On the Calculation of Volume III by Solvej Balle

        Well, it’s the 18th of November again—at the start of the book, for the 1144th time. On the Calculation of Volume III finds Tara Selter once again awaking on a day in which everyone—or nearly everyone—awakes with no memory that they’ve lived this day before. If you’ll recall from Volume II, Tara was traveling around chasing seasons around the world and the cliffhanger of Volume II is that it appears someone else is having the same experience.

That’s where Volume III opens: Tara Selter has met a man who also has agency within the apparent timeloop. This immediately sets Volume III apart; it’s an engaging progression of the story as Tara and Henry get to bounce theories off of each other. Tara, with a dedicated academic interest in Roman history (ha!), is auditing a University lecture and due to her cultivated observational powers, she notices a man—and he notices her— as someone who was not there the previous day. 

This entry feels more personal, knowing that the other character has shared experience. In previous volumes, there were some tender moments between her and her sister and her husband, but there was always a sense of futility knowing that they would reset. Here, we get more of a connection, a sigh of relief that Tara is no longer alone. What Balle does that is brilliant, though, is giving just a hint of unease in a moment of respite. Tara acknowledges that there’s “a promise of more conversations, but not only that” (32). She takes a moment to reflect that “there is something alarming about the thought of being bound to a random person. There is the certainty of having gained a travel companion, but also the sense of having been assigned some of the responsibility for their baggage” (32). Balle subverts the idea of an uncomplicated companionship and adds just that extra bit of tension to an apocalyptic scenario.

Still, they get along well enough, mostly—they tell each other about their first November 18ths. In Tara’s journal, she explains that “Henry insisted on recounting every last detail. He described the pattern and play of colors in the glass, or at least he tried, and I reciprocated with details of my own. So we sat there, each with our own hues, light, and sensations, attempting to throw them into a shared pool” (39). There’s a couple of noteworthy pieces here. First, is the idea of reciprocity and shared experience, but there’s a subtle contrast here with Tara’s experience. The two of them share their experiences, drawing specifically on the visible and tangible: “hues, light” and the “sensations.” Elsewhere in the book, though, Tara gets obsessed with sound. She hears sounds and sounds within sounds, listening for the subtle gradients of, for example, the screeching of a train track or a puddle splashing. It becomes clear they have different ways of navigating. They also have different experiences of time and Tara points out some of their contrasting views. Henry describes the eternal change of season between fall and winter and how “he had enjoyed walking around in all these dualities” (39). He describes “two discrete sets of hours” and being between worlds, “parallel realities” (39).Henry “felt at home when, every so often, sunlight fell through the windows of his apartment: brightly colored through the upper panes and almost pristinely clear through the lower” (39). He has a clear division within him. A world of straight lines. Tara’s life feels more like concentric circles.

Where it gets really interesting seeing their different perspectives about what is happening. Tara’s revisits some ideas explored in previous volumes, including the concern that she’s a monster devouring the world, or that she’s at the bottom of a Roman urn inside a larger Roman urn inside a larger Roman urn ad infinitum (apologies for the mixed Roman-Latin presentation). Tara and Henry get into a heated philosophical debate about history, which I adored. I’ll try not to cite the entire passage I wrote down, but Henry sets out the idea that history has been about men and typically doesn’t focus on women’s concerns.

But here’s the thing.

Tara is a historical materialist. She is interested in the practical, tangible details of history (she was researching the significance of wheat harvests for Ancient Romans, for instance). So, when Henry offers his perspective about history Tara reflects: “Did he think that history was the history of power and men? That it was about great battles and great decisions? That I wasn’t interested in history because it wasn’t about me? Or about some kind of women’s world, which was my world?” (51). Henry protests that that is a mischaracterization, “but still, he thought I must feel excluded from historical accounts since they had never been written by women, for women, or about women’s lives” (51). He qualifies a few exceptions “as if women were the last passengers hastily pulled aboard a departing train” (51). Tara argues that if he was right, “shouldn’t it follow that I would only be interested in women’s things? If I could only be interested in women’s history, then surely he must also believe that my interest was confined to women’s things. Did he really think my interest in things was limited to hairpins and pot lids?” (51). Henry rephrases and says that he understood and she says she doesn’t understand how he could understand—a little obstinately, she admits. She asks a question that reinforces the way material historical realities cut across gender divides: “What then was this world of women that should interest me? Was a ship from the Bronze Age found on the seabed off the coast of Turkey more his history than mine? Were a thousand pounds of copper and a hundred pounds of tin intended for ships and weapons and axes the real history, after which a few pounds could be spared for the women? For hairpins and a trivet for the stockpot?” (51). She continues with even more pointed questions:

