A screenshot from Wolfenstein: The New Order. Image: Machine Games
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Wolfenstein: The New Order squanders a decent idea for a first-person shooter

It shouldn’t need to be said, but you cannot seriously address a topic like genocide via the medium of a game where you unlock a skill for stabbing cyborg dogs.

Wolfenstein: The New Order is to killing Nazis what Tetris is to stacking blocks. Presenting itself as a hybrid of elements of new and old first-person shooters, it tells the story of William Blazkowicz, an American soldier in an alternative timeline where the Nazis are winning World War Two with advanced technology. During a last ditch assault on the German HQ to prevent the invasion of Britain in 1946 Blazkowicz is severely injured and enters a catatonic state. He awakens in 1960 to find the Nazis have won the war and conquered the world with the help of atomic bombs and giant robots. Violent revenge ensues.

Nazis make a great foil for unspeakable acts of violence because they are the worst people in history. If you’ve got to do something horrific to a fictional representation of a human being then slapping a swastika armband on the guy goes a long way to nullifying any distaste that might be felt. The developers of The New Order seem to know that very well, and they run with it - and as a result the game is one of the most gleefully-brutal ever made.

Alas, though, besides being spectacularly violent, The New Order seldom manages to be much more than an average game. It teases with great ideas that it doesn’t pursue with enough conviction, and the result is a game that disappoints more than it impresses. Rather than going by the numbers to create just another bog-standard first-person shooter, developers Machine Games have tried to make changes to the formula - but the changes never go far enough.

The first and most important place where this happens is in the game mechanics, which are inspired by classic first-person shooters like the original Wolfenstein 3D. Such games are characterised by fast-paced action and an emphasis on evasion and accurate shooting, rather than soaking up hits then healing in cover. As such The New Order returns to a classic numerical health level, replenished by medical and armour pickups lying around the map or dropped by enemies. There is a little bit of health regeneration, just enough to gradually cancel out damage from catching a single stray bullet or falling a short distance, and it suits the game well. So far that’s just about perfect. However, one holdover from modern games is that you press a button to pick up items. In the older style games all that ammo armour and health would be picked up automatically, as if your character had a magical extra set of hands. In The New Order you have to pick it all up manually.

This sounds like a trifling difference, but it isn’t, it is the difference between having your eyes up and being able to move swiftly from one battle to the next, versus having to root through objects on the ground like a truffle pig after every fight. In a typical game where you’re not picking much up this wouldn’t be a problem, but when you’re grabbing items off nearly everybody you kill, as well as plundering boxes, racks and shelves for goodies, it is really noticeable. It slows down a game that ought to be aiming to go faster.

The combat itself is very entertaining - you can lean around cover and aim carefully using the sights on a weapon, or you can take a gun in either hand like a Second Amendment Godzilla and trade accuracy for volume. Different approaches work in different situations and when combined with the competent (if perfunctory) stealth system make for a game that offers more variety than a typical first-person shooter. The enemies range from armoured robotic guard dogs and soldiers up to big cyborgs and an array of tank like bosses. Enemy numbers are limited unless there are officers around as they call in reinforcements and this means you have to actively seek them out.

The combination of tried-and-tested elements from games old and new is at its best here, but again the sum of these parts remains about average. It is fun, but the moment-to-moment action is no better than one should expect it to be given that the first-person shooter genre has been having money and talent thrown at it for two decades. There are no great failings, but no great surprises either. Elements such as the upgradable laser rifle and the character perk system might have provided that next level but both feel underused.

Past the mechanics lies the setting, which is another missed opportunity. The game just doesn’t do much with it. By opting to go heavily science fiction there’s no sense that you’re actually in 1960, indeed there’s little sense that you’re in 1946 at the start of the game as giant robot dogs chase you around. Newspaper cuttings from the years between 1946 and 1960 fill in the gaps in the history but they do so very briefly and little is said about the wider world. There is very little sense of place either, with London, Berlin and Croatia all looking remarkably similar. This is explained in the plot, but it begs the question of why explain it at all - why not have places that look interesting? Even the more fantastical locations feel quite bland and are underused. You rarely see let alone meet civilians and despite the fact that the Nazis are in charge all over the world the only Nazis you fight are Germans. That in itself feels like a cop out. The Nazified world hinted at in the trailers and journal entries in the game isn’t present at all.

