 (tr. Alexander O. Smith).
Played with BertKnot.
A distinctive feature of death penalty in Japan is the regularity with which it is applied, in contrast to other countries such as the United States. Even after the moratorium that followed the LDP's fall from power in 1993, there was little change in judicial practice, with no politician willing to make serious changes on the issue. In 2009, a major judicial reform was undertaken to correct the excesses of the system, notably by strengthening the rights of the defendant and limiting the value placed on confessions, which are often brutally extracted by inspectors. Some commentators have seen the introduction of jury panels as a means of opposing the death penalty, on the assumption that citizens would be reluctant to choose it in a real case that they would have followed from within. In other words, the 2009 reform hoped to bring about a slow change in mentalities and a rejection of the death penalty through its reduced use.
Capital punishment, public opinion and Japanese detective fiction
While the 2009 reform has been effective in changing concrete aspects of police investigations and increasing public confidence in the judiciary, its impact on the application of the death penalty has been particularly disappointing. In the 2010-2018 period, the capital punishment was adopted in 68 % of cases where it was requested by prosecutors, compared with 56 % for the 1980-2009 period [1]. This higher figure can be explained by a more careful choice on the part of prosecutors, who restrict the death penalty to the least ambiguous cases. It is worth noting, however, that juries are fairly consistent in following the recommendations of prosecutors on this issue and remain particularly conservative. Japanese public opinion thus remains attached to the death penalty and its application. This situation is not surprising: liberal nations that have abolished the death penalty have often done so against the tide of general opinion and under more progressive governments.
One feature of Japanese opinion is the moral and ethical value it places on the death penalty. It is considered both inevitable (yamu o enai) and necessary to avenge the victims [2]. Although governments are content with this situation in order to avoid reforms from above and going against the tide of public opinion, Japanese detective fiction was quick to question this phenomenon and felt compelled to take a stance on the issue. Among popular works, Kindaichi shōnen no jikenbo (1992), featuring a rebellious detective growing up in the Lost Decades, emphasises the tragedy of killing and the detective's function in society. This desire to understand the criminals serves to build a discourse in favour of rehabilitation. Alternatively, Meitantei Konan (1994) presents an idealised detective in a society where the police institution is characterised by exceptional probity: Gōshō Aoyama, despite his social conservatism, passively opposes the death penalty, as his universe seems completely unaware of the concept.
Master Detective Archives: RAIN CODE, which inherits the comic and violent aesthetic of Danganronpa, also revolves around these themes, but offers an overly vague and conservative moral. The player takes on the role of Yuma Kokohead, an apprentice detective flanked by Shinigami, a goddess of death whose powers allow mysteries to manifest physically in a Labyrinth. While these powers allow Yuma to solve various cases, the price is the soul of the guilty party, who inevitably dies after solving an investigation. The events of the opening chapter lead Yuma to investigate the secret of Kanai Ward, alongside the various one-off cases he encounters. The title takes a disturbingly lighthearted approach to the death penalty, and never manages to make the moral dilemma facing the detective believable.
A chain of references serving as a parody
This frivolity is understandable, given the game's representational choices. Kanai Ward is immediately reminiscent of Final Fantasy VII's (1997) Midgar, and RAIN CODE never hides its inspiration: Amaterasu Corporation is literally a copy of Shinra, and the similarities extend to the interiors of buildings and laboratories. The title piles up references constantly: the Mystery Labyrinth is an odd borrowing from the Palaces in Persona 5 (2016), while the cases crudely parody stratagems found in Ace Attorney: Dual Destinies (2013) or Meitantei Konan. The series of locked rooms in Chapter 1 is particularly clumsy, and the subsequent mysteries are astonishingly simple – Chapter 4 gives all the solutions to the investigation straight away, but drags on for several hours, deliberately avoiding the obvious answer to the mystery. Instead, the player is forced to spend two hours investigating a trivial murder mystery, before spending an hour and a half traversing the Mystery Labyrinth, only to suffer two more recapitulations of the investigation.
Because the progression is so sluggish and the pacing so helpless, it is impossible to take the various characters seriously. In Danganronpa, the Trial mechanic created a genuine, if clumsy, discussion between the characters, and swept the player into a storm of contradictory and naive opinions: this approach suited the game's premise. RAIN CODE tries to be more surgical, but above all it comes across as more ridiculous. The Reasoning Death Matches, similar to the Non-Stop Debates, lack substance because the gameplay has been simplified by the more action-oriented gameplay of RAIN CODE, which forces the player to dodge the opponent's sentences. To compensate for the mental strain, the game steers the player significantly more towards the right answer. The irony comes to a head when the most interesting questions within the mysteries are clearly considered too complex and are solved by simple QTEs with no choice. More generally, Kazutaka Kodaka has chosen to spend more time on mini-games, which follow each other for several dozen minutes with very little variety.
In some respects, RAIN CODE is reminiscent of the structure of Meitantei Konan & Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo: Meguriau Futari no Meitantei (2009), with a series of small cases and simple puzzles, but without the strong interactions between the characters of two historical detective series. RAIN CODE only has one-dimensional characters, either because they are immediately discarded or because they have to lose their memories to justify the game's mechanics. Similarly, Kanai Ward is never built as a coherent universe with a genuine social texture. The game is content to pile on a few noir fiction clichés and offer side quests whose hollowness is rare in the medium. There is something particularly ludicrous about the way the inhabitants of Kanai Ward interact with each other, and this only serves to undermine the game's twist, whose pretentious revelation is undermined by the fact that it is one of science fiction's most famous narrative twists.
Kazutaka Kodaka: morals and fetishisation
While Danganronpa simply highlights the tragedy of the desperate actions of high school students, RAIN CODE attempts a broader discourse on democracy, corporatism, social organisation and capital punishment. Firstly, it is hard to take any ethical considerations seriously when Yuma is flanked by Shinigami, who combines all the most outrageous elements of sexualisation – the Shinigami Puzzles, reflections of Hangman's Gambit, seem completely out of place with the beach aesthetic and Shinigami in a bathing suit. Until chapter 4, RAIN CODE never manages to get away from the idea that justice is about maintaining order and that the death penalty is a necessity (yamu o enai). Even afterwards, the title absolves the player through a series of events that allow Yuma to shrug off any responsibility. The discourse on finding the only truth – a rehash of Meitantei Konan's catchphrase, stupid as it is – is particularly hypocritical when even Aoyama's manga argues against the death penalty.
Above all, RAIN CODE spends its time sexualising female characters in all their forms, from schoolgirls to maids: at least two characters regard women as sexual objects, and are portrayed as comic devices. The game feels much more voyeuristic than Danganronpa, as there is no strong character who can really stand up to Yuma until the very end. The resolution of the final chapter is particularly muddled, attempting to rehabilitate the characters for the heinous murders they have committed based on the belief that everything fits into a carefully thought-out 'perfect solution'. That criminals had to be slaughtered to achieve this solution hardly seems a problem. The title's audacity culminates in the epilogue, where one character finds a magical and simplistic solution to Kanai Ward's central predicament, effectively rendering all the tragedies pointless.
In many ways, RAIN CODE takes its cues from Danganronpa, but in a crude and unpleasant way. The game suffers from an excessively slow pacing and always feels perfunctory in the way it treats its characters. Technically, the game is particularly abysmal, suffering from substandard graphics and a soundtrack that is nowhere near the chaotic and enjoyable explosiveness of Danganronpa. Given the disastrous and conservative way in which the death penalty discourse is handled, there is reason to fear that the very likely sequel to RAIN CODE – buoyed by its very satisfactory sales in Japan – will, if the post-credits scene is to be believed, explore the violence of the Californian riots of the 1980s and 1990s.
__________
[1] David T. Johnson, The Culture of Capital Punishment in Japan, Palgrave Macmillan, London, 2020 [2019], p. 85.
[2] In particular, the victim's relatives can plead directly before judges and juries, explicitly requesting the death penalty for the defendant. These proceedings are marked by theatricality and intense emotions that directly and negatively affect lawyers, magistrates and jurors. On this subject, see Yūji Itō, 裁判員の判断の心理:心理学実験から迫る, 慶應義塾大学出版会, Tokyo, 2019, pp. 48-66.
2022
‘This was the only earthly love of my life, and I could not, then or ever after, call that love by name.’
– Umberto Eco, Il nome della rosa, 1980.
Capturing the contours of a sixteenth-century society in the Holy Roman Empire is a difficult task. Central Europe was undergoing complex transitions as a result of demographic recovery, religious innovation and the administrative mosaic of Germanic territories. Recent historiography emphasises the interlocking and overlapping of forces that shaped regions and societies: it is difficult to generalise local observations to the rest of the Empire, but it is also unwise to paint the portrait of a village on the basis of generalities alone. For example, the forms of feudalism differed on either side of the Elbe. A theoretical simplification is to consider the regions south and west of the Elbe as being under the rule of Grundherrschaft [1]. This form of feudalism developed from the 14th century onwards with the decline of the traditional smaller lords and the demographic collapse caused by the Black Death. This situation allowed the surviving peasants to expand their farms and establish stronger hereditary rights over the land. Although still subject to the authority of their local lord, they had greater freedom of action.
History, fiction and myth: the Umbertian gaze
Towards the end of the fifteenth century, friction between the nobility and the peasantry increased as the former sought to assert their authority over land that seemed to have been de facto freed from serfdom. Another factor in the social crisis was undoubtedly the demographic upturn from 1470 onwards, which swelled the cohort of landless peasants, while small landowners were no longer able to take advantage of the economic opportunities of the previous century. In some southern regions of the Holy Roman Empire, agricultural production was no longer profitable, so it became mainly subsistence farming. These factors led to a widening gap between the peasants and the lords. The lords, sometimes nobility, sometimes clergy, were in latent conflict for other economic and political reasons.
It is difficult to summarise several thousand pages of social history in a few lines, so these few elements of context will suffice. Pentiment makes the bold choice of setting its action in this complex historical background, in a locality centred around the village of Tassing and Kiersau Abbey. The project explicitly borrows from Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose (1980). Although the historical context is different, the themes and structure are similar. Eco's readers will find themselves in familiar territory: Pentiment allows the player to assume the role of Andreas Maler, a Nuremberg artist commissioned by the Abbot of Kiersau to illustrate a Book of Hours as part of his certification as a master artist. During his stay in Tassing, Andreas gets to know the many members of the local society, until a murder takes place. For personal reasons, Andreas is thrust into the role of detective and must unravel the many secrets of the community.
Like The Name of the Rose, Pentiment multiplies points of view and semantic layers. The game is at once a general dissertation on the social history of the Holy Roman Empire, a detective story, a philosophical debate, a theological meditation and a discussion on the value of storytelling. It is through this literary device, borrowed from Eco, that the title manages to find a great deal of coherence in its storytelling [2]. The investigation – i.e. the criminal story – is interwoven with the socio-political narrative, so that the player is constantly confronted with both general and specific elements. Andreas Maler acts as a bridge between these two worlds. Firstly, because he finds himself at the crossroads of very different social universes: as a traveller, he is used to many cultures; as a young artist, he associates with the powerful without being fully part of their universe. Above all, he is a stranger to Tassing, and his gaze is that of a witness whose interest in local politics, however altruistic, is rather weak. In other words, his view is certainly subjective, but it is all-encompassing. These characteristics are very similar to those of William of Baskerville, who had a complex theological background.
Depicting the Middle Ages through the new social studies
In terms of narrative economy, such a protagonist captures the player's attention in a number of ways. For classically trained historians, Andreas provides access to the ancient and medieval literary world; for mystery fans, his role as a detective is crucial. The choice of Andreas' background means that, in addition to the interactive gameplay typical of CRPGs, players can personalise their experience around the themes that interest them most. As a Latinist, I was pleasantly surprised to see Pentiment commanding a very solid Latin, and to read the classical locutions quoted by Andreas. The title has a rare encyclopaedic quality, in tune with recent scholarly developments. There remain a few very minor approximations, such as certain onomastic choices (Else Mülleryn should rather be spelt Müllerin) and Kiersau's remarkable and exagerated interregionalism. On the latter point, the choice was certainly motivated by Umberto Eco's vision of a universalist abbey and a political response to Kingdom Come: Delivrance (2018): the figure of the Ethiopian priest Sebhat seems a rather explicit foil to Daniel Vávra's ultra-conservative claims about the absence of people of colour in fifteenth-century Bohemia.
Pentiment always uses its encyclopaedic knowledge wisely to illustrate medieval mentalities. Arrogantly imparting knowledge is the best way to undermine the friendship and support of the game's various characters. The game constantly seeks to highlight the limits of Andreas' knowledge and the subjectivity of the concept of truth. As such, Pentiment seeks to portray the situation of women in the Middle Ages with real nuance. The game's fictional micro-history project features women who are involved in their village's economy and are pillars of the community. Discussions with the Benedictine nuns also provide an opportunity to explore women in religion, and Pentiment clearly illustrates the prejudices of the time, as well as Andreas' very masculine perspective. In contrast to the Christian tradition, which leaves no place for women in its traditional hierarchy – women's religious offices generally disappeared in the central Middle Ages, which is exactly the situation described for Kiersau Abbey – and restricts them to religious life or marriage, Pentiment constantly emphasises their agency and the ways in which they can circumvent the restrictions. Amalie illustrates the extreme spiritual experiences that women can voluntarily inflict on themselves through her retreat and mystical visions. Illuminata embodies a mastery of the literary classics, while the other sisters stand out for their practical knowledge and integration into Tassing society.
To write, to read and to die in the universal library
Like Umberto Eco's library, that of Kiersau Abbey is intended to be universal. It seeks to circumscribe all known knowledge through the possession of rare volumes, be they erudite treatises or chivalric romances. Writing and rewriting are at the heart of Pentiment's project. The narrative is subjective and subject to numerous corrections: when the dialogue is presented, mistakes punctuate the text and are corrected in front of the player. Similarly, the choice of script depends on the impression the speaker makes on Andreas. He presents the discourse of the educated clergy in a Gothic style, while the villagers have a much less polished script. Above all, it is noteworthy that Andreas changes his representation according to the information he receives. For example, when he learns that the shepherd is actually an avid reader of Latin books, he updates the script used in the dialogue. These elements are linked to a concern for memory, and Pentiment sets out to question what deserves to be left to posterity, rejecting the idea of a monolithic history. The truth is in a constant state of flux and varies from different perspectives: it is this insight that guides Andreas' investigation into the various murders. The game is less about finding the culprit than about writing Tassing's story. The game forces the player to accuse one of the suspects for each murder, but it is remarkable that all the solutions seem unsatisfactory. Pentiment is not about solving murders, but about understanding how Tassing society reacts to events that upset its internal balance.
Pentiment borrows its idea of humour from The Name of the Rose [3]: laughter is used to subvert the order of the world, because it reveals – through sarcasm or astonishment – the way in which the world turns. The comic scenes in the game anchor the narrative in a plausible reality, not just a cold, theoretical illustration of 16th-century Tassing. Pentiment's dialogue system is not so much a mechanic that supports 'choices' leading to different endings, but rather a sincere exploration of the world. Comedy is necessary because it is an instrument of freedom and truth, which all the characters seek in one way or another: to laugh is to break free from social bonds, hence Saint Grobian's irreverence. Conversely, silence allows the player to conform to the social mould, to maintain the status quo. Such a position is sometimes necessary to make progress in an investigation without alienating potential allies. The great strength of Pentiment is that it strikes the right balance between laughter, speech and silence. The characters, including Andreas, have to take a stand, and the question is how to do it.
There are no straightforward answers, and the game is never preachy or pretentious. The complexity of the world, of social relations and social transformations explain the hesitations. Uncertainty is part of the truth: Pentiment shines through its unique artistic direction, borrowed from manuscripts and engravings. In a stroke of genius, the game moves drawn characters on fixed backgrounds. There's something magical about seeing sketches move in this way, evoking a kind of collage. The practice of cutting out and reusing figures and backgrounds is well documented in the production of medieval manuscripts, underlining the plasticity of art in the representation of history [4]. In a fifteen-hour adventure, Pentiment creates such a vast universe. I find it difficult to write more, given the extraordinary richness so elegantly condensed into a game, from religious issues to economic innovations. In this respect, it is worth mentioning the welcome presence of an indicative bibliography in the game's credits. Umberto Eco concludes The Name of the Rose with a variation on a line by Bernard of Cluny: 'Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus', he writes. The original rose lives on in its name, we keep the names naked. To Bernard of Cluny's 'ubi sunt...?', Eco adds the persistence of memory. The memory of people who existed centuries ago should persist even more; Pentiment is a sublime fresco in their honour, coming as close as possible to the historical truth without ever being able to fully circumscribe it: 'Since I tell to its end my story, then joyful shall be my days.' [5]
___________
[1] Joachim Whaley, 'Economic Landscapes, Communities, and their Grievances', in Germany and the Holy Roman Empire, vol. 1, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2012, pp. 122-142.
[2] José-Marie Cortès, 'Itinéraires interprétatifs dans Le Nom de la Rose', in Synergies Inde, no. 2, 2007, pp. 289-306.
[3] Michel Perrin, 'Problématique du rire dans Le Nom de la Rose d'Umberto Eco (1980) : de la Bible au XXe siècle', in Bulletin de l'Association Guillaume Budé, no. 58, 1999, pp. 463-477.
[4] Anna Dlabacová, ‘Medieval Photoshop’, on leidenmedievalistsblog.nl, 18th February 2022, consulted on 13th June 2023.
[5] Wolfram von Eschenback, Parzival, II, XVI, l. 676 (trans. Jessie L. Weston), c. 1210.
– Umberto Eco, Il nome della rosa, 1980.
Capturing the contours of a sixteenth-century society in the Holy Roman Empire is a difficult task. Central Europe was undergoing complex transitions as a result of demographic recovery, religious innovation and the administrative mosaic of Germanic territories. Recent historiography emphasises the interlocking and overlapping of forces that shaped regions and societies: it is difficult to generalise local observations to the rest of the Empire, but it is also unwise to paint the portrait of a village on the basis of generalities alone. For example, the forms of feudalism differed on either side of the Elbe. A theoretical simplification is to consider the regions south and west of the Elbe as being under the rule of Grundherrschaft [1]. This form of feudalism developed from the 14th century onwards with the decline of the traditional smaller lords and the demographic collapse caused by the Black Death. This situation allowed the surviving peasants to expand their farms and establish stronger hereditary rights over the land. Although still subject to the authority of their local lord, they had greater freedom of action.
History, fiction and myth: the Umbertian gaze
Towards the end of the fifteenth century, friction between the nobility and the peasantry increased as the former sought to assert their authority over land that seemed to have been de facto freed from serfdom. Another factor in the social crisis was undoubtedly the demographic upturn from 1470 onwards, which swelled the cohort of landless peasants, while small landowners were no longer able to take advantage of the economic opportunities of the previous century. In some southern regions of the Holy Roman Empire, agricultural production was no longer profitable, so it became mainly subsistence farming. These factors led to a widening gap between the peasants and the lords. The lords, sometimes nobility, sometimes clergy, were in latent conflict for other economic and political reasons.
It is difficult to summarise several thousand pages of social history in a few lines, so these few elements of context will suffice. Pentiment makes the bold choice of setting its action in this complex historical background, in a locality centred around the village of Tassing and Kiersau Abbey. The project explicitly borrows from Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose (1980). Although the historical context is different, the themes and structure are similar. Eco's readers will find themselves in familiar territory: Pentiment allows the player to assume the role of Andreas Maler, a Nuremberg artist commissioned by the Abbot of Kiersau to illustrate a Book of Hours as part of his certification as a master artist. During his stay in Tassing, Andreas gets to know the many members of the local society, until a murder takes place. For personal reasons, Andreas is thrust into the role of detective and must unravel the many secrets of the community.
Like The Name of the Rose, Pentiment multiplies points of view and semantic layers. The game is at once a general dissertation on the social history of the Holy Roman Empire, a detective story, a philosophical debate, a theological meditation and a discussion on the value of storytelling. It is through this literary device, borrowed from Eco, that the title manages to find a great deal of coherence in its storytelling [2]. The investigation – i.e. the criminal story – is interwoven with the socio-political narrative, so that the player is constantly confronted with both general and specific elements. Andreas Maler acts as a bridge between these two worlds. Firstly, because he finds himself at the crossroads of very different social universes: as a traveller, he is used to many cultures; as a young artist, he associates with the powerful without being fully part of their universe. Above all, he is a stranger to Tassing, and his gaze is that of a witness whose interest in local politics, however altruistic, is rather weak. In other words, his view is certainly subjective, but it is all-encompassing. These characteristics are very similar to those of William of Baskerville, who had a complex theological background.
Depicting the Middle Ages through the new social studies
In terms of narrative economy, such a protagonist captures the player's attention in a number of ways. For classically trained historians, Andreas provides access to the ancient and medieval literary world; for mystery fans, his role as a detective is crucial. The choice of Andreas' background means that, in addition to the interactive gameplay typical of CRPGs, players can personalise their experience around the themes that interest them most. As a Latinist, I was pleasantly surprised to see Pentiment commanding a very solid Latin, and to read the classical locutions quoted by Andreas. The title has a rare encyclopaedic quality, in tune with recent scholarly developments. There remain a few very minor approximations, such as certain onomastic choices (Else Mülleryn should rather be spelt Müllerin) and Kiersau's remarkable and exagerated interregionalism. On the latter point, the choice was certainly motivated by Umberto Eco's vision of a universalist abbey and a political response to Kingdom Come: Delivrance (2018): the figure of the Ethiopian priest Sebhat seems a rather explicit foil to Daniel Vávra's ultra-conservative claims about the absence of people of colour in fifteenth-century Bohemia.
Pentiment always uses its encyclopaedic knowledge wisely to illustrate medieval mentalities. Arrogantly imparting knowledge is the best way to undermine the friendship and support of the game's various characters. The game constantly seeks to highlight the limits of Andreas' knowledge and the subjectivity of the concept of truth. As such, Pentiment seeks to portray the situation of women in the Middle Ages with real nuance. The game's fictional micro-history project features women who are involved in their village's economy and are pillars of the community. Discussions with the Benedictine nuns also provide an opportunity to explore women in religion, and Pentiment clearly illustrates the prejudices of the time, as well as Andreas' very masculine perspective. In contrast to the Christian tradition, which leaves no place for women in its traditional hierarchy – women's religious offices generally disappeared in the central Middle Ages, which is exactly the situation described for Kiersau Abbey – and restricts them to religious life or marriage, Pentiment constantly emphasises their agency and the ways in which they can circumvent the restrictions. Amalie illustrates the extreme spiritual experiences that women can voluntarily inflict on themselves through her retreat and mystical visions. Illuminata embodies a mastery of the literary classics, while the other sisters stand out for their practical knowledge and integration into Tassing society.
To write, to read and to die in the universal library
Like Umberto Eco's library, that of Kiersau Abbey is intended to be universal. It seeks to circumscribe all known knowledge through the possession of rare volumes, be they erudite treatises or chivalric romances. Writing and rewriting are at the heart of Pentiment's project. The narrative is subjective and subject to numerous corrections: when the dialogue is presented, mistakes punctuate the text and are corrected in front of the player. Similarly, the choice of script depends on the impression the speaker makes on Andreas. He presents the discourse of the educated clergy in a Gothic style, while the villagers have a much less polished script. Above all, it is noteworthy that Andreas changes his representation according to the information he receives. For example, when he learns that the shepherd is actually an avid reader of Latin books, he updates the script used in the dialogue. These elements are linked to a concern for memory, and Pentiment sets out to question what deserves to be left to posterity, rejecting the idea of a monolithic history. The truth is in a constant state of flux and varies from different perspectives: it is this insight that guides Andreas' investigation into the various murders. The game is less about finding the culprit than about writing Tassing's story. The game forces the player to accuse one of the suspects for each murder, but it is remarkable that all the solutions seem unsatisfactory. Pentiment is not about solving murders, but about understanding how Tassing society reacts to events that upset its internal balance.
Pentiment borrows its idea of humour from The Name of the Rose [3]: laughter is used to subvert the order of the world, because it reveals – through sarcasm or astonishment – the way in which the world turns. The comic scenes in the game anchor the narrative in a plausible reality, not just a cold, theoretical illustration of 16th-century Tassing. Pentiment's dialogue system is not so much a mechanic that supports 'choices' leading to different endings, but rather a sincere exploration of the world. Comedy is necessary because it is an instrument of freedom and truth, which all the characters seek in one way or another: to laugh is to break free from social bonds, hence Saint Grobian's irreverence. Conversely, silence allows the player to conform to the social mould, to maintain the status quo. Such a position is sometimes necessary to make progress in an investigation without alienating potential allies. The great strength of Pentiment is that it strikes the right balance between laughter, speech and silence. The characters, including Andreas, have to take a stand, and the question is how to do it.
There are no straightforward answers, and the game is never preachy or pretentious. The complexity of the world, of social relations and social transformations explain the hesitations. Uncertainty is part of the truth: Pentiment shines through its unique artistic direction, borrowed from manuscripts and engravings. In a stroke of genius, the game moves drawn characters on fixed backgrounds. There's something magical about seeing sketches move in this way, evoking a kind of collage. The practice of cutting out and reusing figures and backgrounds is well documented in the production of medieval manuscripts, underlining the plasticity of art in the representation of history [4]. In a fifteen-hour adventure, Pentiment creates such a vast universe. I find it difficult to write more, given the extraordinary richness so elegantly condensed into a game, from religious issues to economic innovations. In this respect, it is worth mentioning the welcome presence of an indicative bibliography in the game's credits. Umberto Eco concludes The Name of the Rose with a variation on a line by Bernard of Cluny: 'Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus', he writes. The original rose lives on in its name, we keep the names naked. To Bernard of Cluny's 'ubi sunt...?', Eco adds the persistence of memory. The memory of people who existed centuries ago should persist even more; Pentiment is a sublime fresco in their honour, coming as close as possible to the historical truth without ever being able to fully circumscribe it: 'Since I tell to its end my story, then joyful shall be my days.' [5]
___________
[1] Joachim Whaley, 'Economic Landscapes, Communities, and their Grievances', in Germany and the Holy Roman Empire, vol. 1, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2012, pp. 122-142.
[2] José-Marie Cortès, 'Itinéraires interprétatifs dans Le Nom de la Rose', in Synergies Inde, no. 2, 2007, pp. 289-306.
[3] Michel Perrin, 'Problématique du rire dans Le Nom de la Rose d'Umberto Eco (1980) : de la Bible au XXe siècle', in Bulletin de l'Association Guillaume Budé, no. 58, 1999, pp. 463-477.
[4] Anna Dlabacová, ‘Medieval Photoshop’, on leidenmedievalistsblog.nl, 18th February 2022, consulted on 13th June 2023.
[5] Wolfram von Eschenback, Parzival, II, XVI, l. 676 (trans. Jessie L. Weston), c. 1210.
'Rui, do people’s hearts forget how to react to a town that leaves nothing behind to remember it by? In comparison, there is something cruel, merciless about the sight of the Sanriku region, where everyday life was transformed into ruins. For that mountain of debris was the “hope” people had spent years building.'
– Kyōko Hayashi, Futatabi Rui e, 2013 (tr. Margaret Mitsutani).
Kyōko Hayashi's works attempt to convey to younger generations the lived experience of the hibakusha, the direct survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A particular feature of her work is the blending of temporalities and events, which illustrates her chaotic and almost unspeakable recollection of the events of the 9 August 1945. In Futatabi Rui e (2013), Hayashi writes a new letter to Rui – following the one included in Torinitii kara torinitii e (2000) – meditating on the effects of the Great East Japan Earthquake and the Fukushima disaster. She writes: 'perhaps the Great East Japan Earthquake was what turned this destruction in the natural world I thought was eternal into a sign that everything I’d believed in was now crumbling before my eyes' [1].
Disasters and environmentalism in Japanese fiction
The atomic bombings and the Fukushima disaster have had a lasting impact on Japanese cultural production, like a never-ending ghost that is periodically fanned by current events. Fumiyo Kōno's Yunagi no machi, sakura no kuni (2003) illustrates this concern in a multi-generational story. It is a cathartic narrative whose main purpose is to nurture and reconcile the painful memory for the hibakusha, but also for those who did not directly witness the events. The acceleration of climate change and Japan's new energy mix are also of growing concern, conjuring up an image of a Japan on the brink of extinction and ravaged by disasters. Two examples illustrate the epidermal nature of these issues. In 2014, the famous gourmet manga Oishinbo (1983) tackled the aftermath of the Fukushima disaster head-on, highlighting the harmful effects on the environment and the people of the region, who suffered regular nosebleeds. These scenes clashed with the official discourse on the effects of the accident, so much so that Shinzo Abe directly condemned the manga [2], leading to the series' ongoing hiatus.
More recently, Makoto Shinkai's films have oscillated between neo-traditionalism and social conservatism, as in Tenki no Ko (2019). Maria Mihaela Grajdian has already pointed out that Mamoru Hosoda's films, by idealising concepts such as family, parenthood and masculinity, 'shows both that he understands the critical situation and that he does not regard it as his duty to offer alternative solutions, more in tune with the spirit of the 21st century' [3]. In Tenki no Ko, Shinkai is content with the same naive, depoliticising position: climate change and the disappearance of Japan under the sea are seen as inevitable natural phenomena, and the film prefers to focus on the fleeting happiness of a few teenagers from a purely individualistic, conservative perspective.
With The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), Nintendo's flagship series has also taken up these themes anew. This is less a first exploration than an updated discourse. The Zelda games have always contained elements of shintō philosophy, contrasting Arthurian mythology with the typically Japanese depiction of environments, whether through non-human creatures, the abundance of islands – literal or figurative – or the sacred aspect of nature. Breath of the Wild depicted the world after a catastrophe and the restoration of nature, everlasting despite the scars left by disasters. Tears of the Kingdom is a direct reflection of this vision, by reversing the representation.
Flowers of ruin: looking at micro-gardens
A variation on the theme of Majora's Mask (2000), Tears of the Kingdom also shows humanity on the brink of extinction. However, the tone is quite different. Whereas Majora's Mask was a journey into nihilism and the lack of communication that breaks down interpersonal relationships, Tears of the Kingdom explores the persistence of solidarity and the opening up of societies. Recontextualised, the world of Hyrule is a fable that sings of the resilience of nations in the face of natural disaster. Even within the first few hours of surface exploration, the world is teeming with life, yet societies live hidden away, sheltered from the elements. There is something charming about re-exploring a world that is decidedly optimistic, but still a little fearful, like the first buds of spring breaking through the snow.
