It's time to let West Side Story die...

Some facts:

• In 2021, a White man in his 70s remade a film created in the:

• 1960s by a White man in his 30s, which was adapted from a musical written in the:

• 1950s by White men in their late 20s, which was based on a play written in the:

• 1590s by a White man in his 30s.

West Side Story (2021) » West Side Story (1961) » West Side Story (1957) » Romeo & Juliet (c. 1590)

Do you see a pattern here? Besides the addition of music, there has not been an original idea for the last 430 years.

…well…that’s not the only problem, here…

West Side Story (2021) is a beautiful film plagued by a story that has aged terribly. Measurably worse, the filmmaker in charge of the 2021 remake did that whole White Progressive™ thing where he tried to retell a story that isn’t his to tell, that a bunch of White Film Critics™ absolutely gobbled up, starring an Ethnically Diverse™ cast of actors who absolutely killed it, making it even fucking harder to be critical about the movie without having to walk on brown eggshells—and I can make that joke ‘cause I’m brown. Anyway, even though no one asked, here’s my review. Oh, and spoilers ahead for an extremely familiar story that you probably already vaguely know anyway…

“Best Side” Story

Okay, before I completely eviscerate this film and its entire pretentious agenda, let me talk about its good parts: from a technical perspective, it is a pretty damn good execution. The music is fantastic. The cinematography is fantastic. The choreography is fantastic. The acting is fantastic. Everything that the eyes and ears register is absolutely fucking beautiful. Hell, I could even buy the whole tough-guy-ballet thing because Ansel Elgort (Tony) and Mike Faist (Riff) fucking killed it in their roles. The song Cool made me audibly shriek when they were wrestling with the gun that way because I was almost certain it was gonna go off accidentally. David Alvarez (Bernardo) was even believably intimidating as the head honcho of Los Tiburónes (“The Sharks,” for you Gringos).

Would I recommend giving it a watch? Sure, rent it or catch it on the streaming service of your choice. Or if you’re reading this past the year 2022, catch some of the clips of the musical numbers on YouTube. Again, comparatively to the the 1961 version, the characters are a lot more convincing in their roles. The gangsters feel like gangsters, as opposed to theater nerds wearing gang-face. The brown people are brown, there’s no holding punches with the ethnic slurs (so it doesn’t feel sanitized), and the political commentary is…there. But that’s sort of where it starts to deteriorate after you look past its gorgeously polished exterior.

La belleza es sólo superficial

West Side Story (2021) did some expert cleaning up (and by that, I mean grittifying) of the original 1961 film. Full disclosure, I’ve never seen the original in its entirety, but I know that it was mired by brown-facing, Spanglish, and the misogyny of the time. The 2021 remake tried its hardest to rectify some of the transgressions of its predecessor, but by doing that, it really only served to let the problematic parts of West Side Story’s narrative shine through. And honestly, that’s where it starts to become apparent that people need to stop romanticizing Romeo and Juliet.

On the surface, West Side Story is a retelling of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. This is not news to anyone, but what might be news to people is that Romeo and Juliet is not a romantic story. Categorically, it’s a tragedy, not a comedy. Like most revered storytellers, there’s usually a moral or lesson you can take away from Shakespeares works—power and corruption, in MacBeth; the fickle nature of human attraction, in A Midsommer Night’s Dream; cross examining the qualities of leadership and morality, in Henry V… Shakespeare was known for being a satirist, and extrapolating from there, we can deduce that Romeo and Juliet was not supposed to be an inspiring story about love, but rather a cautionary tale about rash judgements, feuds of allegiance, and the stupidity of young people. For fuck’s sake, the titular characters kill themselves after having known each other for less than a week.

And therein lies the satire. Shakespeare was remarking upon how quickly young people fall in and out of love, and how fucking stupid they are when that happens. They’re reckless, overdramatic, and extremely selfish. These are not qualities to be admired. Fast forward a couple hundred years, and we’re still studying this story, but too often taking away the wrong lesson. Subtlety is hard, after all.

Enter, West Side Story (1961). It’s the story of two teenagers, aligned with two opposing factions, who meet at a party and fall in love at first sight, yada yada yada, Tybalt kills Mercutio, Tony kills Tybalt, it’s all very sad. And maybe you didn’t even notice that I deliberately swapped the names of one of the archetypical characters, but that would be because they’re the same fucking dude.

Now, I’m gonna yada yada through the rest of the movie because you probably already know it, but the very ending of West Side Story is the thing that takes the horrific cake for me.

Kill it with hate

I fucking hate this ending. If you haven’t seen the 2021 reboot, it’s very similar, dialogue-wise. My problem with it is that it’s trying to serve as a cautionary tale, but it’s so goddamn pretentious about it. What’s worse, it removes the original dark consequence of the satire from Romeo and Juliet. In Shakespeare’s source material, everyone important dies. And the cautionary tale is that young people do dumbass, overdramatic, high consequence bullshit in the name of “love.”

West Side Story tries to add on top of that satirical commentary by layering on themes about race, gang violence, revenge, and “hate.” The problem is that the message gets so sloppily shoe-horned in on top of the other message that it feels unrealistic and undeserved. Whereas in Romeo and Juliet, revenge and faction are used as contextual framework to move the plot of the romantic story forward, West Side Story uses them as completely parallel narratives. That’s a problem. Try this: what is the one-sentence synopsis for Romeo and Juliet?

Two kids from rival families fall in love, death and drama ensue because of this romance, and then they hurriedly kill themselves at the end because of a miscommunication.

What’s the one-sentence synopsis of West Side Story?

Two kids from rival gangs fall in love, death and drama ensue kinda because of the romance, but mostly because of parallel gang shit, then at the end, one of the gang members kills the main guy out of revenge, and the girl “learns how to hate” because of it.

There’s one lesson in Romeo and Juliet, while West Side Story tries to have multiple. It’s unfocused. It’s trying too hard. And it falls flat because who gives a shit about this unrealistic ass story. The ending doesn’t feel impactful because the ultimate consequence and lesson tries to be: “gang violence bad.” It tries to sidecar the A storyline (Tony and Maria) by making the B storyline (The Jets vs The Sharks) the “moral of the story.” If it really wanted to stay in line with Romeo and Juliet, Maria should have shot and killed everyone and then herself when she said she could have. But the movie/play didn’t have the cajones to do it. So instead, she gets to leave all sad and shit, but still alive. We don’t learn anything new, there’s not any real consequence for the characters left living except “end on a vaguely sad note,” it’s not an effective satire, and then we fade to goddamn black. It’s not even a cautionary tale about anything. It’s just sadness fetishism.

