REVIEWS

2003, Part E: May

2003, Christian Sauvé

Featured this month:

Surprise! A Video Game review:

 

The Schrödinger's Cat Trilogy
Robert Anton Wilson

Dell, 1988 omnibus reprint of 1979 original, 545 pages

Robert Anton Wilson takes great care, early in The Schrödinger's Cat Trilogy, to warn us that "contrarily to appearances, [it] is not a mere 'routine' or 'shaggy shoggoth story'" [P.10] I beg to half-differ. While this trilogy isn't routine, it certainly feels like a shaggy shoggoth story. Pleasant to read but frustrating in terms of conventional plotting, Schrödinger's Cat can be lot of fun as long as you don't expect anything resembling an ultimate answer.

Nor any definitive plot, character, dramatic arc or conclusion, for that matter. The central conceit of the trilogy is that it studies the adventures of a few dozen characters in parallel universes. Some of them are more-or-less identical from one universe to another; others are rather different. The American political leadership of any given universe ends up having a substantial impact on the overall feel of each universe --though even Wilson couldn't imagine the Reagan presidency.

The genius of the trilogy is how the events in one universe inform our understanding of another. Characters are introduced in one timeline, explored in another and left as supporting players in yet another universe. The explanation to some events must be found elsewhere in the book as given situations are explored from other perspectives.

It's hard to say anything conclusive about the whole work (as Wilson seemingly takes delight in confusing the heck out of anyone even trying to make sense of the overall flow), but it looks as if every book of the trilogy covers an alternate universe, at the exception of the first volume which gives us a second timeline for free after the catastrophic end of the first one.

Normally, I wouldn't be very enthusiastic about such artistic attempts; I like my fiction straight and linear, and have no patience with books where the author tries to pass off indecisiveness as subtlety. But what reconciled me with this trilogy (aside from the emphasis on science and technology as Good Things) is how even if I wasn't bothered to follow along with what may or not be a plot, there were enough amusing vignettes to keep me occupied. The narrative is filled with zingers, from the tyrannical "Unistat" empire to a literary critic talking about "Norman Mailer-than-thou". The character sketches are sympathetic and effective. (Heck, even the author is a character.) The various pranks, events, anecdotes that make up the bulk of the trilogy's vignettes are rather amusing when taken approached one at a time.

Madness awaits anyone trying to make sense of it all, though. The Schrödinger's Cat Trilogy isn't a movie, and doesn't follow a conventional A-to-B narrative. It may be best compared to an intricate surrealistic painting, where elements are disposed on a surface that suggests proximity but doesn't necessarily represent affinity between the parts. Think hologram. Think author on acid. Think "read a random page, rip it out, repeat". Think chapters in a blender.

Yes, there's no doubt that this is artsy-trippy stuff. I could understand anyone being reluctant to take it on. If you do, one piece of advice; read as much of it at once. The accumulation of background details is slight but noticeable, and you'll get much more out of the trilogy if you do read a solid chunk of it in near succession. Some jokes play off each other, and the vast cast of characters may be obscure from time to time. (It also helps to have strong and fond memories of the Illuminatus! trilogy, given that elements of it, such as The Beast and Hagbard Celine, make a return appearance) As long as you don't try to make too much sense out of it, it's easy reading. But there are no big answers, no big finale, no puppet-master pulling the strings from the metaverse. It ends in mid-story. It probably warrants a re-read every couple of years.

In short, this isn't an ordinary book. It's both fun and frustrating, easy to read and impossible to understand. Maybe I even completely misinterpreted everything. Yet I don't care all that much. As long as I've been entertained, who am I to complain?

 

The Moon Goddess and the Son
Donald Kingsbury

Baen, 1986, 471 pages

The Cold War has been over for more than a decade, but the books of that era will continue to dog us for a while yet. When readers and critic discuss Donald Kingsbury, they usually talk about Courtship Rite, or even Psychohistorical Crisis, but most tend to forget that the capable Canadian SF author has written a novel in-between, The Moon Goddess and the Son. With good reason, mind you: While I can still imagine the previous two titles being read, discussed and enjoyed decades from now, it's going to take some effort to even try pretending that his second novel was anything more than an overlong mess.