Rather tellingly, the Zonai Ruins are still harbouring life: the sky islands are still inhabited by birds, while the debris that has fallen to the ground is home to plants that normally only grow in the heavens. Despite these chaotic elements, however, the world of Hyrule is somewhat more domesticated. The roads are well trodden by travellers, stables provide regular resting places, and construction materials are plentiful along the roadsides. Tears of the Kingdom has swapped the 'miniature plant garden' and 'garden in a box' (hakoniwa) [4] for a lusher shrubland. Hyrule is shaped by the collaborative work of its inhabitants, and their presence can be seen in the little accents that dot the landscape: Zelda and Magda's little flower garden, or Pyper's glittering tree, are clear signs that humans have made the environment their own, creating a symbiotic relationship between society and nature.
Tears of the Kingdom is, in a way, an ode to primordialism and man's passivity when it comes to influencing nature. Unlike Breath of the Wild, where the equipment forged by humans quickly becomes the most powerful, the player can make do with items found on monsters for most of the adventure. It's not until fairly late in the game that the shift occurs, when Zonai items can become more valuable. More generally, Tears of the Kingdom allows the player to contemplate the world and its inhabitants through tighter resource management, at least in the first few dozen hours. But even when Link is well equipped, nature is not easily tamed, as the introduction of world bosses keeps exploration somewhat terrifying or majestic. The exploration of the Depths, while often undermined by visual monotony, illustrates the sinister nature of what crawls beneath the gaze of the living, and the importance of ruin, not just of human civilisations, but of a world tainted by corruption (kegare).
A melancholic sky: fall and burden as elements of game design
This aesthetic owes a great deal to the vision of Hidemaro Fujibayashi and Daiki Iwamoto, given that they apprehend the sky through the act of falling. There is a certain tragic irony to this Upheaval, as it is used to discover the reasons for the fall of the Zonai. As in Skyward Sword (2011), the exploration of the skies begins with a long fall. But the world of Skyward Sword allows for much easier exploration thanks to its bird mounts [5], whereas in Tears of the Kingdom Link is constantly being pulled down by gravity. He is destined to fall, and this sense of heaviness is present throughout the game: in particular, the interactions with the various inhabitants of the world emphasise their insecurity and, by extension, their fallibility. Despite the humour and joviality that runs through the dialogue, all the characters are undermined by self-imposed desires and missions. Addison continues to hold signs for endless days, Reede is forced to admit that his vision of tranquillity is no longer sustainable, and Penn struggles with his fear of actively participating in field investigation. There is something deeply human about them, and Link emerges in turn as a mythologised figure as he performs heroic deeds and helps others. In this respect, it is striking that everyone knows his name, but his identity sometimes remains a mystery.
This philosophy no doubt helps to explain other design elements and Fujibayashi's characteristic wandering. Tears of the Kingdom opts for a more scripted progression, with the player openly encouraged to help the various tribes. Each storyline is fairly engaging and recontextualises nicely the characters met in Breath of the Wild – with the exception of the Goron quest, which neutralises its anti-capitalist themes far too quickly. The main quests in each region are refreshingly varied, with some unexpected sequences such as the defence of Gerudo Town. The downside of this approach is the disappointment of the dungeons. These are particularly mediocre, a simple series of puzzles inferior to those in the Shrines. The same structure as The Minish Cap (2004) is found in Tears of the Kingdom, with an inability to think holistically about design. These sequences do a poor job of incorporating the great freedom of Link's powers; it would probably have been more interesting to emphasise the oppressive aspect of confined spaces and a survival approach, for example by removing the map in dungeons.
As it stands, the non-linearity of the title works against many of the design ideas. In addition to the identical flashbacks for each Sage, the dungeons do not adapt well to the upscaling that players experience as they accumulate more resources and power. For the most part, the dungeons restrict the new skills unlocked, rather than showcasing them as other mini-dungeons and celestial islands can, where Ultrahand shines very brightly. The Fire Temple is perhaps the only exception, as it is possible to completely ignore the various puzzles if the player has enough resources and has been diligent in their exploration. On the other hand, the non-linearity works well with the side quests, as it feels genuinely satisfying when an NPC tells Link that he has already completed the mission he was given. Similarly, the Proving Grounds Shrines benefit greatly from player progression and a larger heart pool, turning a careful experience into a speed challenge, while the other Shrines allow for creative expression for players familiar with the advanced grammar of the various powers and machines.
Perhaps more importantly, it is the combat that suffers greatly from this approach: while Tears of the Kingdom features much larger waves of enemies, the system remains clunky. The combat system is designed for duels rather than large-scale melee, and the lack of ergonomics often renders Fuse unusable in battle. Similarly, the Sages' avatars are a welcome touch, emphasising the fact that Link is no longer alone, but the implementation is so unpleasant that it is easier to ignore their powers outside of certain puzzles. To a certain extent, the heaviness of the game and the idea of the fall serve to underline a contemplation of the world and its societies, provided one is receptive to Fujibayashi and Iwamoto's themes, but at the expense of the gameplay and the fluidity of the experience.
To live is to atone for one's sins: neo-traditionalism in Japan
Breath of the Wild had already begun to return to a very Japanese aesthetic, a trend that continues in Tears of the Kingdom. Certain elements are obvious: Kakariko Village retains the same visual appearance, and the soundtrack features many more Asian elements – 'Master Kohga Battle' makes more use of the shamisen, and the 'Main Theme' is largely driven by an erhu, to name just two examples. Thematically, the universe more readily embraces East Asian mythology. Dragons are explicitly Japanese, as are the quest for immortality, magatama, the constant search for home (ibasho), and the genealogical links between humanity and the gods – the royalty of Hyrule is descended from the union of Zonai and humans, just as Emperor Jimmu is described as a descendant of Amaterasu.
Strikingly, the noble female characters in Tears of the Kingdom are all marked by the Japanese stain of tragedy, whether through the burden of blood, motherhood or the sins for which they take responsibility. The thematic development and presentation of Rauru and Sonia form a striking parallel with Izanagi and Izanami. As parental figures, the royal couple represents a familial and affective ideal, albeit a highly traditional one. Despite its seemingly progressive themes, Tears of the Kingdom revels in social stagnation and a status quo that must be protected at all costs – the True Ending emphasises that the point was not just to defeat Ganondorf, but to preserve 'eternal peace' (eien no an'nei) [6]. Hyrule may have undergone a number of transformations since Breath of the Wild, but they have always occurred within continuities: clan leaders have changed, but only to be replaced by blood descendants. Similarly, the multicultural discourse is always tempered by the service that the different tribes provide to the Hylian royalty, according to a strict hierarchy.
Tears of the Kingdom is a parenthesis and a intermediary conclusion to the series. At the end of the adventure, Link returns the powers he used to explore the world. The gameplay of the title is designed to be a natural extension of the powers used in Breath of the Wild, increasing the creative and traversal possibilities. It is, however, a temporary experience; to the player, Tears of the Kingdom repeats the same old message: 'this is what I propose, and if you do not like it, so be it'. The title makes no concessions in its approach, to the point where it suffers structurally. Its extraordinary density may seem almost antiquated – but such has been Fujibayashi's legacy since The Minish Cap – and some will find the idea of the game providing bits and pieces of the solution to every puzzle heavy-handed.
Hyrule is still scarred by the damage of the Upheaval; there is no sign of the islands falling to the ground again, nor does Hyrule Castle. The Chasms are unlikely to close either, with only the Gloom gone. Mankind will have to learn to live with this new and distorted world. Like Japanese disaster fiction, Tears of the Kingdom looks to the future – to the resilience of the people – but it also reflects on the trauma that will not fade away: Kyōko Hayashi laments the inaction of institutions while the traces of destruction are still present in Japan, and the promise of the Sages at the very end of the game seems to be a response to this concern. Tears of the Kingdom guides the player's gaze almost relentlessly towards a contemplation of Japanese society in its environment, even if it means verging on the artificial, and whether or not this approach is welcomed is up to the player.
__________
[1] Kyōko Hayashi, 'To Rui, Once Again', tr. Margaret Mitsutani, in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 15-7, no. 3, 2017, p. 3.
[2] Justin McCurry, 'Gourmet manga stirs up storm after linking Fukushima to nosebleeds', in The Guardian, 22nd May 2014, consulted on 10th July 2023.
[3] Maria Mihaela Grajdian, 'Compassionate Neo-Traditionalism in Hosoda Mamoru’s Animation Movies', in Russian Japanology Review, vol. 3, no. 2, 2020, p. 148.
[4] Victor Moisan, Zelda : Le jardin et le monde, Façonnage, Lyon, 2021.
[5] On spatiality, the traversal aspect and the design of the sky and Skyloft, see 'Volume Five: The Dense Sky and Town', in Nintendo, Iwata Asks – The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, 2011.
[6] Note that the English translation conveys the original idea slightly differently, balancing Ganondorf's defeat with the idea of 'eternal peace'. The Japanese text reads: 「あの方たちが願ったのはつかまあ束の間ではなく永遠に続くハイラルの安寧。」Here, the comparison is much more focused on the ephemeral and the eternal, while the term 安寧 expresses both Hyrule's public peace and Zelda's inner tranquillity.
– Kyōko Hayashi, Futatabi Rui e, 2013 (tr. Margaret Mitsutani).
Kyōko Hayashi's works attempt to convey to younger generations the lived experience of the hibakusha, the direct survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A particular feature of her work is the blending of temporalities and events, which illustrates her chaotic and almost unspeakable recollection of the events of the 9 August 1945. In Futatabi Rui e (2013), Hayashi writes a new letter to Rui – following the one included in Torinitii kara torinitii e (2000) – meditating on the effects of the Great East Japan Earthquake and the Fukushima disaster. She writes: 'perhaps the Great East Japan Earthquake was what turned this destruction in the natural world I thought was eternal into a sign that everything I’d believed in was now crumbling before my eyes' [1].
Disasters and environmentalism in Japanese fiction
The atomic bombings and the Fukushima disaster have had a lasting impact on Japanese cultural production, like a never-ending ghost that is periodically fanned by current events. Fumiyo Kōno's Yunagi no machi, sakura no kuni (2003) illustrates this concern in a multi-generational story. It is a cathartic narrative whose main purpose is to nurture and reconcile the painful memory for the hibakusha, but also for those who did not directly witness the events. The acceleration of climate change and Japan's new energy mix are also of growing concern, conjuring up an image of a Japan on the brink of extinction and ravaged by disasters. Two examples illustrate the epidermal nature of these issues. In 2014, the famous gourmet manga Oishinbo (1983) tackled the aftermath of the Fukushima disaster head-on, highlighting the harmful effects on the environment and the people of the region, who suffered regular nosebleeds. These scenes clashed with the official discourse on the effects of the accident, so much so that Shinzo Abe directly condemned the manga [2], leading to the series' ongoing hiatus.
More recently, Makoto Shinkai's films have oscillated between neo-traditionalism and social conservatism, as in Tenki no Ko (2019). Maria Mihaela Grajdian has already pointed out that Mamoru Hosoda's films, by idealising concepts such as family, parenthood and masculinity, 'shows both that he understands the critical situation and that he does not regard it as his duty to offer alternative solutions, more in tune with the spirit of the 21st century' [3]. In Tenki no Ko, Shinkai is content with the same naive, depoliticising position: climate change and the disappearance of Japan under the sea are seen as inevitable natural phenomena, and the film prefers to focus on the fleeting happiness of a few teenagers from a purely individualistic, conservative perspective.
With The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), Nintendo's flagship series has also taken up these themes anew. This is less a first exploration than an updated discourse. The Zelda games have always contained elements of shintō philosophy, contrasting Arthurian mythology with the typically Japanese depiction of environments, whether through non-human creatures, the abundance of islands – literal or figurative – or the sacred aspect of nature. Breath of the Wild depicted the world after a catastrophe and the restoration of nature, everlasting despite the scars left by disasters. Tears of the Kingdom is a direct reflection of this vision, by reversing the representation.
Flowers of ruin: looking at micro-gardens
A variation on the theme of Majora's Mask (2000), Tears of the Kingdom also shows humanity on the brink of extinction. However, the tone is quite different. Whereas Majora's Mask was a journey into nihilism and the lack of communication that breaks down interpersonal relationships, Tears of the Kingdom explores the persistence of solidarity and the opening up of societies. Recontextualised, the world of Hyrule is a fable that sings of the resilience of nations in the face of natural disaster. Even within the first few hours of surface exploration, the world is teeming with life, yet societies live hidden away, sheltered from the elements. There is something charming about re-exploring a world that is decidedly optimistic, but still a little fearful, like the first buds of spring breaking through the snow.
Rather tellingly, the Zonai Ruins are still harbouring life: the sky islands are still inhabited by birds, while the debris that has fallen to the ground is home to plants that normally only grow in the heavens. Despite these chaotic elements, however, the world of Hyrule is somewhat more domesticated. The roads are well trodden by travellers, stables provide regular resting places, and construction materials are plentiful along the roadsides. Tears of the Kingdom has swapped the 'miniature plant garden' and 'garden in a box' (hakoniwa) [4] for a lusher shrubland. Hyrule is shaped by the collaborative work of its inhabitants, and their presence can be seen in the little accents that dot the landscape: Zelda and Magda's little flower garden, or Pyper's glittering tree, are clear signs that humans have made the environment their own, creating a symbiotic relationship between society and nature.
Tears of the Kingdom is, in a way, an ode to primordialism and man's passivity when it comes to influencing nature. Unlike Breath of the Wild, where the equipment forged by humans quickly becomes the most powerful, the player can make do with items found on monsters for most of the adventure. It's not until fairly late in the game that the shift occurs, when Zonai items can become more valuable. More generally, Tears of the Kingdom allows the player to contemplate the world and its inhabitants through tighter resource management, at least in the first few dozen hours. But even when Link is well equipped, nature is not easily tamed, as the introduction of world bosses keeps exploration somewhat terrifying or majestic. The exploration of the Depths, while often undermined by visual monotony, illustrates the sinister nature of what crawls beneath the gaze of the living, and the importance of ruin, not just of human civilisations, but of a world tainted by corruption (kegare).
A melancholic sky: fall and burden as elements of game design
This aesthetic owes a great deal to the vision of Hidemaro Fujibayashi and Daiki Iwamoto, given that they apprehend the sky through the act of falling. There is a certain tragic irony to this Upheaval, as it is used to discover the reasons for the fall of the Zonai. As in Skyward Sword (2011), the exploration of the skies begins with a long fall. But the world of Skyward Sword allows for much easier exploration thanks to its bird mounts [5], whereas in Tears of the Kingdom Link is constantly being pulled down by gravity. He is destined to fall, and this sense of heaviness is present throughout the game: in particular, the interactions with the various inhabitants of the world emphasise their insecurity and, by extension, their fallibility. Despite the humour and joviality that runs through the dialogue, all the characters are undermined by self-imposed desires and missions. Addison continues to hold signs for endless days, Reede is forced to admit that his vision of tranquillity is no longer sustainable, and Penn struggles with his fear of actively participating in field investigation. There is something deeply human about them, and Link emerges in turn as a mythologised figure as he performs heroic deeds and helps others. In this respect, it is striking that everyone knows his name, but his identity sometimes remains a mystery.
This philosophy no doubt helps to explain other design elements and Fujibayashi's characteristic wandering. Tears of the Kingdom opts for a more scripted progression, with the player openly encouraged to help the various tribes. Each storyline is fairly engaging and recontextualises nicely the characters met in Breath of the Wild – with the exception of the Goron quest, which neutralises its anti-capitalist themes far too quickly. The main quests in each region are refreshingly varied, with some unexpected sequences such as the defence of Gerudo Town. The downside of this approach is the disappointment of the dungeons. These are particularly mediocre, a simple series of puzzles inferior to those in the Shrines. The same structure as The Minish Cap (2004) is found in Tears of the Kingdom, with an inability to think holistically about design. These sequences do a poor job of incorporating the great freedom of Link's powers; it would probably have been more interesting to emphasise the oppressive aspect of confined spaces and a survival approach, for example by removing the map in dungeons.
As it stands, the non-linearity of the title works against many of the design ideas. In addition to the identical flashbacks for each Sage, the dungeons do not adapt well to the upscaling that players experience as they accumulate more resources and power. For the most part, the dungeons restrict the new skills unlocked, rather than showcasing them as other mini-dungeons and celestial islands can, where Ultrahand shines very brightly. The Fire Temple is perhaps the only exception, as it is possible to completely ignore the various puzzles if the player has enough resources and has been diligent in their exploration. On the other hand, the non-linearity works well with the side quests, as it feels genuinely satisfying when an NPC tells Link that he has already completed the mission he was given. Similarly, the Proving Grounds Shrines benefit greatly from player progression and a larger heart pool, turning a careful experience into a speed challenge, while the other Shrines allow for creative expression for players familiar with the advanced grammar of the various powers and machines.
Perhaps more importantly, it is the combat that suffers greatly from this approach: while Tears of the Kingdom features much larger waves of enemies, the system remains clunky. The combat system is designed for duels rather than large-scale melee, and the lack of ergonomics often renders Fuse unusable in battle. Similarly, the Sages' avatars are a welcome touch, emphasising the fact that Link is no longer alone, but the implementation is so unpleasant that it is easier to ignore their powers outside of certain puzzles. To a certain extent, the heaviness of the game and the idea of the fall serve to underline a contemplation of the world and its societies, provided one is receptive to Fujibayashi and Iwamoto's themes, but at the expense of the gameplay and the fluidity of the experience.
To live is to atone for one's sins: neo-traditionalism in Japan
Breath of the Wild had already begun to return to a very Japanese aesthetic, a trend that continues in Tears of the Kingdom. Certain elements are obvious: Kakariko Village retains the same visual appearance, and the soundtrack features many more Asian elements – 'Master Kohga Battle' makes more use of the shamisen, and the 'Main Theme' is largely driven by an erhu, to name just two examples. Thematically, the universe more readily embraces East Asian mythology. Dragons are explicitly Japanese, as are the quest for immortality, magatama, the constant search for home (ibasho), and the genealogical links between humanity and the gods – the royalty of Hyrule is descended from the union of Zonai and humans, just as Emperor Jimmu is described as a descendant of Amaterasu.
Strikingly, the noble female characters in Tears of the Kingdom are all marked by the Japanese stain of tragedy, whether through the burden of blood, motherhood or the sins for which they take responsibility. The thematic development and presentation of Rauru and Sonia form a striking parallel with Izanagi and Izanami. As parental figures, the royal couple represents a familial and affective ideal, albeit a highly traditional one. Despite its seemingly progressive themes, Tears of the Kingdom revels in social stagnation and a status quo that must be protected at all costs – the True Ending emphasises that the point was not just to defeat Ganondorf, but to preserve 'eternal peace' (eien no an'nei) [6]. Hyrule may have undergone a number of transformations since Breath of the Wild, but they have always occurred within continuities: clan leaders have changed, but only to be replaced by blood descendants. Similarly, the multicultural discourse is always tempered by the service that the different tribes provide to the Hylian royalty, according to a strict hierarchy.
Tears of the Kingdom is a parenthesis and a intermediary conclusion to the series. At the end of the adventure, Link returns the powers he used to explore the world. The gameplay of the title is designed to be a natural extension of the powers used in Breath of the Wild, increasing the creative and traversal possibilities. It is, however, a temporary experience; to the player, Tears of the Kingdom repeats the same old message: 'this is what I propose, and if you do not like it, so be it'. The title makes no concessions in its approach, to the point where it suffers structurally. Its extraordinary density may seem almost antiquated – but such has been Fujibayashi's legacy since The Minish Cap – and some will find the idea of the game providing bits and pieces of the solution to every puzzle heavy-handed.
Hyrule is still scarred by the damage of the Upheaval; there is no sign of the islands falling to the ground again, nor does Hyrule Castle. The Chasms are unlikely to close either, with only the Gloom gone. Mankind will have to learn to live with this new and distorted world. Like Japanese disaster fiction, Tears of the Kingdom looks to the future – to the resilience of the people – but it also reflects on the trauma that will not fade away: Kyōko Hayashi laments the inaction of institutions while the traces of destruction are still present in Japan, and the promise of the Sages at the very end of the game seems to be a response to this concern. Tears of the Kingdom guides the player's gaze almost relentlessly towards a contemplation of Japanese society in its environment, even if it means verging on the artificial, and whether or not this approach is welcomed is up to the player.
__________
[1] Kyōko Hayashi, 'To Rui, Once Again', tr. Margaret Mitsutani, in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 15-7, no. 3, 2017, p. 3.
[2] Justin McCurry, 'Gourmet manga stirs up storm after linking Fukushima to nosebleeds', in The Guardian, 22nd May 2014, consulted on 10th July 2023.
[3] Maria Mihaela Grajdian, 'Compassionate Neo-Traditionalism in Hosoda Mamoru’s Animation Movies', in Russian Japanology Review, vol. 3, no. 2, 2020, p. 148.
[4] Victor Moisan, Zelda : Le jardin et le monde, Façonnage, Lyon, 2021.
[5] On spatiality, the traversal aspect and the design of the sky and Skyloft, see 'Volume Five: The Dense Sky and Town', in Nintendo, Iwata Asks – The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, 2011.
[6] Note that the English translation conveys the original idea slightly differently, balancing Ganondorf's defeat with the idea of 'eternal peace'. The Japanese text reads: 「あの方たちが願ったのはつかまあ束の間ではなく永遠に続くハイラルの安寧。」Here, the comparison is much more focused on the ephemeral and the eternal, while the term 安寧 expresses both Hyrule's public peace and Zelda's inner tranquillity.
‘The dead themselves have no regrets; how could they? They are dead and that is all. Only those remaining regret their passing.’
– Natsuhiko Kyogoku, Ubume no natsu, 1994.
Played with BertKnot. The game and this review mention extremely difficult events related to crimes, violence and abuse.
Contemporary Japanese culture is fuelled by a cycle of moral panics generated by high-profile criminal cases. Some, though mysterious, do not escalate into the gruesome, such as the 300 million yen robbery (1968), but others take a far more horrific course. The murders of Tsutomu Miyazaki are an enduring trauma for the Japanese, who associate them with the figure of the otaku, who has sunk into deep madness to the point of committing monstrous acts of violence. Other individuals have followed in his footsteps and continue to fuel the hatred of marginalised groups. Such events are not unique to Japan, but its artistic production always flirts with these traumas without ever completely overcoming them.
The shakai tradition in Japanese crime fiction
However, there is a long literary tradition built around these themes, and the detective genre is no stranger to them. Critics refer to these titles as shakai-ha, a literary trend that is primarily concerned with its social dimension. The mystery plays a fundamental role, not because of its complexity or brilliance – although these are not excluded – but because it reveals the malaise of a society whose social norms are no longer accepted by its members. The historical roots of this genre can be found in the works of Seichō Matsumoto. Suna no Utsuwa (1961), undoubtedly his most famous work, features a detective whose obsession with a criminal case disintegrates his personal life. Depicting a post-war Japan in the midst of hectic reconstruction, the novel describes a family in which the father is absent and the wife is in charge of the household and the children's education. Moreover, the reasons for the crimes underline the plight of Japanese women, caught between the ideal of yamato nadeshiko and rapid modernisation.
The prevalence of suicide in Matsumoto's works raises the question of its chronic nature in Japan. Masāki Kato has analysed a large sample of suicides and notes their anomic nature after World War II, to borrow Durkheim's terminology. [1] It is a feeling of general dissatisfaction with the inability to find one's place in society. For these individuals, it is necessary to adhere to particularly rigid social rules, and the slightest deviation from these idealised norms is grounds for suicide. Taking one's own life and that of others is the fundamental question that runs through the shakai genre. After Matsumoto, a tradition of female writers has emerged, especially since the 1990s. These stories focus on female characters who are confronted with a changing world. They face a socio-economic crisis that exacerbates the systemic sexism they experience. In Miyuki Miyabe's Kasha (1992), crime gives women a new independence after being denied by the social contract of Japanese society. As the losers of urbanisation and modernisation, they can escape from their low-paid jobs, fuelled by desperation and the desire for a better life – or to escape unbearable situations such as debt harassment.
The paranormal to create a chilling horror
If Japanese video games were quick to adopt the detective genre and produce remarkable adventures, starting with Portopia renzoku satsujin jiken (1983), they were inspired above all by the honkaku and shin honkaku genres, which reject shakai realism. On the contrary, the murders have to be particularly complex and have an aura of impossibility, which creates an intellectual game between the author and the reader. Social themes are not completely absent, but they are relegated to the background in favour of the mystery itself. There is certainly a sense of tragedy in the murders, which can be explained by difficult circumstances or sociological trends, but they explain the mystery in retrospect rather than being the crux of the narrative. Famicom Tantei Club: Kieta Kōkeisha (1988) touches on the issue of the zaibatsu and their influence on the economy of certain regions, but it is a very secondary element in the plot.
Paranormasight: The Seven Mysteries of Honjo goes against this tradition, anchoring its story in the shakai style while incorporating elements of shin honkaku. At first glance, it appears to be a horror game inspired by Japanese mythology – the Honjo Nanafushigi are genuine legends and have been adapted in films by Shinko Kimura (Honjo Nanafushigi, 1937) and Katano Goro (Kaidan Honjo Nanafushigi, 1957). However, after the prologue, the tone shifts to become a long investigation depicting the malaise of Japanese society as the years of prosperity come to an end and the first signs of the bursting of the economic bubble in the early 1980s are felt. The player takes on the role of several characters caught up in a curse that has engulfed the Honjo district of Tokyo's Sumida. They are awakened by terrifying ghostly apparitions that urge them to commit murders in order to perform the Rite of Resurrection. This ritual would allow them to bring back to life a person of their choice, at the cost of the soul dregs collected from murdered people. Each protagonist is then able to use a curse to slaughter any person at night, as long as the conditions, inspired by urban legends circulating in Honjo, are met. The first protagonist, Shogo Okiie, meets Yoko Fukunaga in the prologue, who asks for his help in uncovering the truth behind the legend of the Whispering Canal; he is drawn into a series of violent deaths that the player must understand in order to unravel the Seven Mysteries of Honjo and the murders taking place in the neighbourhood.
The game is characterised by its atmosphere, which is supported by a unique art direction. The cold blue colours make Honjo's atmosphere frightening and underline the subtle tension between the various curse-bearers fighting for their survival. Gen Kobayashi's character design alternates between realistic softness and frightening expressions of terror. Dread is conveyed through wide eyes and plays with off-screen action. The player is frightened not so much by the jumpscares, but by the prospect of having to turn around to see them. The backgrounds, slightly distorted as if through a short focus lens, convey a sense of unease through the hollowness of their composition. Paranormasight brilliantly uses oblique shots and atypical staging of characters to emphasise the brooding nature of the discussions, while the architecture of the city overwhelms them.
On social representation through cultural references
Komagata High School is thus a reference to Ushimitsu High School from Famicom Tantei Club Part II: Ushiro ni Tatsu Shōjo (1989), with identical shots, but the coldness of the colour palette in Paranormasight makes the high school very disturbing; it is less a place of education to prepare students for the future, but rather a place where social inequalities and violence are reproduced, something that Japan accepts without flinching. The inadequacy of the teaching staff and the prevalence of juvenile delinquency are signs of the failure of Japanese social policy. The various female characters suffer from this, condemning them to academic failure or worse. Paranormasight takes up the plot of Sukeban deka (1976), a pivotal shōjo manga of the 1980s: it features Saki Asamiya, a delinquent high school girl who ends up helping the police solve several investigations, notably the apparent suicide of one of her best friends, Junko Yuina. The game very explicitly recreates the character of Saki through Yakko Sakazaki, be it in personality, appearance or motives.
In general, the game takes familiar elements of Japanese culture to modernise and comment on them. This is particularly the case with the female characters, who regain a high degree of agency in the pure shakai tradition. At first glance, Harue Shigima seems to be the embodiment of the yamato nadeshiko, full of the ideals associated with a traditional Japan, but the death of her son and the curse give her the energy to fight against the weight of society. Despite her tired appearance, she displays a very subtle wit through her careful and respectful speech. Yakko is particularly proactive and confident, following the example of Sukeban deka, while her friend Mio, a specialist in occult matters, is presented as a voice of reason, contrary to the cliché of the mad witch. This complex nature of the female characters is echoed in a more fragile representation of masculinity. The various male characters are presented with characteristics that undermine the myth of traditional, honour-bound masculinity. They are generally cowardly or display marginal masculinity. If Tetsuo Tsutsumi represents the serious and unyielding inspector, he is often the comedic force of the group, with deadpan remarks that take the edge off the game's terrifying tension. Richter Kai portrays a more jovial and chaotic manliness through his love of childish things, which leads to Harue's amused comments.
Paranormasight quickly reveals itself to be a title with a sharp critique of all forms of authority. The police are portrayed as an institution incapable of preventing crime and serving the public. While officers like Hajime Yoshimi try to be more akin to a social worker for troubled teenage girls, he is generally unable to structurally solve their problems, offering only what he can, namely a shoulder to lean on. The characters lament the fact that Japanese law prohibits police officers from intervening in cases of domestic violence – a situation that only changed with the Act on the Prevention of Spousal Violence and the Protection of Victims (2001). Hierarchical frameworks dictate behaviour in Japanese suburbs. Paranormasight repeatedly emphasises the importance of the dichotomy between the public face (tatamae) and the private face (honne). Michiyo Shiraishi's neighbours are sympathetic until the Shiraishi family strays from the discretion expected in a neighbourhood. Even within the working class, solidarity is not taken for granted and depends on adherence to social rules, however rigid and conservative they may be. The title also insists on the hypocrisy of the family myth, with reference to the coin-operated locker babies, who, for various socio-economic reasons, were abandoned newborn babies in lockers and left to die. This phenomenon, which was widespread between the 1970s and 1990s, haunts the various characters in the game.
Instantiating horror in a real setting: how to modernise a social representation?
