Scary.

The dark.Snakes.
Ghosts.
Failure. 
Death.

What scares you? 

Fear is an interesting thing. Perhaps the oldest of human emotions, should those be put on a scale. Nothing has the power of forcing compliance like fear. Both a tool and a weapon, this feeling of stiff hairs, gooseflesh, and icy sweat is something that is supposed to keep us safe. We're alerted in such a way when we perceive danger, and thanks to the little amygdala in our brains, we're able to run, or fight. We see a snake in the grass and feel fear, enabling us to flee -- or kill it. We hear a noise outside and grab the phone, ready to call the police. Or, we may draw a weapon, and fight for our lives ourselves. But all of these reactions are united by one feeling.

Considering this context, it's interesting that we've created a whole genre of fiction that revolves around scaring us.

There are many different sub-genres of horror. The classic monster movie, like Godzilla; the torture-filled gore fest that is Saw, and the psychological mind-screw of Psycho, just to name a few. They can be sociopolitical, like The Purge -- or isolated, like The Blair Witch Project. And much like the fight or flight response, they're united under the kingdom of fear as things that are meant to scare us. But why? Why do we like things that bring out such an intense, and negative feeling? 

Not all of us do. I, however, do like the idea of horror -- the concept of creating a story that's meant to disturb or unsettle someone, I think, is actually sort of powerful. It's like saying, "I know how you work, and I know how to draw forth your emotions." I don't mean to discount an entire genre when I say this, but despite the novelty of the idea, a lot of modern horror is just drivel. I believe this has to do with investment, consequences, and scope -- because to me, horror is well presented in the context of implications. What I mean by this, is that I think true horror has to be structured and meaningful. 

Let me give you a little bit of insight. 

This is may sound like I'm bragging of sorts, and I don't mean it to, but it's important that I demonstrate my point, even if using specific examples will seriously out me as a sensitive child and generate some kind of plot to harass me. (That's fine, honestly. I'm 20 years old, as of the time of writing this, and no longer feel the things I felt some sixteen years ago). 

When I was very young, probably around four or five, I had a LEGO Minifigure of a vampire. Here he is. 

This dashing gentleman comes in a Studios LEGO set -- a theme that was meant to represent the production of films. His, of course, was Dracula. I've been a LEGO fan all my life, and still collect to this day -- but the important thing about me talking about this little dude is that he used to terrify me. Make fun of little five year old me all you want, but there was something upsetting about him, and I remember exactly what it was. 

The blood. 

If you turn around his head, he has a face smiling with vicious joy, baring bloodied fangs. He also has a bloody handkerchief hanging out of his coat pocket, right on his torso print. I was an insanely sensitive child for years, and the smallest of things would scare me. This is one of them. You see, the blood on this character implied things that I was able to somewhat understand. He'd had to have killed someone to get that blood on his face, because vampires drink blood. That meant that he was an evil person, someone willing to hurt someone else. 

This rhetoric applied to all vampires. Around the same time as this, during Halloween, my mother brought home a red Devil, a green Frankenstein, and a purple Vampire masks for all of us to wear. The Devil and Frankenstein didn't really bother me at all, but the vampire had such sharp fangs; fangs for biting, and tearing. I wanted her to put it away, so she did. Then, a few weeks later, I was looking through the drawers for who knows what, and found the mask near a pile of cards and paper. I was so startled that legitimately ran out of the room and hid behind the couch.

I did get over this, but in second grade I checked out a book called Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. Oh yeah, you definitely know what book I'm talking about. I was not the first child to be scared by this book, nor will I be the last. And it wasn't so much the stories; those alone are a bit dark, but not quite that scary. It was certainly the pictures. 

I don't feel the need to post them here, as you've all seen them and, to be honest, they're still a little uncomfortable to look at to this day. The art is definitely beautiful, and it is so wonderfully capable of creating unease -- that the day I read The White Wolf, a story about a wolf that kills a farmer and his sheep, I couldn't go to sleep for weeks. 

This time, it really was about the story, and how the art added to it. You see, the illustration of the wolf is just... I looked it up again to remember it, and audibly "eughh'd." It's uncanny. If you so wish to see it for yourself, just look up "white wolf scary story." I don't even feel like providing a link. 

In the story, a farmer's sheep keeps going missing after every night. I forget the details, but one night he decides to stay outside and catch the wolf he believes is doing it. In he morning, however, he's found dead, with his throat torn open. 

The implications -- that a wolf as vicious and ugly as what was shown in the picture -- tore open the throat of a man, was just awful. I dreamt of it for so long that I'll never forget how it made me feel, sitting against the wall of the classroom during free reading time, and imagining the horror the monster inflicted upon his final victim. 

I don't need to keep going with examples to persuade you any longer. You get my point; it wasn't just the imagery, it was about the implications. But now, that isn't enough. For whatever reason, modern horror is awful at exercising this idea. You can't give me a character for a movie and then kill them. I just don't care, because the implications aren't effective enough to alter my perception in any meaningful way.

