The Busiest March

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that was the most productive March in the history of The Wave Function Junction.  In fact, it was the second most productive of all months, by number of posts.  How I managed to make fourteen posts back in May 2009 is something of a mystery, given the rarity of updates in general around here.  I usually consider a month with five updates to be some kind of crazy, obsessive posting bender.  Eleven has got to be a symptom of something.

And truth be told, I actually meant to make one more.  The last post of the month was supposed to be another book review, of Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father.  Unfortunately, a number of factors prevented this post from being made.  Mostly, I didn't finish the book (about a hundred and forty more pages to go, actually), and I don't generally like to write about things I haven't finished.  Then there was the EMP, and I had to write about that, and The Big Lebowski, and between all the things I was doing with friends in and around Seattle, I figured the President could wait.  It's not like I haven't been boosting him around here.

So apart from that, I think the review train is going to come to a slow around here.  It's not that I'm done with them entirely, but my little experiment has run its course.  I got to practice my review writing, and hopefully enriched the blog experience.  Like all good experiments, the results taught me things I didn't know, things that will be useful in the future.

So what did I learn from the experience?  For one thing, I learned that when you post an article about a phenomenally popular book within a stone's throw of its release as a major motion picture, this happens to your page view ratings:

Yowza!

Yes, the effect was highly temporary, and page views don't really matter, but it's kind of interesting to see what a difference it makes just to mention The Hunger Games at an opportune time.

(Hunger Games Hunger Games Hunger Games Hunger Games Hunger Games!)

Sorry about that.  Page views feed my ego, and my ego is hungry.

I also learned what a valuable source of input and feedback my girlfriend can be.  At least three of the items I reviewed last month (including The Hunger Games) were things I experienced either with her or at her insistence.  I keep thanking her in public and in private, and it's probably getting a little annoying at this point.  But you know what?  It's still pretty damn awesome.  So thanks to her again!

As far as the writing goes, several substantive points emerged for me.  I tried approaching most of these posts from a different angle of attack, so hopefully a couple of different stylistic effects were apparent to the average reader who wandered by.  But I think the biggest divide came between subjects I already knew a lot about (such as Pet Sounds or The Legend of Zelda) and things I came to as a relative newbie (Einstein on the Beach).  I want to say that background knowledge makes for better reviews, since I was able to approach them more confidently, but I also tend to think the Einstein review was probably the best-written thing I did the whole month.  That might not be the consensus opinion, but it feels that way to me.

I also relearned that, while posting grainy pictures of famous things from museums with commentary may be an easy way to rack up page views (the one I did about the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art a year ago is currently my most viewed post of all time by a wide margin), it doesn't actually lead to good writing on my part.  So unless I actually get some vocal feedback one way or another on those, I probably won't do many more of them.  Unless I really want to.

So, what's next for this blog?  Well, that Dreams from My Father post needs to be written (which means the book needs to be read), so that'll probably go up soon.  I also had an idea for an essay about different ways of perceiving truth; sounds boring and abstract, I know, but I really want to write it and you can't stop me, dammit.  The question of whether humans are essentially intellectual or emotional creatures was recently raised by a friend of mine, and I feel as though an essay on this blog is probably the best place to sort out my thoughts on the issue.

In addition to those things, I have a pile of poems that should probably be read sooner or later, so why not sooner?  I've also got some new ideas for fiction that need writing, so expect a short story or two in the near future.  If you expect anything at all, anyway.

Anyway, that's roughly the state of the blog these days.  Thank you all, dear readers, for making this the best month in WFJ history.  Have a lovely day.

Hunger Games.

The Big Lebowski

When I told my friend Pat that I had never seen The Big Lebowski, he threatened to hurt me.  The immediate spoken threat was of physical violence, but darker undertones in his voice hinted at more insidious psychological and emotional tortures.  From the look in his eyes, I inferred that these tortures would only increase in severity the longer my error went uncorrected.  What could I do but watch it that very night?

But so what, if I'd never seen the movie?  I haven't seen lots of movies.  You give me any list of great movies, compiled by whoever you please, and odds are I'll have failed to see about half of them.  I don't see quite as many movies as some people do!  I think it's a little weird that people get so uptight about these must-see movies.  Of course I'm being a massive hypocrite right now; I've browbeaten plenty of people who haven't seen critical entries in my own personal canon.  I respect the movies tremendously as an art form, but by and large I put less emphasis on it than other fields.

