Beware the Technology Wrath

The other day the most horrible thing happened to me. It was a moment so scarring that a little bit of poo came out. *cringes*

Like all wrong things in this world, it started on the train. My morning ritual was underway when a person made eye contact.

At first I was dumbfounded by this violation of personal space. How could they not know the white earphones oozing from my ears meant “bugger off”?

Of course, I said all of this to reassure my inhibitions, but deep down I knew the truth: I had become a slave to my iPod. It’s something that I, and countless others, have turned to when pressed by the nerves of a random encounter.

I’m aware of another barricade used by people. When you're walking, keep your head down staring at the screen in your palm and passers-by will turn invisible. What’s the price of this vanishing act you ask? $799 plus a couple of bumps and bruises.

And this is the wrath of technology. It adds a little more grey to everything, starting with face-to-face encounters.

Take the other night for instance. I was having a coffee with a dear friend and his smartphone. It was grueling competition. How could I compete with Google’s knowledge, Facebook’s variety, a photographic memory and enough trinkets to make me, an aspiring writer (complete with beard) look dull?

I spent more time waiting for him to finish his texts than engaging in conversation.

At one point I sms'd him. Why go out at all?

The social network epidemic has to be the most interesting invention because it undermines everything it sets to achieve. Sure, it’s a convenient way of cataloguing your friends—like dusty archives—but most of the people you befriend are, at best, acquaintances. These people you rarely talk to will see your profile, and no one wants their lasting impression to be of a drunken Christmas photo. Delete please.

Or a status revealing your bigoted self. Censor that.

How about your infatuation with the latest tween song? Nuh uh.

Your Facebook profile then is a representation of you at best and a far cry from the complex person you really are.

There’s nothing wrong with showing your good side; but our dependence on these technologies has reduced our multi-dimensional selves to 1s and 0s.

In a phone call, it’s easy to tell when someone is sad, even if they profess otherwise. And what about the wrinkles of sincerity present when you tell someone good news? Their ear-to-ear smile is enough to warm your insides.

But apparently these tell-tale signs are expendable.

Text, especially digitised text, is robbed of context and open to misrepresentation. As a technology journalist by trade, I can say I value our progression (heck it gives me a job,) but hear the warning of countless science fiction writers: our reliance is more dystopia than paradise.

Fending this addiction is possible. Simply revert to our intuitive senses: make eye contact; say hello; touch someone’s hand; smell a rose; kiss someone. There are so many loaded qualities buzzing in the air when you’re around someone. Like magic they can’t be measured, but they’re certainly absent from a screen.

Back in the day, people used to…hang on, I’ll just Google that. 

By Tony Ibrahim

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My gripe with Teeny Boppers…LOL

I like kids. They’re adorable little creatures dosed with a healthy sense of curiosity, cute feet and innocence.

“This world will ruin them,” I often say. 

But in no time, these beacons of purity and unbridled joy transition into a phase that makes my Christian blood boil. They evolve into a brand of person I bundle with Zombies, racists and necrophiliacs. They can be boy or girl, 12 or 22, but invariably share the same maddening insensibilities.  

They go by the name ‘Teeny Boppers.’

Their world is filled with schoolyard gossip, excessive masturbation and the drama of finding out a friend is into studying. It’s a small world perpetuated by things like glitzy magazines and Twilight, (no, I’m not referring to the phenomenon that takes place when the sun sets, but rather a movie series focused on a teenage girl and her decision to engage in bestiality or, surprise surprise, necrophilia.)

With Hollywood greasing the Teeny Bopper gears, these hormone-infused teenagers roam the streets and spill their silly problems all over the public sphere. Take the train commute home for example.

“I think tonight I’m going to kill myself. Yeah…I think tonight is the night.”

When I heard that on the packed train home from North Sydney, my ears prepped. I intended on approaching this stranger, on enlightening her on all of the things right with this world, on encouraging her to seek professional help, on showing her people care.

“Did he notice?” she followed up. She wanted Dean’s attention.

Dean had a lip ring. I didn’t like Dean.

The rest of her conversation was just as mind numbing with highlights including her random one-night stands and her iPhone. She was still wearing her school uniform.