Unless the horror is with those we care for.

Long term stories, with stakes, and established settings and characters, do well with darker elements. This is because it creates depth of tone, as I call it. When we're with a cast and a narrative for long enough to make us care, introducing the power of horror really has the ability to make us uncomfortable, as well as strengthen the tone of the story. And almost every time, these narratives I'm talking about aren't even horror at all. One of the greatest examples of this I can think of is a chapter in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince where Harry and Dumbledore visit a seaside cave where Voldemort has, supposedly, hidden one of his Horcruxes. 

It's enclosed and flooded, with no sources of light and no ways in or out unless one pays a toll with their own blood. This sets an expectation by introducing uncertainty. Soon after Harry and Dumbledore make their way to the rock formation in the middle of the water, Dumbledore must drink the potion in the basin, and be forced to relive his most painful memories and endure a horrible, physical torment. Now, we have a dark setting and a dire consequence. Our mentor character, who has been a large part of comfort withing the story, is writhing in agony and sobbing. Harry, our eyes within the narrative, has to cope with being in such a place and witnessing the horror firsthand. As Dumbledore begs for something else to drink, begs for his palate to be cleansed, Harry moves toward the water...

...where instantly, he's grabbed. By one of these.

Suddenly, these... things start emerging from the water. Soon Harry realizes that they're not just things, but people. 

Dead people. 

While not quite zombies, we learn later that the creatures that dwell in such large numbers within the watery depths of Voldemort's Horcrux cave are called Inferi, which is to say, corpses bewitched by a dark wizard to do his bidding. These people are implied to be an assortment of individuals, from men and women that turned on the Dark Lord, to random muggles, likely tortured, murdered, and placed within the cave to wait silently in stagnant, freezing water until someone else comes by and tries to take the treasure within. 

Now we have our third piece of the "Depth of Tone" cake. A dark setting, a dire consequence, and a disturbing implication. The darkness and isolation of the cave, the torment of the basin's poison, and the implications of innocent people murdered and made into puppets to kill others create worthwhile horror; but it only works because we care about the well-beings of Harry and Dumbledore. We're with a set of characters for long enough for their world and their lives to have quite a bit of scope, which gives us something to care about. When horror is implemented, and implemented correctly, we can be truly terrified.

That's also why I like Stephen King. His stories are about the horror, but they're about the people, too. Pet Sematary and It are perfect examples of this. You're given a threat, but you're also given complex, multifaceted characters that represent more than just archetypes to get killed off by a man in a mask or a big white wolf. It helps that his books usually run large too, because even padding can give us more to like about a character and their story. 

Not all horror has to be sandwiched into an existing story, but my point is that it's more effective when we're invested in some way, which is the main shortcoming of modern horror. Not all of the audience is children, who can be scared by toys and masks. Much of us need more.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk. Happy Halloween.

The Collectibility of Dice

It's been a while since I visited the world of Dungeons and Dragons. Had a bit of a rough patch with it, but found a new group and the game has since become just as fun as it used to be.

Perhaps the most defining mechanic of Dungeons and Dragons, and many other tabletop Role-Playing games, is the use of polyhedral dice. Sure, the usual cubic six-siders are in this world of castles and elves as well, but many of the dice we use to roll for Strength, Wisdom, Perception, and what have you, are these uniquely shaped ones that have more than six sides.

There's the d8, used for martial weapon damage (mostly), the d10 and d100, used together to decide on many types of template rolls (picking a ratio for something, deciding on the name of a tavern or dungeon, etc.), and the classic d20, used to roll various "checks" within the game so that interacting with the world is even possible. Typically, a player will have a single set of dice, with one of each that are required for the game, or seven in total.

But there's a lot that can go into the arrangement and collection of game dice. You'd be hard-pressed to find a player with only one set -- many of us have dozens, if not hundreds of these little guys laying around, and an almost equal amount of players have fancy little bags to put them in. 

Some players like to use specific combinations of dice to roll for specific things. For example, the Dungeon Master may call for a roll with advantage (roll two d20's and take the highest number) on your Dexterity check for, let's say, checking to see if a rickety bridge is safe to cross. The casual player may roll their d20 twice for this. However, another player may pass the dice they're to use around the table and have the other players give it a sort of good luck blessing, and then roll it. Others may pick a lucky die of a specific color for what they want to be the higher roll and another for the lower roll, and roll both at the same time. They could have a different die for each kind of check, one for combat rolls and one for interaction rolls, one for dealing with Goblins as opposed to Orcs, the list can go on and on. Many of the players I know even paint the 20 on their die green, and the 1 on it red for added simulation.

