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Six years have passed since the James Frey controversy over made-up events in the purportedly autobiographical Million Little Pieces. Of the many literary scandals that happened in the naughts, the memory of Frey’s remains the sharpest in my mind. His unrepentant and dismissive reaction to the claims. The outrage from readers betrayed by a work they had let into their hearts. Above all, I remember the infamous flip-flopping of Oprah Winfrey, who first stood by Frey, then skewered him publicly once she sensed the tide had turned with her viewers.
The central debate that took place wasn’t just over Frey’s lies, but what to do when something inspirational turns out to be untrue. While many saw value in inspiration regardless of the means, others countered that the inspiration was invalidated, corrupted because it had come from misleading origins. How many of us deal with this conflict on a daily basis with the little white lies that help lubricate social interactions?
So what determines a fracture of the social contract? I think the discussion boils down to the concepts of gains and harm. We accept fiction when disclosed as such because we have been let in on the game and hence feel a sense of autonomy when we choose to continue patronizing that fiction and its creators. This extends even to so-called reality, especially reality television: viewers of schlocky programs like the Bachelor understand that while the cast is (mostly) non-actors, they are still in fact performing.
Our culture generally values fairness (although what’s considered fair shifts depending on the person) so, as long as we feel unharmed in the interaction, there is a solid tolerance for variations on the truth. A cynic might point out that when we could potentially gain from the interaction, that tolerance usually widens. Isn’t this why we allow ourselves to be inspired by fictional works? I have no doubt a legion of young women (and men) moved to Manhattan, or solidified their friendships, or took up indulgent personal journalism because of Sex and the City.
The idea of inspiration at any cost came to me after the screening of Indie Game: The Movie, by Canadian filmmakers James Swirsky and Lisanne Pajot. IGTM attempts to shed a light on independent game creation–a world I am familiar with and often cheerlead–by partially following the journeys of videogame developers Jonathan Blow, Edmund McMillen, Tommy Refenes, and Phil Fish. You don’t need to be a fan of videogames to understand the film, as it chooses to focus on the emotional roller-coasters inherent in artistic ventures, which are also relatable to anyone who has endeavoured on a project with personal stakes.
The film looks at three stages of game development: Phil Fish (and his team) in the midst of Fez; Edmund McMillen and Tommy Refenes completing Super Meat Boy; and Jonathan Blow in the aftermath of Braid. We learn early on in the film that Braid was a bestseller that turned Blow into a millionaire and by the end we learn Super Meat Boy was on track for Braid-like numbers. McMillen and Refenes discuss their anxieties over the game’s release, and one can’t help but be inspired by the success of their project–in fact, we’re doubly happy because not only is the game finished after a nearly two-year development, but there’s the validation of critical praise and promising first-day sales.
The story of a successful development team is fertile ground for a documentary, but what’s frustrating about IGTM is its unwillingness (or disinterest) in delving deeper into its stories. What was it about Super Meat Boy or McMillen and Refenes that made the game so successful? What compelled Fish to spend five years on Fez and from the game what insight can we glean about him? We can guess, but the film never bothers to tell us. The film refuses to flesh out the world its subjects live in–we learn little of McMillen’s wife, except her desire for a house and a cat and her tearful support of her husband–rather, the filmmakers repeatedly rely on angsty close-ups coupled with voiceovers to convey in shorthand the emotional states of the developers.
And so, IGTM is entirely content to tell us how events occurred without a need to show us, and this becomes the problematic part of the film’s inspirational quality. The film, for example, when introducing its developers eschews giving the viewer a proper context to their role in independent games: these are not your average developers. While Braid, Super Meat Boy, and Fez may mean nothing to the casual filmgoer, these three games represent some of the most visible, most discussed, and most commercially- and critically-successful independent games of the past five years.
When McMillen and Refenes, who make up the core of the film, await first-day sales, there’s a sense that the game has been cast out like a message within bottle into the ocean, fingers crossed that it will land. What’s missing–and telling of the filmmakers in its absence–are the many corroborating factors that ensure that that bottle has the best chance of reaching its intended target, like the overwhelming publicity blitz in games media that accompanied Meat Boy‘s release, the industry support of the game (not every game lands an ad on Xbox Live), and the extensive network the developers already had.
It’s puzzling and problematic to the narrative that facts like Meat Boy being a winner and multiple nominee at the 2009 Independent Games Festival aren’t shown, that we don’t understand what it means when McMillen is shown winning the grand prize in 2005 from the International Games Festival for Gish, or that McMillen was the original character artist and animator on Blow’s Braid. Not only would the film be stronger by properly contextualizing where in McMillen’s career the film takes place, but the audience would better understand which segment of independent game-making we’re seeing: this is the indie elite.
I’m not detracting from the accomplishments of McMillen and Refenes; instead, I’m confused by the ways the filmmakers have chosen to present the story. (I should disclose here that part of the film contains a controversial claim that involves Fish and a friend of mine, which inevitably shades the tone of my writing, but not its facts.) Rather than trusting the audience with the messiness that comes with any ambitious project (and with life, really), the filmmakers have sanded off all the distinctive rough edges to provide an easily-consumable narrative.
The directors’ statement for the film expresses the desire to create a film “about the underdogs of the video game world” who look to games as “a deep form of personal expression.” Here we see a clue to their intention: I suspect a want to present a take on the auteur, those nomadic individuals that buck convention and defy the odds to become successful. Events that shake this narrative simply get cleaved: how else to explain the absence from the film of McMillen’s emergency gallbladder surgery in late 2009, during Meat Boy‘s production?
The health scare, which McMillen publicly discussed early last year, is a relevant part to being an American independent game developer, where, without a safety net, the risk of illness hangs over heads, threatening to rout finances. Some of McMillen’s fellow developers began an internet campaign for donations to help pay for the bills, which helped lessen the burden of a $50,000 debt. It’s a head-scratching omission, given that it would show McMillen’s triumph as even more inspirational, but it complicates the film’s conceit of Team Meat as underdogs.
Swirsky and Pajot are free to present any story they desire, but what makes the film ring hollow is, once you get a sense of the larger history beyond the film, realizing just how oddly cropped the stories of McMillen, Refenes, Blow, and Fish are, and questioning what other ellipses may exist. I’m not one to rain upon another’s parade and would never want to take away from people who were inspired, but I worry when expectations are unrealistically raised–the film is concerned with and presents nothing but atypical financial success–without understanding that the documentary in front of them is entertainment.
The film, taken in isolation, is moving and relatable. As one of the first highly visible films on the indie games scene, it will act as a beacon to the industry for many. Still, young developers emboldened by its tales of money and acclaim–and those of Angry Birds, Minecraft, and Draw Something–will want to remind themselves that this is only a movie: here we have a narrative spun like cotton-candy, but presented as something much more substantial.
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Jaime Woo is a Toronto writer, storyteller, and Gamercamp co-creator. Follow him on Twitter at @jaimewoo.
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