The Bopper epidemic can spill into the workplace. You’ll receive post it notes signed with ‘XOXO,’ uncover their reliance on Facebook and witness an impressive power play that involves welcoming asocial members of management into their world of gossip.

Let’s face it: Boppers don’t scream ‘professionalism.’

But worse yet—worse than the reasons listed before it—is the one thing about Teeny Boppers that grinds my gears the most, and that is they remind me of a younger version of myself.

Their wayward values resonate with a version of me that didn’t quite know who he was. The biggest thing in his world was school, and he filled it up with its academia and gossips alike. At the time, when his parents were enduring a nasty divorce, he didn’t know the walls that made up his world would soon make room for real problems, like the ongoing war in the Middle East, having his heart broken and losing a beloved relative to an incurable disease. He was naïve, immature and unsuspecting of adulthood.

I feel for Teeny Boppers. They approach an age of maturity that washes their innocence away and replaces it with the enlightened burden of truth. They are awakened by knowledge and an understanding their footprint is several sizes too small—for the time at least. Looking at them, at their naivety, I now realise the transition from kid to adult isn’t an easy one and hope they hold onto their innocence for as long as possible. 

By Tony Ibrahim

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Law Abiding Citizen Resides In Se7en's Shadows

Unlike many movies before it, Law Abiding Citizen focuses on a character who is already imprisoned when he performs most of his crimes, and the intriguing methods he employs.

Gerard Butler plays Clyde, a loving husband and father who is beaten by two criminals one night. They leave him on the floor, bleeding heavily, causing him to black in and out of consciousness. For the brief time he is conscious, he watches a criminal savagely rape and murder his wife. Then another kills his infant daughter. In an attempt to pursue justice, Clyde hires an attorney named Nick (Jamie Foxx).

Nick fears both criminals could walk free. Believing that some justice is better than none, he accepts a plea where one criminal cops the death penalty and the other completes a small prison sentence. Although Clyde witnessed both criminals, he cannot understand how the supposed justice system would let such an obvious crime go unpunished.

Featuring many explosions and some stunning visual aesthetics, action is further delivered through suspense and mystery. After Clyde is imprisoned for his first crime, he continues to exact revenge and discipline while he is behind bars. The extraordinary efforts employed and the absence of information engages audiences, as they actively look for clues and hints explaining Clyde’s methods. Is he doing this completely on his own? Or is someone helping him? And better yet, who could it be?

The rest of the action is dispensed through the ongoing debate between Nick and Clyde, concerning the validity of the legal system and its ability to enact justice in an unjust world. Although this theological debate is intriguing, and is purported under the guise of two interesting characters, it hides behind exploding cars and breathtaking visual effects. As a result, what should be the driving force in this movie is deemed a subplot, much to the film’s detriment.

Between the philosophical debate and intense action scenes, audiences will find moments of humour. Even though this is a dramatic flick, the brief moments that cause audiences to giggle and laugh come very naturally. It’s the combination of these elements—humour, action and psychological insight—that makes Law Abiding Citizen a worthy watch. It’s just a shame that it is lacking what it needs to be remembered.

By Tony Ibrahim

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127 Hours: Who knew Franco was a credible Actor? Oh Danny Boyle!

By now, everyone has heard about Aaron Ralston and his story. It is one of a cocky guy who falls into a crevice, has his hand pinned by a rock and is stuck there for five days. After running out of food and water, he comes face to face with a horrifying dilemma: would you cut off your own arm to live?

But why would audiences fleet to the movies to watch a story they already know? Heck, I can think of countless other ways to spend my $15 on something else more original. After all, the premise comes off as static and claustrophobic. The truth is though, under Danny Boyle’s direction, your fifteen dollars is well spent.

While Ralston is pinned beneath the boulder, Boyle reaches out to his audience and brings them into Ralston’s intimate space. In the same way Ralston’s arm is pinned under a boulder, the audience is pinned to their seats, watching him scurry for his made-in-china knife, ration the few hundred mills of water, and find solace in the little natural beauty the confined crevice can offer him.

What plays out on screen isn’t a location bound narrative, but the chronicles of a man’s psychosis, tested. Through dehydration, starvation, desolation and fear, the audience shares Ralston’s many life-threatening struggles. There are no CGI car chases and gunfights barraging the audience. The imminent threat of death is dealt with in a real and simple fashion: if this daredevil doesn’t drink or eat, he will die.

