Nintendo “Revolution” Console Coming 2006

It requires locution — Nintendo has some intestinal fortitude. In this market, they certainly need it. The self-proclaimed king of the family genre of video gaming, Nintendo isn’t so much a monarch as a viscount to Grand Duke Sony and Emperor Microsoft for their respective PlayStation 2 and X-Box consoles. With the Gamecube dead in the water, the Japanese former board-game manufacturer has taken things back to the drawing room.

Nintendo’s drawing room, it would appear, is a den.

The Revolution is a sleek, side-righted console appearing like an inverse PS2 with one edge sinking into the carpet, accompanied by a peculiarly-designed controller that is innovative by way of not being innovative. It instantly recalls the oldest television peripheral other than the roof-mounted aerial: the remote control.

Nintendo is making a bold statement: will gaming now occupy some bisective meridian betwixt what we used to consider gaming and passive television-watching? Once the game-player had to learn an entirely new dextral symbology to enter the game world — D-pad, analog sticks, triggers and buttons. The Revolution’s remote harkens back to a device even your grandfather knew how to operate. The wand, traditionally an empowerer from its days in Ancient Rome as a fasces, may here be deployed as a simplifier, a cruder tool for less-complexity-required interaction with a game. Will the remote controller be a worse disaster than the Gamecube’s oddly-centralized A-button placement? Or will it subvert gaming and television as we know it? The first shot has been fired across interactivity’s bow.

Interactivity, fire at will.

Corpse Bride Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter Directed by Tim Burton

How fortunate that my connections at the Children’s Sickle Cell Anemia Foundation in Greater Edmonton would finally come to fruition. The Foundation director, Gerry Klebsch, informed me that his brother — a local film critic — had obtained a copy of Corpse Bride, Tim Burton’s return to the realm of stop-motion computer animation, last visited by moviegoers in his 1993 effort Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas.

The inner child in me released a brief peal of sweet laughter, and I immediately set about procuring myself a seat at the home of Gerry’s male sibling. To say Burton’s Nightmare was a favorite of mine for many years would be a grave understatement, if you will pardon the pun, and you must. (The film’s tridactic handling of multi-holiday ideology streams was the subject of my Master’s Thesis in Semiopsychotomy at the University of Helsinki in 1994.)

As the credits rolled, I could not help but enter a mild paroxysm of delight — at last, I would be privy to Nightmare’s long-awaited sequel. I prayed I would not be disappointed.

Gratefully, I was not. Jack Skellington, having won the heart of Sally in the previous film, has been granted mortal form by the gods that govern the Holiday Worlds of Old, and given the appellation of Victor. They are to be married, but somehow Jack — or Victor — loses the nerve. He then goes on an adventure to seek a proper bride, Emily, who belongs to his old stomping grounds of Halloweentown.

A “to thine own self be true” tale through and through, Burton masterfully traverses the same tropes he did in the 1993 classic — as well as in Beetlejuice — to the satisfaction of Nightmare fans everywhere. If you at all wonder what became of Lock, Shock, and Oogie Boogie, you must, must see this sequel.

Indeed, Burton himself has stayed true to the only movie he is capable of making. It is even more adept than Burton’s Edward Scissorhands prequel Sleepy Hollow.

http://www.cad-forums.com/showthread.php?t=43010

The webcomic strip Ctrl-Alt-Del by Tim Buckley has ascended the bloated ranks of gaming comics like a bigger, stronger rat stepping on the heads of its sewage-drowned brothers. Amid the gags about oversized X-Box controllers and the recent melodramatic “house burned down” storyline — which Buckley delivers to us while clutching a hamhock in each fist — there are a lot of elements that gamers would enjoy. So it’s no wonder CAD is in the upper echelons, my personal boredom and distaste for the strip not withstanding.

But in the CAD forums we get to see a glimpse of the cartoonist himself, and on one particular occasion I wasn’t disappointed. Here’s what went down — a high school student by the handle of “Falos” is an avid fan of CAD, and decides to act out several CAD strips for a class film project. He presents the work to the Ctrl-Alt-Del forums, beaming with pride at the tribute he’s given his favorite strip.

