Games: GSC Game World - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Shadow of Chernobyl

GSC Game World
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.
[First-Person Shooter/RPG]






The Plot: after a second incident at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the Ukraine, disparate groups of stalkers have flocked to the area following rumours of valuable artefacts spread all around the area. One stalker is found, alive, among a pile of corpses, and is brought to a nearby trader who sets him up for a life in The Zone. A single objective remains on his old PDA: “Kill Strelok”.

I first saw a trailer for S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Shadow of Chernobyl five years ago. At the time, I found the level of detail exhibited by GSC Game World’s nascent X-Ray engine to be scarily realistic, not least because back then, in 2002, real-time dynamic lighting and accurate physics were a big deal. Now, four years after Half-Life 2, wobbly chairs and breakable lights only raise an eyebrow when not included in the latest game. Even the once-formidable promise of a large, fully-interactive, living and breathing land-mass now fails to excite in the wake of games like Oblivion.

Arguably, however, Sergiy Grygorovych and his team only have themselves to blame for the problem; the game, blighted by countless delays, was released years overdue. And, like many games infamous for being delayed, it is chaotic, confused, at times disastrous and often hopelessly overambitious. Yet, in spite (of perhaps because) of all its flaws, Shadow of Chernobyl is one of the best PC games in a long while.

Given their sheer volume, attempting to list all of the game’s deficiencies would be a futile exercise. However, a few are nevertheless worth noting. Technically, it is a complete dog’s breakfast, stuttering erratically and frequently to load extra details during gameplay. Even on lower settings, it was almost possible to hear my computer groaning under the pressure of managing the 30,000+ objects active during a game. Additionally, the in-game currency system is pretty useless, not only because they player will gather more than enough money through the course of the adventure to buy out all of the businesses in The Zone twice over, but also because a powerful enough arsenal can be acquired without ever visiting any of the game’s three merchants (more than anything else it reminded me of the similarly flawed system in the Grand Theft Auto series). Thirdly, the end of the game was clearly rushed, and has suffered for it. What I thought to be the final third of the game turned out to be a manic half-hour dash through the final three maps, which were cluttered with so many enemies that the only viable option was to dump almost all of my kit, jam the sprint key and run like the wind for a couple of miles. When compared to the carefully-considered, brooding menace of the early stages, it felt shallow and unnecessary.

It is also one of the most unpolished major releases in a while, shipping with a plethora of aesthetic errors (poor translation, broken objectives) and graphic misdemeanours (bad clipping, disappearing corpses). However, if you’re anything like me, you’ll enjoy the ramshackle production and sharp edges which, as previously witnessed in Operation Flashpoint and Deus Ex, lend the game a rare humanity in a format largely characterised by dismal sterility. Dare I say it, if ever there could be a punk approach to video game development, Shadow of Chernobyl’s rough and ready, distinctly three-chord approach is as close as you’re going to get.

“So,” you may rightfully inquire, “why is it so great?” Well, it is so, so, so great because, first and foremost, it is a significant artistic achievement. As far as I can recall, no development team has ever attempted to set a 3D game in or around the Chernobyl power plant. However, GSC Game World’s creation is stunningly imaginative, engrossing and believable. From the deserted outer reaches of the Cordon and Garbage areas, to the unhinged claustrophobia of the underground ‘X’ laboratories, to the diseased swaps of the Yantar region, to the sharp undulations of the Red Forest, to the numb emptiness of the neighbouring city, Pripyat, to the oppressive gloom of the plant itself, each of the areas is a notable feat. Even more standard locations like the Army Warehouses and the Agropom Research Institute possess character, successfully managing to avoid the dreaded cut ’n’ paste fingerprint of professional editing software.

