Singing Crabs and Dumb Pedestrians
by Prue
Once, back in college, I attempted to watch Disney’s The Little Mermaid with an overly literal friend. (I know, major cool points for me there.) My friend, whom I’ll call Tom because that was his name, hated the movie. Not, as you might think, because it was an irritatingly chipper animated musical featuring multiple singing anthropomorphized sea creatures. No, his problem with it was that (and this is an exact quote), “there’s no such thing as mermaids.”
Now, I want to make it clear that I was (and remain) completely aware that there’s no such thing as a mermaid. This wasn’t exactly a revelation. But what killed me was that, of all the things that Tom could criticize about that movie, it was the mermaids that were the breaking point for him. Why not the singing crab? Or the singing crab? Or the fact that the movie features a crab that can sing? Evidently, my friend felt that he could accept the existence of a crustacean that can write, perform, and conduct ensemble orchestral pieces featuring other aquatic creatures, but a mermaid was just taking it too far.
This conversation, however, took place long before I had played or watched many video games. With that accumulated experience, I now know what Tom’s problem was. It’s not that he was incapable of using his imagination (actually he was, but for the moment let’s pretend that he was a bit smarter). The problem was that he could accept a lot in the name of fun and storytelling, but the mermaid was just too much.
If you watched Attack of the Clones and wondered how Senator Amidala managed to get all those clothes into that one suitcase, you know what I’m talking about. Jedis? Great. The Force? No problem. Midichlorians? If you must. But don’t expect me to believe that she’s going to get all those weird headdresses and robes into her carry-on luggage. In the same way, there are a few game details that can totally disrupt my flow. I can accept that I am one of the few humans knowledgeable enough in the ancient arts to fight and overthrow the evil sorcerer DeJerkoff. But if I’m so awesome, why the hell do I have to walk everywhere? And why do I get less public admiration than the average Real World star? I am the savior of the universe, dammit! I know that I should just let these things go and enjoy the game, but the part of my brain that went to law school (and spends most of its time annoying the rest of my brain) just can’t let go of the inconsistencies.
Here are some of the things that I think about while waiting to reload and restart the 24-minute mission that doesn’t let you save midway:
1. You are an incomparable warrior and hero. Samuel Jackson dreams of being as badass as you. Your skills are legendary. You are the most powerful and feared fighter in the land—oh, except for everyone else who plays the game online too. These worlds are so overpopulated with epic heroes that their NPC citizens probably secretly worship janitors and accountants.
2. Do the citizens of San Andreas, Liberty City, or Vice City ever wonder about the reason for their shockingly high rate of vehicular homicides? Just replacing fallen telephone poles alone must eat up half of the city’s annual budget. Then again, they also dive towards your car to escape an oncoming accident, so we’re not looking at a city full of rocket scientists here.
3. We know that it’s important to convert on third down. And yet every time we reach third-and-ten, the announcers mention the “vital”-ness of the play as though this is the first team in all of human history ever to be in this situation. I know that this is actually a very realistic representation of how sportscasters call live football games, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.
4. I hope that nuclear weapons are a lot better guarded in real life than in the game world. Because judging by the frequency with which virtual terrorists and other rogue groups manage to get a hold of a nuclear warhead with which to threaten the world, they’re all being held in a U-Store-It unit in Duluth, guarded by a guy named Ed who doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s, “watchin’ his stories.”
5. Has any female character in the history of games ever worn (and I mean that in the loosest possible sense of the word) anything smaller than a C-cup? Lego characters don’t count.
6. I admire JRR Tolkien as much as the next guy. (Or to more accurately pin down the source of the problem—I admire the enormous profitability of the Lord of the Rings franchise as much as the next guy.) But could we please institute a temporary moratorium on some or all of the following: hot, wise elves; magical rings; short hobbit-like creatures that go by another name for copyright reasons; wizards in pointy hats; talking trees; and the 40 different creative spellings for “Legolas” adopted by alarmingly obsessed fanboys? Good Lord, how many “L”s can you fit in there? No self-respecting orc is going to fear some guy named “Llaggollasss.”
I confess that I could go on. Don’t even get me started on weapon names. (I’m writing this on the Laptop of the Valiant, which is currently resting on the Table of the Economical Swedish Design.) Of course, the problem with my dim friend of the mermaid fixation is that he let the details cloud his enjoyment of the movie. Not me. I’m still enjoying myself, even while I continue to wonder why I take it so well when I’m magically transformed into a wolf. Some people might find sudden wolf-transformation a bit alarming. Then again, at least the wolf doesn’t sing.