To be fair, those less immersed in the segments of pop culture this film revels in may find it a bit less satisfying. References might fly over the heads of those who never owned an NES or picked up a comic book, making all the subtle in-jokes a distraction rather than a delight. Plus, the romantic story does get a bit lost in the constant stream of whiz-bang action and pyrotechnics; I’d understand the criticism that by the end of the movie, it’s possible not to know exactly which love interest we’re supposed to hope Scott ends up with. Personally, I thought it made sense for a directionless hipster to have no idea who he really did or should love, and took heart that at least by the end he finally makes an attempt at committing to something.

That being said, no matter which side of the geek fence you fall on, this is still a movie that needs to be seen — mainly because its visual style is unlike anything out there.

If the team behind Scott Pilgrim doesn’t win an Oscar for film editing, it should only be because they somehow managed to win two. Honestly, I’ve never seen a more dynamic sense of movement on film. The camerawork in Scott Pilgrim is relentlessly kinetic, to the point where even during slower scenes of dialogue, we’re propelled continuously forward as if every moment is urgently leading to the next. I’ve never felt so much like a movie was barreling ahead and it was up to me just to keep up with it.

Part of this is a general approach to directing. No one uses editing as skillfully or with as much humor as Edgar Wright; from Spaced to Hot Fuzz, he’s always had a knack for the quick cut serving as punchline or flourish. But this time it’s more than just a signature style. In an interview with the /Filmcast, he explained how his intention was to replicate the visual style of a comic book, where every panel is its own ’shot’. That means never cutting back and forth between the same image, never using any angle on the same scene twice, whether it’s a sword fight or a conversation. It’s a process I heard him describe prior to seeing the film, but didn’t realize how drastically it would effect the viewing experience.

Now, having seen it myself, I’m amazed at what a totally unique feel that method gives to the film. The pace is nonstop, leaping from shot to shot even in the most static scenes, just the way it feels to read a comic that’s really got its hooks in me. My eyes leap from speech bubble to speech bubble, letting the visuals just wash over as I launch ahead through the story. That’s what watching Scott Pilgrim felt like, for the first time in any comic book movie I’ve seen. It felt like reading a comic I can’t put down — frenetic and packed with details, but so much fun to read I rush through and have to go back later to appreciate them.

What’s more, it’s a bit boggling that directors have been making comics into movies for ages, yet no one else has had the guts (or maybe just work ethic) to try such a literal translation between mediums. There have been good Spider-Man movies, solid X-men movies, killer Batman movies, decent Superman movies, even a freaking Watchmen movie. But it took Edgar Wright and Scott Pilgrim to make a live action comic book movie that actually feels like a comic book, instead of running scared from the material and making a Hollywood action movie with comic book characters. For that, it’s worth seeing even if you don’t love the material. And for that, I love it even more.

Limbo takes this remove a step further by setting its action in the literal out-of-body experience of the game’s central character. In fact, the only thing we know about our game-self going in comes from the wonderfully terse description: “Uncertain of his sister’s fate, a boy enters Limbo.” For this journey, instead of inhabiting a well-defined character like ‘Space Marine’, ‘Gangster’, or ‘Medieval Hero’, we become a character twice removed from reality. While in theory there is a fictional boy in some fictional reality that resembles our own, what we are playing in Limbo is his out-of-body experience — an ethereal nightmare world of chiaroscuro forests, giant spiders, scheming bullies, and frightening technology.

That added distance between us, the players, and the action on screen changes how we perceive the game in two major ways, and these shifts make Limbo so essentially and marvelously different than most of what we’re used to in games.

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First is the way we learn about the character we control. There is no text, no speech, no instruction book to give us any background. The story of Limbo is less explicit than even some of the most conceptual works of game consoles past: at least Shadow of the Colossus had its subtitled oracle, at least Rez had its console-typed mysteries. The past life and present predicament of our character in Limbo is told entirely implicitly, through the symbolism of his dream-state imagery. Only the abstract shades of monster, tormentor, machine or crevasse are present to clue us in to the ‘real’ boy whose mind created the limbo we’re stuck in.

Though the action of the game is fairly traditional if occasionally difficult puzzle-platforming, the greater textual puzzle of what’s really happening is wide open for interpretation. My personal invented fiction involves a small boy and his sister on the road back from summer camp, where the boy has had a terrible time. He’s terrified of bugs. The older campers picked on him. The hikes were scary and an industrial complex across the lake made menacing sounds through the night. His sister tried to stick up for him, but she being older, they were always separated into different activity groups. The ropes course was particularly scary when he had to hang upside down, not being used to having his equilibrium switched on him. And then, on the road back toward home and safety, there was a crash that sent him flying… (this part I derived entirely based on the ’solution’ to the final puzzle). The ‘real’ boy whose projections we explore is trapped in a coma, needing to find his symbol for salvation before regaining consciousness. (**Vague spoiler: Considering the final scene still takes place in black and white, I’m not so sure he succeeds.)