It is precisely because these elements are central to Paranormasight's horror and mystery that the game works. The soundtrack is particularly effective in creating a strong atmosphere, alternating between dissonant tracks and music inspired by the emerging city pop of the time. The game is concerned with social modernity in its discourse: it is about representing 1980s Tokyo with respect to the social progress of 2023. The title is therefore against prison and in favour of rehabilitation, rejecting the idea that crimes are inherited through blood. Paranormasight, even though its plot is based on elements of Japanese mythology, stands out for its ability to tell a story whose social motives would remain the same even without the occult. In an eternal Buddhist cycle, the ills of society remain the same until structural measures are implemented by decision-makers, as illustrated by the chronic pollution of the Sumida River, the visual centre of the title.
In terms of gameplay, Paranormasight clearly borrows from recent adventure games, notably the Switch port of Famicom Detective Club (2021) and the second Ace Attorney trilogy. The grammar remains that of 1980s games, with the necessity to repeatedly bring up the same topic of conversation, but the game clearly indicates when all actions have been completed, or if further exploration and dialogue is required. The title uses the Story Chart system inherited from Kono Yo no Hate de Koi o Utau Shōjo YU-NO (1996) and Kotaro Uchikoshi's games, and tries to be as clear as possible about the branching paths the player needs to explore in order to follow the different narrative threads. It is only towards the end of the game that Paranormasight becomes more cryptic, although this does not cause any major problems. The title really tests the player's understanding of the case with relatively open-ended questions. These sequences are particularly effective because the player is always in a strong position compared to the protagonists. Having a transversal knowledge of the events, they are able to theorise in advance and identify the blind spots in the characters' deductions. This narrative style helps to create the impression that the protagonists are conducting a real investigation, with all the complexity this implies.
Paranormasight manages to modernise the adventure and detective genres with a believable story, despite the presence of supernatural elements. Carried by a deep and touching cast, the title presents an ingenious mystery rooted in the malaise of a society on the verge of collapse. Poverty, pollution, a crisis in education and a sense of alienation exacerbate a generational clash. The protagonists, although caught up in a curse that transcends them, are only individuals among others in Tokyo who harbour regrets, remorse and sadness. As the sun sets, the Sumida River turns bloody. The real killer is a city that is oversized and relentless. Paranormasight illustrates this unease with a unique horror texture, instantiating it in the physical reality of Honjo. If Japanese crime fiction has always insisted on the importance of locales while promoting mindful tourism – indeed, since 2001, this has been the function of the Mystery Tours in Meitantei Konan (1994) –, the game accomplishes an astonishing tour de force and establishes itself as a modern shakai staple for the video game medium.
__________
[1] Masāki Kato, ‘Self-Destruction in Japan: A Crosscultural, Epidemiological Analysis of Suicide’, in Folia Psychiatrica et Neurologica, vol. 23, no. 4, 1969, pp. 291-307.
– Natsuhiko Kyogoku, Ubume no natsu, 1994.
Played with BertKnot. The game and this review mention extremely difficult events related to crimes, violence and abuse.
Contemporary Japanese culture is fuelled by a cycle of moral panics generated by high-profile criminal cases. Some, though mysterious, do not escalate into the gruesome, such as the 300 million yen robbery (1968), but others take a far more horrific course. The murders of Tsutomu Miyazaki are an enduring trauma for the Japanese, who associate them with the figure of the otaku, who has sunk into deep madness to the point of committing monstrous acts of violence. Other individuals have followed in his footsteps and continue to fuel the hatred of marginalised groups. Such events are not unique to Japan, but its artistic production always flirts with these traumas without ever completely overcoming them.
The shakai tradition in Japanese crime fiction
However, there is a long literary tradition built around these themes, and the detective genre is no stranger to them. Critics refer to these titles as shakai-ha, a literary trend that is primarily concerned with its social dimension. The mystery plays a fundamental role, not because of its complexity or brilliance – although these are not excluded – but because it reveals the malaise of a society whose social norms are no longer accepted by its members. The historical roots of this genre can be found in the works of Seichō Matsumoto. Suna no Utsuwa (1961), undoubtedly his most famous work, features a detective whose obsession with a criminal case disintegrates his personal life. Depicting a post-war Japan in the midst of hectic reconstruction, the novel describes a family in which the father is absent and the wife is in charge of the household and the children's education. Moreover, the reasons for the crimes underline the plight of Japanese women, caught between the ideal of yamato nadeshiko and rapid modernisation.
The prevalence of suicide in Matsumoto's works raises the question of its chronic nature in Japan. Masāki Kato has analysed a large sample of suicides and notes their anomic nature after World War II, to borrow Durkheim's terminology. [1] It is a feeling of general dissatisfaction with the inability to find one's place in society. For these individuals, it is necessary to adhere to particularly rigid social rules, and the slightest deviation from these idealised norms is grounds for suicide. Taking one's own life and that of others is the fundamental question that runs through the shakai genre. After Matsumoto, a tradition of female writers has emerged, especially since the 1990s. These stories focus on female characters who are confronted with a changing world. They face a socio-economic crisis that exacerbates the systemic sexism they experience. In Miyuki Miyabe's Kasha (1992), crime gives women a new independence after being denied by the social contract of Japanese society. As the losers of urbanisation and modernisation, they can escape from their low-paid jobs, fuelled by desperation and the desire for a better life – or to escape unbearable situations such as debt harassment.
The paranormal to create a chilling horror
If Japanese video games were quick to adopt the detective genre and produce remarkable adventures, starting with Portopia renzoku satsujin jiken (1983), they were inspired above all by the honkaku and shin honkaku genres, which reject shakai realism. On the contrary, the murders have to be particularly complex and have an aura of impossibility, which creates an intellectual game between the author and the reader. Social themes are not completely absent, but they are relegated to the background in favour of the mystery itself. There is certainly a sense of tragedy in the murders, which can be explained by difficult circumstances or sociological trends, but they explain the mystery in retrospect rather than being the crux of the narrative. Famicom Tantei Club: Kieta Kōkeisha (1988) touches on the issue of the zaibatsu and their influence on the economy of certain regions, but it is a very secondary element in the plot.
Paranormasight: The Seven Mysteries of Honjo goes against this tradition, anchoring its story in the shakai style while incorporating elements of shin honkaku. At first glance, it appears to be a horror game inspired by Japanese mythology – the Honjo Nanafushigi are genuine legends and have been adapted in films by Shinko Kimura (Honjo Nanafushigi, 1937) and Katano Goro (Kaidan Honjo Nanafushigi, 1957). However, after the prologue, the tone shifts to become a long investigation depicting the malaise of Japanese society as the years of prosperity come to an end and the first signs of the bursting of the economic bubble in the early 1980s are felt. The player takes on the role of several characters caught up in a curse that has engulfed the Honjo district of Tokyo's Sumida. They are awakened by terrifying ghostly apparitions that urge them to commit murders in order to perform the Rite of Resurrection. This ritual would allow them to bring back to life a person of their choice, at the cost of the soul dregs collected from murdered people. Each protagonist is then able to use a curse to slaughter any person at night, as long as the conditions, inspired by urban legends circulating in Honjo, are met. The first protagonist, Shogo Okiie, meets Yoko Fukunaga in the prologue, who asks for his help in uncovering the truth behind the legend of the Whispering Canal; he is drawn into a series of violent deaths that the player must understand in order to unravel the Seven Mysteries of Honjo and the murders taking place in the neighbourhood.
The game is characterised by its atmosphere, which is supported by a unique art direction. The cold blue colours make Honjo's atmosphere frightening and underline the subtle tension between the various curse-bearers fighting for their survival. Gen Kobayashi's character design alternates between realistic softness and frightening expressions of terror. Dread is conveyed through wide eyes and plays with off-screen action. The player is frightened not so much by the jumpscares, but by the prospect of having to turn around to see them. The backgrounds, slightly distorted as if through a short focus lens, convey a sense of unease through the hollowness of their composition. Paranormasight brilliantly uses oblique shots and atypical staging of characters to emphasise the brooding nature of the discussions, while the architecture of the city overwhelms them.
On social representation through cultural references
Komagata High School is thus a reference to Ushimitsu High School from Famicom Tantei Club Part II: Ushiro ni Tatsu Shōjo (1989), with identical shots, but the coldness of the colour palette in Paranormasight makes the high school very disturbing; it is less a place of education to prepare students for the future, but rather a place where social inequalities and violence are reproduced, something that Japan accepts without flinching. The inadequacy of the teaching staff and the prevalence of juvenile delinquency are signs of the failure of Japanese social policy. The various female characters suffer from this, condemning them to academic failure or worse. Paranormasight takes up the plot of Sukeban deka (1976), a pivotal shōjo manga of the 1980s: it features Saki Asamiya, a delinquent high school girl who ends up helping the police solve several investigations, notably the apparent suicide of one of her best friends, Junko Yuina. The game very explicitly recreates the character of Saki through Yakko Sakazaki, be it in personality, appearance or motives.
In general, the game takes familiar elements of Japanese culture to modernise and comment on them. This is particularly the case with the female characters, who regain a high degree of agency in the pure shakai tradition. At first glance, Harue Shigima seems to be the embodiment of the yamato nadeshiko, full of the ideals associated with a traditional Japan, but the death of her son and the curse give her the energy to fight against the weight of society. Despite her tired appearance, she displays a very subtle wit through her careful and respectful speech. Yakko is particularly proactive and confident, following the example of Sukeban deka, while her friend Mio, a specialist in occult matters, is presented as a voice of reason, contrary to the cliché of the mad witch. This complex nature of the female characters is echoed in a more fragile representation of masculinity. The various male characters are presented with characteristics that undermine the myth of traditional, honour-bound masculinity. They are generally cowardly or display marginal masculinity. If Tetsuo Tsutsumi represents the serious and unyielding inspector, he is often the comedic force of the group, with deadpan remarks that take the edge off the game's terrifying tension. Richter Kai portrays a more jovial and chaotic manliness through his love of childish things, which leads to Harue's amused comments.
Paranormasight quickly reveals itself to be a title with a sharp critique of all forms of authority. The police are portrayed as an institution incapable of preventing crime and serving the public. While officers like Hajime Yoshimi try to be more akin to a social worker for troubled teenage girls, he is generally unable to structurally solve their problems, offering only what he can, namely a shoulder to lean on. The characters lament the fact that Japanese law prohibits police officers from intervening in cases of domestic violence – a situation that only changed with the Act on the Prevention of Spousal Violence and the Protection of Victims (2001). Hierarchical frameworks dictate behaviour in Japanese suburbs. Paranormasight repeatedly emphasises the importance of the dichotomy between the public face (tatamae) and the private face (honne). Michiyo Shiraishi's neighbours are sympathetic until the Shiraishi family strays from the discretion expected in a neighbourhood. Even within the working class, solidarity is not taken for granted and depends on adherence to social rules, however rigid and conservative they may be. The title also insists on the hypocrisy of the family myth, with reference to the coin-operated locker babies, who, for various socio-economic reasons, were abandoned newborn babies in lockers and left to die. This phenomenon, which was widespread between the 1970s and 1990s, haunts the various characters in the game.
Instantiating horror in a real setting: how to modernise a social representation?
It is precisely because these elements are central to Paranormasight's horror and mystery that the game works. The soundtrack is particularly effective in creating a strong atmosphere, alternating between dissonant tracks and music inspired by the emerging city pop of the time. The game is concerned with social modernity in its discourse: it is about representing 1980s Tokyo with respect to the social progress of 2023. The title is therefore against prison and in favour of rehabilitation, rejecting the idea that crimes are inherited through blood. Paranormasight, even though its plot is based on elements of Japanese mythology, stands out for its ability to tell a story whose social motives would remain the same even without the occult. In an eternal Buddhist cycle, the ills of society remain the same until structural measures are implemented by decision-makers, as illustrated by the chronic pollution of the Sumida River, the visual centre of the title.
In terms of gameplay, Paranormasight clearly borrows from recent adventure games, notably the Switch port of Famicom Detective Club (2021) and the second Ace Attorney trilogy. The grammar remains that of 1980s games, with the necessity to repeatedly bring up the same topic of conversation, but the game clearly indicates when all actions have been completed, or if further exploration and dialogue is required. The title uses the Story Chart system inherited from Kono Yo no Hate de Koi o Utau Shōjo YU-NO (1996) and Kotaro Uchikoshi's games, and tries to be as clear as possible about the branching paths the player needs to explore in order to follow the different narrative threads. It is only towards the end of the game that Paranormasight becomes more cryptic, although this does not cause any major problems. The title really tests the player's understanding of the case with relatively open-ended questions. These sequences are particularly effective because the player is always in a strong position compared to the protagonists. Having a transversal knowledge of the events, they are able to theorise in advance and identify the blind spots in the characters' deductions. This narrative style helps to create the impression that the protagonists are conducting a real investigation, with all the complexity this implies.
Paranormasight manages to modernise the adventure and detective genres with a believable story, despite the presence of supernatural elements. Carried by a deep and touching cast, the title presents an ingenious mystery rooted in the malaise of a society on the verge of collapse. Poverty, pollution, a crisis in education and a sense of alienation exacerbate a generational clash. The protagonists, although caught up in a curse that transcends them, are only individuals among others in Tokyo who harbour regrets, remorse and sadness. As the sun sets, the Sumida River turns bloody. The real killer is a city that is oversized and relentless. Paranormasight illustrates this unease with a unique horror texture, instantiating it in the physical reality of Honjo. If Japanese crime fiction has always insisted on the importance of locales while promoting mindful tourism – indeed, since 2001, this has been the function of the Mystery Tours in Meitantei Konan (1994) –, the game accomplishes an astonishing tour de force and establishes itself as a modern shakai staple for the video game medium.
__________
[1] Masāki Kato, ‘Self-Destruction in Japan: A Crosscultural, Epidemiological Analysis of Suicide’, in Folia Psychiatrica et Neurologica, vol. 23, no. 4, 1969, pp. 291-307.
2023
'The one thing I always wanted... staring me in the face all the while.'
Four years after Fire Emblem: Three Houses (2019), Fire Emblem Engage set itself the task of being an anniversary game, one that would pay tribute to the entire franchise. A Herculean task, if ever there was one, and the title opted to simplify its development cycle by not retaining the core features of Three Houses. With a streamlined story, the team led by Tsutomu Tei and Kenta Nakanishi sought to emphasise the gameplay, while the visuals were designed to appeal to a younger audience, either completely new to the series or having only experienced it after Fire Emblem Awakening (2012).
Overwhelming sub-systems and activities: a pacing issue
The player assumes the role of Alear, whose mission is to save the world from the threat of the dragon Sombron after a thousand years of slumber. As usual, the protagonist travels the continent and recruits companions as the adventure progresses. The big addition is the Emblem Rings, which allow a character to be linked to a past hero from the series. The game piles up its characters very quickly, to the point where it becomes difficult to keep up with the pace. In terms of gameplay, this is perhaps both the strength and the weakness of Engage. The title offers so many options for creating one's team that it can be overwhelming. With a generally harder difficulty, players are encouraged to take an active interest in pairing up Rings, thinking about the skills they want each character to inherit, and doing as many of the various activities on Somniel as possible.
Cold_Comfort pointed out that the stat boosts from meals or training sessions – which force the player to undertake a mini-game that becomes tiresome the second time around – give a significant advantage in combat, therefore compelling the player to complete them, at least in the early stages of the game. Only when one has reached the mid-game with enough Rings and characters unlocked can this phase be skipped. Certain combinations – at least in Hard mode – allow players to get through the dense waves of enemies without any major problems. Yunaka makes a perfect AVO tank, especially with the fog that Corrin can summon; in the second half of my playthrough, she was responsible for almost half the kills on every map.
If the player makes use of all the systems available in the game to customise their characters, it is possible to create teams capable of withstanding adversity in a wide range of situations. The game is less demanding on long-term planning, as it is possible to change classes without penalty – the experience curve remains the same. However, it compensates for this ease of management by making it extremely difficult to obtain money, the key to upgrading weapons. In my case, I felt compelled to take special care of Anna to make her very viable and to use her passive to accumulate gold. Similarly, the flexibility offered by the Rings is very enjoyable, but in a twist borrowed from Fire Emblem Heroes (2017), the Bond Rings have to be pulled in a gacha system. As a result, the game is constantly torn between conflicting choices that are sometimes sympathetic to the player, sometimes irritating, and sometimes tedious. Although most of the problems become less critical in the second half of the game, the early game is extremely unpleasant, as the player spends as much time on the Somniel doing insipid activities as fighting. For a title that was supposed to be all about tactics, this pacing is indicative of a serious deficiency.
A strong combat system
In terms of actual tactics, Engage is a perfectly enjoyable experience. The difficulty has been increased compared to Three Houses, and the map design tries to take advantage of the Emblem Rings, pushing the player to Engage to compensate for their numerical disadvantage. The title encourages one to be aggressive in order to take out enemies quickly, especially with the Break mechanic. This brings the Weapon Triangle back into focus, allowing characters with the wrong weapon to take on duels that would normally be avoided in previous games. The result of these features is that Engage is a much more player phase-focused experience, which proves to be very enjoyable. Some maps really shine with this design, requiring precision as the player progresses: Chapter 17, with a heavy atmosphere and a very open and dangerous terrain for the player to navigate, is arguably one of the best maps. In general, Engage requires a more conscientious approach to character positioning, and rewards creative ideas with the staves or, towards the end of the game, Byleth's Goddess Dance.
The form of the game: a abysmal writing
Enjoyable in combat, generally lacklustre during the Somniel downtime, the game is characterised by its highly variable technical quality and its abysmal writing. Most of the backgrounds are a simple image with a few camera movements as a cover: if Three Houses suffered from underwhelming performances, Engage doesn't even try to hide its shortcomings. Admittedly, some might point to the sumptuous combat animations and the fact that each map is fully modelled, so that the player can explore them after each chapter: this hardly makes up for the poorly staged dialogues and the fact that the explorable locations are largely uninteresting – the player can and should collect resources there, but it is more often a thankless task than a sequence suited to contemplation.
As for the writing, the game starts off surprisingly poorly and takes about ten chapters to gather momentum. The sheer number of characters means that some of them have to be dismissed very quickly, and their supporting dialogue doesn't help to give them depth. This is obviously a chronic issue in the Fire Emblem series, but Engage feels like every character has been built around one or two personality traits, and all dialogue has to revolve around them, in a very linear fashion from C-rank to A-rank. Some characters are more believable and coherent, but they can be counted on one hand – Ivy, Diamant, Citrinne or Yunaka, for example. The title never manages to find the right tone: it sometimes attempts flights of gravitas that immediately fall flat, as the world is so under-explored and uninteresting. The latest chapters have a few interesting moments, especially those involving Zephia, but otherwise Engage goes nowhere, following the same tired clichés of Japanese animation.
For whom is this game?
If incestuous themes do not seem to be present – I did not notice any in my playthrough – the sexualisation of young characters along Japanese idol model and the latent paedophilia surrounding the character of Anna are cause for concern: some dialogues have been modified in the Western localisation, but at its core the game is embedded in a cultural aesthetic that contributes to the banalisation of behaviours and representations. The title is obsessed with the question of motherhood, echoing the recent wave of games inspired by post-Abe family policies. All these choices correspond to a Japanese vision that is still shaped by the JK business and the idol industry; one would like to agree with Masafumi Monden's words: 'Emphasizing sweetness, demureness and femininity without hinting at sexual allure or seeking the objectifying male gaze serves to repudiate the stereotyped representation of femininity as passive, compliant and powerless against the sexual objectification of women' [1], but the swimwear and the characters waking Alear up without their consent do not help in this regard. As a result, characters such as Rosado and Etie appear as stand-ins to fill the gender nonconformity quota. It is impossible to take the game seriously, and it is hard to ignore these elements when the player is forced to spend hours on the Somniel.
What remains after sixty hours of Fire Emblem Engage? Some very creative maps that are genuinely satisfying to solve; hours of frustrating preparation between missions; a desire to get through the dialogue as quickly as possible; and, inevitably, a game whose maximalist approach requires too much effort and time to be truly accessible to newer players. Fates (2015) and Three Houses had divided players, old and new, over game design choices. The idea of having different routes or the activities of Garreg Mach were not to everyone's taste: this is the common lot of concepts that radically change the formula of a series. Engage also has its own innovations and twists, but they seem shrouded in a heavy cynicism: was the title designed to provide Heroes with new characters to populate the banners? Everything feels disjointed, as if Tsutomu Tei and Kenta Nakanishi had no desire to craft a coherent experience from start to finish. As long as one considers gameplay to be the primary purpose of a Fire Emblem game, it is possible to find value in it; however, it seems to me that Engage is a step in a creatively dubious direction and one that prompts me to abandon the adventure that this series represented.
__________
[1] Masafumi Monden, ‘Being Alice in Japan: performing a cute, ‘girlish’ revolt’, in Japan Forum, vol. 26, no. 2, 2012, p. 282.
Four years after Fire Emblem: Three Houses (2019), Fire Emblem Engage set itself the task of being an anniversary game, one that would pay tribute to the entire franchise. A Herculean task, if ever there was one, and the title opted to simplify its development cycle by not retaining the core features of Three Houses. With a streamlined story, the team led by Tsutomu Tei and Kenta Nakanishi sought to emphasise the gameplay, while the visuals were designed to appeal to a younger audience, either completely new to the series or having only experienced it after Fire Emblem Awakening (2012).
Overwhelming sub-systems and activities: a pacing issue
The player assumes the role of Alear, whose mission is to save the world from the threat of the dragon Sombron after a thousand years of slumber. As usual, the protagonist travels the continent and recruits companions as the adventure progresses. The big addition is the Emblem Rings, which allow a character to be linked to a past hero from the series. The game piles up its characters very quickly, to the point where it becomes difficult to keep up with the pace. In terms of gameplay, this is perhaps both the strength and the weakness of Engage. The title offers so many options for creating one's team that it can be overwhelming. With a generally harder difficulty, players are encouraged to take an active interest in pairing up Rings, thinking about the skills they want each character to inherit, and doing as many of the various activities on Somniel as possible.
Cold_Comfort pointed out that the stat boosts from meals or training sessions – which force the player to undertake a mini-game that becomes tiresome the second time around – give a significant advantage in combat, therefore compelling the player to complete them, at least in the early stages of the game. Only when one has reached the mid-game with enough Rings and characters unlocked can this phase be skipped. Certain combinations – at least in Hard mode – allow players to get through the dense waves of enemies without any major problems. Yunaka makes a perfect AVO tank, especially with the fog that Corrin can summon; in the second half of my playthrough, she was responsible for almost half the kills on every map.
If the player makes use of all the systems available in the game to customise their characters, it is possible to create teams capable of withstanding adversity in a wide range of situations. The game is less demanding on long-term planning, as it is possible to change classes without penalty – the experience curve remains the same. However, it compensates for this ease of management by making it extremely difficult to obtain money, the key to upgrading weapons. In my case, I felt compelled to take special care of Anna to make her very viable and to use her passive to accumulate gold. Similarly, the flexibility offered by the Rings is very enjoyable, but in a twist borrowed from Fire Emblem Heroes (2017), the Bond Rings have to be pulled in a gacha system. As a result, the game is constantly torn between conflicting choices that are sometimes sympathetic to the player, sometimes irritating, and sometimes tedious. Although most of the problems become less critical in the second half of the game, the early game is extremely unpleasant, as the player spends as much time on the Somniel doing insipid activities as fighting. For a title that was supposed to be all about tactics, this pacing is indicative of a serious deficiency.
A strong combat system
In terms of actual tactics, Engage is a perfectly enjoyable experience. The difficulty has been increased compared to Three Houses, and the map design tries to take advantage of the Emblem Rings, pushing the player to Engage to compensate for their numerical disadvantage. The title encourages one to be aggressive in order to take out enemies quickly, especially with the Break mechanic. This brings the Weapon Triangle back into focus, allowing characters with the wrong weapon to take on duels that would normally be avoided in previous games. The result of these features is that Engage is a much more player phase-focused experience, which proves to be very enjoyable. Some maps really shine with this design, requiring precision as the player progresses: Chapter 17, with a heavy atmosphere and a very open and dangerous terrain for the player to navigate, is arguably one of the best maps. In general, Engage requires a more conscientious approach to character positioning, and rewards creative ideas with the staves or, towards the end of the game, Byleth's Goddess Dance.
The form of the game: a abysmal writing
Enjoyable in combat, generally lacklustre during the Somniel downtime, the game is characterised by its highly variable technical quality and its abysmal writing. Most of the backgrounds are a simple image with a few camera movements as a cover: if Three Houses suffered from underwhelming performances, Engage doesn't even try to hide its shortcomings. Admittedly, some might point to the sumptuous combat animations and the fact that each map is fully modelled, so that the player can explore them after each chapter: this hardly makes up for the poorly staged dialogues and the fact that the explorable locations are largely uninteresting – the player can and should collect resources there, but it is more often a thankless task than a sequence suited to contemplation.
As for the writing, the game starts off surprisingly poorly and takes about ten chapters to gather momentum. The sheer number of characters means that some of them have to be dismissed very quickly, and their supporting dialogue doesn't help to give them depth. This is obviously a chronic issue in the Fire Emblem series, but Engage feels like every character has been built around one or two personality traits, and all dialogue has to revolve around them, in a very linear fashion from C-rank to A-rank. Some characters are more believable and coherent, but they can be counted on one hand – Ivy, Diamant, Citrinne or Yunaka, for example. The title never manages to find the right tone: it sometimes attempts flights of gravitas that immediately fall flat, as the world is so under-explored and uninteresting. The latest chapters have a few interesting moments, especially those involving Zephia, but otherwise Engage goes nowhere, following the same tired clichés of Japanese animation.
For whom is this game?
If incestuous themes do not seem to be present – I did not notice any in my playthrough – the sexualisation of young characters along Japanese idol model and the latent paedophilia surrounding the character of Anna are cause for concern: some dialogues have been modified in the Western localisation, but at its core the game is embedded in a cultural aesthetic that contributes to the banalisation of behaviours and representations. The title is obsessed with the question of motherhood, echoing the recent wave of games inspired by post-Abe family policies. All these choices correspond to a Japanese vision that is still shaped by the JK business and the idol industry; one would like to agree with Masafumi Monden's words: 'Emphasizing sweetness, demureness and femininity without hinting at sexual allure or seeking the objectifying male gaze serves to repudiate the stereotyped representation of femininity as passive, compliant and powerless against the sexual objectification of women' [1], but the swimwear and the characters waking Alear up without their consent do not help in this regard. As a result, characters such as Rosado and Etie appear as stand-ins to fill the gender nonconformity quota. It is impossible to take the game seriously, and it is hard to ignore these elements when the player is forced to spend hours on the Somniel.
What remains after sixty hours of Fire Emblem Engage? Some very creative maps that are genuinely satisfying to solve; hours of frustrating preparation between missions; a desire to get through the dialogue as quickly as possible; and, inevitably, a game whose maximalist approach requires too much effort and time to be truly accessible to newer players. Fates (2015) and Three Houses had divided players, old and new, over game design choices. The idea of having different routes or the activities of Garreg Mach were not to everyone's taste: this is the common lot of concepts that radically change the formula of a series. Engage also has its own innovations and twists, but they seem shrouded in a heavy cynicism: was the title designed to provide Heroes with new characters to populate the banners? Everything feels disjointed, as if Tsutomu Tei and Kenta Nakanishi had no desire to craft a coherent experience from start to finish. As long as one considers gameplay to be the primary purpose of a Fire Emblem game, it is possible to find value in it; however, it seems to me that Engage is a step in a creatively dubious direction and one that prompts me to abandon the adventure that this series represented.
__________
[1] Masafumi Monden, ‘Being Alice in Japan: performing a cute, ‘girlish’ revolt’, in Japan Forum, vol. 26, no. 2, 2012, p. 282.
2022
'Pinball predates civilization.'
Played with BertKnot.
The release of Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time (2021) marked the de facto end of an era for Japanese animation. By recasting his franchise in a contemplative and optimistic light, Hideaki Anno emphasised the need to embrace life in all its complexity and to take care of ourselves. While fans remain divided over which version they prefer, with some favouring the ending of The End of Evangelion (1997), the change in tone has been recognised as Anno's new-found serenity. The 1997 film represented an excision of his otaku side through the flames of Purgatory, a bitter violence necessitated by the fans' deviation from the discourse developed in the anime. Thrice Upon a Time takes a much more contemplative approach, marking a genuine process of mourning and reconstruction. In particular, the film subtly weaves its characters into real-life scenes, highlighting their relationships with a wider society.
Rewriting and recontextualisation in Japanese pop-culture
This process of recontextualisation involves a dialogue between official production and fan production. Nicolle Lamerichs shows how the perception of characters is fluid and how fandom reclaims canonical characters to express themes beyond the author's control [1]. The figure of Shinji is particularly subject to these transformations, as he represents the otaku identity and the outcasts of Japanese society. By setting Shinji and the other characters in familiar settings – scenes similar to those in the anime and The End of the Evangelion, but also in everyday sceneries – Anno leaves it to the audience to completely reappropriate these characters, emphasising only their verisimilitude or, conversely, their artificiality. Such rewriting strategies are not uncommon in modern popular fiction, and the Sonic the Hedgehog franchise has demonstrated a surprising plasticity in recent years.
Through fan imagination, recent games, the Sonic Boom series (2014), and the Sonic the Hedgehog films (2020, 2022), the franchise has slowly shed the remnants of its kawaī aestheticism and taken on a more serious tone. The culmination was the release of Sonic Frontiers, the marketing cycle of which initially highlighted the shift in the series. The advent of the open world was supposed to renew the game formula, and the visual direction was meant to reflect a new gravitas for the hero, pondering the interpersonal relationships he has with his friends. For a game about renewal, the communication around Sonic Frontiers was relatively timid: the first gameplay footage was withheld for a long time, particularly the Cyberspace stages. This was probably due to the chaotic state of the title, which suffered from multiple development iterations and a serious lack of budget.