Buckley, naturally, tears the kid a new one and talks to his lawyer. But while others prefer to side with the “little guy” in this scenario, let’s look at the facts for a change.

Fact: Buckley is a cartoonist with intellectual properties trying to make a buck.
Fact: Some high school student forgot to read up on a little thing called United States Copyright Law and decided to show his love for the strip. Okay, so it’s a fan-created tribute. It’s also called breaking the law, and violating intellectual property.
Fact: That kid deserves a serious beatdown.

Look, you can argue it all you want, but the fact is, Buckley’s in the right. So what if he’s a dick for shouting at a fan, calling him a fuck-up and his video “a piece of shit?” That’s the law. And the law is here to protect original creators like Buckley, Sean “Squidi” Howard and Tauhid Bondia from having their unique voices controlled, altered or deleted in any way. Just because you’re a jerk doesn’t mean you don’t have rights. Why is that so hard for people to remember?

As for me, I wish I could have posted this sooner, but my machine locked up, and I held off on rebooting it for fear of hearing from Tim’s lawyers.

Something For Rockets Everybody Loves a Lot 5 minutes, 23 seconds

For the longest time I did not believe there was something about rockets. That image of the skyward-streaking phallus, its metal shaft probing heaven’s vault, as it were. It seemed so desperately Freudian. But there is something about these Rockets — Something For Rockets, to be nomenclaturally precise.

Their medium is eurotrash dance, a medium that at first blush one wouldn’t believe them to be at home. Indeed, the lead singer, it is oft reported trivially, is the son of violinist Itzhak Perlman. In interviews, his son Rami would have you believe that he somehow drew upon the classical influences that must have filled his house in youth, and condensed that time-worn fullness into dance beats. Itzhak’s influence is lost, but unnecessary.

In “Everybody Loves a Lot,” Rami sings the couplet Everybody loves a lot / everybody loves a lot / you’re not always there. In a heartbreaking counterpoint, self-aware and self-effacing in serpentine chambers where the mind contorts snakelike and the heart cannot follow, he returns: Everybody loves a lot / everybody loves a lot / you’re not always there. He gets up. You’re not always there. It’s not him. You’re not always there.

The younger Perlman may have been talking about love between people, but this critic knows something else everybody will love a lot: this song.

The other tracks on the album are execrable.

One of Darren Bleuel’s profound strengths is his analytical abilities, no doubt stemming from his prior field of discipline as a theoretical physicist. In Wednesday’s Nukees, he has plied this trade in a fashion one would not hesitate to describe as “beyond masterfully.” But like Richard Feynman and his lectative example of the 15-mile-wide water droplet, let us peer below the teeming surface.

At first glance we witness a clash between science and faith, an argument long familiar to armchair practitioners of the debating arts (if they are able to be termed “arts” — how often they more resemble the mandibular gnashings of two American stag beetles attempting to secure purchase for their seed). But what subtext, what form has Bleuel anticipated here! The scientist in white, the Jehovah’s Witness in black; a fascinatingly diverse bi-juxtuary. Our mnemonic is set upon its ear.

But a mere transpose such as this can be achieved through colorist error. And it is in this error that a mechanism resembling free will can be observed. Indeed, via this tenuously-displayed construct, Bleuel has exposed himself as a diehard evangelist, in a fashion that may easily escape the attention of his no-doubt primarily-scientifically-minded audience.

Don’t worry, Darren. I won’t tell.

Harajuku Girls Gwen Stefani L.A.M.B. 4 minutes, 46 seconds

Believe it or not, mod pop diva Gwen Stefani has a lot in common with prog pop divan Jeff Lynne. Both of them have had diverse musical careers, both of them have split from the groups that made them famous, and both of them have written an embarrassingly-fawning paeans to beloved cultural icons.

But whereas Lynne’s excruciable tribute idolizes the over-idolized Fab Four, Stefani’s aspirations rise considerably lower. Gwen is content to wax saccharaic about the girls of Nigo and I can only assume the listener is supposed to be impressed that she knew of him. (Aside: I reviewed Nigo before he was known as Nigo — his work is as crisp as ever.)

