Warning: Some spoilers

Death comes for us all. But if you happen to be an extra in a movie or an NPC (non-player character) in a videogame, death can come rather gratuitously. Your role, after all, is to serve the plot and potentially make a hero(ine) look good. You are expendable by definition. You are such a trope that you have your own term: red shirt, in homage to the frequently fatally phasered security personnel in Star Trek. Red Shirts are those characters where you just know, as soon as they walk into view, that they will not last until the credits roll.

What ought a group of workers to do when they are systematically maltreated? Organise, of course! That is the starting point for John Scalzi’s Redshirts. Set on the Universal Union (UU) Intrepid, a thinly veiled analogue of the USS Enterprise from Star Trek, it regales us with the story of four wary ensigns who must uncover why so many people on the UU Intrepid die on away missions under mysterious, avoidable and often gruesome circumstances, and how they might escape the same fate.

Redshirts was my first return to John Scalzi after The Interdependency trilogy, which I found intriguing in setup but underwhelming in execution. Redshirts worked much better for me. It is more tightly written. Scalzi’s style and pace work better at the scale of a small company of friends on a single spaceship than for the grand space opera of a collapsing civilisation. And Scalzi exploits the creative premise much more adroitly than in The Interdependency, tying everything together in a satisfying and touching ending.

What made the conclusion the more pleasing is that about midway through the novel, I started to worry that Scalzi wasn’t going to be able to stick the landing. The first half of Redshirts has our four ensigns figuring out what is going on on the UU Intrepid and, more importantly, how they avoid getting killed by whatever ‘it’ is. The challenge of Redshirt’s conceit is that the reader knows what is going on from the prologue and is thus well ahead of its heroes. Finding out how they unravel the mystery is entertaining, but it is not clear how they might get themselves out of this predicament in a satisfying way.

This is where Redshirt’s first major twist comes in, and I’m not going to spoil that here. Suffice to say that our putative disposable heroes manage to use the power of tropes in their favour to get themselves out of harms’ way. More or less.

And the ‘more or less’ is important here. Not being a redshirt does not guarantee a long and happy ever after. In the long run we’re all dead, and many have perished in circumstances that were more tragic, calamitous or avoidable than those of the sacrificial redshirt. This is where Scalzi pulls a second, more philosophical twist. The complaint of the redshirt is not death itself, but a death that is pointless, stupid, and above all bereft of agency. The demand of the redshirt is not immortality, but a life worth living and a death worth dying. In a way not dissimilar to Castlevania, the latter half of Redshirts is in part a meditation on what it means to act in the world, to have agency, to make choices, and to grow, and the consequences of us either not using that potential or it being taken away from us.

In some ways, redshirts are the necessary corollary of Ada Palmer’s heroic protagonist: for the single hero(ine) to hold all the agency in the universe, they must deny it to everyone else. Redistributing agency across a larger group of characters requires a different mode of writing. At a minimum, something like the ensemble cast we see in Redshirts itself, where solving the mystery is the effort of a group of reasonably ordinary people, rather than the predestined fate of the Chosen One. Beyond that are more composite approaches such as The Ten Percent Thief, that abandon the traditional form of the novel altogether.

Redshirts does for single-episode disposable companions what Terry Pratchett’s Guards! Guards! did for the nameless battalions of disposable guards and goons. It does so with similar panache, if not the same level of genius or wit. There are also acknowledged nods to Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series about the lives of fictional characters after they’ve exited stage/screen/page left. Like these inspirations, it is a rewarding combination of witty writing, entertaining plot and cultural commentary, with some philosophical reflection thrown in to boot. It won’t change your life, but it will make you stop, smile and remember for a moment that we don’t all have to be heroes to make a change in the world.

Notes & Suggestions

• The ‘dead wife’ trope also makes an appearance in Redshirts, and on a sympathetic reading also finds itself subverted. Explicitly positioned as a plot demand, the dead wife in Redshirts is not the motive force for a hero, but instead a reason for withdrawal and fear, with Scalzi compassionately incorporating it in the book’s conclusion. I wrote a bit more about the dead wife trope in my review of Castlevania.
• Ada Palmer’s essay on the damage caused by a monoculture of heroic tales is well worth reading and can still be read in Uncanny Magazine. I engaged with it in my review of the Mass Effect series, particularly Mass Effect 3, as well as The Ten Percent Thief.
• How to exert our agency is of course the question of our times, or of life really. It is a question we must each answer for ourselves, but if you are looking for some inspiration on what is to be done, Erik Olin Wright’s How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century is not a bad starting point.

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About halfway through watching The Mandalorian and Grogu I realised that I had no idea what this movie was about. Mando (Pedro Pascal), our titular Mandalorian, was on some typical Star Wars Outer Rim world with seedy bars and flickering neon lights, dealing with the local crime boss / ex-Imperial warlord. At no point had the movie established why I should care about this particular warlord or this particular mission. Fine, the Empire is evil and we all enjoy some gratuitous violence against stormtroopers, but by this time I’m about an hour in and it is not clear what the stakes of this movie are. From its auspicious beginning in 2019 with the first season of the TV series, The Mandalorian has now met the fate that befalls all Star Wars intellectual property, namely to have it squeezed of all value until what remains is some by the numbers, unimaginative fanservice. Where did Mando lose his way?

