And so begins Kingdom Hearts's foray into befuddling names. Admittedly, Re:Chain of Memories is hardly as ridiculous and pretentious as the goofy titles we'll become acquainted with down the road; if anything, I'll grant the "Re:" here actually makes sense -- the involved prefix meaning it's another attempt at a previous title -- but its sudden intrusion before the subtitle has always irked me. Still, it's of little consequence.
Really, what I find more fascinating is the brisk turnover between the original Game Boy Advance game and this remake for PlayStation 2: for those not aware of the dates involved, the original Chain of Memories launched at the very end of 2004, while this 3D remake -- a bonus game packaged alongside the Kingdom Hearts II Final Mix re-release in Japan -- released in Spring of 2007 (it received a standalone American release at 2008's end). I struggle to think of any game redone in such a short span of time, and I am never not impressed by this probable record and at Square-Enix's brilliant marketing strategy (what, KH2 with additional features isn't enough for you? Okay, then here's a GODDAMN 3D REMAKE OF A GAME BOY GAME)
Note: minor spoilers within this review. There's nothing too major, but I simply had to talk about how much the story bothered me here.
My dear readers, I ask you to journey with me to a different time: 2005, where Japan's Weekly Famitsu magazine was hyping up Kingdom Hearts II as if it were the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. This is not an exaggeration -- every week, Japanese readers (and Western fans dependent on online scans and translations) were subject to adrenaline-inducing eye candy, with the game's revamped engine providing flashy Reaction Commands and Drive Form acrobatics for protagonist Sora. Clamored Disney films such as Mulan and The Lion King were joining the world lineup, as groundbreaking inclusions like Pirates of the Caribbean, Steamboat Willie and TRON continually surprised fans the world over. A Keyblade-wielding Mickey Mouse was jumping around like Yoda, as the Final Fantasy cameos ramped up with Final Fantasy X's Auron as a party member, Advent Children outfits for the FF7 cast, and even including folks not designed by series director Tetsuya Nomura (Vivi and Setzer, to be precise). Even once-maligned efforts like the Gummi Ship and The Little Mermaid's Atlantica were completely reworked, operating respectively in the vein of Disneyland rides and theater musicals.
In other words, whereas the first game was a good-natured but rough-around-the-edges freshman project, Kingdom HeartsII was set to finally realize the original's dream: a masterful celebration of Disney and wistful nostalgia blended with brooding Final Fantasy influences, all framed within a gameplay engine that could do it justice. Naturally, I myself awaited it as a supernatural revelation, but what did I ultimately think of it when came out?
Note: Please excuse the imbalance of quality for screenshots here; for whatever reason, viable screenshots of earlier PS2 game are especially hard to find.
Dear readers not familiar with Kingdom Hearts, I implore you to look, just look, at the cover above. Yes, that is Goofy and Donald Duck of Disney fame chilling in the moody, moonlit sky alongside three anime teenagers. Their normally-cheery faces are now solemn, decorated with such wistful melancholy that does away with their kid-friendly personas, evoking an aura of maturity never before displayed to the public eye.
Needless to say, Kingdom Hearts was one of the most bizarre debuts of the PS2/GC/Xbox era, and yet somehow it ended up being one of the most beloved. A collaboration between Disney and famed RPG developer Squaresoft (now Square-Enix), the 2002 action-RPG's outlandish concept of pitting Disney icons and zipper-laden, key-wielding adolescents against Disney villains in command of heart-harvesting shadows--a tale bookended by Hikaru Utada pop songs, mind--is so uniquely ludicrous that it demands your attention. But why?
My theory? By framing itself as a "darker" take on Disney, Kingdom Hearts ropes in the nostalgic RPG player who once associated with their films in early youth. I am no exception to this: the game was responsible for restarting my fervent following in Disney animation, the soundtrack never left my CD player and I clocked out the "Hours Played" stat in the course of a year. Since then, my association with Kingdom Hearts has floundered over the years: it birthed as an obsession that required a near-intervention, followed by a burning hate that wanted nothing more to do with the series, and am now settled as a casual fan who partakes in it like the finest of junk food.
And while we're at it, here's an example of an assigned article. As you can probaly guess, this was much easier than the Zelda article, but it was fun to select fan-favorite titles that still haven't made the jump to PS4's online store.