“And when did something become women’s history, anyway? Was it only after the ship with its raw materials and metals docked at the harbor, once those metals had been transported and processed and finally fashioned into a hairpin that it became my history? Did the raw materials belong to men’s history? And was he trying to say that there were two histories: one with wars and laws, with ideas and political decisions, with grand exploits and weapons and transports by sea and axes and cutthroat razors, and another with hairpins and kitchen utensils, with childbirth and children’s tears, and perhaps a loom in the corner?” (51-52).

In addition to the critical considerations about history, I also appreciate that Tara is essentially reframing the conversation around the Ship of Theseus thought experiment. If we reconstruct a ship one piece at a time, at what point is it no longer the same ship? Tara connects it to the notion of history: at what point are things disconnected from one another? At one point does our interconnectedness fall apart?

Tara admits that she doesn’t know why she pressed the point so hard. She comments, though, that she felt like she and Henry were in a boat in the middle of nowhere and not knowing where they were going but that he suddenly was sawing their boat to pieces. She reinforces: “Our history was shared, I said. We have always split the work. Don’t tell me women didn’t take part in wars or that men never scrubbed floors. History is full of female spies and male housekeepers, I said” (52). She goes on to question how many times animals were caught in traps invented by women, and whether snares and knives are women’s history rather than men’s. “How much grain,” she asks, “did he think had been harvested by women? Should harvesting tools then be counted as men’s history?” (52) I’m lingering on this just because I find it so powerful and I suspect critical to Balle’s entire project. We’re dealing with time. We’re dealing with time not moving forward. We need to grapple with the implications of the progression or non-progression of time.

While I think this is a rich passage, I think probably my favourite reflection of Tara’s historical interests can be summarized in one phrase:

“I wasn’t interested in the outcome of the war but in the buttons on the soldier’s uniform” (49).

The book isn’t purely theoretical, of course—but it is slow moving. Between the first three volumes, we’re looking at 517 pages and the moments that could be classified as plot events are few and far between. Perhaps that’s why I found the midpoint of Volume III so startling. Tara has gone back home and lurks around her house like a ghost, not interfering with her husband’s routine as she did in the first book. As she gets more obsessed with sound, she hears a bang at the door and is alarmed: this is new. The audience feels the suspense rise as they realize that this is something new. She opens the door: “Her name was Olga Periti. She was not a bird. She was stuck in the eighteenth of November. She needed my help, she said. She spoke in English. She asked if I was Tara Selter and which language I preferred to speak” (105). It’s a gutpunch of a moment because not only has the number of people repeating November 18th increased by one, but it sparks so many more questions: How does she know this is Tara? How did she get her address? Why is she here?

The book progresses with an increasing cast of people who have found one another. Still no explanations for why they’re living the same day, but watching them seek each other out is a compelling turn. It gives the book a much more human quality where these oddball companions bump and clash with their visions for the ‘new world.’

Long story short, we build to a party of four partway through the novel and Tara outlines her experiences to them. She tells them about her husband and attempts to bring him into the 18th of November. She describes “sneaking up on the sounds and catching a smidgen of what is lost. About sounds that ceased to be empty shells once you got closer. A world that opened up” (125). She talks about her days becoming shapeless and the unravelling of her pattern: “soundless, unbounded, and utterly without shape” (125).

