The drums pound. The lights flash and set the smoke aglow. The crowd claps and cheers in anticipation. Then everything bursts into life. Lions roar, performers soar, cannons fire, swinging higher, knives are thrown and flames are blown until finally each performer converges on their mark.
The fabled eagle cries. The target is killed. The audience applaud.
You are playing Assassin’s Creed.
Assassin’s Creed is murder made theatrical. Death comes not as a result of silent assassinations but circus executions; a choreographed routine by a brotherhood rigorously trained and skilled in their art. But this art is different from the discipline in which I am trained. This is not stealth. This is stealth entertainment.
Relax. Not that thing. I have a few issues with his ‘pro-genocide’ stance myself.
No. Ze Führer did another thing. Something that would eclipse all of his previous atrocities. Something that would ensure he would once again patrol the bunkers beneath the Reichstag. Something that would ensure he would dominate the annals of history as not only a vicious dictator and diabolical genocidaire but as a cunning tactician and gatling gun-toting, sharpshooter extraordinaire.
He did a courageous thing, a noble thing, the right thing – Adolf Hitler posthumously allowed id Software to use his likeness and presence in their 1992 FPS Wolfenstein 3D.
Had he not had the good grace to condone such a pixelated arrangement, nobody except Hitler himself would have ever shot Hitler.
See, he wasn’t all bad? Pretty easy-going actually.
Despite a world in which anything is possible, sometimes I get bored with it all. Sometimes Mythbusters isn’t on the Discovery Channel. Sometimes Top Gear isn’t on Dave. Sometimes over 200 channels of globally available cable television isn’t enough.
It is in these moments that we must turn to the more macabre methods of self-amusement. It is then that we must undertake a solitary hobby. A hobby that requires the participation of two, but only the application and awareness of one.
It may or may not surprise you to hear that I’m considered somewhat pessimistic by my friends.
You may think that with a bleak personality such as mine I would crave the colourful delights of Disney films. You would be mistaken. Instead I find them subversive and seditious.
You may think that with an isolated existence such as mine I would crave the aspirational gloss of teen dramas like The O.C. You would be incorrect. Instead I find them offensive projections of an unrealistic ambition.
You may think that with a life like mine I would watch films simply to escape myself, to feel a fleeting fantastical happiness at the hands of a fictional circumstance. You would be wrong. I revel in the sadistic side of cinema. I want it grim. I want all the grim you’ve got.
Recently I learned through a fellow blogger that the theatrical ending of Danny Boyle’s post-apocalyptic zombie flick 28 Days Later is not the original ending.
A life without limits. A life without boundaries, without extent, without oppression. A life in which anyone can do anything at any time, regardless of their colour, their creed or their age. A perfect world? Not exactly.
Limitations are important. Limits are put in place to protect and serve the citizens of the world. While they may differ, the objective remains the same. We have legal minimum ages for drinking, driving and intercourse. These measures are imposed to minimise danger and maximise the safety of our world’s youths.
A 10 year-old cannot handle alcohol. A 10 year-old cannot handle driving. More importantly, a 10 year-old cannot handle the immense social pressures and media molestation that comes with stratosphere dwelling global superstardom.