Of course, having watched The Big Lebowski, I have now joined the legion of fans who believe that every right thinking American should also watch it.  Regularly.  Preferably with a White Russian in hand, and I don't even care for mixed drinks.  It just seems like the right thing to do. 

Be warned, everyone: I will browbeat you into seeing this movie, if you haven't already.  If you have, I accept your scorn for being so late to the party.  But I will make amends, by bothering all of the other people. 

It should go without saying that the movie actually merits watching, beyond the imperatives issued by cultists like myself.  It's very, very funny, in a way that really puts most genre comedies to shame.  It's beautifully shot, has great music throughout, and resides comfortably in a plane of delicious strangeness, where preposterous events generate knowing smiles rather than sighs of disbelief. 

Really, why didn't I just put aside an afternoon and see it years ago?  It's not like I was busy.

Being a big fan of Philip Marlowe movies (particularly The Long Goodbye), it didn't take me long to gather just what exactly the Coens were up to.  Just like Marlowe, Jeff Lebowski (AKA The Dude, the only name he really needs) sort of stumbles in an intoxicated haze from one clue to the next before solving the mystery before him in a flash of insight.  Events just keep pushing him through the plot long after he's decided it would have been better if he'd never gotten involved.  Then, once all is said and done and the story is resolved, things are more or less exactly as they would be if he hadn't.  Apart from the violence and massive property damage, of course, but it's hard to fault The Dude for taking it all in stride.  Not when the alternative would be even weirder.

As funny as Jeff Bridges is as The Dude, he's actually more of the straight man in his own movie.  The real comic force is his friend Walter, played by John Goodman as the angriest angry white man in the history of comedy.  A movie about Walter would probably be pretty terrible, consisting of scene after scene of self-righteousness, misplaced confidence and indiscriminate violence.  Set up against The Dude's prevailing nonchalance, Walter manages to fuck things up just enough to keep the movie rolling through Shabbos without making him terribly unlikable. 

I could go on and praise more or less the whole cast, particularly Philip Seymour Hoffman and Julianne Moore.  They are two of the brightest spots in a planetarium of loonies who pass in and out of The Dude's orbit.  The way Hoffman's character interacts with The Dude, particularly after their initial meeting, is a multifaceted running joke that just keeps on giving.  Moore's portrayal of an artistic feminist as a willful force of nature is almost a painful cliche, but the lengths to which she carries it are simply amazing.  It is but one example of how Lebowski takes risks that more than pay off for the audience.

There's actually a few things in this movie that, were I not so captivated by its brilliance, I'd probably call flaws.  Several characters show up once for funny scenes and effectively disappear, and others seem underutilized.  Sometimes it seems like someone in The Dude's half-baked state of mind had a hand in organizing the screenplay.  There's some pathos near the end that isn't quite as meaningful or earned as it should be, and hints about a "Little Lebowski" don't really do much to bring one of the film's odder subplots to a conclusion.  There's a scene with a Malibu police officer that really highlights the absurdity of this world's relationship with the law that doesn't go nearly as far as it should in a Marlowe spoof.

But mostly, the movie is brilliant, satirizing itself as often as it satirizes the detective genre.  Despite spending most of its time dressed as the world's sunniest film noir, it's narrated by Sam Elliott in an over-the-top cowboy idiom that rambles into the story whenever it damn well pleases, rhyme or reason be darned.  When Lebowski mixes genres this way, it's pretty clear that a certain amount of fuzzy disorganization is a feature, and whether you like the movie or not will largely depend on whether you think that's a good thing.

Of course, you should think that.  It's a great thing.  A lot of comedies try to get by on being wacky, but the really great ones fly by a much more interesting plan: insanity.  There's a sense of humor that's infused in the whole production, from intense musical cues to lunatic visual effects.  Why settle for less?  Go watch The Big Lebowski and repent.  Then maybe go bowling?  That's fun too.

Seattle's EMP Museum: Rock and Roll and Monster Movies

Vacationing in Seattle this week, I was advised by my thoughtful girlfriend (who loves it when I mention her in blog posts!) to check out Seattle's Exploring Music Project Museum, or EMP.  Located under the shadow of the Space Needle (at least on days when there's enough sun to cast any shadows), the EMP is kind of a funny little museum, dedicated not only to the obvious arena of popular music (particularly rock), but also to science fiction and popular culture.  Over time, these latter two elements seem to have been toned down, but frankly that's alright with me: music is one of my great loves, and I was genuinely excited to go exploring that field, and maybe get a little sci-fi bonus at the end.

