Screen/Play - Imparting Narrative

Perhaps the steady promotion of the term 'graphic novel' had something to do with it, perhaps a genuine maturation of the medium itself, or perhaps it all comes down to generational succession, but whatever the cause, it is undeniable that the past ten years have seen a fundamental shift in the attitude toward comic book adaptations. With a growing catalogue of entries whose diversity encompasses the likes of From Hell and V for Vendetta at one extreme, Sin City and 300 somewhere in the middle, and The Dark Knight and Iron Man at the other, it seems that the entire spectrum from revisionist to classic superhero material has finally attained credence with the mainstream audience. No longer the sole province of PG-13 summer movie fare, comic book adaptations frequently set new records in terms of revenue, and elicit acknowledgement from even the most recalcitrant film critics.

When you consider that the roots of the modern comic book were laid down during the pulp era of the 1930s, however, the recent success of film adaptations is clearly nowhere near as sudden or effortless as it may otherwise appear. The fact that we even entertain the idea of comic-based films having themes and dealing with real issues at the present time is really the product of a seventy-odd year campaign to gain serious recognition, one characterised by much trial and even more error. And if we may now safely claim that the comic book film is nearing the end of its turbulent adolescence, to show the first brief glimpses of real maturity, then it can also be rightly said to have simply passed the baton on to its younger sibling: the still-fledging medium of videogames. At nearly a half-century younger than the earliest comic books, it is perhaps no surprise that game-based films have yet to garner much in the way of critical approval, nor have the vast majority shown sufficient merit to warrant it, despite some financial success.

So are we destined to endure another thirty years before videogame adaptations start to find their feet, as we did with with comic-based films? Does the videogame medium present qualities which might either accelerate or delay the point of mainstream acceptance? Where have current adaptations gone right and/or wrong during their transition to the screen? In this series of articles I intend to examine some of the fundamental factors involved.

Films develop, games progress

Despite their apparent similarity, one of the fundamental differences between the film and videogame mediums lie in the way their narrative unfolds. This has much to do with the fact that the earliest videogames were entirely devoid of all but the most cursory semblance of a storyline, assuming they made any pretence at all. Pong and its antecedents were obviously simulations of existing recreational games, and thus required no premise at all. Later games often featured a premise that could be reduced to a single line – rarely imparted, even through text, within the game itself – and exhibited none of the subsequent development which might be deemed an actual plot. Space Invaders, for example, established your raison d'etre as the only defence against an alien offensive and simply left you to accomplish that task. This template would continue well into the early '90s, including such staples as Super Mario Bros. and Sonic the Hedgehog, with a paragraph in the game manual often providing the sole indication of an underlying story.

Great fun, but no real pathos

This trend was due partly to technological limitations, of course, at a time when full-motion cutscenes and recorded dialogue were considered a tremendous luxury, but it was also a product of what was considered a redundancy. The player's ability to enjoy Space Invaders is not at all dependent upon whether or not they heed what little semblance of a plot it conveys, nor is their progress inhibited should they choose to ignore it. Indeed, while the aesthetic dimension of gaming has advanced tremendously up to the present day, the core dynamics of gameplay have necessarily remained largely unchanged. The fundamental experience still boils down to a matter of learning what the inherent rules may be within the closed boundaries of the game and how best to exploit them in order to progress. It is the same fundamental process we encounter in sports, board and card games, and any other abstract activity defined by arbitrary rules. And just as there is no reason to think that a tennis match would necessarily be enhanced by the presence of an underlying storyline, there is no reason why videogames cannot be enjoyed solely as a form of interactive, skill-based entertainment. The fact that games generally are married with traditional storytelling does not, however, automatically ease their transition onto the screen.