I personally like having dice that immerse myself a little bit more. I'm one who appreciates uniformity, and my characters usually wear very specific, linear color schemes. My Rogue, Narlan, wears all black with highlights of dark gray (as is normal for a character that's supposed to hide in shadows). My Fighter, Aladdar, wears shawls of gold and white, with ornaments of pearly yellow, gems of topaz, and other bright hues to show off his Pirate royalty. My Sorcerer/Warlock hybrid, Gideon (who also happens to be a character in my various writings), wears draping coats of blue with boots and gloves of navy. In these situations, I like having dice that represent the look of the characters, so I have a distinctly colored set for each of them that fit their outfits. For example if I'm playing a Druid in green (as seen below);

Then I would like to have a set of dice that represent the kind of stuff he would wear, or equipment he would carry. 

It can swing a number of other ways as well. Maybe someone would have the mini pictured above and the same set of dice, but with a brown d6 to represent the wooden staff, or a blue d20 to represent his magic powers. Or the other way around, if they prefer. Or any other way, really. Dungeons and Dragons is a game about loose guidelines and adventure, so it can be basically whatever you want it to be, and hopefully behavior of such is encouraged.

I recommend the game to basically everyone. RPG groups are normally held at your LGS (Local Game Store) and I can't stress enough how important it is to support these places if they provide you with a comfortable place to play and amazing customer service.

Kingdom Hearts: My Favorite Game I've Never Played

There's been some hype recently surrounding the newest installment in the Kingdom Hearts franchise -- Kingdom Hearts III, that is -- the third main game in the series (that means, of course, not counting the numerous side games that, while adding to the story, aren't titled with flat digits like their predecessors).

What is Kingdom Hearts, you ask? For the sake of consistency I'll explain it in my own words here, but if you already know, feel free to skip this paragraph. Kingdom Hearts, released in 2002 for the PS2, is an action adventure role playing game that combines elements of various Disney and Square Enix properties, telling the story of Sora, a teenage boy, that comes to harness the power of the Keyblade; a key-shaped sword that has the power to light the darkness by releasing "hearts" from beings called "heartless," which are essentially shells of shadow made from the soul of a person who's heart has been stolen. He teams up with Disney's very own Donald and Goofy, (King Mickey's knights), to travel across various Disney, Pixar, and Final Fantasy worlds, killing heartless and saving the inhabitants of each adventure. The games include everything from Cinderella to Tron, Pirates of the Caribbean to Aladdin, and even Toy Story, Final Fantasy VII, Winnie the Pooh, and The World Ends with You, amongst many more. The franchise has spawned numerous installments across many different platforms (much to the dismay of fans), but generally has a very positive critical and commercial consensus. It's definitely a strange mix -- Disney and Final Fantasy? Those things are just so... different. Entirely separate demographics and ideas. How could a game like this, which is licensed, no less, be any good? Well, I've heard it put this way before, and I think it works well to summarize; "Most of the time ideas that sound good on paper are hit or miss. And then, there's ideas that sound awful on paper, like Kingdom Hearts -- that when executed, succeed entirely. It (Kingdom Hearts) was one of those ideas."

Gameplay of Kingdom Hearts III (which has been in development since 2013) was available to a select few recently at some kind of Square Enix conference, or something of the sort. I don't really know what it was. What I do know, however, is that interest in the franchise has started to blossom again, and I thought it appropriate to share my personal story with Sora, Donald, and Goofy, and explain why I love this game that I have never actually played. 

That's right. I love Kingdom Hearts. And no -- I've never played it. 

Well... that isn't quite true. I have played every Kingdom Hearts game saved for Re:Coded and Birth by Sleep, but I have only ever played Kingdom Hearts and Kingdom Hearts II at my friend's house, for hardly an hour... and that was in fifth grade! I can hardly call myself a fan of the main series games, because I never owned a Play Station console in my life, and I honestly just don't remember much of what I played at his place anyway. 

So why do I like it, you ask? Let me start at the beginning.

Fourth grade. Late in the year -- I remember it was raining for some reason, despite being a month off of summer break (weather in this place has always been strange). We camped out under the overhang in front of our classroom door to stay away from the rain and eat lunch, "we" being three of my childhood friends. One of which (who's name will stay anonymous) pulled a funny little paperback book out of his lunch pail and started reading.

"What's that?" I asked. 

"One of my brother's books," he said. "It's like my brother's game." 

At this point in the conversation, one of my other friends brought out his LEGO Indiana Jones sets and minifigures, so my attention was quickly stolen. But I remembered that book, and I remembered the pictures inside -- not because they were black and white, as most manga tends to be, but because Disney was inside, alongside other characters that looked so interesting, had such unique designs, that I was interested for quite a while and couldn't get it out of my head. 

It was around this point that the school was pushing kids to read hard enough to take us to the city library more than once. I liked reading as a kid (and obviously still do), so I had plenty to look at there. Mostly R.L. Stine and Judy Blume, but somehow I found the manga and stumbled across Kingdom Hearts once again. I checked out a volume (I don't even know if it was volume one), and read it. 

I enjoyed every minute. 

Soon 2009 rolled around. Fifth grade. I remember talking to my friend about that Kingdom Hearts book he read, and like he said back then, he explained to me that it was also a video game. 