The museum closes at five each day (which is something of a crock), so I didn't get to quite do everything I wanted.  Among other things, I left a potentially very interesting display space on the technology behind the movie Avatar largely unexplored.  But I had a great time; apart from the typical museum fare, there were plenty of interactive installments that made the place seem a lot more adventurous and fun.  With my terrible camera phone in hand, I thought I'd share the highlights with you, my loyal readers.  Do check out this place if you're ever in town, and give yourself lots of time to explore.

Right off the bat we find this thing.  What is this thing?  It's sort of a tower, densely framed with guitars, basses, banjos, and all manner of stringed instruments on all sides.  You may notice that some these instruments have strange mechanical contraptions attached to their fret boards; these machines hold plectrums which pluck certain strings on cue.  Put on the headphones conveniently located at the sculpture's base, and you can hear their combined symphony, which periodically shifts between musical styles.  You can also watch a series of videos detailing the concept and execution of the piece.  The name of the sculpture is If VI Was IX; the artist is a fellow named Trimpin, who speaks in the explanatory video with a German accent and is clearly a bigger fan of Jimi Hendrix than he lets on.

If placards are to be believed, this is the very glove won by Michael Jackson at the Motown 25th Anniversary television special, the one where he did the moonwalk.  That's also the very jacket he wore, but the placard doesn't say much about that.  Where the pillow fits in, I'm not too sure, but it suits the glove tremendously.  The glass case holding these artifacts just sort of sits in the foyer, devoid of context.  But what can you do, as a glove and a jacket do not an exhibit make?

Off to the side was the Sound and Vision exhibit.  The text is basically legible in the picture so I won't be too redundant here, but suffice to say there are a lot of interesting recorded anecdotes and scholarly analyses of popular music.  Some of it's audio only and some of it's video.  I moved around a bit and heard from a diverse group of artists, and quickly realized I didn't have nearly enough time to listen to even half of it.  Many recordings included the complete songs that the artists were commenting on, and I rocked out for a good half hour before figuring I'd better move on.

Oh, and also there was science fiction stuff!  Mostly snippets and interviews with fellows like Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison, among other authors of much note.  There was also a clip of Nichelle Nichols talking about the first interracial kiss on television in that episode of Star Trek.  Between that and the story about her and Martin Luther King Jr, I wonder if anyone ever asks her about anything else. 

Back in the 90's, when rock music still mattered and grunge ruled the charts, the Seattle music scene rose to legendary status as a source of innovation and authenticity, and the EMP would like to remind you of this at every possible opportunity.  Here we see a close-up section from the Seattle Band Map, which shows a number of bands that have connections to the scene, either by having actually played in it, collaborated with a band that did, or shared a member with some such group.  This leads to the inclusion of a few acts that are barely even tangentially related to the Pacific Northwest (The Smiths!?), so if the purpose of the chart is to glorify Seattle, perhaps it overstates the case a bit?  But if the purpose is to simply celebrate the national and international reach of music culture, it's pretty neat.  I like the fact that it looks as if it were actually scrawled out by passersby and gradually added to over time.  Maybe it was?  I wish I could go back and read the placard again.

The most prominently advertised exhibit is dedicated to Nirvana and the grunge revolution they paved the way for.  Within the halls of Nirvana: Taking Punk to the Masses, Cobain and friends are regarded as cultural champions, something akin to a real revolutionary vanguard.  And you know, maybe they were pretty awesome and revolutionary, but the turns toward hagiography can be a little stifling.  There are a lot of cool artifacts from Kurt and the gang, like letters and handwritten lyrics and photographs, not to mention recordings of home demos from their angsty teenage years.  That's cool; that's the sort of thing museums are made for.  A little more out there is the booth in the darkened room where you can step inside and tell the camera all about how Nirvana changed your life; a small theater outside then intersperses concert footage with clips from these fan testimonials.

This is, in some ways, a really cool idea, so I don't want to criticize it too much.  Inviting museum goers to respond to the exhibits, and displaying those responses, is an interesting way to make the experience more interactive.  But lavishing all this special attention on Nirvana seems to take things into the realm of the creepy.  One testimonial I saw ended with a kid remarking that what he said "probably sounded kind of stupid."  After reading all the notes on the wall detailing Cobain's complicated relationship with the media and the music industry, I can't help thinking he might say the same thing.

