Call of Duty: Burning Stuff

I have a confession to make. Call of Duty: World at War is my very first World War 2 based shooter. In fact, my first foray into the world of testosterone fueled, realistically portrayed war games didn’t occur until I picked up Call of Duty 4 last year at the behest of a couple of friends who were addicted to its crack-laced multiplayer mode. To be honest, I had planned on allowing Call of Duty 4 to serve as both the beginning and the end to this chapter in my life.

Then, everything changed when Nazi Zombie mode was announced.

To say that I love zombies is a largely inaccurate statement. In fact, the very title of this article implies something not entirely true. If it were, perhaps, to read “The Things I Do for the Chance to Violently End the Second Lives of the Walking Dead,” the roots of my obsession might begin to show a little. But as things go, design standards stand between me and any potentially perfect title beyond thirty-five characters.

At any rate, the game promised to alleviate my insatiable desire to plug zombies in the skull with an assortment of projectile weapons – the added bonus of course being their previous occupation as nazis before succumbing to their own unending need for brains and such – and I was sold.

Having poured far more time into Call of Duty 4’s multiplayer mode than I had ever imagined I could, I started up a new game on “Hardened” difficulty, under the assumption that the second hardest difficulty setting would provide the challenge I needed to get through the single player campaign without getting bored so I could unlock sweet sweet Nazi Zombie mode.

Call of Duty: Sneaking Around

And so I began going through the motions under Corporal Kiefer Sutherland’s selfless leadership, shouting antiquated racial slurs each time I was sent back to my last checkpoint by a suspiciously well thrown grenade or a bullet that I could swear must have snaked around several corners in order to find me, but enjoying myself nonetheless. Sure, the difficulty would spike every once in a while, but it had an almost 8-bit era charm to it. Besides, zombies were waiting for me.

These spikes, however, became increasingly more difficult, and worse, more frequent. As my frustration with the game rose to new heights, its flaws became more prominent. Hearing the word “bonsai” began to cultivate a genocidal hatred of the virtual Japanese that populated the world of Call of Duty: World at War. I found myself comparing the game I was playing more and more to Call of Duty 4, really the only benchmark I had to compare it to. While it does share nearly all of its strengths (pretty, tight controls) and weaknesses (infinite respawns, uneven difficulty), it not only does little to improve upon the previous entry in the series, but also suffers from weaker level design and a considerably less compelling plot. But by the time this all began to set in, I felt I had invested too much time into the “Hardened” campaign to regress back to an easier difficulty*. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of zombies.

*Incidentally, this is the same reason that I still watch Lost.

Call of Duty: Setting Japanese Relations Back Sixty Years

It’s easy to go on about Treyarch’s shortcomings in Call of Duty: World at War when compared to its critically acclaimed Infinity Ward developed older brother. So let’s talk about the things I did like. Like Call of Duty 4, the gimmick levels (sniping, vehicles) are a fun change of pace for the most part. Kiefer Sutherland and Gary Oldman deliver unsurprisingly phenomenal vocal performances. I am in love with the gorgeous graphics and incredibly smooth frame rate that this engine is capable of. Burning trees, grass, and dudes never gets old. Having finally gotten around to it, I can tell you that mutiplayer is a blast too. It’s nearly identical to Call of Duty 4 in this respect, but with era-appropriate technology and the addition of limited use vehicles. But most importantly, there is the promise of zombies at the end of the game and you are soulless, likely a zombie yourself, if you cannot appreciate that.

Drawing near the end of the game I had so tirelessly trudged through, I began to reflect on the overall experience during one of the relative lulls in combat. I became maniacally ecstatic over the fact that wholesale zombie slaughter was right around the corner, my resolve stronger than ever. But as I fixed my bayonet and charged forth, died, tried to clear the same area with a sniper rifle, died, rocket launcher, died, molotov cocktail, died, machine gun, and died again, my conviction began to dissipate. The Reich was less than five scripted events away from falling, yet I found myself about to give up hope. I realized just how many times I had witnessed the same exact scene unfold before my virtual eyes, heard the same lines of recorded dialogue spewed on cue, and seen my same brothers in arms lose alarmingly large pieces of their bodies. For what? For zombies. And with that, I pushed on harder than ever before, determined to kill the relentlessly evil German fucks standing in my way with the thought of blasting apart their ambling reanimated corpses fueling the fire inside.

A graph depicting game completion vs fun and difficulty

In the end, my berserker rage paid off. Before I knew it, the credits were rolling and the game dumped me straight into Nazi Zombie mode as a reward. So was it worth it? Hell yes it was worth it. I could have played on a lower difficulty, but would I then be as prepared as I now was to deal with the undead? I am a zombie death machine thanks to my time in the trenches. Nazi Zombie mode could have shipped with more than one map, but the one that it does come with is so very well put together that I really can’t complain. Besides, Left 4 Dead is coming out soon, and once I sink my teeth into that, it’s likely that no one will ever hear from me again anyway.