The appeal of The Mandalorian’s first season lay not only in the cuddly cuteness of baby-Yoda Grogu, but its ability to add something new and fresh to the then slightly stale Star Wars franchise. Its Western-inspired style and atmosphere, a main character without Jedi powers, and the smaller settings and personal stakes made it a welcome change from the epic but incoherent narrative of Disney’s cinematic reboot. Despite hiding behind his mask, Mando was much more relatable than your average Jedi, because he was human, fallible and forced to navigate a morally ambiguous world. Set after the fall of the Galactic Empire, The Mandalorian added depth to the familiar Star Wars story. Complicating the self-congratulatory happy ending of The Return of the Jedi, it shows its audience how the post-Imperial world is full of petty warlords, failing social systems and anarchy on the worlds not protected by the fledgling New Republic. Add to that Mando’s personal and moral dilemmas as he is forced to grapple with his unexpected responsibility for the young Grogu and it is not difficult to see why The Mandalorian made for entertaining television.

What is so baffling about The Mandalorian and Grogu is that jettisoned practically all those elements that powered the success of the TV series. After entering into the service of the New Republic and deciding to take on Grogu as his apprentice at the end of season 3, there are no psychological or moral quandaries left for our protagonists to contend with, removing one possible source of good storytelling. Mando’s history and honour code are now also familiar to the audience, so they don’t add the same burst of novelty as before. The original Western-inspired setting has been replaced by some cookie-cutter, computer-generated planets that have no evocative atmosphere or aesthetic to speak of, beyond feeling like budget Bladerunner. And finally, stuff just happens without much of a plot to hold it together.

There is the semblance of a plot, of course. Mando has to save Rotta the Hutt, son of deceased crime-lord Jabba the Hutt, from some godforsaken moon and return him to his aunt and uncle who now run the Hutt crime syndicate. In exchange for the safe return of their nephew, who the Hutts clearly care about as much as the Empire cared about health & safety, they will lead the New Republic to one of the most elusive ex-Imperial warlords they are after. A weak attempt to make the secondment to a pair of criminals into an interesting moral dilemma lasts for about thirty seconds before the movie just moves on. If all this sounds rather convoluted, that is because it is. And if it sounds like the plotline for, at best, a two-episode arc in a TV series, that is because it is.

The predicament of The Mandalorian and Grogu is neatly summarised in an observation from this excellent essay on the difficulties of writing new stories within the Star Wars universe, or any franchise where authors are forbidden from adding or changing key events in the foundational lore:

The challenge placed before the author, in essence, is to tell an engaging story that doesn’t matter and doesn’t change anything about the characters or the world they live in.

As the author of that essay points out, there are ways around this problem depending on the medium. You can shift the focus form the grand epic narrative to the personal stories and sacrifices of the people living in your imaginary world. You can tell stories that add depth to the worldbuilding by exploring histories, cultures, characters or concepts that the key works in a franchise barely have time for. That is what The Mandalorian and Andor did so successfully: while not able to alter Star Wars’ grand narrative, they added not just depth and complexity to the timeline between the movies, but also a sense of realism that the trilogies, with their primary colour approach to good and evil, tended to lack.

If all that fails though, a movie can always fall back on bombastic cinematics, fast-paced action, or spectacular violence to mask the absence of a solid story. This path of least resistance is what The Mandalorian and Grogu has taken, and even that without much commitment or panache. Saddled with a plot that was likely salvaged from the cancelled fourth season and fully lacking in the character development department, The Mandalorian and Grogu instead relies on a series of fully predictable but modest set-piece battles, buttressed by a veritable parade of Star Wars cameos that have to make up for the consistently atrocious dialogue. What is supposed to be the grand finale involves a tedious melee between three bloated CGI sandworms, the incineration of some utterly expendable leftover droids from the Clone Wars series and some ridiculously implausible X-wing pilot banter that’s there purely for the fanservice.

The Mandalorian and Grogu is an ignominious instalment in the iconic story that started in 2019. For all that the movie manages the impressive feat of being convoluted, incoherent and predictable at the same time, it does not even possess the redeeming quality of being entertainingly bad. Instead, it is of the type of forgettable blandness that comes from being designed by committee to such a degree that all risk or creativity have been expunged. The purpose of the thing is what it does, of course, so presumably it is still achieving its objective of maintaining Disney+ subscriptions and Star Wars merchandise sales.

It appears that there are plans for a second movie, which will serve as a grand finale to tie several strands of the Star Wars franchise together, including Ahsoka and The Mandalorian. Based on past experience, I’m not hopeful that something exciting will emerge from combining multiple mediocre ingredients, but we can always hope that like Mando in season 2, The Mandalorian somehow manages to redeem itself.

Notes & Suggestions

• Coming right up to the beginning of the original trilogy and the Rogue One sequel, Andor is arguably even more constrained by the existing canon. Despite this, it tells a much more intriguing story and manages its conclusion as well as can be expected of a story where we know the ending in advance. It’s almost as if interesting characters having to make morally ambiguous choices under pressure make for better television than a parade of cuddly toys.
• I’m not the greatest fan of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but Marvel’s Thunderbolts demonstrated that it is possible to do something interesting with a fatigued franchise, precisely by focusing on the human element instead of merchandise opportunities.

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On 19 November 1998, videogaming changed forever when game developer Valve released Half-Life. 50+ ‘Game of the Year’ awards and inclusion in various ‘most influential games’ rankings attest to the fundamental shift Half-Life represents within the first-person-shooter (FPS) genre of videogames, taking it to a new level from the standard previously set by 1993’s Doom. In terms of immersion, storytelling and worldbuilding, there is a before and after Half-Life.

