MONDOmagazine

Two first-timers are showing up in the Lifestyle pages this week, and I hope that we give them a huge show of enthusiasm. First, Jenny Bundock — a longtime contributor to MONDO’s print incarnation — fills in all the ladies out there on proper toilet seat etiquette: simply a must-know in this confused and frightened age of ours. Next, new blood Jacob Kaufman argues against the current traditions of royal succession in favour of kicking it a little more Auld School. Finally, I resume a column that I thought I’d up and buried a long time ago. Oh, what a week to be alive!

Sam Linton
Lifestyle Editor

That was badass. Enjoy the content.

Owen K. Craig,
Comics Editor

Last Tuesday, I could smell the smoky breath of my neighbours while I sat patiently in the Gladstone Hotel Ballroom, surrounded by stacks of donuts. How apropos! Cigarettes, donuts – the only thing missing was coffee. The burning question of the evening: “What does the donut mean?”

Without sugar-coating the issue, Steve Penfold’s new book, Donut: A Canadian History, looks at how donuts have affected the social, economic and cultural developments of twentieth-century Canada. On this particular evening, he gave a quick talk and slide show examining roadside donut shops and how they relate to the growth of big business and consumerism. One impressive slide, a very scientific donut cross-section, illustrated varying degrees of oil saturation in said doughy rings.

Of course, Penfold couldn’t glaze over (how could I not?) the idea of “snack-food patriotism,” or Canada’s donut-driven identity. During his research, he spoke with several people who claimed to be from the “donut capitals” of Canada – among them, St. Catharine’s. So why do Canadians talk about donuts in “quasi-religious national terms?” Is it an ironic sort of pride? Funny, said interviewer Christine Sismondo, especially because those fatty sprinkled snacks, devoid of nutritional value, are “shaped like a big fat zero.”

On that sweet note, welcome to this week in MONDOart – it’s a good one. AofW Carolyn Tripp shares the reason you should not write a paper about her, and newcomer Leandra de Valois-Franklin discusses the virtues of men in tutus.

Kerry Freek,
Art Editor

You know the drill: we use a random number generator that selects random comics for us to review. We then blindly read whatever it chooses, regardless of issue, publisher, or knowledge of prior events. Enjoy.

Miles’ Book

The Amazing Spider-Man #548
Written by Dan Slott
Penciled by Steve McNiven
Inked by Dexter Vines
Colours by Dave Stewart
Marvel Comics, 2008

It’s hard to review this book without the context surrounding it: I don’t think many can argue that the “One More Day” storyline in Spider-man late last year was a pretty big insult to comic readers. For those not in the know, in a showing of extremely lazy writing, Marvel Comics magically erased Peter Parker’s marriage to Mary Jane. They did it for “Brand New Day,” a three times a month Spider-man comic where Spider-man could return to the roots that made the character so popular to begin with. (I guess.) Essentially they — meaning editorial at Marvel — wanted a single Peter Parker, one who was unlucky in love; one that was poor; who was feared and hated by New York; one who hadn’t married the world’s hottest woman. But along with it they brought back some elements that made me go “yeahbuhwhat?” like bringing back Harry Osborn from the dead to seemingly repeat the storyline that killed him last time.

But that’s all context. How was this comic you ask?

Mostly pretty good. Slott clearly has a handle on Spider-man’s voice and structuring a comic, so those things work very well together. Spider-man is funny, which is nice. The art is amazing. Steve McNiven is a real talent and his Spider-man is exciting to watch. And I mean watch — Spidey’s movement is so fluid. So on those fronts, the book is awesome.

Where the book is frustrating is on the details or small things. Like Harry being back from the dead. I already don’t like him and don’t want Peter hanging around him. And, there just seems to be no point to him being back. Then, and here is what I think is the real problem, every where in the book they keep talking about “The Parker Luck” like I should know what they are talking about, like I’ve been reading this Spider-man all my adult life.

But I haven’t.

This is a reboot. This is a very different character than the one that was in the Marvel universe last year. And that’s fine, that happens all the time. But seems that the creators seem to be expecting the audience to have a handle on shorthand character traits that never existed until earlier this month.