Naturally there are scores of other ways to interpret the game, but the fact that the text of the game itself never pulls back to the ‘reality’ of this fictional boy leaves the ultimate question up to us to answer. Unlike other games with dream sequences — where we see the dream but also the dreamer and can therefore connect the dots (Psychonauts, Arkham Asylum) — the lack of information in Limbo keeps us as lost and frightened as the ‘real’ boy whose dream we’re sharing. Thanks to the designers’ discipline in keeping us in the dark, we grope for any sliver of understanding or comfort the same way our character does, and come up short, confused and alone. Just like they want us to be.

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So on to the second point: another way in which that added layer of distance (player to fictional boy, boy to on-screen character) shifts our perception. Ironically, it’s how the out-of-body element removes a layer of unreality from the game. Sounds backward, but think of it in terms of fail states. In basically every other game, we’re in a world we’re supposed to take as real, and yet dying and learning how to do better next time is a necessary key to progression. When we play as a character like Drake or Master Chief, every time we ‘die’ is a willful suspension of disbelief. The hero isn’t supposed to die, he’s supposed to overcome all the odds and triumph. It’s us, the imperfect hero-puppeteers, who make the mistakes, so we just load up from a previous scene and try again. Every error breaks the illusion of continuity, and we’ve trained ourselves to just accept that as part of the language of games (like all streets being wet at night in films, we’ve just stopped thinking about it).

In Limbo, the only thing we know for sure is that we’re in, well, limbo; or in other words, purgatory. Whatever nightmare, subconscious or afterlife state this version of limbo happens to be, there’s always one basic rule to purgatory: we don’t leave until we’ve learned the lesson we came to learn, or resolved whatever issue put us there. Of course, the typical way to learn these moral lessons is trial by fire — endless punishment and pain until we get it right. And boy does our little character go through pain in this game. Graphic, violent, darkly funny, almost Itchy-and-Scratchy style pain, again and again and again. Often, the only way to figure out how an obstacle works is to get killed a few times in a series of morbid experiments.

But since what we’re navigating is clearly an out-of-body state, it actually makes more sense that we just keep getting thrown back into the grinder over and over. There are no other game conventions present — no levels, no health bars, no hints to help us along — but because of its premise, the cycle of dying and retrying feels like part of the intent of the game instead of a convention being used as a crutch. In this abstract, disorienting, frightening world, it’s fitting that we’d be tortured by various evils, in the hope that every death teaches us something that brings us a little closer to salvation. That’s what limbo is for.

Not to say these are the only highlights of Limbo. The art style is gorgeous in its stark black and white. Puzzles that start off maddeningly obtuse end up incredibly satisfying once we’ve cracked their secrets (Kirk at Gamer Melodico detailed perfectly the one and only puzzle that frustrated me to the point of seeking help). And though it’s short, it falls into the elite group of games that only feel quick because they’re so engaging we can’t put them down. The classics that have great ideas, pack them in tight, and then end before overstaying their welcome. What makes this game truly special though is the bold choice to avoid any pretension of depicting a real world, and taking us along into someone else’s limbo. Even if we don’t know anything about this boy, we certainly feel his fear, feel his pain, and feel his need to get back to something real. How surprising that in the universe of made-up game worlds, something that’s so willfully unreal does such a better job at making us feel something genuine.

Avatar had sufficiently charmed me leading up to this point — at least enough to find myself thirteen episodes deep into an anime-inspired Nickelodeon series — mainly by subverting my expectations. Here we have a show about teen heroes with the ability to control the elements, who inevitably have to use those powers to save the day. Shades of Captain Planet come to mind, a comparison which no show would ask for. But instead of campy feel-good environmentalism, Avatar employs these elements artfully, mixing a mysticism inspired by Eastern spirituality with the fluid fight choreography of Asian wire-fu cinema. The resulting dynamic allows for gripping action sequences, while telling meaningful stories in a fantasy world that stays grounded in its own logic. (As we discussed on our recent podcast, it would make a hell of a movie, if handled properly by the right people.)

Other potential kids’ show pitfalls are deftly sidestepped as well. The obligatory “And the moral of the story is…” moments are occasionally present, but tied in to the characters’ ongoing development in a way that feels earned rather than forced. Slapstick gags with Hanna Barbera sound effects are routinely employed, but for more than just cheap laughs, often bringing a character back down to earth when they become too serious or self-centered.

However, “a tolerable level of shtick” is not a very strong recommendation. Nor does being less shrill and shallow than other kid-safe cartoons make Avatar worth watching. Hence the revelatory moment in “The Blue Spirit” — the moment during which I fully realized that all the things the show does very right outweigh the litany of things it merely avoids doing wrong.

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The scene in question comes after a mysterious stranger rescues Aang, the titular Last Airbender, from captivity in an evil Firebender fortress (’bending’ being this world’s term for controlling earth, air, fire, or water). During their escape, circumstances force them to work together (teamwork, kids!), and in a climactic plot twist, the stranger’s identity is revealed as Aang pulls him to safety.

What follows is not an intense showdown. There is no screaming argument, or a giant gasp of a cliffhanger. Instead, the two share a quiet character-building moment, and Aang flees. But after this small scene of surprising maturity, we won’t look at either character in the same way for the duration of the series.