Typical narrative structure

The graph above shows a typical visualisation of the dynamics within traditional storytelling, and is equally applicable to literature, theatre, and film. At its simplest, the development of plot is this fashion can generally be reduced to a mere three propositions, for example: the cat sat on the mat; a dog entered the room and scared it; the cat hissed and the dog ran away. All but the most rudimentary games of the past forty years impart something equivalent to this, albeit with one crucial qualification. Space Invaders, for instance, can be summarised as follows: aliens launch an invasion; a single tank retaliates; the alien forces are defeated. The crucial difference is that the final clause, and therefore the actual development of the story, depends entirely upon the player's ability to progress through the game. Our attention to the storyline is relegated to the status of a secondary concern next to our ability to apprehend the skills needed to successfully negotiate the gameplay. As such, there are really two dynamics at work in the modern game experience.

Obviously Space Invaders can only illustrate a point so far, and in order to fully explain this point I'd like to turn your attention to the more recent Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time. For those of you unfamiliar with the Prince of Persia series, The Sands of Time drew great acclaim among videogame critics for its combination of interesting gameplay mechanics and engaging narrative. What made the former unique was the ability to manipulate time in various ways, combined with an increasingly spectacular array of gymnastic abilities required of the protagonist. Death-defying leaps, running along walls, and vaulting over multiple opponents were all enhanced by the ability to slow down, freeze, or even rewind gameplay itself. Not only were these conceits justified through the narrative – where they were established as the effects of several enchanted artefacts – but the storytelling itself actually managed to imbue the mechanics with a level of dramatic significance. In short, the game itself was presented under the guise of a tale being narrated by the protagonist to another character, with failure resulting in a hasty exclamation of “No, no, no, that isn't how it happened. Let me begin again...”. The interactive, branching nature of the gameplay was thus incorporated into the narrative itself, preserving the player's immersion within the continuity of the storyline without hampering the interactive experience.

Gameplay progression

In many ways, The Sands of Time represents a perfect candidate for a big-screen adaptation, and it is no surprise that this is currently taking place. While the nature of the game makes it particularly conducive to translation onto film, however, this is still no guarantee of success. The problem is that all videogames contain a fundamental dualism. There is no question that the vast majority now impart something very close to the classic model of narrative development, but the means of revealing this aspect continues to be dependant upon a system of geometric progression, which we generally refer to as gameplay. This is what we see in the graph above, where the stepped line representing gameplay imparts the shadow of a classic story arc through their intersection at various points. Overall, the majority of the typical game experience consists of incremental repetition. This is not a bad thing, in fact it is the hallmark of the most well-constructed games, and probably encountered this concept before, under the misleading guise of the term 'difficulty curve': you learn action X; the game offers a few instances of increasing difficulty where X is required; you progress. You learn action Y, the game offers a few instances of increasing difficulty where Y is required, you progress. By increments, the end of the game would see you performing increasingly complex variations: XX, XY, YX, XYX, XYZ and so on. This is necessary in order for the player to be able to progress, but it does not make for compelling viewing. Indeed, what makes up the majority of the gameplay experience is the kind of incremental repetition that is generally conflated to form a montage in film.

The underlying issue, then, is whether it is the gameplay or narrative that is defined as the quintessential characteristic of the videogame experience: that presumably being the element worthy of adaptation in the first place. In most cases the answer lies in finding the appropriate balance between the two. For, just as it would lose something of its defining characteristics if The Sands of Time did not contain a few scenes of wall-running, acrobatic fighting, and time manipulation, it would be a tedious experience if it featured little else.