Finally we get to the real meat on Gwen’s song-bone — an incredibly crass product placement for her clothing line, L.A.M.B. She ululates “wait till you get your little hands on ell-ay-em-bee, ‘cuz it’s super kawaii / that means / supa-cute in ‘Japanee.’” Certainly that kind of self-promotion has existed identically in Nippon culture for decades, but here in North America it is just inappropriate.

The guitar line is a funked-up retro pulsator, recalling a mid-’80s Prince in his prime. The drums are aptly done. There is no question that the song has been expertly produced by studio magicians Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, but one has to ask if there is indeed a message buried under Stefani’s vocal gyrations and the shallow Japanese shout-outs. Apparently the message is “buy new clothes.”

Which may, unironically, be the most profound message of the new millennium.

While I pondered, weak and weary, the equinoctal shift to Daylight Savings (from, perhaps, Daylight Wastings?), it occurred to me that my alarm clock was alerting me to more than just the call of rosy-fingered noon. As students of that edge of culture which is yet innocent of the concept of bleeding, my Authoritarian compatriots and I must ever seek new mediums of the media. But I was already engaged in one such–every night!

In pursuit of my own sub-Jungian auteur, I disabled my shrieking Timex via an application of Shaolin feng shui and dove headfirst back into the forest of slumber. The work I encountered there, I can only assume, is untitled.

The first scene opened in a Holiday Inn-brand Holidome. I was relaxing in my swimming trunks, naturally enough, and I could see from the window a river called–as some sort of violent warlord informed me–the “Alph.” It was at this point that I became aware that the river was underground. I must say that this was an unfortunate instant-retcon; my dream could have sustained more plausibility with a standard, supraterranean channel.

I left the dome by unclear means and performed a quick survey of the landscape. It seemed roughly ten square miles in area, entirely walled in–possibly a reference to my pending lease renegotiation? No doubt an interpretation book would relate it to my mother. At any rate, I came shortly to a deep canyon filled with cedar trees.

There was a woman at the bottom of the canyon, screaming a song which demanded the return of a vaguely infernal paramour. This was prevented by some sort of sacrosanct injunction on the valley–such an obvious plot contrivance! One must wonder why she didn’t simply walk out of it. Furthermore, the symbology that followed was of the most trite and obvious origin. An almost-literally orgasmic geyser surged from the floor of the canyon, throwing about blocks of stone in a violent and yawningly masculine display of aggression. What this says about the influence of recent CBC programming on my subconscious, I am loath to say.

I abruptly found myself back in the Holidome, before another woman in kitschy foreign attire. She played an unwieldy stringed instrument as she sang (why all the singing? An attempt to class up the story by hearkening to German opera?), and referred to a different location called Abora. Since that thread was never picked up again, I can only assume it was a poorly-done red herring.

I had a distinct impression after the song was finished that if I were able to accurately recite it, I would gain some sort of immense power–glowing eyes, the restoration of my hairline, dancers performing circuits around me, and cetera. The allusion to contemporary advertising is obvious.

I had hoped for a redeeming end to the story–perhaps connecting the odd place names, or commentary on the visio-cultural hegemony of pseudopostfuturist jumpcutphilia–but I was to be disappointed. A pestiferous telephone solicitor drew me from my reverie, and when I attempted to return, I found only fleeting imagery and fitful rest. Porlock Aluminum Siding’s marketing department has earned my lasting enmity.

Your humble reviewer has assembled what fragments of dream he could retain into this synopsis, and perhaps that will be enough. Or perhaps to dream is an impossible dream–and what dreams may come are the real consummation to be wished.

The dream I had receives two Awesome points, one Tank medallion, and a Boobie Rating of four.

“He reflects the creative energy of real artists.”

Penny Arcade’s Mike “Gabe” Krahulik summarizes Eric Burns as well as anyone.

Websnark, a webcomics-only review blog from the first-and-a-half generation of internet reporting, has swept the ordinarily basement-shut-in world of webcartoonists with its tumbling prose, its breathtaking K2-like vistas, and its elegies second only to the more-familiar dactylic hexameter.

So that initial quote must be a point of pride for this younger statesman of webcomics. Rather than assume so as Modern Humor Authority often does, we asked Eric, the author behind Websnark.com, what moves his suns, and moons.