And don’t give me no bullshit about “the moral of the story is that Maria has to live with the consequences of her actions.” That line of justification doesn’t hold up because we don’t see any of the consequences, which is just lazy writing. It’s not the same as ending a story by “leaving them wanting more.” It’s asking the viewer to finish the story for someone who couldn’t figure out how to. And if that’s the justification, where’s Tony’s “moral of the story”? ‘Cause he’s dead. And those two consequences do NOT feel equal for characters that are supposed to be equal protagonists of this story.

White Progressivism™ and self-congratulations

West Side Story (2021) attempted an act of contrition for West Side Story (1961) by casting brown people in the roles of brown people. It’s a commendable attempt at recompensing for the racist legacy that West Side Story (1961) penned into the American cultural zeitgeist. I’ll grant the 2021 execution its due credit for contributing to representation efforts in American cinema, but I think it—like with many White Progressive™ reconciliation efforts—overreached in a pretentious, self-congratulatory way.

What’s the egregious sin I think West Side Story (2021) committed?

Not subtitling the movie for non-Spanish speakers.

Here’s the justification Spielberg used for the decision. Here’s the important excerpt from the article:

“Throughout "West Side Story," Puerto Ricans are constantly told to "speak English" because the cops and Jets refuse to take the time to understand them.

By making this creative choice, Spielberg is challenging his audience to instead "speak Spanish," and no longer be ignorant of a culture that represents 19% of the United States' population (62.1 million) as of 2020.”

On the surface, this seems like a clever creative choice that makes a poignant commentary about our society. Spielberg argued that non-Spanish speaking audiences could extrapolate from “context” what the Puerto Rican characters were saying, and that Spanish speakers in the audience would basically get an extra layer of movie that non-speakers would either have to seek out or infer, highlighting a “fundamental truth” in our society: that “we’re a bilingual country.”

…This sentiment would be sweet if it were coming from a screenwriter that actually put his money where his monolinguistic mouth is. Do you see the problem with White men who don’t speak Spanish lecturing the rest of us about not being able to speak Spanish? It’s performative and toothless at best; hypocritical at worst. Bo Burnham put it best in his Netflix special, Inside:

“I'm a special kind of white guy
I self-reflected, and I wanna be an agent of change
So I am gonna use my privilege for the good (Very cool, way to go!)”
—Comedy, by Bo Burnham

Or better yet:

“Why do you rich fucking white people
Insist on seeing every socio-political conflict
Through the myopic lens of your own self-actualization?
This isn't about you.
So either get with it, or get out of the fucking way”
—The Way the World Works, by Bo Burnham

The problem with the type of pandering Steven Spielberg et al. did with West Side Story is that they don’t believe the bullshit they’re peddling. Otherwise they’d nut the fuck up and learn Spanish themselves. Instead, they’ve adopted an unearned “holier than thou” attitude about their uninspired hot take on the country’s linguistic demographics. What’s worse, by choosing not to subtitle the Spanish parts of the movie, they’re effectively red-taping off those parts of the narrative from the people who need exposure to that narrative the most: rich White people. If you want non-speakers to sympathize with a narrative, you give them a chance to understand it. Otherwise, they disconnect from the narrative. Brown people don’t need to told how hard it is/was to be a brown person. We know how fucked up it’s been. Having your brown characters talk about being oppressed in their native tongue, unsubtitled, removes that part of the narrative for the people who need to hear about it. It’s not “authentic” to omit subtitling. It’s not a “service to the Spanish speaking community,” you patronizing gringo. It’s just Diet Brown Face™.

Plus, if your justification includes, “non-speakers will be able to understand via context,” then just fucking subtitle the shit for the love of god. Use language disparity as a vehicle for the narrative, not as a glitter you can put on your pseudo-intellectual passion project.

Season 5, Episode 2 of Bojack Horseman: The Dog Days Are Over

Season 5, Episode 2 of Bojack Horseman: The Dog Days Are Over

A show that did no-subtitling profoundly better was the Bojack Horseman episode titled “The Dog Days Are Gone.” For those of you who haven’t seen the show (side note: shame on you; go watch Bojack Horseman), Diane—the character pictured above—is a Vietnamese American who doesn’t speak any of her ethnic tongue. She goes through a bit of an existential crisis wherein she decides to “go back to the homeland.” A homeland in which she realizes: she’s actually a tourist. She has no ties to her ethnic heritage besides her genealogy, and when she goes to Vietnam on a whim, she finds herself clueless and lost in an unfamiliar land. Main characters are often felt as surrogates for the viewer, so her loneliness is punctuated for us by deliberately choosing to exclude the translation subtitles, which has the effect of reinforcing that feeling of exclusion and unknown. The choice to not subtitle serves the narrative; it doesn’t prevent us from engaging in it. And if the viewer so happens to speak Vietnamese, their experience is enriched by that ability.

Comparatively, whenever Spanish is spoken in West Side Story (2021), it’s always by main characters (who are, again, surrogates for the viewer). So by not having subtitles, it alienates the viewers from the cast with whom we’re supposed to be sympathizing. And, like, rule number 1 in storytelling is to sympathize your main characters to your audience, not alienate them from them.

Conclusion:

West Side Story is a story we should all just collectively let retire. Everyone knows it. We can stop remaking it. And by proxy, we can never ever try to remake Romeo and Juliet ever again. Sure, let it be performed in theater settings. Let high schoolers study it via the Leonardo DiCaprio adaptation. But we’ve had enough “fresh takes” on this worn-out ass narrative. And if you’re going to do it at all, just stick to the script.

Here’s an itemized list of problems in West Side Story

1. Too many parallel themes and narratives

2. Takes itself too seriously to be satirical, doesn’t change enough from Romeo and Juliet to move away from its satirical roots

3. The B story conclusion becomes the moral of the story, while the A story serves as contextual framework to justify the final message

4. The Diversity and Inclusion™ initiative was half-baked, and the omission of subtitles was a performative, hypocritical virtue signal

Bojack Horseman and the search for meaning.

