A psycho-killer with puppy dog eyes: why the new Lara Croft doesn't work

What Crystal Dynamics have attempted with the Tomb Raider is about as convincing a character study of a reluctant hero as painting a frowny face on the front of a tank.

So here it is. The new Tomb Raider. Critically it has been a huge success and why not, the game looks good, the game plays well, it’s polished, it has a start, middle and end. The graphics are nice, the controls work, nothing to complain about surely.

If you like cover shooters.

Because that’s what it is now. It’s a cover shooter.

People were worried over the course of the game's development about the direction that the character of Lara Croft would go in. Would we see vulnerability exposed and exploited? Would we see her develop from gaming cheesecake into some sort of feminist icon?

No. We would see Lara Croft change, very much so, but the change that has come is not so much to her image and character in the superficial sense, rather it is the more direct and practical change that occurs when a game adopts a different genre.

Lara Croft is now Marcus Fenix.

This change occurs quite early in the game. A grubby-looking Russian drags Lara out of a shed and, if unchecked, throttles her. You can stop him, via a Quick Time Event, and after a struggle Lara shoots him in the face and looks a little sad for a moment. Not as sad as him, of course, but he’s a rapey Russian cultist which puts him somewhere on the scale of evil between Vlad The Impaler and the scary green wiggly monsters on old Toilet Duck adverts.

From that moment on Lara is a relentless, unstoppable, killing machine. Whether she’s strangling people with a bow, hacking them down with a climbing axe, clubbing in their skulls with rocks, or just straight up shooting them, she takes to the life of the killer with gusto. So far so fun, but it’s not so much the killing that seems jarring, but it’s the inability of the enemy to kill her.

Now let’s be clear, this is not a criticism of the game's difficulty. Rather it is a criticism of the approach the game has taken. When you’ve got a big muscle-bound freak of a main character wearing as much armour as a Presidential limo the You-Shoot-Me-I-Shoot-You ebb and flow of a cover shooter feels natural. A slender young woman - who seems to develop debilitating injuries faster than the entire Arsenal first eleven when the plot demands it - suddenly having the ability to walk off a shotgun blast doesn’t fit so well.

But this is the new shape of Tomb Raider. Lara approaches the island and its challenges with all the subtlety of a shark in a phone box. There are nods to the legacy of the original games, but these take the form of tightly-scripted sequences like a ride through some rapids or running across a collapsing bridge, or perfunctory games of "spot the ledge and press A". The puzzles, the platforms and the actual raiding of tombs? That’s relegated to the status of optional side quests.

Whether Lara’s reboot paints her as a believable female hero or a role model for women is not something I feel compelled to comment too much upon. But it does seem that the developers want to have their cheesecake and eat it too. This is not 1996. The idea of a woman as the protagonist of a violent action game is no longer causing monocles to pop out in alarm and moustaches to curl and uncurl in agitation among gamers. We've seen several other female video game heroes now (granted, usually in games where you've an option for main character gender) and seeing Lara playing the "I'm just a little girl lost in the big scary world but I'll rise to the challenge" card ever five seconds really doesn't gel with a character who can wipe out a room full of heavily-armed cultists with just a little axe.

The female Commander Shepard could punch a guy out for having a nervous breakdown. Did she have to whimper next to a campfire about it afterwards? No, she’d go and have sex with an alien. Within the first half hour of Mirror's Edge, also written by Tomb Raider's lead writer Rhianna Pratchett, the main character Faith has kicked a bunch of policemen off a skyscraper. A female character in Skyrim will have probably killed about a dozen assorted animals and bandits and will be clothed in their skins and eating their sweetrolls while Lara is still dealing with the emotional fallout of shooting Bambi's mother. If they do make a follow-up to this game I hope they give Lara her brass ovaries back. Her lack of self-awareness towards her own lethality and fortitude is almost comical at times.

Having a character who doesn’t seem cut out for the life of a super commando, and who then proceeds to not act like a super commando, would be something comparatively rare. What Crystal Dynamics have attempted with the new Tomb Raider is about as convincing a character study of a reluctant hero as painting a frowny face on the front of a tank would be.

It would be dishonest to say that Tomb Raider is bad, it isn’t, and it would be an unfair appeal to tradition to complain that it is unlike the original Tomb Raider games, because change can be good. Developers don’t have to make every game a carbon copy of the one that preceded it. But change, good change, requires creativity.

What Tomb Raider has is a crushing over-reliance upon a combat system and a tone of action that is completely at odds with the heroine at its heart.

The cover shooter is not an inherently bad concept and indeed some games have introduced elements of it to great effect. There is a gritty, desperate quality to a good cover shooter; your character hunkered down, trading bullets, rounds whipping this way and that. GTA4’s cover system, coupled to the lethality of the combat and the almost tangible feel of the game world adds a whole extra level of verisimilitude. Gears of War is the game that really popularised the trope and it implements it with elegance uncharacteristic of a game that also introduced the world to the idea of a chainsaw bayonet.

However what games developers seem to have not realised is that just because a feature works well in one game that does not mean that it needs to become ubiquitous. Game series like Max Payne, which originally relied on a dynamic, bullet-dodging lead character, are reduced by cover systems into staid, tedious hops from one waist high block to the next. The Rainbow Six series started out demanding skill and precision, you had to drop the bad guys quickly or they’d kill you, your teammates, any hostages they might be holding on to and maybe a puppy. In the most recent iterations you can hide behind a wall, stick a brew on, maybe stick your gun round the corner and shoot off a few rounds, if you’re bothered to, nobody minds either way really.