Now, my  childhood experience with video games has been thoroughly bashed and beaten for various reasons (which I will probably write another post about one day), so I definitely didn't have this esteemed "Play Station 2" that the games could be played on. I was shit outa luck. No Kingdom Hearts for me. Then, sitting at home, I saw a commercial for Kingdom Hearts: 358/2 Days. Thanks to the power of the Internet, I can show it to you.

In the months beforehand, I had bought a Nintendo DS so I could finally play Pokemon Platinum with my friends, who all had Diamond. This was a Kingdom Hearts game for a system I owned! Oh how excited I was. If I'm being honest, I don't remember how I acquired it -- be it gift or purchase, but somehow I got my hands on it and I poured a solid 65 hours into it. It was great. The combat was totally new to me, and the characters (Roxas, Xion, and Axel for those of you that are familiar) captured my childhood heart. There was something infinitely cool about Organization XIII. Probably the long black coats.

Though I played it constantly and loved it quite enough to get my dad to help me build duct-tape and PVC pipe keyblades, eventually I hit a boss I couldn't get past. Some of these levels were very difficult, especially for a kid, but this guy was just the pits, man. It was a giant plant heartless that had some kind of coffin chained to its underside, with legs that dug through the ground and popped up around the area, sometimes swallowing you up. Get too close to the boss, and a giant tentacle would lash out of the coffin and 1 hit KO your player character. Get too far away, and the boss would shoot poison at you. Anything in between would deem your worthy dinner for it's tentacle legs.

God. Remembering it is giving me nightmares already. 

Long story short, I was stuck on this bastard for eight years. Eight. Years. In fact, I JUST recently beat it, with the revival of the franchise fresh on my mind I pulled the game out after eight long years of defeat, tried and failed several times, but finally killed it. (Now I'm stuck on another boss, one that's considerably harder, and I'm debating on genuinely giving up again).

But in between all of this, I managed to order a volume of the manga from the school reader's catalogue in sixth grade, played Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories for the Gameboy Advance, and just recently bought Kingdom Hearts 3D: Dream Drop Distance for my New 2DS XL. Those games are okay, but I don't have memories with them the way I remember 358/2 Days.

But where am I going with this? Why am I just detailing out a history with this game? Why is it my "favorite game I've never played?"

Just wait a minute -- let me puzzle you further.

While I do like the Pixar movies, I genuinely don't care too much for the Disney classics. I've seen a few, and generally find them pretty monotonous. So despite the love I show, a whole half of this game's concept is pretty lost on me. So back when I was a kid, what was it that fascinated me so much? 

*deep breath*

It was the art style.

It's the first time I experienced that anime style outside of Pokemon, and Bakugan a year or so later. The way Kingdom Hearts's original characters looked was just so unique. Huge colorful eyes, and a spectrum of hair that would give any barber a heart attack. A lot of people don't like the Japanese style of cartooning, but I am not one of those people.

It helped that my first actual Kingdom Hearts game was the one that seriously downplayed the Disney aspect of the story, so when I think of the my memories with the franchise, I don't think of the adventures Sora has with Donald and Goofy in Kingdom Hearts one or two, I think of the black robed Roxas sitting on the clock tower in Twilight Town with Axel and Xion, the three of them eating sea salt ice cream, and wondering about life with emotions. Nowadays I've involved myself with the franchise enough to enjoy the other parts of the story and characters a lot more, and have always wanted to finally play through one and two entirely on a home console. But alas, a Play Station I had not, and still don't.

But finally, finally finally finally, a Kingdom Hearts game is coming to a console I actually own for once. Announced at E3, Square Enix later confirmed that Kingdom Hearts III would actually be coming to the Xbox One as well as the initially planned PS4.

I had always had the Xbox 360, and not even because my parent's got one for me, but because my uncle told my dad that if he could fix their spare console, I could have it. My dad, being the tech genius that he is, fixed it up and promptly gave it to me, but told me he would not buy me another if it broke. My friends (who usually had most of the household systems) could play with me on 360, and this attitude migrated to the Xbox One when it later released and we still wanted to play games together. (Nowadays I sit at it and get angry because no one I played with before plays online anymore, and all the exclusives I actually want are for the PS4).

Now that I'm older and have a bit more money, I'm looking into possibly getting other consoles and games and such, and you can bet your Disney tooshie that Kingdom Hearts is at the top of the priority list. I don't know if other people have such feelings toward a franchise, but despite my limited play experience I still love it to death.

Objective Criticism is Pointless (and Impossible!)

"I prefer a reviewer to be objective in their criticisms."

There's little else I hate hearing. Okay... there are some things that are worse (maybe a lot of things), but I need to make one thing clear as day -- there is no such thing as "objective criticism."

Have people covered this topic before? Yes. Do I care? No. I have too many things to say about it.

A little while ago, I got a text from my friend, asking, "What is a review? Of a game, movie, book, etc. Can you define for me?"

I said yes, of course. Who couldn't?

What I replied back was, and I quote, "A review is an oversight of the overall product, it's faults, and its triumphs, as a way of communicating to others the value as perceived by the reviewer."