No, I'm not going to try to pretend deep love and affection for the novel, despite all the personal respect I've got for the author and my usual bias for all things Canadians (or, in Kingsbury's case, from the Montreal area) I'm feeling cranky, and that's because dull books that take forever to establish a novella's worth of story always make me cranky.

Heralding from the Cold War's last dying moments (hey, 1986 is already, what, more than fifteen years old), The Moon Goddess and the Son is a hodge-podge of Soviet philosophy, space boosterism, March-September romance (ew), clashing generations and attempts at a political thriller. It's long, it's rambling and if there are quite a few things to like about it, it takes forever to get to them.

You may think, at first, that this is a story about a space-struck young girl who, when she's abused by her father, escapes into fantasies about a famous astronaut. But don't, because that'll come into play only late in the novel (in pretty much the fashion you apprehend). Then again, The Moon Goddess and the Son may be about the famous astronaut and his difficult family relationships. But that's not it either, at least not at first. Then again, this may be about a role-playing game designer at the end of his rope and the sadistic treatment he's got in mind for his abusive boss.

Now that may be a thread. Because the designer's elaborate pain-and-punishment recreation of Russian history ends up being exactly what his boss is asking for in order to understand the Russian mind. Meanwhile, in another plot thread, our young star-struck teenager will sleep with the spaceman of her dreams as well as his son, helping out the family by doing so. Yes, it's that kind of novel.

But it'll take forever to get to those plot points. Most of the novel is a pointless collection of scenes that does little to advance the story. Character do stuff; we don't care. Saudi Arabia undergoes a revolution; we care even less. The Russians threaten to take over the world; maybe that would be best for all involved.

Oh, it's not as if it's a total loss: The Russian national character is described with noblesse and respect, setting this novel apart from some of its contemporary ultra-paranoid fiction. Some of the technical details are interesting. It all amounts to a novella's worth of story.

But it will take special skills today to slog through this brick. Cold War-era politics are about as useful as Tzarist policies these days, and a lot of the cheering for space exploration seems identical from what we're hearing these days. Coupled to the lack of sustained dramatic hard, it makes it hard to imagine that anyone but Kingsbury completists (and I'll raise my hand at this moment) being willing to undergo this particular mild punishment.

Maybe there's a historical worth to this book, if only for a feel of 1986-era thinking. But then again you could just grab Tom Clancy's Red Storm Rising and "get" the cold war. As far as Kingsbury is concerned, grab Courtship Rite, read it, treasure it, cherish it and skip directly to Psychohistorical Crisis. Anything else would just be a waste of time.

 

The Manly Movie Guide
David Everitt & Harold Schechter

Broadway, 1997, 287 pages, $16.00 Can., ISBN 1-57297-308-0

As the proud owner of the fantastic movie-recommendation guide Chicks on Film, the thought of buying The Manly Movie Guide was irresistible, if only for the kick of placing both books one alongside the other on my movie-reference shelf. As a bonus, maybe I'd get a cool book that would properly appreciate the aesthetic qualities of modern classics such as DIE HARD and HARD-BOILED.

(Please understand that I do not jest when I say this; the artistic worth of action movies, to me, has been severely misunderstood. Pulling together a satisfying action sequence, for example, is an art, as a random selection of scenes from direct-to-video "action thrillers" will demonstrate. It involves writing, action editing, scoring and effects. The best of them demand a sense of pacing, a dramatic arc, a perfect integration of sight and sound as well as an emphasis on characters. Show me someone who can explain how the themes and aesthetics of TERMINATOR 2 re-enforce the kick-ass action scenes and I will show you a friend for life.)

Alas, The Manly Movie Guide barely deserves to be put on the same shelf as Chicks on Film.