What is perhaps most impressive of all about the environments, however, is the noticeable lack of contact the player is likely to experience. At times, for example, it is possible to explore the ins and outs of a complex base without encountering a soul. As such, it would seem as though the levels were constructed without the usual confines of “an explosive barrel here” and “a sniping position there” that often plague less free-form shooters. That said, the level of detail is still incredibly high throughout, with supplies hidden away in the most unlikely (and often unreachable) of places, meaning each location is worth exploring thoroughly.

Did someone say exploring? Shadow of Chernobyl is certainly a sizeable game, with a potential lifespan of thirty hours if the entire array of secondary missions is attempted. Though I’m not a believer in the much-cited proportionality between the length of a game and its merit, this world is one which most players will be compelled to lose themselves in.

Another impressive feature of the game is the self-sustaining nature of the environment. AI stalkers will explore, jostle for territory, fight mutants, pick up and drop equipment and congregate around camp fires, all of their own accord, again helping to reinforce the authenticity of the absorbing atmosphere. Moreover, the first time I witnessed a fellow survivor strumming an incongruous thread of chords on a bruised guitar was, to say the least, a particularly memorable moment.

Shadow of Chernobyl also presents an interesting moral dilemma worthy of discussion. At the beginning of my journey as the mysterious (anti-)hero known only as “The Marked One”, I was almost too scared to move. Whether that was due to the lack of constraint, the dearth of supplies, the lack of allies, the hostility of the environment (as well as radioactivity, the player must avoid ‘anomalies’ - large, often invisible environmental entities spewing fire, lightning and so forth) or another, unseen factor, I’m not entirely sure. What was certain, though, was that I was dizzy with relief every time I managed to make a new friend or get my novice hands on bullets and bandages. Hell, even a processed sausage was treasure. By the end of the game, however, tanked up with the best weapons and equipment and all but invincible to small arms fire, I found myself executing random stalkers at will, at times even wiping out entire groups just because I could. Not only is the changing power structure of the world interesting to experience first hand, it also gives the player a real sense of satisfaction as previously challenging areas which saw The Marked One ducking for cover can later be used for a relaxed, early morning stroll.

Speaking of the dawn hours, Shadow of Chernobyl also features a fully-functional day/night cycle, with each ‘day’ lasting around two hours in real time. This leads to the occasional late night jaunt in low visibility which, at times, is almost as terrifying as the edge-of-seat madness encountered in the aforementioned ‘X’ laboratories; if you thought the tension in Oblivion’s underground caverns was unbearable, wait until you’re being stalked through a pitch-black death trap by a seven-foot, sprinting, invisible Bloodsucker while being pelted with boxes and barrels by an equally invisible (and seemingly invincible) Poltergeist.

Considering how seriously you take your guns, the best feature of Shadow of Chernobyl may in fact be the impressive ballistics system. Early pistols look and feel like pea shooters - pathetically weak and horribly inaccurate - while some of the high-tech gear encountered towards the end of the game (including a grenade launcher, an RPG, and a rail gun, no less) can rip anything to shreds at a hundred paces. None of the guns have their real-life names but, considering the confidence boost attained when wielding some of the more arcane, shrapnel-spitting beasts, that’s probably a good thing.

With such a plethora of impressive traits - some of them ground-breaking (the art direction, the chilling atmosphere, the adaptive AI) and some of them just very well done (good guns, good role-playing elements, good story) - it is a great shame that Shadow of Chernobyl is prevented from entering the realm of all-time greats on a handful of niggles. The technical and production issues are incidental, neither major nor hugely noticeable, but for me the end sequence is incredibly disappointing and, to a degree, undermines the impression left by such an accomplished and harrowing vision of the near future.

Nevertheless, Shadow of Chernobyl remains a valuable comment on the material focus of our times. By exposing the ills of a world where driven treasure hunters look for property in the wilderness, a world of rigid structures where those with the most goods rule the roost and a world where making as few enemies as possible is a major priority, GSC have provided a formidable allegory for twenty-first century culture. 88

Feature: The Art of the Anti-game

Unlike almost every other cultural medium (literature, art, music, film), displeasing the recipient in a video game is regarded as an unacceptable fault, essentially a sign of weakness on the part of those responsible. The problem lies in the perception of the role video games have to play in society. To many, the clue is in the name, with the purpose of a game to please, to entertain and to occupy, acting as a pleasant distraction from the bad-tempered adrenalin rush of modern times.