Good characterisation and story in a first-person shooter are a bonus, and in The New Order both these elements are serviceable, if not memorable. The hero is suitably likeable and the villains are suitably evil, which is all that is needed on that side of things. The supporting characters are well-written, well-designed and well-voiced, but their role is minimal which is a little disappointing. It feels like a lot more could have been done with them and their relationships. Also, the story tends to fall into the gaps between seriousness and parody. There is a level that takes place in a concentration camp that is just plain awkward and I have no idea how anybody thought it was a good idea to put that in. It feels like an ‘Allo ‘Allo Christmas special set amid the Warsaw Uprising.

Where the game shines is when it is throwing you into big set piece missions, steal a helicopter, steal a submarine or steal the identity of a scientist while he’s crossing a giant bridge on a train. That is what the game does best, and it should have played to it more. It shouldn’t need to be said, but you cannot seriously address a topic like genocide via the medium of a game where you unlock a skill for stabbing cyborg dogs.

When talking about games one word that comes up a lot is potential. Many games don’t have potential and are instead merely aimed down the safest proven route to optimal sales. Wolfenstein: The New Order, by contrast, actually did have potential, masses of it. There is an experimental quality to how it plays and in terms of its mechanics it can be seen as a step ahead of many of its contemporaries. If Machine Games learn the right lessons from The New Order the next game they make should be something very special.

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

MARK GERSON
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It's unfashionable to call someone a "genius" – but William Empson was one

Father than denying the contradictoriness of being human, Empson revelled in it, as The Face of Buddha reveals.

William Empson was a genius. Describing anyone in this way is distinctly unfashionable nowadays, because it suggests a level of achievement to which most of humanity cannot aspire. There is nothing you can do to acquire genius. Either you have it or, like the rest of us, you don’t – a state of affairs that cannot be remedied. The very idea smacks of elitism, one of the worst sins in the contemporary moral lexicon. But if talk of genius has come close to being banned in polite society, it is hard to know how else to describe Empson’s astonishing originality of mind.

One of the most influential 20th-century literary critics and the author of two seminal books on language, he was extremely receptive to new thinking and at the same time combative in defending his views. He was a poet of the first rank, whose spare and often cryptic verse was immediately understood and admired by Ludwig Wittgenstein. Incomparably more thoughtful than anything produced by the dull atheist prophets of our own day, his book Milton’s God (1961), in which he compares the Christian God to a commandant at Belsen, must be one of the fiercest assaults on monotheism ever published. And as a socialist who revered the British monarchy, he had a political outlook that was refreshingly non-standard.

Empson’s originality was not confined to his writing. He led a highly adventurous life. Expelled from his research fellowship and his name deleted from the records of his Cambridge college in 1929 when one of the porters found condoms in his rooms, he lost any prospect of a position in British academic life. For a time, he considered becoming a journalist or a civil servant. Instead his tutor I A Richards encouraged him to apply for posts in east Asia, and in 1931 he took up a position at a teacher training college in Japan. For some years he taught in China – mostly from memory, owing to a lack of books, and sleeping on a blackboard when his university was forced to move to Kunming during the Japanese siege of Beijing. By the late Thirties he was well known in London literary circles (written when he was only 22, his best-known book, Seven Types of Ambiguity, was published in 1930 and a collection of poems appeared in 1934) but just scraping a living from reviewing and a small private income. During the Second World War he worked at the BBC alongside George Orwell and Louis MacNeice.

He returned to China in 1947 to teach in Beijing, living through the stormy years just before and after Mao came to power and leaving only when the regime’s ideological demands became intolerably repressive. He continued his academic career, first at Kenyon College in Ohio, briefly at Gresham College in London, and finally at the University of Sheffield, where he was appointed head of the English department in 1953 and remained until his retirement in 1972, but always disdained academic jargon, writing in a light, glancing, conversational style.

Inordinately fond of drink and famously bohemian in appearance (T S Eliot, who admired his mind and enjoyed his company, commented on Empson’s scruffiness), he lived in a state of eccentric disorder that the poet Robert Lowell described as having “a weird, sordid nobility”. He was actively bisexual, marrying the South African-born sculptor Hetta Crouse, equally ­free-spirited, and with whom he enjoyed an open relationship that was sometimes turbulent yet never without affection. His later years were less eventful, though rarely free from controversy. In 1979 he was knighted, and awarded an honorary fellowship by the college that half a century earlier had struck his name from the books. He died in 1984.

