Richard Cobbett

Transformers: Revenge Of The Zzzz

2009-06-27T06:15:47Z

...only without the deep storyline. Want to know which robot is fighting and why? Sorry! Motion blur! Explosions! Smoke! Dust! Chaos! Impossible! Megan Fox running around without her bra on? Full-frame slow-mo that shit! Later, MORE EXPLOSIONS!

Cinematic abortion. Worst movie of the year. I have never been so bored watching stuff go boom. I don’t even see how it can be a toy advert, since most of the time it’s impossible to tell what the hell is happening behind the special effects. If Pixar’s technology is all about science in the service of the story, Bay is the exact opposite. I don’t care how technically advanced the effects are if I feel nothing - absolutely nothing - for anything that they produce. Original Transformers may have been impossible, but at least they were memorable. These masses of whirling cogs? These are not the Transformers I grew up loving. Remember those? They were cool.

(The villain gets some serious chutzpah points though. You need some guts to have even your own minions refer to you as, effectively, “The Loser”, not to mention try to persuade the universe that ‘Only a Prime can defeat me’ without any actual evidence of that. So, a railgun shot would just bounce right off, right? Sure. Nice try.)

On the plus side, the Pick and Mix was splendid. And the toilets were sparkling.

Goddamn it, I wish they’d hurry up and release Up over here…

Click here to discuss this story

Fixing The British Political System

2009-06-05T15:51:13Z

For many people, voting serves little purpose. You merely get to choose which almost certainly venal and corrupt bunch of career politicians gets to pretend they act with your implied blessing as they snuffle in the trough. The main parties all let us down on a regular basis. Even our scandals are pathetic, especially compared to the likes of Berlusconi. Clearly, the whole system needs wide-scale reform, but have no fear! I have three solutions, most not even involving pudding wrestling.

Solution the First: Let me run the country as an unchecked dictatorship. I promise a wide-sweeping range of policies, based primarily on how much material they’ll provide to Have I Got News For You. I plan to build a wall around Wells, declare war on the Big Brother House, and move the seat of government to Blubberhouses in Yorkshire, where the incoming nuclear bombs will simply bounce off. Or such is my understanding.

Too much? Fine. Spoilsport.

Solution the Second: We open up the voting system to allow for ‘anti-votes’. You may not want to give, say, Labour or Conservative your support after all the recent sleaze, but at least you can register your disapproval of groups like the BNP. In the event that no group achieves a positive figure, anarchy is immediately declared. However, every candidate will receive an I Cracked The Parliamentary System crystal to take home with them, along with the memories of that precious thing we used to call civilisation.

Solution the Third: Since politicians are frequently incapable of representing what we, the people, want from our rules, we clearly need to open up the race. I humbly suggest that we allow for the inclusion of fictional characters. Wait, hear me out. I’m not saying we hand over control to a non-existent entity. Why would you even think that?

Here’s how it works. First, when the word comes in that what the country really wants is Lord Vetinari from the Discworld books, we instantly launch a massive media campaign to find the closest real-world match, both in physical likeness and personality, and they become our leader. We can call it Britain’s Got Mimesis.

Should this fail, we still leave the position open, with all decisions going through the through a ‘What Would X Do? filter to determine if they’re in keeping with the philosophies of our chosen fictional character. It’s always worked for the Church. When a suitable candidate shows up, they can jump right into the job.

(Admittedly, this might fall down a bit if we elect Pacman. I’m not sure how many world crises can be helped by hiding in a maze, munching fruit and pills and answering all questions with ‘wakka-wakka-wakka’. Still, better that than Bush...)

I don’t really mind which of the three we go for - and those are the only three alternatives, I’m afraid - although I know which I’d prefer. Let the record show, loyal subjects to be, I consider you all worthless heathens and lower than the worms. But please, still vote for me. You’ll love what I’ve got planned for Piers Morgan.

Click here to discuss this story

E3 Diary, Day Zero

2009-06-02T06:04:25Z

7:15: Wake up. Remember that I’m not actually at E3. Diary already failing.