Oh, and just so you know...most of these titles are scheduled for Worldly Weekend within a year's time, so stay tuned!
While Pokémon was what cultivated my interest in anime and manga, Dragon Ball was what captivated that interest and promptly skyrocketed it into a permanent hobby. Akira Toriyama's tales of monkey-tailed boys, alien combat and musclemen protruding golden hair three times their size captured my heart like every other young male living in early 2000's America, and I celebrated my fandom in every way possible. My friends and I constantly invented new adventures for our DBZ action figures. I dressed up as Vegeta for Halloween (I think the wig my mom made is still lying around somewhere!). I memorized the power levels of every character as I frequented the web for plot summaries and pictures. I downloaded translated ROMs of the Japan-exclusive games. I even discovered that, gasp, the show was being censored for American television!
That all began fifteen years ago, and after all these years, my Dragon Ball dorkiness is still alive...if not a tad more latent. Episodes from the fabled Dragon Box sets frequently serve as nostalgic background noise within my basement. I'm quite behind on the new animated adventures, having only seen the first two episodes of Dragon Ball Super and the Battle of Gods movie (for the record, I loved both). Every now and then, I take one of my old manga volumes and take a whiff of that familiar smell; once upon a time, I was convinced Japanese children reveled in that holy scent twenty years before I did.
While still regarded as an action masterpiece, it's easier to discern the flaws of something I once deemed as perfect. The childhood and adulthood periods of protagonist Goku's life--marketed outside of the original Japanese manga as Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z, respectively--are too thematically dissonant (if anything, I prefer the whimsy of Dragon Ball). Non-Saiyan characters are frequently shoved into the sidelines, no matter how much time had been invested into them prior. Yet no matter how much I could go on, none of it matters whether I'm reading or watching it. I could say it's just my childhood speaking, yet every story beat, every character moment have become so ingrained into shonen manga that it's little wonder it remains the cornerstone of Weekly Shonen Jump (to provide an American equivalent, I suspect many feel the same about the original Star Wars trilogy and how it impacted cinema). Needless to say, it's a series I still deeply respect and adore.
With all that said, Dragon Ball Z: Budokai requires some context. See, Japan had been living it up with Dragon Ball video games since the 80's, yet we Americans never got in on that action (not including the infamous Dragon Ball GT: Final Bout). It wasn't until 2002 when animation company Toei, American anime licenser/localizer FUNimation and game publisher Infogrames finally got off their sorry keesters and began distributing DB games across the West. While we were initially gifted with a spectacularly shitty duo of Game Boy Advance games in The Legacy of Goku and Collectible Card Game, everyone's eyes were on what was to be the first 3D DBZ fighter for PS2: Budokai.
That's a pretty big deal, as evidenced from the above intro animation. Mute the rancid (yet catchy) 90's rap song and merely observe the video. Yes, you're watching a replica of the Cha-La Head-Cha-La opening from the Japanese version. For the first time, every scene from this iconic 1989 animation had been rendered in beautiful, luscious 3D. That America was not only treated to a butchered version of the opening for the show but that the original song was axed in favor of Rock the Dragon dilutes the nostalgic impact somewhat. Thankfully, we were too distracted by the shiny PS2 graphics to really notice.
What made Budokai so special is that it framed itself as a genuine celebration of Dragon Ball. It didn't cover every chapter of the saga, but the game sprung to life from the get-go with winks and nods everywhere (just look at all the little character icons up there!). Menus were peppered with animations and stills that perfectly matched the style of Toei Animation (with how the company handled the opening sequences for the sequels, I'm convinced they at least provided the latter for this title). The voices were the same as the show, and the soundtrack--composed by series veteran Kenji Yamamoto in a collaboration with Tower of Power--was so good it had practically defined the game by itself.
And how my heart aches knowing I can no longer appreciate all that.
I say this knowing full well Dragon Ball Z: Budokai never had the deepest battle system; even back then, I was able to discern the more homogenized attacks between most characters in the first two games (the most baffling case being in this title, where one particular combo is literally just a couple kicks. Bear in mind there's a dynamic camera involved). But it was good enough...and cool-looking. Like, really cool. The game's emphasis on arena-destroying supernovas (the best being Mr. Satan-er, Hercule's, where, in a fake plea for mercy, he hands over a remote-controlled bomb to the enemy), emulating the super-fast flurries of punches/kicks through button-mashing sequences, and delivering attacks so hard they send your opponents careening into alternate arenas all authentically matched the show.
