It's game over for archetypal men in video games

The characterisation of Joel in <em>The Last of Us</em> marks a change in how video games view masculinity - the game doesn't champion archetypal maleness, it shows it for what it is: selfish and meat-headed.

Joel, from The Last of Us, cuts a pitiful figure. A man living in apocalypse America, his days are spent stealing, fighting and killing. But although those actions are typical of videogame men, Joel's attitude is not.

He's emasculated. At the start of the “zombie” outbreak which backgrounds The Last of Us, Joel's daughter is killed and twenty years later, there's nothing male left in him. He's a criminal and a fighter and he carries a gun, but unlike other game characters that do those things, those found in Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto or BioShock, Joel is subservient. He's failed in his role as a father and feels less of a man for it.

Working as a smuggler in the Boston quarantine zone, Joel shifts many of the typically male responsibilities – leadership, decision-making, killing – onto his female partner, Tess. He readily takes her orders, replying with a dutiful “yes ma'am” whenever she tells him to lift her over a fence, and catching up to her when she barks “get your ass over here.” In their first scene together, Joel uses a cloth to dab a wound on Tess' face. He's her eunuch, her bodyguard, her servant. Whereas male characters in games are usually given agency, Joel is a serf. He's not trying to be masculine, in the traditional sense, anymore:  he's frightened too much of the pressures.

Later, when he's charged with protecting Ellie, a girl of similar age to his daughter, he wants nothing to do with her. Again, he tries to shift the responsibility, asking his younger brother Tommy to escort Ellie. This isn't what videogame men do. Usually they're either priapic manly types, willing and able to complete whatever mission is given to them or, if like Joel they've had their manliness somehow taken from them, they're on a quest to earn it back.

In Heavy Rain, Ethan Mars is investigating the man who kidnapped his son. In Shadows of the Damned, Gabriel Hotspur is trying to resurrect his dead girlfriend. Both these men, and many others in popular videogames, have had signifiers of their masculinity removed from them, and are trying to re-assert their typically male roles; Mars as a father, Hotspur as a boyfriend. Joel is in a similar situation but is reticent to even try. If he can look after Ellie, it's a chance to re-establish himself as a father figure, but he won't. There's a terrific scene where Tommy offers Joel an old picture of his daughter, as if to say, “remember when you used to be a dad?” Joel rejects it flatly with a muttered “I'm good.” Rather than fight to re-affirm his maleness, Joel is trying his hardest to keep it at bay.

And when he finally does cave in, it's devastating. At the end of The Last of Us, Ellie, who is immune to the zombie virus, is about to undergo surgery that will create a vaccine using her brain tissue but kill her in the process. Joel, now determined to make her his daughter, bursts in, kills the surgeons and carries her away, thus dooming humankind. Whereas videogame narratives are usually resolved when the leading man reaffirms his maleness, when Joel does it, it ruins everything. The Last of Us doesn't champion archetypal maleness, it shows it for what it is – selfish and meat-headed.

And as the audience for videogames grows more diverse, that's an important point to make. Games are no longer only played by young men. The toy-shop, boisterous, power fantasies videogames used to sell aren't really applicable now, as the audience for games becomes increasingly older, smarter and female. The Last of Us marks a change. It satirises gaming's long held tradition of celebrating masculine agency, telling us that, sometimes in games, as in real-life, men can be wrong.

A still from "The Last of Us".

Edward Smith is a writer based in Liverpool. Follow him on Twitter @mostsincerelyed.

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State