It's not as if it's a worthless book. Any guide which puts GOODFELLAS in "Comedy" and NATURAL BORN KILLERS in "Romance" has something going for it. And any guide with the guts to dismiss THELMA AND LOUISE with a tart capsule review like

Two suburban babes hit the road to become modern-day, gun-toting desperadoes. What's goes on here? Aren't Tupperware parties good enough for those chicks? [P.70]

deserves at least a modicum of respect. Maybe not admiration, but respect.

Alas, occasional mordant barbs don't make a full-featured book worthwhile. It doesn't help that the main conceit of The Manly Movie Guide is that the two authors are writing as if they were ignorant machos writing for a similar audience. (Get it? Get It? Ooh! Genius!) The whole package is there: Phobia of all things French, casual misogyny, disdain of intellectualism, love of firearms and strong homo-erotic fascination for John Wayne and similar icons. It's easy to picture the audience tearing through cases of beer, slapping their girlfriends around and voting Republican.

It's meant to be satire, but there's a limit to the enjoyment you can get from such shtick, especially when it's dragged on for so long. A good number of their capsule reviews are interchangeable, and don't be surprised if you find yourself overdosing on words like "virile", "two-fisted", "rugged" and the omnipresent "manly". The book is best approached in very small doses; maybe a page a week.

The authors aren't fooling anyone with their dumb-and-dumber masquerade: occasional polysyllabic words slip by, and the old-school focus of the book (with a strong emphasis on westerns and films of the forties) is something what wouldn't pass muster with a manly crowd deeply suspicious of black-and-white features. I don't think I've heard about half the movies described in here and for the most cases, I now feel as if I don't need to know any more about them.

But that places The Manly Movie Guide in a strange demimonde (Ooh! Fancy French word!) with its ironic detachment working against both the high and the low-brow crowd. There's too much sarcasm for real rednecks and too much repetitiveness for the film geeks like me. This is a strangely misguided book, its encyclopedic knowledge of "manly" movies (itself a very limiting restriction) being undone by an exasperating tone.

In short, I'd rather read Chick on Film again for a series of recommendation influenced by a gender, but not limited by an artificial set of limits. The Manly Movie Guide may be without any adequate public, and that's reason enough to leave it on the shelf. Alone.

 

Fashionably Late,
Olivia Goldsmith

Harper Collins, 1994, 431 pages

If the fashion industry mystifies, amuses, annoys or interests you, Fashionably Late ought to prove a delicious reading experience. Pop-fun author Olivia Goldsmith has trashed the acting and publishing professions elsewhere (in Flavour of the Month and The Bestseller, respectively)... but this time she's got another field to explore, and she proves remarkably adept at presenting both the glory and the misery of haute couture in this novel.

It all revolves around Karen Kahn, fashion designer and owner of her own prestigious label. At first glance, she's got everything one would want: Money, fame, love and the admiration of her peers. But even as she's awarded an important industry prize, a doomed man appears (in classic tragic fashion) to warn her that fame is feeling and it can end very, very quickly. As the novel progresses, there are plenty of opportunities for Karen's world to crumble: her family is packed with dysfunctional relatives, her husband is prone to bouts of moodiness and her business is being courted by a rich buyer. As if that wasn't enough, Karen is also contemplating her own lineage; though she knows she's an adopted child, her own biological clock has rung out: Adoption is the only possibility if she wants to raise a child.

Melodramatic stuff, but that's half the fun of it. Goldsmith can write big fat pop novels like none other, and her professionalism shines throughout the book. The fashion industry is a big and complex beast, and one of Goldsmith's most successful talent is to manage to slowly reveal it all, from sewing to modelling, in compelling and unobtrusive scenes. Exposition is well-handled , and doesn't take much to be fascinated by the convincing background details. In many ways, this feels like one of Arthur Hailey's docu-fictive novels, except that Goldsmith can juggle both plot and documentary with an ease that leaves good old Arthur coughing in the dust.