When you take a game like Tomb Raider and you make it a cover-based shooter comparable to a Gears of War or Max Payne 3, you’re not necessarily making a bad game, but you are limiting what that game can be, not to mention exhibiting a chronic lack of creativity.

Creativity is not a dirty word, even in the brutal world of the gaming industry. Indeed creativity seems to be something that gamers want more of not less. The crushing failure for EA of Medal of Honour: Warfighter and Dead Space 3, both near perfect examples of games dumbed down to an almost protoplasmic level, are clear signs that the lowest common denominator is a lot higher for gamers than people might think. Call of Duty is often derided for many reasons, but whether it’s changing the setting or bringing in Nazi Zombie co-op bonus games you can see that they are at least trying.

People will look back on the original Tomb Raider games because they were something different and largely something done well, perhaps not to all tastes, but notable. The remake will doubtless trigger a few sequels and maybe it will go in new and more interesting directions from this rudimentary start, but if Crystal Dynamics don’t dig deep and bring something genuinely creative to the series then it is hard to imagine it ever having the sort of impact the original games did.

The new Lara Croft.

Phil Hartup is a freelance journalist with an interest in video gaming and culture

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Eighty pages in to Age of Anger, I still had no idea what it was about

When Pankaj Mishra describes a “postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”, he inadvertently summarises his own book.

Most books arrive on the market dragging a comet tail of context: the press release, the blurb on the back, the comparison with another book that sold well (sometimes this is baked into the title, as with a spate of novels in which grown women were recast as “girls”, variously gone, or on the train, or with dragon tattoos or pearl earrings). Before you even start reading, you know pretty much what you will get.

So I was particularly disconcerted to reach page 80 of Pankaj Mishra’s Age of Anger and realise that I didn’t really know what it was about. The prologue starts with a recap of the tyrannical career of the Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio, namechecks The Communist Manifesto, describes how Europeans were enthralled by Napoleon’s “quasi-autistic machismo”, links this to the “great euphoria” experienced in 1914, mentions that Eugene Onegin “wears a tony ‘Bolívar’ hat”, then dwells on Rimbaud’s belief that not washing made him a better writer, before returning to D’Annunzio to conclude that his life “crystallised many themes of our own global ferment as well as those of his spiritually agitated epoch”.

Psychologists have demonstrated that the maximum number of things that a human can hold in their brain is about seven. The prologue is titled “Forgotten Conjunctures”. I might know why they have been forgotten.

Two pages later, Mishra is at it again. How’s this for a paragraph?

After all, Maxim Gorky, the Bolshevik, Muhammad Iqbal, the poet-advocate of “pure” Islam, Martin Buber, the exponent of the “New Jew”, and Lu Xun, the campaigner for a “New Life” in China, as well as D’Annunzio, were all devotees of Nietzsche. Asian anti-imperialists and American robber barons borrowed equally eagerly from the 19th-century polymath Herbert Spencer, the first truly global thinker – who, after reading Darwin, coined the term “survival of the fittest”. Hitler revered Atatürk (literally “the father of the Turks”) as his guru; Lenin and Gramsci were keen on Taylorism, or “Americanism”; American New Dealers later borrowed from Mussolini’s “corporatism”.

This continues throughout. The dizzying whirl of names began to remind me of Wendy Cope’s “Waste Land Limericks”: “No water. Dry rocks and dry throats/Then thunder, a shower of quotes/From the Sanskrit and Dante./Da. Damyata. Shantih./I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.”

The trouble comes because Mishra has set himself an enormous subject: explaining why the modern world, from London to Mumbai and Mosul, is like it is. But the risk of writing about everything is that one can end up writing about nothing. (Hang on, I think I might be echoing someone here. Perhaps this prose style is contagious. As Nietzsche probably wrote.) Too often, the sheer mass of Mishra’s reading list obscures the narrative connective tissue that should make sense of his disparate examples.

By the halfway point, wondering if I was just too thick to understand it, I did something I don’t normally do and read some other reviews. One recorded approvingly that Mishra’s “vision is . . . resistant to categorisation”. That feels like Reviewer Code to me.

His central thesis is that the current “age of anger” – demonstrated by the rise of Islamic State and right-wing nationalism across Europe and the US – is best understood by looking at the 18th century. Mishra invokes the concept of “ressentiment”, or projecting resentment on to an external enemy; and the emergence of the “clash of civilisations” narrative, once used to justify imperialism (“We’re bringing order to the natives”) and now used to turn Islamic extremism from a political challenge into an existential threat to the West.

It is on the latter subject that Mishra is most readable. He grew up in “semi-rural India” and now lives between London and Shimla; his prose hums with energy when he feels that he is writing against a dominant paradigm. His skirmish with Niall Ferguson over the latter’s Civilisation: the West and the Rest in the London Review of Books in 2011 was highly enjoyable, and there are echoes of that fire here. For centuries, the West has presumed to impose a narrative on the developing world. Some of its current anxiety and its flirtation with white nationalism springs from the other half of the globe talking back.

On the subject of half of us getting a raw deal, this is unequivocally a history of men. We read about Flaubert and Baudelaire “spinning dreams of virility”, Gorky’s attachment to the idea of a “New Man” and the cultural anxieties of (male) terrorists. Poor Madame de Staël sometimes seems like the only woman who ever wrote a book.

And yet, in a book devoted to unpicking hidden connections, the role of masculinity in rage and violence is merely noted again and again without being explored. “Many intelligent young men . . . were breaking their heads against the prison walls of their societies” in the 19th century, we learn. Might it not be interesting to ask whether their mothers, sisters and daughters were doing the same? And if not, why?

Mishra ends with the present, an atomised, alienated world of social media and Kim Kardashian. Isis, we are told, “offers a postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”. That is also a good description of this book. 

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era