As the group grows, we have more positions to tend to. Olga had previously met Ralf, but the two separated after an argument about what they should be doing day-to-day. Tara goes about her days trying to cause as little harm as possible (her and Henry eat garbage because ‘good food’ does still disappear). Tara wants to leave “only the faintest traces” (127). Olga, however, wants to change the world in a more systemic sense, the specifics of which remain somewhat ambiguous. Olga’s friend Ralf, however, operates in a more localized sense. He wants to research every death, accident, trauma, and prevent them from happening—a task so totally massive that only people repeating the same day over and over would be able to achieve. Olga thinks this piecemeal approach is pointless, while Ralf suggests that acting locally is creating a new system. Ralf operates under the assumption that the day will, at some point, resume—neither Tara nor I are convinced. Olga objects to Ralf’s approach because “he was not solving the real issues. The structural ones. The fundamental  ones. The foundation itself” (128). Again, Balle offers a compelling several pages of philosophical debate between characters and then works towards one line that is representative of the entire debate: “Ralf thought Olga wanted to drain the sea of water. Olga asserted that Ralf wanted to correct commas” (128).

Ralf goes about saving people about to die in accidents and draws the rest of the group to the idea with a grand vision of developing a system of warnings. He literally gives a slideshow presentation, which has a touch of humour to it, making the entire project feel a bit like a timeshare. It sets us up (along with another twist at the end) for the fourth part of this 7-part series.

Balle’s writing is somewhat documentary in its style. Tara reports objectively, almost like a scientific journal. At the same time, her voice offers some rich detail. Despite what I said about her emphasis on sound rather than sight, there’s a great series of imagistic moments. When describing conceptions of time, for example, Tara reports that Olga sees time as “tectonic plates sliding beneath each other, different layers of time” (164). Tara, by contrast, sees time “more like the edges of lawns or like weeds, or hedges and flower beds and things that merge together or overshadow each other as they grow” (164). If we return to the moment that Tara and Henry compare their first days, she also presents Henry’s description with rich detail: “The trees were still orange, golden leaves lay scattered on the ground, but winter was in the air. A crispness. As if Autumn was inside things and winter filled the gaps between them” (39). Tara recounts the visual details he provides and then says, “I told him about the sounds of the city, the philosopher’s tooth, the shoes I had followed. [...] I had found myself following far too many sounds, and each time I got closer, I discovered other sounds within them. Behind the hiss of the coffee machine, there was a heavier, metallic noise. Behind the clattering of  the tram, there was a sliding sound, an additional screech you didn’t hear at first” (79). She goes on like that a little further and I find it such a rich way of thinking through the world. It’s as though Balle’s narrator becomes more perceptive and, in turn, the journal she’s writing becomes more lush and precise in its descriptions.

I think Balle is working on a very special project here and if On the Calculation of Volume III is any indication, I suspect that the series will become more engaging, more bizarre. More compelling.

See you next time for November 18th, presumably, November 18 #1893 next. Happy reading!

Life Itself by Roger Ebert

       Looking back on it, the influence Roger Ebert had on pop-culture throughout my youth is unreal. Even when he appeared as a cartoon parody, he was immediately recognizable. I was probably a little too young to recognize his insight and his importance then; even now, I’d have to conduct a thorough perusal of his film reviews to really understand just how perceptive and influential he’s been to the movie industry. A friend of mine has put me on to some of Ebert’s viewpoints and in turn I felt compelled to read his memoir Life Itself.

Life Itself achieves what memoirs are meant to do: they provide some backstory to the author, explore and review some of the industry-related accomplishments of that person’s life, and discuss the trials and tribulations that give their life drama, depth, and texture. Ebert even makes a reference to the cliché of all memoirs starting with notable members of the central character’s ancestry before he cheekily does the same, diving into some backstory for his grandparents and the like. From there, he gives a reasonably chronological account of his life with some tangents and lack of linearity, each section designed to give some insight into his perspective.

The scope of the book is impressive. Ebert talks about everything from his first girlfriends to writing for his school newspaper and submitting his first articles as he worked towards being a newsman. He talks about his transition into working in television and his routine appearances at film festivals and even some work he did consulting on films or speaking with hot shot directors. His career is without a doubt an impressive one, but it’s the personal parts that really make the memoir notable. 

The book also captures a cultural moment, explored perhaps most specifically when Ebert reflects on his favourite Americana diner. Ebert encapsulates a historical ‘moment’ and evokes that 1950s and 1960s diner culture that seems a prototypical experience. Something that strikes me as a little funny is that in both Roger Ebert’s memoir and David Lynch’s memoir there’s an affinity for ‘hamburger and milkshake’ culture and I just now looked up Ebert’s thoughts on Lynch, suspecting they might be kindred spirits—only to find that Ebert panned Lynch’s early work and praised his latter ones. I digress.