The publishing history of this book is as extraordinary as the work itself. “The real story of The Face of the Buddha,” the cultural historian Rupert Arrowsmith writes in his richly learned introduction, “began in the ancient Japanese city of Nara, where, in the spring of 1932, the beauty of a particular set of Japanese sculptures struck Empson with revelatory force.” He was “bowled over” by three statues, including the Kudara Kannon, a 7th-century piece in the Horyuji temple representing the Bodhisattva of Mercy, which fascinated him because the left and right profiles of the statue seemed to have asymmetrical expressions: “The puzzlement and good humour of the face are all on the left, also the maternity and the rueful but amiable smile. The right is the divinity; a birdlike innocence and wakefulness; unchanging in irony, unresting in good works; not interested in humanity, or for that matter in itself . . . a wonderfully subtle and tender work.” Gripped by what the art historian Partha Mitter describes as a “magnificent obsession”, Empson travelled far and wide in the years that followed, visiting south-east Asia, China, Ceylon, Burma and India and ending up in the Ajanta caves, the fountainhead of Mahayana Buddhist art. First begun in Japan in 1932, The Face of the Buddha was written and repeatedly revised during these wanderings.

Empson made no copy of the manuscript and in a succession of mishaps it was lost for nearly 60 years. The story of its disappearance is resonant of the boozy Fitzrovia portrayed in Anthony Powell’s novels. On leaving for his foreign travels in 1947, Empson gave the manuscript to John Davenport, a family friend and literary critic, for safekeeping. The hard-drinking Davenport mislaid it and in 1952 told Empson he had left it in a taxi. Davenport’s memory was befuddled. He had in fact given the text to the Tamil poet and editor M J T Tambimuttu, who must have shelved it among the piles of books that filled the rat-infested flat vividly described in the memoirs of Julian Maclaren-Ross. When Tambimuttu retur­ned to Ceylon in 1949 he passed on Empson’s manuscript to Richard March, a fellow editor of Poetry London, which ­Tambimuttu had founded. March died soon afterwards and his papers mouldered in obscurity until 2003, when they were acquired by the British Museum. Two years later an enterprising curator at the museum, Jamie Anderson, spotted the manuscript and informed the author’s descendants of its rediscovery. Now Oxford University Press has brought out this beautifully illustrated volume, which will be of intense interest not only to devotees of Empson but to anyone interested in culture and religion.

Although a fragment of his analysis appeared in the article “Buddhas with double faces”, published in the Listener in 1936 and reprinted in the present volume, it is only now that we can fully appreciate Empson’s insight into Buddhist art. His deep interest in Buddhism was clear throughout his life. From the indispensable edition of his Complete Poems (Allen Lane, 2000) edited and annotated by his biographer John Haffenden, we learn that, while working in the Far Eastern department of the BBC, Empson wrote the outline of a ballet, The Elephant and the Birds, based on a story from Buddhist scriptures about Gautama in his incarnation as an elephant. His enduring fascination with the Buddha is evident in “The Fire Sermon”, a personal translation of the Buddha’s celebrated speech on the need to turn away from sensuous passions, which Empson used as the epigraph in successive editions of the collected poems. (A different translation is cited in the notes accompanying Eliot’s Waste Land, the longest section of which is also titled “The Fire Sermon”.)

Empson’s attitude to Buddhism, like the images of the Buddha that he so loved, was asymmetrical. He valued the Buddhist view as an alternative to the Western outlook, in which satisfying one’s desires by acting in the world was the principal or only goal in life. At the same time he thought that by asserting the unsatisfactoriness of existence as such – whether earthly or heavenly – Buddhism was more life-negating and, in this regard, even worse than Christianity, which he loathed. Yet he also believed Buddhism, in practice, had been more life-enhancing. Buddhism was a paradox: a seeming contradiction that contained a vital truth.