The most interesting part of that exhibit, for me, was the wealth of historical background for the grunge movement: video interviews with alternative and punk bands and producers, not to mention selections from albums of the underground and indie rock scenes of the 1980's.  I've been known to give 80's music a hard time; I've even been known to describe the 80's as a cultural wasteland of infinite despair.  Stations like this, however, are reminders that a pulse was really beating in the culture after all.  I much prefer the "alternative" to the "punk," but there's a really good case here that they shared a common cause.

The EMP's second favorite artist is far and away Seattle's own Jimi Hendrix, who gets his own exhibit (Jimi Hndrix: An Evolution of Sound), filled with historical background, recordings, and an impressive display of guitars.  The terribly blurry, lens-flared picture here is of three different instruments smashed by Jimi at various shows; the foreground fragment has words from "psychedelic poems" written on the side.  I couldn't actually make out any lines from this alleged poetry, but their psychedelic character is not to be denied.  Unless your only basis is this illegible picture, of course.

The Hendrix exhibit has all the usual things, like lyrics, session notes, and biographical sketches, but the best part was clearly the mixing consoles in the back corner.  The slides on the board allow you to hear different parts of the studio arrangements at different volumes: you can isolate vocals and slowly bring all the other parts into the mix, or experiment with radical ideas (like removing all of Jimi's leads, or taking out drums and pushing percussion to the max).  It's a lot of fun to play producer, and besides you get to rock out to Hendrix for a while.  Nothing wrong with that.

Upstairs is the interactive Sound Stage area, where museum goers are invited to play your basic rock instruments.  Experienced players can rock out freely (well, the instruments are bolted in place, but you can play whatever you want), while beginners can do simple tutorials and make a bunch of noise.  For the truly adventurous who don't mind spending a little time and cash, there are recording booths with a variety of instruments that allow you to cut your own CD, which you can then purchase in the gift shop.  I almost considered doing this, but by this time I'd been in the museum for several hours and we were now within half an hour of closing time.

I really kind of regret not allotting more time to that section, because the hands-on exhibits are usually the most fun at places like this, and it would be pretty fun to have a little record of my bass-playing skills to share with the world.  But with time running out, there was still one major exhibit I wanted to see...

The Experience Music Project is also a science fiction museum, at least in theory.  But rock n' roll dominates the agenda, and as I understand it the dedicated science fiction exhibit was recently closed.  Downstairs, however, is a temporary exhibit called Can't Look Away: The Lure of Horror Film.  There are a couple of cool artifacts and effects here; my favorite was this projector wall, which alters your silhouette with constantly shifting, spooky shapes.  There's also plenty of information on genre elements and tropes along the walls, and a "scream booth," where you can record yourself screaming in affected terror.  Yay?

Along one wall there was a list of one hundred horror movies the curators considered essential viewing.  Being a wimp, I generally cannot stand modern horror movies, but I have a lot of respect for the old classics, which make it easier for me to admire the artistry without wetting myself in fear.  I also appreciated getting to see video clips from the Cabinet of Dr. Caligary, a film I've been meaning to see since my Freshman year in college, but have never quite gotten around to.  I think I may have to make time for that someday soon.  The exhibit didn't really change my mind on the genre, but it has somewhat revitalized my enthusiasm for really old things.

Einstein on the Beach

One of the benefits of living in this brave new world of ours is that, if you really want to hear or see something, someone else on the internet likely wants to give it to you for free.  Once you've satisfied yourself that this person or company actually has the right to do so, you can then enjoy the desired content with a clear conscience.  You can just steal it too, but we don't promote that sort of thing here.

Upon some idle musing while browsing Spotify (which you should get if you don't have it now) the other day, it struck me that I had never actually heard any music by contemporary American composer Philip Glass.  This struck me as an oversight, since he is kind of famous and important and all that stuff.  Clearly, this was something I had to do promptly, so I sought out his discography, did a little research, and gave a listen to his most famous operatic work. 

Einstein on the Beach is an opera, but that doesn't really tell you much about it.  I've listened to operas before, and suffice to say this wasn't really anything like what I knew.  Parts of it do resemble "classical music" as the term is commonly understood, but on the whole it is devoted to abstraction in a way that you can't really be prepared for until you've waded into it for a while.  In full, the performance is over four hours long: the 1993 CD version I listened to clocks in at 190 minutes.  There are no intermissions or natural stopping points, but mercifully, opera-goers are encouraged to walk in and out whenever they please during performances of Einstein.  I took this as permission to divide up the listening over three days.