It’s moments like this that put A:TLAB among the best programming for kids or adults. Even if it is simplified for a younger crowd, it treats its audience like they have brains. It’s willing to have a quiet moment when the expectation is a bombastic conflict, and assumes we have the patience to get involved with the characters as human beings, not just action figures. The kung-fu sequences, though impressive, are woven into the dramatic arc of the characters, as opposed to the typical kids’ formula — flimsy plots that only serve to move characters from one fight to another. Like any good serial, it plays to the strengths of the TV format; any single episode plays like a tightly scripted short film, but also works as part of a larger arc in which characters grow and learn and change.

Aang himself is a surprisingly relatable protagonist. He may be a tween with glowing arrow tattoos and supernatural gymnastic skills, but in a way, he’s also a hero perfectly fit for the millennial generation: thrust into a world of adult responsibilities at a too-young age, pressured to learn how that world works as quickly as possible, and expected to solve the problems of the generation before him — problems he had no hand in creating. All this while trying to hold on to his inherent optimism, or sneak in some goofing around wherever he can (perhaps appropriately, he displays the occasional A.D.D. symptom typical of this generation as well). He gives the show its childlike innocence, but also allows us to follow a prototypical coming of age story dressed up in epic tribal conflict.

Though it took one skillfully handled moment to fully crystallize my appreciation for the show, a full season has me convinced there’s no shame in loving Avatar. It stands up to favorites like my personal benchmark, Batman: The Animated Series, for great storytelling in short form animation. It’s made by a team that obviously loves its characters and wants us to share that affection, to the point where seeing Aang blush when a girl is nice to him evokes grins, not groans. It even tops some of its anime peers like Bleach, another teens-saving-the-world epic I watched compulsively, but whose manga style feels more like an action soap opera than an enriching narrative. I may be only one season in, but it doesn’t take long to see that Avatar: The Last Airbender will go down as one of the greats.

Now I have tickets to see it tomorrow night. The time has finally come. And as the floodgate on reviews was opened this week, most of the buzz is spectacular. Every indication is that film fans, action fans, mystery fans — and especially Nolan fans — are in for a real treat.

But while all us geeks are shivering with excitement, there’s an undercurrent of counter-buzz that makes my blood boil. Normally I’d relegate this to a snarky tweet linking to headlines like, “Is Inception Too Smart for Audiences?” or “Will Inception Be Christopher Nolan’s First Big Flop?”, but my frustration can’t be contained in a 140 character burst.

To be fair, a lot of these posts contain their own counter-arguments, matching doubts about the marketability of the movie with high praise for its quality. It’s probably true that a lot of smart people who liked Inception are just trying to look smarter by predicting it’ll be over the heads of a lot of “typical moviegoers”, or that the obtuse advertising has failed to lure in the average Joe.

But Jesus Christ, why take part in this self-fulfilling prophecy?! Anyone who writes about movies is disheartened by film criticism’s waning influence on what people actually pay to go see, constantly wondering if what they do is relevant in an age of overwhelming access to media. They call Transformers a giant piece of shit but it breaks box office records anyway. Meanwhile, all their festival favorites struggle to even get on screens in Iowa.

Yet here is their one single chance, in a summer chock full of commercial filler, to unequivocally say of a movie they admire, “This is a great, great film. Go see it and you won’t be disappointed,” and they hedge their bets by saying it might not sell in flyover country. Hey, geniuses, maybe it’s because you’re preemptively warning people they’ll just be confused, while feeding into the stereotype of pretentious film critics whose tastes are horribly out of touch?

Add to that the other maddening stereotype of middle America as a bunch of drooling simpletons that will only pay money to watch white heroes blow up racially ambiguous bad guys, and they’re making matters even worse. I’m not suggesting those people don’t exist — I know they do, I’ve stood behind them in grocery checkout lines in several states — but the reality is that they exist everywhere. There are plenty of sharp film lovers in St Louis and Omaha, just like there are plenty of Cheeto-eating dimwits in New York and Los Angeles. And guess what, those people respond best to TV ads during Cops re-runs in which a sassy comeback ending in an expletive gets cut off by something exploding.

Which is to say, your opinion will never reach them. So for the rest of us who value quality and the opinion of professionals, please, can you maybe afford the general public the benefit of the doubt?

I haven’t seen Inception yet, but I’m guessing I’ll really like it. Let’s not make that out as a way to earn some sort of intellectual merit badge. Let’s give credit where credit is due: a talented director making a brilliant film that lots of people will love. Writers, please, use what small powers you have for good. Praising genuinely good films that don’t condescend to their viewers, and getting lots of our friends to go see them, is the only way we can hope to get the next Inception.

As usual, write in with comments or questions on anything we discuss here or you’d want us to discuss next time, and we’ll try to read and respond to them on the next episode. Either in the comments section below or via email, we love getting feedback. If you like listening (or even if you don’t), don’t be afraid to leave a review in the iTunes store either.