I have seen the episode “Free Churro” from Bojack Horseman at least four different times, and I very well might see it four more. As far as TV episodes go, it’s probably the most uniquely written episode from one of the most uniquely written TV shows out there. For anyone who is not caught up with the show up to the point of season five, episode six, beware, for there are some pretty big spoilers in this blog post. Also, if you haven’t caught this show, but have been meaning to, certainly do not read this blog post. This is definitely not a good episode to jump into.

Welcome, to any of you that made it here. We’re going to get a little existential in this post, because that’s all I do with my life, anyway. Specifically, we’re going to get existential about Bojack Horseman and the search for meaning. In this instance, when I say “search for meaning,” I mean “trying to extrapolate meaning from things that happen in our lives.” Some people define this as seeing “signs” in things, such as a butterfly landing on your shoulder while sitting in a park and reading a book that your late mother gave you several years ago. I’m sure you’ve met someone (or you might be that someone) who pulled meaning from that, when it’s very possible that it really didn’t have any meaning at all. It was just a tired butterfly, and you were just an inanimate object. There are a few people who are particularly susceptible to “finding” meaning in things—among them: superstitious people, writers, and fiction critics. The habit of searching for meaning compounds exponentially if you tick multiple of those boxes.

The reason people like this are susceptible to this habit is because they’re all trained (academically or otherwise) to ascribe meaning to things that might be banal. You might recall your high school English teacher walking you through the different interpreted themes, motifs, and symbols of classic literature, back in the day. Was the mockingbird in To Kill A Mockingbird really a metaphor for Boo Radley? And was the murder of Tom Robinson also a metaphor for the “loss of innocence” that Scout goes through during the course of the book? Maybe. But I’m sure you’ve heard the argument that “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Why do some people do that, though? Why is finding meaning in things so appealing? I think it’s because as social creatures, we like stories. And what’s better than stories? Stories within stories. Parables. Teaching moments that elevate our stories from simply entertainment fodder, to life lessons we can internalize and perhaps share with others. Icarus wasn’t just a story about a boy, his father, and defying the laws of physics—it was a warning not to reach further than you can grasp. “Reading between the lines” is a way for us to feel smart about recognizing esoterica, and boy, who doesn’t like to feel smart? (Particularly people who use words like esoterica)

As a writer and amateur fiction critic, myself, I constantly find myself searching for meaning in things. But as a pragmatist and general non-superstitious person, I also find myself trying to remember that the universe is under no obligation to make sense to you. Because—yes—sometimes a cigar is literally just a cigar. And that brings me to my favorite episode of Bojack Horseman.

Hey mom, knock once if life has any meaning to it at all.

I’m going to try really hard not to get into the nitty gritty details about Bojack Horseman’s possibly-optimistic approach to existential nihilism, because then I’d be talking about the whole show at large, and that’s a blog post for another time. But what I do want to talk about is the way Free Churro pretty brilliantly walks between the duality of meaning and meaninglessness. The episode is absolutely dripping in existentialism, and I will admit that it gets a little meta finding meaning in an episode that explores what meaninglessness means (I’ll give you a second for the room to stop spinning)… But honestly, that’s part of the brilliance of the episode, for me. Sort of like how Evil Morty’s speech at the end of The Ricklantis Mixup absolutely shits on every evil villain speech, while simultaneously being the greatest evil villain speech ever conceived.

For anyone who needs a refresher on the episode, it’s basically a 30-minute monologue by actor Will Arnett, taking the form of a beratement at Bojack from Bojack’s dad, and then a subsequent (read: much later) eulogy from Bojack after his mom died. One of the most brilliant things about the episode (that I didn’t catch until my third time watching it) is that its opening line is, “Yes, yes, I see you.”

i c u

Maybe you’ve heard people say that some of the best books/movies tell you exactly what the whole work is going to be about from the opening shot/paragraph/line. Most memorably for me is the opening sequence of the movie The Prestige (and I’m not even going to risk spoiling that one for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet—side note: why the fuck haven’t you seen The Prestige, yet???). In Free Churro, one of most repeated phrases by Bojack is “I see you.” The reason he repeats this so much is because he was in the intensive care unit when his mother died, and the last thing she said was “I see you.”

Throughout the episode, he wrestles with this last parting message from his mother, with whom he had a strained relationship throughout his whole life—”strained” being a massive understatement. He wonders what she meant by “I see you.” Here’s an excerpt from that scene:

BOJACK: I was in the hospital with her those last moments, and they were truly horrifying, full of nonsensical screams and cries, but there was this moment, this one instant of strange calm, where she looked in my direction and said, "I see you." That's the last thing she said to me. "I see you." Not a statement of judgment or disappointment, just acceptance and the simple recognition of another person in a room. "Hello, there. You are a person. And I see you." Let me tell you, it's a weird thing to feel at 54 years old, that for the first time in your life your mother sees you. It's an odd realization that it's the thing you've been missing, the only thing you wanted all along, to be seen. And it doesn't feel like a relief, to finally be seen. It feels mean, like, "Oh, it turns out that you knew what I wanted, and you waited until the very last moment to give it to me." I was prepared for more cruelty. I was sure that she would get in one final zinger, about how I let her down, and about how I was fat and stupid, and too tall to be an effective Lindy-hopper. How I was needy and a burden and an embarrassment. All that I was ready for. I was not ready for "I see you."

Only my mother would be lousy enough to swipe me with a moment of connection on her way out. But maybe I'm giving her too much credit. Maybe it wasn't about connection. Maybe it was an "I see you," like, "I see you." Like, "You might have the rest of the world fooled, but I know exactly who you are." That's more my mom's speed. Or maybe she just literally meant "I see you. You are an object that has entered my field of vision." She was out of it at the end, so maybe it's dumb to try to attribute it to anything. - [woman sighs] -

Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV Show called Horsin' Around. - [man coughs] - Please hold your applause. And I remember one time, a fan asked me, "Hey, um, you know that episode where the horse has to give Ethan a pep talk, after Ethan finds out his crush only asked him to the dance because her friends were having a dorkiest date contest? In all the shots of the horse, you can see a paper coffee cup on the kitchen counter, but in the shots of Ethan, the coffee cup's missing. Was that because the show was making a statement about the fluctuant subjectivity of memory, and how even two people can experience the same moment in entirely different ways?” And I didn't have the heart to be, like, "No, man, some crew guy just left their coffee cup in the shot.” So instead, I was, like "Yeah."