For nerds of Spider-man this is a complicated time. His comic is really good and also really confusing.

By Miles Baker

MONDO: Hi Carolyn. I’ve known you for a few years now, and I know you’re an artist – I bought stuff from you at Canzine one year – but I don’t actually know what your primary focus is. So, what is it?

Carolyn Tripp: I specifically chose a long time ago not to choose one thing or another, or that is to say, one focus or another. I guess that’s to my detriment, but I can’t imagine functioning otherwise. Or something like that.

MONDO: Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but you have formal artistic training through the Sheridan/U of T art and art history programs, yes? How was that? Are you happy you went to school?

CT: Yes, I did go there, and I’ll never be sure whether or not it was the right thing to do. So many things depend on geography more than anything, you know? It’s an excellent program, but it’s sadly devoid of “hardcores,” save a few that I still know and love.

What I mean is it wasn’t a portfolio-based program. A lot of people went there because they wanted to move onto teacher’s college or some such. That’s fine and all, but it made for a lot of artwork with no intention to continue upon graduation. That was always a continual point of frustration for me, as I could never see myself stopping.

And, while I’ve always contended that it doesn’t matter where the art “comes from,” it sure as hell made for a tense environment. The 22-year-old me liked to take things very, very seriously, you know?

So I guess the short answer is: yes, it was important for me to go, but as an art school, I think it was lacking in camaraderie. On a social level, it just bred a lot of resentment.

MONDO: When you look back at your art, do you seem themes develop? Various angsts, or what-have-you, playing themselves out in your creativity?

CT: Yeah, particularly in earlier stuff. A lot of young resentment, but that’s pretty much out of the equation now. You can’t make angsty artwork if you don’t feel that way anymore, you know? There’s only so much art where you can get your hate-on before you suffer the consequences of employing obvious clichés.

Now, having said that, people still call me on being a bit “off” or “twisted.” I guess I’m trying to employ a better sense of humour about it!

MONDO: Slightly off topic, but I imagine you’ll have something interesting to say about it. What do you think the internet will be for artists in the present and future? Or has it already played itself out?

CT: I’ve mostly used it for research and promotion, like anyone else, but some people have done some fucking interesting online projects, haven’t they? Even bands get wacky with their websites these days, which to me is encouraging.

I think it’s played itself out in the basic forms, but with the onslaught of high speed, it can only get more interesting. Art and music just make it into more homes, with the obvious downfall being the exponential increase of total unmitigated crap. All you can do is hope to inject what you consider quality and hope that it works.

Additionally, I think the level of interactive art pieces has yet to see the end of its rope. I’d really like to get into online projects that rely almost exclusively on user input. I think that’s a lot more exciting than, you know, just the drawing.

MONDO: Can you talk about some of the pictures on your myspace that you showed me, in particular the red blot ones? Are those watercolours? They remind me of cultures that you’d look at under a microscope. How crazy or wrong am I?

CT: A bit crazy, but no, not wrong. I guess I never thought of it that way. They’re part of the “Gaming and Tourism” initiative, a zine with which you became familiar a while back. Just exploring guns and gun culture as it relates to hunting. Then there’s always the poor bastard that turns the gun on himself, you know? The hunter with no deer present. Eek. I sometimes call him the “tourist.” And yes, they are watercolours.

MONDO: Time to inflate your ego. If an art student wrote a paper on Carolyn Tripp, what would you hope the thesis would be?

CT: Oh they wouldn’t, darling, they wouldn’t.

Did you ever hear of Freud doing some funky shit with his work before he died? Apparently he totally screwed around with his research to the point where he knew it would be difficult to unravel once he was dead. Just a bunch of papers that people knew came from a really smart dude who devoted a lifetime to one specific thing. What a jack-assy thing to do, eh?

Anyway, I have yet to even reach the point where my work can be synthesized into a thesis. It’s definitely starting to, but it’s nothing to write home (or teacher) about. Not yet.