However, while respected musicians have indulged in noise and drone, celebrated authors have streamed their conscience to great acclaim and revered movie makers have delighted in not making sense, few (if any) video games have ever been successfully recognised or applauded for being deliberately bad, clichéd or difficult. There are many examples I could cite for the purposes of this essay, but the two I will discuss are a pair which I believe to be among the most important anti-games - Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty and Silent Hill 4: The Room. The former is essential because it was heavily criticised yet still regarded as instant classic, but for all the wrong reasons, while the latter is even more impressive as an example of the type of game which knowingly makes off-putting design choices, almost purposefully inciting derision purely for thrill of being perceived a failure.

Throughout the months of trailers leading up to the release of MGS2 we were treated to more than enough shots of the Playstation 2’s unofficial mascot, Solid Snake, cavorting aboard an oil tanker in the Hudson River. However, when the game was released, Snake was only playable for the first fifth of the game (the section included on the pre-release demo), before the player was suddenly burdened with a young, blonde, androgynous, idealistic and sentimental protagonist by the name of Raiden. This was a stroke of genius for so many reasons, the most notable of which was the deliberate exclusion of the reason many people may have bought the game in the first place.

Tough, masculine and oh so heterosexual, Snake was as formulaic a hero as you might expect to find in any cheap and cheerful action game/movie/book. He was Slash, Jack Ryan and John McClane all rolled into one, definitely cool and definitely male; all the men wanted to be him, all the women wanted to be of him. Raiden, on the other hand, was more of a Ziggy Stardust or a Travis Bickle - unsure, awkward and unwanted - and rapidly became the most loathed character in videogame history.

And all this from Hideo Kojima, the industry’s bright light and the one who could not stop sounding off about why he loved Bond films, why everyone loved Snake and why games should be more like movies. And then, when everyone had their backs turned and was relieved to be approaching the end of the game and the end of Raiden, he plunged in the knife, turned it into a movie, complete with half-hour cutscenes, nonsensical plot developments and thousands of lines of radio dialogue heaped on top of one another, pushing the player’s patience to breaking point. “You made your bed”, he whispered, “now lie in it”.

The game was also infused with a unique blend of magic realism that many found off-putting, featuring a vampire, a fat guy on rollerblades who plants bombs (called Fatman), the return of a ninja character and, perhaps most significant of all in videogame terms, a physicallyunattractive female character. The hairy, crop-topped, treacherous Olga was such an affront to video game convention that, even today, she remains the only significant character of her type that I can recall.

In such a conventional setting (New York, terrorists, presidents, guns, bombs, gore), Kojima crafted a masterpiece of an anti-game heretofore unmatched which, despite being critiqued as much as it was praised, still managed to earn tremendously high review scores. Why? Simple - because it is Kojima and because it is Metal Gear Solid.

Not knowing what to make of it, critics loved it through gritted teeth and clenched fists, no doubt skipping most of the later cutscenes, longing for original’s simplicity but knowing that, because of all the features and first looks and interviews and exclusives, to slam the game would have been akin to smacking a small child. MGS2 was their baby - they had brought it up and unleashed it on the world - so the perceived faults were overlooked as minor teething problems, a man’s mind stretched too far for its own good, an honest mistake. In reality, he duped us all, critics and fans alike, by being antagonistic and successful, proving once and for all that a game could be great by not being fun.