Download The Under Culture Podcast #10 - I’m Sick of Carrying This Crown

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(Show notes below…)

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Two things that need to stop: imagining 3D is a valid reason to see a movie (or make one, for that matter), and replacing letters in a title with numbers. So please, stand up for good taste by skipping Step Up: 3D and 5inal Destination. For Saw 3D, whose tagline — not title, it turns out — is “The Traps Come Alive”, we shouldn’t even have to tell you not to bother. You’ll be laughing too hard to buy a ticket.

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Sleigh Bells’ delightfully distorted debut, Treats, is out now on N.E.E.T. Recordings. Love it intensely, then set it free. (At least it’ll stay entertaining longer than their promo website.) Though the HARD LA fest they were supposed to play this month was canceled, maybe they’ll have better luck at Pitchfork or HARD NY.

The new album by The National, High Violet, however, is all kinds of soulful goodness that should last you well into autumn. Get it on 4AD or catch them touring for basically the rest of the year.

Don’t count out The Black Keys‘ new album Brothers, either. It’ll sneak up on you, just you wait. Nonesuch Records has the goods and the plentiful tour dates.

Music Breaks:
1. Sleigh Bells - Crown on the Ground
2. The Black Keys - Tighten Up
3. The National - Bloodbuzz Ohio

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For a well-written war story that we’re predicting you’ll be hearing more about come award season, check out Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes, from Grove/Atlantic.

If you’re up for some of the best fantasy storytelling of this generation, check out the first volume of George R.R. Martin’s massive Song of Ice and Fire series, A Game of Thrones. It’s available from Bantam in mass market paperback for like 8 bucks, and for 800 gripping pages, it’s an excellent summer pick.

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Allow us to reinforce that we in no way recommend seeing the recent movie, but instead going directly back to the excellent Nickelodeon series Avatar: The Last Airbender. They’ve recently released beautiful collectors’ editions of all three seasons, and the full series is available on Netflix Watch Instantly too.

Anyone hesitant to plunge into multiple seasons of a kids’ show should give it a chance; it’s charming and fun, has excellent fight sequences, and actually gets into some pretty adult themes. Try sampling a few great episodes from season one like “Imprisoned”, “Jet”, or “The Storm” to get a sense of how good it can be without getting too far into the main narrative.

And whether or not it brings back flashes of teen awkwardness for everyone else the same way it does for me, it’s good to know that Daria: The Complete Series is finally available on DVD. Sure, the classic 90’s music cues aren’t the same, but thankfully the acerbic wit is all still there.

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As for Lost, what can we really say that hasn’t already been said? Though if you missed our season finale write-up, it may be worth re-visiting now that we’ve all had some time to cool down.

The point is, mainstream films are so heavily marketed and buzzed about, there are rarely any true surprises. That’s one of the reasons this year’s Exit Through the Gift Shop was such a remarkable breath of fresh air (and that’s all I’ll say until everyone has gone out and seen it). And it’s that potential for surprise that makes me such a fan of the Los Angeles Film Festival. With a carefully programmed bill of small, foreign, or pre-release movies, I really am choosing films based on short descriptions, having maybe read a stray comment on a movie blog, or possibly clicked on a brief teaser. For once, I have the chance to be completely floored by something — or, sure, totally bored and disappointed — but either way, when those lights go down, it’s an exciting feeling.

So in the interest of preserving that experience for my fellow film lovers, here are brief thoughts on what I was able to catch at last week’s film fest. No lengthy summaries or detailed analysis, but enough directional guidance so that anyone looking for a little surprise and delight can track down the films that really floored me this year. (Or conversely, know which ones are safe to catch on home video).

Six capsule reviews — ranked from fair to fantastic — after the break…

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The New Year

To be fair, this is the movie I imagine every young indie filmmaker has to get out of their system. It’s the story of a smart, quirky, adorable twenty-something trapped in their not-very-happening home town. This plucky, misunderstood youth is held back by circumstance, not quite believing in themselves, but certainly too special to stay there and settle for a pedestrian life. We all want to see ourselves as this character, so it’s an almost irresistible premise for any creative person.

And this version works as well as it can. The lo-fi film-making and unhurried pace are buoyed by terrific original music and an amazing lead actress named Trieste Kelly Dunn. In fact, she has so much presence, it’s as if she’s in a different film than the rest of the cast, who for better or worse are mostly underdeveloped and not nearly as talented or captivating. A cute, enjoyable film, but mostly worth catching for the promise it shows for a young director and a potentially breakout future indie darling.

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Cafe Noir

Let’s be blunt: if a movie clocks in at over three hours, it’s already starting from a disadvantage. Yes, this Korean art film on the trials of love lost and won and lost again has a lot going for it. In fact, at least half of the film is mesmerizing — beautifully shot and deliberately paced, at times awkwardly funny, at others philosophical á la Waking Life or Slackers, with a few brilliant scenes that could have come from a Todd Solondz movie, none of which are bad things.