Continued in Screen/Play: Pastiche & Production >>

A Too Big/Small Universe - The Star Wars Prequels

In the decade since the release of Episode I: The Phantom Menace, the Star Wars prequels have been the subject of much criticism, derision, and outright castigation. Even the most conscientious defenders have a hard time endorsing some of the more dubious elements, which are now immortalised alongside the acclaimed original trilogy. Indeed, the most prominent of these – the infamous character Jar Jar Binks – has entered the common lexicon as a byword for something defying all notion of good sense or sound reason. Beyond isolated elements such as this, however, there is little consensus among fans as to where and how the prequel trilogy went wrong: suffice to say that if there is no common view as to which elements are wholly detractive, it is still harder to find any agreement on those areas where positive additions were made. This has much to do with the sheer weight of expectation placed upon these three films, and one might be tempted to say that George Lucas set himself an impossible mandate the instant he re-branded the original Star Wars with the subtitle Episode IV: A New Hope back in 1981. With almost two decades having passed between this implicit promise and the period when it began to be delivered, it is hard to imagine that any film, no matter how expertly constructed, could ever hope to satisfy the lofty and divergent fantasies that an expectant audience had fostered throughout the interim. Even amidst the current industry climate of interpreting any modest reception as justification for immediately commencing production on a sequel, the Star Wars prequels seem to have erred too much on the opposite side of the equation, delivering too little too late. It is not the intent of this article to merely perpetuate the subjective argument that continues to be waged over these films, however, but rather to approach and critique them from a technical basis, and thereby attain something at least pointing toward an objective appraisal. Nitpicking and disappointment aside, the prequels still represent a deeply flawed and largely unsatisfying narrative, a large part of which stems from a single essential failure: their scope is at once too dissolute and too restricted.

A galaxy in need of scrutiny

It may seem ridiculous to suggest that a series whose opening lines promise visions of a galaxy far, far away could ever be too big in terms of scale. Like his forebears in the world of literature, such as J.R.R. Tolkien and Frank Herbert, George Lucas created an entire universe of fictional continuity in the original Star Wars and its two sequels. A term that Lucas himself has used to express this remarkable feat is 'immaculate reality', which essentially boils down to imbuing any fictional setting with intelligible hallmarks that create and maintain a sense that it has an internal logic and implied history all of its own, and thus all the appearance of being in homogeneous existence. Think of the gritty, worn look of the Millenium Falcon and the rebel ships, the off-hand reference to Obiwan's service during the Clone Wars, or the discussion concerning the Emperor's discussion to dissolve the Galactic Senate; none of these contribute to the primary narrative, but what they achieve altogether is the sense of a living, breathing universe in which the central storyline is but an isolated strand. It is this simple attention to detail, rather than lengthy scenes of pure exposition, which creates the illusion that the world we are seeing has an existence beyond the restricted scope of what the main characters experience. Where the prequel trilogy unfortunately departs from this proven formula is in a series of needless expansions and duplications.

Too Big...

Of the myriad examples one could cite, two should be sufficient to illustrate my point. For the first I draw your attention to the picture below, which shows two of the peripheral characters from Return of the Jedi. These curious creatures belong to a race called the Mon Calamari, whose resemblance to a squid reflects their aquatic origins on a world dominated by oceans, and their organic-looking spacecraft make up a significant part of the rebel fleet that attacks the second Deathstar toward the conclusion of the saga. We are given none of this information within the film itself, indeed, all we are provided with is the name of the figure on the right – Admiral Ackbar – and the fact that he is in command of the operation in question. We have no idea when this race may have joined the rebel cause, although they did not appear in either of the preceding films, nor is any explanation given as to why they did so, and this is a good thing. Those members of the audience with an inquiring mind will inevitably leave the film pleasantly engaged in musing about these matters, while casual viewers can simply discard these details without it hampering their enjoyment of the central narrative. Cast your mind forward to Attack of the Clones, the second of the prequel films, and we are introduced to an aquatic planet with another species of humanoid alien, the Kaminoans. In terms of the overall narrative, this planet and its people fulfil a fairly significant role, being the birthplace (so to speak) of the clone army whose prominent role had been implied way back in the original 1977 Star Wars. Unlike the army they produce, however, neither the Kaminoans themselves nor their watery planet are seen or heard of again. In this respect their utterly generic appearance is a perfect reflection of the arbitrary role they play within the saga. Inspiring little wonder, they are discarded as soon as their function in the narrative has been fulfilled, leaving us with the impression of a mental cul-de-sac. The universe has been expanded by an entire planet and people, and yet neither ultimately leave a compelling impression.