The case of Silent Hill 4: The Room is not so clear cut as MGS2 because, by their very nature, Silent Hill titles exist as anti-games to an extent; they are short, unfair, disturbing and mature, avoiding survival horror clichés like the plague (or should that be like the T-Virus). However, where the first three games in the series were each an example of meshing playability with the unpleasant, SH4 attempted to be unpleasant aesthetically as well as structurally. By the time the third game had garnered the series more reserved praise and an even more limited market, the developers clearly realised they had room to experiment like never before.

With the dark, brooding atmosphere and intellectualism remaining firmly intact, Team Silent took it upon themselves to really screw with your mind, breaking more taboos than any carrier bag or shard of glass ever could. Instead of looking for new ways to be controversial, they scoured video game archives for the various techniques and methods which infuriate conventional gamers, often driving them to give up on a game entirely.

I’m talking about a limited inventory system (where ten bullets use up as much space as a golf club), excessive backtracking, respawning enemies, mixing first- and third-person perspectives, limited save points and, perhaps the most unforgivable offence of all, invincible enemies. Apart from some backtracking, none of these things appeared in previous Silent Hill titles, so the obvious question is, “If it ain’t broke, why try to fix it?” The answer, though, is an effortlessly simple one of the Piperian variety: “Because we want to.”

When Lou Reed made Metal Machine Music, he wanted to piss people off. He was rich, talented, famous and admired, but he chose to do that which is so often frowned upon: he went pretentious. In SH4 it was no different; Team Silent must have tired of experimenting with light, texture and sound in order to assemble as unpleasant an atmosphere as possible and, instead, indulged themselves in the forbidden fruit of video game development - the noble art of the deliberate mistake.

In addition to the aforementioned changes, the men and women at Konami opted to deconstruct that which they had created: the Silent Hill cliché. Along with the lack of save points (normally there is one around every second corner), they removed the flashlight and the radio (akin to taking herbs out of Resident Evil titles or summons out of the Final Fantasy series), removed the choking darkness and much of the legendary mist and even set the game outside Silent Hill; to all intents and purposes, it wasn’t a Silent Hill game.

As a result, it was arguably an even greater anti-game than Kojima’s glorious spectacle because, unlike MGS2, it actually angered gamers as much as, if not more than, it set out to. “Roll out the 6/10!” cried the video game world, “Its Silent Hill, folks, but know as we know it.” What they meant to say was that The Room was Silent Hill, but not as they wanted it. The nurses, the lead pipes and the stuttering hiss of radio static had become the norm to such an extent that the slightest whiff of variety was a crushing disappointment.

What most critics didn’t count on was the fact that, as well as collapsing the foundations of their own, strenuously-established reputation, Konami wanted SH4 to be known as the game where the even best in the business could prove to be fallible. In doing so, they successfully galvanized anticipation ahead of the series’ next-generation debut - the arena where the series will surely thrive - without anyone the wiser. And anyway, everyone who bought Silent Hills 1, 2 and 3 would have bought the game anyway, so the risk factor was minimal all along.

Was it cynical ploy, a cheeky shot of revenge on behalf of the anti-game, or neither? You decide.

Film: Dir. Andrew Bujalski - Mutual Appreciation

Dir. Andrew Bujalski
Mutual Appreciation
[Drama/Indie]

The plot: Alan (Justin Rice) is a musician who leaves a busted-up band for New York, and a new musical voyage. He tries to stay focused and fends off all manner of distractions, including the attraction to his good friend's girlfriend (Rachel Clift).

Mutual Appreciation, the sophomore effort of writer-director Andrew Bujalski, is one of those films which are so unapologetically genre-specific that, within the first five minutes, viewers will know if they are going to adore or abhor. Shot in black and white and in that wobbly, unprofessional style so beloved of today’s professionals, it features insecure people mumbling to other insecure people about things they really shouldn’t be so insecure about. Little surprise, then, that it is one of the most impressive films I have seen so far this year*.

This recommendation should be taken with a pinch of salt, however, because, without wishing to sound too much like the prickly, outstretched tentacle of truth belonging to a certain Friday night television review programme, Mutual Appreciation is not for everyone.

