Reviewed: BioShock Infinite

Moral maze.

Strip an excellent first-person shooter video game down to its core and you find two components: great gameplay and a well-told story. In BioShock Infinite, the mind of its creative director, Ken Levine, has created a twisted, disturbing and morally challenging narrative overlaid on to impressive animated graphics and games engine.

Levine’s world is the racially segregated Columbia: a 1912 airborne city state that has recently seceded from the US. To further complicate the mash-up of historical references, Columbia is a theocracy ruled by the all-powerful Father Comstock.

As well as the usual scenarios testing your fine motor skills, Infinite sets a series of moral dilemmas – challenges so gruesome I fear they may put me once again in a real-world conflict with the chairman of the home affairs select committee, Keith Vaz, who takes a less benign view of video games than me.

While Vaz usually uses the Call of Duty series to promote his strongly held views about the portrayal of violence in games, this is perhaps only because he has never heard of the BioShock series, with its re­pulsive graphics for an accurate head shot and the ability to kill unarmed acolytes in a place of worship. Early in the game, you win a raffle and are asked to throw the first baseball at a manacled interracial couple, on stage for a public stoning. Do you hurl the missile as requested, or break the laws of Columbia and hope you can escape by throwing the ball at the compère instead?

Being a socialist, and wedded to the principles of fairness and equality, I chose to break the laws of Columbia and quickly ended up in a melee requiring me to slay numerous police officers.

The fight was too frenetic to spend time pondering the game’s ethics and contrasting them to real-world principles. I quickly rationalised the act as the first combat in an adventure that would emancipate the people of Columbia from their evil overlord, Comstock.

Infinite’s protagonist is Booker De Witt, a world-weary bad debtor with the kind of physiology that gets you hired to save heroines from locked towers. Which is just as well, because this is the first task he faces. You are to rescue Elizabeth, a young woman who can tear holes in the space-time continuum, allowing you to grab weaponry and supplies from other dimensions, which come in handy when the two are escaping from Father Comstock.

Returning Elizabeth to the unnamed people in New York who are going to pay off De Witt’s debts is your stated goal. But Elizabeth, liberated from her gilded cage, has different ideas. She wants to go to Paris. And she doesn’t like De Witt racking up the body count – another one of Levine’s tiny moral challenges to the gamer.

As the adventure unfolds, De Witt develops his powers, from telekinesis to firebombs and electricity blasts. A minor irritation is the inability to carry more than two weapons at a time, which is particularly frustrating when you wish to use sniper fire. The design team seems to have simplified the character inventory from earlier versions of the game, perhaps anticipating a wider audience of less fanatical gamers. Experienced players will also find the “normal” difficulty setting a little tame.

Whatever the tiny defects, there is little doubt that BioShock Infinite will count sales in the millions. The attention to detail from the animation director, Shaun Robertson, and his team should win awards – just take Elizabeth from her Irish jig on the beach and let her explore, and you’ll see her independently execute animated routines. It must have taken hundreds of hours of artist time to achieve this tiny piece of colour.

I don’t think I have ever played a video game that has confronted racism in such an upfront manner as BioShock. There are segregated toilets, exploited black workers and prejudice. Will this portrayal serve to challenge the less informed gamer about the dangers of apartheid? My hunch is that many will just see it as another shoot ’em up with an interesting backdrop as a storyline. It fails as a breakthrough polemical first-person shooter because the plot doesn’t adequately integrate with the gameplay.

That said, beyond the moral dilemmas, BioShock Infinite is an impressive game. It has a powerful storyline that will leave it lingering in the memory of gamers when lesser attempts have long been forgotten.

Tom Watson is the Labour MP for West Bromwich East

All is not well in Columbia. Credit: Irrational Games.
Tom Watson is the MP for West Bromwich East, and Deputy Chair of the Labour Party. He is also an avid gamer and campaigner for media integrity.

This article first appeared in the 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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Jonn Elledge and the Young Hagrid Audition

I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. Except I didn’t.

I’ve been dining out for years now on the fact I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. It’s one of those funny stories I tell people when a bit drunk, under the no doubt entirely wrong impression that it makes me sound like I’ve lived an interesting life.

Except, when I came to write this thing, I realised that it’s not actually true. I didn’t actually audition for the part of Young Hagrid at all.

Technically, I auditioned to be Voldemort.

Let’s start from the beginning. In November 2001 I was in my last year at Cambridge, where I split my time roughly equally between pissing about on a stage, writing thundering student paper columns about the true meaning of 9/11 as only a 21-year-old can, and having panic attacks that the first two things would cause me to screw up my degree and ruin my life forever. I was, I suppose, harmless enough; but looking back on that time, I am quite glad that nobody had yet invented social media.

I was also – this is relevant – quite substantially overweight. I’m not a slim man now, but I was much heavier then, so much so that I spent much of my later adolescence convinced that my mum’s bathroom scales were broken because my weight was, quite literally, off the scale. I was a big lad.

Anyway. One day my friend Michael, with whom I’d co-written quite a bad Edinburgh fringe show eighteen months earlier, came running up to me grasping a copy of Varsity. “Have you seen this?” he panted; in my memory, at least, he’s so excited by what he’s found that he’s literally run to find me. “You have to do it. It’d be brilliant.”

