You know the whole “days without incident” meme? Keep that in mind, but instead replace it with the days without poorly done video game adaptations. Over the last few years, it seems, Hollywood and its filmmakers finally broke through. From the Max series The Last of Us becoming a hit and garnering awards consideration, the astounding Netflix animated series Arcane seemingly coming out of nowhere, and even to two of gaming’s most iconic mascots—the plumber lad and the super fast blue dude—gaming fans have seen some of their dreams realized. 

Unfortunately, you have to set the days without incident number back to zero, as Five Nights at Freddy’s is a throwback to the old days— without the “Good Ole’” part. It’s from the time when video game adaptations were of the same stenchful quality as a rotten banana rather than the delightful cornucopia we’ve seen of late.

The film, based on the mega-popular 2014 horror game franchise, has a fairly straightforward premise. We follow Mike Schmidt (played by Josh Hutcherson), a juvenile delinquent bouncing from job to job in order to provide for his younger sister Abby (played by Piper Rubio). After being ousted from his latest gig, he’s forced to take a position as a nighttime security guard at an abandoned family-centered entertainment joint, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Naturally, things aren’t as they seem. The animatronics are not only alive in some way, but alive in the murderous way. 

It’s a simple premise for a horror-thriller flick. However, the first issue that arises from Five Nights at Freddy’s is its insistence on not being just that: simple. The first third of the film is decent enough, with plenty of mystery surrounding exactly what’s going on. It has a couple of decent, albeit cliche, scares to accompany it. At first, Freddy’s feels giant. Mike’s loneliness heightens its intricacies. By the time the first third ends, it’s as if the film’s greatest strengths run out of juice. It’s possible to forgive films of this genre for having absurd premises or developments, but Five Nights at Freddy’s gives you so many so quickly that this haunted house comes to feels more like a haunted closet.

The video game series is cluttered with lore, sure, but it’s a shame the movie followed those footsteps of convoluted exposition so obediently. This rears its head not just in Freddy’s as a location, but in some of its characters. We mainly see that with Vanessa (played by Elizabeth Lail), a local police officer Mike becomes acquainted with. On top of the performance being overly mellow and the animatronics somehow feeling more animated than her, the character feels confusing and nonsensical. It’s almost as if no one told her what her character’s arc was until the final day of shooting. 

The rest of the main performances, however, slightly redeem the film. Hutcherson’s character isn’t particularly compelling or tonally consistent. Still, he does a decent enough job selling some of the anxiety and fears that inhabit nearly every waking moment of his day. Rubio, on the other hand, does offer some wholesomeness. He delivers on the kind of humor that only kids could possibly pull off. And Matthew Lillard, a fan-favorite of the horror genre, is entertaining enough whenever he gets something to do. Unfortunately that doesn’t happen all that often.

Five Nights at Freddy’s seemingly tries to be a sort of starter horror movie for the generation that grew up on the games. Again, the first third of the film does show promise—and even some decent enough kills for the slasher-enthusiasts that may attend, even if they’re fairly predictable. And, most importantly—and perhaps most importantly for merchandising reasons—the animatronics that the game made so iconic look quite amazing, especially in action. There’s something here, to be sure, but it’s bogged down by everything else that transpires over the course of the last hour. Considering the movie is only around 90 minutes long, that’s a huge problem.

The haunted house from the animated Haunted House film feels more fleshed out than the lore and story beats here. Even if you’re able to forgive the many cliches, you’ll find yourself surprisingly bored the longer things go on, as if the film already let loose its bag of tricks. 

Five Nights at Freddy’s, just like the abandoned center it focuses so heavily on, feels like a chasm of broken down leftovers. Long forgotten toys and entertainment of yesteryear, you’d think, could be a vehicle for nostalgia to take hold. Instead, it’s trapped in itself. Perhaps somewhere buried underneath the rubble was a great idea, but what actually made it to the surface is anything but.

Five Nights at Freddy’s ⭐ (1.5 of 5)

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The sentiment of “family” is a bit of a meme these days. This is partially thanks to a certain series about cars being fast and people being furious and an overall lack of sincerity in relation to superhero affairs. We’ve gotten all the world-ending threats, all the multiverses, and all the interconnecting stories. But, it feels as though some of these basics have been missing lately. Blue Beetle, in many ways, is a film that seems to heed those very concerns. While many DC—and, as of late, Marvel—projects seem to be mucking things up, Blue Beetle is a heartfelt romp that sets itself apart. It focuses on a lovable Mexican family while deftly handling many classic superhero story beats.