Valve followed its success with Half-Life 2 in 2004, the six year development time a first indicator of what would infamously become known as ‘Valve time’. Like its predecessor, Half-Life 2 represented another levelling up in the standards of FPS videogames through the introduction of realistic physics effects, advances in rendering of NPCs and the more extensive setting compared to its predecessor. Included with Half-Life 2 was an updated version of Half-Life, rendered on Valve’s new game engine. Without any real upgrades to graphics or gameplay, however, this was such a disappointment that some fans set out to completely rebuild Half-Life themselves. The product of this work is Black Mesa, a full remaster of the original game, completed after its very own 16 year long development journey. When the definitive version was finally published in 2020, the world of videogames had again moved on, and Half-Life 2 was hardly cutting edge anymore. Nonetheless, Black Mesa’s positive reception and the ability of a fan-based team to deliver a critically acclaimed remaster are a testament to the enduring legacy of Half-Life and the potential for a games industry not wholly captured by risk-averse triple-A studios.

Half-Life was my formative FPS. I have replayed it so many times that I can recall entire sections of it better than real places where I have lived, and I cannot help run its opening sequence in my head whenever I’m on any form of light rail. When Half-Life 2 came out in 2004 the payoff felt worth the long wait, and Valve displayed their expected panache for storytelling and game design, introducing physics in ways that had never been seen before, laying the groundwork for their next hit, 2007’s Portal. Next, however, was an abortive foray into ‘episodic’ games with Half-Life 2: Episode 1 and Half-Life 2: Episode 2, each with development times that rivalled those of full, standalone games. The long awaited Episode 3 never materialised, nor did Half-Life 3, and from here Valve’s creative output effectively ceased. My suspicion that Valve were holding out for another step-change in gaming technology was confirmed when Half-Life: Alyx was released in 2020 as a virtual reality (VR) exclusive. Alyx did not advance the Half-Life story however, and nothing has emerged from Valve since, leaving the Half-Life universe the gaming equivalent of Game of Thrones.

The most memorable commute in videogames. Video is from the original Half Life.

It was therefore exciting to see the development of the Half-Life remaster running in parallel with Valve’s metamorphosis from a vanguard game developer to toll collector on Steam, the largest PC game distribution platform. As the community effort consolidated into the Crowbar Collective and was eventually endorsed by Valve, I played several of the incomplete and demo releases, until the definitive version of Black Mesa finally landed in 2020. Now a recent replay presented an opportunity to assess how well a six year old remaster of a 28 year old game stands up against the games of today.

Welcome to the Black Mesa Research Facility. Have a safe and productive day

The strongest quality of Black Mesa remains the organic storytelling and worldbuilding it inherits from Half-Life. From the moment we enter the Black Mesa Research Facility using the iconic monorail train from Level 3 Dormitories to Sector C Test Labs, we know that there is a whole intricate world out there beyond the player's direct experience, and this approach is sustained throughout the game. It is one of the areas where Black Mesa outdoes its source material, because Crowbar Collective was able to significantly expand and enhance the last four chapters set in the alien ‘Xen’ world, using materials Valve omitted from Half-Life to meet its release schedule, as well as retconned references to Half-Life 2, strengthening the connection between the two games. Black Mesa tells this story without cut scenes, dialogue, quick-time events or an extensive encyclopedia of lore. Instead, we build our understanding of this world from environmental clues, snippets of overheard conversation and brief interactions with NPCs.

This lack of interruptions means that Black Mesa maintains excellent pacing. There are slower and more frantic sections, but the core gameplay is hardly ever interrupted by cut scenes or other non-playable events. Chapters build logically on one another, with a gradual and sensible escalation in terms of weaponry and enemies. Despite eventually carrying the armaments of a small platoon and wearing high-impact reactive armour, Black Mesa mercilessly punishes any attempts to Rambo through combat, forcing the player to think and strategize while on the move. As ‘cover’ was not a mechanic supported by the Source engine there is no sequence of conveniently placed chest-height walls to hunker behind, and instead the most taxing combat sequences require mobility and careful use of the environment to overcome.

The logical, linear structure makes Black Mesa delightfully simple (if not necessarily easy), but can feel contrived and railroading when contrasted with contemporary games. Funnelling the player down a single path means that the Black Mesa Research Facility has an unusual number of locked doors and explosive-proof windows, which can occasionally break suspension of disbelief or cause frustration, in particular when the ‘correct’ path is not immediately clear and the game refuses to offer multiple routes to the same objective in a way that we have come to expect from more modern games.

That annoyance of being railroaded is felt more strongly when confronted with various platform or physics puzzles that now feel anachronistic and interfere with flow. While Black Mesa vastly improved on the jumping challenges in the ‘Xen’ chapter, we still have an entire chapter of platforming through a waste processing plant that was clearly designed before Health & Safety was invented and which is both tedious and unconvincing, especially when contrasted with the rest of the in-game environment.

Graphics are where Black Mesa is weakest, which is no surprise for a game using a game engine, textures and assets from over two decades ago, some updates by Valve in the intervening years notwithstanding. Half-Life 2’s NPCs were a massive step up in 2004, but two decades on appear mildly wooden and repetitive, with the the player facing the same four soldiers over and over again. As someone not too invested in the latest graphics I would say the environments hold up okay as a whole, as long as you don’t look too closely at any of the textures.