7:27: Pondering what kind of monster can get up at 7:27 when they can get away with waiting for a nice round number. Relax with pleasant thoughts about not having jetlag and crushed legs from endless 10 hour plane flight. Aaah.

9:30: First closed-door meeting of the day, focused on the release schedule of yesterday’s dinner. Still better than anything Sony’s likely to show.

10:34: Pay tramp £5 to pretend to be Tim Schafer. Spend half hour babbling incoherently about the amazingnessitudinity of Psychonauts until he gives the money back and stamps off to annoy some tourists.

11:32: On eBay, selling Tim Schafer’s autograph. Potential buyer wants to know how he can be sure it’s legitimate. I promise signed certificate of authenticity. He accepts.

13:30: Much needed lunchbreak. Feast on the irony of spending the day reading roughly a hundred million articles on new releases, then shrugging and muttering “There’s nothing coming out.” Gamer-entitlement is awesome.

14:34: Snatching pictures of sexy booth babes. Or anyone who uses the photo booth outside Sainsbury’s, really. Note to self: some old people run fast.

15:43: Trying to get into the E3 floor-walking spirit by repeatedly smashing both feet with ball peen hammer. Walking now agony. Seemed like good idea at the time.

16:23: Desperate to see some new games actually moving, grab myself some print outs from the press releases, squint a bit, and shake them around in front of eyes. Frame rate obviously terrible, but no worse than Crysis on my old PC.

17:30: Can’t help but feel the people at the actual show have it better.

Click here to discuss this story

Tales of Monkey Island

2009-06-01T18:00:25Z

Oh yes. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes…

If you need to know why you should be excited, a quick look at the Team page sums it up. I don’t know every name on the list, but seeing Dave Grossman, Mike Stemmle and Mark Darin listed at the top of it is more than enough for now. Really looking forward to this one. It’s a franchise perfectly suited to Telltale’s style, even if going up against peoples’ rose-tinted memories of the original games is one hell of a challenge.

(That said, I hope the majority is spent as far away from the titular island as possible. I always felt the games took a major downturn when that damn place entered the story, even taking the cannibals and ‘rubber tree’ joke into account.)

As for the Monkey Island Special Edition, it’s one I’m almost certainly going to download, but… egads, what happened to Guybrush’s hair? If they do a similar remake of Monkey Island 2, they’d better not mess with that awesome blue coat, that’s all I’m saying…

(Note to Lucasarts: Please do a remake of Monkey Island 2. At least, the first and second chapters. You know you want to, even if you don’t...)

Click here to discuss this story

Decor By Lucasarts

2009-05-30T08:01:14Z

I like the classic adventure games. A lot. Does it show?

The back of my study wall is boring and dull - a plain white wall, long desperately in need of something to fill it. I’ve looked at posters before, but most posters are terrible. I don’t want logos, I don’t want words, just pretty pictures. That’s why it was so cool, quite some time ago, to see a true internet hero called Laserschwert take the old Lucasarts games, scan them in at insane resolutions, touch them up, strip out most of the logos and other cruft, and release the files for anyone to get printed up.

See and download the complete set here.

I’ve been meaning to get some of them printed for ages now, and now that I’ve finally received some, let me say this: they are awesome. The Sam and Max one came out particularly well - glorious colours, amazing detail. Still, my favourite is still probably Monkey Island 2, with that phenomenal colour work and attention to detail. I loved this box art back in the day, to the extent that I’m seriously considering sending the image back in and getting it on canvas. I don’t want to admit how long it took me to notice that the plumes in LeChuck’s hat are actually a dead bird, but it’s so much more obvious in this form. The others: The Sam and Max box, some Grim Fandango concept art (not a Laserschwert one, and nowhere near as good quality, but not bad) and a Star Wars parody of Day of the Tentacle. Together, they’re not even on the Top 10 list of the geekiest things I own, but I think they get an honourable mention.

(I’d have picked up Zak McKracken too, except for my borderline OCD dislike of words on clothes and posters. That goes quadruple for web links, Cafe Press people.)