“This” turned out to be a casting call for actors for the new Harry Potter movie. This wasn’t unusual: Cambridge produces many actors, so production companies would occasionally hold open auditions in the hope of spotting fresh talent. I don’t remember how many minor parts they were trying to cast, or anything else about what it said. I was too busy turning bright red.

Because I could see the shameful words “Young Hagrid”. And I knew that what Michael meant was not, “God, Jonn, you’re a great actor, it’s time the whole world got to bask in your light”. What he meant was, “You’re a dead ringer for Robbie Coltrane”.

I was, remember, 21 years old. This is not what any 21-year-old wants to hear. Not least since I’d always suspected that the main things that made people think I looked like Robbie Coltrane were:

  1. the aforementioned weight issue, and
  2. the long dark trench coat I insisted on wearing in all seasons, under the mistaken impression that it disguised (a).

Most people look back at pictures of their 21-year-old self and marvel at how thin and beautiful they are. I look back and and I wonder why I wasted my youth cosplaying as Cracker.

The only photo of 2001 vintage Jonn I could find on the internet is actually a photo of a photo. For some reason, I really loved that tie. Image: Fiona Gee.

I didn’t want to lean into the Coltrane thing; since childhood I’d had this weird primal terror that dressing up as something meant accepting it as part of your identity, and at fancy dress parties (this is not a joke) I could often be found hiding under tables screaming. And I didn’t want to be Hagrid, young or otherwise. So I told Michael, quite plainly, that I wasn’t going to audition.

But as the days went by, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. This was an audition for a proper, actual movie. I’d always had this idea I must have some kind of talent*, and that Cambridge was where I would find out what it was**. What if this was my big break?*** What if I was being silly?****

So when it turned out that Michael had literally started a petition to get me to change my mind, I acceded to the inevitable. Who was I to resist the public demand for moi?

And so, I graciously alerted the people doing the casting to the fact of my existence. A few days later I got an email back inviting me to go see them in a room at Trinity College, and a few pages of script to read for them.

The first odd thing was that the script did not, in fact, mention Hagrid. The film, I would later learn, does include a flashback to Hagrid’s school days at Hogwarts. By then, though, the filmmakers had decided they didn’t need a young actor to play Young Hagrid: instead that sequence features a rugby player in a darkened corner, with a voiceover courtesy of Coltrane. The section of the script I was holding instead featured a conversation between Harry Potter and a character called Tom Riddle.

I asked my flat mate Beccy, who unlike me had actually read the books, who this person might be. She shuffled, awkwardly. “I think he might be Voldemort...?”

Further complicating things, the stage directions described Riddle as something along the lines of, “16 years old, stick thin and classically handsome, in a boyish way”. As fervently as I may have denied any resemblance between myself and Robbie Coltrane, I was nonetheless clear that I was a good match for precisely none of those adjectives.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went to the audition. I don’t suppose I expected Chris Columbus to be there, let alone Robbie Coltrane ready to embrace me like a long-lost son.  But I was expecting more than a cupboard containing a video camera of the sort you could buy at Dixons and a blonde woman not much older than me. She introduced herself as “Buffy” which, given that this was 2001, I am not entirely convinced was her real name.

“My friends always tell me I look like Robbie Coltrane,” I told her, pretending I was remotely enthusiastic about this fact. 

“Oh yeah,” said Buffy. “But he’s really... big isn’t he? I mean he’s a huge guy. You’re more sort of...”

Or to put it another way, if they had still been looking for a young Hagrid, they would have wanted someone tall. I’m 6’, but I’m not tall. I was just fat.

If they had been looking for a Young Hagrid. Which, as it turned out, they weren’t.

The section I read for was included in the final film, so with a bit of Googling I found the script online. It was this bit:

TOM RIDDLE Yes. I’m afraid so. But then, she’s been in so much pain, poor Ginny. She’s been writing to me for months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes. Ginny poured her soul out to me. I grew stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful enough to start feeding Ginny a few secrets, to start pouring a bit of my soul back into her...

Riddle, growing less vaporous by the second, grins cruelly.

TOM RIDDLE Yes, Harry, it was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets.

I mean, you can see the problem, can’t you? I don’t remember this many years on what interpretation I put on my performance. I suspect I went beyond camp and into full on panto villain, and I dread to think what I may have done to communicate the impression of “growing less vaporous”.

But what I do feel confident about is that I was absolutely bloody awful. Five minutes after arriving, I was out, and I never heard from Buffy again.

So – I didn’t become a star. You probably guessed that part already.

In all honesty, I didn’t really realise what a big deal Harry Potter was. I’d seen the first film, and thought it was all right, but I was yet to read the books; three of them hadn’t even been written yet.

I had some vague idea there was an opportunity here. But the idea I was missing a shot at being part of an institution, something that people would be rereading and re-watching and analysing for decades to come – something that, a couple of years later, at roughly the point when Dumbledore shows Harry the Prophecy, and a tear rolls down his cheek, would come to mean quite a lot to me, personally – none of that ever crossed my mind. I’d had an opportunity. It hadn’t worked out. Happened all the time.

I do sometimes like to think, though, about the parallel universe in which that audition was the start of a long and glittering career – and where the bloke who played Tom Riddle in this universe is scratching a living writing silly blogs about trains.

*I don’t.

**I didn’t.

***It wasn’t.

****I was.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

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