But what could have been a skilled two hours becomes an indulgent three. We’re taken down meandering paths like moped rides and dance numbers that drag out minutes beyond their usefulness. At around the halfway point, there’s even a pan down a city street that literally goes on for nearly five minutes. It’s like a dare… will we keep watching? How about now? You thought it was over, but now there’s this! Then this! Are you getting all these cinematic references? The director, a Korean film critic making his debut behind the camera, may have wanted a little too badly to prove his skill in every genre and style all at once. Unfortunately the film is weighed down by his ambitions, which take it from a pleasure to a chore, probably only tolerable to the most studious art-film fans.

(Incidentally, a few nights later I had a dream where I realized that for the second half of the movie, the main character was actually dead and wandering the streets as a ghost or manifestation of death. Though that would have made for a more interesting viewing, I don’t think the film bears out that interpretation, and the dream was just my subconscious trying to justify my staying to watch the full three hours of art-film wankery. Ah well.)

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Monsters

The small amount of buzz around this movie I had heard was that it was made for something like $15 grand, despite being a sci-fi monster movie, with comparisons to Neill Blomkamp’s District 9. Though the money point may be true, go ahead and put those other expectations to rest right now. This movie isn’t anywhere near as exciting, funny, profound, or polished as my favorite movie of 2009.

I don’t say this to be harsh, but to be helpful, because once those standards are set back to normal, it’s actually pretty amazing what Monsters accomplishes with so little resources. The horror is mostly fear of the unknown, the sci-fi less about special effects than the gritty realities of traversing an infested countryside, and the real story more about two characters building a relationship under pressure. Appreciated on that level, it’s a pretty impressive piece of work. Personally, I would have liked it to commit a little more to either the scary side or the human side, as it seems to do both adequately and neither superbly, but still. 15 thousand dollars. I should be glad it was in focus.

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Animal Kingdom

Now we’re into the choice bits, like this confident, slow-burning drama about a family of Australian criminals. Don’t expect a caper movie here though. This is definitely born more from the solid Scorsese/Sopranos side of the gangster family than its wilder Ritchie/Underbelly cousins. Here it’s all about the characters, and boy do they leap off the screen. The protective matriarch. The fiendish elder brother, and his out-of-control younger sibling. The nephew that gets caught in their web. Stellar performances all around, with a bonus Guy Pierce appearance as the investigator trying to break them.

There’s nothing revolutionary about the setup or the conclusion — other than the accents being Aussie instead of Italian, and the stage being more suburban than glamourous — but when it’s executed this strongly, I’m glad they didn’t try to reinvent the wheel. I’d prefer to just sit back and watch a damn well-made wheel go for a strong, steady spin.

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Mandrill

The most pleasant surprise of the festival for me was this Chilean action treat. Think James Bond’s suaveness with some Transporter-style brawling — apparently all real stunts by charismatic lead actor Marko Zaror — with a knowing coat of Shaft-esque camp. It’s self-aware enough to where it never feels cheesy, the action sequences are well-choreographed and understandable (unlike the majority of today’s too-close shaky-cam garbage), and it just oozes charm all around.

It’s a movie that was obviously made with a lot of love by someone who just wants to show us a good time, and good god does it succeed. Plus, by following a present-day badass hitman and intercutting with his real personal life and history, it manages to be sweet and funny and human while never dropping its terrific pace (I’m looking at you, final act of Casino Royale). If we’re lucky enough to get this on screens in the US, I can 100% recommend catching it.

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Four Lions

‘Audacious’ is not a term I get to use often enough when it comes to movies. Sadly, neither is ‘fucking hilarious’. Luckily, Four Lions is both. Here we have a farcical comedy about a group of inept, misguided wanna-be suicide bombers in Britain that by all accounts shouldn’t work. It’s a touchy subject, obviously. It centers around people in society that we’re programmed, justifiably, to hate. And really the concept seems too uncomfortable to be all that ripe for humor.

And yet this genius piece of satire overcomes all of that. It smartly gets into why each of these characters has chosen this path, but not in the heavy-handed way a slew of documentaries before it have done. The writing is spectacular, and if the same jokes were built around any other subject, the film would simply be a gleeful stooge act. Yet by challenging us to laugh at, and possibly even sympathize with these buffoons, a whip-smart, thought-provoking film comes out of this unlikely premise. I don’t expect many people to approve of the idea going in, and I imagine many won’t quite know how to feel coming out, but Four Lions gets to the core of what comedy is capable of: using laughter to get us to think about the unfortunate truths we may not want to face.

Definitely the highlight of the show for me, and a strong contender for my best of the year pick, I very much urge people to see this movie if they can. I’d especially love to hear what more people think of it.

Meanwhile, back at home, those of us not invited to the electronic entertainment orgy that’s clogging our twitter feeds are busy finishing up one of the medium’s most impressive achievements in Red Dead Redemption — the game that does sprawling in a way that redefines “open world”. With gorgeous vistas that stretch on forever, ambient sounds of wildlife punctuated by pistol fire, and chance encounters with strangers on dusty roads, the details of Red Dead are so masterfully executed, they create a space that feels genuinely alive. The sensation of being transported to this world eclipses what’s come before. This is a world worth absorbing, worth getting lost in.

And yet after weeks of travel across Red Dead’s wide expanses, and now days of being tantalized by the flashy gizmos of tomorrow, what I find myself wishing for are more games like Machinarium.