A large part of this superiority depends on her strong sense of characterization. While Goldsmith can't be accused of too much ambiguity, she knows exactly what is needed for the type of novel she's writing. Here, it's interesting to see the distribution of quirks. While Fashionably Late features several viewpoint characters, it spends most of its time inside Karen's head. Fittingly enough, the lead protagonist is emotionally bland while her entourage is stuffed with showy supporting characters. This allows the reader to project emotions on the protagonist and be impressed by the actions of others. Good stuff!

While I'm working from an incomplete database (three novels out of nearly a dozen), Goldsmith's moral storytelling seems ironclad so far. Heroes win; villains are punished. While Fashionably Late isn't as decisively punitive as, say, Flavour of the Month, it certainly rewards the good guys and promises pain and punishment for the evil ones. The suspense in Goldsmith's novels isn't in seeing who wins, but in seeing them err on either good and evil before settling on one alignment and suffering the consequences. Manipulative and populist, maybe, but also decidedly comfortable; reading an Olivia Goldsmith is guaranteed to be a satisfactory, uncomplicated experience.

Satisfactory and amusing, naturally. The prose style is deliciously clear and compelling; while it may take a while to absorb all the characters and the multiple plot threads the novel acquires quite a narrative momentum that does a lot to propel the book forward. Don't be surprised to read more and more of the book as it advances. The little twists thrown at the end are a bit over-the-top, but that too had become somewhat of a Goldsmith griffe. It's not as if half of the so-called "twists" can be seen well in advance. (Oh, gee, I wonder what will happen to the baby...?)

As Fashionably Late concludes, it also moves both the protagonist and the reader toward a more balanced view of the fashion industry, after showing both the glamour and the misery, the admiration and the contempt engendered by it. Few will fail to be impressed to see where Karen end up, though some may step back and tut-tut the warm and fuzzy feeling of the conclusion. To those I say shoo, because they obviously haven't understood the rules of Goldsmith's universe. It may not be the real world, but it works for me, in a certain fashion.

 

Flag in Exile (Honor Harrington 5)
David Weber

Baen, 1995, 480 pages
(Read as an eBook, from the War of Honor CD-ROM)

It's become customary to introduce every new instalment of the Honor Harrington series with some variant on "Honor is Back!" But this time around, the twist is that she is not back. Exiled from the Manticoran Navy after her actions in the previous volume, she's back "home" as the steadholder of a brand-new territory on Grayson, the planet she managed to save in The Honor of the Queen. She may not be a ranking officer of her majesty's navy anymore, but she keeps busy: Running a stead takes a lot of time and energy, especially when she's the first-ever female steadholder in what is still a deeply conservative society. Some people clearly aren't happy about that particular achievement...

Meanwhile, the Royal Manticoran Navy is still fighting the war initiated by the eeevil socialist Havenites two volumes ago. The engagement seems protracted enough to last for several more novels, and to make things worse, the Havenites are planning on attacking Grayson. As it naturally turn out, Honor Harrington is ready for them given her newly-acquired commission as an admiral of the Grayson Navy...

After the successful non-military focus of Field of Dishonor, Weber takes an hybrid approach in plotting Flag in Exile: While the military aspect comes back along with Honor's admiralty, the political conflicts are also present in her efforts to defend her stead against the more backward elements of Grayson's elite. Cynics will merely point out that this is like recycling the best bits of the second and fourth novels (complete with a duel and a big space engagement), but when it works, it works: There's no need to be a spoilsport.

It's not as if there isn't something new to gnaw upon: Honor Harrington's gradual apprenticeship as a steadholder is a new element, and we get to see her spend quite a lot of time in this uncharacteristic environment. Maybe too much time is spent describing the intricacies of Grayson politics, though the payoff is immense. The sheer boo-hiss perversity of her opponent's plans are a marvel of audience manipulation, and so is the way she fights back against them. For a second volume in a row, she has to match wits with experts in martial fields not of her choosing. Unsurprisingly, she comes out ahead, though Weber actually manages to make us believe in how it's done: We go from dreadful certainty of failure to triumphant (and inevitable) victory in only a few pages, an achievement that may have been impossible for another less experienced reader.