Except now it's not. Unlike most games ravaged by time, Budokai's in a...peculiar predicament. For one thing, it's the forerunner in a series that shifted over to cel-shaded graphics just the next year. The awkward graphical look would be bad enough, but there's also the matter of just about everything else. You have the voice acting, which is the same as the show but FUNimation's dubbing for DBZ has always been a mixed bag, to say the least. Then you have the music, which was...no, I don't have the heart to say it yet.
Needless to say, a "just good-enough" battle system can't support all that, no matter how flashy it is. It'd be easy to dismiss it a static relic of its time, yet somehow it's preserved its spot as the fondly-remembered DBZ game by American fans. We could just chalk it up to it being a runaway sales success over here, yet there's other matters to consider, namely that Budokai was the only Dragon Ball Z game for years to host a fully-animated Story Mode that reenacted the original series.
Not that the subsequent games up to 2008's Burst Limit didn't have a Story Mode, but they were all propped up through board games (Budokai 2), 2D "still" images (Budokai 3, although Dragon Universe was mighty cool for what it was), or the models just standing there talking (the entire Sparking!/Budokai Tenkaichi trilogy). Subsequently, Budokai's first stab at retelling the story we all know and love in 3D won by default for most folks.
And it's not like it did so through laziness. For one thing, the cinematics are well-animated for their time. Yes, we can nitpick the grainy textures (look no further than the bleached green of King Kai's planet) or that fart sound that comes out of Yamcha's clenched fist in that one cutscene, but god damn did they look cool. Take how it adapts Goku's iconic transformation into Super Saiyan, where the screen quakes with such intensity every time he screams. It was electrifying to watch as a kid, and even now it's one of the legitimate pieces of direction that holds up.
But wait, I thought I just said the game didn't age well graphically? Yes, well, note how I said it's well-animated, and even then that only applies to the cinematics. While the cutscenes may be of adequate quality, it's shocking how that all falls apart when the fighting comes down. The characters lack breathing animations, and everyone's beefcake designs renders it even more awkward, particularly when a good chunk of victory animations consist of character crossing their arms and grinning smugly into the camera (the winner goes to Piccolo, who hangs his mouth open in stupefied wonder at his endlessly-wiggling antennas).
Needless to say, it's really easy to see why they moved into cel-shading. For instance, there is nothing natural about the power-up animation: as opposed to lifting the iconic stances from the show, characters statically scrunch up into a position quite akin to that of taking a dump. Despite the beefcake designs, there's a real lifeless look to everything that was never going to hold up. While the GameCube version added in a unique cel-shaded look of its own, the animation problems persist.
Honestly, I think I'm even being generous with the cutscenes in regards to modeling. Just look how ghastly Karin (Korin) the cat looks up there. That's actually a shot from the HD version, and apparently whoever was in charge of that remaster couldn't fix such a monstrosity.
Anyway, there's also the matter of VAs. Look, let's be honest: while FUNimation may be the best anime dubbing company in America now, that'd be a difficult case to make in 2002 (let alone when they first started out). While Dragon Ball Z was what got them on the map, it fell victim to about every bad dubbing trope from the late 90's: stilted VA direction, corny scripts, a never-ending replacement BGM, and embarrassing opening songs. You cannot sit here and tell me that a dub host to a character singing "CAT LOVES FOOOOOOD YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAAAH" (if you pay attention, the dialogue exchange doesn't even match the context of the scene) or a villain randomly making homosexual advances is better than the original Japanese, a thing of beauty host to the best seiyuu in the anime industry.
But hey, don't take it from me. Why, who is that handsome young man grilling voice actors Sean Schemmel and Christopher Sabat? That would be me, at last year's Otakon! And I gotta say, while I don't entirely buy the "old equipment" answer, I'm quite impressed with their opinion on nostalgia. After all, it's not like Dragon Ball is some holy grail many of us superfans treat it as such. To some people, it's just their favorite goofy Japanese cartoon they grew up, and the meaning of "dubs vs. subs" hold little meaning to them, and that's quite alright.