I asked him why he wanted this from me and he told me that he was in a debate with his friend about how entertainment reviews (in this case, video games) should be handled. His friend said that all reviews should be "objective," and should detail the objective faults and achievements of the product (game).

I sighed. 

This biggest issue with this type of thinking is the fallacy that any single product has an established, impartial value. This is false. Write this down, kids -- value can only be determined by the standards of the people who obtain and distribute the product, how they utilize it, and what it means to them. All of these things are inherently subjective matters.

A good example of this is how our currency works. Our United States dollar is backed by nothing. Nothing. It used to have an equivalence in value to gold, with the paper dollar functioning sort of like an IOU. It was meant to represent the promise of gold in exchange for goods, and now that we aren't on the gold standard any longer, all that paper we have in our wallets is exactly what it looks like. Just paper. 

This system is able to work because our culture functions on the trade and circulation of product for currency. We assigned value to the money based on how we valued gold, and we only really ever valued gold based on preformed assumptions about it's magic power and rarity long long ago. So in a sense, our money was never truly worth anything.

And that's just it -- nothing is. Nature does not produce "worth" -- worth is something that is perceived. To put it simply, if you have long hair, then hair ties are likely worth something to you because you can use them. If you have short hair, then, well, why would you need a hair tie? The same can be said about literally anything. How many times have you thought to yourself, "I don't want that, that isn't useful to me." It's important to remember that whatever that "thing" was, it's useful to someone else. Now, how many times have you thought "I want that. No... I need it." This works both ways, people.

Taking this into account, we can understand better how human art functions. Art is intrinsically a human creation. Anything produced by people from external resources can be considered art. Therefore, art is very much a consequence of culture, and the people creating the art -- Pablo Picasso made grotesque, strangely-angled paintings that reflected his emotional well-being (or lack thereof). Fransisco Goya created The Black Paintings after years of conflict in his home country and suffering from deafness. Today they're still widely revered and respected as forms of the highest art. However, they still came from subjective sources. Objectively, all these paintings are, are chemicals and compounds mixed onto a canvas in patterns that resemble imagery. We project meaning onto it because the artist designed it that way. This means that the standards with which we judge the art do not exist innately -- they were conceived in our minds. 

My friend said this to me on the topic of music snobs; "If you go to a different culture and hear their music, you'd probably be shocked at how strange it sounds, and it could be hard to appreciate it. But to them, your own culture's music would be just as weird." 

Yet that culture's music is what they listen to. It's what they create, and what they see value in. It has no objective value, only objective traits. Those traits could be dependency on deer-hide drums, or choir chanting and the jawbone. Does that make it bad? Likewise, does autotune have any less value than acoustic guitar? Or are they simply different traits?

No art can actually, objectively, fail at presentation, because we judge presentation by our own preconceived, individual standards. These things don't grow on trees -- we have to think them up. They change over time because they come from our culture, which is fluid. What was acceptable in film thirty years ago doesn't reflect how we think of the medium today. The same can be said for how it will look in the future as well. So if I were to sit here and give you an "objective" review of a video game, I would give you;

1. The name of the game and the plot synopsis 

2. The gameplay mechanics

3. The type of graphics, age rating, and estimated playtime

4. The name of the studio that created it

None of that is my opinion. It would be pure fact. 

But it wouldn't be a review, or any type of criticism. Criticism has to involve a level of deeper thought, some kind of critical thinking...

However, as we know, the critical thought would be entirely based around our own subjective standards, expectations, and tastes. So, any criticisms we come up with would be creations of our own projection, and therefore don't reflect an objective truth about the thing we've criticized -- only that it appeals to us for various reasons, or not.

This is not to say we shouldn't ever have standards -- heavens, no. I just want people to understand that there is no "good" or "bad" piece of art or entertainment. It may be that way to you, and for the ease of communication, it usually makes more sense to refer to it as such. But until you can prove to me that character development is inherently less important that setting, I'm going to keep the opinion I have now.

Thank you for staying with me through this rant, if you did. As always, keep watching, keep writing, and most importantly, keep reading.

And I'll look down and whisper... "no."

Rorschach's Journal.  October 12th, 1985:

"Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach.  This city is afraid of me.  I have seen its true face.  The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.  The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"...

... and I'll look down, and whisper 'no.'"

I just finished the graphic novel, Watchmen, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by Dave Gibbons. The hype was true -- it was honestly one of the best things I think I've ever read. I was blown away with just how meticulous the story was crafted, and how poignant it was as a whole, how honest.  

Without spending too much time on the premise of Watchmen, basically it's about a world that actually had superheroes, with everything about them portrayed as realistically as they possibly could be; in that they were just costumed vigilantes (with the exception of one). The story is about a lot of things and presents a lot of ideas, but its single-most important facet is that it entirely deconstructs the implications of actual heroism and all that comes with it -- the human psyche, the relationship with one's public, and the meaning of right and wrong (hint; it's not as simple as it sounds). 

The way it does this is exploring complex, multifaceted characters; characters we'd normally supposed to be able to latch onto in any run of the mill superhero story. Righteous citizens with a clear view of what is good and what is evil, who will stop at nothing to defend the people, serve, and protect. 

The heroes in Watchmen are not that straightforward. 

I could spend days writing about all of them, but of the core cast, I want to pick out and talk about the character that really stuck with me, more than the others -- Rorschach. (pictured above)

Already we can see just how fascinating he looks, and as seen in the first gif, that mask of his is not stationary. The ink blotches shift and change, miming an actual Rorschach test. As a character, he speaks in broken sentences, patrols the streets at night in his costume even after heroes are outlawed, and records the events of each day, keeping careful note of suspicions in the dark. The story opens with him investigating the supposed murder of a former comrade, and spilling his feelings of the world's injustice, as quoted. He's violent, vengeful, and sees the world in one of two shades -- good, and evil. 

Rorschach represents the hypocritical morality rampant among actual superheroes, and the fault of having such a black and white worldview. He takes the high ground in every scenario to a brutal degree, often delving into murder over contemporary beliefs formed in reaction to any number of offenses. He'll break into someone's home and destroy their property on virtue of them breaking the law themselves. This is a deliberate paradox, being that he constantly traverses the law to uphold it -- mirroring the blatant hypocrisy of figures like Batman, Superman, and virtually every other American superhero that has so much as trespassed, vandalized, and maimed in the name of "greater good." 

His visual motif, the Rorschach test, may alter and change (and as such, is internally inconsistent), but its colors never dip into anything other than the two extremes. No gray. Just black and white. The question this imagery entails, "What does it look like to you?" is a perfect way to encapsulate the implications of his actions. Sure, "evil" needs to be punished -- but his brand of punishment is so delegated to one school of thought that along the way he destroys whole acres of property, puts innocent lives in danger, and fatally wounds those who get in his way; even if they're also on the path of justice.

He also has a trait I have not ever seen in any kind of superhero, and that is asexuality. To some it could seem like Rorschach is misogynist, and to others it could seem like he's afraid of women, or at least uncomfortable around them -- and either one of these conclusions isn't entirely far from the truth. At the end of each chapter, there is a little bit of prose detailing events or details of the story that couldn't be reasonably done in the form of comic; be it a newspaper article, a bit from a memoir, or even a diary entry. One of these is Rorschach's psychiatric-patient file, included in which is something he drew as a child. A nightmare he had... about his mother having sex with a man. To him, they were but one creature, with a hideous, connected face, and four legs intertwined at the hips.

Given that he'd been seriously abused and grew up in such a loveless home, Rorschach's psychology molded around what he could piece together from his experiences. The only interaction he truly had with a woman was that of his mother, who was a prostitute who would bring abusive men into their home, and tell her son he was ugly, that she wished she'd never even had him. When he walks in on them, she continues the abuse, solidifying his negative view of women due to his lack of other examples. This is some very Freudian psychology -- his entire perception of women had been altered because of these experiences, and the ideas he generated stuck with his mindset and followed him into his crime-fighting career. We see it in effect with his comments, saying that he did not like Laurie Jupiter's (Silk Specter II, one of his comrades) very feminine costume, referring to women abroad as "whores," projecting his mother's actions onto all of them out of his yet-still black and white worldview. 

His brand of morality is unrelenting, backing down for no obstacle and never, ever changing or maturing. His thoughts and actions are dependent on one of the two extremes, and no amount of uncertainty or gray area can actually convince him to change. And while that may be somewhat simple, how exactly he got to that point is very detailed and plausible. So already we can see just how complex this character actually is. And apply that complexity to every character in the story, the panel design, the use of color and contrast, the allegorical narrative, and the "comic within a comic" The Tales of Black Freighter told alongside pivotal scenes... and you still have only breached maybe 20% of what makes Watchmen truly that special. Rorschach is but one element, and even then I could still probably write a few more pages about his costume alone -- and then a few more about his lines, his appearance, (not to mention his astoundingly short height at 5'6, which is actually as tall as I am) and everything they entail. 

I seriously suggest that you give this graphic novel a read if you haven't already. I was blown away, and in a world where I hold media so near and dear, finding something that totally blew my previous favorites out of the water was an incredible experience. 

As always -- keep writing, keep watching, and most importantly, keep reading. 

Goodbye, Class E (A Love Letter)

My friend does this thing that really bugs me. When he finishes watching or reading something, he’ll usually say something like, “8/10 for how well the thing was actually made, 6/10 for enjoyment, because I thought it was a little boring,” or vice versa, and such. Very rarely do his two scores match. This bothers me for a variety of reasons – the first being that I subscribe to the idea that art is always subjective, and can’t have a “set” level of good or bad. As a consequence, if you like something, you must inherently find some level of value in it. I tried to tell him this, but he insists on going about thinking of things the previous way, and while I respect that, I definitely let him know that I disagreed.