Somewhat outdated graphics notwithstanding, the Xen chapters are an enormous improvement over the original, infusing the last third of the game with a sense of wonder that it did not previously possess.

The right man in the wrong place

Despite its age, there remains something refreshing about Black Mesa, in particular when compared to more expansive modern games. It is proof of the adage that less can indeed be more. This is a game that still features the mute protagonist, without conversation trees, side quests, morality points, or weapon upgrades. Repeatedly I found myself comparing Black Mesa to the last shooter I played: the Mass Effect remaster, and doing so favourably.

Despite being set in a single facility, Black Mesa feels grander than the world of Mass Effect, even though the the latter is spread over much of the galaxy. It achieves this not through the multiplicity of locations or the size of the game, as 1998 technology seriously limited both. It convinces you because throughout the game, the Black Mesa Research Facility implies that at any time, you are only seeing part of a greater whole. Every area is littered with signs pointing to other locations, processes or activities that you never experience. All around you NPCs are taking their own actions: marines fighting aliens, security personnel trying to survive, scientists desperately seeking a solution while being massacred by aliens and the military alike. Mass Effect, by contrast, always feels small. Even in the third game, its locations feel oddly circumscribed, and plastering some flying cars on the skybox does not fix that. This is not true for all parts of the game, but for a surprising amount of it, its locations are so obviously designed around gameplay that they don’t really convince as ‘real’ locations, let alone as parts of a greater universe.

This sense that you are not the centre of the universe extends to the player as well. Playing as Gordon Freeman in Black Mesa, you start as a recent PhD graduate at the bottom of the academic pecking order, paying off your student loans by shoving mysterious samples into the ‘anti-mass spectrometer’. When this accidentally makes you instrumental to creating the dimensional rift that starts the alien invasion of the research facility, the key reason it is you and not anyone else who has to go to the surface for help is because you happen to wear that convenient armour. For the first half of the game you are directed by other scientists and events, and it is only as the game progresses and the military starts hunting you specifically that the game acknowledges that you are somehow special. Contrast this to Mass Effect, where from the opening sequence it is established that Commander Shepard is a very special boy/girl. Mass Effect opens with your superiors at the highest levels of government discussing why you, and only you, are uniquely qualified for consideration for the galaxy’s most prestigious special forces outfit. Black Mesa opens with you running late on your commute to work. It is unavoidable for an FPS to make the hero(ine) the central character of the story, but Black Mesa tells you right up to the end that there were others like you who tried and failed, and that your ultimate victory was in no way predestined. In Mass Effect, everyone agrees (and tells you, ad nauseam) that you are the saviour of the galaxy. In Black Mesa, on winning the game you effectively get told you were just the statistically expected victor from among a larger pool of contenders.

Community action

At sixteen years of development, Crowbar Collective’s successful release of Black Mesa feels almost as unlikely as Gordon Freeman’s victory over Half-Life’s endboss. Gaming is now a mature enough industry to have its fair share of reboots and remasters, but in the main these are pushed by studios themselves, or whoever ended up with the relevant intellectual property. That is, when studios care enough to continue looking after their legacy. Recent years have seen controversial decisions by studios to discontinue games altogether, leaving players with unsupported and at times unplayable software. It has brought into focus the insidious nature of an industry that sells players ‘licenses’ to play, rather than ownership of games. While not the worst offender, Valve itself has come in for scrutiny over its lacklustre updates to its portfolio of legacy games, in particular given the dearth of new releases in recent years, as well as its facilitation of large studios extracting every last drop of value from games through Steam. Though unlike some of its competitors, Valve has at least shown itself willing to support an ecosystem of modifications and spin-offs, with Black Mesa probably the most elaborate example of this.

Black Mesa is a testament to both the enduring impact of Half-Life and the perseverance of its community of fans. With its somewhat outdated graphics and gameplay it may not hold much appeal to a new generation of gamers who did not experience the original and can choose from a plethora of games inconceivable in 1998. That would be a shame however, because Black Mesa's storytelling remains outstanding, and the game still offers a balanced, well-paced challenge to players. As an entry point for one of gaming's most iconic series it is superior to the original. The Black Mesa Research Facility, while cutting edge in 1998, may now look a bit dated, but it is still worth a visit.

Notes & Suggestions

• In response to studio decisions to discontinue games that still had a vibrant (albeit often small) gaming community, gamers have banded together in the Stop Killing Games initiative. One of the asks of the campaign is for studios to adopt legacy arrangements for games, rather than simply shutting them down. Good Old Games, a competitor platform to Steam, also runs an extensive library of older games as well as a ‘games preservation programme’.
• The honour of most extensive fan-built project probably goes to Tamriel Rebuilt, an effort to build the entire fictional world of Tamriel from the The Elder Scrolls series as a modification of The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind. Bethesda games generally attract lots of player-made modifications, especially for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, which has resulted in fully-fledged standalone games such as The Forgotten City. While Bethesda’s openness to player involvement has always been welcomed, this has not prevented the studio from occasionally trying to monetise players’ free labour, with connivance of our friends at Valve. The efforts of the Tamriel Rebuilt community were also covered in Tribune and Ars Technica.
• Yahtzee Croshaw has one of his usual entertaining videos on Black Mesa, covering some of the same points.