What it is, though, is a big, colourless, two-fingered salute to the recent cultural obsession with all things normal. Unlike all the books, games, music and movies that purport to celebrate the mundane but do so through a clean-cut looking glass of icy precision, this is fucking mundane, and dull, and unimportant and hopelessly unspectacular.

As characters shuffle from room to room, uttering sweet nothings between sips of water, tweaks of hair and adjustments of belt buckles, we are reminded just what it takes to make a great independent film - a complete lack of consideration for the comfort of the viewer, the producer, and acts 1, 2a, 2b and 3. There are no twists, no shocks, no bangs (rarely any noise at all, in fact), hardly any bucks and a whole lot of youthful indignation. I wasn’t alive in 1977, but this is the type of movie which makes me wish I was.

Whereas the purpose of punk was to do be active, to do something (anything) to show how much society didn’t care, the role of films like Mutual Appreciation is to critique the relentless pace of that same society in the twenty-first century by being deliberately slow, achingly apathetic and irresistibly insignificant; don’t vote, don’t have kids, don’t get on the property ladder and don’t get a job. Instead, do have friends, do stay in school, do be creative and do whoever the hell you like. If you don’t have time then, well, that’s your own bloody fault. 90

* Though originally released in 2005, it only recently made its merry way to my area.

Film: Dir. Sam Raimi - Spider-Man 3

Dir. Sam Raimi
Spider-Man 3
[Action]







The plot: Peter Parker (Tobey MacGuire) and his girlfriend Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst) experience problems with their relationship while a mob of dastardly villains cause mayhem in New York. In an attempt to win back her heart, Parker once again dons the red suit and attempts to keep the peace, but he soon finds he isn’t strong enough to deal with them all. So what does he do? That’s right - he turns to the dark side! Whatever will Peter’s impeccably moral pals think of that…?

Considering it is the most expensive film ever made, Spider-Man 3 is a remarkably unspectacular affair; while there may be endless shots of Spidey swinging from building to building, collapsing scenery, high-speed chase sequences and oodles of green screen, the overall feel of the movie is one of conspicuous regularity. It is a two-and-a-half-hour slog through tired conventions, awash with missed opportunities and painfully aglow with all the requisite glitz and glamour of a summer blockbuster.

Maguire’s typically understated potrayal of the series’ withdrawn, bespectacled, slightly kooky (anti-)hero is again impressive, delivering appropriate helpings of self-conscious cool without ever venturing into the dreaded realm of geek chic. Unfortunately, however, he is forced to spend the majority of the movie’s duration spluttering lazy one-liners at the camera as the eponymous protagonist. Even more disappointing is the lack of scientific evidence to substantiate the implication that donning a tight-fitting, blood-red spandex two-piece is a one-way ticket to effortless charisma, intoxicating sex appeal and faultless integrity.

The plot holds together reasonably well for the first sixty minutes, documenting the questionable origins of the Sandman and providing an uncomfortable insight into Peter Parker’s now fractious relationship with Mary Jane, who is once again competently played by Kirsten Dunst (in case you hadn’t realised by now, she does ditzy and doe-eyed very well). However, after a bright start, things get very messy indeed as too much side-plot, too many villains and far too much Hollywood schmaltz (redemption, valour, patriarchal dogma!) overwhelm the strong sense of subtlety established in the opening hour.