Thanks to Eye Weekly, I had the chance to see an advance screening of the latest Kevin Smith flick, the concisely titled Zack and Miri Make a Porno. In case the marketing push / picture above didn’t tell you, The movie is a collaboration between slacker icons Smith and Seth Rogen, two comedians who deal with the same subject matter of pop culture-spouting low-ambition adults in markedly different ways, Smith favoring the long, drawn-out discourse and Rogen the rapid-fire throwaway reference. (Both love the dick jokes, though.) This clash of styles adversely affects the resulting ninetysomething minutes, but ultimately, the movie manages to entertain enough to be worth a watch.

Let’s get this out of the way as soon as possible: the romantic dialogue is awful in this movie. As expected, the plot follows the same fight-with-then-win-back-the-girl-with-a-speech premise that you’ve probably already seen in Mallrats or Knocked Up, but the execution is nowhere near as nerdily endearing or as well-written as either of the two. Smith tries to break from convention in where he chooses to stage the aforementioned conversations, but it’s not enough to distract from how and cliché the delivery of “but I know now that I love you” plays out. Rogen, who plays Zack, and his co-star Elizabeth Banks, as Miri, have great chemistry together— but only as friends. Sparks don’t exactly fly between the two by the point that they’re supposed to be attracted to each other, and how the movie arrives at said point is absolutely ludicrous. The one redeeming factor of the romance in the film is the one scene that makes excellent use of The Pixies’ Hey.

As a result, the best part of the movie is before the idea to make a fuck flick and the resulting romantic tension comes into play, as Zack and Miri attend their high school reunion. It’s here that we get the obligatory gratuitous cameo from Kevin Smith’s wife, but also where we get a stellar cameo by Justin Long, who steps outside his traditional role as straight man and delivers a flamingly fine performance as an old high school acquaintance’s new boyfriend. The movie is packed with appearances from both Rogen and Smith’s friend circles, most notably Jason Mewes (who we see quite a bit of) and Craig Robinson (who is ridiculously funny as Zack’s beleaguered coworker, but, unsettlingly, often comes off as an outlet for the black jokes Smith couldn’t make in movies past).

The leadup and preparation for the titular film is likewise hilarious— the movie only begins to drag when the shooting starts. Here, the jokes don’t come as fast or as satisfying, despite the best efforts of the suupporting cast. Jeff Anderson (Randal from Clerks) is suitably cynical as Deacon, the man behind the camera, and he’s the subject of a scene that had the entire audience groaning with disgust. It’s hard to disassociate Mewes from the character of Jay (I overheard at least a couple of conversations afterward expressing surprise that it was him in the movie) but his aforementioned performance as Lester delivers several good laughs. Also notable are appearances from horror-effects maven Tom Savini and veteran porn star Traci Lords.

Zack and Miri is best when Smith lets Rogen do his own thing, dialogue-wise. The pop culture references don’t feel quite so forced when they’re delivered with the casual air that Rogen manages. (Plus he totally looks like Jonah Hill when he shaves his beard, in that they’ve both got the ball-chin thing going on.) The plot is preposterous, but this also applies to the parts meant to be serious, as Rogen’s character runs away from his problems like only the finest of manchildren would.

While this site is dedicated to all things obscure, and this movie is pretty evidently not, it’s got enough small cameos and references to keep even the most jaded hipster entertained enough to say “I didn’t hate it.” (actual overheard quote.) For the less pretentious moviegoer, it’s a decent film to watch with friends or an open-minded significant other, but if you dislike either Kevin Smith or Seth Rogen, it’ll take away drastically from your enjoyment of the film. Even if you’re a fan of both their work, the combination doesn’t exactly live up to its potential, promising both Smith’s particular brand of puerile, nerdy sex jokes and Rogen’s penchant for great dialogue, but it delivers not enough of either to be wholly satisfying, either way.

Oh, and if the theatre lights don’t cue you, there’s a rather entertaining epilogue a little into the credit roll.

Photo Credits: Flickr user uber-tuber

“How can I say this as nicely as possible?”

This is my job as a designer. To take shit and turn it into gold. Shit, you understand, it’s not even like I’m taking scrap metals and transmuting them into a precious metal. Nope, I just gallop right on by alchemy atop my twenty-foot-tall horse and bitch slap it with the Hand-of-Midas.

Have you read this before? Are you sure? Then you’re probably not one of us. This is what we read. This is what we write. Articulate, sophisticated, observant, and inspired. Verbose, obscure, referential, and patronizing. Whether we love ourselves or hate ourselves, we know we’re better than the Luddite masses incapable of what we do. We wouldn’t even be in this field otherwise.