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This year saw the remaster of critically-acclaimed Akira, probably the movie most credited with introducing anime to a Western audience. Like 1982’s Blade Runner from which it draws inspiration, Akira imagines a future so proximate that we are now living it, in this case a vision of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. Remasters generate renewed interest and the potential to bring a classic to new audiences, as well as the chance for the more elderly among us to indulge in nostalgia. It also presents an opportunity for a critical contemporary reappraisal of art that, by virtue of the passage of time, has taken on a second nature as representative of a specific cultural and historical context from which it is ever further removed. Such reappraisals have seen some movies retroactively acquire cult status, while others have fallen from grace and found themselves relegated to the dust heap of history.

Akira appears however to have escaped such re-evaluations, with recent reviews generally reaffirming its cult status and importance to the cultural exchange between Japan and the West, in particular with regards to animation. This is a missed opportunity given both Akira’s richness and its historical and cultural specificity, which should provide plenty of stimulating touchpoints for dialogue with our present moment, especially considering our dystopian zeitgeist and the enduring popularity of the cyberpunk genre. A film that dared to imagine our present moment deserves better than being engaged only in terms of its cultural legacy.

Akira follows the exploits of Kaneda, leader of motorcycle gang the Capsules, as he finds himself and his gang in the crosshairs of a covert military research effort to create humans with psychic abilities (dubbed ‘espers’). A collision with an escaped esper imbues one of Kaneda’s gang members, Tetsuo, with psychic powers, resulting in him summarily being whisked away by Colonel Shikishima to a secret military facility for experimentation. Kaneda’s resolution to free his friend sees him join forces with Kei, a revolutionary, whose cell intends to liberate the espers. What follows is a chaotic crescendo of violence as the hubris of men inexorably raises the stakes, resulting in an epic final stand off between Kaneda and Tetsuo at the construction site for Tokyo’s 2020 Olympic Stadium, by which point large swathes of Neo-Tokyo have already been laid waste and the civilian casualties have mounted into their thousands.

The titular Akira himself is not so much a character as the loop around which the movie’s story is wound, functioning both as the point of origin of the movie’s events and their resolution. Though absent, he is the centre of gravity for many of the movie’s protagonists. For some of Neo-Tokyo’s denizens he is an object of cult worship, for the remaining espers a quest for transcendence, for Tetsuo his last hope of controlling his spiralling psychic powers, and for colonel Shikishima a dangerous secret to be supressed.

Both aesthetically and narratively Akira is a tour de force. We start with the high-octane energy of Kaneda’s futuristic motorcycle gang having it out with their rivals, and the movie sustains this frenetic pace until the credits roll. Its visuals embody the gold standard of 1980s Japanese animation, rendering the cyberpunk world of Neo-Tokyo in exquisite detail and its inhabitants with a vital energy. With the notable exception of mechas and kaiju, Akira is a catalogue of futuristic anime staples, from secret government programmes to towering skyscrapers and thinly-veiled references to nuclear destruction. If much of it feels familiar, it is because of how this movie inspired so much of what followed.

Even in the background details, there is a richness and depth that suffuses the film, never leaving the viewer in doubt that there is much more to this world than we get to see. We get snippets of debates in smoke-filled council chambers suggestive of political wranglings that are never explored. Exchanges between NPCs that are there purely as scenery convince us that Neo-Tokyo is filled with people living their own lives, wholly unrelated and oblivious to the unfolding story. Our protagonists come with their implied backstories to which minimal exposition is devoted. All this leaves us with the impression that all we get is a glimpse into this sprawling, chaotic, complex world.

That complex chaos is one aspect of Akira that diverges from many contemporary cyberpunk dystopias. Akira’s central dystopian anxiety is that of chaos and decay, not calamitous collapse or totalitarian control. Neo-Tokyo is a complex system disintegrating under the weight of its own internal contradictions where nobody is in command, and any attempts to exercise control only serves to destabilise the system further. The overriding sense is of a lack of order, apart from what groups such as the Capsules can locally impose, and this is further reinforced by the alienating effects of the inchoate storyline and the soundtrack. Contrary to the claustrophobic control of Silo or The Ten Percent Thief, the chaos in Akira is expansive, too big to contain. And unlike the external collapse of Interstellar or Oryx & Crake, in Akira it is the inherent instability of the society itself that is maintaining it in a state of permanent implosion.

If the rampant chaos and decay are one way by which Akira signals the dystopian status of Neo-Tokyo, the treatment of women is another. Using overt oppression of women as the signifier for dystopia is common, and while it can be done well (most famously in The Handmaid's Tale), Akira's uncritical use of this trope is problematic. Akira features three main female characters: Tetsuo’s girlfriend Kaori, revolutionary Kei, and esper Kiyoko. Kaori’s role is primarily to suffer. Early on in the movie an ill-fated escape attempt with Tetsuo sees her brutally physically and sexually assaulted. Rendered in Akira’s signature vivid style, the harrowing scene is compounded by the suspicion that the (presumed male) audience is meant to find the half-naked and violated Kaori vaguely titillating. Kaori’s only other key appearance is at the movie’s finale, where her ineffectual attempt to calm an out-of-control Tetsuo leads to him crushing her to death. Kaori is easily the most innocent and caring character in the film, and the only one who sees that Tetsuo needs compassion, not machismo. But in Neo-Tokyo, empathy is a fatal liability punishable by death.

Kei’s portrayal is much more sympathetic, and as a revolutionary she has significantly more agency than Kaori. Nonetheless, she is gradually eclipsed by Kaneda even though of the two she ought to be the more capable warrior. Her flaw is a tendency to think before she acts, unlike Kaneda who blunders into situations but surmounts them through sheer force of will. This disempowerment begins shortly after the two characters meet, when Kei’s disinterest in Kaneda’s flirtatious overtures immediately results in an aggressively abusive response from the latter. This is portrayed not as a flaw in our hero, but as an acceptable if maybe somewhat immature way for a man to express frustration at the rejection of his advances towards an attractive woman, and will be painfully recognisable to any female viewers. Akira avoids a a standard romantic arc for Kei and Kaneda after this inauspicious start, but we are nonetheless to understand that Kaneda's boisterous energy and dedication to Tetsuo gradually win Kei over.

Kiyoko, finally, is probably the most effective of the three espers. But while her two male counterparts are depicted as miniature adults, Kiyoko retains the trappings of a little girl, stuck in a slightly bizarre and unsettling father/daughter relationship with colonel Shikishima.

Between them these three characters are undeniably instrumental to the resolution of the story, and the organised, capable and thoughtful Kei in particular contrasts positively with loose-cannon goofball Kaneda. Over the course of the film however, the agency of the female characters progressively erodes, and combined with overt violence against women as an indicator of the dystopian nature of Neo-Tokyo, a latent misogyny suffuses the movie. One might argue that this is simply reflective of the movie’s times, were it not for the fact that Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind came out four years before Akira, proving that dystopian anime with a much more positive female depictions was eminently possible.

A potential counterargument here is that the entire movie could be interpreted as at least in part a critique of toxic masculinity. It is after all propelled by Kaneda and Tetsuo’s inability to express their friendship other than through competition and violent one-upmanship, and it is the incessant desire of men to obtain power and exercise control that pushes Neo-Tokyo deeper and deeper into crisis. Multiple times characters choose coercion and anger over compassion and understanding, fuelling the spiral of violence until it comes to a catastrophic terminus. In this sense, Akira falls squarely in the ‘things men do to avoid going to therapy’ category, although in fairness it seems likely that in Neo-Tokyo mental health services are even more eviscerated than they are in austerity Britain. In the end, Akira doesn't have the self-awareness to pull off this critique, as it does not manage to point at any alternatives, but rather forecloses them as it did with Kaori’s brutal death. At its heart, Akira is too excited about being a movie for boys about boys doing boy things, with fast motorcycles and big explosions.

None of this invalidates Akira’s status as an iconic and historically significant movie, nor detract from the its exquisite craftsmanship, raucously immersive story, and its dystopian critique. It is nonetheless intriguing that its overwhelming spectacle appears to have stunned contemporary reviews into a mere reaffirmation of the cult status we already knew Akira possessed, preventing engagement with aspects of the movie that have aged for better or worse. With nearly forty years between now and the movie’s release, it feels like an opportunity was missed to more critically evaluate Akira and ask what it can offer those who live in the future it sought to anticipate, as well as which of its cultural descendants may have transcended their source material.

Notes & Suggestions

• This review was inspired and greatly influenced by my partner, and I want to thank her for her suggestions and contributions.
• Despite the obvious violent or dismissive treatment of women, I only found one mildly obscure commentary on this aspect of Akira. An interesting and more holistic evaluation of many of the themes present in Akira, including alienation, Japanese history and the ubiquitous references to nuclear warfare in anime can be found here.
• The aesthetic influence of Akira can be clearly seen in Pluto, although there the skyscrapers and technological prowess appears in utopian rather than dystopian guise.
• A worthwhile counterpoint to the usual failure of action heroes to communicate (or go to therapy) is Marvel's Thunderbolts.

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Today ‘technological progress’ means LLMs convincing your boss to put you out of work, while consuming astronomical amounts of water and energy in the process. So it is easy to forget that only a decade ago the zeitgeist was one of futuristic techno-optimism. The time when Elon Musk was still the Prometheus who would save the Earth by electrifying transport while simultaneously bringing us to Mars, rather than the herald of ascendant techno-fascism. The 2010s may have been the aftermath of the financial crisis and the beginning proper of climate breakdown, but there was still hope that technology might save us.

A product of this time, Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar perfectly expresses that blend of existential angst and technological optimism, showing us humanity reaching for the stars to escape catastrophic ecosystem collapse on Earth. With a unique and titanic score by Hans Zimmer, there are moments where Interstellar almost feels like a soundtrack with a movie attached, were it not for the high calibre of its imaginative plot, realistic physics and humane interpersonal dramas.

It is the conceit that hope is the product of technological capability and interpersonal connection that elevates Interstellar above the vulgar techno-utopianism promoted by the Californian Ideology. But viewed as a parable of our times, it obscures more than it elucidates, and its message of hope turns out to rest on a profoundly fatalistic base.

Interstellar starts in the near future of 2067, when a mysterious blight is slowly poisoning the atmosphere, causing increasing crop failures and threatening human survival through starvation and suffocation. For this, technology offers no cure, and so like most of humanity, former astronaut Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) is engaged in a progressively more futile effort to maintain agricultural production. That is, until mysterious messages guide him to a secret NASA facility where a last ditch effort is underway to find a new home among the stars for humanity. A wormhole has appeared near Saturn, leading to another star system with potential habitable planets. And so Cooper, the last astronaut, is drafted into a plan for a small crew to transit the wormhole and link up with an earlier recon team sent to establish whether any planets on the far side might support human life.