To pass time, and more importantly stay psychologically astute, Ralston reaches out for any signs of life. He records the flight path of a raven, the hour the sun’s ray of light will extend its reach to his foot, and the feel of the rocks that encompass him. Life has been reduced to fundamental elements that everyone is familiar with, but also that everyone takes for granted.

As the hours turn into days, Ralston begins to reflect on the relationships he has failed to value. Turning to his digital cameras, he reaches out to his family and friends, leaving them the intimate messages only death motivates.

Even though Ralston is arm deep in claustrophobia, the audience isn’t. Boyle is skillful in drawing a contrast between the tight confines of Ralston’s space and the vast, desolate Utah desert. He creates an environment that audiences can empathise with emotionally, without replicating it visually. Flashbacks, hallucinations and dreams, coupled with sensory shots, create the experience of claustrophobia without that uncomfortable sensation. 

There has been lots of controversy regarding the visceral scene at the end where Ralston is forced to amputate his arm. Take it from a (squirmy) man; it is difficult to get through. You will cringe, and the odd person or two will feel lethargic—there are even reports of people vomiting. Bearing these difficult scenes prove rewarding, as the film’s close is pregnant with emotion.

This is a properly brilliant film, distinguished by intelligent direction and a surprisingly good performance by Franco, who up until now has been no more than a pin up boy. The dynamic narrative structure provides for an honest account into events that are naturally astonishing, and Boyle’s decision to not sensationalise or tread horror territory has paid off. Instead of embellishing the story, he gives the content time and space to shine.

Walking into the cinema, bracing myself, I was adamant that 127 hours only merited a one-time viewing. Like I am Legend, I envisioned it to be difficult to watch, and although a good film, a second viewing would be redundant. But not only is Boyle and Franco’s collaboration beautiful, it has left me eager to see it again. And again. It tests the measure of man, and I must say, man measures well. 

By Tony Ibrahim

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Inception is the most original film since The Matrix

The concept of people sharing—and experiencing—their dreams with one another might come off as implausible, but so far as I can tell, Nolan’s take on it in Inception is without flaw.

Through dream sharing, Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) can break into someone’s mind and steal their secrets. His trade is known as extraction and to aid him in his heists, he enlists the help of his friend Arthur (Joseph Gorden-Levitt.) As a researcher, Arthur finds out all he can about the target, including their relationships, and whether or not they’ve been taught how to keep their secrets secure.

Being exiled from his country and longing desperately to see the faces of his children, Cobb takes a job with a different description. He is asked to perform inception, which involves planting an idea in a target. For the idea to stick, the target has to believe it is originally theirs, demanding additional manpower and research.

Eames (Tom Hardy) is the first recruit. He's a confident and crafty forger, who like an actor, assumes the identity of someone else during a shared dream. The final recruit is Ariadne (Ellen Page), who, as her Greek name suggests, constructs the world of the dream. Ariadne is a prodigy, a whiz kid at the top of her class, and she creates some magnificent cinematic spectacles that could only be justified as 'dreams.'

With the team assembled, they target Robert Fischer (Cillian Murphy), the heir to the throne of a global corporation, aiming to construct, infiltrate and plant the idea of him splitting his empire. Ensuing are multiple dream levels, each dream within a dream delving further into Fischer’s mind.

The further they delve into the subconscious, the slower time elapses. Five minutes in a single dream takes twenty, but in a dream within a dream, the same five minutes elapses at the rate of an hour. In addition to the distortion of time is the seeping of one dream’s factors into another, like the exposure to water at one level manifesting itself as torrential rain.

This intelligent movie demands the audience's attention, but what really allows the movie to transcend mediocrity into genuinely great film territory is the depth of its main characters. Cobbs’ complex past brings an emotional depth that propels the entire story. The authenticity of DiCaprio’s performance makes us care about his character, and so the risks of inception are just that much more expensive.

Experiencing this original action thriller feels surreal, because although the audience is being educated on something foreign, familiar characteristics—like the sensation of falling when waking up from a dream—are present, and give this farfetched concept credence. And because anything is possible when dreaming, the action sequences couple with the emotional fabric seamlessly, and the two resound of one another in harmony, producing a spectacle that fascinates—titillates—long after the credits role. It is the unique culmination of its intelligence, performance, romance, action and production (which are all of the highest quality) that deem Inception be remembered as a great movie.