Electroma

Directed by Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel De Homem-Christo
Daft Arts, 2007

By Christopher Russell

As I wake to an unapologetic sun, I am reminded of what I take for granted. The water that streams from the taps of the townhouse where I reside. The bus driver arriving at his specified time to take me anon. The countless menial and trivial tasks that have been prepared and completed while I slept dreaming. This feeling is nothing revelatory or surprising. I have predicted it. I do not receive solace for my perceptive ability because my guilt suddenly culminates and is relinquished to the sound of a clock radio. Clarity brings me relief as I organize my thoughts. Feeling vulnerable in my emotional abandon, I envision myself in the opening of Kafka’s Metamorphosis, as interpreted by an emo kid. One tear tattooed under my eye, forever queued above the bug powder.

This is when I step back and ruminate. All these thoughts have been brought to fruition because Daft Punk convinced me, for a beat of my naked mechanical heart, that I take my being human for granted; bravo, French robots. Bravo.

Steeped in moments of pathos and balanced with cold confidence, Electroma is hauntingly prophetic and selflessly simple. Complementing Gus Van Sant’s Gerry and Vincent Gallo’s Brown Bunny, Electroma is the story of two robots’ quest to be human amid a barren, dusty landscape. The metaphorical tears are squeezed from the viewer’s ducts without exploitive sentimentality, facial features, exaggerated gestures, or romantic dialogue. Calculated pacing allows for viewers to invest their attention and energy on minimal action, a welcome alternative to contemporary drama that cuts away from emotion before it has time to provoke a response. An audience conditioned to quick editing and the denial of “real” emotion becomes vulnerable to pathos. And it wouldn’t surprise me that the two fellows behind the band and film had this in mind when they decided to make their silent narrator’s robots. As “real” emotion is slowly drained from our human hearts, we react like robots rather than respond like people. This idea is nothing new or original, and perhaps a little too high-concept; it reminds me of the blasphemously underrated A.I., easily one of Spielberg’s best films.

The odyssey that the two robots embark upon updates the Road to El Dorado myth once again. In Poe’s chilling short story, a knight spends his life searching for El Dorado, only to be met by “Death”, who beckons him to the Valley of Shadows. The teleological cynicism of this narrative has been manipulated and reapplied to contemporary art films, perhaps the most faithful adaptation being Werner Herzog’s Aguirre, Wrath of God. Yes, in terms of story, Electroma is easy to predict. Viewers may cast their glance to their watch, waiting for the characters’ immolation. At least for me, however, art films have never been about story. Story holds little weight when compared to the intangible emotions that solidify in my consciousness, that beckon to me to repeat the experience, and that finally (and thankfully) convince me that I am human.

Tights, Tutus, Tiaras…Chest hair?!

By Leandra de Valois-Franklin

Last weekend Toronto’s dance audience had the pleasure of attending one of two fabulous sold-out performances of Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, January 19^th & 20^th at the Elgin Theatre. The Trocks, as they are affectionately known, are a world-renown New York City based all-male ballet company that has, since 1974, performed parodies of classical ballets en travesti (in drag). One of the few comedy companies in the world, including Les Ballets Grandiva (also from NYC), the Trocks model themselves after the old great Russian Ballet companies of the 1930s, whose glamorous but narcissistic ballerinas would attempt to upstage one another. The Trocks’ absurd slap-stick homages succeed in maintaining the integrity of the original work while bitch-slapping its elitist stereotypes right in its faux-lashed face.

The varied programme of satirical interpretations of Les Sylphides, Go For Barocco (an adaptation of Balanchine’s Concerto Barocco), and Paquita, was preceded by a pre-performance introduction in an exaggerated Russian voice announcing cast changes, including Svetlana Lofatkina replacing the injured Natasha Notgudenov. The announcer also warned that “all our ballerinas are in vyery, vyery good moods this afternoon!” The show began with a comic rendition of Fokine’s abstract ballet revolving around the popular figure of the sylph. The dancers subvert the original choreography with outrageous catastrophes; one sylph falls onto his/her face and another sleepwalks right offstage!