Cooper must leave his son Tom (Timothee Chalamet, Casey Affleck) and daughter Murph (Mackenzie Fry, Jessica Chastain) behind, not for a few years, but possibly for a lifetime. For the planets on the far side orbit a supermassive black hole, warping time and space around it. Interstellar is serious about its physics, both the orbital mechanics of spacecraft and the uncanny time dilation of general relativity theory, and the movie feels partly like a love letter to (and some product placement for) a NASA that may only ever have existed in our collective imagination. The increasing age difference between the away team and Earth caused by relativistic forces is central to the story, with Cooper forced to watch his children age decades in what to him are only a few hours, viewing their mounting frustration at his lack of reciprocal communication.

Cooper and Murph’s separation by space and time is the heart of Interstellar, and if its concluding message that love can transcend both risks being saccharine, the movie is more than salvaged by the respect with which it treats both the impersonal forces of physics, and the deeply personal struggles of Cooper and Murph. And by the incomparable soundtrack, of course.

With the relationship between Cooper and Murph the emotional core of the movie, the intellectual heft lies with the desperate attempt to secure a future for humanity, and the moral dilemmas inherent in the leap into space. And while adequately compelling courtesy of the usual accidents and interpersonal conflicts that beset missions like these, this is where Interstellar falls into a depressingly familiar pattern of stories featuring mysterious catastrophes that can only be overcome via a single technologically sophisticated but highly dangerous gambit, placing the burden of humanity’s survival on the shoulders of an intrepid and often reluctant few. For Interstellar it is crop failure. In Project Hail Mary it was space bacteria. Elsewhere it might be asteroids, or the Earth’s magnetosphere, or some other quasi-plausible disaster. Regardless of their precise nature, these putative apocalypses can all easily be read as allegories for climate change, which itself remains firmly taboo on the silver screen, presumably because it is too confrontational for the audience. This displacement conveniently redefines the existential threat as something that is emphatically not amenable to radical social or political transformation, but can only be overcome through a single, ‘neutral’, technological fix. To do otherwise might after all lead the audience to inadvertently imagine a world beyond capitalism. The effect of stories like Interstellar, even if achieved unintentionally, is to enclose our political horizons and obscure the fact that the technological solutions to our actually existing existential threat are already available to us.

Interstellar does present varying responses to the blight, ranging from the reluctant hero willing to suffer personal hardship for family and humanity but unable to sacrifice the many so that a few might survive, to the scientists who hold fast to the technological breakthrough that might save humanity in some form, even if it does require cold moral calculus. There is however one character which represents the stubborn refusal to accept the inevitable and, quite literally, plough on in the face of adversity: Cooper’s son Tom, who inherits the family farm and holds the agricultural frontline against the encroaching blight. Tom is neither astronaut nor scientist. He is emphatically not special, but one of millions if not billions of farmers like him desperately trying to keep humanity alive. Adherence to Interstellar’s techno-optimist tendency however requires that he is portrayed as a stubborn Luddite, engaged in a futile and even harmful rearguard action as dust storms and crop failures make his situation increasingly untenable.

And yet, we are more akin to Tom than any of the other characters. No convenient wormhole will come to our rescue. No single technological breakthrough will be our salvation. We do not need a futuristic technological fix to traverse the cosmos or go to Mars. The manifold solutions we have to our predicament, technological or otherwise, are already at our disposal. What is standing in our way is not our failure to unify quantum theory with general relativity, but a system optimised for the generation of short-term profit at the expensive of all else, including the future habitability of our planet. Our solution is the collective power of many, coming together to save the world we have from the billionaires who would happily watch millions of us die to safeguard their wealth and status.

Interstellar is objectively an epic movie, admirably rooted in real scientific knowledge and with an affective father/daughter relationship at its heart. But despite its ostensible hopeful ending, its intellectual core is fatalistic and tacitly reactionary, reinforcing the narrative that we cannot collectively solve our problems here on Earth, but must wait for a heroic saviour to lead us to the stars.

Elon Musk and Peter Thiel will not save us. We can only save ourselves, if we collectively decide not to go gently into that good night, but to rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Notes and suggestions

• The blight may be an invention, but the collapse of agricultural production due to soil exhaustion is a real risk. We live in an age of ecological polycrisis after all, and while soil degradation doesn’t have the profile of climate change, it is no less real.
• Want to know why technology won’t save us in significantly more detail? Then why don’t listen to the Tech Won’t Save Us podcast?
• Like Tom, and admittedly the other characters in Interstellar, we are not alone in fighting for the survival of people and planet. If you feel overwhelmed by the scale of the problem and are unsure about what you can do, consider supporting or joining organisations such as Greenpeace or Friends of the Earth. Other options (not mutually exclusive!) are local environmental campaign groups, green political parties, or even local (guerrilla) gardening groups. And if you are looking to slow down and work out how to stay sane in a world that feels like it is going insane, there are others who write inspiringly on how to do just that.
• Regular readers may remember that I’ve recently written about Project Hail Mary. Having now watched Interstellar for the first time, Project Hail Mary feels not only inspired by, but to some extent derivative of Interstellar, although it takes the subject into a more humorous direction.
• For an in-depth discussion of the Californian Ideology, you can listen to one of the early podcasts from General Intellect Unit.

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Hope is hard in a world ravaged by ecological breakdown, especially for the young. Ten year old Iris struggles to have hope. Hers is a world of natural disasters, inexorably sliding further and further towards climate catastrophe, all while the adults in the room act as if everything is normal. The year is 2075, and all is not well.