By Tony Ibrahim

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An open letter to Oliver Stone, the director of Savages

Oliver,

I don’t ever think I’ve seen a movie about drug dealers like Savages as the two leads, Ben (Aaron Johnson) and Chon (Taylor Kitsch), were philosophically enlightened and rather unconventional.

For starters, Ben is a university graduate. With his degrees in business and botany, he could be elsewhere making a decent living. Instead he grows, to quote the movie, “the best cannabis in the world” and with the proceeds, flies to third world countries to make a difference. A drug dealer who’s an idealist? Such complexity hasn't been exhibited by a character since Tupac.

“I had orgasms, he had wargasms.”

Ben’s partner and long-time friend, Chon, also draws intrigue. He’s the by-product of two Iraq tours. In the drug operation, Chon smuggles the pot seeds and handles the uncivilised part of business. “You are dead the second you are born,” he says, and somehow this outlook liberates him from the moral burden of killing someone. Alongside Ben, he makes for an interesting contrast and the two form an unusual synergy. Thankfully you tie the two different characters together with the aid of a beach babe. And this, Oliver, is where you add meat to the sandwich.

O (short for Ophelia) is in love with Ben and Chon. It’s a weird love triangle that has a ring of the seventies to it. She describes their relationship during the film’s intro:

"Chon is cold metal, Ben is warm wood.  Chon fucks.  Ben makes love.  Chon is earth and Ben's spirit.”

For O, combined they make the perfect man.

The three spend their time on Laguna beach, soaking up the sun and getting high on their own supply. Life is beautiful, until Chon receives a video of hostages having their limbs chopped off by a chainsaw.

It’s a clear message from Mexican drug lord Elena (Salma Hayek). Her drug cartel wants some of the premium product Chon and Ben distribute. She makes them an offer. A dodgy FBI agent, Dennis (John Travolta), tells them to take the deal, comparing it to an ordinary business takeover.

“They are Wal-Mart and they want you for a specialty aisle."

Oliver, first the notion of monogamy and now you’re undermining capitalism? I love it.

When Chon and Ben decline the takeover, Elena decides to give them an ultimatum. She orders O to be kidnapped and then negotiates her return over a couple years. Elena is a cunning matriarch, an exciting blend of beauty and danger. Think of her as the classic femme fatale whose husband and children have died, kicking her matriarchal disciplines into over drive.

With O in the hands of chainsaw-loving drug lords, Ben and Chon focus their energies on retribution. I kept my eyes closely on Ben as traditional action flicks would see this free spirit automatically equipped to handle warfare, but you know better than that Oliver. I can tell you’re more interested in seeing Ben fall slowly, cashing in his morality chips one at a time until he’s no different to Chon.

“And, the one thing they have in common is me.  I'm the home that neither of them have ever had.  And, they're mine."

The standout performance easily goes to Benicio Del Toro, whose Lado is the most memorable villain since Heath Ledger’s Joker. Lado is Elena’s right hand man. He’s tired of being the understudy and longs to be in control. He brushes his seedy moustache, toys with the police to their face and assures his insecurities by hand-feeding O. He is mercurial, slowing the entire film’s tempo down as he processes malignant thoughts behind a blank stare. Then with no warning, he kills.

But you fuck up the end game Oliver. You throw in endings (plural) that don’t serve your justice. It was the words that made Savages the great story it is and not style you dressed it in. Without spoiling the movie for enthused viewers, you lacked the conviction needed to give these larger-than-life characters the ending (singular) they deserved.

I understand Ophelia, the narrator, is named after Shakespeare’s bipolar and suicidal sister, but this facet of her personality does more harm than good to the story.

I really liked the beginning of Savages. I really liked the middle too, but as I end this letter I feel compelled to tell you—as though you need to be told this—don’t make a sequel to Platoon.

I’ll still buy a ticket to your next movie, 

Tony Ibrahim

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Shame is an orgy of anguish, eroticism and people

Few movies start with the same vitality modelled by Shame. Its opening is an engrossing tapestry of underlying themes, complex relationships and a fine example of Steve McQueen’s ability as a director. And this rousing introduction starts with something as banal as catching a train.