The highlight of the production was former National Ballet of Canada member Joshua Grant’s feather-shedding performance as Katarina Bychkova performing the beloved solo of the Dying Swan, appearing more like the executed cock, leaving a trail of bird carnage onstage. The flamboyant demonstration of strength and grace kept the audience on its tippy toes in hysterical laughter, and Bychkova swam in applause in an extended reverence which lasted longer than the solo itself.

The third act saw the troupe trade its signature comic approach for an impressive feat of technical skill. Although at times the dancers are indistinguishable from female ballerinas, their acrobatic jumps and fierce fouettes defy expectation, and their virtuosity claims the spotlight so often denied to men in most ballets.

It’s refreshing to see gender reversal in dance not take itself so seriously. These postmodern pomosexual ballerinas add to the general notions of the female iron butterfly, creating a hyper technique like the third sexuality they themselves embody. The Trocks have earned an international following of devoted fans with their high-class drag show, entertaining both knowledgeable and new dance audiences. The Trocks rock, but leave me wondering…how do their tight tutus accommodate those bulging, uh, trocks?

By Sam Linton

You know, I honestly thought that I had penned my last of these columns some time ago. Yes, in a fit of unbridled optimism, I had thought that society was actually improving. Suddenly, my quest to mythologize the memes of the internet didn’t seem to matter as much, me being secure and all in the knowledge that they would be preserved forever online in a medium which was certainly not doomed to extinction by the uncaring machinations of a society on the verge of collapse. Nope, nothing to worry about there! Thus I rested, secure in the knowledge that LOLcats, Star Wars Lightsabre Kid, and Peanut Butter Jelly Time Banana were safe for future generations to experience, enjoy, and maybe even learn from. This was, of course, before my earth-shattering, perspective-altering, and, most relevant to this column, web-shaking visit to the York university archives, where I learned one horrifying, terror-inducing, fear-inspiring fact: digital information degrades over time. That’s right, even if society does miraculously escape nuclear annihilation, religious fanaticism or a lethal bout of the sniffles known as AVIAN FLU, we could STILL lose all our valuable internet memes – through simple lack of caring! OMG WTF BBQ!!!!!!11111

Thus, it is with a heavy heart but a renewed sense of purpose that I reintroduce this column, “Myths of the Internet,” to record the stories, forms, and, yes, teachings of our valuable internet memes in a form that future generations can understand and appreciate. Because culture is worth preserving. This week:

The Hubris of Cats

The internet of old was a wild place, full of gods, monsters, and warlords. Of all of these legendary figures, the most audacious, ambitious, and avaricious was a wild space pirate known as Cats. Cats had existed since the days before the internet was even formed, sailing on the high seas of the Sega Genesis, maintaining bases in both Japanese and (poorly translated) English ports. However, it was only once he made the move to the new media of internet that Cats found his true power. Cats quickly realized that now, instead of being confined to individual gaming systems, he could sail his pirate fleet literally anywhere he wanted. He could spend the morning in London only to have lunch in Hong Kong. He could launch a raid against his enemies’ ZIG fighters in Japan from the comfort and safety of his base in Madagascar. However, this freedom of action soon went to the vainglorious pirate’s head. Soon, he began to feel a sense of omnipotence, of complete control, over all the lands of the internet. “I can go anywhere, anytime I want.” Thought the brash Cats, “I have the unbridled power of a god!” It thus came to pass that Cats began to think that his one base of operations was not enough. If he could be everywhere at any time, did that not give him unlimited power? And, if so, could not he make his bases wherever he damn well pleased?!

Thus did Cats deliver his infamous manifesto, “all your base are belong to us,” styling himself with the royal we and demanding for himself all the bases on all of the internet. Thinking that all internauts would bow down before this awesome display of might, Cats never even thought that literally everyone else on the internet possessed this same power to travel anywhere, and that his demand would therefore not only appear arrogant, but woefully misguided as well. Pity poor Cats; he sought to inspire universal fear with his ultimatum, but became a universal punchline instead. Even now, “all your base” can be seen as a humourous catchall catchphrase, ironically commenting on the foolish overconfidence of Cats the pirate in his foolish bid to rule the entire internet.