And maybe this is like that coffee cup. Maybe, we're dumb to try to pin significance onto every little thing. Maybe, when someone says, "I see you," it just means, "I see you." Then again, it's possible she wasn't even talking to me. Because, if I'm being honest, she wasn't really looking at me, she was looking past me. There was nobody else in the room. I think she was talking to me, but, honestly, she was so far gone at that point, who knows what she was seeing.

I think this section of the episode perfectly encapsulates the dichotomy between searching for meaning and inherent meaninglessness. Later, while still trying to understand what his mom meant by “I see you,” he starts telling the audience about his mom’s final moments in the ICU, and…

BOJACK: …I see you… “I. C. U.” … She was reading a sign!

The episode of full of subversions of itself like that. It constantly asks you to find meaning in something by baking meaning into it, then tearing it down later.

Is there a meaning to why I put a screenshot from another cartoon here? I dunno. You tell me.

Another comparison in Free Churro I think really drills down on the point is the comparison between Bojack’s opening and closing of his eulogy:

BOJACK: Beatrice Horseman, who was she? What was her deal? Well, she was a horse. Uh, she was born in 1938. She died in 2018. One time, she went to a parade, and one time, she smoked an entire cigarette in one long inhale. I watched her do it. Truly a remarkable woman. [rustling] Lived a full life, that lady. Just, all the way to the end, which is, uh, now, I guess. Really makes you think, though, huh? Life, right? Goes by, stuff happens. Then you die. Well, that's my time, you've been great! Tip your waitress! No, I'm just kidding around, there's no waitress. That's all I have to say about my mother. No point beating a dead horse, right? So [inhales] Now what? I don't know, Mom, you got any ideas? Anything? Mom? No? Nothing to contribute? Knock once if you're proud of me. Can I just say how amazing it is to be in a room with my mother, and I can just talk without her telling me to shut up and make her a drink? Hey, Mom. Knock once if you think I should shut up. No? You sure? I mean, I don't want to embarrass you, by making this eulogy into a me-logy, so, seriously, if you wanted me to sit down and let someone else talk, just knock. I will not be offended. No? Your funeral. Sorry about the closed casket, by the way. She wanted an open casket, but, you know, she's dead now, so who cares what she wanted? No, that sounds bad. I'm sorry.

[LATER]

BOJACK: "My mother is dead, and everything is worse now." Because now I know I will never have a mother who looks at me from across a room and says, "BoJack Horseman, I see you." But I guess it's good to know. It's good to know that there is nobody looking out for me, that there never was, and there never will be. No, it's good to know that I am the only one that I can depend on. And I know that now and it's good. It's good that I know that. So it's good my mother is dead. [gulps, sighs]

Well. No point beating a dead horse. Beatrice Horseman was born in 1938, and she died in 2018, and I have no idea what she wanted. Unless she just wanted what we all want—to be seen.

At first, Bojack is obsessed with trying to prove he knew what his mother “wanted” by means of all the cynical jabs at her. At the end, he concedes to never truly knowing what she wanted, because perhaps there was no inherent meaning behind the things she did, other than she just did them. Then again, maybe all she wanted was to be recognized and validated, just like him. Just like all of us. The whole meaning of the eulogy by now is about Bojack reconciling with his mother in front of the attendees of the wake, despite the fact she can’t appreciate or reciprocate it.

At this point, Bojack opens up the casket to look inside. Then, confused, he pulls a funeral program from his pocket, looks up, and asks, “Is this funeral parlor B?”

Conclusion:
Bojack Horseman, and Free Churro, in particular, explores whether or not there is a such thing as “meaning” at all, but also asks if you can find meaning in meaninglessness—if nothing inherently means anything, then why can’t you make everything mean something to yourself? Or is the search for meaning as frivolous and temporary as getting a free churro on the day your mother dies? You tell me.

The final two shots of Free Churro that completely subvert the episode; none of the last half hour mattered. Or did it?

Video Games and Literature—A Comparison

So I’ve had this opinion for a long time, and I’ve even written essays in high school/done presentations in college about this topic, but I wanted to immortalize it here, as well:

Video games have the potential to equal the intellectual capacity and value of classic literature.

That is not to say that they are interchangeable with each other, nor is it to say that one is inherently superior to the other. Look, I love books, too. Hell, I love books so much that I became a professional writer. But I often see bookworms scoff at at video gamers as if they were nothing but button-mashing Neanderthals chugging neon green soft drinks and munching on triangle-shaped, nacho-cheese-dusted tortilla chips. I think that characterization does a disservice to the art form—and yes, video games are an inarguable form of art; it’s literally a major at the art school from which I have a BFA.

Tell me to my face that this isn’t art.

Anyway, let’s compare apples to apples, shall we? Unless you’re a serious fan of typesetting, novels aren’t really visual art forms (excluding book covers, which can be absolutely breathtaking). Their artistic value comes from the narratives captured within their many pages, often inclusive of different themes, motifs, and symbols—welcome back to high school English class, everyone. Now, I believe that the intellectual value of video games exceeds strictly the realm of compelling narrative, but for comparison’s sake, we’re only going to talk about story for right now, capiche? Great.

If we’re going to talk about classic literature, it’s probably only fitting that we start with the iconic benchmark by which basically all hero stories are told—Homer’s The Odyssey. This epic poem chronicles the adventure of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, as he journeys home following the events of Homer’s previous epic poem, The Iliad.

The Odyssey follows (and is perhaps responsible for popularizing) the format of the hero’s journey, in which a protagonist goes through trials and tribulations to achieve a specific goal, encountering archetypes of allies, mentors, and antagonists along the way. Many action/adventure pieces follow some permutation of this format; it’s a tried and true outline for creating a compelling and satisfying story. Since most video games involve some measure of action/adventure element, it’s important to understand this canon.

One of my favorite installments in my all-time favorite franchise.

I know I talk about The Legend of Zelda games a lot, but it’s only because they’re always so damn good. This time, we’re going to observe LoZ:WW from the perspective of the hero’s journey.