Incontrovertibly, our very livelihood depends on shooting down inferior thoughts and stepping up to replace them with our own masterful conceptions. So when our thought-out, neatly-packaged, highly-prized, and cleanly-presented ideas are challenged, it’s in our nature to fight for them tooth and nail. For most of us, this means defending our designs from the filthy, pedestrian hands of our clients. Those of us who either look down on journalism or feel that it’s beyond our grasp yet choose to write anyway, attempt to pre-empt any sort of contention by using big words and name-dropping as many esoteric references as possible. We also love our hyphens. Hyphens make you look smart.

But what about everyone else? As I write this, my classmates discuss the unfortunate run-ins they’ve had with bourgeoisie unfamiliar with the concept of Graphic Design™. Living, iron-clad proof of my point, conveniently observed from my ivory tower of truth and solitude. They are right, though. It’s a pain in the ass to explain this crap to philistines. God knows, I can’t even explain it to my parents.

Photo Credits: Flickr user jamesjordan

I recently attended a family reunion. You know, the kind where you see forty aunts and uncles that can’t believe how much you’ve grown up. The kind where everyone wants to know what you’re doing in school now. Graphic Design. What the hell is that? Well, uncle Hector, it’s- and I’m already getting a blank stare here- well, I’ll probably use it to go into advertising. Do I plan on making a career out of advertising? Fuck no, but no one here is going to care enough to listen to what I think typography is or the niggling differences between art and design. I mean, honestly, besides us, who cares? And that’s it right there, I guess. No one else cares about the inner workings.

As far an outsider is concerned, our job is to make things look pretty. If he doesn’t like the way it looks, no amount of justification is going to change that. And who’s to say he’s wrong? What makes him the asshole? How about Susan Sontag, claiming that outside interpretation is a fate worse than death? Is she the asshole? Elliott Earls? He seems to think it’s not only cute when something is misread, but vital to it having any sort of life. Is he the asshole? And here I am, a wet-behind-the-ears college student writing about how wrong everybody is. So I’m clearly an asshole. Then who’s the real asshole? To be quite honest, we’re all assholes whether we like it or not.

By the way, we’re using italics and hyphens now, so try to keep up.

Inevitably, someone is going to read this and be offended by it, and while that very thought warms my heart, that’s pretty pathetic. Even worse, however, is that someone- probably the type to actually use the word “bohemian” in a self-description- is going to agree with it too. The only people I respect are those who won’t care either way. Interpretation be damned, I’ve said my piece for my own reasons, and no one will ever know why for sure. This truth is my own, and though you may borrow it, it will never be yours. And that makes me an existential dick. Excuse me, asshole.

O My ♥, the latest full-length release by Vancouver’s Mother Mother, is a record I’ve been eagerly anticipating since 2007’s Touch Up, which is unabashedly one of my favorite albums of all time. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I could listen to every song on that album at least three times in a row, and that, however plebeian it may be, is the highest praise I can give to a record.

So, how does O My ♥ compare?

Pretty well, actually. Vocals are as good as ever, the harmonies well-crafted and ear-pleasing. The guitar work is great, bass starts excellent from the beginning of the record and never disappoints, the drumming style is varied and consistently very good, and the additional instrumentation (woodwinds, keys, cello, etc.) is placed well, giving its songs the individual charm that was so impressive on Touch Up.

The lyrics possess the kind of wit I’ve come to expect from the band, dealing smartly with typical song topics like love, longing, and loss in an atypical fashion, the songs framing their dialogue in often titular metaphors, like Ghosting’s tale of giving up after a failed relationship. (Or a ghost haunting someone.) Lines like Burning Pile’s “All my money been a long time spent/on my drugs/on my rent/on my saving philosophy/it goes one in the bank and the rest for me” possess both cadence and relatability, while Wrecking Ball and its repetition of “I am unruly in the stands/I am a rock on top of the sand/I am a fist amidst the hands/and I break it just because I can” is Limp Bizkit’s Break Stuff for the tight-jeaned, bespectacled English major shuffling his feet awkwardly at the back of the bar, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a beer. On the other palm, Hayloft relies heavily on lyrical repetition, but its tense, driving rhythm more than compensates, making it the best song from the album to do anything urgent to. (Driving a car, returning a video, bathing a horse, whatever)

Ultimately, though, I don’t like this album as much as Touch Up, for two reasons: one, not all of the songs are as jaw-droppingly excellent as they were on the aforementioned album. Miles is this record’s Polynesia, in that it captures the atmosphere of an exotic locale pretty effectively, but it continues at its loping pace for the full three minutes and sixteen seconds without ever really going anywhere, which is brilliant given the context of the song but boring given the context of the album. Likewise, Try to Change’s instrumentation is spacious and very well done, but its vocal harmonies are lacking in comparison to the rest of the album. The second reason is that there’s no counterpart on the record to Love and Truth, a song off of Touch Up featuring Debra-Jane Creelman in a prominent vocal role — of the three, I must say that I like her voice the best, and so her relegation to mostly harmonies on this album is disappointing.