Modern Humor Authority. Did you think, when you began Websnark, that you would end up such a revered figure in the webcomics world? I liken the scenario to Willy thinking he was going to be in “just another boy-saves-whale picture.” And we all know how that ended up.

Eric Burns. I’m perpetually surprised anyone actually knows who I am. When I first started Websnark, it was actually so I could separate out webcomics and other web-centric commentary from more “serious” writing. That lasted maybe eighteen minutes. These days, Websnark kind of dominates my creative life. That anyone else reads it is always somewhat amazing.

MHA. We here at MHA critique the gamut of bleeding-edge internet culture, but we admit a certain fondness for webcomickry. Is there a more compelling medium that fires your nova? If not for webcomics, would we be reading Moviesnark? Interpretivedancesnark?

EB. I think it would probably have something to do with puppets. Puppets are like flash animation without the licensing costs, after all. Besides, if we’ve learned anything from Avenue Q, it’s that America’s hunger for puppets is just beginning to be recognized.

MHA. The thought of there being only one Eric Burns to sic on a world of critiquable culture fills me with a deep and abiding emotional moribundity. Yet your prolificacy is startling — are you, in fact, two men? Is there time in your schedule for more?

EB. There is, in fact, a second Eric Burns. He was once an NBC News reporter. Then he went to work for Entertainment Tonight. Now, he is wholly an apologist for Fox News. Needless to say, if I can ever track down an effective Ninja clan willing to take outside work with excruciatingly low rates, there will be only one Eric Burns once more.

Though, that other Eric Burns did write a book on how America’s Founding Fathers were a pack of drunks, so that should be noted in his favor.

MHA. How droll. The online world teems with hidden talent as thickly as a lukewarm bathtub of agar would teem with cryptosporidium. Name some great standouts for us.

EB. Ursula Vernon. Why Ursula Vernon’s Digger isn’t in the top four webcomics online I haven’t any clue. PvP, despite the turgid curse of being popular and respected, remains one of the absolute best webcomics out there. Kurtz just does this stuff right. Greg Holkan’s Nemesis deserves a huge audience because he’s so good at this stuff. And speaking as someone who’s become a webcomics writer, T Campbell really is the best pure writer in webcomics, bar none.

MHA. Micropayments. Which model do you believe in, the McCloud Standard? The Morrison Fish-and-Loaves Approach? Perhaps King’s musings on “the infinite paddlewheel?”

EB. I don’t believe in any of them yet, while at the same time believing in all of them. I think the evolution of the Web has been away from the McCloud Bitpass-style micropayments system. Hell, I read more webcomics than anyone, and the only time I ever did a bitpass micropayment was to read Apocomon. The system that seems to work the best right now are the subscription models — Kolchalka’s site only offers one strip and charges just shy of two bucks a month for access to its archives, but it’s two bucks I gladly pay. That works out to significantly less than the quarter or dime a strip that McCloud espoused, but Kolchalka ends up taking in significantly more in the long run.

One thing I don’t think is going to keep working is the Milholland Appeal method. It worked for Something Positive because Milholland didn’t expect it to. It’s worked to a lesser extent elsewhere. However, there are just too many webcomics out there to be supported by public radio style pledge drives, and not enough fans with enough disposable income to make it happen. Merchandise, advertising, subscriptions and the like may be a little boring in comparison, but they’re proving more effective for more people than anything else.

At the same time, I think the pursuit of workable micropayments is worthy, and I heartily support the discussion and debate — the experiment can only succeed if it’s tried, after all.

MHA. Does Eric Burns believe in ghosts?

EB. Oddly enough, ghosts don’t believe in Eric Burns. Evidence has been presented to them, but they continue to scoff. There is no basis in the cold, hard world of Afterlife Science to accept the possibility of an Eric Burns’s existence.

MHA. Gossamer Commons. Did your inner Keith stumble upon the story in a dark alleyway of your psyche? Or did it bloom forth as fully as your characters’ decision to quit Ithaca?

EB. I’m… not entirely sure what you’re asking here. I’m not entirely sure you’re sober. I’m not even entirely sure I’m sober. You do validate parking, don’t you?