The opera is about Albert Einstein, but without knowing the title or any background information, I don't really know how you'd put that together.  It's one thing to not know what's going on because everyone is singing in a language you don't know.  It's another thing to make sense of something when the words are mostly numbers and solfège syllables.  Occasionally a poem or monologue is recited over the music, often repeatedly, but these are usually non sequiturs about women's liberation or Carole King songs, or ruminations on bathing caps at "prematurely air-conditioned supermarkets."  Of course, they can't really be said to distract from the plot, because there is no plot: just endless sound, of the sort you might expect to hear echoing around in the head of someone crazy enough to think up general relativity.

Hearing this opera without seeing its staging (originally done by Robert Wilson) is a little maddening.  It forces you to engage directly with the sound, without forming any connections between the sound and visual symbolism.  There's a lot going on in this music, and yet not very much.  Most of it boils down to keyboards, strings and voices, all repeating in tight, intricate patterns which occasionally border on the impossible: I just don't know how humans are supposed to sing some of these sections, particularly when they come in at such high speeds and feature so many abrupt and arbitrary changes in speed and rhythm.  There are points when I can't honestly say how the singers are able to breathe, but I'm sure they teach those people some tricks so they don't pass out on stage.

Do I sound like I'm confused?  I am a little confused.  I don't know anything about modern classical music.  I think I gave my roommate doubts about my sanity as I sat listening to this for hours.  I often asked myself just how many repetitions were necessary to get the point across, or whether there was even a point at all.  The music is often very pretty, but would the average listener be wasting his or her time?

But I like strange things, and I find I can enjoy them infinitely more when I abandon the effort to impose plain logic on them.  The point, so to say, doesn't come from a given number of repetitions of "fa-fa-la-si-do-si," but from the act of repetition itself: accept that, and you can start to notice all the small changes that fade in and out of each piece.  With a background of seemingly endless repetition, every modulation in key or meter jumps out like a meteor in the broad night sky, and they rain down with such surprise and wonder that it's hard not to be captivated once you've learned to spot them.

And anyway, there's a lot in this music that does make a strange kind of sense to me.  I like the way "Train 1" contrasts with "Night Train," even while they share so many sounds and themes in common.  The way the two "Dance" sections evoke a furious spinning ballroom without actually adhering to any recognizable dance beat is a source of endless fascination.  The abstract poems (written by Christopher Knowles) have a peculiar sound to them that I find inspiring, if a little intimidating: they seem to frighten the listener with their ability to be abstract and mundane at the same time.  Something like that is in the heart of every piece of Einstein on the Beach.

I think I'll be getting into more of Philip Glass in the future, but I'll see about getting him in more digestible chunks.  190 minutes of no-kidding avant-garde music is an awful lot to handle, and you risk coming away from it with the same reaction every time: "I like it, but I can't really say or understand why."  Of course, it's hard to really put into words why we really like any music, but it's always better if you can say something.  Even if it's "fa-fa-la-si-do-si," over and over and over again...

One last thing.  I praised Spotify early in this review for making this and other works accessible to me, but it did hamper the experience somewhat.  Spotify is a commercial service, and they make their money by playing very loud commercials every couple of tracks (or, when they average ten minutes long, between every track), and these commercials seldom have anything to do with what you're listening to.  There's something very, very odd about jumping immediately from "Trial" or "Bed, Aria" to a snippet from the latest single by Juanes.  Of course, this whole business was very odd, so I just went with it; it's the price we pay for this brave new world of ours.

The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword

When a new Legend of Zelda game hits the market, the question on the minds of critics is usually not whether the game is "good" or "bad."  After fifteen major releases over twenty five years, a certain expectation of quality from Nintendo has set in.  Playing a Zelda game is something of an idealized experience, and new games are typically judged by how closely they approach that particular ideal.  Does it come with the same sense of excitement and wonder as the titles from the series' golden past?  Is it representative of an upward or downward trajectory in the series' recent history?  Is it even possible to compare it to games that aren't Zelda games, or have they become a genre unto themselves?

