viz. - animation

Journey and Non-Referential Iconography

Scott Garbacz — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 14:00:00 +0000

Probably all illustrations, and certainly the animated images I’ve discussed in Frozen and Lilo and Stitch, come freighted with a vast history of associations. Striking images can literally provide worldviews—complex perspectives from which to view matters ranging from gender roles to cultural identities to ideal body types. Frozen’s visual aesthetic offers a triumphantalist account of traditional images put to new uses, while Lilo and Stitch offers a harder-edged criticism of our lazy, self-indulgent ways of looking at the world, for instance. Yet both deliberately and meaningfully comment upon the mediating power of their own iconography. Both films are, in short, particularly focused on understanding how images have worked in the past, and how they can be made to work differently in the future.

Journey is a video game whose cartoon-like visual aesthetic draws strongly from the same animated tradition as the first two films, yet its aims are quite different. In both its gameplay and its visual design, I will argue, Journey is not focused on what it means, but rather on the raw experiences it can provide. The game reminds us, in short, that while images have deep and rich rhetorical histories, they are also something more than mere arguments.

At first glance, Journey seems yet another participant in the iconographic tradition of Disney-style heroic adventure. The game's unnamed protagonist wears yet another variant of the cape worn by Sleeping Beauty's Prince Phillip or Frozen's Anna: a red, flowing cloak whose bold coloration differentiates him or her from the various backgrounds he will visit. Fittingly, this character will go on his own quest, making his or her way through dozens of different landscapes and ruins in order to reach a distant mountain peak. Not surprisingly, the primary figure this character finds among the ruins is dressed in a pure white gown that carries at least two markedly female associations: that of a helpful nun, and that of a bride on her wedding day. Her beak-like face, on the other hand, nearly literalizes the cultural ideal of a woman as a "mother hen."

Flowing, red clothing for adventurers: the one unchanging truth of the fashion world. Image source: Youtube.

Yet while one could perform a gender analysis (or, for that matter, a cultural analysis) of Journey's treatment of archetypes of a lone adventurer in an exotic foreign place, to do so would be to miss one of the most notable and immediately striking features of the game: its insistant attempt to minimize or obscure any ability of its images to refer to anything outside of themselves. This design aesthetic stretches from the game's costume design (just ornate enough to defamiliarize the reader and yet not ornate enough to betray any one particular origin) to its art style (frequently, the game presents such clean lines and well-defined spaces as to make the background seem neutral), to its narrative (a serious of wordless, simply-illustrated cut scenes hint at a deep religious subtext to the journey, but provide no clarity as to what the significance might be), to its very protagonist (all gender, race, and class markers are obscured beneath his or her robe, and any distinctive voice is replaced by a small variety of musical notes.) For the most part, the game goes out of its way to limit the degree to which it reflects the world outside itself.

The landscape, like the character is often a nearly blank canvas. Image source: Thatgamecompany.

Two things, however, receive much more focus than in a traditional video game. The first is light. Not only are all the game's various locations carefully differentiated by their color palate (as is common in video games), but the use of light and tonality is often taken to dramatic extremes. One segment of the game takes place in a harsh, snow-and-wind haunted mountain pass, where the screen is at times almost entirely white. On the other hand, an early visit to a sun-drenched temple demonstrates the game's lighting effects at their most impressive; the sun reflects vibrantly off the golden sand, an effect dazzling in itself yet made more impactful when suddenly encountered within a game otherwise willing to stick with relatively bland backgrounds.

Image source: Forbes

At such moments, the game becomes a meditation on the power and significance of light and vision; while architectural details may be visible, much more powerful is the play of light and shadow, gold and brown. The relatively desaturated and low-contrast images before this climactic relevation of light, for instance, only serve to de-sensitize the mind of gamers, so that what could be a merely standout moment in another game is transformed into a revelation.

Yet the game's most powerful use of constraints involves not images themselves, but rather PS3's multiplayer functionality. Amid the loneliness of the game's single-player campaign, the game randomly brings two human-controlled players together in a single universe. As with the game's visual presentation, this interaction takes place within strictly-enforced limits. Communication comes from watching what the other person does, or pressing a single button that (depending on how hard or quickly you press it) triggers one of a small number of musical notes. Cooperation is limited to the ability to assist each other in making higher than normal jumps.

Image source: Thatgamecompany.

As with the visuals, the game's careful limitations provide an intense focus. These interactions obviously lack many of the hallmarks of day-to-day encounters: human voice, facial expressions, language, posture, distinctive clothing, and so forth. Yet the knowledge of that the character accompanying you is played by a fellow human being makes all the difference in the world. Indeed, the very difficulty of communication only increases the wonder when communication does emerge, as when two players spontaneously develop a quick two-note call-and-response to check in, or when a new player is greeted with a sudden shower of notes that serve as an unmisible signifier of welcome. In these multiplayer sections, the game became less about the designed narrative than about the experiences it enabled: experiences of recognizing, working with, and above all communicating with a fellow human.

Both the game's presentation of light and its treatment of human interactions signal that the game is not being "about" something so much as it is interested in creating something. The glorious sunset walk is not "about" the power of beauty in the way that Lilo and Stitch is about the danger of mis-read stories; nor is it (like Frozen) "about" the revision of the Disney adventurer narrative in order to include women (and sisters) as protagonists. Instead, the most significant thing that Journey does is to provide us with carefully cultivated experiences, where a simple iconography allows players to focus on certain aspects of life while ignoring others. The final effect is very different from that of other forms of visual narrative, and arguably significantly less rhetorical. Yet it is no less real for all of that, and no less worthy of consideration and analysis.