Machinarium is short, taking a handful of play sessions to finish, or maybe a full day with some dedication. It’s simple, too. Built in Flash out of of fully hand-drawn 2D art, there aren’t many moving pieces. Players control a cute little robot in a gorgeously depicted steam-punk robot city, progressing from screen to screen by solving mind puzzles. The story, told mainly through animated thought-bubble flashbacks, is equally simple: some robot bullies captured his robot girlfriend and he wants to get her back.

The game works so well with just these basic elements because of its focus. The aesthetic isn’t overstuffed with show-offy level designs; the creators obviously had a vision for a world and they built it beautifully. The controls are classic adventure game style; click to walk somewhere, then click objects to use them. The rest is a matter of brain power, not a raft of complicated moves or tricky interfaces. And the characters, though only animated in the most rudimentary cartoon way, have more personality and charm than any number of action game heroes.

In a strange way, it reminded me of Braid, or even Portal (another game I’ve been replaying recently now that my Mac can run Steam). It’s a tight, short, delightful package that’s over before it starts dragging on with a bunch of dead weight. With Machinarium, I laughed more at a few robots dancing than I did at any of the caricatures in the first half of Red Dead’s wild west tale. In the same way, I was more captivated by the artistry of its static backgrounds than I was by a bombastic trailer for the next Call of Duty game.

Those big companies are more than welcome to keep experimenting with bigger and more impressive things, trying to wow me. I like being wowed too. But what I’m really excited about are the little projects like Machinarium, where a small team with a vision executes a flawless little piece of art.

Fans immediately went into a frenzy, passing judgment on whether the big conclusion was worth the years of buildup, and arguing over what this big island epic really meant in the end. However, an equally interesting point of discussion may be what it meant for us as TV viewers, and how this ground-breaking show, no matter what the moral of the story was, has changed the face of television. In a post-Lost world, its real legacy may not be the philosophic points it made, but what a show like this makes possible in the years to come. After all, the series may have had its flaws, but a flawed masterpiece is better than no masterpiece at all.

[Series spoilers to follow.]

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(Indulge me, if you will, on a tangent before we continue. The final episode of Lost was an incredibly skilled piece of television craftsmanship. It let us have euphoric moments of emotional release with each of a cast of characters we’d grown to love over the years, and that’s about the best we can hope for from a team trying to end a long-running series.

However, I would have changed the final 10 minutes in a small way: make the show less overtly spiritual. With a small bit of maneuvering, the “faith” the show spent so much time harping on could have been a faith in the goodness of humanity instead of a literal, glowing, afterlife happy place. Instead of revealing that the “Sideways” world was some pit stop on the highway to heaven, let the mystical Lost universe keep one foot grounded in the sci-fi reality it had cultivated. Would it have been that different to frame the Sideways world as an actual alternate reality, and let the characters leap from one reality to the next? They’ve already time traveled, fought living smoke, intentionally set off an H-bomb to reset their time-space continuum, seen and spoken with ghosts, watched entire landmasses disappear before their eyes, and raised the dead on more than one occasion. Is inter-dimensional transfer of consciousness any more of a cop-out than an extra-dimensional spiritual class reunion?

All of season six, I was personally rooting for a scenario in which the characters who learned the lessons they were brought to the Island to learn were given a choice. Let Rose and Bernard, who chose to stay on the Island, live out their twilight years the way they saw fit. Let the candidates who realized their mistakes in one world complete their personal journeys by leaping into a world where they’re rewarded with a shot at happiness. Not a fully clean slate, having had their epiphanies in the alternate world and learned of their Island travails, but a chance to live the way they should have. Otherwise, being brought to the Island really was just a long, drawn-out punishment. In the existing scenario, they’re not happy until they’re dead. Jack died alone (cuddling with a cute dog, sure, but that was a bit cheap). Sayid died honorably, but as a zombie nonetheless. Jin and Sun drowned and left an orphan child behind. Locke was tragically strangled to death by Ben, who now gets to live out his years as Hurley’s island VP (imagine that awkward dynamic). Kate and Sawyer get to go home, sure, but without the people they loved most.

A more satisfying conclusion would have had them all hopping into the light and being transported sideways into a better life: a reward for all the bullshit and Dharma food they’ve had to put up with for so long. The moral of my revised ending wouldn’t be, “Be good and you’ll be rewarded after you die”, but “Realize your flaws and make a new life for yourself with the knowledge you’ve gained”. That, I could have got behind 100%. Plus, it would have gelled more with my understanding of the show’s faith vs reason dynamic.)

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Okay, I just had to get that out.

But whether you agree or disagree with where the finale in particular or the show as a whole decided to take us, think for a second why you had the reaction you did. The reason it’s even possible to be so strongly disappointed in Lost, or become such a passionate defender, is because it’s the most ambitious undertaking in TV history, a show that aimed extremely high and pulled viewers into a gripping universe. This team put together a mystery and a character study, a family drama, a sci-fi fantasy and an exotic action series all at once. If there’s reason to be disappointed, it’s only because they attempted the impossible and did a B+ job at it.