Meaningless references: a futile search for identity
The player assumes the role of Sonic and must explore the Starfall Islands to rescue his friends who have been trapped in a parallel dimension by Dr Eggman and his artificial intelligence, Sage. The adventure consists of exploring five islands filled with micro-objectives that allow the player to collect Chaos Emeralds and engage with the local Titan, who protects the barrier between the real world and reality. Sonic Frontiers borrows extensively from The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), to the point where the original project was intended to be a much slower experience, with Sonic able to walk slowly and ride a horse [2]. The game makes no attempt to hide its direct inspiration, so much so that it directly recreates the Blood Moon scene and simply turns it into a Starfall one. The title rips off ideas from all the recent productions, turning them into a crucible with no identity. The general setting is that of Breath of the Wild, with a soundtrack that loosely copies the ethereal piano sound design, while the battles against the Titans are largely inspired by Shadow of the Colossus (2005), with the same sense of gradual scaling.
The combat system is inspired by recent character action games, with a rather surprising emphasis on combos; the density of the puzzles recalls the exploration of Genshin Impact (2020) and the many activities that dot organically the Teyvat map and blend with the environment; there are many borrowings from Neon Genesis Evangelion as well and, above all, Sonic's own games. But this compilation is particularly clumsy. At Gamescom 2022, fans could see that the level design of Cyberspace stages was lifted from previous entries in the series, including Sonic Adventure 2 (2001), Unleashed (2008) and Generation (2011). While Takashi Īzuka cited the corruption of the hero's memories as the reason for this decision [3], it was more likely a lack of resources and time. Two major problems underline the flawed nature of this approach. Firstly, while the layout of the levels is often taken from previous games, the graphics only vary between four environments: Green Hill, Chemical Plant, Sky Sanctuary and a new zone resembling Crisis City. The result is particularly dull and monotonous, with an overly detailed background and obnoxious visual filters designed to mimic computer corruption.
Inconsistent design between the various activities
More critically, the gameplay of Sonic Frontiers does not fit in with the old designs. The title opts for a jerky gameplay, with an Aim Attack that is only used for direction and never to gain speed, as Sonic is generally always faster when running unaided. This design dichotomy alters the relationship with the S rank: it seems alternately trivial and overly complicated. In reality, if the player chooses not to play according to the rules dictated by the old Sonic level design, and ignores the optimal and natural route in order to concentrate on Sonic's own movement, the S rank is relatively easy to achieve, although it feels meaningless due to the disconnect with the level. The same problem occurs in the overworld. The islands are particularly empty and visually abysmal, leaving the player to rush from objective to objective to solve uninspiring puzzles or complete ill-conceived mini-games. Gathering Kocos for Amy looks inordinately like the shepherd mini-game in The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess (2006), while the hacking mini-games are literally lifted from NieR: Automata (2017). The pinball, in which Sonic does not even act as the ball, is astonishing in its unusual mediocrity, as is the final boss in Hard Mode, a particularly poor and unwelcome shoot'em-up sequence.
For a game that emphasises freedom of exploration, Sonic Frontiers feels commanding. The progression from activity to activity is artificial, with the player's attention drawn to the nearest hideous metal structure. When it comes to action, Sonic's and the camera's movements are always fixed by the rails and the level design, which tries to convince the player that the game is still a platformer. It is particularly peculiar that Chaos Island contains so many 2.5D sequences, which are completely at odds with the open-world spirit of the title. With map exploration dependent on completing micro-objectives, exploration is generally linear or bloated with pointless roundabouts. Sonic's stats do little to shake the game out of its formulaic shackles, and any player who decides to spend a little time fishing to raise Sonic's attributes will find the experience ludicrous, as battles are over in an instant, as they are merely designated as health bars to be lowered during the vulnerability cycle. The game does a particularly poor job of communicating its gameplay intentions, and fights suffer from particularly long downtimes to justify the inclusion of chase sequences. The staging is often unreadable and the camera is frequently in awkward places, blocked by the metal limbs of enemies, if not spinning around to the point of causing serious dizziness. The perspective is also generally very poor, and diving attacks are always rather unpleasant to perform.
The art of false contemplation
Sonic Frontiers also suffers from poor performance, with serious clipping every few metres. Visually, the various islands are homogeneous, with no visual landmarks to give a clear idea of the world's geography. The fourth and fifth islands are, in fact, direct extensions of the first, further reducing the visual variety of the title. The game tries to impose a darker tone on its atmosphere, relying heavily on simple broken piano chords and a melody that repeats after three bars. Unable to find an identity, the game intersperses this pseudo-contemplation with unwarranted jazz melodies for its mini-games and heroic jingles when the player triumphs. The tone of the story follows this inconsistency: Sonic Frontiers multiplies references without purpose, justifying its existence by exploring the lore of the Ancients-Chao in a modulation on the themes of Final Fantasy XIV: Endwalker (2021) and The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask (2000). The dialogues between Sonic and his companions are an opportunity to rehash themes already dealt with in previous games, under the guise of false maturity.
For Dr Eggman, Sonic Frontiers is an opportunity to discover fatherhood through crude cinematics and shallow, flawed writing. It comes as no surprise that Sonic Frontiers takes up the theme of parenthood transcending blood ties, a subject that has been well-explored in popular Japanese fiction since the 2010s, and has recently been exacerbated. However, this addition seems unjustified, given that Eggman is such a passive character. The game seems to be a collection of ideas with no coherence, whether in its game design, narrative or artistic direction. Taking elements that have worked in other cultural productions, the title indulges in a chaotic jumble, defending its own identity through a sort of recapitulation, a moment of reflection in the light of a new maturity.
This was Anno's project with Thrice Upon a Time, bringing an era to a close and ushering in a new one. All the characters of Evangelion were contextualised in a new world, both in the diegesis and in the context of film's production. It was a final attempt to respond to a troubled Japanese youth, battered by the uncertainty of the labour market and the breakdown of traditional interpersonal relationships: it is from this observation and a mature optimism that hope is born. Sonic Frontiers draws no lessons from the past and says nothing. It revels in its own status as a game of transition, with no intention of defining the future direction of the franchise; ironically, Sonic Superstars seems to disavow Frontiers' project by once again taking the golden nostalgia route already exploited by Sonic Mania (2017). This is unfortunate, as the idea of an open-world Sonic game is not necessarily meaningless, but it deserves better than feeble half-measures.
__________
[1] Nicolle Lamerichs, ‘The Emotional Realism of Anime: Rewriting Characters and Affective Reception in Evangelion 3.0+1.0: Thrice Upon a Time’, in Mechademia, vol. 15, no. 1, 2022, pp. 81-102.
[2] Yuzuke Takahashi, ‘［TGS2022］「ソニックフロンティア」制作者インタビュー。クラシック，モダンに続く第三世代ソニックに込められた思いとは’, on 4Gamer.net, 16th September 2022.
[3] Zackari Greif, ‘Sonic Team Leader Explains Sonic Frontiers' Use of Old Level Designs’, on gamerant.com, 30th August 2022, consulted on 16th June 2023.
Played with BertKnot.
The release of Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time (2021) marked the de facto end of an era for Japanese animation. By recasting his franchise in a contemplative and optimistic light, Hideaki Anno emphasised the need to embrace life in all its complexity and to take care of ourselves. While fans remain divided over which version they prefer, with some favouring the ending of The End of Evangelion (1997), the change in tone has been recognised as Anno's new-found serenity. The 1997 film represented an excision of his otaku side through the flames of Purgatory, a bitter violence necessitated by the fans' deviation from the discourse developed in the anime. Thrice Upon a Time takes a much more contemplative approach, marking a genuine process of mourning and reconstruction. In particular, the film subtly weaves its characters into real-life scenes, highlighting their relationships with a wider society.
Rewriting and recontextualisation in Japanese pop-culture
This process of recontextualisation involves a dialogue between official production and fan production. Nicolle Lamerichs shows how the perception of characters is fluid and how fandom reclaims canonical characters to express themes beyond the author's control [1]. The figure of Shinji is particularly subject to these transformations, as he represents the otaku identity and the outcasts of Japanese society. By setting Shinji and the other characters in familiar settings – scenes similar to those in the anime and The End of the Evangelion, but also in everyday sceneries – Anno leaves it to the audience to completely reappropriate these characters, emphasising only their verisimilitude or, conversely, their artificiality. Such rewriting strategies are not uncommon in modern popular fiction, and the Sonic the Hedgehog franchise has demonstrated a surprising plasticity in recent years.
Through fan imagination, recent games, the Sonic Boom series (2014), and the Sonic the Hedgehog films (2020, 2022), the franchise has slowly shed the remnants of its kawaī aestheticism and taken on a more serious tone. The culmination was the release of Sonic Frontiers, the marketing cycle of which initially highlighted the shift in the series. The advent of the open world was supposed to renew the game formula, and the visual direction was meant to reflect a new gravitas for the hero, pondering the interpersonal relationships he has with his friends. For a game about renewal, the communication around Sonic Frontiers was relatively timid: the first gameplay footage was withheld for a long time, particularly the Cyberspace stages. This was probably due to the chaotic state of the title, which suffered from multiple development iterations and a serious lack of budget.
Meaningless references: a futile search for identity
The player assumes the role of Sonic and must explore the Starfall Islands to rescue his friends who have been trapped in a parallel dimension by Dr Eggman and his artificial intelligence, Sage. The adventure consists of exploring five islands filled with micro-objectives that allow the player to collect Chaos Emeralds and engage with the local Titan, who protects the barrier between the real world and reality. Sonic Frontiers borrows extensively from The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), to the point where the original project was intended to be a much slower experience, with Sonic able to walk slowly and ride a horse [2]. The game makes no attempt to hide its direct inspiration, so much so that it directly recreates the Blood Moon scene and simply turns it into a Starfall one. The title rips off ideas from all the recent productions, turning them into a crucible with no identity. The general setting is that of Breath of the Wild, with a soundtrack that loosely copies the ethereal piano sound design, while the battles against the Titans are largely inspired by Shadow of the Colossus (2005), with the same sense of gradual scaling.
The combat system is inspired by recent character action games, with a rather surprising emphasis on combos; the density of the puzzles recalls the exploration of Genshin Impact (2020) and the many activities that dot organically the Teyvat map and blend with the environment; there are many borrowings from Neon Genesis Evangelion as well and, above all, Sonic's own games. But this compilation is particularly clumsy. At Gamescom 2022, fans could see that the level design of Cyberspace stages was lifted from previous entries in the series, including Sonic Adventure 2 (2001), Unleashed (2008) and Generation (2011). While Takashi Īzuka cited the corruption of the hero's memories as the reason for this decision [3], it was more likely a lack of resources and time. Two major problems underline the flawed nature of this approach. Firstly, while the layout of the levels is often taken from previous games, the graphics only vary between four environments: Green Hill, Chemical Plant, Sky Sanctuary and a new zone resembling Crisis City. The result is particularly dull and monotonous, with an overly detailed background and obnoxious visual filters designed to mimic computer corruption.
Inconsistent design between the various activities
More critically, the gameplay of Sonic Frontiers does not fit in with the old designs. The title opts for a jerky gameplay, with an Aim Attack that is only used for direction and never to gain speed, as Sonic is generally always faster when running unaided. This design dichotomy alters the relationship with the S rank: it seems alternately trivial and overly complicated. In reality, if the player chooses not to play according to the rules dictated by the old Sonic level design, and ignores the optimal and natural route in order to concentrate on Sonic's own movement, the S rank is relatively easy to achieve, although it feels meaningless due to the disconnect with the level. The same problem occurs in the overworld. The islands are particularly empty and visually abysmal, leaving the player to rush from objective to objective to solve uninspiring puzzles or complete ill-conceived mini-games. Gathering Kocos for Amy looks inordinately like the shepherd mini-game in The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess (2006), while the hacking mini-games are literally lifted from NieR: Automata (2017). The pinball, in which Sonic does not even act as the ball, is astonishing in its unusual mediocrity, as is the final boss in Hard Mode, a particularly poor and unwelcome shoot'em-up sequence.
For a game that emphasises freedom of exploration, Sonic Frontiers feels commanding. The progression from activity to activity is artificial, with the player's attention drawn to the nearest hideous metal structure. When it comes to action, Sonic's and the camera's movements are always fixed by the rails and the level design, which tries to convince the player that the game is still a platformer. It is particularly peculiar that Chaos Island contains so many 2.5D sequences, which are completely at odds with the open-world spirit of the title. With map exploration dependent on completing micro-objectives, exploration is generally linear or bloated with pointless roundabouts. Sonic's stats do little to shake the game out of its formulaic shackles, and any player who decides to spend a little time fishing to raise Sonic's attributes will find the experience ludicrous, as battles are over in an instant, as they are merely designated as health bars to be lowered during the vulnerability cycle. The game does a particularly poor job of communicating its gameplay intentions, and fights suffer from particularly long downtimes to justify the inclusion of chase sequences. The staging is often unreadable and the camera is frequently in awkward places, blocked by the metal limbs of enemies, if not spinning around to the point of causing serious dizziness. The perspective is also generally very poor, and diving attacks are always rather unpleasant to perform.
The art of false contemplation
Sonic Frontiers also suffers from poor performance, with serious clipping every few metres. Visually, the various islands are homogeneous, with no visual landmarks to give a clear idea of the world's geography. The fourth and fifth islands are, in fact, direct extensions of the first, further reducing the visual variety of the title. The game tries to impose a darker tone on its atmosphere, relying heavily on simple broken piano chords and a melody that repeats after three bars. Unable to find an identity, the game intersperses this pseudo-contemplation with unwarranted jazz melodies for its mini-games and heroic jingles when the player triumphs. The tone of the story follows this inconsistency: Sonic Frontiers multiplies references without purpose, justifying its existence by exploring the lore of the Ancients-Chao in a modulation on the themes of Final Fantasy XIV: Endwalker (2021) and The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask (2000). The dialogues between Sonic and his companions are an opportunity to rehash themes already dealt with in previous games, under the guise of false maturity.
For Dr Eggman, Sonic Frontiers is an opportunity to discover fatherhood through crude cinematics and shallow, flawed writing. It comes as no surprise that Sonic Frontiers takes up the theme of parenthood transcending blood ties, a subject that has been well-explored in popular Japanese fiction since the 2010s, and has recently been exacerbated. However, this addition seems unjustified, given that Eggman is such a passive character. The game seems to be a collection of ideas with no coherence, whether in its game design, narrative or artistic direction. Taking elements that have worked in other cultural productions, the title indulges in a chaotic jumble, defending its own identity through a sort of recapitulation, a moment of reflection in the light of a new maturity.
This was Anno's project with Thrice Upon a Time, bringing an era to a close and ushering in a new one. All the characters of Evangelion were contextualised in a new world, both in the diegesis and in the context of film's production. It was a final attempt to respond to a troubled Japanese youth, battered by the uncertainty of the labour market and the breakdown of traditional interpersonal relationships: it is from this observation and a mature optimism that hope is born. Sonic Frontiers draws no lessons from the past and says nothing. It revels in its own status as a game of transition, with no intention of defining the future direction of the franchise; ironically, Sonic Superstars seems to disavow Frontiers' project by once again taking the golden nostalgia route already exploited by Sonic Mania (2017). This is unfortunate, as the idea of an open-world Sonic game is not necessarily meaningless, but it deserves better than feeble half-measures.
__________
[1] Nicolle Lamerichs, ‘The Emotional Realism of Anime: Rewriting Characters and Affective Reception in Evangelion 3.0+1.0: Thrice Upon a Time’, in Mechademia, vol. 15, no. 1, 2022, pp. 81-102.
[2] Yuzuke Takahashi, ‘［TGS2022］「ソニックフロンティア」制作者インタビュー。クラシック，モダンに続く第三世代ソニックに込められた思いとは’, on 4Gamer.net, 16th September 2022.
[3] Zackari Greif, ‘Sonic Team Leader Explains Sonic Frontiers' Use of Old Level Designs’, on gamerant.com, 30th August 2022, consulted on 16th June 2023.
'Three years had passed. Five years had passed, and still the trees remained with their roots spread out on the bottom of the water. It looked almost as if they were still alive now. Ohina thought to herself; in those days my legs were still strong. My eyes could still see far.'
– Michiko Ishimure, Tenko, 1997 (tr. Bruce Allen).
The post-war years in Japan were accompanied by an ideological shift in the ideas of work and family, with the development of the sarariiman myth. The ideal household, promoted by the Japanese government, was one in which the wife took care of the housework and the children's education, while the husband provided for the family's economic needs. This dream was made possible by the employment conditions of the 1960s and 1970s, when the average worker could expect to spend their entire career with the same company. Representations of the Japanese sarariiman have largely evolved over time, making him both an archetype of ideal masculinity through his loyalty to his employer and his sacrifice for his family (kigyō senshi, corporate warrior). At the same time, other representations emphasise his submissiveness, in line with the westernisation of Japanese culture [1].
And every morning the door closes
The collapse of the economic bubble in the 1990s shattered this ideal, weakening the labour market and the salaried middle class [2]. The destruction of this family harmony, based on a patriarchal concept of sacrifice, led to the dysfunction of Japanese households and the gradual disappearance of fathers from the family unit. The generation born after the 1970s had no memory of the economic miracle of previous decades and found themselves thrust into a world where inequalities were apparent from school and career prospects were mediocre at best. Authority figures were viewed with suspicion and contempt, including the government, teachers and parents. They are said to have failed in their role as guardians: teachers are portrayed as incompetent or murderers, politicians as indifferent to misery and colluding to steal public money, while fathers resign and mothers weep at their powerlessness [3].
The destruction of traditional masculinity, which is still struggling to build a new mythology, has been followed by a reassessment of the place of women, who are regarded as the driving force for Japan's economic recovery and the bulwark against demographic decline. Unsurprisingly, Shinzo Abe's economic programme has focused heavily on the role of women, both as workers and as mothers. Yet Abenomics have failed to transform the labour market environment: government coalitions have been largely conservative, and measures for women have been anemic at best [4]. What remains is a vain discourse to encourage reproduction – despite the economic conditions hardly being met for raising a child – which is reflected in cultural production.
Undoing ikumen in post-Abe Japan
The overrepresentation of motherhood, however, should not obscure the transformations of fatherhood in the 2000s and 2010s. Xenoblade Chronicles 3: Future Redeemed is a striking example as it deals directly with this issue, whereas the original game looked at the question of reproduction and family in a broader way [5]. The heroes of the first two games return, each embodying a different vision of masculinity. Shulk retains his candour while appearing more calm and disciplined. He represents a self-controlled masculinity driven by both elegance and intellect, in the style of the erudite warriors of pre-modern Asia. Rex is much rougher, constantly struggling to find a way to express his feelings and frustrations, despite his good intentions. In some ways, his development is reminiscent of that of Ryōta Nonomiya in Hirokazu Kore-eda's Soshite chichi ni naru (2013), an architect who is unable to provide emotional comfort to his family. Confronted with the way Shulk interacts with Nikol, Rex finds a new harmony with Glimmer, full of empathy and love.
Perhaps the most important aspect of these relationships is that their nature remains implicit. Many of the reminiscent and contemplative passages in Future Redeemed rely on knowledge of the franchise, but the theme of fatherhood runs throughout the DLC. Ultimately, the heroes' distance from their children is a response to the debates surrounding ikumen, a term used to describe fathers who are involved in raising their children in order to make them appear 'cool'. The ideological programme of Abe's Japan relied heavily on this imaginary to encourage fathers to participate in the household, but the figure of the ikumen has been widely criticised for giving men a nice label, even though they contribute to the dysfunction of both the domestic economy and their working environment [6].
The figure of the ikumen can be understood as a way for fathers to make themselves useful somewhere and gain recognition from their peers, a way to find a place to belong (ibasho) after being ejected from both the family unit and the corporate space. Future Redeemed responds to this sociological question in the same way as several local associations have done, through the figure of the ikimen, men who decide to foster communities of solidarity in the same way that they would look after their children [7]. Shulk and Rex, thanks to their experience, become the tutelary figures of the Liberators and Colony 9, but they are more interested in being mentors than leaders. Like the base game, Future Redeemed focuses on building bonds between the various members of the community until their resilience is no longer in doubt. As the various characters point out to Matthew, the virtue of a leader is to bring people together when necessary, not to control their lives. Through the various side-quests, the inhabitants of Colony 9 also gain texture and individuality, autonomy and confidence – more so than in the base game, thanks to a sparser cast.
Maybe tomorrow
There is an optimistic melancholy to Future Redeemed, between the series' various iconic locations reduced to lonely ruins and the forward-looking language of the characters. Like Tetsuya Takahashi's other games, the DLC shines by magnifying the ties that bind individuals, variations on the theme of friendship, love and togetherness – lessons that must be carried beyond the game. A single existence is but a drop in the ocean of human history. Civilisations, buildings, masterpieces, passions, dreams and memories can vanish in an instant, but there remains an explicit duty to cherish the past, not in blind adoration, but in preparation for the future. Future Redeemed constantly refuses to elevate Shulk and Rex onto a pedestal: they are already fading figures, as their injuries attest. Even A, for all her unwavering calm and penetrating gaze, chooses to remain outside the life that Colony 9 and the Liberators have decided to cherish; not because she is without compassion for the survivors, but because she knows – and this is her legacy – that the future belongs to them alone.
As Xeno veterans know, every story has an ending, and not all sequels need to be told. Looking back at Lost Jerusalem and thinking about building a better world is poignant, but this is the everyday story. Fighting for a fairer and more humane world. It may take generations, but the important thing is to keep dreaming and struggling for it, because there is nothing more tragic than an existence without hope, even when darkness seems to engulf everything. Of course, there is something idealistic and simplistic about this statement, but Future Redeemed, like the base game Xenogears (1998) or Xenosaga (2002-2006), leaves room for misery and sadness. Inequality is part of every society, and Takahashi has no illusions about the ghosts that will always roam the Rhadamanthus of the future. This is how Future Redeemed concludes the epic of the Xenoblade Chronicles, just as Episode III: Also sprach Zarathustra (2006) invited one to close their eyes for a while, until the light of hope reappears, maybe tomorrow. In a way, Future Redeemed is just an open door. Its more meticulous progression with Affinity Points, its more fluid exploration thanks to numerous ergonomic additions, and its gameplay designed around accessories rather than classes all point to rich ideas for Monolith Soft's next projects.
I may still be around to see what paths they take.
Maybe I won't.
I will sleep a while, until the dawn wakes me up again...
I still believe... come what may...
__________
[1] Annette Schad-Seifert, 'Samurai and Sarariiman: The Discourse on Masculinity in Modern Japan', in Arne Holzhausen (ed.), Can Japan Globalize? Studies on Japan's Changing Political Economy and the Process of Globalization, Springer, Berlin, 2001, pp. 206-208.
[2] Some contextual details are provided in my reviews of Kaze no NOTAM (1997) and Power Shovel (1999).
[3] This is a rather simplified picture of the cultural representations of the 1990s and 2000s, but they occupy an important part of successful audiovisual production in Japan. On the topic, see Shuk-ting Kinnia Yau, 'Bad Father and Good Mother: The Changing Image of Masculinity in Post-Bubble-Economy Japan', in David G. Hebert (ed.), International Perspectives on Translation, Education and Innovation in Japanese and Korean Societies, Springer, New York, 2018, pp. 243-253.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe’s Womenomics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19, no. 4-4, 2021.
[5] On the topic, see my review of Xenoblade Chronicles 3 (2022).
[6] In particular, wives and employers are very suspicious of the ikumen modoki, the father who prides himself on being involved in running the household and bringing up the children, but in reality makes no effort at all. He builds a positive image of himself on his wife's efforts and uses the household as an excuse to shirk his professional responsibilities. The yarisugi ikumen, the man who is overly proactive in his domestic involvement, is equally feared by women, both because he often disrupts household routines and wastes time, unnecessarily burdening his spouse with additional work. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, Rearing the Family, Moving Society: Rethinking Gender, Kinship, and Work through Japan’s Fathering Movement, PhD thesis, University of Toronto, 2020, pp. 99-134.
[7] This figure is also subject to specific criticisms, notably the contamination of spaces intended for women by a corporatist and hierarchical masculinity, and the fact that these groups are more places for fathers to socialise than spaces for improving local community life; nevertheless, they are a new ibasho for men, outside the workplace. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, op. cit., pp. 230-276.
– Michiko Ishimure, Tenko, 1997 (tr. Bruce Allen).
The post-war years in Japan were accompanied by an ideological shift in the ideas of work and family, with the development of the sarariiman myth. The ideal household, promoted by the Japanese government, was one in which the wife took care of the housework and the children's education, while the husband provided for the family's economic needs. This dream was made possible by the employment conditions of the 1960s and 1970s, when the average worker could expect to spend their entire career with the same company. Representations of the Japanese sarariiman have largely evolved over time, making him both an archetype of ideal masculinity through his loyalty to his employer and his sacrifice for his family (kigyō senshi, corporate warrior). At the same time, other representations emphasise his submissiveness, in line with the westernisation of Japanese culture [1].
And every morning the door closes
The collapse of the economic bubble in the 1990s shattered this ideal, weakening the labour market and the salaried middle class [2]. The destruction of this family harmony, based on a patriarchal concept of sacrifice, led to the dysfunction of Japanese households and the gradual disappearance of fathers from the family unit. The generation born after the 1970s had no memory of the economic miracle of previous decades and found themselves thrust into a world where inequalities were apparent from school and career prospects were mediocre at best. Authority figures were viewed with suspicion and contempt, including the government, teachers and parents. They are said to have failed in their role as guardians: teachers are portrayed as incompetent or murderers, politicians as indifferent to misery and colluding to steal public money, while fathers resign and mothers weep at their powerlessness [3].
The destruction of traditional masculinity, which is still struggling to build a new mythology, has been followed by a reassessment of the place of women, who are regarded as the driving force for Japan's economic recovery and the bulwark against demographic decline. Unsurprisingly, Shinzo Abe's economic programme has focused heavily on the role of women, both as workers and as mothers. Yet Abenomics have failed to transform the labour market environment: government coalitions have been largely conservative, and measures for women have been anemic at best [4]. What remains is a vain discourse to encourage reproduction – despite the economic conditions hardly being met for raising a child – which is reflected in cultural production.
Undoing ikumen in post-Abe Japan
The overrepresentation of motherhood, however, should not obscure the transformations of fatherhood in the 2000s and 2010s. Xenoblade Chronicles 3: Future Redeemed is a striking example as it deals directly with this issue, whereas the original game looked at the question of reproduction and family in a broader way [5]. The heroes of the first two games return, each embodying a different vision of masculinity. Shulk retains his candour while appearing more calm and disciplined. He represents a self-controlled masculinity driven by both elegance and intellect, in the style of the erudite warriors of pre-modern Asia. Rex is much rougher, constantly struggling to find a way to express his feelings and frustrations, despite his good intentions. In some ways, his development is reminiscent of that of Ryōta Nonomiya in Hirokazu Kore-eda's Soshite chichi ni naru (2013), an architect who is unable to provide emotional comfort to his family. Confronted with the way Shulk interacts with Nikol, Rex finds a new harmony with Glimmer, full of empathy and love.
Perhaps the most important aspect of these relationships is that their nature remains implicit. Many of the reminiscent and contemplative passages in Future Redeemed rely on knowledge of the franchise, but the theme of fatherhood runs throughout the DLC. Ultimately, the heroes' distance from their children is a response to the debates surrounding ikumen, a term used to describe fathers who are involved in raising their children in order to make them appear 'cool'. The ideological programme of Abe's Japan relied heavily on this imaginary to encourage fathers to participate in the household, but the figure of the ikumen has been widely criticised for giving men a nice label, even though they contribute to the dysfunction of both the domestic economy and their working environment [6].
The figure of the ikumen can be understood as a way for fathers to make themselves useful somewhere and gain recognition from their peers, a way to find a place to belong (ibasho) after being ejected from both the family unit and the corporate space. Future Redeemed responds to this sociological question in the same way as several local associations have done, through the figure of the ikimen, men who decide to foster communities of solidarity in the same way that they would look after their children [7]. Shulk and Rex, thanks to their experience, become the tutelary figures of the Liberators and Colony 9, but they are more interested in being mentors than leaders. Like the base game, Future Redeemed focuses on building bonds between the various members of the community until their resilience is no longer in doubt. As the various characters point out to Matthew, the virtue of a leader is to bring people together when necessary, not to control their lives. Through the various side-quests, the inhabitants of Colony 9 also gain texture and individuality, autonomy and confidence – more so than in the base game, thanks to a sparser cast.
Maybe tomorrow
There is an optimistic melancholy to Future Redeemed, between the series' various iconic locations reduced to lonely ruins and the forward-looking language of the characters. Like Tetsuya Takahashi's other games, the DLC shines by magnifying the ties that bind individuals, variations on the theme of friendship, love and togetherness – lessons that must be carried beyond the game. A single existence is but a drop in the ocean of human history. Civilisations, buildings, masterpieces, passions, dreams and memories can vanish in an instant, but there remains an explicit duty to cherish the past, not in blind adoration, but in preparation for the future. Future Redeemed constantly refuses to elevate Shulk and Rex onto a pedestal: they are already fading figures, as their injuries attest. Even A, for all her unwavering calm and penetrating gaze, chooses to remain outside the life that Colony 9 and the Liberators have decided to cherish; not because she is without compassion for the survivors, but because she knows – and this is her legacy – that the future belongs to them alone.
As Xeno veterans know, every story has an ending, and not all sequels need to be told. Looking back at Lost Jerusalem and thinking about building a better world is poignant, but this is the everyday story. Fighting for a fairer and more humane world. It may take generations, but the important thing is to keep dreaming and struggling for it, because there is nothing more tragic than an existence without hope, even when darkness seems to engulf everything. Of course, there is something idealistic and simplistic about this statement, but Future Redeemed, like the base game Xenogears (1998) or Xenosaga (2002-2006), leaves room for misery and sadness. Inequality is part of every society, and Takahashi has no illusions about the ghosts that will always roam the Rhadamanthus of the future. This is how Future Redeemed concludes the epic of the Xenoblade Chronicles, just as Episode III: Also sprach Zarathustra (2006) invited one to close their eyes for a while, until the light of hope reappears, maybe tomorrow. In a way, Future Redeemed is just an open door. Its more meticulous progression with Affinity Points, its more fluid exploration thanks to numerous ergonomic additions, and its gameplay designed around accessories rather than classes all point to rich ideas for Monolith Soft's next projects.
I may still be around to see what paths they take.
Maybe I won't.
I will sleep a while, until the dawn wakes me up again...