What Empson admired in Buddhist art was its ability to create an equilibrium from antagonistic human impulses. Writing here about Khmer art, he observes that cobras at Angkor are shown protecting the seated Buddha with their raised hoods. He goes on to speculate that the many-headed cobra is a metaphor for one of the Buddha’s canonical gestures – the raised hand with the palm forward, which means “do not fear”:

It has almost the same shape. To be sure, I have never had to do with a cobra, and perhaps after practical experience the paradox would seem an excessively monstrous one. But the high religions are devoted to contradictions of this sort . . . and the whole point of the snake is that the god has domesticated him as a protector.

It was this combination of opposite qual­ities that attracted Empson. “A good deal of the startling and compelling quality of the Far Eastern Buddha heads comes from combining things that seem incompatible,” he writes, “especially a complete repose or detachment with an active power to help the worshipper.” Art of this kind was not only beautiful, but also ethically valuable, because it was truer to human life. “The chief novelty of this Far Eastern Buddhist sculpture is the use of asymmetry to make the faces more human.”

Using 20th-century examples that illustrate such asymmetry, Empson elaborates in his Listener article:

It seems to be true that the marks of a person’s active experience tend to be stronger on the right, so that the left shows more of his inherent endowment or of the more passive experiences which have not involved the wilful use of facial muscles. All that is assumed here is that the muscles on the right generally respond more readily to the will and that the effects of old experiences pile up. The photograph of Mr Churchill will be enough to show that there is sometimes a contrast of this sort though it seems that in Baudelaire, who led a very different kind of life, the contrast was the other way round. In Mr Churchill the administrator is on the right, and on the left (by which of course I mean the left of the person or statue, which is on your right as you look) are the petulance, the romanticism, the gloomy moral strength and the range of imaginative power.

With such a prolific mind as Empson’s, it is risky to identify any ruling theme, but he returns repeatedly in his writings to the thought that the creativity of art and language comes from their irreducible open-endedness and susceptibility to conflicting interpretations. As he wrote in Seven Types of Ambiguity, “Good poetry is usually written from a background of conflict.” Rather than being an imperfection that must be overcome for the sake of clarity, ambiguity makes language inexhaustibly rich. In The Structure of Complex Words (1948) he showed how even the most straightforward-looking terms were “compacted with doctrines” that left their meaning equivocal. There was no ultimate simplicity concealed by the opacity of language. Thinking and speaking invoked deep structures of meaning which could be made more intelligible. But these structures could not be contained in any single body of ideas. Wittgenstein’s early ambition of reducing language to elem­entary propositions stating simple facts was impossible in principle. Inherently plural in meaning, words enabled different ways of seeing the world.

Empson’s message was not merely intellectual but, once again, ethical. “It may be,” he wrote in Complex Words, “that the human mind can recognise actually in­commensurable values, and that the chief human value is to stand up between them.” The image of the Buddha that he discovered in Nara embodied this incommensurability. Rather than trying to smooth out these clashing values into an oppressive ideal of perfection, as Christianity had done, the Buddhist image fused their conflicts into a paradoxical whole. Instead of erecting a hierarchy of better and worse attitudes in the manner of the “neo-Christians”, as Empson described the pious humanists of his day, the asymmetrical face of the Buddha showed how discordant emotions could be reconciled.

Whether Empson’s account of asymmetry can be anything like a universal theory is doubtful. In support of his theory he cited Darwin’s The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals to show that human emotions were expressed in similar ways in different cultures, and invoked speculation by contemporary psychologists on the contrasting functions of the right and left sides of the brain. But the scientific pretensions of Empson’s observations are less important than the spirit in which he made them. Entering into an initially alien form of art, he found a point of balance between values and emotions whose conflicts are humanly universal. Rather than denying the contradictoriness of the human mind and heart, he gloried in it.

It takes genius to grasp the ambiguities of art and language and to use them as Empson did. But if we can’t emulate his astonishing fertility of mind, we can learn from his insights. Both in his life and in his work he resisted the lure of harmony, which offers to mitigate conflicts of value at the price of simplifying and impoverishing the human world. Instead, Empson searched for value in the ambiguities of life. He found what he was looking for in the double faces of the Buddha described in this lost masterpiece.

John Gray is the New Statesman’s lead book reviewer

The Face of Buddha by William Epson, edited by Rupert Arrowsmith with a preface by Partha Mitter, is published by Oxford University Press (224pp, £30)

John Gray is the New Statesman’s lead book reviewer. His latest book is The Soul of the Marionette: A Short Enquiry into Human Freedom.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain