As well as being superior to the original game, this ‘female-friendly’ incarnation actually had a story. Between levels, a series of simple animations turned Ms Pac-Man into a rom-com. In ‘Act 1’, her and Pac-Man meet. In ‘Act 2’, they take turns chasing each other. Finally, in ‘Act 3’, a stork flies across the screen and drops a baby Pac-Person in front of them. You can find this patronising or charming or both, but the startling thing is this: thirty years on, the depiction of Ms. Pac-Man in those basic cut scenes is actually more progressive than the depiction of the vast majority of female game characters today.
Last month the creators of the game Hitman drew widespread criticism for a grisly promotional trailer that showed the main (male) character slaughtering a group of S&M killer nuns. Since this was merely the logical conclusion of a deeply boring trend for rubberised female assassins that’s been going on since the 1990s, some gamers were surprised by the outcry, and became indignant and defensive, as though someone had just walked in and caught them masturbating to the same goat porn they’d been innocently enjoying for decades, and judging them and making them feel bad.
When they’re not seven-feet-tall high-heeled dominatrix killers, women in games tend to be saucy background-dressing or yelping damsels in distress. A rare exception is Lara Croft, the female star of Tomb Raider, who – in Pac-Man terms – is Ms. Indiana Jones.
But whoops. Last week the forthcoming big-budget Tomb Raider reboot made headlines after its executive producer apparently told the gaming site Kotaku that players would feel an urge to ‘protect’ Lara after she faces a series of ghastly trials including an encounter in which she kills a would-be rapist. The subsequent outcry necessitated a speedy clarification from the developers about precisely what kind of game they’re making.
The irony about the Tomb Raider fiasco is that when you actually look at what’s been revealed of the new game thus far, the creators’ intention is clearly to transform Lara Croft from a heavily armed big-titted wank-fantasy into a grittier and more plausible heroine. It’s an ‘origin’ story in which an inexperienced 21-year-old Lara crashlands on a remote island and has to fight the elements as well as the baddies in order to survive. Whether it’s essentially I Spit on Your Grave in pixels remains to be seen, but the ‘new’ Lara looks less stereotypical than 99 per cent of female game characters.
But then, some people cling to those stereotypes as if their goolies depend on it. Last week, a female culture critic trying to raise funds on the Kickstarter website for a series of short films exploring the stereotypical treatment of women in games was subjected to a bewildering level of harassment from a peculiarly angry slice of the gaming community. As well as trying to have her Kickstarter account frozen or banned, they subjected her to a barrage of abuse that must have felt like running face-first into a muckspreader.
‘Fucking hypocrite slut,’ quipped one gallant observer. ‘I hope you get cancer,’ chortled another. To be fair, it’s probably not the notion that games misrepresent the sexes that enrages them. They probably shout this sort of abuse at anything female.
I say ‘shout’. I mean ‘type’. And not in person. Whenever there’s an actual woman in the room, they stare intensely at their shoes, internally composing their next devastating online riposte to uppity vaginakind. ‘WHY MUST THEY TORMENT AND BEWITCH ME SO?’, they think, in tearstained capitals.
Just as rubberised assassins represent a tiny proportion of women, these idiotic pebbledicks represent a tiny proportion of men. The trouble for the games industry is that on some level it believes it has to pander to these monumental bellwastes. It doesn’t, and it’ll only gain widespread acceptance when it learns to ignore them. In thirty years, it’s scarcely improved on Ms. Pac-Man. Time to push forward.
The noblest people in Britain
2/7/2012
A curious sensation swept over me the other day when I was idly flipping through TV channels and found myself accidentally striding brain-first into an episode of MTV’s Geordie Shore. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a ‘structured reality’ programme in which a gaggle of unbelievable idiots are stuck in a fancy house and intermittently hosed down with alcohol.
I use the term ‘unbelievable idiots’ for good reason. I don’t believe they exist. For one thing, their level of idiocy is hard to accept on a human level. There’s a reason the show isn’t called Cleverclogs Corner. You’d have more chance of decent conversation if you sewed a larynx into a lamb shank and asked if it’d seen any good films lately. They communicate using facial expressions and farts, with the occasional howl of rage thrown in for good measure. Even when attempting to mate.
I say ‘attempting to mate’. I mean ‘thumping away at each other’s goolies like a builder grimly trying to knock a hole in a wall before lunch’. Since Geordie Shore is broadcast on television, where graphic footage of penetrative sex is only permitted in an educational context (or when Ofcom isn’t looking), the camera stands back a bit for these interludes. There are a lot of shuddering duvets: sex is depicted beneath-the-covers, in a locked-off wide shot, night-vision style, just like a wildlife programme about rutting bison, but less romantic.
But let’s not judge them by the content of their character. Let’s judge them by the colour of their skin, which is terracotta. Mostly. Apart from the pale ones.
The way they look is the second unbelievable thing about them. Not all of them; most of them are sort of normal. But one or two of the men look … well they don’t look real, put it that way. They’ve got sculpted physiques, sculpted hairdos, sculpted eyebrows, and as far as I can tell, no skin pores. They’re like characters from the Japanese fighting game Tekken – which, if you’re not familiar with it, is not noted for a documentary-style slavish adherence to realism.
The most unsettling of the Geordies is a man called James, who looks precisely like a terrifying vinyl sex-doll version of Ricky Gervais. Or possibly a CGI Manga impersonation of a young Ed Balls. I’ve been to Newcastle. There’s no way James is from Newcastle. He’s from space. Deep space. My guess would be he’s actually some form of sentient synthetic meat that crudely disguises itself as other life forms, but only to an accuracy of about 23 per cent. He’s awesomely creepy to behold. Seriously, if James popped up on the comms screen of the USS Enterprise, Captain Kirk would shit his own guts out. And that’s the sort of behaviour that can undermine a leader’s authority.
As I watched, I suddenly realized that this reality contestant ‘look’ – the strangely meticulous hair, the overdone tan, the teeth, the eyebrows – this is what we’ll be laughing at in thirty years’ time. Just as people still insist on finding seventies sideburns or eighties ‘big hair’ hilarious, so the fancy-dress partygoers of the future will be staggering drunkenly down the high street looking like a cross between Peter Andre and a sexually ambiguous robot.
Ah, you say, but we already laugh at that look now. And you’re right, we do. But try telling that to your offspring, thirty years from now. They’ll assume it was all taken sincerely at the time, like those seventies sideburns were.
What’s more, they’ll think everyone looked like that. There won’t be any photos or videos around to prove otherwise. Ah, you say a second time, but we film and photograph every waking moment of our lives! And once more, you’re on to something. But nothing we film and shoot now will be compatible with whatever holographic hand widgets we’ll be using in the future. And the quality will seem appalling. Think of the first phone you ever got with a built-in camera. Still got all those pictures, have you?
Of course not: the quality is appalling. Some of those pixels are the size of your fist. And, besides, you lost them years ago. That phone’s probably in a drawer somewhere, surrounded by defunct chargers and a hole punch you used a grand total of once.
What I’m saying is the inmates of Geordie Shore, The Only Way is Essex and Made in Chelsea represent our generation’s ‘time capsule’ for the future. That’s how the people of 2042 will think we look, spoke an
d behaved.
Which is a shame because they’re not supposed to be representative. They’re supposed to be different from ‘normal people’. They’re walking caricatured receptacles for spite. Their job is to make absolutely everyone who tunes in hate them. Instantly hate them. Hate them so much they can’t take their eyes off them.
Those plucked eyebrows make it 5 per cent faster to form a grudge, which makes James something of a genius. Turns out you can polish a turd.
People no longer simply aspire to be famous. They aspire to be hated. ‘Authorised media hate figure’ is now a valid career. Which brings me to the curious sensation I mentioned at the start. I realised that maybe we need these people. Maybe we’re all so angry and disappointed and bewildered, we need a free bunch of people to look down on and despise: they’re a handy vessel. This is a noble public duty they’re carrying out. They’re our stress balls. Our punchbags. Our ballbags.