I still believe... come what may...
__________
[1] Annette Schad-Seifert, 'Samurai and Sarariiman: The Discourse on Masculinity in Modern Japan', in Arne Holzhausen (ed.), Can Japan Globalize? Studies on Japan's Changing Political Economy and the Process of Globalization, Springer, Berlin, 2001, pp. 206-208.
[2] Some contextual details are provided in my reviews of Kaze no NOTAM (1997) and Power Shovel (1999).
[3] This is a rather simplified picture of the cultural representations of the 1990s and 2000s, but they occupy an important part of successful audiovisual production in Japan. On the topic, see Shuk-ting Kinnia Yau, 'Bad Father and Good Mother: The Changing Image of Masculinity in Post-Bubble-Economy Japan', in David G. Hebert (ed.), International Perspectives on Translation, Education and Innovation in Japanese and Korean Societies, Springer, New York, 2018, pp. 243-253.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe’s Womenomics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19, no. 4-4, 2021.
[5] On the topic, see my review of Xenoblade Chronicles 3 (2022).
[6] In particular, wives and employers are very suspicious of the ikumen modoki, the father who prides himself on being involved in running the household and bringing up the children, but in reality makes no effort at all. He builds a positive image of himself on his wife's efforts and uses the household as an excuse to shirk his professional responsibilities. The yarisugi ikumen, the man who is overly proactive in his domestic involvement, is equally feared by women, both because he often disrupts household routines and wastes time, unnecessarily burdening his spouse with additional work. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, Rearing the Family, Moving Society: Rethinking Gender, Kinship, and Work through Japan’s Fathering Movement, PhD thesis, University of Toronto, 2020, pp. 99-134.
[7] This figure is also subject to specific criticisms, notably the contamination of spaces intended for women by a corporatist and hierarchical masculinity, and the fact that these groups are more places for fathers to socialise than spaces for improving local community life; nevertheless, they are a new ibasho for men, outside the workplace. On the topic, see Nicholas Michael Feinig, op. cit., pp. 230-276.
‘In those dreams, I loved one woman... No matter the day, no matter the era…’
My adolescence was marked by the exploration of video games and RPGs already had the strongest attraction over me. There was an evocative quality to them that made them convenient getaways, places of reverie and poetic fables. Final Fantasy VI (1994) was certainly the first big shock of that time: in this universe torn between magic and technology, the adventures of this peculiar company resonated with me and I still consider Celes to be one of the characters dearest to my heart. Many other games have punctuated these adventures in those fictional lands, but Xenogears (1998) holds a rather distinctive place.
Final Fantasy VII (1997) didn't have any of the much-vaunted charm on me, certainly because it wasn't the story I needed, probably because the characters didn't speak to me that much. Xenogears, on the other hand, proved to be a rough gem, which I didn't know I liked that much. Perhaps it was because I had shared the experience with my then girlfriend. She and I shared this infinite love for literature and a melancholic soul. For various reasons, Xenogears was a game that moved us: from the story told to the clever use of the PS1's limitations with an art direction that embraced the very geometric aspect of the graphic assets, a poetic breath ran through the title. The silence of the final seconds in the ending cutscene was a testament to the contemplative force that fed Xenogears. Yet, as important and grandiose as this game was, I always found it difficult to place it among my favourite games. Was it because it reminded me of an era that is painful for me today? Was it because the memory of my tender love crushed my heart whenever I thought of Elly?
While playing Xenoblade Chronicles 3, all these memories gradually rose to the surface of my consciousness, bursting into nostalgic recollections. For Tetsuya Takahashi, Xenogears is the one project that never came to fruition, for editorial reasons. Although the Perfect Works book gives a glimpse of what this titanic project could have been, the idealised Xenogears lives only in our minds, and those who played the game nourish this unrealized title with their speculation and love. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 looks like a way for Takahashi to move on and rewrite a Xenogears, while also taking on the legacy of Xenosaga and the Xenoblade Chronicles. Since the release of the first Xenoblade Chronicles (2010), Monolith Soft has confirmed its prestigious position within the JRPG genre. This success has put the studio back in the spotlight, and it is involved in the development of major Nintendo titles such as The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword (2011) and The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), to name but a few, while continuing to work on the Xenoblade Chronicles franchise. Xenoblade Chronicles X (2015) served as a counterpoint to the original opus, borrowing its structure, but moving towards a very sci-fi story, under the writing of Kazuho Hyodo (Gundam SEED). The second numerical opus reveals the definite influence of japanimation on the development team - surely, because of its youth compared to the industry average. While Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (2017) was very well received, the sexualisation of the female characters did not go unnoticed and offended a part of the community.
Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus appears to be a title that synthesises all of Monolith Soft's work. By presumably concluding the Xenoblade Chronicles series, it asserts that it learnt lessons from its predecessors. At the same time, it operates a return to the origins, since the title made no secret of being a retelling of Xenogears. Even the name of the protagonist, Noah, echoes the original name of the first game: Project Noah. For veterans of Xenogears and Xenosaga, the references are undeniable, right from the first few minutes. From similar exposition scenes to passages reused almost word for word, it is obvious that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game of mourning: that of a project that never came to fruition, that of an era that is now over, that of a producer who must look to the future. It is therefore necessarily also a game that propels Monolith Soft towards new horizons and towards a breeze of renewal.
‘A tiny ripple has just been born in the world that surrounds them.’
The sequences that I find the strongest in JRPGs are those that manage to recontextualise the gameplay into a unique narrative proposition. Those who played Final Fantasy VI will of course remember the passage where Celes is on the solitary island, which opens the second section of the game. The Xeno franchise has always sought to impress through exploration. Cinematography has been a strength of the studio, and the most recent titles place a particular emphasis on the gigantic world, which overwhelms the characters, particles moving with the flow of time. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes these approaches and adds a large tinge of nostalgia and intertextuality, constantly referencing elements from previous titles, using players' memories to invoke particular emotions. The discovery of the Dannagh Desert or the Erythia Sea is bound to strike a chord with players who have done the first two Xenoblade Chronicles. In addition to the sense of vastness, both horizontal and vertical, these regions are also filled with a wistful quality. The edges of the map help to circumscribe this magic, making this universe a moment cut off from time: chasms that soar into a sea of clouds or waterfalls that flow to who-knows-where do not allow for a grasp of the horizon. What the player sees is infinity.
To make exploration more fluid, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 opts for a more direct narrative breakdown. The side quests and the main story rarely mix, so that it is possible to finish the game fairly quickly, ignoring the former. The strength of the game comes from the positioning of these side quests. They form, for each colony, a slow evolution towards the future: despite uninteresting objectives, they contextualise individuals within communities that seek to survive and find meaning in existence. Moreover, each quest directs the player to new locations, contributing to the organic nature of the exploration. Some may regret this approach, which makes exploring relatively linear, if you attach it to the resolution of side quests. As a corollary, finishing the exploration before the side quests empties them of some of their purpose. Nevertheless, it is an ideal way to get the player to interact with the world and to become familiar with hundreds of minor characters, whose lives make up and depict humanity in all its forms. This is probably why the side quests in Chapters 6 and 7 are the most compelling, as they have a solid narrative base to tell their story. Although still too short, these little vignettes of human life in Aionios work when put together.
While the game design is geared towards accessibility for the general public, with Monolith Soft understanding that several dozen hours is an investment that is increasingly difficult to make for the completion of an RPG, it is apparent that the ideal experience requires total completion – prior to passing the point of no return. This is perhaps one of the pitfalls of Xenoblade Chronicles 3. Apart from the assiduous player who fully completes the side quests before tackling the final hours of the main story – which I did – the title fails to combine the contemplation of the world with its thematic discourse. Haunted by the question of existentialism and the future, like the other Xeno games, it takes a very similar setting to Xenogears with two nations at war and the couple of Noah and Mio, largely echoing Fei and Elly. The same questions are asked, especially from the beginning of Chapter 6. The issue with Xenoblade Chronicles 3 could be the density of its cast, preventing us from dwelling too long on the trials and tribulations of each character. The protagonists' side quests are completed in barely an hour, resulting in personality changes that are sometimes a little abrupt. Sena's quest is a perfect example of this problem, as it has very little to do with Sena, but seeks to conclude a narrative thread explored in the previous two chapters. The heroes' quests are also too short, although they suffer less from this: some even manage to be very effective, within the narrative structure of their colony. Colony Mu is certainly the most successful in this respect.
The protagonists also engage with each other much more and always offer feedback, even in very minor quests, which helps the game to be more digestible. Admittedly, the relative silence of Noah and Mio, due to their propensity for introspection, can clash with the pace of their development, especially when compared to the very strong personalities of Lanz, Eunie or Taion. A real arborescence of relationships is created by a very rich voice acting. The English version I chose continues the tone of the previous games, with definite English, Scottish, Irish or Welsh accents; the writing adapts to it and one could almost believe that the game was first written in English, so much the mannerisms and idioms are naturally used. They also help to enliven the world by bringing an extra touch of humanity, with characters being rougher in their diction and speech. The English version of Eunie is completely different from her Japanese counterpart, much more focused and less expressive. It's a personal choice, but I think that playing in English – even if one can lose some cultural nuance – contributes to the singularity of the adventure that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 offers.
‘Your fate was sealed when you rose against us!’
The combat system is also smoother and clearer than its predecessors. Xenoblades Chronicles 3 introduces the concept of Fusions Arts, which allow battles to always have a steady tempo. The title combines the systems of two Xenoblade Chronicles – Agnian attacks are charged with auto-attacks, while Keves' ones are on a fixed timer - to provide a welcome variation in gameplay. Each battle benefits from the player's attention to the positioning of the various characters, as well as the combination of different abilities, to maximise damage via the effects created by combos. The result is almost cinematic sequences, sometimes lasting for dozens of seconds, in which the player finds themselves switching between characters very quickly to unleash a series of coordinated attacks. In particular, it is very easy to mix up attacks thanks to the cancel animation of the Fusions Arts. The Interlink is also a mechanic that keeps the fight very aggressive. It can be used in two ways: either the player uses it when they are level 3 to maximise the damage output, or they can use it defensively to protect a character whose life has dropped severely, as the Interlink provides invincibility.
The show really culminates in the Chain Attacks, which are much more understandable than their counterparts in previous Xenoblade Chronicles. The concept is simplified to opening each round with a damage dealer, then using a healer before closing with a tank: a simple formula that encourages the use of Chain Attacks. The influence of Persona 5 (2016) seems obvious, but Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes a much more grandiose route with its catchy musical theme and cinematography that supports the power of the blows dealt to the enemy. One might regret that these attacks are so powerful that they become a convenient expedient for finishing any fight quickly: boss fights often come down to surviving until their life drops below two-thirds, before unleashing a powerful Chain Attack – unless the player is already crushing the opposition with their level difference.
In essence, the combat system allows for a real sense of empowerment during battle, without being difficult to pick up. While it is possible for veterans to build a very custom team by changing the classes of each character, the game gives clear advice for those who are not adept at the genre: simply keep a balanced formation (two damage dealers, two healers, two tanks and the hero as a joker) to create an effective team and cover one's back. In the same way, if it is possible to spend long moments choosing skills, arts and other accessories, the title leaves the possibility of using a standardised build, with regard to the acquired skills and equipment, by pressing the Y button in the character menu. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 pursues Monolith Soft's broad-based philosophy, reversing the mistakes that previous combat systems have made; at the same time, the title still offers difficult challenges for the most seasoned players. Excluding the Challenges, the ultimate peak of difficulty is found in the hunt for Aionios' biggest monsters. Four of them must first be killed before the game's most powerful enemy – whose base level is 120 – can be faced.
The variety of side quests, which sometimes require a specific hero in the team, contributes to the diversity of the combat system, as the composition of the party often changes. In the same way, since skills and arts are shared between classes, it is strongly advised to switch from one to another often, in order to unlock all the abilities. Meanwhile, raising a hero class to level 10 unlocks its Ascension Quest, a convenient reason to constantly try new compositions. Thus, it is quite unlikely that the player already has a fixed team in the first part of the game: personally, it was not until chapter 6 that I did not change classes anymore, having already gained enough experience to unlock all the Ascension Quests.
‘It's okay not to feel whole. A part... is better than zero.’
In 2016, my girlfiend passed away. It was a few months after we had played Xenogears together. The golden age of JRPGs established character development as a central part of its plot: if one must save the world, one must also save oneself. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that balances between the quest for the future and the chains of regret. In 2016, I was still a teenager whose life was difficult and whose ordeal of grief was a silent acid burn. Even today, something is missing. There is still a hole in my chest that won't close: you can throw words, thoughts, emotions into it, but it is a black hole that refuses to fill. The pain of mourning is one of the most existential, because it is at the intersection of life and death. It is felt only by beings who are essentially separated: some are still living, others have left the world. Nothing can bridge this fundamental divide. The living are not meant to live with the dead.
My thoughts on this subject are not settled. My mourning is not over. On the scale of my life, six long years represent an interminable pilgrimage in search for an answer. Nevertheless, I have managed to find some truths that content me, if not fully satisfy me. When I think of my self of a few years ago, I see a creature that has been so painfully wounded by fate. It's hard to understand, at that age, why life can be so unforgiving. The resentment I harboured at that time was directed at myself. Doubts and guilt threw me into the throes of loneliness and despair. 'What if...' asks the cracked soul, in the hope that events that have already happened would have turned out differently. When drifting on this sea of darkness, any wooden plank is a salutary reef, at least to hold on a little longer. I regret that my self could not experience Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as my still developing mind could have found answers in the game's narrative.
If the title continues in the anime turn of the 2010s, with a generally juvenile writing style, it does so with a real sincerity. The questions asked are those of teenagers or young adults: they echo those I have experienced myself. As such, some sequences are particularly touching and give a glimpse of a terribly sensitive humanity, if not subtly expressed. The climax of Chapter 5 presents the emotions of the protagonists, taken on the spur of the moment. It is a torrent of emotions that pours out in a few minutes, after the silences and the unspoken words that punctuated the previous chapters. Of course, not everything works. Some scenes are too brief and superficial. Where Taion's quest works because of its pace and the poetic composition of its setting, Eunie's quest seems too hasty and too cheap to be convincing.
This gives the impression of a somewhat convenient sentimentalism, which is not exclusive to Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as it seems almost part of the DNA of modern JRPGs. This turn is noticeable in the 2000s, but has recently resulted in the placement of maudlin scenes in key sections of a game. Final Fantasy XV (2016) has several moments of great emotional intensity, but they seem almost disconnected from the rest of the experience. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 doesn't fail at the same pitfall, because the characters constantly interact with each other, even if some have to wait until the last few chapters for their development to finally begin - this is especially true of Sena. But because the characters are these teenagers, caught in a world they didn't choose, the doubts, the tears and the joys feel genuine. It is hard not to be touched by their experiences.
‘The future, it really is a foreign country...’
These experiences seem natural, because they echo those of post-Fukushima Japanese society. Through a web of parallels, Aionios evokes, to varying degrees and with greater or lesser accuracy, the difficulties of Japanese youth in the face of capitalism and the feeling of abandonment experienced over the past several decades. At the beginning of the 1990s, Japan experienced a major economic slump, caused both by the bursting of the real estate bubble and the weakening of banks' investment in businesses [1]. With the failure of Keynesian policies, Japan found itself trapped by its overspecialisation and its tendency to invest only in its domestic market. This psychological closure of Japanese companies to foreigners, despite government trends towards deregulation and the effects of globalisation, has deeply affected Japanese society to this day. From being an economic model for the world, Japan has become synonymous with structural problems, a discourse echoed by the Japanese themselves. This declinist impression is also fuelled by the country's demographic collapse and the failure of educational reforms in Japan. These reforms have increased inequality and divided the country in terms of access to employment: as a result, the number of applicants to universities has fallen, and with it the quality of the education system [2]. For young people, the consequences are manifold. The difficulty in accessing employment has created a distrust of the education system and of globalisation. Because traditional solidarities have also been eroded, young adults are waiting longer to enter into a relationship and a significant proportion of them are struggling to integrate into society, which official discourse wrongly groups under the term hikikomori.
Recent studies have pointed out that Japanese youth generally consider themselves happy, but without any hope for the future [3]. This essential contradiction is echoed in Xenoblade Chronicles 3, where armies of teenagers and young adults seem to find contentment in the relentless fighting, but without ever really thinking about the future. They survive in a universe imposed on them by various authorities. If the Castles illustrate the weight of government (in)action in their lives, the Consuls appear as a representation of the corporatist spirit in Abe's Japan, where everything is a question of productivity and efficiency, to the detriment of the employees' very well-being. Soldiers in the various colonies must continue their task - attacking other ones - at the risk of being destroyed by the system to which they contribute. Unable to develop their individuality, they do not find solidarity beyond the battle lines. Throughout the game, the terms 'culture' and 'family' are foreign to the characters. It is through the exploration of their repressed emotions that they are able to describe these concepts, associating them with a positive valence. As such, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is part of a precise ideological discourse, which challenges the Japanese policies of the last decades and tries to suggest ways forward for the Japanese youth.
Aionios is a world that is riddled with the notion of risk. In addition to the constant fighting, the threat of the Annihilation with the Black Fog clouds is an echo of the doubts that have plagued Japanese society since the Fukushima accident. This was caused by a combination of natural hazards and the myth of the total safety for Japanese nuclear power plants: for a country already accustomed to earthquakes and tsunamis, the Fukushima disaster has aggravated fears and discredited the political class. In Xenoblade Chronicles 3, the theme is never discussed in depth, but it serves as a framework for the universe, whose existence is always endangered by nature or human action. It is not surprising that the Annihilator works on the model of the Annihilations.
Building on these elements, the title also seems drawn to the fantasy of a traditional Japan. The image of cherry blossoms - Saffronia, in the game - recurs repeatedly to evoke a peaceful existence. As mentioned above, the representation of the nuclear family is widely emphasised. The birth of infants is a new vision for the soldiers of Keves and Agnus, to the point where the game makes conception sacred, through several quests and cutscenes. These elements must be understood in the context of Japan's demographic decline. The failure of Japan's recent birth policies can be explained by the Abenomics, which have done little to address gender inequalities in the workplace [4]. The difficulty for women to support themselves pushes back the idea of having children. This idea is present in the game, where some female characters seem concerned about procreation, which is largely ignored by their male counterparts. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus struggles to construct a discourse on family that corresponds to the aspirations of youth: it advocates a traditional, heterosexual nuclear family and never manages to break out of this framework. If Noah and Mio's relationship seems to be attached to a critique of patriarchy, it is only vilified in its most extreme forms. The title never features homosexual relationships and perpetuates a conservative ideology, under the guise of defending the future. Xenoblade Chronicles 3, because it is a game about forced change, is shrouded in the ghosts of Japanese conservatism and traditionalism.
‘It's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away.’
Just as Xenogears was a foundational experience in my relationship with my girlfriend, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that allows me to let go of the teenager regrets I still feel. Despite the revamps brought to life by projects like Octopath Traveler (2018), the Final Fantasy Pixel Remaster Collection (2021) or the Live A Live remake (2022), the golden age of the JRPG is a thing of the past. These games fail to fully capture the atmosphere of the 1990s and early 2000s, as the socio-cultural context has changed. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is not a mindless throwback, but a synthesis of the themes carried by Xenogears and Xenosaga, the game design philosophy at the heart of Xenoblade Chronicles and current Japanese society. There are many things that don't work completely in the game, in its narrative or the way it presents its universe, and it is sometimes regrettable that the title doesn't go through with its intentions. But for me, it has a nostalgic aura to it, without giving in to archaism. It's a game of mourning, situated in the gap between the past and the future. The 'now' that Moebius so ardently defends is destined to come to an end, like our present time.
There are so many things I would have loved to do with you. So many discussions I would have wished to have with you, but you are no longer here. Or rather, you reside in me and it is through my future actions that I can pay tribute to your existence. One day we will meet again, that is a promise. But it's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away. For now, this is where we belong. Good night, my Claire, my beloved.
_________
[1] Kobayashi Keiichiro, 'The two 'lost decades' and macroeconomics', in Barak Kushner (ed.), Examining Japan's Lost Decades, Routledge, London, 2015.
[2] Kariya Takehiko, 'The two lost decades in education', in Barak Kushner (ed.), op. cit.
[3] Carola Hommerich, 'Anxious, stressed, and yet satisfied? The puzzle of subjective well-being among young adults in Japan', in Barbara Holthus, Wolfram Manzanreiter (ed.), Life Course, Happiness and Well-being in Japan, Routledge, London, 2017.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe's Womenonics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19-4-4, 2021.
My adolescence was marked by the exploration of video games and RPGs already had the strongest attraction over me. There was an evocative quality to them that made them convenient getaways, places of reverie and poetic fables. Final Fantasy VI (1994) was certainly the first big shock of that time: in this universe torn between magic and technology, the adventures of this peculiar company resonated with me and I still consider Celes to be one of the characters dearest to my heart. Many other games have punctuated these adventures in those fictional lands, but Xenogears (1998) holds a rather distinctive place.
Final Fantasy VII (1997) didn't have any of the much-vaunted charm on me, certainly because it wasn't the story I needed, probably because the characters didn't speak to me that much. Xenogears, on the other hand, proved to be a rough gem, which I didn't know I liked that much. Perhaps it was because I had shared the experience with my then girlfriend. She and I shared this infinite love for literature and a melancholic soul. For various reasons, Xenogears was a game that moved us: from the story told to the clever use of the PS1's limitations with an art direction that embraced the very geometric aspect of the graphic assets, a poetic breath ran through the title. The silence of the final seconds in the ending cutscene was a testament to the contemplative force that fed Xenogears. Yet, as important and grandiose as this game was, I always found it difficult to place it among my favourite games. Was it because it reminded me of an era that is painful for me today? Was it because the memory of my tender love crushed my heart whenever I thought of Elly?
While playing Xenoblade Chronicles 3, all these memories gradually rose to the surface of my consciousness, bursting into nostalgic recollections. For Tetsuya Takahashi, Xenogears is the one project that never came to fruition, for editorial reasons. Although the Perfect Works book gives a glimpse of what this titanic project could have been, the idealised Xenogears lives only in our minds, and those who played the game nourish this unrealized title with their speculation and love. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 looks like a way for Takahashi to move on and rewrite a Xenogears, while also taking on the legacy of Xenosaga and the Xenoblade Chronicles. Since the release of the first Xenoblade Chronicles (2010), Monolith Soft has confirmed its prestigious position within the JRPG genre. This success has put the studio back in the spotlight, and it is involved in the development of major Nintendo titles such as The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword (2011) and The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017), to name but a few, while continuing to work on the Xenoblade Chronicles franchise. Xenoblade Chronicles X (2015) served as a counterpoint to the original opus, borrowing its structure, but moving towards a very sci-fi story, under the writing of Kazuho Hyodo (Gundam SEED). The second numerical opus reveals the definite influence of japanimation on the development team - surely, because of its youth compared to the industry average. While Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (2017) was very well received, the sexualisation of the female characters did not go unnoticed and offended a part of the community.
Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus appears to be a title that synthesises all of Monolith Soft's work. By presumably concluding the Xenoblade Chronicles series, it asserts that it learnt lessons from its predecessors. At the same time, it operates a return to the origins, since the title made no secret of being a retelling of Xenogears. Even the name of the protagonist, Noah, echoes the original name of the first game: Project Noah. For veterans of Xenogears and Xenosaga, the references are undeniable, right from the first few minutes. From similar exposition scenes to passages reused almost word for word, it is obvious that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game of mourning: that of a project that never came to fruition, that of an era that is now over, that of a producer who must look to the future. It is therefore necessarily also a game that propels Monolith Soft towards new horizons and towards a breeze of renewal.
‘A tiny ripple has just been born in the world that surrounds them.’
The sequences that I find the strongest in JRPGs are those that manage to recontextualise the gameplay into a unique narrative proposition. Those who played Final Fantasy VI will of course remember the passage where Celes is on the solitary island, which opens the second section of the game. The Xeno franchise has always sought to impress through exploration. Cinematography has been a strength of the studio, and the most recent titles place a particular emphasis on the gigantic world, which overwhelms the characters, particles moving with the flow of time. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes these approaches and adds a large tinge of nostalgia and intertextuality, constantly referencing elements from previous titles, using players' memories to invoke particular emotions. The discovery of the Dannagh Desert or the Erythia Sea is bound to strike a chord with players who have done the first two Xenoblade Chronicles. In addition to the sense of vastness, both horizontal and vertical, these regions are also filled with a wistful quality. The edges of the map help to circumscribe this magic, making this universe a moment cut off from time: chasms that soar into a sea of clouds or waterfalls that flow to who-knows-where do not allow for a grasp of the horizon. What the player sees is infinity.
To make exploration more fluid, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 opts for a more direct narrative breakdown. The side quests and the main story rarely mix, so that it is possible to finish the game fairly quickly, ignoring the former. The strength of the game comes from the positioning of these side quests. They form, for each colony, a slow evolution towards the future: despite uninteresting objectives, they contextualise individuals within communities that seek to survive and find meaning in existence. Moreover, each quest directs the player to new locations, contributing to the organic nature of the exploration. Some may regret this approach, which makes exploring relatively linear, if you attach it to the resolution of side quests. As a corollary, finishing the exploration before the side quests empties them of some of their purpose. Nevertheless, it is an ideal way to get the player to interact with the world and to become familiar with hundreds of minor characters, whose lives make up and depict humanity in all its forms. This is probably why the side quests in Chapters 6 and 7 are the most compelling, as they have a solid narrative base to tell their story. Although still too short, these little vignettes of human life in Aionios work when put together.
While the game design is geared towards accessibility for the general public, with Monolith Soft understanding that several dozen hours is an investment that is increasingly difficult to make for the completion of an RPG, it is apparent that the ideal experience requires total completion – prior to passing the point of no return. This is perhaps one of the pitfalls of Xenoblade Chronicles 3. Apart from the assiduous player who fully completes the side quests before tackling the final hours of the main story – which I did – the title fails to combine the contemplation of the world with its thematic discourse. Haunted by the question of existentialism and the future, like the other Xeno games, it takes a very similar setting to Xenogears with two nations at war and the couple of Noah and Mio, largely echoing Fei and Elly. The same questions are asked, especially from the beginning of Chapter 6. The issue with Xenoblade Chronicles 3 could be the density of its cast, preventing us from dwelling too long on the trials and tribulations of each character. The protagonists' side quests are completed in barely an hour, resulting in personality changes that are sometimes a little abrupt. Sena's quest is a perfect example of this problem, as it has very little to do with Sena, but seeks to conclude a narrative thread explored in the previous two chapters. The heroes' quests are also too short, although they suffer less from this: some even manage to be very effective, within the narrative structure of their colony. Colony Mu is certainly the most successful in this respect.
The protagonists also engage with each other much more and always offer feedback, even in very minor quests, which helps the game to be more digestible. Admittedly, the relative silence of Noah and Mio, due to their propensity for introspection, can clash with the pace of their development, especially when compared to the very strong personalities of Lanz, Eunie or Taion. A real arborescence of relationships is created by a very rich voice acting. The English version I chose continues the tone of the previous games, with definite English, Scottish, Irish or Welsh accents; the writing adapts to it and one could almost believe that the game was first written in English, so much the mannerisms and idioms are naturally used. They also help to enliven the world by bringing an extra touch of humanity, with characters being rougher in their diction and speech. The English version of Eunie is completely different from her Japanese counterpart, much more focused and less expressive. It's a personal choice, but I think that playing in English – even if one can lose some cultural nuance – contributes to the singularity of the adventure that Xenoblade Chronicles 3 offers.
‘Your fate was sealed when you rose against us!’
The combat system is also smoother and clearer than its predecessors. Xenoblades Chronicles 3 introduces the concept of Fusions Arts, which allow battles to always have a steady tempo. The title combines the systems of two Xenoblade Chronicles – Agnian attacks are charged with auto-attacks, while Keves' ones are on a fixed timer - to provide a welcome variation in gameplay. Each battle benefits from the player's attention to the positioning of the various characters, as well as the combination of different abilities, to maximise damage via the effects created by combos. The result is almost cinematic sequences, sometimes lasting for dozens of seconds, in which the player finds themselves switching between characters very quickly to unleash a series of coordinated attacks. In particular, it is very easy to mix up attacks thanks to the cancel animation of the Fusions Arts. The Interlink is also a mechanic that keeps the fight very aggressive. It can be used in two ways: either the player uses it when they are level 3 to maximise the damage output, or they can use it defensively to protect a character whose life has dropped severely, as the Interlink provides invincibility.
The show really culminates in the Chain Attacks, which are much more understandable than their counterparts in previous Xenoblade Chronicles. The concept is simplified to opening each round with a damage dealer, then using a healer before closing with a tank: a simple formula that encourages the use of Chain Attacks. The influence of Persona 5 (2016) seems obvious, but Xenoblade Chronicles 3 takes a much more grandiose route with its catchy musical theme and cinematography that supports the power of the blows dealt to the enemy. One might regret that these attacks are so powerful that they become a convenient expedient for finishing any fight quickly: boss fights often come down to surviving until their life drops below two-thirds, before unleashing a powerful Chain Attack – unless the player is already crushing the opposition with their level difference.
In essence, the combat system allows for a real sense of empowerment during battle, without being difficult to pick up. While it is possible for veterans to build a very custom team by changing the classes of each character, the game gives clear advice for those who are not adept at the genre: simply keep a balanced formation (two damage dealers, two healers, two tanks and the hero as a joker) to create an effective team and cover one's back. In the same way, if it is possible to spend long moments choosing skills, arts and other accessories, the title leaves the possibility of using a standardised build, with regard to the acquired skills and equipment, by pressing the Y button in the character menu. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 pursues Monolith Soft's broad-based philosophy, reversing the mistakes that previous combat systems have made; at the same time, the title still offers difficult challenges for the most seasoned players. Excluding the Challenges, the ultimate peak of difficulty is found in the hunt for Aionios' biggest monsters. Four of them must first be killed before the game's most powerful enemy – whose base level is 120 – can be faced.