Picturing Poetry

ebfrye — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 00:30:55 +0000

"Mulberry Fields" by Lucille Clifton Image Credit: Poetry Foundation

Some treats for your Monday! Because we all need a little poetry in our lives…

I’ve been to a lot of poetry readings in my day, ya’ll. I’ve cheered on countless buddies in coffee shops and dive bars, listened to many recordings of the greats reading their work, and even purchased a recording of e.e. cummings on vinyl. Therefore, I know I’m pointing out the obvious when I begin with this frequently circulated statement: most poetry is best read aloud.

Despite the fact that poetry is one of the more notorious aural/oral forms, the experience of listening requires some kind of visualization on the part of the reader. You hear and then you “see.” As a result, there’s quite a lot of interesting ground being broken in terms of poetry’s intersection with other media, especially in attempt to ensure that the form reaches a broader audience. The Poetry Foundation in conjunction with docUWM at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee has put together several animated versions of poets reading their own work.

I think these would prove especially attractive for younger audiences and would work well in an introductory discussion of imagery. Whether in a literature class or a creative writing workshop, those who have access to some form of animation technology might consider producing such short pieces. I think they’re charming and offer something to the rest of us, too. I’ve included some favorites here. Visit the Poetry Foundation for more.

“Nina’s Blues” by Cornelius Eady:

“Lake Echo, Dear” by C.D. Wright:

The classic “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden, read by Carl Hancock Rux:

And, in celebration of the season, Jane Hirshfield’s “The Heat of Autumn”:

'Sita Sings the Blues' released on web with CC license

John Jones — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 20:28:35 +0000

If you haven’t yet heard about Sita Sings the Blues, then I’ll let Roger Ebert introduce you to it:

It hardly ever happens this way. I get a DVD in the mail. I'm told it's an animated film directed by "a girl from Urbana." That's my home town. It is titled "Sita Sings the Blues." I know nothing about it, and the plot description on IMDb is not exactly a barn-burner: An animated version of the epic Indian tale of Ramayana set to the 1920's jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw. Uh, huh. I carefully file it with other movies I will watch when they introduce the 8-day week.

After Ebert decides to watch it he writes:

I am enchanted. I am swept away. I am smiling from one end of the film to the other. It is astonishingly original. It brings together four entirely separate elements and combines them into a great whimsical chord. You might think my attention would flag while watching An animated version of the epic Indian tale of Ramayana set to the 1920's jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw. Quite the opposite. It quickens. I obtain Nina Paley's e-mail address and invite the film to my film festival in April 2009 at the University of Illinois, which by perfect synchronicity is in our home town.

To get any film made is a miracle. To conceive of a film like this is a greater miracle. How did Paley's mind work? She begins with the story of Ramayana, which is known to every school child in India but not to me. It tells the story of a brave, noble woman who was made to suffer because of the perfidy of a spineless husband and his mother. This is a story known to every school child in America. They learn it at their mother's knee. Paley depicts the story with exuberant drawings in bright colors. It is about a prince named Rama who treated Sita shamefully, although she loved him and was faithful to him.

Despite rave reviews like this one,--and winning a Silver Bear at the Berlin Film Festival--Paley’s film has remained unavailable to most people because she was unable to clear the rights to the songs she used in the film, and the cost securing those rights scared off most distributors. Fortunately, some of these issues have been resolved, and the film is now being released to a wider audience.

If you live in New York, WNET/NY will be airing Sita on Saturday, March 7 at 10:45 (thereby atoning for this). In the meantime, you can watch the entire film online via WNET’s streaming player or download the film to watch at your leisure.

Update: here's the trailer from YouTube:

Food and Warfare

LaurenMitchell — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 17:56:47 +0000

Here is an amusing/horrifying animation of the history of human conflicts (WWII to the present day), which uses the foods typically associated with the various countries involved to act out the conflicts. It’s called “Food Fight.”

Japan is pieces of sushi, the Arabs are represented by kebab and falafel, the Israelis are bagels and lox, the U.S. is hamburgers and chicken McNuggets, Russia is beef stroganoff, the Vietnamese are those yummy rice noodle wrapped spring rolls.

On one hand, to watch food stereotypes blowing each other up is pretty funny, as is trying to figure out which foods represent which countries. My favorite part is the representation of the Cold War where the hamburger and the beef stroganoff face off, the hamburger keeps adding more and more beef patties, the pile of beef stroganoff gets bigger and bigger, and then they resolve the conflict by just leaving.

However, because it’s a food fight, the mess left behind after they blow each other up can be disturbingly carnage-like, which this gives the whole thing a pretty somber undertone. I found the representation of when the U.S. dropped the atomic bombs on Japan disconcerting: those pieces of sushi were completely charred. And you can’t help but consider the real human beings that were charred after those incidents. The depictions of suicide bombings were also a bit hard to watch since we hear about them every day. The 5½ minute animation also highlights the fact that there has been a war occurring somewhere in the world pretty much continuously since WWII.

The use of food stereotypes highlights the absurdity of warfare while at the same time maintaining a focus on the seriousness of these situations. The foods make these events seem ridiculous, but only up to a point. Because these are real events that have been repeated again and again.

Animation backgrounds blog

John Jones — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 01:56:47 +0000

If you are interested in animation art, you’ll probably enjoy Animation Backgrounds, a blog dedicated to the backgrounds from classic animated films and shorts.

via Boing Boing