As ever, I used Photobox to print them. I thought I ordered them on matt, but they arrived glossy. If you get some for your own, I’d recommend avoiding this - the gloss is very, very shiny. Not bad enough to reorder them, but still, word to the wise. The only other mild issue is that the images aren’t quite flush with the edges - each poster has a notable white line running down the left-hand side. Still, good enough.

If you want a set for yourself, the source images should be good for more or less any poster size. Mine are A2. Stuck on the wall with Blu-Tack. Not love. Love is the wrong kind of sticky. And I’m just not that into my games. Except System Shock.

Semi-related: If you don’t want to risk the wrath of the karma police, you can get some official Sam and Max poster prints from the Telltale Games Store. They look nice, even if they don’t have the same geeky nostalgia factor that make these ones so cool.

(Also: Yes, my god, a new post! Sorry about that. Been a busy couple of months without much of interest to say. More on their way, I promise.)

Click here to discuss this story

Spoiler Warning

2009-03-22T10:58:38Z

Scholars have recently uncovered this lost canto from Dante’s Inferno. Here, Virgil takes the narrator on a short-cut to avoid rush-hour on the River Styx. It is unknown why this didn’t make it into the accepted version, although the fact that the primary source was apparently written on a McDonalds napkin may have something to do with it.

From the fith bridge, came we upon a smaller pit easily missed. “These wretches are the Spoilers,” my ears heard my Leader impart, smiling ever so slightly as we witnessed this fresh horror. Here lay the sinners, bound in ropes of script pages and celluloid, forever condemened to the pit of Too Much Information. As I watched, one of their number, bespectacled and with an odour of Cheetos and Dew of the Mountain, was freshly shackled in front of a fine steak, staring miserably at a slideshow of photos of a happy cow in a field, and a step-by-step tour of the abattoir. With sound effects.

“Great Pogonophobia,” said my Leader, dispassionate as stone. “Impart unto us the art of this, Inferno’s most justified punishment.”

The hairless monster of whom he spoke - oh that I could forget its blubbery countenance and obsidian-plated laptop computer - didst turn and say “Wotcha. Well, see, first we ram one of these spikes up their bums, then-”

“Ahem,” chided the Leader.

The demon Pogonophobia stood, chastised. “What I meanteth to say,” he tried, “Waseth that here, sinners doth reapeth whateth they hath… look, you do know nobody’s ever spoken like this, right? I sound like a bloody Muppet.”

“It matters not,” I cried. “Tell me of these wretches’ crimes against God and man.”

“Glad you asked,” grinned Pogonophobia, indicating. We turned to see one of the hairy ones, face impossible to see under a forest of brusing and dried in blood. “This one took his fun from ruining the entertainment of hundreds of fans at once, showing up at midnight book signings to bellow spoilers at the waiting crowds. He’s a right one, eh?”

“A foul fiend indeed, no offence,” I agreed. “What punishment awaited him in this, the darkest of the Stygian pits my eyes have thus far witnessed?”

“An eternity of being smacked around the face and neck with the final Harry Potter novel,” grinned the demon Pogonophobia, as once again, the heavy volume found its fleshy target. “Ooph! Should have stuck with comic books. They’re thinner.”

My Leader hesitated, fighting some dark vengeful instinct. “Is that… all?”

It was the demon Pogonophobia’s turn to hesitate, but he was compelled to be truthful. “While being read extracts from Eragon,” he admitted, holding up a signed copy.

“Oh, now steady on!” I cried. “Even the abode of damnation must know some mercy!”

The demon Pogonophobia smiled a waxen, blackened smile. I barely saw him gesture to a demon around the back, who didst put away a copy of “The Iron Tree” in favour of jamming a poker up the canticle of a tormented soul who sighed and sizzled in blessed relief. “Any more for any more?” he asked, hurriedly moving us on.

My Leader nodded imperceptibly, or so he later vouchsafed. He had to nod more perceptibly before either of us noticed, and would sulk about this all day.

We strode past the tormented damned, past lakes of sucking black oil and the wails and lamentations of a thousand fanboys moaning about something called ‘Firefly’. Finally, we entered a dark cave, round and carved of the unholy rock. It was filled with foods of every type, but all the twenty-one tormented souls chained around the edge wanted right now was the single cake that sat on a plinth in the center. The rocks groaned with desperation as they strained on their chains, reaching out to touch it.