We have a protagonist (named Link), who starts off just a young kid living on an island when his sister is kidnapped by a giant bird. That’s Link’s call to adventure. He goes on an epic journey, meeting a talking boat inhabited by the spirit of the King of Hyrule—his supernatural aid/mentor—gets royally fucked up (by threshold guardians) while trying to save his sister because he’s too weak, goes through trials and tribulations to get stronger, gets fucked up some more as his ally gets captured by the ultimate antagonist, Ganon, (the abyss), has to get even stronger by assembling the pieces of the Triforce of courage (his transformation), he saves his sister (atonement), then he has to fight Ganon again with the help of the newly empowered princess Zelda and her Light Bow (gift from the goddess), defeating him and restoring peace to all the land—whereupon it is implied that he and his newly assembled friends get to go on endless adventures to come (the return).

All along the way, LoZ: WW envelopes you in a charming world full of eclectic but relatable characters with sub plots that are all extremely satisfying to resolve. The game tells an emotionally compelling story while challenging you to think and react in creative ways to progress the narrative. I’ve played through and beaten LoZ: WW at least three different times in my life, and each playthrough is equally as satisfying as the previous one—similar to how people have read through The Odyssey numerous times and found satisfaction in its story.

You may be thinking, “but Alex, the hero’s journey is the low-hanging fruit of narrative structure. What about books like To Kill A Mockingbird or Catcher in the Rye that deal with humanistic themes, like the loss of innocence? Or Fahrenheit 451 or Brave New World that deal with control/censorship in a modern world?" What about complex stories about morality and the human condition apart from going out on an epic adventure?”

Great question, my friend!

Red Faction: Guerilla not only had some of the funnest gameplay mechanics in recent memory, but it really makes you rethink your socio-political preconceptions.

In 2009, developer Volition, Inc. (which is now Deep Silver Volition, LLC) released Red Faction: Guerilla under the publisher THQ. The game is a 3rd person POV shooter game with a revolutionary mechanic at the time—fully destructible environments.

From RF:G’s wiki:

Red Faction: Guerrilla takes place in the year 2126. The Earth Defense Force (EDF), the allies in the original Red Faction, have become the main antagonist of RF:G. Although initially supportive of the Martian miners, Earth's natural resources have run scarce, and as a result, its world economy has collapsed from rampant speculation of commodities and lack of production. Under pressure by Earth's corporations and leaders to acquire the resources of Mars at any cost and at a pace to meet Earth's high demand, the EDF has forced Martian society into a permanent state of unfree labour. The newly reformed "Red Faction" arises to revolt against the EDF, drive them off the planet, and begin fairer negotiations with Earth.

You play as Alec Mason, who finds himself shoved into the midst of a rebellion after witnessing the murder of his brother at the hands of the planet’s governing body, the EDF. In the game, you fight for the greater good of the Martian residents at the hands of tyranny. Red Faction: Guerilla is far from subtle about its implications—from its on-the-nose title, to the content of its narrative, to its constructivist-inspired art style—the message is obvious: you are literally playing as a communist.

Red Faction: Guerilla’s logo is heavily inspired by constructivist art from Russian propaganda from the early 1900s.

It’s never explicitly stated that you’re a communist. But you’re fighting for the equal distribution of wealth and prosperity in the game—it really doesn’t have to be explicitly stated. And that’s the gorgeous part of it: once you realize what’s going on—that you’re playing the protagonist in a communist rebellion—it really challenges the American propaganda that’s been drilled into our heads since the first Great War. You empathize with Alex Mason and the Red Faction. You want to topple the established governing body with your own two hands and battle-worn sledgehammer. “Down with the EDF!” you might find yourself rallying throughout the course of the game. If you rooted for the Red Faction, you rooted for communism, plain and simple. How’s that for compelling and intellectual narrative?

“Video games are the shit; come at me, bro!”

Conclusion:
Video games and literature have equal potential when it comes to narrative intellectuality. Sure, there are brain-dead games that don’t really serve a higher intellectual purpose, but there are also books that fall in the same category (see: Goat Simulator and the Main Chick vs. Side Bitch Series, respectively). This blog post didn’t even attempt to cover the puzzle-solving element or resource-management skills that video games can help develop. But that’s a blog post for another time. For now, all I hope you do (if you don’t, already) is pick up a story-based video game and indulge in its narrative. If you feel so compelled, try to extrapolate the greater implications of that narrative to see if the writers, developers, and artists of that game are trying to make some sort of commentary on the nature of the human condition. If you want any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line—I’d be more than happy to add onto your gaming backlog.

A really cool couple’s tattoo idea I saw on the Internet a long time ago.

Paramore has stayed weirdly relatable while growing up

I remember the moment that I realized I was a big Paramore fan. Don’t get me confused when I say that—I want to emphasize the word realize, there. Looking at their full discography and reconciling the dates with what I can remember about myself at the time, I’m pretty sure I onboarded as a fan around 2007-2008 (during the Riot! era), when I was either an 8th grader or a freshman in high school. I just didn’t know how big a fan I truly was until I was in my early college career (around 2011 or so). I was organizing some playlists I’d intended on putting on my new phone, and I’d noticed that I had all three of their albums that they had out at the time. Not only did I have all three of their albums, but I realized I knew the words to pretty much all of their songs.

For 2011-Alex, that was actually pretty abnormal. I didn’t really believe myself to have a “favorite” band, and the only two full-albums I’d ever bought with my own money (which was basically allowance money, but I’ve digressed) up to that point were Sara Bareilles’s Little Voice and Eminem’s Curtain Call (Yes, I realize those are two very different genres of music). Most of the music in my collection was comprised of singles from artists I’d liked here and there, or maybe a few songs from a few albums… But I didn’t know I’d owned three consecutive albums from any band or artist. Sure, my parents probably bought them at the request of either my brother or myself, but it didn’t change the fact that I knew all of their songs. Like I said, as a non-committal to any artist or band (before my introduction to Taylor Swift), that was a pretty big deal to me.