Anyway, the webcomic idea, way back when, centered on Trudy, who’s a character who’s been referred to instead of seen as of the time I gave this interview. I framed a ton of Trudy stuff in my head, until it occurred to me that it was all a pile of schticks without unity. I needed something better — a real story structure — to work within. Keith and what happens to him became that, and Trudy slid into a much better role within that structure.

MHA. Pundits might consider your perhaps-rushed, since-apologized-for snarking of the recent Keenspotgate newsbox debacle your first stumble. Was scraping your knees as bad as it first seemed?

EB. I think I’ve stumbled plenty of times. The snarking of the newsbox scandal was heartfelt, though I had some facts wrong. When that happens, you own up to it and move on. The difference there was the screwup got as much attention as the scandal — in a way, it was a threshold event. It meant people were paying attention.

And it really wasn’t so bad. I got a lot of homophobic mail from Penny Arcade fans — which kind of surprised me, because Penny Arcade’s actual take on the snark wasn’t homophobic at all. I don’t blame them for their fans’… well, ‘zeal,’ I guess is the word. It also helped give me some perspective on how some of the real giants in Webcomics see me. I suspect I needed that. Certainly it helped deflate my ego a bit, which is generally a good idea.

MHA. Don’t even get me started on that strip. Now, we know who Had You and Lost You — it’s plastered on your sidebar as a sort of tuq vo’tuH, to use the Klingon. But who’s really having you recently? Who’s finding you?

EB. If this is asking about my love life, I’ll have you know that a gentleman never stoops to that kind of crass….

Oh. Webcomics. Heh. Um… yeah.

Skinny Panda was a revelation that kind of came out of nowhere, despite the fact that people had been telling me for some time I’d love it. And even though “It’s Walky” went on my “They had me, and they Lost Me” list, Willis’s followup, Shortpacked, jumped right out and grabbed me by the throat. But then, David Willis is good at that. I think he practices skulking in shadows during his free time.

MHA. Finally, I have to admit I’ve been waiting to ask you this question for quite some time — where does the magic come from?

EB. Zabar’s at Broadway and 80th. They have a decent magic selection. Their cheese selection is kickass, too. And you can grab a good kosher salami there.

You *do* validate parking, right?

MHA. Parking validation is a sign of a greater ill, a nanomilieu in which red-jacketed valets re-enact past indiscretions.

Websnark. Eric Burns. Rays of force emanate from him, visible only by looking within the self. We thank him for his time.

Dear Mr. Black,

Hello, I am a film currently in production based on perhaps Frank Miller’s most famous property. (No, I am not referring to Batman.) Sin City is my name. Failure at being a worthwhile piece of cinema is my game.

By the incredulous expression on your face I can sense your confusion. Yes, I am aware that I have not been released quite yet, and perhaps have not been shown outside of dark, cluttered daily rooms, whose floors grow dangerously slicker by the hour with heaps upon heaps of discarded celluloid. What I’m trying to tell you is, it is simply unnecessary for me to be in theatres for you to know that I am a wretched waste of moviegoers’ time and of their coinage.

My beauty is skin deep. You have seen the trailer on the internet, yes? Of course. And the teaser photos released for the fanboys, that depict my cinematographer’s eye towards framing certain shots as they looked in Miller’s original comic book, yes? Wonderful. That much is left unsavaged by the studio. But visual apery is not exactly brain surgery. There are enough scenes shot such that fans who have memorized the books will feel remembered. The rest of the movie is tripe.

Jessica Alba, Josh Hartnett, Brittany Murphy. Such screen luminaries! I am lucky that Rob Schneider was not tapped to play Marv. Although Rourke’s makeup conjures too many images of a Dick Tracy villain crossed with a California Raisin. Ah well. You can’t win them all.

Of course it’s arrogant of me to be writing you, James, when you haven’t seen me. But trust me. Trust me and deliver my message to the world as only you can, my friend.

I’m going to blow.

Sincerely,
Sin City
Coming April 1, 2005.

The great X-Generation migration to the subterranean embrace of Boomer basements was one on which I looked with longing. By the time so many of my near-peers seized the means of production by dragging twin beds down split-level stairs, I was already engaged in the solo flight through académe that was the eight-year path to my Master’s (or, technically, “Associate’s”) degree.