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time

The question that's been most on my mind with regard to The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword is simple: is it a better game than Twilight Princess?  The comparison comes naturally, as both are flagship titles for Nintendo's Wii console, and more or less equally representative of what Zelda is in the "modern era."  It's also a lot easier to consider than a comparison to, say, Ocarina of Time, which is separated from today by thirteen years of history and technical improvement.  Nevertheless, the golden ideal of Ocarina is difficult to escape: somehow, every conversation about Zelda comes back to "Zelda 64," and how that game transformed players' expectations for games generally, and this series in particular.

Indeed, Twilight Princess was more or less a transparent attempt at recapturing Ocarina's specific appeal.  The art direction veered toward a dark fantasy-realism; not exactly a match for the style of the 64-bit era, but widely interpreted at the time as a retreat from the cartoon approach of The Wind Waker and the various handheld games that arrived in the interim.  Originally designed for the GameCube console (and belatedly adapted for the Wii), control and game play were strongly rooted in Ocarina's precedents, as were the story structure and the geography of the overworld.  Despite the rather odd decision to flip the entire game map east-west (a quick fix to make Link right handed and increase "realism" for Wii players), this iteration of Hyrule was recognizably based upon the familiar model; its larger and more stylized appearance is representative of Twilight's overall relationship to Ocarina.

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

Conversely, Skyward Sword seizes more firmly on the chances for innovation afforded by the Wii, and fits more comfortably in line with Zelda's more experimental installments.  It is about as different from the traditional Ocarina model as it can comfortably get, and the controls don't quite line up with the Wii version of Twilight.  The running, rolling, and spin attack functions in particular seem to have been completely rethought, and it took me a few sessions to fully internalize the new order.  In a subtle nod of recognition that other adventure games do in fact exist, other elements like equipment upgrades and customization have been added as well.

The most noted innovation is the sword control, which now responds to the motion of the Wii remote on a more or less one to one basis.  Not everyone has agreed that this is well implemented, but in my experience the sword controls are at least adequately responsive about 95 per cent of the time, and become easier to control with greater experience and concentration.  The ability to control the sword so precisely is helpful far more often than it is disorienting or dysfunctional.  

Skyward reaffirms the visual developments of Wind Waker and its sequels by resembling them; it doesn't quite have the same Saturday morning cel-shading style, but it features much brighter colors and familiar cartoon explosion and other effects.  Combined with a realistic base provided by Twilight Princess, the end result is a look that seems to reconcile the diverging styles that have been applied to the series.  It isn't a revolutionary look; it's not even as dramatic or spectacular as Twilight Princess.  But it does feel a little more homey, and inclusive of the entire series.

The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword

The biggest structural change is also the most daring aspect of Skyward Sword.  Traditionally, the world of Hyrule (or wherever the setting may be) is divided into a two-layered structure: an "underworld" consisting of separate dungeons and labyrinths, filled with monsters to fight and puzzles to solve, and an "overworld" that links them all together with various locations like towns and castles.  In Skyward, there is effectively a three-layered structure.  Dungeons are still embedded in the overworld, but the overworld itself is divided into three discrete parts.  Link cannot travel directly from one to another; instead, he must return to the hub world in the sky.  Obviously inspired by the oceanic overworld of Wind Waker, this hub is populated by a number of floating islands, and navigable by flying on the back of a large red bird.  Mercifully, the distances between islands are not nearly as intimidating as they were in Wind Waker, and the process of treasure hunting among them is not nearly as tedious.

The effect of all this is that the areas we are accustomed to thinking of as "overworld" feel more like dungeons.  The actual dungeons, meanwhile, are more simply structured than before: most labyrinths consist of only a single floor, something that hasn't been true since the first Zelda.  The creative interplay between underworld and overworld elements takes the focus off of the design of any particular level, and they combine into a more interesting whole than they ever have before.

By these measures, Skyward Sword is significantly more original and inventive than Twilight Princess.  Nostalgic fans like myself, however, may feel that a certain something has been lost.  In Twilight, it is possible to ride a horse across nearly the entire land in one unbroken path, marveling at vast plains and mountain vistas in a geography that seems natural and holistic; this was a central part of the appeal of Ocarina of Time.  The three overworld zones of Skyward might as well be different planets, as little as they have to do with one another.  As large as this game is, I often felt that the world had a kind of smallness in common with recent handheld titles, particularly The Minish Cap.  I love those games too, but if we measure Zelda games by their fidelity to the classic experience, Skyward is an anomaly that doesn't fit with familiar classifications.