With all that in mind, Budokai is a pivotal moment in researching the history of DBZ dubbing. Not only was the show coming to an end in America, but this was the first time the cast was brought together for an extensively-voiced video game. For starters, there's Chris Sabat and his dozen roles: his stern direction for Piccolo had evolved just fine, yet he still hadn't figured out how to make Vegeta sound anything other than, as Kanzenshuu once put it, a guy in a booth doing a gruff voice. Meanwhile, Sonny Strait has come a long way in his voicing Kuririn (Krillin): no longer has his direction for the character rendered him an annoying squeaky-voiced punk, but as a genuine sidekick that immediately grows on you.
And then there's voices that continue to, well, flat-out suck. Like Ocean's Pauline Newstone before her, Linda Young's Freeza remains the most notorious miscast in anime dubbing history. Don't let the lipstick fool you; the character has absolutely zero business sounding like an old woman who's had far too many smokes. Despite being the series' most infamous villain, it's hard to believe that in context when you cannot take anything he says seriously. It goes to show FUNimation's worst casting weakness lied in body type: the less said about Philip Wilburn's squeaky Android #19 and Sean Schemmel's "marble-mouth" Kaio (King Kai), the happier I'll be.
In context of the game, it's interesting to witness the juxtaposition of direction. Rumor has it that Toei representatives oversaw the localization, and it'd definitely show in the Story Mode. Regardless of any voice mismatches, there's not a single instance of dry delivery, further granting the impact these cutscenes had back in the day. And then, once again, it falls apart a bit in actual battles. Characters announce attack names super quickly to accommodate the quick frame executions (check out Gohan's take on Kamehameha), and there's an obvious glitch regarding the Cell character: no matter how much he transforms in battle, he's always stuck with the nasal "bug" voice of his first form. It's something they never actually fixed for the sequels, and it's especially odd when contrasted with the normally-dignified countenance of his Perfect Form.
Add in how the voice clips' muffledness has grown more distinct over the years, and the delivery of the bad voices are amplified. Of course, Freeza is absolutely terrible, but the most egregious cases lie in the representatives of the Ginyu Force. Chris Sabat's Arnold Schwarzenegger impression for Recoome borders on incomprehensible and obnoxious, as is also the case for Captain Ginyu himself. The elderly Brice Armstrong is a baffling replacement for the adequate Dale Kelly; he's clearly too old for the flamboyant character and it shows in his nasal delivery.
Speaking of baffling, we now arrive at the most heartbreaking case of all: Kenji Yamamoto, the soundtrack's composer. No, not the same Kenji Yamamoto who composed the Metroid Prime trilogy; the Kenji Yamamoto who's not only been involved with composing songs for DBZ since its inception, but for all the video games dating back to the Super Famicom era.
As mentioned before, Budokai's score is so damn good that it's practically impossible to discuss the game without bringing it up. What made it excel was that it struck that perfect balance between Dragon Ball's lighthearted humor and adrenaline-rushing action. The above themes, which respectively accompany the menu and character select themes, represent the former and dress up the overall presentation; they're so fun that you can't wait to dive into the action.
And what action it is! Kenji Yamamoto's collaboration with Tower of Power definitely bore fruit; yes, those are real instruments you're hearing, all accompanied through some kickass synth. Raging guitars rev up the familiar locales that are Budokai's battlefields, and they're all the better for it. Combined with the arena-shifting mechanics, one could even say they heighten the glory of a shallow combat system.
The Story Mode isn't neglected, either. They emphasize more on synth, but Yamamoto ensures they inject blood-pumping adrenaline and appropriate drama when needed. The above example is actually spliced into three different components for varying cinematics: quiet anger (when Goku observes his dead friends slain by Nappa), anticipation and encouragement (Goku convincing Gohan to take on Cell), and awesome kickassery (Goku's Super Saiyan form scaring the shit out of Freeza).
Heck, he even goes out of his way to pay homage to the original DBZ recap theme! You see what I mean when I said this game celebrates Dragon Ball? In fact, rumor has it there's a cameo from Super Famicom fighter Super Butoden 2 somewhere...
So, wait, I just spent the past four paragraphs singing the soundtrack's praises. If the music's so good, what's the problem?
