There has always been something
romantic, or at least mythologized, about hand-to-hand combat. In nearly every
proto-religion, a correlation was made between the victor and the chosen; to defeat an
opponent was to claim the favor of God. While certainly much of this had to do with simple
pragmatics-- it is difficult to tell the story of ones battle if one has been
killed-- the impulse to view physical conflict as a means of determining the will of the
divine is an important precursor to much of what we consider modern competition. While
on-deck, a shortstop makes the sign of the cross, his hands wrapped in red or blue
batting-gloves. A sprinter blows a kiss to the heavens as he rounds the track in a
tear-filled lap of victory. The gracious athlete, as soon as he or she is interviewed, is
quick to give the credit back to the creator.Nowhere is competition more easily
recognizable a this kind of medieval crucible than in the squared circle of professional
wrestling. What is even more compelling, however, is that the results are fixed. We are
aware, most of us, that what happens when the paint and tights are donned is rigged or
even choreographed down to the "rock bottom" or "wall of Jericho" that
will finally, after much has been in flux, put an end to the match. At the same time
however, as is the case in any theatricality, there is a willing suspension of disbelief.
This is not to say that one convinces ones self that a fist really connects with a
jaw, or that a drop kick really hurts. While this is indeed part of the magic, the real
act of faith has to do with the outcome. In order for it to matter that HHH hangs on to
his belt or that one rising superstar or another comes away with inter-continental
championship, the viewer must be somehow complicit in the act. It is the fans and
spectators, aware of the scam, that continue to vest import in the outcome of what, viewed
without this tacit act of faith, would otherwise be nothing more than a long and sometimes
bloody dance number.
In days
gone past, when Hulk Hogan tore his pre-snipped muscle shirts and Andre the Giant sulked
around under the iron fist of Bobby the Brain, lines were crisp and clean; the
orchestration, the entire production had obvious intentions of allowing viewers an
interaction with the eternal, and usually not carried by pay-per-view, struggle of good
vs. evil. Perhaps it is simply a testament to the proliferation of post-modern notions of
good and evil but, whatever the cause, the sides of this archetypal battle are in much
more chaos as professional wrestling moves into the next millennium. Nonetheless, the
battle remains the same and even if it is no longer clear what side we should be rooting
for as good Hulkamaniacs, the wrestling industry banks upon a prerequisite interest in the
struggle.
When, in this matrix of posturing and showmanship, a viewer is allowed to step into the
limelight and hold his or her own against the superstars of this meta-combat, the dynamics
really get complicated. What WWF No Mercy retains is this element of faith.
No
video game has been so thorough in its encapsulation of the mythos of professional
wrestling. Cheesy (as cheesy as the real business) titanatron montage scenes and
laser-light pyrotechnics erupt as each superstar enters. Storylines are available to
follow any superstars chase for a title-- eight titles are available. These
storylines have evolved as wrestling has; the battle is no longer limited to the ring but
can erupt in any of ten off-stage areas. In the process, characters speak with a kind of
mind-blowing verisimilitude to the real thing-- as such, the speech is fairly poorly
written by literary standards and, because "ass" is much more descriptive than
anything else, reads like Shakespeares bawdy without the pentameter and serious
inquiry into the human condition. Nonetheless, all of these factors contribute to the feel
of the game and develop a web of cultural detritus that could only belong in one arena.
The miracle/curse of professional wrestling is not limited to the games appearance;
unlike its predecessors plagued with clumsy plot-lines and slow reaction speed, most
of the fun of No Mercy is actually derived from game play.
Because No
Mercy allows you to play (initially) over sixty-five wrestlers and, as various story lines
progress, adds potential characters from the past to the available stables, one is invited
to indulge in and personalize according to ones tastes, the fantasy that surrounds
each and every belt. Not only does this game bring out Cactus Jack, Andre the Giant, and
the original Hulkster (among others), the game offers a seemingly infinite catalogue of
moves and counter-moves, dropkicks and finishing submission holds. What this all means is
that, because the controls are incredibly easy to get the hang of-- though you need to do
so with each and every character-- it is possible to truly become (with no more of a leap
of faith than it takes to watch the crap in the first place) any available wrestler. As
such, the importance of getting the combination in and performing an atomic drop in a
crucial moment becomes more legitimate than most fighting games. What drives No Mercy is
not the flimsy, translated mumbo-jumbo of Tekken, Mortal Kombat, or other move-based
combat games, but a culturally accepted paradigm in which your wrestler is not only
fighting for the good of his or her career but also the prestige and honor of doing a
title shrouded in history proud.
All
of this sounds hokey. And it is. But the gamers here have not created this sense of
over-dramatization. It comes with the subject matter and because of the actual pacing of
game-play, it truly does manage to permeate the experience. How you do actually seems to
mean something.
This
becomes even more important in regards to the games strongest feature-- the create a
wrestler mode. Graphically, anything you want to put in the ring (killer tall guys in
drag, a short little ball of pudge who flies from the turn-buckle like Fred Astaire on
crack-cocaine) is available and becomes every bit as convincing in its performance of
various moves as any of the pre-existing characters. Additionally, the created wrestlers
dont suck. You are capable, with some sweat and love, to compete for any of the
titles and hold your own against the more accomplished Jobbers of the WWF. Because of the
gigantic arsenal, your wrestler really does become YOUR wrestler.
And this, to continue the theoretical discussion I started with, becomes the
largest complication of the game. Your wrestler speaks like every other wrestler. Yes,
regardless of your intent (even when I named my badass Niceguy) your little man (mine was
cute with glasses) still uses "ass" every other sentence, still becomes a
mouthpiece for serious misogyny, still hires people to hurt other wrestlers, and still
takes the fight to the pool hall and locker room. What is at stake here is the postmodern
complication of wrestling. Still the archetypal struggle of good and evil, wrestling at
this juncture (pre-disposed to the problem because of the inherent element of fakery) has
no fixed referents. Good looks like evil looks like good. The only distinction becomes in
moment to moment gestures and actions. No matter your intentions as a participant, your
wrestler is not capable of walking the high road, or fighting by the rules. The primal
struggle for meaning and order, or goodness and righteousness, becomes continually tainted
or cheapened by the similarity it presents to characters and actions that never claim to
be more noble than old-fashioned bedlam.
While it
is obvious that you, if you are interested in a game based on beating people up, may be
less concerned about this kind of entropy than I am, the game presents a very dangerous
kind of relativism. My character revenged a woman who was beaten up immediately after
calling another woman a bottom-feeding ho. Any action or word is acceptable because, in
this schema, we all know nothing is real anyway. The game becomes about positioning and
the struggle the rules were founded upon (back when the Russians stood for the devil)
become illustrated in minor, smaller ways instead of the grand and ever-raging campaigns
of the past. When the Hulkster called, we knew who was supposed to answer.
All of this
wouldnt be as much of a problem if it were simply reducible to show-business or
entertainment. While we would still have the problematic questions that surround other
violent media, we wouldnt have to answer questions about what this does to cultural
metaphysics concerning good and evil, gender and aggression. It is the initial act of
faith that wrestling relies upon that makes of all this necessary. It is a testament to
the quality of the game, the reality of its controls and maneuvers, the power of seeing
the belt on shoulders you created, that I was able to forget what I know about its
reality. My character does get hurt. When his arms are twisted often enough, there are
moves I can no longer do. The legs, after a few knee drops, slow me down and take away my
biggest assets. In No Mercy, everything but the political, everything but the
significance, everything but the carefully considered, is as real as it gets. What this
adds up to is a great game that is an even better indicator of how complicated our
"entertainment" has become.