The lesson of Cats the pirate is one that the people of the future would do well to learn, be that future a nightmarish hellscape or a Star-Trekkian utopia. Remember, just because your mighty Galaxy-class starship comes equipped with phaser banks and photon torpedoes, it doesn’t necessarily make you the masters of the final frontier. Other ships and other societies have equally impressive armaments, and often contain fearsome Romulan warriors, to boot! Likewise, having a sharpened stick and a revolver with two bullets left does not necessarily make you “king of the wasteland” when foraging for supplies in a post-nuclear holocaust Earth; other survivalists could be just as well equipped, and many fallout-zombies can simply shrug aside such meager resistance in their all-consuming rampage. In either case, it remains important for the generations of the future to consider the lessons of the past, so it is our duty to preserve those legends.

Also, be sure to print this article off and store it in a safe place, so that it will outlive its inevitable data-declining years.

In an uncharacteristic move, MONDO talks about the Queen

By Jacob Kaufman

I have been assured that MONDO is a reputable publication read by persons of good standing. As such, I can assume that you — like me — love our Queen, and felt delighted to hear that Her Royal Majesty is now the oldest monarch in British history. My own delight was tempered, however, by the sobering fact that, while the Queen comes from good stock, she is destined to shuffle off the mortal coil. When that regrettable and sorrowful time comes, her son, Prince Charles, will succeed her. I would never sully the good pages of MONDO with scurrilous aspirations against a man of noble blood. However, I must admit that the prospect of King Charles III inspires within me a certain amount of unease. I do not wish his Queen to be a divorcée. I do not wish to have our coins festooned with his pachydermal ears. I do not wish to have our sovereign interested in organic farming. (Organic indeed! Am I the only one who believes that monarchs and manure should be immiscible?) But it would be abhorrent to all of God’s and Nature’s laws for our great land to become a republic like common Cromwellians. It seems as if we have no choice.

But there is a choice: His Most Catholic Majesty Francis II, the rightful King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France. Francis II — or Franz Bonaventura Adalbert Maria Herzog von Bayern as he calls himself — should be the next King, not Charles. Who is this man, you may ask? Around three hundred years ago, the House of Stuart was overthrown and usurpers came to rule the British Isles. As the Stuarts were forced to live in exile during the dark centuries thereafter, only a few brave Jacobites kept the dream alive. Now would be a perfect time to restore the Stuarts to the throne. It was the Stuarts’ Catholicism that caused their ungrateful subjects to conspire their downfall, yet Catholicism is now the most popular religion in Britain. Why not reflect Catholic Britain with a Catholic Monarch?

Four hundred years ago, a Queen Elizabeth was succeeded by a Stuart. I say, let us do that again.

Eww! Gross!

By Jenny Bundock

Hello Ladies.

I think the time has come to address some issues that you have with me. This treatment has been going on for years, and quite frankly, I’m tired of your passive-aggressive nature. I see you on a regular basis, probably as little as 50-100 times each day, and most times you smile at me or pretend like there is nothing going on… and it makes me crazy.

I am afraid I have to clear the air, bite the bullet, and admit it:

I am the other girl who uses the bathroom.

It feels good to get it off of my chest at last.

I think we got off on the wrong foot in the past. For some reason you think I have crabs, or some other kind of disease that is rumored to be transmitted by toilet seats. I am here to tell you that I get regular check-ups with the doctor and that I’m disease free. Now that you know, there is no longer a need for you to hover over the toilet seats, spraying your urine all over the surface in an attempt to spare yourself toilet-borne infection or contamination. I can’t guarantee that the toilet seat, when you (or I) come to it, is spotless, but I can tell you that I personally have never hovered over a public toilet (barring some visibly suspect material), and also that I have never had an STD.

I have, however (sadly, while rushing, more than once), sat in a huge puddle of cold “stranger urine”, and have had to then go home to shower, and in turn, miss a class. I promise you, if I get crabs or the clap, I’ll pee outside in the bushes, and post notices all around where I went so you don’t accidentally sit there and get it. Please sit down on the toilet seat. It really is okay.