However, said nitpicks only make their first album marginally superior to O My ♥, and the album is beautiful in its own right. I highly recommend letting it grow on you, because it will, as sure as fungus grows on the Tree Man.

Mother Mother playing at Lee's Palace, Toronto

Whether it’s the casual, interspersed slaughter of Dead or Alive and Ichi the Killer or the unsettling buildup to the painful climax of Audition, Takashi Miike’s most seminal films can be broken down into bizarre cycles of exposition and violence. In the aforementioned movies, he cultivates tension and unnerves the viewer for just long enough that when the killing does begin, it’s almost cathartic in its brutality — after all, violence is one of the easiest things to understand.

Miike’s Izo, released in 2004, is this cycle both turned on its head and taken to its extreme conclusion, and as a result, the symbolism is heavyhanded, the exposition is lengthy, the killing is numbingly frequent, and there’s about thirty minutes in total of a guy screaming and playing acoustic guitar.

Izo, ostensibly, is about the titular samurai’s quest for revenge after his feudal-era execution. As ending lives is what he does best, Izo cannot move on to a peaceful afterlife, choosing instead to go on a rampage through time and space, slaughtering everyone in his path until he can kill no more.

The resulting film is messy, jarring and disjointed; its lack of cohesion seemingly deliberate, Miike’s story is kept together more by symbolism than by plot progression. As the plot consists primarily of Izo killing all who stand in his way, the movie has an almost video game-like quality to it, as the adversaries grow increasingly tougher and bizarre and the exposition gets increasingly long and nonsensical. (So, Metal Gear Solid 2.)

Izo the samurai, having transcended death, is effectively immortal, entirely lethal, and almost completely unsympathetic as a character. As such, the visceral rush that would normally come with an on-screen kill is dulled and eventually neutered completely as the fate of everyone Izo faces becomes a foregone conclusion. Throughout the movie, Izo’s defeat is more or less an impossibility, and the resulting payoff of this trait during the ending isn’t worth being deprived of that tension for the entire movie.

Because he will stop at nothing, Izo began to lose his humanity the moment after his execution, and he only degenerates as the movie progresses, becoming a beast (as he throws away all pretenses and indulges his basest urges at a whim), then a demon (literally) as his body count grows. He stones a former lover, has sex with an avatar of Earth’s fertility, and takes a piss on the floor in the presence of monks, among worse things. His actions make his character simultaneously both unrelatable and unlikable, which isn’t good when he is the only constant figure in a parade of disjointed and violent anachronism and juxtaposition.

The themes and violent imagery taken as wholes are nowhere near as stylized as what a Miike fan would come to expect, and sometimes even seemingly border on parody (slow-motion katana bullet deflection, anyone?) However, there are nevertheless a handful of sequences that evoke brilliance in their absurdity.

To list a few from relatively early in the movie:

- Businessman vampires take knives to Izo, who is stuck in a cave wall.

- Izo is propelled from a lake upside-down into the middle of a modern wedding, then has an altercation with the groom. (and yes, the entire scene is like that in the movie)

- Izo cuts his way out of a room full of crying, dishevelled women.

- While in feudal Japan, Izo fights a SWAT team.

Violent scenes aside, there are also some moments that are, for lack of a better term, an utter mindfuck, most notably the classroom sequence and the scene with two simple farmers who are among the few not cut down by Izo. However, for every one entertaining or thought-provoking scene, most scenes that Izo isn’t in (and several that he is) are slow and uneventful, mostly consisting of characters sitting around and talking about what a unstoppable force Izo is. The “antagonist” of the movie, a God analogue, is suitably unsettling and androgynous, though his pet snake overdoes the symbolism just a little. Takeshi Kitano makes an appearance, but he is woefully underutilized as one of the people sitting and expositioning. Bob Sapp also shows up as a monk blocking Izo’s path, and the resulting fight is one of the movie’s best.

And yet, above all, there is one reason why the film drags on: the musical interludes by Kazuki Tomokawa. Whether or not the viewer enjoys his particular style of music, being subject to several of his songs in their entirety over the course of the movie is overbearingly tedious; in some cases, they’re set against stock footage of World War II, and in others, the shot simply consists of him sitting and playing the guitar. While his lyrics are interesting, they are repetitive, and though it’s a product of the medium, reading the same subtitles over and over again strips away whatever effect Miike was going for.

Despite everything, Izo still merits a mitigated recommendation: if the viewer has time to kill (the movie’s over two hours long), a desire to see some Japanese ultraviolence, and no expectations, then the film is well worth a viewing.

For everyone else, the fast-forward button is this movie’s best friend.