Then, one day, I was looking for the dates that the manga I followed would get new volumes (in English), and, Assassination Classroom being one of them, I found the date for volume 21.  

“Oh,” I said, “this is the last one? That makes me a little sad.”

Then I saw the cover (pictured above.)

As you can see, it depicts Class E standing around their mountaintop classroom, observing the beautiful night sky… and one of them is pointing up at Koro Sensei’s (their teacher) face, imprinted in the stars.

If you're unfamiliar with Assassination Classroom, it's a manga (Japanese comic) series about a group of drop-out eighth graders who find themselves held hostage by an alien creature after he blows up the moon into a permanent crescent. This creature, who can move at mach 20 speed and transform his body at will, says that they have the school year to learn how to kill him, and if they can't, he'll destroy the Earth. Along the way, we learn that this creature (named Koro Sensei by his class, after the Japanese word for "kill") is not a monster at all, but a wonderful teacher, who, despite being able to always thwart their assassination attempts, does not want to hurt anyone -- he only wants to pass on his knowledge to kids that believe life has left them behind before his inevitable death.

In many ways that people get wake-up calls in their life, this volume's cover, for whatever reason, hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s over. Assassination Classroom has ended. I guess the pointers were always there; the students had only a single school year to succeed in their goal in assassinating Koro Sensei, and it’s not like time doesn’t pass (unless you’re Ash). But the thing is, it’s a Shonen Jump action manga. A cheesy, dorky, stupid comic about a bunch of kids trying to kill their alien teacher, and they were set up for failure in every chapter with his insane superpowers and their childish antics. So, despite reading so much, I never really paid mind to the idea that the series would truly… end.

And up until now, I looked at Assassination Classroom with relative fondness, but no real critical praise. It’s just alright. What you expect to happen happens. Good triumphs evil. Boob jokes. Crazy superpowers. "It's entertaining."

What I didn’t realize is how the story filled my life with things I could hold on to. I can’t say I’ve truly had issues making friends, but I certainly had issues fitting in. Going to class every day from grades 6-12 was a trip to stress-town, and in that state of mind, there’s the need for little “ropes” we can easily grasp. One of those ropes were my friends, who, despite the teasing and the bullshit, were there when I needed them. Another one of those ropes were the teachers who cared. We’ve all had ones that don’t – but the ones that do will do anything to help their students, be it with their grades, with their personal problems, or anything inbetween. That’s what educators are truly there for.

And of course, another little “rope,” was my favorite things to read.

The manga encompassed all of that. Stories about friendship twelve ways to Sunday -- touching, heartfelt stories about a teacher and his students, and silliness that reminded us of the good things in life -- and all of them delivered to the me in a comfortable, engaging way to read.

I guess finally understanding that Koro Sensei was going to die set in stone the shift in my life from high school to college – teen to adult. I won’t have those friends in my class anymore. I won’t have those teachers in my college professors, and as much as it’s making me just about to burst into tears writing it, someday soon, I won’t have Koro Sensei and his hilarious class anymore to escape to when the “ropes” in my life have, for whatever reason, been tugged away from me.

All good things must come to an end. And bad things too. Nothing lasts forever.

Likewise, absolutely having to have everything be critically flawless in order to enjoy it is a mindset I can’t fully subscribe to anymore.

It's still so clear to me -- the day I stumbled upon a series in my bookstore about a mysterious creature that destroyed the moon, and threatened to do the same to Earth if the under-appreciated Class E didn’t kill him first. In good times and bad times, I read about that creature teaching his class how to grow as human beings. I read about those kids acing their entrance exams, just as I was finishing my own high school experience. And as some of the most important friendships in my life drift away and I learn to truly become an adult, I read the second to last volume and... well, I won't ruin it here, but if the series has taken hold of you like it did me, you'll need some tissues.

This story helped me cope with so many things in my adolescence. Other stories are too heavy for times of stress. Others are just not even worth your patience in the best of times. But when I sat down and read Assassination Classroom, I knew Koro Sensei’s face would make me laugh. I knew the students would try, (and fail) to kill him, but they’d always learn something new, and improve on their former selves. True, they can somehow become better athletes than most Olympians in just a year, rebuild a school in a weekend, and even be sent to space and back, but I just don’t care. When I was feeling shitty because of something someone said, when I just finished my homework and wanted a break, and even when I just had a rough day and needed to laugh, I knew that big, dumb, yellow smile would be waiting for me. At the end of the day, that’s really all I was asking for.

Assassination Classroom was different. And now, it’s over. 

Nothing can replace it. 

Harry Potter and the Genius of the Boggart

Having grown up with the Harry Potter series, I, like a lot of people, tend to see it through rose-tinted glasses. The characters, the setting, oh, and the magic... what kid doesn't dream of going to a wizard school? With being forced to go to the mundane equivalent everyday (with such boring knowledge a lot of the time), it's absolutely no surprise that a fantasy series like Harry Potter captured the imaginations of not just kids, but adults as well. Everywhere, in fact -- the Harry Potter series has been translated into 68 languages and has sold 400 million copies worldwide (thanks Google!)