Recently, it got me thinking about my relationship with Paramore, and how—out of every band or artist out there—I’ve always related to their music, no matter how old I was. That also struck me as strange, because—like most people—I went through phases of liking music/musicians. I had an Avenged Sevenfold phase. I had a Disturbed phase. I had an Eminem phase. I had a Frank Sinatra phase. I even had a weird showtunes phase. And while I still listen to all those things intermittently today, none of them has endured as constantly or in as high volume as Paramore has for me. I’ve literally never been disinterested in picking up the “next” Paramore album, whereas I don’t think I’ve even downloaded an Eminem song since Stan.

Hell, I guess you could call me a Paramore stan.

And I think the reason why my interest in Paramore has endured so vehemently over the years is because their music grew up with me, too. A lot of those other artists and genres stay pretty static, in my opinion. There isn’t much change to their music, album to album. But I’ve noticed that Paramore’s lyrics have had a subtle emotional evolution, much like we do as we grow up. So, in this blog post, I wanted to reverse-engineer my fascination with Paramore, and how I related to their music as I grew from a superficial angsty teenager, to a self-actualizing adult with a more complicated fear of the world. That being said, let’s start with where I remember being introduced to Paramore—with Riot!

I’m in the business of misery, let’s take it from the top

So, I guess during the Riot! era, Paramore was seated firmly in the Emo genre. Makes sense when you consider songs like Misery Business, That’s What You Get, and We Are Broken. These are all songs that 14/15 year old Alex resonated with hard. I was just finding out what dating (and getting broken up with) was like, and teenage hormones meant that the thing at the front of my mind was navigating a romantic relationship. Not only that, but being miserable and edgy was so in. Naturally, it felt like Paramore understood that when “nobody else did.”

And it's obvious that you're dying, dying
Just living proof that the camera's lying
And oh, oh open wide
'Cause this is your night, so smile
'Cause you'll go out in style
You'll go out in style

—Fences, from Riot!

Well now I'm told that this is life / And pain is just a simple compromise / So we can get what we want out of it

By 2009, Brand New Eyes had come out, and I was full-swing cringey teenager. I was also the gross PDA-ing type of teenager with my first serious then-girlfriend, with whom I would get into shouting matches on campus daily. So songs like The Only Exception, All I Wanted, and Brick By Boring Brick were staples of my personality by this time. I couldn’t be bothered to be told anything by any figure of authority because I was just too damn good for all that shit, man. And I definitely thought I knew everything important there was to know about life—and life was so hard (good god, can I PLEASE take those years of my life back…).

And the worst part is
Before it gets any better
We're headed for a cliff
And in the free fall I will realize
I'm better off when I hit the bottom

—Turn It Off, from Brand New Eyes

And after all this time I’m still into you

Oh man, 2013… By this time, my teenage angst had evolved into emergent-adult angst. With Paramore, the band’s self-titled album, things were not only beginning to change for me, but for the band, as well. In the four years since Brand New Eyes, Zach and Josh Farro had left the band. In my own life, my three best friends had recently just moved to study at UCLA, Cal Berkeley, and Cal Poly, and my latest then-girlfriend had moved off to study at UC Davis—I was insanely happy and proud of them, yet I was also incredibly sad and lonely. I was still stuck in my little hometown attending community college, feeling like I was stuck in a rut of self-disappointment and self-loathing. I was definitely feeling an indescribable mix of emotions.

Unless you were Paramore.

Don't go crying to your mama
'Cause you're on your own, in the real world
Don't go crying to your mama
'Cause you're on your own, in the real world

—Ain’t It Fun, from Paramore

—Side note, while this album contains two of my favorite songs in Paramore’s discography (Ain’t It Fun and Still Into You), it’s actually my least favorite album of them all. Isn’t that an interesting metaphor for my life at the time?

(Hard times) gonna make you wonder why you even try / (Hard times) gonna take you down and laugh when you cry / (These lives) and I still don't know how I even survive / (Hard times) / (Hard times) / And I gotta get to rock bottom

…Which bring us to the current era, as of this writing: After Laughter. Jeez, what can I say about After Laughter? By 2017, I’d graduated from college and was just getting my first taste of the real world. Honestly, I’m still there, now. But I seriously can not sing enough praise about After Laughter. You can tell that the emotions the band are trying to articulate are much more nuanced and undefinable than they’ve ever been. It’s an apt metaphor for being in your mid-20s, because you haven’t quite figured everything out, but you’re also definitely not a naive kid anymore. Songs like the sonically-upbeat Hard Times are sobered up quickly when you listen to the somber lyrics. Forgiveness is about wanting to forgive someone for hurting you but knowing you don’t have the strength in you to do it. Told You So is about eating humble pie when you realize how wrong you were about something. The entire album is layered in denial and self-destructiveness, but in a way that feels cognizant of itself, as opposed to self-bemoaning in the way a bratty teenager would be.

After Laughter is peppered liberally with dancey-vibey tracks that take a second or third read to really see underneath. It’s sort of like being aware of your own melancholy while knowing that it bums people out, so you try to put on a smile so as not to bug people with your sadness. You want to Fake Happy for everyone else’s sake, and perhaps also as a bit of performance art because you know you’re supposed to be happy—just like everyone else is, right? I’m 26, currently, as of this writing, and I can say without a doubt that I’m going through the weirdest set of emotions I’ve ever had the displeasure to confront in my life. I know that I’ve just recently exited life’s “tutorial” stage. I know that I’ve barely lived a quarter of my life expectancy. I know that this is still a relatively easy section of what my life will be. But knowing all of those things doesn’t stop me from feeling sad, or heartbroken, or hopeless, or incompetent. And yet, I feel compelled to fake being happy because I think it’s what I “should be.” I try to be appreciative of everything that’s going well in my life, but the insecurities just scream louder than I can quiet them.

And I think Paramore gets that.

Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
All the rest of you has died
So let it break your heart

Hold onto hope if you got it
Don't let it go for nobody
Hold onto hope if you got it
Don't let it go for nobody
And they say that dreaming is free
But I wouldn't care what it cost me

—26, from After Laughter

Conclusion:
It’s been an interesting decade-and-some-change being a fan of Paramore. While most artists I’ve listened to over the span of the same time have seldom strayed far from the beaten path, it feels like Paramore has had an uncanny ability to gracefully wander to and fro, exploring different musical stylings while still speaking true to the relatable experience of being miserable—but also growing up to realize that there’s complexity to that misery. It’s not just vitriol and “you don’t understand me, mom!!”