Then again, considering very silly cult vanguard Sam Raimi was at the reigns, some may be willing to believe the rushed, tiresome and clichéd finale to be the machinations of a post-modern, absurdist masterpiece steeped in cultural ironies. I didn’t, though I have to admit that when, in order to authenticate his turn as ‘dark Spider-Man’, Maguire’s preppy mop was immaculately glued into position as the universal badge of post-millennial alienation - the emo fringe - I was partly convinced. 50

FIlm: Dir. Julien Temple - Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten

Dir. Julien Temple
Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten
[Documentary]









Fans of The Clash are famously hard to please. During the commercials at the screening of The Future Is Unwritten that I saw, someone in the audience violently erupted following the advert for a new, Russian-themed vodka called Stolichnaya, dismissing it as “counterrevolutionary bourgeois shite”. Of the many talking heads commenting on Joe’s life and legacy in the film, some (including, but not limited to, Bono and Johnny Depp) were subject to furious tirades from all corners of the room. Needless to say, at times it felt more like Question Time than cinema.

I consider myself a Clash fan and, as some would no doubt attest, I can be hard to please, but I nevertheless found Julien Temple’s biopic to be charming, heart-warming, reasonably informative and, crucially, well-researched. Exploring the bad and the good in equal measure, Temple has avoided much of the hagiography that so often plagues rockumentaries, especially in the case of the deceased, instead gathering together a motley assortment of family members, ex-girlfriends, old colleagues, former band members and random celebrities to provide a balanced and thoughtful account of the life of one of rock’s most iconic and enduring heroes.

Covering John Mellor’s days in a brutal barding school, his brother’s suicide, his phase as “Woody” in art school and the London squatting scene, his time in pub rock band the 101’ers and, of course, his transformation into Joe Strummer and the Clash era, as well as the post-Clash years, Temple’s film is hugely ambitious. However, most of the important phases in Joe’s life are covered in impressive detail even though, puzzlingly, no mention is ever made of The Clash’s underrated second album, Give ‘Em Enough Rope, or their early flirtations with America under producer and mogul Sandy Pearlman.

As alluded to previously, another of the film’s strengths is that it pulls no punches, taking a serious look at Joe’s womanizing habits, the fist fights, his manipulation of fans, the megalomania, his mistreatment of drummer Topper Headon and the fact that, much like the Sex Pistols, The Clash were a manufactured group - a boy band, if you will.

The only significant criticism that can be levelled at The Future Is Unwritten (and it is a big one) should be aimed in direction of those who have been responsible for putting it together. Obviously intended for devoted fans (names of the various contributors don’t appear in subtitles on screen, so if you don’t know your Don Letts from your Tymon Dogg, I imagine it would be very difficult to follow), it offers very little new information, only new perspectives on that which is already known, bringing into question the purpose of its existence. Too inaccessible for newcomers, it seems to offer all us fans a hearty pat on the back and very little else, recycling opinions better analysed in Pat Gilbert’s essential Clash biography, Passion Is a Fashion.

That said, two hours of self-congratulation doesn’t come much better than this. All together now: mi-idnight ‘til six, man… 76

Film: Dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo - 28 Weeks Later

Dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo
28 Weeks Later
[Horror]






The plot: 28 weeks after the initial outbreak of the Rage virus, London is quarantined and the US army is brought in to keep an eye on proceedings. Before long, though, the virus finds its way into the safe zone and all hell breaks loose again. The movie follows a group of plucky survivors as they attempt to escape the virus, London and the unspeakable brutality of assorted American military commanders.

A viewer’s enjoyment of 28 Weeks Later could largely depend on the extent of his or her anti-American sentiment; from the first minute to the last, the film is loaded with thinly-veiled allusions to friendly fire, collateral damage, military occupation, imperialism and, above all else, the supposed foolhardiness of our North American allies.

Whether or not this overtly political approach is warranted (or, indeed, wanted) is up for debate, however what is not in doubt is that, all in all, 28 Weeks Later is a pretty poor horror movie. While it retains the stunningly desolate, post-apocalyptic atmosphere of its superb predecessor, 28 Days Later, complete with wonderfully directed shots of deserted London streets, decaying landmarks (including an unkempt, overgrown Wembley stadium) and the impressively realised safe zone, elsewhere it doesn’t have a great deal going for it.