The variety of side quests, which sometimes require a specific hero in the team, contributes to the diversity of the combat system, as the composition of the party often changes. In the same way, since skills and arts are shared between classes, it is strongly advised to switch from one to another often, in order to unlock all the abilities. Meanwhile, raising a hero class to level 10 unlocks its Ascension Quest, a convenient reason to constantly try new compositions. Thus, it is quite unlikely that the player already has a fixed team in the first part of the game: personally, it was not until chapter 6 that I did not change classes anymore, having already gained enough experience to unlock all the Ascension Quests.
‘It's okay not to feel whole. A part... is better than zero.’
In 2016, my girlfiend passed away. It was a few months after we had played Xenogears together. The golden age of JRPGs established character development as a central part of its plot: if one must save the world, one must also save oneself. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that balances between the quest for the future and the chains of regret. In 2016, I was still a teenager whose life was difficult and whose ordeal of grief was a silent acid burn. Even today, something is missing. There is still a hole in my chest that won't close: you can throw words, thoughts, emotions into it, but it is a black hole that refuses to fill. The pain of mourning is one of the most existential, because it is at the intersection of life and death. It is felt only by beings who are essentially separated: some are still living, others have left the world. Nothing can bridge this fundamental divide. The living are not meant to live with the dead.
My thoughts on this subject are not settled. My mourning is not over. On the scale of my life, six long years represent an interminable pilgrimage in search for an answer. Nevertheless, I have managed to find some truths that content me, if not fully satisfy me. When I think of my self of a few years ago, I see a creature that has been so painfully wounded by fate. It's hard to understand, at that age, why life can be so unforgiving. The resentment I harboured at that time was directed at myself. Doubts and guilt threw me into the throes of loneliness and despair. 'What if...' asks the cracked soul, in the hope that events that have already happened would have turned out differently. When drifting on this sea of darkness, any wooden plank is a salutary reef, at least to hold on a little longer. I regret that my self could not experience Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as my still developing mind could have found answers in the game's narrative.
If the title continues in the anime turn of the 2010s, with a generally juvenile writing style, it does so with a real sincerity. The questions asked are those of teenagers or young adults: they echo those I have experienced myself. As such, some sequences are particularly touching and give a glimpse of a terribly sensitive humanity, if not subtly expressed. The climax of Chapter 5 presents the emotions of the protagonists, taken on the spur of the moment. It is a torrent of emotions that pours out in a few minutes, after the silences and the unspoken words that punctuated the previous chapters. Of course, not everything works. Some scenes are too brief and superficial. Where Taion's quest works because of its pace and the poetic composition of its setting, Eunie's quest seems too hasty and too cheap to be convincing.
This gives the impression of a somewhat convenient sentimentalism, which is not exclusive to Xenoblade Chronicles 3, as it seems almost part of the DNA of modern JRPGs. This turn is noticeable in the 2000s, but has recently resulted in the placement of maudlin scenes in key sections of a game. Final Fantasy XV (2016) has several moments of great emotional intensity, but they seem almost disconnected from the rest of the experience. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 doesn't fail at the same pitfall, because the characters constantly interact with each other, even if some have to wait until the last few chapters for their development to finally begin - this is especially true of Sena. But because the characters are these teenagers, caught in a world they didn't choose, the doubts, the tears and the joys feel genuine. It is hard not to be touched by their experiences.
‘The future, it really is a foreign country...’
These experiences seem natural, because they echo those of post-Fukushima Japanese society. Through a web of parallels, Aionios evokes, to varying degrees and with greater or lesser accuracy, the difficulties of Japanese youth in the face of capitalism and the feeling of abandonment experienced over the past several decades. At the beginning of the 1990s, Japan experienced a major economic slump, caused both by the bursting of the real estate bubble and the weakening of banks' investment in businesses [1]. With the failure of Keynesian policies, Japan found itself trapped by its overspecialisation and its tendency to invest only in its domestic market. This psychological closure of Japanese companies to foreigners, despite government trends towards deregulation and the effects of globalisation, has deeply affected Japanese society to this day. From being an economic model for the world, Japan has become synonymous with structural problems, a discourse echoed by the Japanese themselves. This declinist impression is also fuelled by the country's demographic collapse and the failure of educational reforms in Japan. These reforms have increased inequality and divided the country in terms of access to employment: as a result, the number of applicants to universities has fallen, and with it the quality of the education system [2]. For young people, the consequences are manifold. The difficulty in accessing employment has created a distrust of the education system and of globalisation. Because traditional solidarities have also been eroded, young adults are waiting longer to enter into a relationship and a significant proportion of them are struggling to integrate into society, which official discourse wrongly groups under the term hikikomori.
Recent studies have pointed out that Japanese youth generally consider themselves happy, but without any hope for the future [3]. This essential contradiction is echoed in Xenoblade Chronicles 3, where armies of teenagers and young adults seem to find contentment in the relentless fighting, but without ever really thinking about the future. They survive in a universe imposed on them by various authorities. If the Castles illustrate the weight of government (in)action in their lives, the Consuls appear as a representation of the corporatist spirit in Abe's Japan, where everything is a question of productivity and efficiency, to the detriment of the employees' very well-being. Soldiers in the various colonies must continue their task - attacking other ones - at the risk of being destroyed by the system to which they contribute. Unable to develop their individuality, they do not find solidarity beyond the battle lines. Throughout the game, the terms 'culture' and 'family' are foreign to the characters. It is through the exploration of their repressed emotions that they are able to describe these concepts, associating them with a positive valence. As such, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is part of a precise ideological discourse, which challenges the Japanese policies of the last decades and tries to suggest ways forward for the Japanese youth.
Aionios is a world that is riddled with the notion of risk. In addition to the constant fighting, the threat of the Annihilation with the Black Fog clouds is an echo of the doubts that have plagued Japanese society since the Fukushima accident. This was caused by a combination of natural hazards and the myth of the total safety for Japanese nuclear power plants: for a country already accustomed to earthquakes and tsunamis, the Fukushima disaster has aggravated fears and discredited the political class. In Xenoblade Chronicles 3, the theme is never discussed in depth, but it serves as a framework for the universe, whose existence is always endangered by nature or human action. It is not surprising that the Annihilator works on the model of the Annihilations.
Building on these elements, the title also seems drawn to the fantasy of a traditional Japan. The image of cherry blossoms - Saffronia, in the game - recurs repeatedly to evoke a peaceful existence. As mentioned above, the representation of the nuclear family is widely emphasised. The birth of infants is a new vision for the soldiers of Keves and Agnus, to the point where the game makes conception sacred, through several quests and cutscenes. These elements must be understood in the context of Japan's demographic decline. The failure of Japan's recent birth policies can be explained by the Abenomics, which have done little to address gender inequalities in the workplace [4]. The difficulty for women to support themselves pushes back the idea of having children. This idea is present in the game, where some female characters seem concerned about procreation, which is largely ignored by their male counterparts. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 thus struggles to construct a discourse on family that corresponds to the aspirations of youth: it advocates a traditional, heterosexual nuclear family and never manages to break out of this framework. If Noah and Mio's relationship seems to be attached to a critique of patriarchy, it is only vilified in its most extreme forms. The title never features homosexual relationships and perpetuates a conservative ideology, under the guise of defending the future. Xenoblade Chronicles 3, because it is a game about forced change, is shrouded in the ghosts of Japanese conservatism and traditionalism.
‘It's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away.’
Just as Xenogears was a foundational experience in my relationship with my girlfriend, Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is a game that allows me to let go of the teenager regrets I still feel. Despite the revamps brought to life by projects like Octopath Traveler (2018), the Final Fantasy Pixel Remaster Collection (2021) or the Live A Live remake (2022), the golden age of the JRPG is a thing of the past. These games fail to fully capture the atmosphere of the 1990s and early 2000s, as the socio-cultural context has changed. Xenoblade Chronicles 3 is not a mindless throwback, but a synthesis of the themes carried by Xenogears and Xenosaga, the game design philosophy at the heart of Xenoblade Chronicles and current Japanese society. There are many things that don't work completely in the game, in its narrative or the way it presents its universe, and it is sometimes regrettable that the title doesn't go through with its intentions. But for me, it has a nostalgic aura to it, without giving in to archaism. It's a game of mourning, situated in the gap between the past and the future. The 'now' that Moebius so ardently defends is destined to come to an end, like our present time.
There are so many things I would have loved to do with you. So many discussions I would have wished to have with you, but you are no longer here. Or rather, you reside in me and it is through my future actions that I can pay tribute to your existence. One day we will meet again, that is a promise. But it's now so clear to me that you're still far away – a step away. For now, this is where we belong. Good night, my Claire, my beloved.
_________
[1] Kobayashi Keiichiro, 'The two 'lost decades' and macroeconomics', in Barak Kushner (ed.), Examining Japan's Lost Decades, Routledge, London, 2015.
[2] Kariya Takehiko, 'The two lost decades in education', in Barak Kushner (ed.), op. cit.
[3] Carola Hommerich, 'Anxious, stressed, and yet satisfied? The puzzle of subjective well-being among young adults in Japan', in Barbara Holthus, Wolfram Manzanreiter (ed.), Life Course, Happiness and Well-being in Japan, Routledge, London, 2017.
[4] Mark Crawford, 'Abe's Womenonics Policy, 2013-2020: Tokenism, Gradualism, or Failed Strategy?', in The Asia-Pacific Journal, vol. 19-4-4, 2021.
1989
'We floated off into that quiet world which love made possible because the power devils had been admitted and therefore banished.'
– Mary Wings, She Came Too Late, 1986.
Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (4th Jul. – 10th Jul., 2023).
The 1980s saw a shift in American lesbian fiction away from coming-out stories and towards the detective genre. This transition was not entirely smooth and was met with highly polarised critical responses. Reagan's presidency unleashed a national conservative fever that sought to normalise homophobia, while the AIDS epidemic was greeted with outright inaction by the federal government. Anna Wilson defines this decade as a point of transition for feminist and lesbian identities, as 'the focus of the women's movement had gradually shifted away from an emphasis on exploring and enhancing the "liberated" self toward a preoccupation with that self as embattled and endangered' [1]. Furthermore, the new discourses on sexuality also sought to de-essentialise lesbian sexual identities, rejecting the clichéd labels that sharply distinguished between butch and femme.
American lesbian detective fiction in the 1980s
Unlike the coming-out story, which revolves around introspection and the exploration of domestic life – since the discovery of lesbian romance takes place largely out of the public eye – lesbian detective fiction reinvests the public sphere, especially the streets. Despite its persistent aura of threat to women, the street has become a place where lesbian detectives can express themselves. Some take on the authority of institutions: Kate Delafield, the protagonist of Katherine V. Forrest's novels, recognises the structural abuse caused by the family, a place of male domination, and upholds the weight of the law – which she believes to be just – as the only way to bring about change in society. Not all detectives are as reformist as Delafield, but the whole sub-genre recognises that society is constructed in the service of male power [2].
C. M. Ralph's Caper in the Castro echoes these changes. The player assumes the role of Tracker McDyke, investigating the disappearance of her girlfriend, Tessy LaFemme. Behind this mystery lies a series of murders that underline a vast anti-LGBT conspiracy on Castro Street – the main avenue in San Francisco's historic gay district. Finding one's way around the various screens is difficult at first, as the interactions are so rigid and the context so minimal, but after a few minutes it becomes clear that Castro Street is plagued by a wave of violence. Ralph – undoubtedly inspired by the events leading up to the White Night riots (1979) – repeats the same stern observations as crime literature, highlighting not only public inaction but also the murderous impulses of the privileged ruling class. The title makes no attempt to hide its ambitions, ridiculing white heterosexuality through the detective's pithy tone.
Stigma reversal and agency through the detective's eyes
Caper in the Castro is not the first game to explore the place of lesbians in a patriarchal, heteronormative society. Moonmist (1986), another investigative game, made this a crucial aspect of one of its four scenarios. However, Caper in the Castro is notable for being written from the perspective of the lesbian character. Whereas the events of Moonmist are merely tragic, Tracker McDyke reclaims her agency and directly confronts the oppressive system. Many of the interactions necessary to progress are resolved by gunfire, reclaiming this symbol of masculinity from hardboiled fiction and turning it into a woman's preferred instrument. Surprisingly, Caper in the Castro also avoids essentialisation, thanks to its detective's perpetually mocking gaze; although some passages are clumsier and rely on glib puns, they nonetheless overturn the insults and 'social stigma' [3].
While the somewhat cryptic nature of some of the interactions is regrettable, sometimes made more complex than necessary by the overly rigid text parsing system, Caper in the Castro remains an enjoyable game for its lack of concessions and the tribute it pays to San Francisco's LGBT community, which suffered reactionary violence. Despite the tragedy of the murders, there is something comforting about following a detective who ultimately succeeds in her mission, self-assured and with such a witty take on the world around her. Much like lesbian crime fiction, Caper in the Castro is perhaps less interested in exploring the gender and sexual identity of its protagonist than in the means available to fight injustice. Anna Wilson mentions the contradiction of the lesbian detective who somehow fits in with the rules of the social order while performing her homosexuality in public; Caper in the Castro avoids this dilemma: its answer seems to be, unequivocally and albeit naively, the revolution.
__________
[1] Anna Wilson, 'Death and the Mainstream: Lesbian Detective Fiction and the Killing of the Coming-Out Story', in Feminist Studies, vol. 22, no. 2, 1996, p. 252.
[2] There is an extensive historiographical debate about whether lesbian detective fiction can accommodate reformist, assimilationist and individualist positions without denying its radical heritage. The question is complex and deserves a close reading of the various novels of the period, but a central idea is that the lesbian detective, because of the female gaze, does not have the same lived experience of the streets as the hardboiled, misogynistic male detective – this is particularly explicit in Barbara Wilson's Sisters of the Road (1986). The traditional hardboiled view is that the detective's acts of justice are isolated and cannot change society; the feminine and lesbian view emphasises above all that 'violence is never random; there are no haven' (Anna Wilson, op cit., p. 266). See also Catharine R. Stimpson, 'Zero Degree Deviancy: The Lesbian Novel in English', in Critical Inquiry, vol. 8, no. 2, 1981, pp. 363-379 and Timothy Shuker-Haines, Martha M. Umphrey, 'Gender (De)Mystified: Resistance and Recuperation in Hard-Boiled Female Detective Fiction', in Jerome H. Delamater, Ruth Prigozy (ed.), The Detective in American Fiction, Film, and Television, Greenwood Press, Westport, 1998, pp. 71-82.
[3] Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity, Simon & Schuster, New York, 1963.
– Mary Wings, She Came Too Late, 1986.
Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (4th Jul. – 10th Jul., 2023).
The 1980s saw a shift in American lesbian fiction away from coming-out stories and towards the detective genre. This transition was not entirely smooth and was met with highly polarised critical responses. Reagan's presidency unleashed a national conservative fever that sought to normalise homophobia, while the AIDS epidemic was greeted with outright inaction by the federal government. Anna Wilson defines this decade as a point of transition for feminist and lesbian identities, as 'the focus of the women's movement had gradually shifted away from an emphasis on exploring and enhancing the "liberated" self toward a preoccupation with that self as embattled and endangered' [1]. Furthermore, the new discourses on sexuality also sought to de-essentialise lesbian sexual identities, rejecting the clichéd labels that sharply distinguished between butch and femme.
American lesbian detective fiction in the 1980s
Unlike the coming-out story, which revolves around introspection and the exploration of domestic life – since the discovery of lesbian romance takes place largely out of the public eye – lesbian detective fiction reinvests the public sphere, especially the streets. Despite its persistent aura of threat to women, the street has become a place where lesbian detectives can express themselves. Some take on the authority of institutions: Kate Delafield, the protagonist of Katherine V. Forrest's novels, recognises the structural abuse caused by the family, a place of male domination, and upholds the weight of the law – which she believes to be just – as the only way to bring about change in society. Not all detectives are as reformist as Delafield, but the whole sub-genre recognises that society is constructed in the service of male power [2].
C. M. Ralph's Caper in the Castro echoes these changes. The player assumes the role of Tracker McDyke, investigating the disappearance of her girlfriend, Tessy LaFemme. Behind this mystery lies a series of murders that underline a vast anti-LGBT conspiracy on Castro Street – the main avenue in San Francisco's historic gay district. Finding one's way around the various screens is difficult at first, as the interactions are so rigid and the context so minimal, but after a few minutes it becomes clear that Castro Street is plagued by a wave of violence. Ralph – undoubtedly inspired by the events leading up to the White Night riots (1979) – repeats the same stern observations as crime literature, highlighting not only public inaction but also the murderous impulses of the privileged ruling class. The title makes no attempt to hide its ambitions, ridiculing white heterosexuality through the detective's pithy tone.
Stigma reversal and agency through the detective's eyes
Caper in the Castro is not the first game to explore the place of lesbians in a patriarchal, heteronormative society. Moonmist (1986), another investigative game, made this a crucial aspect of one of its four scenarios. However, Caper in the Castro is notable for being written from the perspective of the lesbian character. Whereas the events of Moonmist are merely tragic, Tracker McDyke reclaims her agency and directly confronts the oppressive system. Many of the interactions necessary to progress are resolved by gunfire, reclaiming this symbol of masculinity from hardboiled fiction and turning it into a woman's preferred instrument. Surprisingly, Caper in the Castro also avoids essentialisation, thanks to its detective's perpetually mocking gaze; although some passages are clumsier and rely on glib puns, they nonetheless overturn the insults and 'social stigma' [3].
While the somewhat cryptic nature of some of the interactions is regrettable, sometimes made more complex than necessary by the overly rigid text parsing system, Caper in the Castro remains an enjoyable game for its lack of concessions and the tribute it pays to San Francisco's LGBT community, which suffered reactionary violence. Despite the tragedy of the murders, there is something comforting about following a detective who ultimately succeeds in her mission, self-assured and with such a witty take on the world around her. Much like lesbian crime fiction, Caper in the Castro is perhaps less interested in exploring the gender and sexual identity of its protagonist than in the means available to fight injustice. Anna Wilson mentions the contradiction of the lesbian detective who somehow fits in with the rules of the social order while performing her homosexuality in public; Caper in the Castro avoids this dilemma: its answer seems to be, unequivocally and albeit naively, the revolution.
__________
[1] Anna Wilson, 'Death and the Mainstream: Lesbian Detective Fiction and the Killing of the Coming-Out Story', in Feminist Studies, vol. 22, no. 2, 1996, p. 252.
[2] There is an extensive historiographical debate about whether lesbian detective fiction can accommodate reformist, assimilationist and individualist positions without denying its radical heritage. The question is complex and deserves a close reading of the various novels of the period, but a central idea is that the lesbian detective, because of the female gaze, does not have the same lived experience of the streets as the hardboiled, misogynistic male detective – this is particularly explicit in Barbara Wilson's Sisters of the Road (1986). The traditional hardboiled view is that the detective's acts of justice are isolated and cannot change society; the feminine and lesbian view emphasises above all that 'violence is never random; there are no haven' (Anna Wilson, op cit., p. 266). See also Catharine R. Stimpson, 'Zero Degree Deviancy: The Lesbian Novel in English', in Critical Inquiry, vol. 8, no. 2, 1981, pp. 363-379 and Timothy Shuker-Haines, Martha M. Umphrey, 'Gender (De)Mystified: Resistance and Recuperation in Hard-Boiled Female Detective Fiction', in Jerome H. Delamater, Ruth Prigozy (ed.), The Detective in American Fiction, Film, and Television, Greenwood Press, Westport, 1998, pp. 71-82.
[3] Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity, Simon & Schuster, New York, 1963.
2023
'I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me.'
– Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de la Mancha, 1605.
Played with BertKnot.
Heinrich Heine, the last herald of German Romanticism and its gravedigger, was greatly inspired by Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quijote (1605). Just as the character fought against windmills to restore the grandeur of a picaresque chivalry, Heine fought against the established and conservative order. His idealistic passions led him to support the proponents of the French Revolution, but he also cultivated a deep spiritualism. Stirred by his inner paradoxes, Heine found in Don Quijote a way to reconcile his fragmented positions, embracing the biting irony of Cervantes. [1] In Die romantische Schule (1833), he compared the German and French branches of Romanticism in an attempt to identify their characteristics, achievements and shortcomings. In particular, Heine was highly suspicious of the propensity to recapture medieval spirituality, trapping Romanticism in adoration of the past to the detriment of contemporary experiences – found in the revolutionary cycles of the 19th century among others. In Baudelaire's words, what Heine wanted was 'to plunge into the depths of the Unknown and find something new' [2].
Striving for modernity: a proactive and more dynamic gameplay
Heine emphasised the extent to which Cervantes, by abolishing the picaresque tradition, opened a door for the modern novel and its new sensibilities: 'This is what the great poets will always do: they create something new by destroying the old: they never deny without affirming'. The characteristic strength of Don Quijote is that it genuinely celebrates the humanity and complexity of the hidalgo of La Mancha, rather than denying it altogether. Don Quijote's laughter is that of a man who sees his inability to fully live the role he has chosen for himself. The tragicomedy of the novel is born in the acute awareness of someone who knows that he is deceiving himself. Cervantes inaugurates a new tradition that does not completely reject the old, but draws lessons from it to create modernity: what matters is that something new is created. Resident Evil 4 (2023) also attempts to offer a fresh way of experiencing the classic title, which has proved to be one of the most fundamental in video game history and continues to be cited as a significant influence by many modern designers. Unlike Cervantes and all the writers he inspired, from Heine to Faulkner, this project does not manage to break free from the shackles imposed by the franchise, highlighting structural problems that are already apparent or are yet to come.
From the very first minutes, Resident Evil 4 (2023) establishes a much more serious tone and a more dynamic gameplay than its predecessor. These elements can be seen as an expression of the franchise's maturity and an attempt to modernise the title. These changes clearly affect the way the player interacts with the game. Combat sequences feel longer and more intense, becoming real tests of endurance that challenge the player's ability to manoeuvre in the arena and strategically engage the hordes of enemies. Encounters must take into account the new ability to shoot while moving and the greater versatility offered by the knife and its powerful parries. The player must move constantly, both to manage several fronts at once and to create space between Leon and the many enemies; as their grapple has a very high priority and the character's i-frames seem to have been shortened, it is essential to move wisely, as even knife parries cannot solve all situations.
This aggressive gameplay tends to work very well and keeps the player fully engaged while fighting. Some sequences can drag on – particularly towards the end of the game – but there is real enjoyment to be had from using heavy weapons, parrying attacks with the knife and delivering devastating high kicks. However, the title delivers its experience without fanfare when it tries to stick too closely to the source material. Bosses such as El Gigante come across as decent, while others are simply disappointing for want of ideas. Del Lago is vapid, full of archaisms that no longer elicit the same expressions of surprise as they did in 2005. The new gameplay would have encouraged more interaction with the environment; unfortunately, only the barrels are used and a certain visual fatigue can set in. Leon's kicks dominate the fights, and the rare German Supplex is only a tiny breath of fresh air. Because Resident Evil 4 (2023) stubbornly sticks to a very effective but rather simplistic combat formula, it suffers greatly in its later hours: KB0 has gone to great lengths to highlight the repetitive nature of the title, by analysing specific gameplay elements, and it seems superfluous to revisit them. Instead, it is the additions, such as the stealth sequence with the Garrador, that provide the necessary variety in a modernisation project.
Unambitious atmosphere and unflattering melodrama
To continue the Cervantes analogy, Resident Evil 4 (2023) may seem disappointing, taking no risks and offering no ambition for the future. What appear to be design updates to the original title are ultimately nothing more than bland gameplay elements from Resident Evil 5 (2008) and Resident Evil 6 (2012), whose remakes seem obvious given that the formula works commercially for Capcom. Unlike the attempt of Final Fantasy VII Remake (2020), which reinterpreted the original material in a durable way, Resident Evil 4 (2023) feels half-hearted, driven only by a desire to homogenise. This is not to say that the title is unpleasant, but it comes across as a technically accomplished but unexceptional product. The game presents itself as the ultimate version, which was not the case with the previous remakes, but it never manages to replace the original title, whose unique atmosphere cannot be imitated.
Perhaps because the environments are so detailed, silence no longer manages to conjure up its eerie strangeness; there is no room left for the player's imagination, and the first third of the game loses its evocative power. The view of the church in Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a clean gothic shot, but it is particularly plain. The golden light of the sun breaking through the clouds gives the place of worship a dignified and monumental nobility, rather than the tumultuous grime of the original. In 2005, the emphasis was on the cemetery rather than the building: this change of focus is representative of the game's approach, which is a little too forceful in directing the player's gaze. The atmosphere is sanitised by a multitude of details that do not convey anything. The decision to rely on notes to tell a story is an admission of failure by the title, which fails to put its great technical potential at the service of a subtle narration.
Resident Evil 4 (2023) is more serious and explores some of the characters more thoroughly. Krauser's backstory has been changed to make him a more coherent antagonist, but it is Luis Sera who benefits most from the remake's rewrite. Instead of being a superfluous companion, he is more directly involved in the story, as a series of dialogues and notes reveal the mask he wears to hide his embarrassment and guilt. Luis Sera is Don Quijote, whose adventures have lulled his childhood. Just as the hidalgo of La Mancha dreams of fantastic adventures beyond common understanding, Luis Sera succumbs to the sirens of unethical science. Both understand their mistake and try to make amends; they also share an honest laugh that reflects a partially assumed disenchantment. Resident Evil 4 (2023) shows genuine respect for the character, who inspires real sympathy in Leon and Ashley – perhaps a little too much – and whose code of conduct follows that of the picaresque hero. Krauser and Luis's rewrite could have taken the franchise in a new direction, one that looks at what defines humanity through the complex dilemmas it faces. The 'Resident Evil' title has historically pointed in that direction: a more intimate, character-driven horror.
The conservative roots of the series: from one sexualisation to another
Unfortunately, Resident Evil 4 (2023) does not seem to have realised this potential and justifies the rewriting of the characters for the sake of consistency. The only concern was to freshen up the game's narrative by cutting out the implausible passages. For example, Saddler only appears physically at the end of the game, which allowed for the removal of all his theatrical entrances, where he decided to stand in Leon's way but never kill him. Other changes have clearly been made to remove all the paedophile connotations of the original version. Ashley, still in her early twenties, goes from being a teenage girl to a young woman with a mesmerising face who openly plays on her charm. The majority of critics have seen this transformation in a positive light, never stopping to consider the retrograde representation it still constitutes. Is this because they are convinced of the importance of preserving the misogynistic frivolity of the original title? In any case, Ashley remains an objectified character, always driven by the desire to prove her – sexual – worth to Leon. Her teasing posture during the shooting mini-game is a poor choice, especially after the game's strong emphasis on the Illuminados' abhorrent tactility when dealing with her. The perspective of Resident Evil 4 (2023) is eminently perverse, extending far beyond a mere male gaze.
The franchise has always had a problem with its representation of women, relying on the figure of more or less strong women to fulfil male fantasies; what is particularly disappointing about Ashley's treatment is that it is yet another missed opportunity to provide depth to her character – just as Luis and Krauser were given. Instead of a proper treatment, she has simply been melted into a new sexualising archetype, while her function, for the plot and the audience, remains the same. This frustration is reinforced by Genevieve Buechner's convincing voice acting, which underlines the confidence she gradually gains during her adventure with Leon. But this confidence is immediately squandered by the game, which insists on her powerlessness. The section in which she is playable is pleasant and shows a heroine in the making, but she loses her agency extremely quickly, save for rare exceptions. Likewise, despite a veneer of respect, with Leon speaking Spanish once, the title stubbornly sticks to cultural clichés under the guise of humour, boding ill for the Resident Evil 5 remake.
For many people, Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a way to experience a legendary and beloved title after discovering the franchise with the recent remakes, Resident Evil 7 (2017) or Resident Evil Village (2021). They will not be confused, thanks to a grammar similar to the titles released in recent years. Unsurprisingly, many players have praised the game, saying that they understand why the original title is considered so valuable, even though they are only experiencing it through a standardised proxy. There is a certain irony in the fates of the Resident Evil 4 games, both of which, twenty years apart, confirm the franchise's transition into a new direction. In the case of the original, it was certainly a new modernity, whether one liked it or not, that caused the entire industry to adapt to a bold move. The remake is less about pushing the boundaries of the genre and more about obsequiously conforming to established formulas. Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a pleasure to play, because it borrows everything that is pleasing in the current grammar of game design, from combat dynamism to the importance of melee and parries. It all fits together elegantly, exploiting the strengths of the original level design to create a fresh experience. But it is a sterilised one, rejecting any idiosyncrasy, any stylistic boldness, any poetic imperfection. The strong sections generally remain strong, the weaker passages stay that way; the title never plunges into the unknown, never reveals anything new. The only daring thing about Resident Evil 4 (2023) is that it paves the way for the unnecessary remakes of the subsequent titles, with no guarantee that the sexism and racism that run through them will be amended. In the end, Don Quijote was only a misunderstood reference, never a model.
__________
[1] D. van Maelsaeke, ‘The Paradox of Humour: A Comparative Study of ‘Don Quixote’’, in Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory, no. 28, 1967, pp. 24-42.
[2] Charles Baudelaire, ‘Le Voyage’, in Les Fleurs du mal, Poulet-Malassis et de Broise, Paris, 1861 : ‘Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous réconforte ! / Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau, / Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe ? / Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau !’
[3] Heinrich Heine, ‘Einleitung von Heinrich Heine’, in Miguel de Cervantes, Der sinnreiche Junker Don Quixote von La Mancha, Brodhagsche Buchhandlung, Stuttgart, 1837 : ‘So pflegen immer große Poeten zu verfahren: sie begründen zugleich etwas Neues, indem sie das Alte zerstören; sie negieren nie, ohne etwas zu bejahen.’
– Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de la Mancha, 1605.
Played with BertKnot.
Heinrich Heine, the last herald of German Romanticism and its gravedigger, was greatly inspired by Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quijote (1605). Just as the character fought against windmills to restore the grandeur of a picaresque chivalry, Heine fought against the established and conservative order. His idealistic passions led him to support the proponents of the French Revolution, but he also cultivated a deep spiritualism. Stirred by his inner paradoxes, Heine found in Don Quijote a way to reconcile his fragmented positions, embracing the biting irony of Cervantes. [1] In Die romantische Schule (1833), he compared the German and French branches of Romanticism in an attempt to identify their characteristics, achievements and shortcomings. In particular, Heine was highly suspicious of the propensity to recapture medieval spirituality, trapping Romanticism in adoration of the past to the detriment of contemporary experiences – found in the revolutionary cycles of the 19th century among others. In Baudelaire's words, what Heine wanted was 'to plunge into the depths of the Unknown and find something new' [2].