I also would like to put it out there that I also poop! (Who knew we’d have that in common!) I have been in the bathroom with you in the past, and have inadvertently caught you mid-poop. I know you thought you were the only one, so that explains the resulting scramble, but I assure you, it is unnecessary. I promise that I am not going to spring forth from the stall to expose you as a pooper and laugh hysterically at the fact that you produce waste. I will not tell all your friends that you shit at school. I don’t care that it smells sometimes, and I don’t need you to run out of the bathroom if you sense that I may be pooping as well; I know that I poop, and I probably knew you were there when I decided to do so. I know what I am getting into when I enter a bathroom, and I know there is a good possibility that there will be poop inside. We’re all on the same page.

I also would like to dispel the myth that poop is dangerous. I have come into the girl’s bathroom on many occasions to find abandoned poo just chillin’ in the toilets. I have witnessed (accompanying the discarded poo) frantic toilet paper piles half in the bowl; it’s as though the shit fell, and before it hit the water, its producer had fled for her life. There’s no need to do this because it is already dead. If you are truly concerned, the best way to ensure that the shit will not chase after you is to take advantage of the sewage system, and flush that little digestive nuisance to hell where you’ll never have to see it again. I don’t want to do your dirty work anymore: if you drop a duke, flush the duke. It’s as simple as can be.

It is not all bad though; there are some things about our relationship that I enjoy, particularly the notes. I like being reminded that cartoon chickens are not nuggets. I like seeing you squabble about what Jesus would or would not do, or argue about what makes a woman hot, or if J+G really will be together forever (TID, TIND). I rely on you for reading material and you deliver on a regular basis, so thank you for letting me into your dramatic, dramatic lives.

I would also like to extend the appropriate props to you for using the stall that was missing a door for like 6 months on campus this year. You truly are a badass. If you’ll let me, I’d like to offer you an extreme high-five for being so goddamn punk rock. I excuse your not flushing under the necessity of evidence of your deed. Had there been shit in that toilet, I would have bought you dinner for being so amazing.

To conclude, I hope that this has cleared the air. Next time you see me in the bathroom, don’t avoid eye contact with me, or pretend like you have no idea what brought us both to that particular room. Let’s not fight any longer. Instead, let us break bread and unite over our similarities — like excrement — and a shared desire to evacuate it.

Take care, and tell your mom I say hello.

Love Always,
xoxo

Jenny

Bug
Directed by William Friedkin
Lions Gate, 2007

By Jess Skinner

There is no great sense of ambiguity in most horror movies. The audience, in the end, wants to see what is supposed to be frightening them, unobstructed. How many went to Cloverfield just to see the monster? Exactly. The monster in William Friedkin’s Bug (2007) is more concept than visible creature; it is forever under the skin of the two main characters, who claim to see an invasion of aphids but find no support among those in their immediate social perimeters.

It is a story about the abandonment of reality, of two people falling apart, seemingly of their own accord. We begin with Agnes (Ashley Judd), living in a motel room on the eve of her husband Jerry (Harry Connick Jr.) returning from jail. That night, her only friend (Lynn Collins) introduces her to Peter (Michael Shannon), a stoic drifter who claims to be seeking nothing but companionship. The audience’s impression of this fellow may vary from eye to eye; he obviously hides shady deeds but seems physically harmless. These people are drawn to each other. Agnes seeks attention without judgment, Peter wishes for someone to tell his story to. As he tells it: he is an Army guinea pig on the run, the patient of a particular doctor, which seems a fabrication until said doctor shows up at their door and makes no attempt to appear benevolent. At mid-point the characters have disintegrated into a savage paranoia, self-consciously over-the-top. They are convinced bugs have invaded their room, and eventually coat everything in blue tinfoil. The confrontation with the enigmatic Dr. Sweet (Brian O’Byrne) is a perfect sequence, as its tense-beyond-belief execution belies other more ridiculous segments. Watching the showdown between these three characters, I see the actor’s recognition and comprehension of just how fucking mad things have gotten. In their great performances, they keep the black humour and the horror in balance.