I had no chance to move into the guest room and pump up my Rush cassettes, but I envied those who did.

It was thus with an exquisite sense of pseudonostalgia that I paid my first visit to my comrade in ink, the notable Toddmore S. Lemon. The evening began strongly, as his ingenious use of a sliding garage door for ingress allowed me to easily maneuver in my heavy luggage. I didn’t even mind having to open it myself. The hearty scent of vigorous discourse between man and bacterium told me immediately that I’d come to the right place.

Todd leapt to his feet with excitement at my entrance, color high in his cheeks as he rapidly closed a number of Internet Explorer instances. He greeted me with a warm string of expletives and inquired as to my reasons for arriving early. Since my cross-border travails had in fact caused me to leave the airport late, I responded to his jape with what I felt was a chuckle of appropriate gusto.

Todd looked nervously upward at this, and warned me not to “wake his mother.” Such quickness! I’m glad to say that Mr. Lemon’s improvisational skill has not waned.

I feel bound to report, however, that at this point the quality of my visit descended like a cliff-diving submarine.

One the suggestion that I “throw” my bags “anywhere,” I endeavored to strengthen the room’s natural feng shui by tucking them under Todd’s rumpled fu ton. They were blocked, however, by what appeared to be a sort of giant stuffed animal, sans stuffing — no doubt a souvenir of some trip to Coney (literally, “King’s”) Island.

Todd became oddly agitated at this, and proceeded to relocate my luggage to a corner. Naturally, I queried as to the nature of his perturbitation. Todd squinted at me for some time before responding; when he did, it was to ask if I would care to take in some recorded television. I boldly set aside my distaste for the medium and accepted.

The next two hours were regrettable.

We watched a number of low-grade animated car-toons, largely featuring humanoid animals, from such vendors as Hanna-Barbera and the Warner Brothers. The homemade collection concluded with a series of clips from the work of Don Bluth. As I politely sipped the mineral water that had given me such trouble in Customs, Todd examined me intently, as if searching for a reaction.

When the homemade disc was done, Todd handed me a fine example of high-noise Xerography — a “flier” for what appeared to be a local “MegaKawaii Anthro Meetup.” As always, I had my personal miniature tape recorder primed; the following exchange, which I recorded upon it, was so extraordinary that I feel the need to transcribe it verbatim.

Todd: So you’re into the scene, right? You’re into it.

Myself: My fondness for all culture notwithstanding, Todd, I’m afraid Nipponese anthropology is not my forte suit.

Todd: What?

(A pause.)

Myself:You know, I think your versing in “pulp” animation is an interesting –

Todd: Aww, [redacted].

Myself: Are you familiar with the collo-montage that’s coming out of Brazil right now? It’s almost Tarantinoid, I think it’d intrigue you. Jean Sant’Anna takes original cels and develops them in his own urine, whereas–

Todd: You stupid mother-[redacted]. [Redacted]. Are you like some kind of — sting operation? It’s not illegal, you — [redacted]. You have to tell me if you’re a cop. You know you have to tell me?

Myself: I’m afraid I miscomprehend you.

Todd: You’re going to tell my mom, aren’t you! [Redacted]. [Redacted]!

Myself: Let’s try to engage in a more productive dialogue. I’ll get a mirror, and –

Todd: [Redacted]!

Myself: I don’t actually understand that one.

Todd: Get out of my house, you [redacted]-guzzling savant-[redacted]!

(It is at this point that Todd hurls a ceramic bank at my person, and the conversation breaks down.)

Soon after, a woman to whom Todd referred as “Mom” entered, groggy and highly upset. More voices were raised, more objects made projectile. The malaise à trois that followed included a meeting with the gentlemen of Portland’s Finest, after which I retrieved my bags and obtained lodging at a nearby Howard Johnson.

I filled the remainder of my trip with visits to the Portland Maritime Museum and quasilegal penny slots. I received only one further communiqué from my would-be host — a single sheet of computer paper. On it had been printed “[Redacted] you,” over and over, in a pattern that suggested an abstract male penis. I’m afraid I have not yet plumbed the full symbolism of this document; expect a more thorough exploration in the next week or so.

Todd Lemon receives two stars, with a qualified negative half-crescent for a weak denouement.