Striving for modernity: a proactive and more dynamic gameplay
Heine emphasised the extent to which Cervantes, by abolishing the picaresque tradition, opened a door for the modern novel and its new sensibilities: 'This is what the great poets will always do: they create something new by destroying the old: they never deny without affirming'. The characteristic strength of Don Quijote is that it genuinely celebrates the humanity and complexity of the hidalgo of La Mancha, rather than denying it altogether. Don Quijote's laughter is that of a man who sees his inability to fully live the role he has chosen for himself. The tragicomedy of the novel is born in the acute awareness of someone who knows that he is deceiving himself. Cervantes inaugurates a new tradition that does not completely reject the old, but draws lessons from it to create modernity: what matters is that something new is created. Resident Evil 4 (2023) also attempts to offer a fresh way of experiencing the classic title, which has proved to be one of the most fundamental in video game history and continues to be cited as a significant influence by many modern designers. Unlike Cervantes and all the writers he inspired, from Heine to Faulkner, this project does not manage to break free from the shackles imposed by the franchise, highlighting structural problems that are already apparent or are yet to come.
From the very first minutes, Resident Evil 4 (2023) establishes a much more serious tone and a more dynamic gameplay than its predecessor. These elements can be seen as an expression of the franchise's maturity and an attempt to modernise the title. These changes clearly affect the way the player interacts with the game. Combat sequences feel longer and more intense, becoming real tests of endurance that challenge the player's ability to manoeuvre in the arena and strategically engage the hordes of enemies. Encounters must take into account the new ability to shoot while moving and the greater versatility offered by the knife and its powerful parries. The player must move constantly, both to manage several fronts at once and to create space between Leon and the many enemies; as their grapple has a very high priority and the character's i-frames seem to have been shortened, it is essential to move wisely, as even knife parries cannot solve all situations.
This aggressive gameplay tends to work very well and keeps the player fully engaged while fighting. Some sequences can drag on – particularly towards the end of the game – but there is real enjoyment to be had from using heavy weapons, parrying attacks with the knife and delivering devastating high kicks. However, the title delivers its experience without fanfare when it tries to stick too closely to the source material. Bosses such as El Gigante come across as decent, while others are simply disappointing for want of ideas. Del Lago is vapid, full of archaisms that no longer elicit the same expressions of surprise as they did in 2005. The new gameplay would have encouraged more interaction with the environment; unfortunately, only the barrels are used and a certain visual fatigue can set in. Leon's kicks dominate the fights, and the rare German Supplex is only a tiny breath of fresh air. Because Resident Evil 4 (2023) stubbornly sticks to a very effective but rather simplistic combat formula, it suffers greatly in its later hours: KB0 has gone to great lengths to highlight the repetitive nature of the title, by analysing specific gameplay elements, and it seems superfluous to revisit them. Instead, it is the additions, such as the stealth sequence with the Garrador, that provide the necessary variety in a modernisation project.
Unambitious atmosphere and unflattering melodrama
To continue the Cervantes analogy, Resident Evil 4 (2023) may seem disappointing, taking no risks and offering no ambition for the future. What appear to be design updates to the original title are ultimately nothing more than bland gameplay elements from Resident Evil 5 (2008) and Resident Evil 6 (2012), whose remakes seem obvious given that the formula works commercially for Capcom. Unlike the attempt of Final Fantasy VII Remake (2020), which reinterpreted the original material in a durable way, Resident Evil 4 (2023) feels half-hearted, driven only by a desire to homogenise. This is not to say that the title is unpleasant, but it comes across as a technically accomplished but unexceptional product. The game presents itself as the ultimate version, which was not the case with the previous remakes, but it never manages to replace the original title, whose unique atmosphere cannot be imitated.
Perhaps because the environments are so detailed, silence no longer manages to conjure up its eerie strangeness; there is no room left for the player's imagination, and the first third of the game loses its evocative power. The view of the church in Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a clean gothic shot, but it is particularly plain. The golden light of the sun breaking through the clouds gives the place of worship a dignified and monumental nobility, rather than the tumultuous grime of the original. In 2005, the emphasis was on the cemetery rather than the building: this change of focus is representative of the game's approach, which is a little too forceful in directing the player's gaze. The atmosphere is sanitised by a multitude of details that do not convey anything. The decision to rely on notes to tell a story is an admission of failure by the title, which fails to put its great technical potential at the service of a subtle narration.
Resident Evil 4 (2023) is more serious and explores some of the characters more thoroughly. Krauser's backstory has been changed to make him a more coherent antagonist, but it is Luis Sera who benefits most from the remake's rewrite. Instead of being a superfluous companion, he is more directly involved in the story, as a series of dialogues and notes reveal the mask he wears to hide his embarrassment and guilt. Luis Sera is Don Quijote, whose adventures have lulled his childhood. Just as the hidalgo of La Mancha dreams of fantastic adventures beyond common understanding, Luis Sera succumbs to the sirens of unethical science. Both understand their mistake and try to make amends; they also share an honest laugh that reflects a partially assumed disenchantment. Resident Evil 4 (2023) shows genuine respect for the character, who inspires real sympathy in Leon and Ashley – perhaps a little too much – and whose code of conduct follows that of the picaresque hero. Krauser and Luis's rewrite could have taken the franchise in a new direction, one that looks at what defines humanity through the complex dilemmas it faces. The 'Resident Evil' title has historically pointed in that direction: a more intimate, character-driven horror.
The conservative roots of the series: from one sexualisation to another
Unfortunately, Resident Evil 4 (2023) does not seem to have realised this potential and justifies the rewriting of the characters for the sake of consistency. The only concern was to freshen up the game's narrative by cutting out the implausible passages. For example, Saddler only appears physically at the end of the game, which allowed for the removal of all his theatrical entrances, where he decided to stand in Leon's way but never kill him. Other changes have clearly been made to remove all the paedophile connotations of the original version. Ashley, still in her early twenties, goes from being a teenage girl to a young woman with a mesmerising face who openly plays on her charm. The majority of critics have seen this transformation in a positive light, never stopping to consider the retrograde representation it still constitutes. Is this because they are convinced of the importance of preserving the misogynistic frivolity of the original title? In any case, Ashley remains an objectified character, always driven by the desire to prove her – sexual – worth to Leon. Her teasing posture during the shooting mini-game is a poor choice, especially after the game's strong emphasis on the Illuminados' abhorrent tactility when dealing with her. The perspective of Resident Evil 4 (2023) is eminently perverse, extending far beyond a mere male gaze.
The franchise has always had a problem with its representation of women, relying on the figure of more or less strong women to fulfil male fantasies; what is particularly disappointing about Ashley's treatment is that it is yet another missed opportunity to provide depth to her character – just as Luis and Krauser were given. Instead of a proper treatment, she has simply been melted into a new sexualising archetype, while her function, for the plot and the audience, remains the same. This frustration is reinforced by Genevieve Buechner's convincing voice acting, which underlines the confidence she gradually gains during her adventure with Leon. But this confidence is immediately squandered by the game, which insists on her powerlessness. The section in which she is playable is pleasant and shows a heroine in the making, but she loses her agency extremely quickly, save for rare exceptions. Likewise, despite a veneer of respect, with Leon speaking Spanish once, the title stubbornly sticks to cultural clichés under the guise of humour, boding ill for the Resident Evil 5 remake.
For many people, Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a way to experience a legendary and beloved title after discovering the franchise with the recent remakes, Resident Evil 7 (2017) or Resident Evil Village (2021). They will not be confused, thanks to a grammar similar to the titles released in recent years. Unsurprisingly, many players have praised the game, saying that they understand why the original title is considered so valuable, even though they are only experiencing it through a standardised proxy. There is a certain irony in the fates of the Resident Evil 4 games, both of which, twenty years apart, confirm the franchise's transition into a new direction. In the case of the original, it was certainly a new modernity, whether one liked it or not, that caused the entire industry to adapt to a bold move. The remake is less about pushing the boundaries of the genre and more about obsequiously conforming to established formulas. Resident Evil 4 (2023) is a pleasure to play, because it borrows everything that is pleasing in the current grammar of game design, from combat dynamism to the importance of melee and parries. It all fits together elegantly, exploiting the strengths of the original level design to create a fresh experience. But it is a sterilised one, rejecting any idiosyncrasy, any stylistic boldness, any poetic imperfection. The strong sections generally remain strong, the weaker passages stay that way; the title never plunges into the unknown, never reveals anything new. The only daring thing about Resident Evil 4 (2023) is that it paves the way for the unnecessary remakes of the subsequent titles, with no guarantee that the sexism and racism that run through them will be amended. In the end, Don Quijote was only a misunderstood reference, never a model.
__________
[1] D. van Maelsaeke, ‘The Paradox of Humour: A Comparative Study of ‘Don Quixote’’, in Theoria: A Journal of Social and Political Theory, no. 28, 1967, pp. 24-42.
[2] Charles Baudelaire, ‘Le Voyage’, in Les Fleurs du mal, Poulet-Malassis et de Broise, Paris, 1861 : ‘Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous réconforte ! / Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau, / Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe ? / Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau !’
[3] Heinrich Heine, ‘Einleitung von Heinrich Heine’, in Miguel de Cervantes, Der sinnreiche Junker Don Quixote von La Mancha, Brodhagsche Buchhandlung, Stuttgart, 1837 : ‘So pflegen immer große Poeten zu verfahren: sie begründen zugleich etwas Neues, indem sie das Alte zerstören; sie negieren nie, ohne etwas zu bejahen.’
2019
'In a land of clear colours and stories,
In a region of shadowless hours,
Where earth has a garment of glories
And a murmur of musical flowers...’
– Algernon Charles Swinburne, 'Dedication', 1865.
It took me several years to understand my girlfriend's fascination with translation. At first I thought it was an expression of her bilingualism and that it came naturally to her. She liked to compare texts at her desk, with two books open and bookmarked. I remember seeing Jane Austen and Plutarch, T.S. Eliot and Cicero in different editions. One book she kept coming back to was George Steiner's After Babel (1975), which I later took with me. When I was younger, its seven hundred pages frightened me with their complexity, and I kept the volume only as a souvenir: the spine was cracked from heavy use, and some of the pages were slightly worn and yellowed. These marks identified her presence, her aura, her memory.
Understanding is a translation
It was only when I was later writing notes on After Babel that I understood what she valued in translation. It is difficult to capture Steiner's theses, since they do not form a grand, all-encompassing theory, but a key idea – formative for the field of translation studies and comparative literature – is that the communication of information is a secondary part of human discourse. For him, each language colours the individual's relationship to reality in a different way, allowing them to express a situated point of view, an otherness of being. As much as Steiner represented an ideal of the Renaissance man for my girlfriend – and still does, in a way, for me – he was not without his faults. His erudition was often the result of clumsy approximations, where it was more important to keep exploring elsewhere than to specialise.
Through it all, he remained the image of a reader, eager to compare and understand the texts he encountered. My girlfriend loved translating and comparing because, in her illness, she found in it a way of travelling and experiencing spontaneously the rich imagination of texts. Compared to the simple act of reading, translation forces the reader to immerse themselves in the text, to decode its signs, to identify cultural markers and to discover the various references hidden within it. A first glance will reveal expressions and objects that refer to a more or less precise period of time; a closer look will reveal word choices and content that were in use a few decades or centuries earlier; the scansion of the text will also make it possible to delimit a style and influences. Translating means observing and experiencing these elements in order to render them as faithfully as possible into another language, knowing that the result will still be distorted.
Un petit pan de mur jaune and the rock of the Lighthouse
To transcribe is to experience. Certain scenes, conveyed by contemplative narrators, always linger in my mind. In Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse (1927), Mrs Ramsey reads extracts from the famous anthology The Oxford Book of English Verse (1900), edited by Arthur T. Quiller-Couch: each passage, chosen a priori at random, resonates with the previous ones, allowing the reader to enter Mrs Ramsey's consciousness and the atmosphere of the house. The way she picks the verses, as if plucking petals, contributes to the strange languor of the moment [1]. In Marcel Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu (1927), the narrator fantasises about his trip to Venice. However, this vision of the Serenissima is largely altered by Proust's own readings [2] and his desire to leave a mark, however subjective, through his literary account.
Type Dreams is fully aware of this artistic and ontological strength, drawing on the aesthetics of the typewriter and transcription to instantiate moments of contemplation in the present moment. KB0 offered a sublime insight into the relationship between the physical act of writing and existence; as such, I will not elaborate on these issues here. However, I would like to point out that, beyond the systems and anachronical Victorian aesthetics that seem to run counter to technological progress, the choice of texts is part of a veritable journey into the history of human production and Richard Hofmeier's mentality. The exercises are like musical études, and their poetic absurdity contrasts strikingly with the more concrete texts. There is something deeply wistful about these meditations on existence, death, love and memory. Just as the narrator of La Recherche instantiates his life in a literary production – to inscribe it in Time – Hofmeier seems to conjure up a malaise and an absence by transcribing texts that evoke this sorrow.
There are imperfections in the texts that remind the player of their humanity, whether due to the author's playfulness or a simple typing error. These deviations from the norm force the player to grasp their mental universe and compare it with their own. The extracts from Plato's Apologia Socratis (4th century BCE) are given in the translation by Miles Burnyeat and Christopher Rowe. A long debate about the translation of the dialogue seeks to determine whether ἀρετή should be understood as 'goodness' or as 'virtue'. Burnyeat and Rowe have argued, on philosophical grounds, that the correct translation is 'goodness' – but there is no consensus on this analysis [3]. Nevertheless, the choice of this version, rather than a translation from the Loeb Classic or that of Thomas G. West, allows Hofmeier to situate the theme of death and memory within his system of thought. These long extracts can be contrasted, for example, with the inclusion of 'Seeking Feelings for Words' by Felipe Carretoni, a confidential Brazilian writer.
And I love you so much
The prose poem is addressed to a significant other, acknowledging their presence and the lessons they have taught the author. 'It has been some time now, love, since you taught me what love is,' the poem ends. There are echoes, deliberate or not, in the text of T. S. Eliot's 'A Dedication to my Wife': 'No peevish winter wind shall chill / No sullen tropic sun shall wither / The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only. / But this dedication is for others to read: / These are private words addressed to you in public' [4]. Carretoni's poem unfolds as the keys are struck, while the surroundings in which the typographer finds themselves slowly change. Starting with the empty, colourless room and the window covered by a light rain, it gradually regains its vibrancy as the player's avatar reappears. The act of writing exorcises the memories of a melancholy love. It is impossible to know what Carretoni and Hofmeier actually mean by this poem, but it hardly matters since the interpretation is left to the reader and player.
Both Apologia Socratis and 'Seeking Feelings for Words' remind me so much of my teenage love and the boundless affection she left me. Sometimes it overflows without knowing where to go: Type Dreams, in its mechanically contemplative approach, channeled that flood by conjuring up the virtues and lessons my first love left me – or what I imagine she left me. Over the past few years, I have spent long hours rereading and transcribing the many letters we exchanged. It was a way of reliving the feelings I had once committed to paper, of instantiating her presence once again. I have not done this for a long time, partly because the tenderness and lost love that surrounds me is painful, and perhaps because I have found other ways to honour her memory. Nevertheless, Type Dreams has brought back all those feelings and bared my heart once more.
Type Dreams is an unfinished work. The campaign for the game is not available, as Hofmeier interrupted the development of the game for personal reasons, and only a summary gives an idea of the themes addressed: 'The world's two fastest typists fall in love just as a new century is born'. A love that has nowhere to go and lives only in the imagination. Like Cart Life (2010), Type Dreams touches on everyday feelings with great humility. Typing the various texts with their distinctive tastes was a gentle stab in my chest: I felt the rustling of the trees, the kiss which tasted of the sea, the mysterious photograph by the lake and the walks on the beach all come back to me. And I cannot leave out the words we always used to close our letters.
And I love you so much.
__________
[1] Virginia Woolf meticulously constructed this atmosphere, which echoed her own vulnerability. In On Being Ill (1925), drafted while she was bedridden, she wrote: 'We rifle poets of their flowers. We break off a line or two and let them open in the depths of the mind, spread their bright wings, swim like coloured fish in green waters' (Virginia Woolf, 'On Being Ill', in The Moment and Other Essays, Hogarth Press, London, 1947, p. 19). The hermetic aspect of a poem is increased tenfold by a patient who hallucinates an entire universe.
[2] Proust was greatly influenced by the writings of John Ruskin, especially The Stones of Venice (1853). Ruskin denounced the effects of industrialisation on the Romanesque and Gothic heritage and became a leader of the Gothic Revival, an aesthetic that had a lasting influence on Proust. As such, '[his] Venice is an old provincial town, full of medieval vestiges, where intimate, parochial life is magnified; but it is also a fabulous garden, filled with fruit and birds of coloured stone, blooming in the middle of the sea that comes to refresh it' (Georges Cattaui, Proust et ses métamorphoses, Nizet, Paris, 1972, p. 26, personal translation).
[3] For example, see Joy Samad, 'Socrates’ Pragma and Socrates’ Toughness: On the Proper Translation of Apology 30b 2–4', in Polis, vol. 28, no. 2, 2011, pp. 250-266.
[4] Thomas S. Eliot, 'A Dedication to My Wife', in Collected Poems, 1909-1962, Faber & Faber, London, 1974.
In a region of shadowless hours,
Where earth has a garment of glories
And a murmur of musical flowers...’
– Algernon Charles Swinburne, 'Dedication', 1865.
It took me several years to understand my girlfriend's fascination with translation. At first I thought it was an expression of her bilingualism and that it came naturally to her. She liked to compare texts at her desk, with two books open and bookmarked. I remember seeing Jane Austen and Plutarch, T.S. Eliot and Cicero in different editions. One book she kept coming back to was George Steiner's After Babel (1975), which I later took with me. When I was younger, its seven hundred pages frightened me with their complexity, and I kept the volume only as a souvenir: the spine was cracked from heavy use, and some of the pages were slightly worn and yellowed. These marks identified her presence, her aura, her memory.
Understanding is a translation
It was only when I was later writing notes on After Babel that I understood what she valued in translation. It is difficult to capture Steiner's theses, since they do not form a grand, all-encompassing theory, but a key idea – formative for the field of translation studies and comparative literature – is that the communication of information is a secondary part of human discourse. For him, each language colours the individual's relationship to reality in a different way, allowing them to express a situated point of view, an otherness of being. As much as Steiner represented an ideal of the Renaissance man for my girlfriend – and still does, in a way, for me – he was not without his faults. His erudition was often the result of clumsy approximations, where it was more important to keep exploring elsewhere than to specialise.
Through it all, he remained the image of a reader, eager to compare and understand the texts he encountered. My girlfriend loved translating and comparing because, in her illness, she found in it a way of travelling and experiencing spontaneously the rich imagination of texts. Compared to the simple act of reading, translation forces the reader to immerse themselves in the text, to decode its signs, to identify cultural markers and to discover the various references hidden within it. A first glance will reveal expressions and objects that refer to a more or less precise period of time; a closer look will reveal word choices and content that were in use a few decades or centuries earlier; the scansion of the text will also make it possible to delimit a style and influences. Translating means observing and experiencing these elements in order to render them as faithfully as possible into another language, knowing that the result will still be distorted.
Un petit pan de mur jaune and the rock of the Lighthouse
To transcribe is to experience. Certain scenes, conveyed by contemplative narrators, always linger in my mind. In Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse (1927), Mrs Ramsey reads extracts from the famous anthology The Oxford Book of English Verse (1900), edited by Arthur T. Quiller-Couch: each passage, chosen a priori at random, resonates with the previous ones, allowing the reader to enter Mrs Ramsey's consciousness and the atmosphere of the house. The way she picks the verses, as if plucking petals, contributes to the strange languor of the moment [1]. In Marcel Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu (1927), the narrator fantasises about his trip to Venice. However, this vision of the Serenissima is largely altered by Proust's own readings [2] and his desire to leave a mark, however subjective, through his literary account.
Type Dreams is fully aware of this artistic and ontological strength, drawing on the aesthetics of the typewriter and transcription to instantiate moments of contemplation in the present moment. KB0 offered a sublime insight into the relationship between the physical act of writing and existence; as such, I will not elaborate on these issues here. However, I would like to point out that, beyond the systems and anachronical Victorian aesthetics that seem to run counter to technological progress, the choice of texts is part of a veritable journey into the history of human production and Richard Hofmeier's mentality. The exercises are like musical études, and their poetic absurdity contrasts strikingly with the more concrete texts. There is something deeply wistful about these meditations on existence, death, love and memory. Just as the narrator of La Recherche instantiates his life in a literary production – to inscribe it in Time – Hofmeier seems to conjure up a malaise and an absence by transcribing texts that evoke this sorrow.
There are imperfections in the texts that remind the player of their humanity, whether due to the author's playfulness or a simple typing error. These deviations from the norm force the player to grasp their mental universe and compare it with their own. The extracts from Plato's Apologia Socratis (4th century BCE) are given in the translation by Miles Burnyeat and Christopher Rowe. A long debate about the translation of the dialogue seeks to determine whether ἀρετή should be understood as 'goodness' or as 'virtue'. Burnyeat and Rowe have argued, on philosophical grounds, that the correct translation is 'goodness' – but there is no consensus on this analysis [3]. Nevertheless, the choice of this version, rather than a translation from the Loeb Classic or that of Thomas G. West, allows Hofmeier to situate the theme of death and memory within his system of thought. These long extracts can be contrasted, for example, with the inclusion of 'Seeking Feelings for Words' by Felipe Carretoni, a confidential Brazilian writer.
And I love you so much
The prose poem is addressed to a significant other, acknowledging their presence and the lessons they have taught the author. 'It has been some time now, love, since you taught me what love is,' the poem ends. There are echoes, deliberate or not, in the text of T. S. Eliot's 'A Dedication to my Wife': 'No peevish winter wind shall chill / No sullen tropic sun shall wither / The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only. / But this dedication is for others to read: / These are private words addressed to you in public' [4]. Carretoni's poem unfolds as the keys are struck, while the surroundings in which the typographer finds themselves slowly change. Starting with the empty, colourless room and the window covered by a light rain, it gradually regains its vibrancy as the player's avatar reappears. The act of writing exorcises the memories of a melancholy love. It is impossible to know what Carretoni and Hofmeier actually mean by this poem, but it hardly matters since the interpretation is left to the reader and player.
Both Apologia Socratis and 'Seeking Feelings for Words' remind me so much of my teenage love and the boundless affection she left me. Sometimes it overflows without knowing where to go: Type Dreams, in its mechanically contemplative approach, channeled that flood by conjuring up the virtues and lessons my first love left me – or what I imagine she left me. Over the past few years, I have spent long hours rereading and transcribing the many letters we exchanged. It was a way of reliving the feelings I had once committed to paper, of instantiating her presence once again. I have not done this for a long time, partly because the tenderness and lost love that surrounds me is painful, and perhaps because I have found other ways to honour her memory. Nevertheless, Type Dreams has brought back all those feelings and bared my heart once more.
Type Dreams is an unfinished work. The campaign for the game is not available, as Hofmeier interrupted the development of the game for personal reasons, and only a summary gives an idea of the themes addressed: 'The world's two fastest typists fall in love just as a new century is born'. A love that has nowhere to go and lives only in the imagination. Like Cart Life (2010), Type Dreams touches on everyday feelings with great humility. Typing the various texts with their distinctive tastes was a gentle stab in my chest: I felt the rustling of the trees, the kiss which tasted of the sea, the mysterious photograph by the lake and the walks on the beach all come back to me. And I cannot leave out the words we always used to close our letters.
And I love you so much.
__________
[1] Virginia Woolf meticulously constructed this atmosphere, which echoed her own vulnerability. In On Being Ill (1925), drafted while she was bedridden, she wrote: 'We rifle poets of their flowers. We break off a line or two and let them open in the depths of the mind, spread their bright wings, swim like coloured fish in green waters' (Virginia Woolf, 'On Being Ill', in The Moment and Other Essays, Hogarth Press, London, 1947, p. 19). The hermetic aspect of a poem is increased tenfold by a patient who hallucinates an entire universe.
[2] Proust was greatly influenced by the writings of John Ruskin, especially The Stones of Venice (1853). Ruskin denounced the effects of industrialisation on the Romanesque and Gothic heritage and became a leader of the Gothic Revival, an aesthetic that had a lasting influence on Proust. As such, '[his] Venice is an old provincial town, full of medieval vestiges, where intimate, parochial life is magnified; but it is also a fabulous garden, filled with fruit and birds of coloured stone, blooming in the middle of the sea that comes to refresh it' (Georges Cattaui, Proust et ses métamorphoses, Nizet, Paris, 1972, p. 26, personal translation).
[3] For example, see Joy Samad, 'Socrates’ Pragma and Socrates’ Toughness: On the Proper Translation of Apology 30b 2–4', in Polis, vol. 28, no. 2, 2011, pp. 250-266.
[4] Thomas S. Eliot, 'A Dedication to My Wife', in Collected Poems, 1909-1962, Faber & Faber, London, 1974.
1997
'There was an old Man of the Hague, whose ideas were excessively vague; he built a balloon, to examine the moon, that deluded Old Man of the Hague.'
– Edward Lear, A Book of Nonsense, 1846.
Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (22nd Aug. – 28th Aug., 2023).
After his cycles of paintings on family and parties, dedicated to the study of interpersonal relationships, Michael Andrew spent several years developing a very refined meditation on the theme of air. He called this series 'Lights', which consists of a series of landscapes over which a hot air balloon flies. It hovers over the English countryside, over a river, through a city lit by the glow of the night, and so many other places before finally arriving at the sea. Lights VII: A Shadow (1974) is an ecstatic, dizzying work. The composition is divided between the sand, the sea and the sky, while the green shadow of the balloon stretches across the lower part of the canvas. Andrew's use of acrylics renders this landscape seemingly abstract, making it look sunburnt, like an old photograph.
For Andrew, the balloon represents the ego, and each painting is a way of pursuing inner meditation through exposure to the sensory world: 'the balloon was a metaphor for the self as it dispenses with the ego, gradually attaining spiritual enlightenment in the process. The balloon is thus present in the first three paintings in the cycle but absent from the next three. In the seventh and last painting only its shadow is represented' [1]. Andrew's contemplation is rooted in his singular relationship with the world, steeped in Zen philosophy and fascinated by the scientific advances of the twentieth century. To some extent, his 'Lights' series retains some of the realist features of his formative years.
Detchibe has explored the ways in which Hiroshi Nagai's work shapes a situated perception of the 1980s: it is necessary to correlate these ideas with the declinist discourse that haunted the Lost Decades following the collapse of the Japanese economic bubble at the end of the 1980s. Gradually, the positive valence attached to companies and work was eroded by at least three factors perceived by Japanese society and highlighted by the media: a relaxation of labour laws that allowed companies to employ part-time workers, leading to a sense of 'unemployment within the company' (shanai shitsugyo); critical difficulties for young people to enter the labour market; and the collapse of the myth of social equality with the disappearance of the middle class of office workers [2]. This frustration was clearly expressed by Artdink with the release of Aquanaut no Kyūjitsu (1995), which follows a burnt-out oceanographer who tries to reconnect with the environment by exploring the sea with a deliberately meditative approach.
Kaze no NOTAM also suggests a return to a certain serenity, but with a focus on contemplation rather than exploration. The player is invited to fly over different environments at different times of day, accompanied by a soundtrack that echoes the city-pop aesthetic that was in decline at the time. Kaze no NOTAM recontextualises inactivity, turning it into an opportunity for introspection, as the balloon is subject to the uncertainties of air currents, without the possibility of changing its course in detail. For workers, the unemployed or young people at a loss for meaning, the title suggests taking the time to question the reasons for existence and the value of time, conjuring up an optimistic view of a golden age recently lost: the only thing that counts is the present. Among the most striking moments in Kaze no NOTAM are some breathtaking vistas. Flying over a canopy bathed in the rays of the sinking sun has a special magic, as does seeing the northern lights overhanging the long skyscrapers in the glittering city heavens.
Like Andrew's 'Lights' series, the game offers semi-abstract scenes thanks to the sharp PS1 edges of the topography: the title leaves it to the player's imagination to fill in the picture. The variety of environments also allows for a real progression in the meditation exercise. It is surprising, however, that Kaze no NOTAM places such a strong emphasis on objectives; while Aquanaut no Kyūjitsu involved building a coral reef, finding artefacts was an underlying product of the organic exploration of the seabed. In Kaze no NOTAM, the mere selection of an objective in the main menu distorts the idea of an unfettered meditation, especially when certain modes impose a time limit. The player can, of course, ignore these targets – after all, the point is simply to fly. As Andrew, eternal dreamer of another world, noted when he borrowed a Rosalie Sorrels song for a tentative title of his paintings, Up Is A Nice Place To Be (1967), 'the best' even [3].
__________
[1] Richard Calvocoressi, 'Michael Andrews: Air', in Gagosian Quaterly, Spring 2017.
[2] Andrew Gordon, 'Making sense of the lost decades: Workplaces and schools, men and women, young and old, rich and poor', in Yoichi Funabashi, Barak Kushner (ed.), Examining Japan's Lost Decades, Routledge, London, 2015, pp. 77-100.
[3] Richard Calvocoressi, op. cit.
– Edward Lear, A Book of Nonsense, 1846.
Played during the Backloggd’s Game of the Week (22nd Aug. – 28th Aug., 2023).
After his cycles of paintings on family and parties, dedicated to the study of interpersonal relationships, Michael Andrew spent several years developing a very refined meditation on the theme of air. He called this series 'Lights', which consists of a series of landscapes over which a hot air balloon flies. It hovers over the English countryside, over a river, through a city lit by the glow of the night, and so many other places before finally arriving at the sea. Lights VII: A Shadow (1974) is an ecstatic, dizzying work. The composition is divided between the sand, the sea and the sky, while the green shadow of the balloon stretches across the lower part of the canvas. Andrew's use of acrylics renders this landscape seemingly abstract, making it look sunburnt, like an old photograph.