Then it's off to space for the routine big space battle, the issue of which is a foregone conclusion. Worth noting this time around, though, is the good portrayal of performance under duress: seldom have we seen Harrington placed under so much stress, and the constant pain in which she has to operate is well-described. Also amusing is the return of the second book's antagonist, this time as a colleague of Harrington in this new Grayson Navy. Cute.

All told, it's another pretty good entry in the series, with Weber's usual flair for good characters and clear prose carrying the series along as much as the plot and the overall arc. By this point in the series, it's obvious that this is closer to an episodic TV soap than a feature film in terms of dramatic construction: The series can afford to take forever in setting up a few elements given that they'll play out over a lengthy period. (The Havenite War, for instance, seems to be good for at least another trilogy) Naturally, this episodic nature strengthens even more the importance of recurring elements: We're now at a point where we're expected to recognize characters as they come back in Harrington's life.

These are certainly not bad things if you've got all the novels so far (say, as provided by the CD-ROM bundled with the Hardcover edition of War of Honor), but they may be a dampening factor for everyone contemplating to dive into the series. Hey, it's well-worth it... but be prepared to spend a lot of time in Harrington's universe.

 

McDonald's: Behind the Arches,
John F. Love

Bantam, 1986, 470 pages

I didn't pick this book; it picked me. Fell on me, actually. Slipped off the shelf at a used book sale and was caught in mid-air by a reflex action of mine. One can't ignore those signs; I brought it home.

It's hard to find a more iconic institution than McDonald's. Given that the average North-American is almost always within good walking distance of one of their outlets, this restaurant chain has come to represent far more than just fast food. It has been associated with gastronomic imperialism, the culture of speed, the fattening up of America, the perils of globalization and a rigid sense of order. Step into any McDonald's anywhere in the world and you will find commonalities with all the others.

From the outside, McDonald's seems to exemplify rigidity, stability and hierarchy. But as John F. Love manages to show in Behind the Arches, this is an incomplete, carefully cultivated portrait. For the strength of McDonald's has been not unthinking devotion to order, but reigned entrepreneurial spirit. McDonald's has always encouraged innovations, both inside and outside their immediate purview.

Obviously, this is a "friendly" biography of McDonald's. While the project wasn't commissioned by the company, extensive collaboration was given to Love in order for him to complete the project. While the book does discuss the sometime-rocky corporate history of the firm with a critical eye, it seldom delves into the darker side of the company. You'll have to read Fast-Food Nation for that.

But in some ways, it doesn't matter. McDonald's success story can be appreciated regardless of one's feeling toward the food offered there. At times, it almost seems too good to be true; the story of two brothers with a good idea (speed and price; always speed and price!), a refined system and a convinced salesman who'd transform this kernel into the foundation of an empire. Behind the Arches is also the story of the people who made a success out of McDonald's, and none of them as grandiose as Ray E. Kroc, the man those no-nonsense approach made an empire out of McDonald's.

The early struggles of McDonald's are told in a detailed, almost breathless style that requires very little effort to read. While the early heroics of the corporation latter transform into high-finance deals (including a disastrous flirtation with a more rigid style of management), the book remains interesting from the start to end. Seldom has there been a more compelling corporate biography.

It's not as if it's an ordinary story. The bare facts are astonishing: The way McDonald's restructured whole industries in order to be best-served. The importance of the franchisees. The decentralized fashion by which advertising is used. The emphasis on real estate. The technological innovation that went into developing even the simplest food products. The difficult foreign expansion of the company. The battle for rumour control and favourable opinion. There's a lot of good stuff in here, and it's all worth reading. The origins of Ronald McDonald are almost charmingly quaint, whereas the process by which some of the most recognizable McDonald staples were created is a monument to food engineering.

