by george daniel lea Those of us that were obsessive about video games throughout the mid 1990s might recall a short lived but extremely significant period of technological advancement in which new formats, such as compact discs, ushered in an uncomfortable and problematic evolution in the medium: Always eager to take full advantage of technology, video game companies such as Sega and Phillips capitalised on the new format when it was still very much in its infancy and the means of its utilisation was poorly understood. Declared as a quantum leap in video gaming, Full Motion Video (or FMV, as it became known) was set to revolutionise what was possible in video games, doing away with the faintly cartoonish, two-dimensional, pixellated sprites we'd come to know and replacing them with cinema-realistic actors and settings. Hype concerning this new format could not have been higher: video game magazines and TV shows promised the kind of revolution to equal the transition from black and white to colour TV, a zeitgeist-shifting transition that would hoist video games into new and uncharted territories of interactive entertainment. Then the first titles started to hit shelves. One of the earliets bug-bears concerning FMV gaming was the entry point price tag: most of the systems that were popularly available at the time ran on cartridges, requiring extremely expensive upgrade systems in order to make use of CD technology (such as Sega's Mega CD system) or a personal computer (extremely rare and horrendously expensive during that era) that happened to have a CD drive (again, a rarity in those days, as most personal computers still favoured floppy disks). This automatically limited the customer base for the format which, combined with the horrendous production costs of even simple games (this long, long before video games could boast budgets to even approach those of the movie industry), meant that sales rarely even broke even with production costs, resulting in the closure of many, many studios that had been established since the earliest days of home video gaming. Secondly, the games were far from what was advertised: Owing to the compression inherent to being crammed onto the earliest forms of CD, most FMV titles looked like hot dog shit: grainy, scratchy patches of poorly directed, badly acted live action video interspersed with traditional graphics and limited control systems made for very poor play experiences indeed. As the games were inherently limited in the actions they could perform, most FMV “games” barely qualify as such, consisting of nothing more than what might be considered extended “quick time” events in today's parlance (i.e. little to no player interaction; only rolling video until an instruction or icon flashes up on screen, requiring the player to press the appropriate sequence of buttons to progress). So, not only were FMV titles costly and unsightly, they were also generally amongst the most abysmal play experiences of the era. Perhaps worst of all, the generally more “adult” tones and subjects of these games garnered popular media and political attention, in an era when media and culture at large were generally ignorant of video games and their culture. This, perhaps inevitably, led to video games becoming a more prominent scapegoat for culture's ills than ever before, with horror titles in particular getting an extremely negative press. Titles such as the entirely innocuous -not to mention laughably bad- Night Trap led to the implementation of the ESRB (Entertainment Software Ratings Board) which required video games to come with recommended (but not binding) minimum ages as a sop to misguided cultural concerns and media influenced scapegoating. This, in turn, transformed the culture of video games in significant and profound ways. FMV died a quick and ignominous death in the video gaming industry, with many platforms and companies going under or failing at the outset owing to its prohibitive costs, generally lamentable sales and poor reception. However, one or two titles do maintain at least one or two admirable qualities, and have had a sincere influence upon those video games that have come after. The vast majority, unsurprisingly, are horror titles, which the format saw an efflorescence of, arguably leading to the eventual coalescence of the first Survival Horror titles on the PS 1 (which combined FMV sequences with actual gameplay). Very early examples (such as those to be found on the Mega CD) combined certain arcade elements with narrative-driven, multiple choice conversations and interactions which led down particular plot paths or altered the course of the game based on what decisions the player makes: The infamous Ground Zero Texas plays on -at the time- culturally pervasive concerns of alien invasion and abduction, the player taking on the role of an investigative paramilitary task force that arrive in a small Texas town and must uncover the alien conspiracy that has infested it before it is too late.  