For Andrew, the balloon represents the ego, and each painting is a way of pursuing inner meditation through exposure to the sensory world: 'the balloon was a metaphor for the self as it dispenses with the ego, gradually attaining spiritual enlightenment in the process. The balloon is thus present in the first three paintings in the cycle but absent from the next three. In the seventh and last painting only its shadow is represented' [1]. Andrew's contemplation is rooted in his singular relationship with the world, steeped in Zen philosophy and fascinated by the scientific advances of the twentieth century. To some extent, his 'Lights' series retains some of the realist features of his formative years.
Detchibe has explored the ways in which Hiroshi Nagai's work shapes a situated perception of the 1980s: it is necessary to correlate these ideas with the declinist discourse that haunted the Lost Decades following the collapse of the Japanese economic bubble at the end of the 1980s. Gradually, the positive valence attached to companies and work was eroded by at least three factors perceived by Japanese society and highlighted by the media: a relaxation of labour laws that allowed companies to employ part-time workers, leading to a sense of 'unemployment within the company' (shanai shitsugyo); critical difficulties for young people to enter the labour market; and the collapse of the myth of social equality with the disappearance of the middle class of office workers [2]. This frustration was clearly expressed by Artdink with the release of Aquanaut no Kyūjitsu (1995), which follows a burnt-out oceanographer who tries to reconnect with the environment by exploring the sea with a deliberately meditative approach.
Kaze no NOTAM also suggests a return to a certain serenity, but with a focus on contemplation rather than exploration. The player is invited to fly over different environments at different times of day, accompanied by a soundtrack that echoes the city-pop aesthetic that was in decline at the time. Kaze no NOTAM recontextualises inactivity, turning it into an opportunity for introspection, as the balloon is subject to the uncertainties of air currents, without the possibility of changing its course in detail. For workers, the unemployed or young people at a loss for meaning, the title suggests taking the time to question the reasons for existence and the value of time, conjuring up an optimistic view of a golden age recently lost: the only thing that counts is the present. Among the most striking moments in Kaze no NOTAM are some breathtaking vistas. Flying over a canopy bathed in the rays of the sinking sun has a special magic, as does seeing the northern lights overhanging the long skyscrapers in the glittering city heavens.
Like Andrew's 'Lights' series, the game offers semi-abstract scenes thanks to the sharp PS1 edges of the topography: the title leaves it to the player's imagination to fill in the picture. The variety of environments also allows for a real progression in the meditation exercise. It is surprising, however, that Kaze no NOTAM places such a strong emphasis on objectives; while Aquanaut no Kyūjitsu involved building a coral reef, finding artefacts was an underlying product of the organic exploration of the seabed. In Kaze no NOTAM, the mere selection of an objective in the main menu distorts the idea of an unfettered meditation, especially when certain modes impose a time limit. The player can, of course, ignore these targets – after all, the point is simply to fly. As Andrew, eternal dreamer of another world, noted when he borrowed a Rosalie Sorrels song for a tentative title of his paintings, Up Is A Nice Place To Be (1967), 'the best' even [3].
__________
[1] Richard Calvocoressi, 'Michael Andrews: Air', in Gagosian Quaterly, Spring 2017.
[2] Andrew Gordon, 'Making sense of the lost decades: Workplaces and schools, men and women, young and old, rich and poor', in Yoichi Funabashi, Barak Kushner (ed.), Examining Japan's Lost Decades, Routledge, London, 2015, pp. 77-100.
[3] Richard Calvocoressi, op. cit.
‘But when negative thoughts hit you, let it pass, and keep living.’
Played with BertKnot.
The modern legacy of Sonic the Hedgehog is a series of experiments, which seek to reassess the place of the iconic hedgehog in the cultural landscape. Representative of a 1990s and 2000s zeitgeist, he has become obsolete and outdated with the modern conception of rebellion. This does not mean that the fans have abandoned their beloved mascot, but rather that, in a long spell in the wilderness, they have sought to modernise the character themselves. The multiplication of fanworks with very different atmospheres pleads for the versatility of Sonic and his friends, as comfortable in an urban pop setting as in more slice of life stories. The Sonic Mania MAP collaboration (2019) illustrates this plasticity, with the hero naturally switching between graphic styles. In particular, the pastel and shimmering palettes work successfully; this same aesthetic quality can be found in the comic strip adaptation of Sonic Skyline (2015), where the angular lines contrast nicely with the candy colours.
For the official franchise, the situation is more difficult. In the midst of games that were widely disliked by fans, Sonic Mania (2017) was a saving grace, but it felt like an exception, nowhere near the vision of the Sonic Team. It was only with Sonic Frontiers (2022) that the community saw a tentative change in the treatment of the hero, for better or worse. Regardless of the quality of the title, the open-world opus attempted to meet the demands of the fans by offering something new, a much-needed breath of fresh air. Surprisingly, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog seems to be another attempt to do just that.
Released on the 1st of April, the title was presented as a joke, offering a short visual novel adventure interspersed with light arcade sequences that somewhat overstay their welcome. The player assumes the role of a railway employee who is hosting a murder party for Sonic and Amy's friends in honour of the girl's birthday. Once everyone has learned their roles, the party splits up and the investigation begins, with Sonic as the victim. The player accompanies Tails, disguised as a detective, to identify the culprit. The title is generally very linear and simplistic: the protagonists arrive in a new room and have to solve the small mystery behind it, which often involves establishing the alibi of the people there. The title is obviously inspired by the success of franchises such as Ace Attorney and Danganronpa, which have now spread to the West, and this is underlined by the structure of the investigation.
Rather, the title strives to accumulate references to past games with a certain subtlety, creating a soft and warm atmosphere. To support the slice of life aspect, some characters have their personalities bent to fit the mood of the game – this is the case with Shadow. There is a certain modesty that makes the game feel like a comic book chapter or a Saturday cartoon episode. The stakes are low and the mystery is trivial, but that is not the title's main concern. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is about creating an experience that is different from the recent games from the Sonic Team – who are not involved in the production of this spin-off. The title appeals directly to fans, and Sonic's words of encouragement to the protagonist are a testament to his sincerity and genuine desire to nurture a loyal community.
It may be a shame to point this out, but The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog, while a harmless experience, reveals the franchise's structural problems. Caught up in its own nostalgia and struggling to innovate around a character from another era, the Sonic Team proved incapable of coming up with a subversive and fresh concept. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog manages to do so, but the title is still plagued by being an April Fool's joke, and only seen as such by SEGA. There's something about the company's management that prevents them from really trusting a new generation that might have insights to offer on a truly major project. The title could have been an expanded experience with additional storylines, making it a proper text-based adventure around the franchise's beloved characters. Instead, the Sonic Social Team was only given the opportunity to make an appetiser.
The title is undoubtedly cute, features beautiful artworks and is brimming with love for the franchise. One must acknowledge the delight that various fans have experienced from spending two hours with it. However, I cannot help but feel that it is little more than a few crumbs for a starving community – perhaps this is the reaction of someone who has never had any affection or nostalgia for the blue hedgehog. Either way, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is a harmless little experience that says very little, but is a step in an interesting direction. One can only hope that this is not just another fleeting idea from SEGA, but something that will be more fully developed and polished in the future. Sonic fans deserve other similar games, or titles that explore new thematic horizons that would truly modernise the franchise.
Played with BertKnot.
The modern legacy of Sonic the Hedgehog is a series of experiments, which seek to reassess the place of the iconic hedgehog in the cultural landscape. Representative of a 1990s and 2000s zeitgeist, he has become obsolete and outdated with the modern conception of rebellion. This does not mean that the fans have abandoned their beloved mascot, but rather that, in a long spell in the wilderness, they have sought to modernise the character themselves. The multiplication of fanworks with very different atmospheres pleads for the versatility of Sonic and his friends, as comfortable in an urban pop setting as in more slice of life stories. The Sonic Mania MAP collaboration (2019) illustrates this plasticity, with the hero naturally switching between graphic styles. In particular, the pastel and shimmering palettes work successfully; this same aesthetic quality can be found in the comic strip adaptation of Sonic Skyline (2015), where the angular lines contrast nicely with the candy colours.
For the official franchise, the situation is more difficult. In the midst of games that were widely disliked by fans, Sonic Mania (2017) was a saving grace, but it felt like an exception, nowhere near the vision of the Sonic Team. It was only with Sonic Frontiers (2022) that the community saw a tentative change in the treatment of the hero, for better or worse. Regardless of the quality of the title, the open-world opus attempted to meet the demands of the fans by offering something new, a much-needed breath of fresh air. Surprisingly, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog seems to be another attempt to do just that.
Released on the 1st of April, the title was presented as a joke, offering a short visual novel adventure interspersed with light arcade sequences that somewhat overstay their welcome. The player assumes the role of a railway employee who is hosting a murder party for Sonic and Amy's friends in honour of the girl's birthday. Once everyone has learned their roles, the party splits up and the investigation begins, with Sonic as the victim. The player accompanies Tails, disguised as a detective, to identify the culprit. The title is generally very linear and simplistic: the protagonists arrive in a new room and have to solve the small mystery behind it, which often involves establishing the alibi of the people there. The title is obviously inspired by the success of franchises such as Ace Attorney and Danganronpa, which have now spread to the West, and this is underlined by the structure of the investigation.
Rather, the title strives to accumulate references to past games with a certain subtlety, creating a soft and warm atmosphere. To support the slice of life aspect, some characters have their personalities bent to fit the mood of the game – this is the case with Shadow. There is a certain modesty that makes the game feel like a comic book chapter or a Saturday cartoon episode. The stakes are low and the mystery is trivial, but that is not the title's main concern. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is about creating an experience that is different from the recent games from the Sonic Team – who are not involved in the production of this spin-off. The title appeals directly to fans, and Sonic's words of encouragement to the protagonist are a testament to his sincerity and genuine desire to nurture a loyal community.
It may be a shame to point this out, but The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog, while a harmless experience, reveals the franchise's structural problems. Caught up in its own nostalgia and struggling to innovate around a character from another era, the Sonic Team proved incapable of coming up with a subversive and fresh concept. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog manages to do so, but the title is still plagued by being an April Fool's joke, and only seen as such by SEGA. There's something about the company's management that prevents them from really trusting a new generation that might have insights to offer on a truly major project. The title could have been an expanded experience with additional storylines, making it a proper text-based adventure around the franchise's beloved characters. Instead, the Sonic Social Team was only given the opportunity to make an appetiser.
The title is undoubtedly cute, features beautiful artworks and is brimming with love for the franchise. One must acknowledge the delight that various fans have experienced from spending two hours with it. However, I cannot help but feel that it is little more than a few crumbs for a starving community – perhaps this is the reaction of someone who has never had any affection or nostalgia for the blue hedgehog. Either way, The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is a harmless little experience that says very little, but is a step in an interesting direction. One can only hope that this is not just another fleeting idea from SEGA, but something that will be more fully developed and polished in the future. Sonic fans deserve other similar games, or titles that explore new thematic horizons that would truly modernise the franchise.
2022
'The shadow remains cast.'
Played with BertKnot.
Like other projects such as Final Fantasy XV (2016) or The Last Guardian (2016), Bayonetta 3's chaotic development cycle could not put the savvy player at ease. Experience has often shown that these chronic delays were the result of a real inability to narrow down the vision and realise the envisioned project. In the case of Final Fantasy XV, the eventual storyline is a twisted reflection of the original Shakespearean narrative, while The Last Guardian suffered from a poor execution, owing to the departure of many key figures from the development team. Bayonetta 3's development cycle began at least in 2017, with numerous comparable titles released in the interim – NieR:Automata (2017), Astral Chain (2019) and obviously Devil May Cry 5 (2019), to name but a few – arguably accounting for the lack of discipline and identity the game exhibits during its thirteen-hour adventure.
The player once again assumes the role of Bayonetta in a multiverse plot, which will hardly make sense whether one knows the story of the previous games or not. The title already stands out in terms of presentation with an excessively long prologue, whose dramatic overtones are out of place for a Bayonetta game. The player is often confined to a passive posture, surprisingly so, and this carries on throughout the game. Across the board, the title spends its time changing moods, unable to establish a meaningful tone: the most absurd sequences in the franchise sit alongside maudlin scenes, with mixed effect at best. It is as if Bayonetta 3 was carried by an MCU-esque cinematic inspiration: there is a succession of action scenes, jokes that often fail and unjustified pathos draped in a very grey colour scheme, but always outside the gameplay sequences.
Disjointed gameplay, distorted references
These are always characterised by a disjointed execution. The various gameplay components are split up and fail to establish an elegant flow in battle. The Demon Slave mechanic feels very clumsy at first, as the player has to wait for their magic bar to refill, as normal attacks are just too weak. Moreover, the summoning of the various demons negates Bayonetta's ability to move, an unlucky choice for the franchise. In this respect, Astral Chain was much more elegant, pairing a joystick with Legion to maintain strong mobility. Bayonetta 3 seems to borrow ideas from different games, but fails to understand their essence. For example, Wartrain Gouon is an aberrant rehash of Cavaliere from Devil May Cry 5, while Viola feels like an empty facsimile of NieR:Automata's battle system. The combat pacing is also strangely reminiscent of Honkai Impact 3rd (2016), alternating between auto-attacks and bursts. The ultimate product is disappointing: some have considered it a compromise between the first two opuses, regarding the use of Witch Time, but the reality is mostly that it is always more enjoyable to avoid using Demons – except to weave Wink Slave moves – and try to play with the traditional gameplay. Unfortunately, Bayonetta 3 only offers two weapon sets and forces a skill tree, making the experience very gruelling, especially at the beginning of the game. A chronic lack of feedback is also noticeable, spoiling a lot of the combat adrenaline, especially when compared to Devil May Cry 5.
Some of the new features work better, like the Wink Slave, allowing the combos to remain fluid. As for some of the Kaiju Battle sequences, they sometimes succeed: the shmup section in Paris was very effective as an extension of the Demon attacks, while the rail shooter in China was satisfactory, if not completely successful. But these sequences underline the mishmash aspect of Bayonetta 3, which only manages to find harmony on a whim. The game piles up various references to please Hideki Kamiya's ego, but cannot synthesise them in a convincing way. The Side Missions with Jeanne are a hotchpotch of Elevator Action Returns (1994) with an aesthetic that overlaps with Cowboy Bebop (1998), Cutie Honey (1973), Mine Fujiko to Iu Onna (2012) and Metal Gear Solid 3 (2004). Despite their diversity, these missions fail to characterise Jeanne and blatantly lie about their content, as the fake opening presents pure infiltration gameplay. In the same spirit, the Kaiju Battles echo classic scenes from Japanese cinema, but the paucity of gameplay is prohibitive. Likewise, the China finale with Madama Butterfly takes up the Xī Yóu Jì (16th century) with a hypersexualised and unpleasant presentation.
Consistently off-topic, Bayonetta 3 stretches out its exploration phases with superfluous elements that are ill-suited to the title's gameplay. The platforming segments are obnoxious and feel like tasteless borrowings from the regular events of Genshin Impact (2020). Thule is built like a pseudo-open world, whose construction may remind of Dragon's Dogma (2012), but devoid of any substance; Ginnungagap borrows from both the disguised loading screens of God of War (2018) and the parallel dimensions of Astral Chain, albeit with a bland art direction. It is so hard not to compare the game with others, as it hides none of its inspirations and desperately tries to take mechanics that have worked elsewhere. These makeshift borrowings never hide the title's very weak technical execution, excessively reusing its level assets. Chapters 4 and 6 in China use exactly the same structure of lifts and chests to open, to the point where a disconcerting sense of déjà vu sets in.
A fantasied and racist cultural representation
More aberrant is the cultural representation of the different worlds visited. Shinjuku is passable, but China and Egypt appear as racist parodies of the cultures depicted. The former draws on a Japanese interpretation of wuxia and offends by its lack of variety, while the latter is a medley of everything reminiscent of Middle Eastern cultures. The opening exploration of Cairo is an almost exact retread of the sequence from Uncharted 3 (2011), from the aerial drop to the desert hallucinations. Bayonetta 3 then has the ill taste to use a Western soundtrack, compounding its already despicable representation of Egypt. The temple scenes are marginally better, even though they borrow heavily from the Babylonian imagination, insofar as they mix in a rather effective Lovecraftian aesthetic. The notable exception is the depiction of Paris: one gets the impression that Kamiya has an inordinate love for France and its culture, so much so that numerous references abound in the streets. The spooky atmosphere around the Place de l'Étoile is in some ways reminiscent of the Gilets Jaunes protest movement, and the shops all have names that make sense – for example, Citron Télécom is perhaps a reference to Orange. This fondness for French culture is also supported by the Bayonetta-Arsène Lupin of this universe, very much on point, and with French dubbing for the NPCs. Nevertheless, the efforts on the Paris episode only underline the aberration of the other chapters, where not a word of Mandarin is spoken, as the mythical warriors of China all speak English.
Bayonetta, drag queen aesthetics and heteronormative sexualisation
Certainly, this cultural representation is dependent on Kamiya's fantasised perspective, reflected in the way he describes the characters and their gender. Bayonetta 3, like many Japanese titles released in recent years, is perfectly embedded in the post-Abe philosophy, which encourages procreation in the name of saving Japan's demography. The emphasis on the nuclear family is very significant and highlights that the franchise has never been about queer representation. It has always been the product of Kamiya's thoroughly assumed fantasies. His conception of drag aesthetics fits into a patriarchal and sexist continuum. Jessica E. Tompkins et al. point out the deep connection between women depicted as strong and their sexualisation on screen, through their 'bodies as weapons'. Indeed, 'the female character's body is an object for use in voyeuristic pleasure and satisfying game combat. In a more empowering interpretation, the theme refers to depictions of women's bodies as the ultimate weapons, with an emphasis on physicality and violence as a means of overcoming obstacles' [1]. Bayonetta is always the target of Kamiya's male gaze, more or less subtly disguised, for whom drag queens are an object of desire, and which he transcribes onto a body considered 'purely female'.
Marsha A. Hewitt has rightly emphasised the importance of performativity in the behaviour of drag queens. They 'enact a "perpetual displacement" of traditional boundaries of anatomy and gender on a variety of levels, where identity is rendered fluid [...] in a continued hyperbolic and subversive process of "resignification and recontextualization", depriving "hegemonic culture and its critics of the claim to essentialist accounts of gender identity"' [2]. The fundamental problem with Bayonetta 3 is that it leaves no room for the agentivity of its female figures: all the women characters share the same fate, which is that of a false independence, one that the game takes pleasure in destroying as it proceeds. Because these characters are represented as 'real women', there is no longer any subversion of gender norms, but rather a reaffirmation of traditional patriarchal values, fiercely defended by the ending. Similarly, Bayonetta's dances are vehicles for exposing the sexualised female body, while adhering to cultural standards attributed to women. Although it is not possible to completely deny the idea of female empowerment through dance activities, it is still a tightrope on which reclaiming one's body is very difficult for female dancers [3]. I would argue that Bayonetta's dancing in the first credits provides an elegant and interesting contrast when it comes to gender representation and expression of intimacy, but that the majority of the game – and of the franchise – glosses over these issues, settling for a conventional sexualisation of women.
It is difficult to find any redeeming qualities in Bayonetta 3, because every game design decision seems to be an uncertain half-measure, as if Kamiya's desires were constant objections to the development team's creative ideas. The game seems mired in archaisms. It can only be explained by a chaotic development process, disrupted by successive releases of innovative games. Bayonetta 3 lacks both identity and direction, whilst being overly ambitious. When all is said and done, there is little left enjoyable, nor anything positive. The few functional sequences remain gimmicky and are forgotten as soon as they are over. In the meantime, the game insists on what does not work and was never the focus of the franchise. There is obviously a boldness in renewing itself and wanting to move on, but when the end result struggles to please most people, Kamiya's thinly veiled arrogance comes across mostly as hollow hubris. According to him, the franchise should continue for a long time, but one can only be dubious, considering what is proposed at the moment.
__________
[1] Jessica E. Tompkins, Teresa Lynch, Irene I. Van Driel and Niki Fritz, ‘Kawaii Killers and Femme Fatales: A Textual Analysis of Female Characters Signifying Benevolent and Hostile Sexism in Video Games’, in Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, vol. 64-2, 2020, p. 7.
[2] Marsha A. Hewitt, ‘Cyborgs, drag queens, and goddesses: Emancipatory regressive paths in feminist theory’, in Method & Theory in the Study of Religion, vol. 5-1, 1993, p. 143.
[3] Lisa A. Sandlos, Shimmy, Shake or Shudder?: A Feminist Ethnographic Analysis of Sexualization and Hypersexualization in Competitive Dance, PhD thesis, York University, Toronto, 2020, pp. 73-80 and 121-125.
Played with BertKnot.
Like other projects such as Final Fantasy XV (2016) or The Last Guardian (2016), Bayonetta 3's chaotic development cycle could not put the savvy player at ease. Experience has often shown that these chronic delays were the result of a real inability to narrow down the vision and realise the envisioned project. In the case of Final Fantasy XV, the eventual storyline is a twisted reflection of the original Shakespearean narrative, while The Last Guardian suffered from a poor execution, owing to the departure of many key figures from the development team. Bayonetta 3's development cycle began at least in 2017, with numerous comparable titles released in the interim – NieR:Automata (2017), Astral Chain (2019) and obviously Devil May Cry 5 (2019), to name but a few – arguably accounting for the lack of discipline and identity the game exhibits during its thirteen-hour adventure.
The player once again assumes the role of Bayonetta in a multiverse plot, which will hardly make sense whether one knows the story of the previous games or not. The title already stands out in terms of presentation with an excessively long prologue, whose dramatic overtones are out of place for a Bayonetta game. The player is often confined to a passive posture, surprisingly so, and this carries on throughout the game. Across the board, the title spends its time changing moods, unable to establish a meaningful tone: the most absurd sequences in the franchise sit alongside maudlin scenes, with mixed effect at best. It is as if Bayonetta 3 was carried by an MCU-esque cinematic inspiration: there is a succession of action scenes, jokes that often fail and unjustified pathos draped in a very grey colour scheme, but always outside the gameplay sequences.
Disjointed gameplay, distorted references
These are always characterised by a disjointed execution. The various gameplay components are split up and fail to establish an elegant flow in battle. The Demon Slave mechanic feels very clumsy at first, as the player has to wait for their magic bar to refill, as normal attacks are just too weak. Moreover, the summoning of the various demons negates Bayonetta's ability to move, an unlucky choice for the franchise. In this respect, Astral Chain was much more elegant, pairing a joystick with Legion to maintain strong mobility. Bayonetta 3 seems to borrow ideas from different games, but fails to understand their essence. For example, Wartrain Gouon is an aberrant rehash of Cavaliere from Devil May Cry 5, while Viola feels like an empty facsimile of NieR:Automata's battle system. The combat pacing is also strangely reminiscent of Honkai Impact 3rd (2016), alternating between auto-attacks and bursts. The ultimate product is disappointing: some have considered it a compromise between the first two opuses, regarding the use of Witch Time, but the reality is mostly that it is always more enjoyable to avoid using Demons – except to weave Wink Slave moves – and try to play with the traditional gameplay. Unfortunately, Bayonetta 3 only offers two weapon sets and forces a skill tree, making the experience very gruelling, especially at the beginning of the game. A chronic lack of feedback is also noticeable, spoiling a lot of the combat adrenaline, especially when compared to Devil May Cry 5.
Some of the new features work better, like the Wink Slave, allowing the combos to remain fluid. As for some of the Kaiju Battle sequences, they sometimes succeed: the shmup section in Paris was very effective as an extension of the Demon attacks, while the rail shooter in China was satisfactory, if not completely successful. But these sequences underline the mishmash aspect of Bayonetta 3, which only manages to find harmony on a whim. The game piles up various references to please Hideki Kamiya's ego, but cannot synthesise them in a convincing way. The Side Missions with Jeanne are a hotchpotch of Elevator Action Returns (1994) with an aesthetic that overlaps with Cowboy Bebop (1998), Cutie Honey (1973), Mine Fujiko to Iu Onna (2012) and Metal Gear Solid 3 (2004). Despite their diversity, these missions fail to characterise Jeanne and blatantly lie about their content, as the fake opening presents pure infiltration gameplay. In the same spirit, the Kaiju Battles echo classic scenes from Japanese cinema, but the paucity of gameplay is prohibitive. Likewise, the China finale with Madama Butterfly takes up the Xī Yóu Jì (16th century) with a hypersexualised and unpleasant presentation.
Consistently off-topic, Bayonetta 3 stretches out its exploration phases with superfluous elements that are ill-suited to the title's gameplay. The platforming segments are obnoxious and feel like tasteless borrowings from the regular events of Genshin Impact (2020). Thule is built like a pseudo-open world, whose construction may remind of Dragon's Dogma (2012), but devoid of any substance; Ginnungagap borrows from both the disguised loading screens of God of War (2018) and the parallel dimensions of Astral Chain, albeit with a bland art direction. It is so hard not to compare the game with others, as it hides none of its inspirations and desperately tries to take mechanics that have worked elsewhere. These makeshift borrowings never hide the title's very weak technical execution, excessively reusing its level assets. Chapters 4 and 6 in China use exactly the same structure of lifts and chests to open, to the point where a disconcerting sense of déjà vu sets in.
A fantasied and racist cultural representation
More aberrant is the cultural representation of the different worlds visited. Shinjuku is passable, but China and Egypt appear as racist parodies of the cultures depicted. The former draws on a Japanese interpretation of wuxia and offends by its lack of variety, while the latter is a medley of everything reminiscent of Middle Eastern cultures. The opening exploration of Cairo is an almost exact retread of the sequence from Uncharted 3 (2011), from the aerial drop to the desert hallucinations. Bayonetta 3 then has the ill taste to use a Western soundtrack, compounding its already despicable representation of Egypt. The temple scenes are marginally better, even though they borrow heavily from the Babylonian imagination, insofar as they mix in a rather effective Lovecraftian aesthetic. The notable exception is the depiction of Paris: one gets the impression that Kamiya has an inordinate love for France and its culture, so much so that numerous references abound in the streets. The spooky atmosphere around the Place de l'Étoile is in some ways reminiscent of the Gilets Jaunes protest movement, and the shops all have names that make sense – for example, Citron Télécom is perhaps a reference to Orange. This fondness for French culture is also supported by the Bayonetta-Arsène Lupin of this universe, very much on point, and with French dubbing for the NPCs. Nevertheless, the efforts on the Paris episode only underline the aberration of the other chapters, where not a word of Mandarin is spoken, as the mythical warriors of China all speak English.
Bayonetta, drag queen aesthetics and heteronormative sexualisation
Certainly, this cultural representation is dependent on Kamiya's fantasised perspective, reflected in the way he describes the characters and their gender. Bayonetta 3, like many Japanese titles released in recent years, is perfectly embedded in the post-Abe philosophy, which encourages procreation in the name of saving Japan's demography. The emphasis on the nuclear family is very significant and highlights that the franchise has never been about queer representation. It has always been the product of Kamiya's thoroughly assumed fantasies. His conception of drag aesthetics fits into a patriarchal and sexist continuum. Jessica E. Tompkins et al. point out the deep connection between women depicted as strong and their sexualisation on screen, through their 'bodies as weapons'. Indeed, 'the female character's body is an object for use in voyeuristic pleasure and satisfying game combat. In a more empowering interpretation, the theme refers to depictions of women's bodies as the ultimate weapons, with an emphasis on physicality and violence as a means of overcoming obstacles' [1]. Bayonetta is always the target of Kamiya's male gaze, more or less subtly disguised, for whom drag queens are an object of desire, and which he transcribes onto a body considered 'purely female'.
Marsha A. Hewitt has rightly emphasised the importance of performativity in the behaviour of drag queens. They 'enact a "perpetual displacement" of traditional boundaries of anatomy and gender on a variety of levels, where identity is rendered fluid [...] in a continued hyperbolic and subversive process of "resignification and recontextualization", depriving "hegemonic culture and its critics of the claim to essentialist accounts of gender identity"' [2]. The fundamental problem with Bayonetta 3 is that it leaves no room for the agentivity of its female figures: all the women characters share the same fate, which is that of a false independence, one that the game takes pleasure in destroying as it proceeds. Because these characters are represented as 'real women', there is no longer any subversion of gender norms, but rather a reaffirmation of traditional patriarchal values, fiercely defended by the ending. Similarly, Bayonetta's dances are vehicles for exposing the sexualised female body, while adhering to cultural standards attributed to women. Although it is not possible to completely deny the idea of female empowerment through dance activities, it is still a tightrope on which reclaiming one's body is very difficult for female dancers [3]. I would argue that Bayonetta's dancing in the first credits provides an elegant and interesting contrast when it comes to gender representation and expression of intimacy, but that the majority of the game – and of the franchise – glosses over these issues, settling for a conventional sexualisation of women.
It is difficult to find any redeeming qualities in Bayonetta 3, because every game design decision seems to be an uncertain half-measure, as if Kamiya's desires were constant objections to the development team's creative ideas. The game seems mired in archaisms. It can only be explained by a chaotic development process, disrupted by successive releases of innovative games. Bayonetta 3 lacks both identity and direction, whilst being overly ambitious. When all is said and done, there is little left enjoyable, nor anything positive. The few functional sequences remain gimmicky and are forgotten as soon as they are over. In the meantime, the game insists on what does not work and was never the focus of the franchise. There is obviously a boldness in renewing itself and wanting to move on, but when the end result struggles to please most people, Kamiya's thinly veiled arrogance comes across mostly as hollow hubris. According to him, the franchise should continue for a long time, but one can only be dubious, considering what is proposed at the moment.
__________
[1] Jessica E. Tompkins, Teresa Lynch, Irene I. Van Driel and Niki Fritz, ‘Kawaii Killers and Femme Fatales: A Textual Analysis of Female Characters Signifying Benevolent and Hostile Sexism in Video Games’, in Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, vol. 64-2, 2020, p. 7.
[2] Marsha A. Hewitt, ‘Cyborgs, drag queens, and goddesses: Emancipatory regressive paths in feminist theory’, in Method & Theory in the Study of Religion, vol. 5-1, 1993, p. 143.
[3] Lisa A. Sandlos, Shimmy, Shake or Shudder?: A Feminist Ethnographic Analysis of Sexualization and Hypersexualization in Competitive Dance, PhD thesis, York University, Toronto, 2020, pp. 73-80 and 121-125.