The biggest problem of Behind the Arches, naturally, is the 1986 publication date. Fifteen years past, who knows what has changed since then? Is McDonald's still so loyal with its suppliers? Does it still depend so much on the individualism of their franchisees? An update would be useful.

But in the end, I was so impressed (and, true, so curious), that I willingly stepped in another McDonald's (meters away from my workplace, a location that was the sole victim of vandalism during the Ottawa anti-globalization protests of 2001) after years of absence. Despite the noon-time crowd, service took less than five minutes. Once back at my office, I offered brief congratulations to Ray E. Kroc, started eating and headed over to www.mcspotlight.com because I'm such a sucker for irony. The meal reminded me of why I hadn't eaten McDonald's in a while, but in a way, it doesn't matter nearly as much as the impressive display of ingenuity, determination and sheer cleverness that is the true basis of McDonald's success. Even critics and pundits can't help but being impressed, whatever their sentiments may be regarding what McDonald's stands for.

So here's to you, Ray A. Kroc, Fred Turner, and united franchisees. Good show.

 

The Forge of Mars
Bruce Balfour

Ace, 2002, 404 pages, $9.99 Can., ISBN 0-441-00954-9

It seemed promising enough: A novel mixing alien relics, a maverick hero, nanotechnology, robots, artificial intelligence and conspiracies reaching back in our history. It's not as if there hasn't been plenty of good SF novels with "Mars" in their titles over the past few years. Plus, Balfour has designed one of my all-time favourite computer adventures, Wasteland. What could go wrong?

Well, The Forge of Mars doesn't go wrong as much as it doesn't go anywhere coherent, interesting or pleasant. The novel switches sub-genres every hundred pages, creating the impression of a monster with too many heads and not enough muscle.

Even the opening sequence smacks of trouble, combining a training scenario shuttle crash with some muddy mysticism. Yep, this is the entrance of our hero, Tau Wolfsinger, a genius half-Native American whose rebel ideas prove too controversial for the NASA. Meanwhile, behind the shadows, a group of powerful men and women are dealing with the sudden appearance of alien artifacts on Mars... artifacts that may be not dissimilar to those discovered in Siberia on the site of the Tunguska disaster. One of the elements of the plan consists in manipulating Tau to ship him off to Mars. But whereas a simple "please" might have sufficed, a convoluted plan emerges which involves first shipping off his girlfriend, killing his mentor and assigning him an aggressively seductive colleague.

This first part of The Forge of Mars plays like a high-tech thriller, and it does contain interesting elements. The menace of the conspiracy is disturbing, and the NASA bureaucracy is used in an intriguing fashion. But already, signs of narrative fatigue are obvious; the useless detours can tax anyone's patience, and the murder scene which tops this section seems gratuitously gory in light of the rest of the story. It's an effective, unsettling moment, but it belongs in another book.

Then the book, midway through, shifts gears just in time for the lengthy voyage which will take Tau to Mars. This sequence is oddly familiar, given all the similar sequences that pepper the countless Mars-themed Hard-SF novels that have been published since the early nineties. This sentiment of familiarity carries over the initial scenes on Mars, as Tau establishes his research operation.

But don't get too comfortable: before long, Tau fails to reunite with his girlfriend and is taken hostage by an evil Russian conspiracy member and his dog. He escapes, only to have the thematic ground of the novel shift under him once more as he's asked to lead a series of war games for an alien race someplace far far away from Mars. Naaah, I'm not making this up. Fortunately, battle-wizard Tau eventually comes back to Mars to lead an attack against the evil Russians (and the dog) to liberate Mars.

Or something like that. Despite the various interesting elements used by The Forge of Mars, Balfour always takes the long way around, thus dissipating whatever tension accumulates. By the time Tau has become some sort of alien Ender Wiggins, readers might be wondering if there was even an editor around when they decided to publish the novel; too many plot threads, not enough narrative energy. The writing is nowhere as good as it should be to make us shrug off the rest of the book's weaknesses. Bland and disjointed a dull novel it makes.