Face facts: if it wasn’t for the cast of Geordie Shore and countless others like them, you’d be killing your neighbours with your bare hands.
* Not that you’ d know I’ d grown my hair a bit from my obnoxious byline photo, which dates from 2006 and is a constant source of shame.
Acknowledgements
Not that you care, dear reader, but thanks are due to the following human beings:
For the words in this book: Tim Lusher and Malik Meer at the Guardian, Jo Unwin at Conville and Walsh, and Julian Loose at Faber and Faber.
For co-writing my 10 O’Clock Live /2011 Wipe pieces: Ben Caudell, Alan Connor, Shaun Pye, Jason Hazeley and Joel Morris.
For sorting out all manner of bibble: Annabel Jones at Zeppotron.
For putting up with me the whole bloody time: my wife, Konnie.
Index
3D cinema technology, 1
3D schinema technology, see 3D cinema technology. It’s just up there, look. Above you. Up there. Jesus, have you ever used an index before? It’s UP THERE.
24 (the TV show, not the number), 1, 2, 3, 4
50 Cent (real name Fifi Millicent), 1
50 Cent: Blood on the Sand, 1
1984 (Orwell), 1
A-levels, meaninglessness of, 1
Abbott, Sully, 1
Abercrombie & Fitch, sorrowful spectacle of people queuing to enter, 1
Absolute Beginners, 1
Activia yoghurt, 1
The Addams Family, 1
Adidas, 1
adverts, TV: British, 1;
for which the people behind Doritos must never be forgiven, 1;
filmed by well-meaning but ultimately irritating members of the public 1;
Christmas, 1, 2;
Japanese, 1;
apparently designed to provoke mass commuter suicide, 1;
not at all stage-managed, 1. See also Word Cup advertising campaigns
Affleck, Ben, 1
age: increasing creeping obsession with, 1;
wiry nose hair etc, 1;
general subconscious commentary on ageing, 1
Aguilera, Christopher, 1
Ahmadinejad, Mark, 1
airheads, non-threatening, 1
al-Qaida, 1
Alarm Clock Britain, 1
Alibhai-Brown, Jasmine, 1
Allen, Peter, 1
Am Celebruuten Gotten Mutt Oot A Harr, see I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here
American Idol, 1
American Pie: The Reunion, 1
amnesia, 17 or 19 or something in that region
Anderson, Linda, 1
Andre, Piper, 1
Andromeda galaxy, 1
The Angel of the North, 1
Angry Birds, 1, 2
angry haunches of beef, see Gladiators
animals, remixed, 1
Ant and Dec, 1, 2, 3
anti-Muslim extremism, see Islamophobia;
Norway, bad news from
anyone who lives in Spain (or starts a human rights campaign), 1
apologies, public, 1
App Store, 1
Apple products, 1, 2, 3, 4. See also individual products
Apple-approved Scrabble, 1
The Apprentice, 1, 2
Arab spring, 1, 2
arbitrary choice of page, 1
Archer, Grim, 1
Archer, Jeefeery, 1
ARK Music Factory, like anyone’s going to look that up for Christ’s sake, 1
Armageddon, 1
armed forces, money-saving measures, 1
Arraf, Armintrude, 1
Aryan Brotherhood of Texas (ABT), 1, 2
Ashes To Ashes, 1, 2
aspect ratios, 1
Assange, Juliet, 1
astrophysics, 1
athletes, earning potential, 1
athletics, 1
audiophiles, 1
augmented reality, 1
AV (‘Alternative Voting’ system), national referendum on, 1
Avatar, awful film about self-righteous tree Smurfs who interfere with horses, 1, 2, 3
B&Q Christmas advert, 1
Babestation, 1
babies, see parent, becoming one