“They’ve been looking forward to that for what feels like forever,” uttered the demon Pogonophobia, passing us each a Coke from the nearest vending machine. I expected some dark trick, but no. The can was not filled with blood, nor bile, nor - oh, the mere thought - Pepsi, but sugary nectar from the halls of Empyrean itself.

“Ah,” I cried, pleased to contribute. “So, it’s a bit like Tantalus, right?”

The demon Pogonophobia glared. “No!” snapped he. “Everything here is totally original, you got it? We was getting mortals shoving rocks up hills for all time before them damn Furies was out of nappies. Kindly Ones, my bum. The stories I could tell...”

“We are on a schedule,” warned my Leader.

“What happens here,” continued the demon Pogonophobia, pretending not to hear, “Is that all these people have been told they can have the cake and eat it, if only they wait patiently until Tuesday like good boys and girls.”

“A false hope, no doubt,” I nodded.

“I’m a demon of my word,” said the demon Pogonophobia, grinning. “But watch...”

We did not have to wait long. With a shriek of metal on stone, one of the damned broke free and snatched up the cake eagerly. Eyes glowing red with hunger and lust, ignoring the desperate howls of his unlucky fellow souls, he bit down into it.

“Well, that was disappointing,” he announced, licking his fingers clean. “I wouldn’t have done it anything like that. They should have used milk chocolate. I was expecting milk chocolate, or maybe some lemon frosting. Sure, it was obviously going to be chocolate, but if I’d have been in charge, I’d have used lemon. Lemon would be far more in keeping with what we were promised, and I’d have put more jam in there too. What kind of idiot spends all day making a cake and forgets the jam. Seriously, if I knew how to bake, I’d have made a much better cake than this. Morons.”

“But-” I began. The demon Pogonophobia raised a finger. I realised. All the chains had vanished. The lucky cake-eater suddenly found himself alone, surrounded by a circle of his former peers. Each glared with an anger borne of never being permitted to enjoy the taste on their own terms, unsullied and not made bitter by the greed of their fellow wretch. Whether they understood the irony mattered not, not as the circle closed in, and each found themselves holding a blunted fondue fork in one hand.

“Know what the best bit is?” said the demon Pogonophobia, as the sound of shrieking and splattering died away. “I only went and had a wee-wee on the bloody thing.”

We left him there, hurrying away until the laughter was but a remembered echo. Whatever horrors awaited on the next level could only be an improvement, or so I believed at that moment. Even so, there was one question I knew had to be asked, if I was ever to understand what I had seen in the demon Pogonophobia’s lair.

“How could these people be so cruel as to take pleasure in ruining fellow fans’ hard-earned entertainment with such spoilers?” I asked the Leader.

“I do not know,” he vouchsafed, striding towards the stairs to Cocytus and fresh torment. “But I do know this. EVERYONE DIES IN BATTLESTAR GALACTICA.”

Click here to discuss this story

Webjunk: Comedy Theory

2009-03-21T14:19:47Z

Final conclusive proof that there’s nothing less amusing than trying to analyse humour.

Clarke lists the patterns that are active in humour as positive repetition, division, completion, translation, applicative and qualitative recontextualization, opposition and scale.

“Some are more intuitive than others,” he admits. “The most basic, positive repetition, simply means that the unit is repeated in a similar form with the same purpose. As with all patterns, the repeated unit can be composed of any information available to the human brain, whether an entity, action or property. Then there’s opposition, in which we take the unit and turn it against itself, such as can be seen in a mirror image or if we turn an arrow back to point in the other direction, producing a pattern of symmetry. However, while all the patterns are relatively simple in structure the activity of some forms of translation and recontextualization can seem counter-intuitive at first sight. In instances of humour these patterns may be recognized individually or in any possible combination of the eight. Most instances are founded on one or two, although theoretically there is no limit to the number of patterns a person has recognized when they find something funny. Pattern recognition remains a subjective matter, just like any other perception.”

No wonder so many writers/comedians resort to stealing their gags. Or puns.