Roger Ebert presents an American life, and I was pleasantly surprised by how progressive Ebert was. There’s always a risk that public figures of the era botched their involvement in the civil rights movement, and while Ebert didn’t stake his claim to fame, I appreciated that he reported on his involvement and engagement in anti-racism initiatives. While grappling with questions of faith, Ebert demonstrates a great deal of thoughtfulness, doubt, and concern with issues of religion, and self-consciously slips out of easy categorization. He brings that up in the context of defending the LGBTQ+ community, and again I found myself heartened by Ebert’s outspokenness on historically oppressed groups.

To return to the personal level, though, the book is touching and funny, as well. Some chapters recount stories with old friends and build towards what is essentially a punchline. The humour extends into character studies of famous personages. There’s a chapter about John Wayne, for example, that reads like a Gatsbyesque character sketch. His chapter about writing Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is an absurd read, but also has a thoughtfulness and reflective aspect that feels wonderfully sincere.

But wait. I’ve drifted away from the personal again.

Life Itself has a number of touching accounts of Ebert’s personal experiences. In an early chapter, for example, he discusses the death of his beloved childhood dog and that classic tragedy of an American boyhood hits hard. There are a number of other personal topics discussed with such candor that it gives the book a special sizzle. Some of these topics are light and beautiful: his characterization of his wife Chaz and their relationship is lovely and it’s clear from the way he describes her just how enamored he was with her. One of the ways that comes out in his discussion of his alcoholism and the way Chaz helped him through it. The memoir reflects on the power of AA in Ebert’s life despite his initial reluctance. He discusses his regular attendance at meetings and the way he was able to find AA meetings anywhere he went essentially within ten minutes. The memoir takes an optimistic and inspiring stance towards recovery and offers some good insight into addiction as a whole.

Ebert’s health is a focus in the latter part of the book. He discusses his weight, but more so in terms of public perception. He reflects on how he was seen (the fat one), especially in contrast to Gene Siskel (the skinny one). Ebert offers an engaging perspective about how media and society reinforces expectations around weight and health. There’s a pain there in recognizing how cruel people were, and seeing it from a man’s point of view (and not from a toxic man) gives a fresh dimension to the conversation. Following that, there’s also a lengthy section about Ebert’s cancer and the impact on his life (i.e. losing a portion of his jaw, losing his ability to eat, losing his ability to speak). In one section, he discusses his interview with Esquire and the photo they chose of him: one that put on full display his facial deformity. Based on his narration, I feel really compelled to go back and watch his television appearances following his cancer to really appreciate the courage and strength it took for Ebert to return to public life after losing his ability to speak, which was clearly a devastating transition for him—but not one that ever reduced him to self-pity.

On the topic of Ebert’s television appearances, it was entertaining to hear about the frenemyship Ebert shared with Gene Siskel. He recounts times of their disagreement (and there are some clear public and televised ones) and the way they challenged each other. He characterizes their relationship as one of challenge, critique, and ribbing. In Ebert’s account, Siskel always had clever and cruel comments to make about Ebert and made him a punching bag of sorts. At the same time, Ebert perpetually asserts the depth of their friendship despite and perhaps because of their friction. It’s a nice insight into what became one of the most recognizable duos of the 90s—up to and including a reflection on the passing of Gene Siskel.

Life Itself offers a great deal of humour and tenderness towards Roger Ebert’s life. It’s clear he was a thoughtful, reflective man, and the sheer breadth of the text has a lot to offer. I sometimes wonder if a memoir is meant to serve as an ad of sorts for a person’s career. If I take that premise, I would say that Life Itself is an effective one: I feel more driven to revisit Ebert’s oeuvre and television show. He is a critic that has a lot to offer—ironically, perhaps, he keeps his commentary on film to a relative minimum in this memoir—and hearing more about his perspectives on life helps to elevate his significance to me.

May we all live our lives so fully. Happy reading!