Look at the topics touched on even in my short hypothetical. Life and death, science and faith, time, consequence, redemption, relationships. Whether we’re satisfied or not, Lost proved that a complex show that deals in big ideas can grow a loyal, passionate following. Especially when they focus on quality storytelling. The times in their arc that the fans cite as low points were narrative experiments that didn’t really work out — an understandable side effect of attempting such a grand project. But when Lost was at its best (and centered on its strongest characters, like Locke, Desmond, or Ben), we got some of the best hours of network television ever produced.

Add to that the fact that Lost is the only show in recent memory, possibly ever, that prompts this much debate on “What it all means”. It’s the only show that invites, some might even say requires, serious exegesis to fully digest. Lost was packed with detail and allusion. People analyzed Lost like no other series. They cited world mythology and classic literature in figuring out its symbolism. All for a TV show.

For those of us who fantasize about having salon-style discussions with our smart friends, wittily dissecting meaningful works of fiction over cocktails, but are never able to get more than one person to finish the same book in a month, Lost was the closest we came. Conversations between Losties are more akin to comparative lit class than water cooler banter, and that’s an admirable accomplishment. We’ll be lucky to have any other show try something as worthy of sinking our intellectual teeth into, even if this particular work wasn’t the definitive example it could have been.

So is there reason to be upset at Lost? Maybe. We can see now that some narrative branches were dead ends, and a few loose threads defy the show’s ultimate logic. For the die-hard fans that had faith in a flawless master plan, there is an element of let-down. But looking back at all the spectacular scenes of human emotion, the deliciously blunt cliffhangers and the debates that raged as a result, I can’t help but be grateful for what Lost did pull off, and hope that in a TV studio somewhere there’s a team right now saying, “We want to do what Lost did, only learn from their mistakes and do it even better.” And I want to live in a reality where they succeed.

As usual, write in with comments or questions on anything we discuss here or you’d want us to discuss next time, and we’ll try to read and respond to them on the next episode. Either in the comments section below or via email, we love getting feedback. If you like listening (or even if you don’t), don’t be afraid to leave a review in the iTunes store either.

Download The Under Culture Podcast #9 - I Promise, There Won’t Be Any Soccer

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(Show notes below…)

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To be fair, iPads may be the perfect solution for some people. Steve Jobs’s harsh words on Adobe’s Flash do seem a bit excessive though.

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If you’re a fan of games like Risk or Diplomacy, and are prepared to undergo a fair amount of stress and potential strain on your social life, do check out the outer space strategy game Neptune’s Pride. It may be a bit maddening, but it’s also sort of brilliant.

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This month’s podcast title is totally true. Though it is about the trials and tribulations of a football manager in the UK, there is almost no soccer in The Damned United, and it is an excellent film. It’s out now on DVD, and worth the time even for non-sports fans.

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The New Pornographers new album, Together, is out now on Matador Records, and they’re doing lots of touring this summer. Truly one of the greats.

We may not have agreed on the Broken Bells self-titled album (out now from Sony), but you’ve got to give them credit for trying something new, and that single is still pretty fantastic. You can catch them on tour this month too.

The Monitor by Titus Andronicus may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it sure does have energy. Unfortunately they’re off touring Europe right now, but you can get their album from XL Recordings or check out their extensive blog. The story of their run-in with the Vice crowd is worth checking out.

Pavement is playing live shows again. There is nothing not awesome about that, so check out their tour schedule and don’t miss the chance you never got when you were too young and/or lame to see them in their heyday.

Music Breaks:
1. Broken Bells - The High Road
2. Titus Andronicus - A More Perfect Union
3. The New Pornographers - Your Hands (Together)
4. Pavement - In The Mouth a Desert

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If you like books, mysteries, coming of age stories or slight touches of fantasy, Carlos Ruiz Zafon takes all those things and spins them into an excellent page-turner with The Shadow of the Wind.

If you’re sick of reading about the quagmires we’re stuck in today, why not check out the critically acclaimed Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes. We might discuss it on our next podcast, and you could join in.

If you’re looking for something lighter and of the tough-as-nails dude kicking ass variety, the new Jack Reacher novel, 61 Hours, comes out this month as well.

I hope this message finds you well, with crops unwithered and golden eggs piled high. I know it’s not our custom to correspond in letters, but lately my mind is weighed down with thoughts too heavy for a simple sign post. What follows may not be as cheerful as yet another mystery box, or be as profitable as a field of freshly grown Super Pumpkins. But it is my hope that the seeds planted with this letter may, in time, blossom into something of more lasting value.

I remember first coming to Farmville, being enchanted by the wide open spaces and the opportunity they represented. Finally I’d have a chance to carve out a space of my own, a twelve-by-twelve plot square on which to earn a modest living. I’d reap the bounty of nature by the sweat of my brow and in doing so, return to a simpler way of life. The idyllic scene played out in my mind like a soothing song on a gentle summer breeze.