Well, it's plagiarized.
Yeah, how's that for a kick in the balls?
Kenji Yamamoto's plagiarism scandal has been well-documented, and while I was careful enough to cite the tracks that (as far as we know) weren't "inspired" from other sources, therein lies the rub. It's immensely disappointing that someone who clearly had talent fell to thievery, let alone the fact that he strung along his none-the-wiser collaborators for the ride. And even in the case of my cited tracks, I'll always be asking myself if they were truly born from his "talent."
Perhaps my memories of how much I enjoyed the game are what's most important, but that they won't live on to future generations is the most heartbreaking factor of this ordeal. Just like how Dragon Ball Kai's soundtrack was swiftly replaced across the world following the scandal, any games currently on the market that had Yamamoto's involvement had their scores replaced with recycled tracks from the Tenkaichi brand of games (which, in themselves, were actually replacements of the original Japanese score).
The Budokai HD Collection for PS3/X360 was no exception to the rule. Let it be known the dance music of the Tenkaichi series is not at all like the grounded guitars of Budokai, as evident in this collection of cinematics. It's too blatant how the cutscenes were built around the original score, and all these overly-peppy tracks induce emotional cues so differently that you may as well be watching/playing a whole different game altogether.
And therein lies the real problem: I actually prefer the plagiarized score because it functions better within the game's context. Isn't that messed up? It's too ingrained into me, too loved to accept any morally-correct replacement, and that's all because some jackass in Japan decided it was okay to steal. Maybe I'm at fault, too, but to dismiss it as "it is what it is" feels so wrong.
I love everything else Budokai brings to the table. I love that the Tournament is framed within the World Tournament/Tenkaichi Budokai from the original series (complete with the lovable announcer guy!). I love the concept of custom fighters and collecting abilities through Hoi-Poi Capsules. I love the "what-if" scenarios, particularly the scenarios involving Cell's "nightmare" and The Legend of Hercule, where the big faker actually ends not up being a faker and beats up everyone attending the Cell Game.
But I love that all with a broken heart, and I can no longer call Budokai one of the truly great Dragon Ball games. It doesn't fall nearly into the "so bad it's good" rabbit hole I rediscovered last summer with Sonic Adventure DX, but the polish found in everything else can't save how it's a victim of circumstance. The combination of flash over substance, Toei-blessed presentation vs. generic models, and an amazing soundtrack tainted with plagiarism blend together to create a product with big, gaping cracks gradually rising to the surface.
I suppose it'd be a bit mean to label Budokai mediocre; I mean, I love what it tries to do too much to label it as such, but as it stands, it truly is a relic meant for study and getting one's nostalgic kicks, not entertainment.
When Ico begins, we're treated to a long cinematic of tribesmen escorting a peculiar young boy with horns protruding from his head. Emerging from a forest, they approach an ancient castle first on horseback, then enter its watery underside with a small boat. Stairs are climbed, elevators are ridden and magic swords cast aside door-blocking golems until they reach their destination: a hall of sarcophaguses. As if sentient, one of the stone coffins has already foreseen their arrival, brimming to life with an ominous blue light. It opens its maw, ready to participate in the ritual.
"Do not be angry with us," says one of the guardsmen to the horned boy in a foreign tongue, "this is for the good of the village."
The boy's lack of resistance implies he's already resigned to his fate, but when a mysterious quake shakes the castle, inspiration strikes. He tugs at his restraints just as the stone flooring beneath him crumbles, breaking the sarcophagus and tumbling him out. He rises to his feet and absorbs his surroundings.
Then the player assumes control, and that's it. No control tutorial, no HUD, no signs blaring "THIS IS THE WAY OUT!". We're simply left to figure out what to do with this horned boy in the enigmatic castle.
Having first played Ico's spiritual successor (the masterpiece Shadow of the Colossus) many years before, this came as something of a shock. For all the similarities in tone and visuals, Shadow of the Colossus gives you a purpose, a destination and a couple weapons by the end of the first cinematic. In Ico, we have nothing, and so we are left as confused and aimless as the horned boy we control.
All in part to designer Fumito Ueda, perhaps gaming's most humble auteur. In subscribing to "subtracted game design", Ueda's sense of granting immersion remains unchallenged in this industry. The elements of story, color and sound are tantalizingly minimized, beating just beneath the surface of a deceptively simple game. The world of Ico is outwardly defined by simple puzzles and a simple story, yet it's howthe game is constructed around that captivates us.