Fight, Magic, Items: The History of Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, and the Rise of Japanese RPGs in the West by Aidan Moher

I experienced some of my first RPGs as a child: specifically, I adored Earthbound and Super Mario RPG as Super Nintendo classics. A little later, when the world of emulation opened my world, I think I first got drawn into the vibrant colour of Final Fantasy V and the joy of job changes, which changed the look of the sprites in fun and engaging ways. I think I got distracted partway through the game and started Final Fantasy VI and was literally astounded by its gorgeous artistry and lively cast of characters. In grade 8, I bought Final Fantasy VII and joined the ranks of the kids that became obsessed.

I’m in good company with Aidan Moher, who sounds like he had a similar experience as a Canadian teenage boy wrapped up in the world of RPGs and punk rock. Fight, Magic, Items: The History of Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, and the Rise of Japanese RPGs in the West is a love letter to that experience. Part of what makes the project work is that Moher takes a few paths when describing these games, allowing personal memory and experiences parallel to reviews, historical notes, and commentary. Drawing from both his voice and the voices of others gives the text a well-rounded and complete view of the history of RPGs—or at least as complete as a survey can be.

There’s an episode of The Simpsons in which the children have a diorama competition. Principal Skinner reveals Ralph Wiggum’s diorama, which is a collection of in-package Star Wars figures. He exclaims: “Why, it’s Luke! And Obi-Wan! And my favourite: Chewie!” The enthusiasm in his voice is palpable and reading Fight, Magic, Items was a little like that for me: “Why, it’s Chrono Trigger! It’s Terranigma! It’s Eternal Sonata!” Even lesser-known titles get a place in his history. For the games I played, I felt that swell of nostalgia. For the games I hadn’t, I felt a curiosity to see how it fit in with the trajectory of the genre.

When it comes to describing this trajectory, Moher goes through a few threads that give the text a richness of detail. In describing the entries into the genre, Moher sometimes goes into detail about the development of technology to explain why games took the shape they did. Simultaneously, Moher includes details about the features or mechanics of games themselves and how they fit into, pushed, evolved, or revolutionized the genre. The title of the book highlights the rise of Japanese RPGs in the West, and I would say the book partly delivers on its promise to explain why cultural shifts empowered the Japanese aesthetic to ‘go global.’ It serves as a pretty compelling social and cultural history, so even if you’re not interested in JRPGs in particular, if you’re interested in video games there’s probably still enough here to latch onto—heck, even if you’re into anime, there’s some explanation of how it helped to push for Japanese culture in the West.

Like the journalist and author Jason Schreier, who is cited several times in the book, Moher weaves some pretty compelling narratives by drawing on particular figures in the world of game development. Moher provides brief profiles of game developers and tells some interesting anecdotes of their ups and downs. The creators of Dragon Quest and Suikoden and Fantasian Neo Dimension and Kingdom Hearts all get their due. Also, here’s a weird and wild fact that somehow makes perfect sense: author Haruki Murakami is connected to Earthbound because the creator of Earthbound Shigesato Itoi co-authored a short story collection with Murakami. The book is full of fun little tidbits like that.

Moher’s book does critique very well. He has a knack for highlighting what is best in these games. He explains why different games work—or, when the games are sub-par, at least aspects of why they work or what makes them significant. He comments on tone, characterization, plot, mechanics, immersion, music, and other hallmarks of good game design. For games that flopped, Moher identifies some reasons that they failed but still finds some reasons for praise. He’s got a generous, appreciator’s eye.

If there’s an area I’d like more of, it’s the analysis and interpretation of games. Granted, that’s not really what this book is. We’re dealing with history here, not philosophy or criticism. Still, when discussing Nier Automata’s multiple endings, repetition, and humanity, I would have loved to have gone more in-depth with the philosophical implications. There is some social commentary, like when discussing the all-male party of Final Fantasy XV and, rather than bemoaning the lack of representation of women in gaming, takes a moment to appreciate a game that shows male friendship, vulnerability, and connection. It’s maybe a bit generous, but nonetheless it gives some considerations for the impact of different game features.

Fight, Magic, Items is a gentle, informative non-fiction read. I’m tempted to think of it as a beach read, even. It inspires the nostalgia of childhood and a curiosity for the games I’ve missed. It gives me an appreciation for the underdog story JRPGs have had in the West and makes me really appreciate the diversity of the genre that’s out there. Guess I gotta get gaming.

Happy reading gaming reading!