I think being aware of sadness and allowing yourself to be with it for a time is really the only way of getting past it. Denying yourself a moment to grieve over whatever you need to grieve over is a fast track to becoming angry and resentful over things that are out of your control, and that can lead to hopelessness or worse. I’ve experienced a unique catharsis listening to Paramore at different stages of my life, and I think it’s because Paramore has an intimate understanding of what it’s like to be sad at different stages of growing up.

Maybe the most poignant example of this is a tweet Haley Williams sent on July 20th of 2017—a date which likely haunts fans of Linkin Park.

Immersion in Open-World Gaming: When is it too much?

Of the three games shown above, I only played two to completion—”completion,” here, being defined as “the end of the main storyline.” It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the storyline of one of these games—quite the contrary! I think all three contain expert levels of narrative storytelling. The reason I didn’t finish one of these games is because one of them was completely exhausting to play for me. I understand that the point of open-world video games is that you’re supposed to feel immersed in the universe of the game, and that exploration apart from the main story is part of the appeal to these types of games. Trust me, I love games that don’t force you down a linear hallway of story (not that there’s anything wrong with that, either). I appreciate the ability to explore the passion of devoted game developers who have lovingly carved out a secondary life for us in which to indulge. However, I think one of these games tries to be too immersive, which, for me, has the ironic effect of removing me from the immersion of the game.

Are you ready for it? It’s Red Dead Redemption 2.

Before you get your keyboard pitchforks out, let me explain what I mean by “too immersive,” because I realize that’s a fairly nebulous descriptor to use. I think RDR2 has a chronic problem with its commitment to being as “realistic as possible” getting in the way of the pace of the game. It’s not so much one glaring frustration I had with the game that broke it for me, but a bunch of little inconveniences that compounded on my experience to the point I was like, “fuck this shit; I’m out.” Maybe you can call me impatient. I dunno. But there’s no better example that encapsulates my annoyance with the game than walking through the fucking camps in RDR2.

Literally me while trying to walk from the entrance of camp to my quarters.

Whyyyyyyyyyy do we have to walk through the camp in RDR2?? I mean, I know why—because that’s what civilized cowboys did—but why do we have to walk through the camp? For immersion’s sake? To make us feel like civilized cowboys? You know, for a game that touts its every choice as having a consequence on the storyline, it sure does force you into the expected mannerisms of its protagonist. Like, why can’t I run through camp, pissing off Dutch and Ms. Grimshaw as I go? What if I wanted to play my version of Arthur like Micah and say “fuck you” to all your stupid-ass camp rules? Beyond my angst of having choice removed from me in a “choice-driven game,” I also feel that it just adds an unnecessary lengthener to the game where it shouldn’t be. Did the developers want to force us into appreciating the textures of the camp? Did they want us to be sure that we didn’t miss any social interactions with the NPCs? Or did they just want to show off how cool Arthur Morgan looked when he strutted his stuff in front of everyone, spurs and all?

For comparison’s sake, take a look at how Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain handles your “headquarters” area (Mother Base). As Venom Snake, you can run through the different platforms, drive vehicles up and down the place, or even beat the shit out of your compatriots who often thank you for it. The only real restriction you have at MGSV’s headquarters area is that you can’t kill your friends—which makes total sense in the world of the game. Having all those options available to you really makes you feel like you’re in control of Venom Snake at all times, which really immerses you in the character.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense that I can’t full sprint through my dirty-ass camp to get some goddamn chili in RDR2. Forcing you to walk in RDR2 really just pulled the autonomy right out of my hands and had me futilely mashing the A button on my controller to make myself feel a tiny bit better about my temporary immobilization.

Ohhhh, you sons of bitches are about to GET it, lmao.

Another thing that felt gratuitous to me is something that has happened in other video games before it, and has been equally ridiculed on the Internet—why RDR2 gets to escape the criticism is beyond me: there are interactive sections in the game that should seriously just be part of the cutscene. Anyone familiar with gamer culture is familiar with the Press F to pay respects meme, often shorthanded as simply “F” in online comment sections or otherwise.

By now, gamers are used to pressing “action” buttons to initiate tasks like opening up chests, doors, or reading loose papers. Used appropriately, they clue gamers into taking an action that has a tangible consequence—opening a chest will yield you loot, opening a door will grant you access to a different area, reading loose papers will expose you to new lore. They can even be used as “quicktime events” that have a consequence for failure. But used inappropriately, all they do is stunt the progress of the game. Here’s a tip to parse whether or not an action button sequence is necessary: does this action button stall the game? If so, what happens if you don’t press the action button? Nothing? Then don’t put in an action button.

Press F to Pay Respects. Triangle to connect wire. Power button to stop playing this boring-ass game.

I could go on for quite a while about all the little things that bugged me with RDR2’s gameplay pacing—from the half-assed fast-travel system, to the respawn location randomness, to the tedious stamina mechanic. But the one that broke the horse’s back was perhaps the micro-interactions, such as playing mini-games, making special bullets, or taking a bath at a hotel. There was so much extra animating and button pushing that it felt like a chore doing any of it. Why do I have to watch the winner of every poker hand celebrate and collect his money? Why do I have to watch Arthur carve a notch into each individual bullet to make split-bullet ammo? Why does every limb during Arthur’s baths have a different button I need to press? Why can’t I skip all these things if I want to?

Comparatively, Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild does one of these micro-interactions much better—cooking. Every button press feels like it has a purpose other than gratuitously showing us an animation, and you can even skip the actual (fairly short, mind you) cooking animation altogether if you want. BoTW’s action sequences never feel like I’m being forced to slow down, which is much better for “immersion” than having to see every little minute detail. There are certain things that we just don’t need to be “realistic,” particularly when they get in the way of actually playing the game.

Conclusion:
Read Dead Redemption 2 is a beautiful, story-driven masterpiece, but it really begs the player to have an exorbitant amount of patience to get through its extraneous, forced interactive moments. A game that feels much better that came out around the same time as RDR2 is Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey. The only time I ever felt like the game slowed me down needlessly was when I was walking down that super long hallway to upgrade my spear. But those instances came so few and far between that it didn’t feel like it broke the flow of gameplay for me. I’m not saying that slow parts of a game are necessarily bad—but I am saying that they should serve a purpose, otherwise instead of being impactful, they just feel cumbersome.