In conjunction with a highly idiosyncratic script, Judd gives her character a particular arc. When the film begins, Agnes is wounded by the past – an abusive marriage and a missing child – and perhaps waiting for something to take the worst of life away. She is smart and strong, but up against a wall of emotional turmoil. Insanity, in many ways, provides that kind of safe harbour. Despite the strange gallows humour in the story, the performers approach the material with relatively straight faces. This decision allows Judd to give some of the best screen acting I have seen this decade, with conviction and dedication giving a sense of pathos to the absurdity. Peter is probably the only person in however many lonely nights who has shown genuine interest in Agnes. Their attraction also makes sense, even in its final stages of co-dependant alienation.

Although based on a stage play, Bug is conscious of (and perhaps even exploits) the drawbacks of theatricality. The reality of being in a single setting for 100 minutes is that the outside world must be avoided. There is little effort to illustrate the “big picture,” as the point is that to these characters it is becoming less and less important. Here is horror of the interior: physical and mental. Here is a film that, unlike many in its genre, does not require suspension of disbelief to be effective. It is inarguably daring, scary, subversive, and a provocation of the withdrawn – a cautionary tale for hermits.

What makes Bug such a disturbing display is its microcosmic staging – Agnes’s abandonment of reality mirrors any societal de-evolution you could care to name. The result is a general flushing of logic, reason, and stability. The characters’ psychosis is a self-conscious mishmash of fantasies – encroaching government bodies, human experiments, invading insects. At no point is there any palpable indication that all of this is not just going on in the characters’ minds. The physical and emotional violence, therefore, is self-inflicted. Or is it? Who is this Dr. Sweet, and what is he hiding? And what of the noise of helicopters?

Published by Namco
Developed by Alfa System

By Diana Poulsen

I have been a big fan of the Tales series since I played Tales of Symphonia. Since then I have been playing any Tales game I can get my hands on and have been generally pleased. So when Tales of the World was released, I was excited to hear about a game that included so many of the characters from previous Tales games, and a little worried. Could it be as cool as Kingdom Hearts? Or would it simply be a grinding quest-based game? If you said grinding quest-based game, congratulations! You win the metaphorical cupie doll.

Now, I didn’t hate this game. It’s just that as much as I like running around and doing quests (and I really do – I play World of Warcraft), I really can’t get behind gaming like that in a Tales title. It’s nice to fight alongside old friends, and it’s good distraction, but the story is not particularly interesting. There are some amusing skits but they just don’t make up for the boring and predictable storyline. The quest-based system only bores me because I expect good humour and excellent story telling from a Tales game. So essentially the game has been stripped of the story, and has only left the fighting system – which is honestly the bright side.

The awesome fighting system of the Tales series has been put into the foreground. In Tales of the World you can run around in the 3D space while fighting (introduced in Tales of the Abyss) instead of planning your fights two-dimensionally. There are the usual fighting-game style button combinations and you can program your character to fight the way you want by attaching your favourite techniques to your favourite buttons. Also, the A.I. for the other member of your party is pretty smart, and you can further customize it to your style of fighting. This means that the player has a lot of control over the way they play the game.

When you start the game you create your own character from scratch. The options are fairly limited but I was able to create something I liked and select a voice that didn’t drive me bonkers. When creating the new character you are given the option of thief, warrior, mage and priest as the initial jobs. After a brief stint of gaming, you can change jobs if you’ve gotten bored, and there are a few more unlockable jobs.

A big part of the game is completing quests, as the more you do the better your reputation, and the better the characters you will be able to recruit to help you. As I said, it’s nice to fight alongside some of your favourite Tales characters, but sadly several of them are not voiced by their original voice actor. I was so happy that Kratos Aurion (Tales of Symphonia) was still voiced by Cam Clark.

Despite Tales of the World: Radiant Mythology’s vacant personality and narrative mediocrity, the fighting is satisfying and may get you through the whole thing. If you don’t mind long, grinding quests and the gaping absence of a good story and just like to fight, then this might be the title for you.