As Brandon (Michel Fassbender) boards, he sees a women sitting opposite him. He stares at her—their eyes lock. She blushes, clutches her dress and crosses her legs. We see a ring. As the train comes to a halt, she stands. Brandon comes behind her, close enough for his breath to be felt on her neck. The doors part.

In his everyday life, Brandon looks for such opportunities to have sex. He jacks off on his work break, has sex in public and maintains a live video stream with a pornstar. But like a drug addict in constant pursuit of that first hit, is the euphoria of an orgasm the same the second time?

What if it’s the second time that day?

Unlike an addict, Brandon holds a steady office job, is well dressed and generally quiet. He goes for solitary runs at night and for all intents and purposes, comes off as a gentleman. He is the every-man.

But when his sister, Sissy (Carey Mulligan), stays with him for a few days, he grows to resent her for disturbing his abusive routine. She brings her colourful chaos into Brandon’s grey regime, and her presence forces Brandon to evaluate his constant need to have sex. Is he wrong for giving into his every desire?

Fassbander’s performance as Brandon is a brave one and yet another affirmation of his substance as an actor. There are a few scenes characterised by an absence of edits, where the camera is fixed on his entire body and he never falters. It’s Fassbender who holds the script’s seams together, unifying it with unwavering intrigue, portraying Brandon as conflicted, shallow and paralysed by anguish. Impressively Mulligan manages to match his excellence, shining in her own right when professing her love for an absent lover, and again during a harrowing rendition of New York, New York.

Shame is the rarest of good movies. It’s exquisitely crafted—each shot and angle is not without purpose—but in a society indulging in online porn, polygamy and risqué sex, its subject matter is confronting, and as famed critic Roger Ebert points out, would be tough to watch a second time. Like Sissy, it is our rendition of colourful chaos, asking us if we give into our desires one time too many.  

Tony Ibrahim

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It's the quiet before the storm that makes Drive mesmerising

Drive focuses on a driver with no name, no back story and little in the way of personality. By day he’s a Hollywood stuntman, and by night he doubles as the getaway driver for criminals. At the beginning of the film he’s quiet, contained and a bit of a loner.

The stoic character meets Benicio, his neighbour's colourful little boy. It's the first time in the movie we see the inanimate driver let a smile slip through a demeanour that is otherwise impervious. The second time is when he befriends Benicio's mother, Irene.

They slowly spend some time together but the release of Benicio's father, Standard, from jail puts a halt on any romance. Standard asserts his presence and the Driver poses no romantic risk, but still makes appearances after forging a friendship with the little boy.

Even though Standard is a reformed crook, old criminal friends force him to commit one last crime. Realising Irene and Benicio's safety is at stake, the driver offers to help, but when the heist goes bad he's drawn into a world of underbelly thugs and street law.

Gosling is amongst Hardy and DiCaprio as one of Hollywood's most talented actors  

The driver exacts the form of violent justice only an anti-hero could, but it stems from such a good-natured place—the love he has for a neighbouring family—that it's hard to see him as a villain. After all, the film appeals to anyone in the audience, posing the question: how far would you go to protect someone you love?

Since the driver slowly reveals his character the audience begins to naturally care about him. They care about Irene, the adorable Benicio and even his reformed father. The affection towards these characters endows the action sequences with suspense and that special ingredient that causes viewers to sit on the very edge of their popcorn-stained seats.

The scenes are exquisitely crafted, with the driver exhibiting stealth alongside raw speed when he gets behind the wheel. There's also the added contrast of a slowly burbling engine, idling moments before it unleashes the fury of contained horses: a befitting parallel.

Of course, the gradual falling for the characters couldn't work if they weren't believable, and that's to the credit of the actors. Gosling's performance as the driver who internalises emotions is precise, selling the character with the slightest of tells. Even though the character rarely talks his performance is never flat and the driver is always complete and intriguing.

Carey Mulligan as Irene exhibits graceful vulnerability, showcasing a frailty undermined by stern independence. The circumstances leaves this strong, independent mother weak, and it's a perfect balance that explains why the driver gravitates towards her; it's why the audience does too.