Why I think "All Too Well" resonates with Swifties

I walked through the door with you, the air was cold,
But something 'bout it felt like home somehow and I
Left my scarf there at your sister's house,
And you still got it in your drawer even now.

It’s been years since Taylor Swift penned All Too Well into the minds and hearts of Swifties everywhere, yet two eras later (at the time of this writing), it’s still the song that gets her fans sobbing uncontrollably while shouting the lyrics at the tops of their lungs. Being in a sea of ugly criers as Taylor deftly navigates the entire dynamic spectrum of vocal prowess—from what feels like an intimate whisper, to a rueful exclamation—is perhaps one of the more awe-striking things I’ve ever experienced at a concert, vicariously or otherwise. It’s always fascinated me as to why and how All Too Well became the singer-songwriter’s unofficial fandom anthem, but I think hidden in the answer to the song’s success lies the greater allegory of why Taylor Swift, herself, has endured as such a treasure to her fandom—snake emojis be damned.

Oh, your sweet disposition and my wide-eyed gaze.
We're singing in the car, getting lost upstate.
The Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place,
And I can picture it after all these days.

When you look at the lyrics of All Too Well, one thing is obvious: this is a very specific vignette about Taylor’s life. There’s no pretention, here. Taylor is putting her own agony on display—something over which I imagine most record labels would find apprehension. “It’s not relatable! How will fans sing along to something so specifically not about them?” Yet to this day, All Too Well is one of the most participated-in songs at her concerts. It’s not a single. It’s not even an up-beat song. So what’s the deal? Why is it the loudest song at every show if it’s so “unrelatable”? I think it’s because it’s not trying to be.

And I know it's long gone,
And that magic's not here no more,
And I might be okay,
But I'm not fine at all.

'Cause there we are again on that little town street.
You almost ran the red 'cause you were looking over me.
Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well.

No matter what you think about Taylor Swift, she is adept at making her fan base feel like they’re more than just her fans—she makes them feel like they’re her friends. And if you think about your friends, I absolutely guarantee that you’ve been there to commiserate with them about a traumatic event in their lives. Taylor even said in an NPR interview that “people have essentially gotten to read [her] diary for the last 10 years. [She] still [writes] personal songs, and sometimes people like to put a very irritating, negative, spin on that—as if [she’s] oversharing; as if it's too much information—when this has been the way [she’s] lived [her] life and run [her] career the entire time. So [she does] think it's really important that [she continues] to give people an insight into what [her] life is actually like, even though it comes at a higher cost now.” And that’s what friends do—they share their lives with you. All Too Well is a snapshot of Taylor’s life. As her “friends,” we sympathize with her, and we want her to feel loved and validated, so we do that in the only way we really know how: we sing along. Loudly.

Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turning red.
You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-size bed
And your mother's telling stories about you on a tee ball team
You tell me 'bout your past, thinking your future was me.

And I know it's long gone
And there was nothing else I could do
And I forget about you long enough
To forget why I needed to

That being said, I believe that All Too Well (and, frankly, Taylor’s entire catalog) is far more relatable than people give it credit. Think about a really good movie you saw recently. Now, think about the plot of that movie and ask yourself, “is this relatable to me?” Chances are that maybe you relate to the protagonist of a story, but I bet you don’t relate to the specific story—very few of us are billionaire superheroes, but we wrestle with complex ethics and morals daily, so Batman and Iron Man feel relatable to us. Taylor Swift has done to her music what filmmakers have been doing to their movies throughout all of time: craft a sympathetic protagonist.

Is Taylor Swift a perfect paragon of relatability and innocence? No, probably not. But what interesting character (or human being, for that matter) is? Batman is mired in the complexities of living a dual life; Iron Man is often the victim of his own hubris (ahem snake emoji ahem). Music that is perfectly agnostic and interchangeable between the artist performing it and the listeners consuming it is fine and dandy. But the satisfaction behind that can be superficial and ephemeral. We crave elaborate narratives because the drama is intriguing, and that intrigue has longevity.

'Cause there we are again in the middle of the night.
We dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator light
Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well, yeah.

Maybe we got lost in translation, maybe I asked for too much,
And maybe this thing was a masterpiece 'til you tore it all up.
Running scared, I was there, I remember it all too well.

Okay, so we understand that from a relatability standpoint, Taylor’s music is relatable in an evolved way past being cut-and-paste stories into which we can substitute ourselves. But what about musically? Sonically, Taylor Swift’s music falls squarely in the category of four-chord pop. On the surface, All Too Well is about as simple as it gets. For the musically inclined, it doesn’t stray from the I–V–vi–IV progression once. But there’s something else incredibly interesting about it that satiates the hunger for variety, and that’s its lyrics.

Hey, you call me up again just to break me like a promise.
So casually cruel in the name of being honest.
I'm a crumpled up piece of paper lying here
'Cause I remember it all, all, all too well.

If you listen to the song, you’ll notice that it’s missing something fairly integral to most pop music on the airwaves today, and that’s a chorus. As Bo Burnham eloquently put it, “America says we love a chorus / But don't get complicated and bore us / Though meaning might be missin' / We need to know the words after just one listen / So repeat stuff.”

All Too Well’s only repeated lyric is “I remember it all too well,” which is preceded by what could be interpreted as a chorus, but lyrically and melodically, each of those sections is distinct from another—so it’s not a chorus. All Too Well is five minutes and twenty-eight seconds of pure storytelling—no filler, and we. are. FED!

Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it
I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still trying to find it
After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own
Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone

But you keep my old scarf from that very first week
'Cause it reminds you of innocence and it smells like me
You can't get rid of it, 'cause you remember it all too well, yeah

'Cause there we are again, when I loved you so
Back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well

Wind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all
Down the stairs, you were there, you remember it all
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well.

Conclusion:
Taylor Swift’s All Too Well is pop music’s shining beacon of what a melancholy ballad should aspire to be. It follows the sonic conventions of successful pop music while providing the narrative satisfaction of great cinema and evoking a multi-dimensional sense of social connection (to Taylor and other Swifties). Whether or not you like Taylor Swift’s music, it is undeniable that she is a master of her craft, and that as long as she keeps writing songs that are authentic to her experience, her fans will unwaveringly stand right beside her.

And I think she knows that all, all, all too well.