Mon Calamari

Kaminoans

In the interests of narrative economy, why not simply make the Mon Calamari the originators of the clone army, and thereby flesh-out an element where interest and anticipation already exist? This simple substitution would not involve changing a single thing about this part of the film in order to achieve a vastly more satisfying result. Without any additional information whatsoever, a diligent audience might reasonably infer that their appearance as a significant force in the rebellion might be an act of penance for unwittingly unleashing what proves to be a devastating force throughout the galaxy, resulting in the ascendancy of a despotic regime. Rather than two isolated appearances of different species, neither of which play another notable role within the series, a sense of continuity would thereby be maintained, provoking thought at what precisely the Mon Calamari were doing in the period between episodes II and VI. In so doing the fictional world is allowed to expand without feeling arbitrary or redundant in the process.

Naboo

Alderaan

A similar case can be made for the introduction of the planet Naboo in The Phantom Menace and its gradually lessening role in the subsequent prequels. Once again, is it necessary to invent another verdant, idyllic setting when one already existed in the form of Alderaan, having been introduced in the original film and fleetingly glimpsed in Revenge of the Sith? The fact that we are already aware of its ultimate fate in A New Hope would also add an emotional dimension, with the audience acutely aware of the fact that we are seeing a paradise destined to be callously eradicated as part of a cynical demonstration against civil disobedience. This simple substitution would also result in an entirely new depth being imbued in the scene where Darth Vader offers his implicit approval for the action, as we wonder how any man could ever been so damaged as to abet the destruction of a planet where his dearly beloved once lived. Either of these examples would have been incredibly easy to implement, and yet the reward in terms of creating pathos and compelling narrative could have been vast. It is one of the cardinal rules of writing that a good author opts to show rather than tell, and while the nature of the film medium means that showing essentially amounts to telling and vice versa, the fact that the prequel trilogy diverges from this practice nevertheless remains true. It is voyeuristic in its relentless pursuit of unnecessary scope, opting to show the audience an entire bland tapestry, whereas the original trilogy took a single strand and merely hinted, tantalisingly, at what lay beyond its fringes.

Too Small...

At the other end of the spectrum, the prequel trilogy is also guilty of committing yet another narrative faux pas. If the setting has expanded to a gratuitous extent, then the limit in terms of central players and plot elements seems to have shrunken commensurately. By this I mean the conspicuous number of recurring characters and other apparent coincidences that stretch or defy any rational belief. What are the odds, for instance, that R2-D2 would have originally been part of the crew on a starship that belonged to Luke's mother, or that his father would have personally constructed C-3PO? Not only does the latter stretch the limits of credulity, but it also leads to the ridiculous situation whereby the comic character of episodes IV through VI was created by none other than its stoic, intimidating antagonist, Darth Vader. As such, we can only scoff at the highly improbable coincidence, bemuse ourselves with this unwelcome new consideration throughout the original trilogy, and ask ourselves what it actually adds to the narrative? Obviously the desire was to capitalise upon the pre-existing attachment to the characters established in the earlier films, but not only does this detract from that original experience, it's simply lazy writing. No-one began watching Star Wars back in 1977 with an ingrained love of R2-D2 and C-3PO, or indeed Luke, Han, Chewbacca, or Princess Leia. That appeal was earned through a combination of compelling narrative and endearing character development. With a whole galaxy of humans, droids, and aliens to choose from, there is simply no reason why figures needed to be retrospectively inserted. The resulting constriction in terms of the key players simply ends up feeling contrived and artificial, detracting from that all-important sense of immaculate reality. In this respect, at least, the intention behind creating a character such as Jar Jar Binks was perfectly sound, and one suspects that perhaps George Lucas acted too reflexively in response to the immediate wave of criticism and derision. It was the execution in that instance, not the underlying idea, which was defective.