But the credit goes to director Nicolas Winding Refn who steers well away from the traps akin to many Hollywood films. Refn clearly cares about the story and concentrates on the reasons behind Driver's actions and not the actions themselves. From the very beginning of the film he warns audiences Drive is not going to be another Hollywood action flick, ushering in the narrative with pink credits.

Drive is an exceptional flick because it's not an action movie first: it's a good movie that occasionally induces suspense with believable action. It gives the audience the credit they deserve, recognising they're intelligent and even though they never find out what the driver is running from, they enjoy what he drives towards.

By Tony Ibrahim

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Brad Pitt is magnetic in Moneyball

Moneyball follows the general manager of the Oakland Athletics baseball team, Billy Beane, and takes a look at the sport of baseball rather than the season-winning game.

Beane (Brad Pitt) is still grieving from a close loss in the previous season. To add insult to injury, he has to play against teams who have several times his budget and strip him of three pivotal players. He knows his little coin can't buy big talent, and understands the difference needs to be found off the field.

Unfortunately his present management team uses dinosaur-recruiting philosophies, judging players by their idiosyncrasies and if their girlfriends are ugly.

The naive Peter Brand strikes a stark contrast with a battle-hardened Billy Beane

During a meeting with a rival club he comes across Peter Brand (Jonah Hill). Brand is a pudgy Yale graduate who uses his degree in economics to reduce a player's on-field performance to a single number, and his modern perspective appeals to Beane's yearning for a fresh approach to the changing game.

The two use maths and science to create a team of misfits who have been labelled too old, injured or funny looking. The media, the public and even their colleagues swiftly claim the team is dead; heightening the very real risk that Beane could not only lose his job, but his career in the industry.

It might not read like much, but the hardball negotiations that take place off the field infuse this flick with a lot of action. Much in the same way The Social Network makes complex computing accessible to the masses, Moneyball makes baseball, its slang and mathematical analysis intriguing. Its no surprise to see as both films share screenwriter Aaron Sorkin.

At first audiences aren't sure if Beane loves baseball, choosing to not watch games, deliver inspirational speeches or even mingle with the players. It's not until an adorned montage we begin to see the logic, frailty and discipline behind his strict practices.

Beane doesn't look at a game's final score to see if he's won or lost. He is already filled to the brim with the mistakes he made in the past, and every little mishap eats away at him. Pitt's portrayal shows Beane cringing every time a ball is missed, a bat swings silently and the crowd stays seated. But Beane can still see the romance through his hardened scars.

Anyone can appreciate Moneyball's witty dialogue, complex characters and the hardships the characters go through. It transcends the sport of basebell without neglecting it, makes audiences care for the players without obscuring its commentary and draws them throughout the flick with unwavering intrigue. It's an extraordinary tale told in tasteful cinematic fashion.

By Tony Ibrahim

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Max Payne 3: Welcome Back Old Friend

Too often you walk away from a game feeling the artist’s original vision was negotiated by accountants and other studio big wigs. At that moment you realise something good could’ve been great, but the people pulling strings held other interests.

Max Payne 3 isn’t one of these games. You’re left with the feeling they had an idea, downed some jelly beans and then ran with it. It is boldly violent, unapologetically vulgar and narrated in language that adds flesh to its character’s bones.

Nine years have gone by since Max Payne 2 and the titular character remains defined by the memories of his butchered family. To ease the pain he pops painkillers as if they're TicTacs and washes them down with scotch neat.

When the game starts, Max is hired muscle working a security detail for the wealthy Branco family in São Paulo, Brazil. In a town burdened by poverty, flooded with drugs and perverted by prostitution, Max watches the Branco family attend night clubs in helicopters and party on lavish yachts. When the time comes for his services to be rendered, the clichéd trophy wife gets kidnapped and things slowly spiral out of control.

As Max wreaks havoc in search of the missing wife—and ensuing red herrings—the game elegantly flashes back to his days in Hoboken, New Jersey, explaining how the gun-yielding, bullet-dodging anti-hero ended up in God’s forsaken city, stuck between the past and the present:

The way I see it, there’s two types of people. Those who spend their lives trying to build their future, and those who spend their lives trying to rebuild the past. For too long I’ve been stuck in between, hidden in the dark, locked on a course of destruction.