When you're a kid, you don't quite know what makes Harry Potter so special (or, at least, that was how I felt). However, I've loved the stories since I first saw Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Sorcerer's Stone on the TV in my old house almost two decades ago, and I love them all today just as much as I did then.

While there is an overabundance of things in the stories to fall head-over-heels for, one thing that really stood out to me on re-read and re-watch is just how clever the characterization is. Specifically in the third installment, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. In both the film and the novel, students in Remus Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts class must be able to use the "Riddikulus" charm against a Boggart. Riddikulus (literally pronounced "ridiculous") is a task-specific spell meant to defend against the Boggarts (While they came from wider European mythology, in the Harry Potter universe, a Boggart is a shape-shifter, and can take the form of someone's most intense personal fears). 

In Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, the student's are all roughly 13 years old, being in their third year at Hogwarts and all. The concept of the Boggart and the Riddikulus charm work in tandem to characterize them without being outright exposition; it shows their emotional priorities and weaknesses at such an impressionable age pretty frighteningly well. 

In the book (and the film), the first student to take the stage against the Boggart in class is none other than Neville Longbottom. Up until the fifth installment, Neville is quite the coward -- always being pushed around by the other students (even Hermione!) and not having any outward self-confidence. A lot of this personality is shown in what he fears when the Boggart is first revealed; 

"A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville."

                       -- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, page 137 (US hardcover release) 

This passage makes indirect reference to what Neville fears most as a third year at Hogwarts: Snape. Throughout the series, while Snape is quite hostile to most everyone not in Slytherin house, he is particularly mean to Neville. By just writing a Boggart encounter the way she did, Rowling has told us in one paragraph that Neville's biggest fear is the way he's treated, specifically by a figure of authority. His peers treat him this way too, so it's important to note that his Boggart was not simply a reflection of the act of cruelty, it was specifically a teacher acting this way.

In the next paragraph, where Neville casts the Riddikulus charm and the Snape-Boggart is forced to wear his grandmother's clothing, we also see what he finds humorous. By forcing an entity to appear this way, we see how exactly Neville would find Snape less intimidating. Now -- despite what we may be led to believe by this, the series eventually implies to us that Neville's grandmother is not a very kind person; not in an abusive way, but in her stern, commanding nature. A passage on the Harry Potter Wiki states; 

"Augusta was clearly strict with her grandson, who she initially feared was a Squib. Even after Neville proved to be a wizard, his grandmother was stern and demanding of him, sending him Howlers when his behavior displeased her and pressuring him to uphold the 'family honor'."

Much of the thesis of Neville's emotional state is redefined with the reveal of Neville's parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom. After being brutally tortured to the point of insanity, they were admitted to St. Mungos -- a wizarding hospital -- indefinitely. They're around in Neville's life, but they're not able to act as parents due to their heightened level of dementia. In fact, in the fifth installment, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Neville is seen speaking to them in St. Mungo's, and they're entirely handicapped. This points to Neville's grandmother as his only actual guardian, and when she's stern the way she is, Neville only has Hogwarts to go to for positive contact with authority. And, with Snape being Snape, Neville is denied that positive reinforcement for at least one period of class every single day. 

TL:DR -- It is only reasonable to deduce that with the trauma in his life, figures of authority/guardians are a tender subject with Neville's character. 

So, with the whip of his wand, third-year Neville reduces the Boggart to something he found funny; Snape wearing Augusta's clothes. Mixing the two negative points in his life distilled their impact. In other words; My grandmother is mean to me, and Snape is too -- but if he's wearing her ridiculous clothes, he's not as scary! (it's also worth mentioning that Augusta Longbottom has a very strange sense of fashion)

Things get even more interesting when the Boggart turns on Harry -- it becomes a Dementor, a dark creature he encountered only earlier that school year (I'd hope you all know what a Dementor is). We've read the books and seen the movies (hopefully), so we know Lupin's hypothesis -- this means that Harry's biggest fear is fear itself. He was terrified during his first Dementor encounter because it resurfaced fears in him from probably his oldest memories -- the shriek of his mother, and a flash of green light as Voldemort struck (wanded? magic'd?) her down. Harry faced scary things in his two years before, but the fact that his Boggart took the shape of something that brought back those specific feelings gives us a better picture of his outlook altogether. 

The Boggart letimotif makes its return in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, when Molly Weasely (the Weasely family's mother) finds in in a closet in 12 Grimmauld Place. The form it took for her were the corpses of her family; her sons, Ron, Fred, and George, her husband Arthur, her daughter Ginny, and finally, Harry. 

This may have a simpler explanation than Neville's (Molly loves Harry like her own children), but it doesn't mean anything less of the Boggarts as a literary device -- they're a fantastic way to show the audience things about a character, and not tell them. 

The series is full of examples of these kinds of things, and it's honestly one of the reasons it's so widely loved -- a good story, for sure, but also a well written story. 

Until next time. Keep watching, keep writing, and most importantly, keep reading.