In the end, it doesn't amount to much, and I suspect that my fuzzy memory of the book will erode even further in the next few months. It's probably no accident if this is an Ace paperback original; certainly, it's a cut below what we may expect for an average SF novel, let alone something worth our attention. Nothing to see here; let's move along.

 

Grand Theft Auto: Vice City
Rockstar Games

PC Version, 2003, ~$65Can.

I don't usually write computer game reviews because most of the time, I don't play any. Though I was a grade-A gamer in high school (Ah, Sierra On-Line...) where I had ample time to channel my obsessive tendencies to such pursuits, college clearly showed me that I could either pass classes or play games. Aside from the occasional binges of Master of Orion or Civilization, I've stayed far away from gaming since then. Whenever I still indulge (Half-Life, Metal Gear Solid), I always end up feeling guilty of sinking dozens of hours in a game when I should be writing, reading or cleaning up house.

The reason why you're reading this today is that I have spend way too much time playing Grand Theft Auto III, and its sequel. I've been a fan of the series since the first GTA, but thanks to my younger brother, I recently "discovered" Grand Theft Auto 3, losing myself in the game after-hours at the office (because my home computer was too slow) for many evenings and at least one weekend. GTA3 is one of the most addictive gaming experience so far, sucking time out of anyone's life as if there was nothing else in the world.

The acquisition of a new home computer and the PC-port release of the acclaimed sequel Grand Theft Auto: Vice City was excuse enough for a day-one purchase and the wilful sacrifice of a long weekend. It turned out to be time well-wasted: Basically, almost everything that GTA3 got right, Vice City improved. Rather than presenting a bland and mute character supposed to represent us all as in GTA3, Vice City puts us in the shoes of Tommy, a Liberty City (read: "New York") mobster sent to Vice City (read: "Miami") to fulfil some mission. The exchange turns sour, money is stolen and pretty soon, Tommy is out on the streets of Vice City to build himself a crime empire before his bosses come down for a word with him. Tommy definitely has a personality and makes decisions for the player. In this regard, GTA:VC feels like a role-playing game and enhances our involvement in the storyline.

Alas, the clear narrative progression so obvious in GTA3 is far less compelling this time around. In what may be one of the only failings of Vice City, the game chooses to adopt a far more diffuse style of game play, allowing a broader, less linear game experience. Tommy doesn't progress from crime lord to more powerful crime lord, but goes around doing various missions, buying buildings and waiting for the Liberty City bosses to come around to demand their dues. Fine and well, but this robs the game from a steady dramatic build-up. The last mission is ridiculously easy with the proper weapons, rather unlike the final mission in GTA3.

But playing this game for the plot is missing more than half the fun. As with the entire GTA series, Vice City is a playground rather than "an interactive plot", and what makes the game stand tall above anything else on the market is the incredible addiction of the virtual environment. You're free to explore an entire city (a much bigger city than GTAIII's Liberty City), shoot pedestrians, drive more than a hundred different type of vehicles like a maniac, engage in open warfare with authorities and essentially do what you want. Drive emergency vehicles, fly around the city, engage in street racing, snipe gang members and sell ice cream. The sense of freedom offered by Vice City is a heady approximation of virtual reality, even as primitive as it is.

The only notable game-play deficiency is the set of controls for airborne vehicles. Even though the GTA controls are renowned for maximum playability, the keys used to control the helicopters and planes of the game seem deliberately designed by a sadistic madman for maximum frustration. I can't say whether this is deliberate (as "an extra challenge", no doubt) or an accident in the process of porting the Playstation 2 game to PC format, but I can tell you it's supremely frustrating. And this particular setup isn't even customizable! Gaaah!