Firstly, the aforementioned survivors are a dull, uninspired bunch who, apart from a typically robust Robert Carlyle doing Robert Carlyle, do little to convince that their behaviour will deviate from the expected assortment of panicking, screaming, protesting and being mauled in a fantastically gruesome fashion. Don’t get me wrong - I love a fantastically gruesome mauling - but when the cast are so overtly identifiable in their respective roles as either ‘survivors’ or ‘food’, the violence becomes predictable and, thus, much harder to appreciate.

28 Weeks Later also isn’t that scary, mostly relying on stock ‘boo’ moments (camera, accompanied by very loud sound effect, turning to reveal close up of monster’s face) and confused, overly distorted camera work, rather than making effective use of the ingenious setup - previously put to such brilliant use in Danny Boyle’s 2002 original - and potentially provoking subtler chills.

Also, considering the quantities of claret spilled in the movie, it is surprising (and disappointing) how inoffensive 28 Weeks Later actually is; remember, the purpose of the genre is to offend on screen and, in doing so, hold a mirror to society and allow it to reflect upon its own misgivings. Would it be too much to suggest that the anti-American hyperbolae simply serve to disguise the fact that, on the whole, what we have here is nothing more than a low-key action movie? After all, there are lots of guns, gals and explosions, not to mention a glaring plot hole or three.

Where The Texas Chainsaw Massacre used haunting, understated depictions of brutality to comment on the Vietnam war, here 28 Weeks Later uses the Iraq war to comment on the Iraq war, allowing its political sensibilities to supersede making a good horror flick, thus undermining the substance of any overriding message. However, when the prevailing suggestion is absolute, unabashed xenophobia, perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing. 42

Music: Porcupine Tree - Fear of a Blank Planet

Porcupine Tree
Fear of a Blank Planet
[Progressive Rock]









For a band with such a varied and impressive track record, Porcupine Tree’s rise to mini-stardom in 2005 was ironic for two reasons. Firstly, that year’s Deadwing was among their weakest recordings, for once finding the band struggling to pin down a distinct sound and thus resulting in an inconsistent and, in places, distinctly mediocre album. Secondly, despite the fact they had been gradually building their fan base with a decade’s worth of hugely ambitious, multi-layered, mostly wordless soundscapes, the only reason the Deadwing received any attention at all was down to the four minutes of pop perfection in lead single ‘Lazarus’. They had, in effect, become recognised through of a lack of ambition (who’d have thought it?), something they are clearly looking to redress with Fear of a Blank Planet - their most obtuse record since 1996’s career-defining masterpiece, Signify.

Although their latest effort does retain elements of Deadwing’s tighter, heavier sound, it is more closely related to their earlier records, featuring longer, more free-form songs (the shortest of the six is five minutes long), a greater emphasis on texture (rather than melody) and some very strong instrumental pieces. Fear of a Blank Planet is also another concept album, though unlike Deadwing’s vague connection to a Stephen Wilson film project that has subsequently been shelved, the narrative here helps to expand rather than restrict.

Imagining an apathetic, culturally sterile near-future, each of the songs is a document of depression as the band attempt to uncover the reason for such a decline. Television and video games are predictably the easy target (“The flicker of the screen / I’m basking in the shit flowing out of it”), however other, less obvious factors are also explored. For example, the nature vs. nurture debate, society’s desire to medicate, the role of the media, loveless sex and childhood alienation all feature prominently, though never to such an extent that the listener is denied the opportunity to make up his or her own mind. Considering Wilson’s sketchy lyrical past (see ‘Hatesong’ for a good cringe), it is certainly encouraging to see him engaging on a more intellectual level and attempting to achieve the same proficiency with words that he has so often exhibited with a guitar.

Continuing the band’s habit of excellent artwork, the accompanying booklet is laden with creepy images of ‘blank’, seemingly soulless children staring right out of the page, lending extra weight to the apocalyptic theme and helping to tighten the overall concept.