Property of Darth Vader

It is worth pointing out that not all of these character revivals were misguided, in fact many of them were absolutely crucial. A prequel trilogy virtually had to include Anakin Skywalker and the mother of his children, likewise Obiwan, Yoda, and the Emperor. Beyond these, any number of the minor cameos, such as Jabba the Hutt, Boba Fett, and Chewbacca, are perfectly reasonable and add a necessary degree of familiarity. The latter, in fact, might well have played a far more pronounced role in the prequel films without attending the same disbelief evoked by the presence of R2-D2 or C-3PO, depending, of course, on how the character was woven into the central narrative. Beyond these, too much is dealt with in a fleeting, ultimately meaningless fashion. All told, it speaks either of a committee-based development wherein any slightly good idea was thrown into the mix, or an unusual measure of timidity on part of George Lucas as a writer, with the result being that virtually no enduring character was allowed to develop or grow during the entire duration of the three prequels. Quite simply, the sheer quantity of ideas present in the prequels cannot offset the dearth of quality imagination. This is perhaps most evident in the extent to which these films rely on preconceived stereotypes.

No one could reasonably argue that the original Star Wars trilogy showed a particularly innovative or complex storyline. George Lucas himself has unashamedly acknowledged the extent to which his fictional universe relies upon some of the age-old stories and motifs that recur throughout world literature. The central strand is essentially a quest narrative, following the prodigal but unassuming hero from his humble origins through a journey of increasing magnitude until he eventually rights the myriad wrongs that predate his birth into that world. There are archetypes aplenty to be found, and it is this marriage between ancient narrative and innovative, imaginative presentation that is the root of its success. The aspiring innocent and the worldly rogue, the dark agent and his despotic master, the wise hermit and the threatened princess; we are conditioned from an early age to recognise all these figures, and thus react to them subliminally. While the prequels aren't entirely devoid of any trace of these archetypal characters, there is a definite move toward less polar stereotypes. The conniving politician, for instance, does not inspire the same visceral reaction as the despotic tyrant, nor the frustrated prodigy the same as the aspiring innocent. The polar opposition between freedom and oppression is also much easier to apprehend and transcendent in essence than the deft machinations of even the most straightforward double-cross. The shift from archetype to stereotype is thus at once a diminishing and a complicating one. Also, whereas archetypes tend to encompass things which are absolute in an attempt to make them codified and more easily apprehended, stereotypes tend more toward overt simplification, stripping away individual variation in an effort to demean and debase what they circumscribe.

More caricature than character

The picture above shows three examples of characters that illustrate this point. The one on the top-left is clearly meant to parody the back-and-forth style of live sports commentators, the one on the bottom-left the quintessential burly diner chef, and the one on the right the unscrupulous second-hand car dealer. There is nothing wrong with basing fantasy characters on stereotypes, and we see this practice used to good effect in films such as Men in Black, but insofar as Star Wars is concerned it marks a departure from the imaginative standards set by the original trilogy. In terms of stereotypes, perhaps the closest approximations in Episodes IV to VI would be the fascist overtones of the Imperial officers or the mafioso role played by Jabba the Hutt. Even so, had these figures been designed during the production of the prequels one cannot help but think that Jabba's face would have borne an overt resemblance to Marlon Brando, with Grand Moff Tarkin sporting a decidedly Hitleresque moustache. It sounds patently ridiculous, and that is essentially what the three characters above are equivalent to. Only when one reaches the limits of his imagination is he forced to fall back upon what is already intimately known, and the result is utterly generic figures who fulfil a narrative function rather than exist as fully independent characters.

Perhaps the most succinct measure of when a fantasy narrative has failed is the point where its scale has exceeded the ability of its creator's imagination, beyond which it merely reflects the known and delivers the predictable. Whether due to creative fatigue on the part of George Lucas, or through the diluting influence of excessive input and resources, there is no question that the prequel trilogy failed to emulate the impact felt in response to the original films. Even without resorting to such loaded comparisons, the saga of episodes I through to III is plagued by narrative issues that no amount of financial investment or technical innovation could right. Proof once again, if any were needed, that a good story will overcome the limitations placed upon its telling, while no amount of anticipation will redeem a bad one.