Take what happens after the aforementioned beginning, when Ico, the horned boy, rescues another child in captivity: an older girl with otherworldly snow-white skin wearing wispy clothes. The girl, Yorda, also speaks a foreign language, but as shown by subtitles, it's one entirely different from Ico's. It's only by linking hands do they recognize a mutual goal: to escape.
So sets the contextual stage for Ico. In navigating the castle, Ico and Yorda are in consistent physical contact, as they cannot escape without the other despite their respective weaknesses. Note how this very fact allows Ico to subvert typical gaming tropes; for instance, take how the game handles combat. There's no elaborate combo system or leveling-up, for despite having horns, Ico is no different from any other boy. The only means he has in fending off the shadow men that chase the pair around is picking up the nearest torch or sword and swinging away. What would be shallow and repetitive in any other game complements the world Ico builds.
But the game's vision never obstructs the actual gameplay, as seen in the case of Yorda. As only she can magically open the idol gates strewn about the castle, her frailty doesn't override her importance. But she's still left vulnerable most times, and as escort missions are often frowned upon in games (typically in their being slow and how often your partners get lost), it can be easy to dismiss Ico as being basically just one big fat embodiment of that unpopular trope. Yet Yorda never feels like a burden: the essential call button pans the camera over to her in times of progression or in frantic attempts to spot her when the shadow men attack. But as she's still too weak to swim and climb ropes, you can't rely on that button forever.
Guided by meticulous design, such subtle clues beg the player further into Ico's embrace. Growing so accustomed to its spare color palette--gray, black, white, and brown--we gasp when we see the first traces of green grass. The foreboding nightmare that is the shadow men theme makes us shiver at how subdued it is. We wonder if we've seen Yorda's powers somewhere before.
It goes without saying that Ico is an acquired taste. We could say the game gives as much as the player wants, but wouldn't the game's presentation be more active if that were the case? It's because Ico is so sparse in detail that we're given no choice but to analyze everything going on around the pair. If Shadow of the Colossus balanced thrill, immersion and pathos, then Ico juggles only the last two while honing in on something resembling critical thinking.
Shadow of the Colossus evokes such thoughts too, mind, but consider how that game largely consists of tragedy while Ico follows all the beats of a fairy tale. There's an evil queen, acts of love and companionship that save the day, and a nebulous happy ending. What's amazing about Ico is the density packed into these wafer-thin concepts; the queen's plot, for instance, isn't so uncommon in the realm of fiction. Instead, it's how this ill-fated goal is nearly achieved that reveals such a poignant darkness. It's something not explicitly told, but instead shown in a chilling pre-final battle sequence. All I'll say is that a second playthrough will require much pity unto the shadow "men".
But can a game like this have replay value? Seeing as how much extensive analysis has been performed onto the game, I can only conclude that what I've discovered in Ico will continue to branch off and grow in ways I never imagined. Much as it saddened me at times, such a thought excites me to return to the castle at some point and further scrutinize.
And to listen, too. The use of music in Ico is sparse too, but shown above is the game's single point of solace: Heal, which plays whenever Ico and Yorda rest upon the save benches. True to its purpose, it is the faintest of lullabies, free from the darkness and utter isolation the rest of the game's chilling soundtrack provides.
I bring the subject of replay up considering I get the feeling my opinion on Ico is not wholly complete. At the moment, I don't think it's quite the masterpiece Shadow of the Colossus is. That Ico compels me to dig beneath its simple surface is a wonderful feat of game design, yet its successor is such a leap in not just gameplay and sound, but in areas Ico never dared to cross (exploration, for one thing). Yet that I'm compelled to dig even further begs the question if that leap is so big after all.
Ico remains one of the most celebrated examples of art in gaming for a reason, one that I'm glad to have enjoyed on its PS3 remaster (as opposed to allowing the dreary NA PS2 boxart to grace my household, which just...well, just look at the contemptible thing). In an age where gritty games have already lost their luster, how amazing it is that Ueda's vision still strikes home fourteen years later. Here's to hoping The Last Guardian finally comes out next year.