That is, until Arco literally crashes into her life. Titular Arco is another ten-year-old, but whereas Iris is from our near future, Arco hails from a distant future where humans have relocated to gigantic cloud arcologies and mastered time travel. Even in that future though, children are not supposed to play with time until they’ve passed time-travellers exam. Impatient Arco steals his his sister’s device, only to lose control and end up in Iris’ time by accident. In the tradition of all good children’s movies, our two youngsters embark on a series of capers and adventures, supported by the friends they make along the way, to get Arco back to his own time.

Arco is a beautifully drawn animation, evoking the traditions of Studio Ghibli both in terms of style and narrative. It is a story of perseverance and hope against the odds, its generally light-hearted tone giving its emotional moments all the more impact. Like all good science fiction, it is a story not of, but for our times, reminding us that hope is a radical act.

Arco breaks with conventional time travel script by having its time traveller arrive not in the present day, but the future. In doing so it creates a double contrast: between Iris’ time and our own, and Arco’s time and Iris’. Set in the near future, Iris’ time is a plausibly familiar continuation of our own. It is the world of overshoot, of simultaneous technological progress and ecological degradation. This combination affords a precarious balance, symbolised by the protective domes that shield buildings from successive natural disasters, though Iris’ hopelessness suggests that the overall trend is downwards. Inverting the description of Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossesed, Arco might be called a ‘realistic dystopia’. This is not a world ravaged by Mad Max or 2012 style cataclysms, but a society adapted to climate change yet possibly losing that struggle in the long run. It is a more believable and hence more relatable depiction of what the future might hold for us.

For Arco though, Iris’ time is as alien as ours. Not only is he astounded that humans live on the ground and cannot communicate with birds, but much of 21st century technology is bizarre to him. Interestingly, this includes the omnipresent robots that perform so much of necessary labour in Iris’ time, suggesting that humanity at some point divested itself of AI and robotics. The evident contrast between Arco and Iris’ experiences creates a profound sense of discontinuity. Iris’ world still feels connected to our own, but Arco’s cannot be understood as a simple linear extrapolation of current trends. Through this disconnect between its two futures, Arco subtly argues that human survival through harmonious coexistence with nature will require a rupture with our present social and technological trajectory.

A second unusual aspect of Arco is the absence of direct antagonism. While Iris and Arco face multiple threats in their quest to return Arco to his time, none of these are enemies. Interpersonal conflict arises from misunderstanding or miscommunication and is therefore open to resolution through dialogue. Yet the greatest threats are impersonal, with our heroes having to face storms and wildfires. The calamitous unpredictability of the natural environment is deeply symbolic of the imbalance it has been pushed into by decades of human (in)action.

This is not to say that nature is portrayed exclusively as a threat. Interspersed between storms and wildfires are moments of tranquillity where the nature is depicted with reverent care, and our heroes traverse biomes rendered in lush, tender and exquisite detail. Even when quiescent, nature is not merely the background on which Arco plays out, but is integral to it, and shows us the complex, verdant and sometimes alien beauty we stand to lose. This is another way in which Arco is reminiscent of Studio Ghibli movies such as Spirited Away, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, or Princess Mononoke, with which it also shares its strong, young female character and its endearing, slightly dreamlike childhood logic. Our heroes face their challenges head on with a heedlessness that would make adults flinch, and while Arco ultimately remains on the safe terrain of a children’s movie, there are stakes and consequences, though they are more likely to affect the adults in the audience.

Aesthetically and narratively, Arco is riding the wave of increased interest in solarpunk, with its focus on harmony with nature and gentler, more caring technologies. Yet while the overall message is one of hope, there is an undercurrent of pessimism in Arco. It reminded me of Terra Nil, where humans have been removed from the scene altogether. Arco is not as drastic, but its solution to the degradation of the Earth’s biosphere is for humans to relocate away from the surface, implying that that actual harmony is (not yet) possible and that vacating large swathes of the Earth is the only viable option.

Regardless, Arco’s overall message is one of hope, and it is not coincidental that Arco’s restoration to his family is brought about through an act of kindness rather than ingenuity. By restoring Arco to his future, Iris regains her belief that there is a future, and that it can be better. It is that belief that, as we learn in the credits, will motivate her to make her own contributions to restore humanity to a place of balance within the web of life.

We don’t have the benefit of the future manifest to give us the hope and courage to struggle forward. But neither are we the first generation to face the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. As Antonio Gramsci famously wrote from his prison in the fascist Italy of 1929, times of adversity require us to confront them with pessimism of the intellect, but optimism of the will. Hope is the catalyst that helps us act in the absence of certainty. We can never know if our actions will bring forth the future we desire, but it is certain that if we don’t act, it will never come to pass.

Notes & suggestions

• Of course, we don’t have to look to the future to see the catastrophic impacts of climate change. For many outside the sheltered Global North, they are already here, and have been here for some time.
• Hope may be a necessary condition, but it is not sufficient, and it needs to be tethered to clear analysis and radical action. Simply ‘being hopeful at things’ is not going to be sufficient. For a critical appraisal of ‘hopepunk’ as a political project, see here.
• The use of robots is incidental in Arco, but it was nonetheless pleasant to have a movie that didn’t agonise over the ability of humans and robots to coexist with mutual respect. In that it reminded me of Pluto.
• The intractable problems of our age (ecosystem collapse, poverty, emerging fascism, racism and the legacy of