Otherwise, the game engine has been extensively tweaked and improved from the already-impressive GTAIII environment. Not only does the game now feel even more responsive, but even the details have been enhanced: Car throw clumps of grass and puffs of sand in the air when off-road. Hoods, when damaged, fly away at a certain speed. Damage rendering is improved. You can now enter buildings. Policemen can shoot your tires to slow you down. You can drive motorcycles, helicopters and real planes. Small trivial improvements, but they all add up to an experience that's far more immersive than anything ever seen in video gaming. You can -you will, you must!- lose yourself in this game.

Is it fair, then, to complain about the violence? The core of GTA is the infinite capacity for mayhem offered by the game's freedom of action. And yet, as we refine the virtual game play and bring it closer to so-called reality, some things aren't nearly as amusing as they were when they were represented by blocky pixellized top-down views of the action. A mission involving the violent invasion of police headquarters left me a touch squeamish, especially given my own distinct preference for stealth, patience and graceful subtlety. While it would be unfair of me to condemn the GTA series' gift for unsupervised chaos, well, maybe GTA: Dark Blue would be something cool to see? As long as I'm blowing up cars and shooting humanoids, can't they be criminals rather than law enforcement representatives?

Far less forgivable, however, is the casual misogyny exhibited here. Unsurprisingly for a product of American culture, Vice City's "maturity" in sexual matters lags far behind its shocking depiction of violence. While GTA3 was already quite nasty in its depiction of women (none of them survived the story, and that's not even mentioning the representation of prostitutes), it at least offered strong female characters (crime bosses, even). None of this here, as the two main female characters are a porn star and a young woman only too happy to be pimped to rock stars and porn producers. That left a sour impression marring an otherwise pleasant game. I don't need to re-iterate the usual clichés about how and why games traditionally appeal to boys more than girls. But what may escape Rockstar North is that this misogyny is handicapping their efforts to enhance the sexiness of their game: While the box art promises us the lush curves of Mercedes (Ah... Mercedes...), the game carefully avoid any romantic entanglement in favour of making her the city's foremost slut. Suffice to say that there's nothing even half as sexy as GTA3-Asuka's purring "We have certain issues to clear up before we can continue any form of relationship, business or otherwise" this time around. (Granted, the game engine is made for cars and buildings, not curvy characters: To "unlock" the strip club, you have to spend time looking at what is supposed to be a scantily-dressed female model. The experience is more ridiculous than arousing.)

And that's really too bad, because in all other aspects, Vice City is all about sexiness. This lush parody of eighties-era Miami is the result of way too much Miami Vice, but -darn!- it just feels great. While I was initially dubious about the retro setting, it doesn't really make any difference in pure fun: Vice City is all about gaudy neons, girls in roller-skates, hazy humidity, fast sport cars and miles of sandy beaches. It's a wonderful place to spend a weekend, and certainly more than that. Far away from Liberty City's grey drabness, Vice City is sin, sun and fun.

The noteworthy soundtrack does a lot to enhance this already fantastic atmosphere. A marvel of musical taste, Vice City's soundtrack liberally uses just about every single hit track from 1986, from Quiet Riot's "Cum on Feel the Noize" to Michael Jackson's "Gotta Be Startin' Something". In-game "radio" has always been a hallmark of the GTA series, and it's better than ever here. All told, the nine radio stations in Vice City total nearly eleven hours of pure audio goodness, from rock to rap to pop to Spanish to talk radio. Wonderful! You can even download a simple XOR decoder from the web to convert the proprietary audio file format (those pesky digital rights, you know...) to MP3 format for outside listening. Don't feel surprised if you suddenly feel compelled to rush out and buy the game's soundtrack anthology...

In short, Vice City is a marvel of technology and game design, marred by a few unfortunate choices that may not matter very much to the target audience. Don't let those few flaws distract you from one of the surest entertainment choices available these days; you'll be sinking so much time in Vice City that over the long run, those $60 to buy the game may end up being mere cents per entertainment-hour. Grand Theft Vice City clearly shows the way forward for interactive entertainment, and suggest a more mature threshold for video games. Say goodbye to friends and family, move the fridge next to the computer and don't miss it!