But of course, a Zelda game remains a Zelda game, regardless of tweaks and alterations.  The puzzles are as inventive as ever; in fact, the "time shift" puzzles in the desert region are among the most creative that the series has ever done.  The story fills in a great deal of detail to the lore of Hyrule, without locking out the possibility of future revisions or elaborations.  The new music, while not rising to the same iconic level of previous soundtracks, sounds lovely in full orchestral arrangements.  The difficulty is extremely well balanced, offering perhaps the best contrast between challenge and enjoyment since Ocarina. 

Twilight Princess was a fantastic game with plenty to recommend it.  However, Skyward Sword is a much more original experience, with considerably more confidence in its own identity.  Where it changes the formula, it does so boldly, while familiar elements help tie the experience to the familiar games that fans still love.  It's set in the distant past, but it indicates the endless potential of new ideas to energize a solid foundation.  Skyward Sword comes together on just about every level as a latter-day masterpiece of design.

The Aftermath of the Storm

You think I was overreacting to mild weather conditions yesterday?

Never underestimate the destructive force of a snow flurry, my friends!

Truth be told, this tree and a fence were the only things I saw that suffered serious damage in yesterday's freakish snowfall.  All things considered, I'm not exactly sure how the mere falling of snow caused this tree to take a tumble.  Were there winds?  If there were winds, why didn't any other trees fall?  Is snow really just that heavy?

Oh well.  The snow is melting now, because it's spring and it really had no business falling in the first place.  What's left is still suitable for throwing snowballs or whatever shenanigans one might be interested in.  I threw one myself a little while ago!  I didn't hit anything, though. 

Anyway, the blog!  Let's talk about the blog.  My little March marathon of reviews has been going quite well, if you ask me.  They might not be classics of the form, but they've been by and large very fun to write.  And since we still have a little bit of March left, I don't see why I can't keep on keeping on.

I'll be in Seattle all next week, but I don't see any reason that should stop me from posting two more reviews before the month is out.  Three maybe, if I can think of a third thing to write about.  Either way, March 2012 is turning out to be a banner month for this site.  Banner by my standards, at any rate.  I only hope the bann-iest is yet to come.

I am so, so sorry for that.

So I look outside today...

...and what do I see?

Holy crap!

Now, I've lived in Eugene for a while.  I have come to accept that, unlike in Southern California, it is not uncommon for water to fall spontaneously from the sky.  I have even come to understand that it may occasionally arrive in the form of fluffy white crystals (the most adorable state of matter yet known).  But something inside me still bubbles with glee every time I find myself in the aftermath of a flurry.  A flurry!  The most we ever got in Poway was a few seconds out of class to go stare at the hail which fell every once in a million years.

Nevertheless, my joy is tempered with some practical problems.  The main one is that I need to get to my girlfriend's house.  Well, need is a strong word, but I really want to.  It's warm there, and my girlfriend wants to cuddle, and also maybe breakfast?  That might be there too.  Regardless, that's where I want to be, and that isn't here.

I'm not going to drive there, because it looks scary.  I keep thinking I might need to put chains on my tires, and how do you even do that?  I don't know how.  I certainly wouldn't want to go spinning off some patch of ice and explode into an ironically fiery death.  I also wouldn't want to embarrass myself by putting chains on a car for a flurry.  I imagine the battle-hardened souls here are used to wearing chains for nothing less than a blizzard.  I don't want to appear weak in front of the battle-hardened souls.

That means I'm hoofing it, I suppose.  But make no mistake, it's cold out there.  Thirty two degrees.  If my understanding of physics is correct, prolonged exposure to these sorts of temperatures will cause all the water in my body to freeze solid, and I'm pretty sure that would be bad for me.  Dying in a heap under some modest snow dunes isn't really my goal, either. 

So it's sweaters.  Plural.  And also a jacket, and gloves, and maybe a portable space heater tied to my back?  I haven't figured out how to keep it supplied with power while I walk.  Some hefty socks wouldn't be a bad idea either.  I've seen some pretty grisly depictions of Valley Forge, and I like my toes too much to put them through that.  Thermal underwear?  Perhaps a mug of warm soup?  Or one of those Saint Bernards with a cask of brandy tied around its neck.  But that would require making it to a pet store first.  Damn!

Anyway, I'm going now.  I'm needed elsewhere!  If you don't hear from me later this week, assume I died nobly, crossing a windswept frozen plain.  Or that I forgot to update again, as I so often do.