Gameplay will be familiar to anyone who has ever entered an arcade in their lifetime: a basic shooting gallery in which the player controls an on-screen target as various actors emerge from behind scenery whom they must take out before they get shots off. Interspersing these shooting galleries are instances of puzzle-solving, text-quest style conversations and some fairly interesting unique, “boss” style encounters in which the player must learn the sequence of events in order to make extremely difficult shoots and thereby gain portions of a code which will determine whether or not they're successful at the end of the game. Whilst the game looks atrocious, boasts terrible loading times, extremely limited and linear gameplay, it is one of the better and more fondly remembered FMV titles from the ill-fated Mega CD, and is still somewhat playable, if you can find a copy. Most intriguing of all, despite being hokey and absurd in a manner that would make one of the worse episodes of the X-Files seem the height of horror sophistication, it does have a certain atmosphere, a sense of pervasive paranoia as a result of the aliens being able to shape-shift into human form. Some of the later areas of the game -which involve descending into the mine system where the aliens have made their primary nest- are genuinely fraught, with atmospheric sound design and fittingly creepy musical scores. Beyond that, perhaps one more to watch than to play. The most significant -and fondly rememebered- titles occur towards the very end of FMV gaming's tenure, in the forms of Phantasmagoria and its radically removed, ambitious but frustrating sequel, A Puzzle of Flesh.  The original title is a ridiculously ambitious attempt to make an entire point and click video game in the FMV format, which proved a monstrously difficult, time-consuming and problematic process for parent company Sierra, the result a far from perfect, hokey bit of horror that attempts to shock with certain elements of its subject rather than provide a satisfying overall experience. Following the escapades of Adrienne Delaney and her husband, the game boasts some of the most cliché tropes and situations one could imagine in a horror narrative: Moving into a catoonishly gothic mansion in a remote USA coastal town, the pair experience a number of strange events and occurences, leading to a secret history of murder, black magic and demonic possession, which eventually unravels when Delany's husband finds himself possessed by the house's resident demon and entirely losing his mind. One of the most hilarious and simultaneously charming elements of the game is its “carnival haunted house” quality: whilst the actors themselves are real rather than being computer-created sprites, the environments they inhabit generally aren't, instead being provided by then-imperfect blue-screen technology. As a result, the actors rarely react or react appropriately to the truly bizarre or ludicrous situations in which they find themselves: The manor in which the vast majority of the game play occurs is a prime example: rather than being realistically designed or constructed, it instead resembles a more traditional video game environment in terms of its exaggeration, which contrasts jarringly with the actors themselves, who are so banal as to be bland to the eye. Over-wrought, ludicrously gothic, the manor boasts wings and towers and spires and dungeons, cellars and secret passageways, labs and observatories, all of which are decorated with arcane and occult paraphernalia whose cartoonish natures wouldn't be out of place in a ghost-train ride. Whilst this makes it a fun and interesting place to explore, it also clashes markedly with the realistic natures of the characters, the script taking pains to make them as “normal” as possible. For all of its problems, the game is a technological marvel for the era; arguably one of the first to successfully integrate blue-screen-projected, digitally created environments with live performances, not to mention a number of cinematic and TV effects the like of which had never been seen in a video game before.  In certain respects, its slightly camp, horror-comic tone helps the game immeasurably; were it too poe-faced or serious concerning its story (REF: A Puzzle of Flesh), the smiles it raises might well translate to sighs and eye-rolls. It is, in terms of its presentation, tone and general nature, an absurd piece of work, but arguably one of the more successful FMV titles in terms of both its technical elements and audience reception: Whilst problematic to play now, it was fairly revolutionary at the time, with a live-action sprite performing actions at the player's command, some hokey but engaging comic-horror writing, a consistent atmosphere of mystery and intrigue, as well as a decently layered plot to uncover. One of the elements that certainly drew media attention at the time were the boundaries in subject the game broke: Whilst beginning to trespass into more adult arenas, video games at the time were still generally considered to be the fare of children, the inclusion of adult subjects such as violence, horror and any form of sexuality almost certain to have the more myopic, conservative elements of culture wringing their hands and sharpening their pitchforks in an apoplexy of contrived furore. Phantasmagoria didn't so much as tip toe beyond those boundaries as drive a steam roller directly through them: The game includes, among other elements, several scenes of sexuality, domestic abuse, violence, torture, images of mental anguish and despair and, perhaps the most infamous scene of all: an instance of rape. Whilst it's arguable that the creators incorporated these elements as a means of deliberately cultivating furore (and thereby gaining the game a significant degree of free press), they are generally far from overt or shocking (nothing compared to what children of any age could find on rolling, 24 hour news shows at the time) and all serve the story in their own ways. One must also consider that, whilst far from being heralded as a classic of video game history, Phantasmagoria's willingness to simply ignore these boundaries of subject and the parameters proscribed upon the medium by individuals and institutions that largely still have very little idea of how it operates is arguably responsible for hurtling video gaming out of the nursery and into general culture. Unlike many FMV titles, the game is arguably still worthy of a look: whilst fundamentally flawed in many key respects, the game interface is simple and universal enough that it can be picked up and played by anyone who's ever had experience with a “point and click” adventure.  