What I’ve come to realize, fellow farmers, is that the hypnotic power of that playful tune has lulled us into a stupor. What we’re really hearing is the endlessly looping elevator music as we descend into agricultural hell. Overly dramatic? Maybe. But that’s exactly what we need to snap us out of our trances. Please, put down your backhoes, bear with me for a moment, and ask yourselves: what have we become?

When I arrived here in the great rush of ‘09, it sounded so perfect. Tend to your little patch of paradise, be lavished with gifts from all your friends, and build up your homestead any way you can imagine. I didn’t quite understand the appeal of elephant-shaped topiaries, or if tractors with flames on the side were any better at pulling in rows of wheat, but I figured live and let live. The truth is, there’s a simple satisfaction in tilling soil, planting seeds, and harvesting crops once they’ve grown. In no time, I thought, I’d have a farm I could be proud of. It seemed like honest work.

But soon a vicious cycle takes over. A terrible urge takes hold. Cornstalks as high as an elephant hedge’s eye aren’t enough; we’re driven to mow them down and replant as quickly as possible. After all, it’s the only way to maximize turnaround time and increase profits. Soon our sole motivation is to produce more so we can buy more, expand more so we can make more money. We work for weeks, months even — which in Farmville time feels like years — just to afford a simple house. I’ve been here for what seems like ages and still call a tent with a lawn chair “home”. What kind of a dream is that? This isn’t the life of a storybook farmer; this is indentured servitude.

Like anywhere outside of Farmville, we glimpse the grand estates of others, thinking if we just work hard enough, we too can have what they have. Little do we know that those successes come with a price. Some are born into money, with limitless resources to pour into their farms; their manors grow with little effort required and nothing truly accomplished beyond a feeling of superiority. Others are such tireless workers that for all their rows of blossoming trees and spacious three-story villas, they sit and survey their kingdom wondering what happened to their lives, and if their vast collection of holiday-themed lawn ornaments was worth the price of their souls.

What I’m hoping you’ll come to understand, as I have, is that in becoming successful farmers, we’ve given up our humanity. Whether we preside over a small patch of dirt or a sprawling estate, we’ve lost sight of the chilling fact that we’re stuck in a lonely square for all eternity. We exchange gifts in an endless cycle of self-serving generosity, conveying desperation more than friendship. We are neighbors only to the extent that we complete menial tasks for one another, yet are denied the simple pleasure of a friendly handshake or hello.

Mayor Zynga may frown upon heavy reading (what does it tell you that Farmville has schoolhouses, but no teachers; libraries, but no books?), but I am reminded of a philosopher I enjoyed in my university days — that now-treasured time of self-improvement before I arrived in this village. This man spoke of living life not as individuals with the freedom of conscious thought, but as automatons going through the motions of the roles we assign ourselves. He called this acting in bad faith.

He also described what he called ‘failed dreams of completion’. Consciously, we seek to rid ourselves of the obligations imposed by our role in society. We hope that by fulfilling the tasks required of us, we will once again be free, eventually reaching an ideal state that allows us to be content. Yet that freedom eludes us because those roles we choose are self-perpetuating as long as we participate in them.

Are these not the very walls we’ve willingly created for ourselves here in Farmville? Are prison bars any less constricting when they look like white picket fences?

I beg you, neighbors, take a look at your stables, your flocks, your patchwork fields of ripening produce, and ask the question: why? Maybe you prefer the comfortable routine of planting and harvesting, and are happy to commit to a life of mindless labor. But the farmers I grew up respecting also had purpose: providing for their family, putting food on the tables of their townspeople. We here in Farmville have no family, no town, no purpose. We never enjoy the taste of a freshly plucked grape, never share our table with kith or kin, and will not one day die knowing we’ve contributed to the betterment of this world.

My cousins in Simsville don’t lead the most exciting lives, but at least their days are broken up by social calls, mealtimes, romances or conflicts. They lead lives. We here in Farmville, I’m not so sure.

In fact, it’s somewhat suspicious that for all our hours of labor, all our time in that constantly blaring sun overhead, and all our days, months, years here in Farmville, we retain our youthful looks and never-faltering smiles. The weather never turns dark, and our bodies never grow weak. We never experience the slightest hardship, as long as we diligently tend to our farms for all eternity. The song on the breeze may be cheerful, the sun may always shine, but does that mean this a paradise?

I write this knowing there is no road out of Farmville but the one most of us are too scared to take. You may continue saving up for that new barn, but I, for one, have sold my final squash. I thank you, my neighbors, for sending those parts to the stable I never finished building, and hope you don’t blame yourselves for my decision to give up this life. I only hope that one day we meet again, face to face, like the men we were meant to be.

So long, and thanks for all the fertilizer,

Farmer Brian

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A few notes:

While writing this article, a friend linked to an excellent academic analysis at afeeld called “Cultivated Play: Farmville”, discussing why people play Farmville and what the implications are. Hint: not very good.

This essay was partly inspired by, obviously, playing and then quitting Farmville, but also the discussion around a recent DICE speech by Jesse Schell on the future of games. All very interesting stuff.

Also, it may be handy to reference the wiki page on Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, as it was certainly easier to do so in writing this than flipping through the 800-page book.