At times, Max’s story seems stretched for the sake of facilitating gameplay. There are always more goons around every corner, more guns to pick up, more pills to pop. But it evades complacent repetition through gritty language:

“When you’re stuck in a foreign country and don’t know the words for “reverse charges” and you’re in some lonely skin joint in the middle of some poor slum and just had every last cent robbed from you and you call yourself a bodyguard, then you know you’re a loser."

The latest Max Payne shifts the role of storytelling from the traditional graphic novel to cinematic cut scenes. Just like a Tony Scott film, images are distorted and the action is contextualised by keywords that flash on the screen, as if you’re looking at the world through Max’s drunken eyes.

This world couldn’t feel as authentic if it wasn’t for the graphics. Each venue is unique, characterised by its own garbage, street scum, colouring and layout. When people walk, run and shoot they appear natural, as does the blood that sprouts from their wounds. Max himself appears life-like, to the extent you believe his chiselled wrinkles were born from tragedy and raised by alcohol.

Players get a unique chance to look at this world during bullet time sequences, where, in the midst of heavy gun fire, Max leaps from cover and discharges bullets in slow motion. There are countless situations where bullet time livens gameplay; in fact, most gamers will be scanning the room, hoping someone else is witnessing the awesome spectacle every time they give it a whirl.

When gamers finish the long story mode, they can reap more value from multiplayer modes. Although no Call of Duty, it is a cut above the norm for Rockstar, and handles the addition of bullet time with ease. If one player engages in bullet time, both characters slow down. How much gameplay slows down is based upon the distance between two players, where the closer they are, the slower time elapses, and vice versa.

Between the colourful language, unapologetic plot, smooth-as graphics and the fleshed out characters, the successor to the Max Payne series faithfully recreates the hard-boiled attitude gamers around the world fell in love with. It brings a level of engagement familiar to profound cinema, and will leave an impression that resonates longer than usual. This, then, is a worthy addition, carrying the beloved legacy forward and not just cashing in on the name.

By Tony Ibrahim

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The sound of Coldplay's Mylo Xyloto

During an interview on Hamish and Andy’s Gap year Coldplay, front man Chris Martin said the band wanted an album title that was completely unique, with nothing but the music giving the words meaning. So, what does Mylo Xyloto mean?

Kicking off with the titular song, Mylo Xyloto offers a warm greeting to listeners before adopting a rapid tempo that sucks them into their world. Instantly listerners know Mylo Xyloto won’t be another linear exercise, instead it’ll take them on a hike with highs and lows.

Follow up tracks like Hurts like Heaven, Charlie Brown and their album debuting Every Teardrop is a Waterfall charter familiar Coldplay sounds, distinguished by rhythmic instruments and the soothing complements of Martin’s voice. These gentle rock tracks strike the perfect balance between vocals and audio, with each adding to one another. As with Violet Hill, the lyrical narrative sets up climactic musical ballads that make them emotive, albeit not as profound.

There are momentary detours with Us Against the World and U.F.O, donning a sombre mood through Martin’s lonely voice and the plucking strings of a desperate guitar. Potent instruments typically dominate so many of Coldplay’s songs that it’s easy to overlook Martin’s vocal abilities. But in Us Against the World his vocal demeanour conjures thoughts of longed, wishful thinking:

And if we could float away

Fly up to the surface and just start again

And lift off before trouble

Just erodes us in the rain

Breaking up the album are a few short tracks that prelude others, acting as music foreplay to prep listeners for songs to follow. Such is the case with M.M.I.X as it leads into Every Teardrop is a Waterfall.  

They don’t fall into the trap of simply repeating themselves by including a hybridised Rock/R&B track with Rihanna called Princess of China. Coupling the two—almost antithetical—genres could’ve resulted in travesty, but somehow their differences complement one another, giving rock more bass while its R&B counterpart benefits from a smoother, acoustic melody.

The impressionable Up In Flames also benefits from R&B character with the same poignant bass lining the gaping piano presence, all tied together with Martin’s lonely voice.