Its sequel, meanwhile, is an appalling mess that should only be experienced so that the player might gape in awe at its utter ludicrousness: Phantasmagoria: A Puzzle of Flesh is a work of some notoriety, in that, like its predecessor, it boasted a budget that most video games of the era couldn't even imagine and technical elements more redolent of television or cinema than a video game. However, whereas the previous game managed to make something of a virtue of its (many) flaws, A Puzzle of Flesh is a hot mess that takes itself far too seriously, given how ridiculous it all is, broaches subjects that the creators clearly had no clue about (including psychology, BDSM, sexuality, to name but a few) and consistently tries to be edgy and significant whilst, in reality, coming off as hackneyed, under-wrought, absurd and, in some instances, next to unplayable. One element fans of the original will notice from the off is that, in terms of tone and setting, the game has shifted gears to the point that it may as well be a totally different franchise: Whereas the previous game boasted a fairly colourful, “ghost train ride” tone, this game is grim, murky and oppressive. Having swapped gothic mansions and small towns for the urban settings of a claustrophobic apartment, office space and local restaurant, the game feels much more focused and intent on the story it wants to tell, with the protagonist, Curtis Craig, being fairly well fleshed out from the get go.  The problems start with the gameplay: whereas the FMV sequences are fairly impressive for the format, redolent of a slightly hokey horror TV show, the gameplay is ludicrous: Like the previous title, it features fairly bog-standard point and click mechanisms, but struggles to maintain any consistency. As a result, what should be simple tasks become obscenely frustrating as the player struggles to find the correct sequence of buttons, items to use and commands to provide, all the while clicking wildly on anything, anything that has the slightest interactivity in hope of finding some clue. Whereas the previous game utilised its “haunted house” setting to provide over-wrought puzzles, viciously elaborate traps and amusingly silly set pieces, this game's more realistic tone and environment does not suit its medium at all. As a result, the game struggles to prolongue itself by making what should be dull and simple domestic matters tediously over-wrought. Take, for example, the first puzzle in the game, in which Curtis's wallet is stuck under the living room sofa. It's very clear that Curtis COULD just move the damn sofa and retrieve his wallet. Instead, the player must find Curtis's pet rat, Blob, send her to (bafflingly) retrieve the wallet, then coax her out again with some food found in his bedside cabinet. Such busy-work nonsense entirely undermines not only the setting, but the atmosphere of the game, making a setting that strives for gritty, psychological horror a la Jacob's Ladder come off more like a bumbling, straight-to-DVD horror comedy. Then, we have the characters. Oh, lord, the characters! There's barely a demographic out there that isn't represented here by some absurd stereotype, from the psychologically ill guy who is suspected of being a serial killer to the camp-as-Christmas gay-best-friend, it's a who's who of empty, wishy washy horror stereotypes whose ultimate fates are as clear on the blood splatters on the walls of their cubicles as they are gruseomly dispatched one by one. In terms of its horror, the game has some interesting ideas: calling certain numbers from Curtis's cubicle phone can result in some interestingly distressing moments. The manner in which text on his computer occasionally rearranges itself to form demonic threats and hideous insults varies between being disturbing and incongruously funny. Most of the characters in the game are powerfully unlikeable, inculding protagonist Curtis Craig, who lacks anything even like a redeeming quality or even basic charm. The game shoots for near the knuckle, triggering, complex psychological horror but misses that mark by such a profound margin, it tumbles over the precipice into total farce.  If the player can muster enough patience to finish the “click on everything with everything else until something works” puzzles, endure the terrible acting and writing and tolerate Curtis's company for the length of the play time, they are treated to what is perhaps one of the most absurd and unlikely conclusions in any horror story, with what could have been an interesting look into a broken and abused psyche hand waved away as the result of some science fiction, “aliens from dimension X” interference. The game is everything the original is not: over long, painfully one note, badly written, poorly acted and, ultimately, an entirely frustrating experience, unless you happen to be watching a play through of it on YouTube. In the concluding part of this small digression into the -not entirely salubrious- history of FMV horror, we'll take a look at two of the more successful instalments: Ripper and Realms of the Haunting. Until then, ladies and gentlemen.  BOOK REVIEW: JIMBO YOJIMBO BY DAVID BARBEE
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