Though technically consisting of six songs, Fear of a Blank Planet is essentially a single piece of music split into six different sections, imploring the listener to listen for the duration rather than dip in and out for a short fix. Though this could have failed spectacularly and resulted in the record rapidly gathering dust, the music is more than strong enough to warrant fifty minutes’ attention.

The title track kicks things off nicely, opening with a gently picked guitar and uptight drums before multiple key changes, lots of reverb and cosmic vocals combine to give it a brutal, tempestuous surge. Aesthetically it is very similar to Deadwing’s fantastic titular piece, though it just about emerges victorious with the sheer weight of its gravitational pull, ever threatening to implode, ethereal yet dangerous.

Such an aural rush inevitably requires a lengthy comedown, and one is helpfully supplied in the form of ‘My Ashes’ - a chilled-out, effortlessly bliss number that takes its time and refuses to be rushed. Mainly musing on life’s regrets (“And my ashes find a way beyond the fog / And return to save the child that I forgot”), Wilson has crafted a ballad on par with some of his best work. Though not quite equalling the sinister majesty of ‘.3’ or the heart-rending candour of ‘Stop Swimming’, its carefully measured guitar and keyboard verses and pounding string crescendos would certainly not pale in their company.

The best is still to come, however, with the ridiculously long, ridiculously overblown and ridiculously ambitious eighteen minutes of ‘Anesthetize’. Attempting to describe its musical construction would be like trying to understand the plot of Inland Empire - a pointless and unnecessary endeavour - but, suffice to say, its like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on speed and methadone, shaken up, left to stew and multiplied by infinity. It is the type of song that reveals something new with each listen, cannot fail to excite even the most ardent cynics of prog and, one feels, the type of song Porcupine Tree wanted to show the world they could make. Having now achieved a measure of fame, the desire to experiment appears to have recaptured Porcupine Tree’s imagination and, at times, sees them hurtling above and beyond the imposing peak of ‘Voyage 34: Phase 1’ which, for over a decade, has been the band’s defining, and greatest, achievement.

The fourth song then continues the album’s impressive form, consisting of some free-form drumming, pleasant guitar strums, sweeping soundscapes and more of Wilson’s breathy melancholia. The title of ‘Sentimental’ perhaps doesn’t do the song justice, pre-empting a clumsy whine while the content, in actual fact, thoughtfully considers the surreptitiousness, inevitability and accompanying misery of the ageing process: “Sullen and bored the kids stay / And in this way they wish away each day”. Admittedly, ‘Sentimental’ never attempts to be in the same league as its predecessor, but it is nevertheless solid and, though by itself nothing special, is holistically valuable, adding to rather than detracting from the formidable first half.

However, either because of or in spite of the first two-thirds’ impressive strength, the final two songs are something of a disappointment. ‘Way Out of Here’ suffers from characteristics often (wrongly!) said to correlate with progressive rock - that is, it is a formless, dull and forgettable mess, unlikely to please newcomers to or veterans of the genre. Closer ‘Sleep Together’ is a little better, beginning menacingly enough with refrained, earthy drums and some electronic squiggles before being swamped by a horribly conceited and unnecessarily brash chorus that really saps the verses of any potency; think ‘A Design for Life’ or, more recently, any Muse song.

Following in Deadwing’s footsteps, Fear of a Blank Planet again resists Porcupine Tree’s previous habit of producing either 5-star records (Voyage 34: The Complete Trip, The Sky Moves Sideways, Signify, In Absentia) or absolute musical monstrosities (Stupid Dream, Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape). However, whereas the former was bona fide mediocrity, the group’s latest effort is a four-and-a-bit-star case of the almost great which can nevertheless be proud of itself. In strict mathematical terms, four and a half good songs out of six equals a solid seventy five; however, given the mind-blowing brilliance of ‘Anesthetize’ and my long-standing support of the band, I’m inclined to be a little generous. 81