Don’t Let it Break Your Heart comes closest to replicating the old Coldplay magic found in Fix You and Yellow, although not as deep. With a quicker pace and the universal empathy that stems from broken hearts, it’s arguably the track that’ll have fellow commuters catching you sing out loud.

To conclude what is meant to be an enigmatic step forward for the band is Up with the Birds which brings to mind Ray Charles’ What a Wonderful World. Slow and mellow, it does its part as an album filler.

By the album’s end you learn that Mylo Xyloto must be synonymous with “not their best.” Although it’s a good album, that’ll easily fill in dead silence, it’s obvious that each track has an expiry date, growing tiresome instead of timeless. 

By Tony Ibrahim

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First Look at Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance

I was lucky enough to have some play time with Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance. Wanna know my first impression?

There's no beating around the bushes here: based on the 20 minutes of playtime I had with the upcoming Metal Gear game, it is going to be exhilarating. Players will enter the world vicariously through Raiden, whose ninja prowess has only quantified with his cyborg upgrades. He and his electrified blade don't fight as much as they tango under and between cascades of sensationalised blood.

Part human, part cyborg, Raiden uses his sword as though it is an extension of his body and can slice the skin off of an elbow; literally, that's the extent of control players have. Eager gamers can dissect characters many times over, decapitating them or grating them one limb at a time.

It is undeniably graphic and extreme, with the production team exploiting the violence akin to anime. Those familiar with the films of Quentin Tarintino will see some similarities as it has been stylised to complement the visuals while intensifying action.

Based on Raiden's intricate manoeuvres and the sheer speed of gameplay, you'd presume the controls would involve a complex string of combos, but they're surprisingly easy. In the same way the Arkham series of Batman games rely upon timing to execute acrobatic moves, Metal Gear Rising strings together a simple series of commands to produce exuberant action.

What is missing—at least from our brief demo—is the espionage Snake and Raiden put to work in previous Metal Gears. The skill you'd previously use when walking behind an enemy sentry to hold him up appears absent, and if it is nowhere to be found in the end game, that's disappointing. Metal Gear is known for its ability to produce enthralling action from rhythmically slow—and therefore patient—gameplay. With MGR it appears that may have been swapped for an ongoing adrenaline rush.

Although the graphics appeared fine, the demo wasn't 100% polished. We will comment on them when we handle something more substantial.

But in the interim, gamers can rest assured the ethos of the Metal Gear franchise will live on in Revengeance.

By Tony Ibrahim

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Warrior is brutally rewarding

Warrior takes two estranged brothers torn apart by a reformed alcoholic father and unites them through the violent and unforgiving sport of mixed martial arts. Brendan Conlon (Joel Edgerton), the eldest brother, is a physics teacher tortured by his daughter’s medical expenses and the paralysis of not being able to help her. Financially, he sits on the precipice of middle-class and broke, with momentum going against him.

In his early teens, His brother Tommy (Tom Hardy) fled with his mum in a bid to escape his bottle-dependant father. The film opens with Tommy returning to his home town, his stint with the army turning him to the same substance that tore his family apart, confronting his dad (Nick Nolte) with loaded dialogue that pierces the skin.

The three characters are inextricably drawn towards a mixed martial arts tournament that promises the sole winner a big payout. Brendan enters the tournament looking for the capitalist face that handicaps his breadwinner abilities, while Tommy, under the cold tutelage of his father, signs up looking for something more.

You can’t help but cringe when watching a UFC fight. It brutally pits men against one another and plays our Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest’ notion. Warrior faithfully replicates the gut-wrenching magnetism that has seen the sport thrive, but the face-shattering punches only tickle the surface.

The real gravity comes from the film’s visceral emotional core, with the relationship between the two sons and their father playing out in a bout significantly more violent and rewarding than UFC. The complex interplay is woven within the characters, their story, the music and the sublime performances of all three actors. Tom Hardy and Nick Nolte in particular deserve recognition for their portrayal of checkered characters who will undeniably win the audience’s affection.

Warrior starts off with damaged characters that embark on a million-to-one premise punctuated by unchartered lows and ecstatic highs, only to come full circle. It achieves an elusive kind of equilibrium, gracefully feeling authentic and granting its somewhat-implausible narrative with characters so tangible—so real—it seems plausible, believable, and is utterly, utterly engrossing.

By Tony Ibrahim

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