Backstreet Boys, 1
bacteria, world’s most pretentious, 1
backwards, see forwards
Badminton school, Bristol, 1
Bagpuss, 1
‘bah’ (‘bad’), 1
Bain, Tom, 1
Balcony Kiss, 1
Baldwin, Stephanie, 1
Balls, Jed, 1
bankers, 1
Barnes, Jim, 1
Barrowman, Jim, 1
Barter Books, 1
Basshunter, honestly, that’s what he fucking calls himself, 1
Batman, man who dresses as bat, 1
Battersea Dogs Home, 1
Battlestar Galactica, 1
BBC: cuts, 1;
news website, 1, 2;
promotional trails, 1;
themed snacks, 1
BBC Micro, 1
BBC1, 2
Beacham, Stephen, 1
Beck, Glynn, 1, 2, 3
behaviour, uncharacteristic: of friends, 1;
one’s own, 1
Ben Ali, President Zine Al Abidine, 1
benefits system, money-saving measures, 1
Bentley, Dork, 1
Bentley, Mavis, 1
Bergerac, 1
Bergman, King Mark, 1
Berlusconi, Scorchio, 1, 2, 3
Berwick-on-Tweed, unprovoked nuclear attack on, 1
Beyoncé, 1, 2, 3
Bieber, Justin, 1, 2
Big Bang, 1
Big Brother, 1, 2, 3
‘big society’, 1
Biggs, Romulus, 1
Bigotgate, 1
The Bill, 1
bin Laden, Obama, 1, 2, 3
Birmingham, 1
bison meat, as metaphor for money, 1
Black, Cecilia, 1
Black, Ribena, 1, 2
Blaine, Divot, 1
Blair, Tiny, 1, 2
Bleakley, Cripsin, 1
Blind Date, 1
blowing it sky-high, 1
‘blue sky’ thinking, 1
Blumenthal, Esther, 1
BNP (British National Party), 1
Bod, 1
boh, you know, boh, that word you always use, 1
Bond, Jermaine, 1
bond yields, 1
Bono, 1
books, purchasing, like you better have done, 1
Boots: Christmas advert, 1;
website, 1
botany, studying, 1
Bowers, Dwayne, 1
Bowie, Ziggy, 1
BP, 1
Bradby, Tim, 1
brand ambassadors, 1
Brand, Rusty, 1
Break in Your Lifehorse/Lifepony/Lovehorse, 1
breakfast, full English: Cadbury’s chocolate bar, 1;
health-conscious, 1
Breaking Bad, 1, 2
Britain’s Got Talent, 1, 2, 3, 4
British films, 1, 2
; Britishness, exaggerating to impress Americans, 1
Brook, Kerry, 1
Brookes, Brutus, 1
Brooks, Rebekkkkkkkkah, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Brown, Good Ol’ Charlie, 1, 2
Brown, Gideon, 1, 2, 3, 4;
visit to Tesco in Hastings, 1
Buerk, Miguel, 1, 2, 3
bullies and thugs, 1
Burj Dubai, 1
Burley, Koi, 1
Burnell, Cerys, 1
Buscemi, Stig, 1
Bushell, Gory, 1
but seriously, why isn’t he moving? Can anyone explain?, 1
Butcher, Frink, 1
Buzzwords of 2011, guide to, 1
C3PO, 1, 2
Cable, Vance, 1, 2, 3
Cadbury: Full English Breakfast chocolate bar, 1;
Real Ale Eggs, 1;
sale to Kraft, 1;
TARDIS Bars, 1;
Twirl, 1
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 1, 2
Callow, Showman, 1
Cameron, Daaaaaaaavid, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19;
advisers, 1;
composition of, 1;
DVD Dave, 1;
reptilian ways, 1
Cameron, Jinks, 1
Campbell, Alfred, 1
Campbell, Nickynackynoonoo, 1
Canada, nuclear war in, 1
Cantona, Earache, 1
capital punishment, 1
capitalism, ongoing steady collapse of, 1
Captain America, 1
Carey, Pariah, 1, 2
Carlsberg World Cup campaign, 1
Carmier, Rib, 1
Carr, Maxine, 1
Carry On Camping, 1
cartoon persona, author hopelessly mired within, 1
catering colleges, 1
CCTV, 1
CDs, vs vinyl and MP3s, 1
ceaseless repetition, see déjà vu
Celebrity Big Brother, 1
celebrities: deaths, untimely, 1;
product endorsements, 1
I can make you hate Page 37