The film follows Jaime Reyes (Xolo Maridueña), a recent college graduate who returns to his hometown in Palmera City. This fictional locale serves as a cross between a futuristic Metropolis-esque hub with the cultural feel of places like Miami and El Paso. (The latter is where the character originated in the comic books.) In spite of the many technological advancements seen in the city, Jamie’s family and neighbors don’t see this type of growth where they live.

As a result, Jaime puts his graduation celebrations on hold in order to help provide in any way he can. This leads to him meeting Jenny Kord (Bruna Marquezine). In desperation, she hands off a mysterious Scarab device to Jaime for safe-keeping. As it turns out, the Scarab is an advanced piece of alien technology that attaches itself to Jaime, giving him access to a host of superpowers. He also has the ability to manifest, well, anything when it comes to weapons and gadgets. 

It’s been a little while since we got one of these types of films. No, not a superhero movie because they are everywhere, for better or worse. I mean a specifically a standalone origin story for a relatively unknown character. My oversaturated brain wants to argue that this simple premise is Blue Beetle’s greatest strength. No prior DC film knowledge is necessary to enjoy it and there are hardly allusions or set-ups for a cinematic universe. (There is one small instance with Jaime rocking a “Gotham Law” hoodie.)

Blue Beetle focuses on what the genre is often best at. Jaime is a young man that acts his age with wide-eyed optimism about the future and his role in it. He understandably shows reluctance to hold such power in the first place. And, as young bucks often are, he is lovestruck. The moments when Jaime is truly aware of his newfound powerful gifts is an element of superhero movies I will never tire of. (Remember when Peter Parker began climbing the walls in 2002’s Spider-Man?) These scenes are what helps it flourish. 

But while the standalone and attention-to-fundamentals aspect is greatly appreciated, Blue Beetle soars when it comes to the sentiment of family alluded to earlier. Xolo Maridueña is incredibly endearing in the lead role. But it’s his family—from his concerned parents, to audacious sister and paranoid uncle (played brilliantly by the always hysterical George Lopez)—that make up the film’s best moments. Everything from the family’s initial reaction to Jaime returning home to their …flavorful Spanish language usage when the Scarab first takes over Jaime is as charming as it is representative. 

They’re messy but divinely loyal. They’re overbearing but equally understanding. In many ways, they remind me of my own Latino family and upbringings. I’d be lying if I said their aggressively-Hispanic attitude didn’t gleam a smile out of me on more than one occasion. Plus, the family members are raucously funny in the most unapologetic way.  

However, once the film reaches a certain point, it moves at a blistering pace. This leaves the development of many supporting characters in the rearview. The film’s antagonist, Susan Sarandon’s Victoria Kord, isn’t given much to do outside of being a big ole’ meanie. While she doesn’t have much of a background, what she represents with glancing nod to ideas of gentrification, imperialism, and entitlement (i.e. “The scarab chose you, but it belongs to me.”) works decently enough, especially given the Latino family and culture at the film’s center. 

Jenny Kord, on the other hand, gets left a bit in the background. She works fine enough as the film’s love interest, and Marquezine has a fine performance. There’s nothing egregiously wrong here. It just would’ve been nice to see her get a little bit more to do and say. 

Of course, this superhero flick has plenty of bonkers heroics and action. And it is mostly decent. Occasionally, it dazzles the same way the absurdity of action anime draws you in with the sheer ludicrousness of seeing people yell and throw mountains at each other. There’s some sick tech that creates sweet swords and blasters instantaneously. 

Unfortunately, Blue Beetle becomes a bit of a CGI-fest, especially towards the end which gets bloated and difficult to follow. It’s not Transformers level chaotic in that way but still. The onslaught of action and frenetic pace result in some serious moments not hitting as hard as they could have. In fact, the film loses itself a bit in its own orbit near the end.

There’s a cheesiness in Blue Beetle throughout with its family-centric theme. Not every swing makes quality contact with your heartstrings, but rather some uneventful fouls that you quickly move past. Still, it’s admirable how much it commits to being sincere. Blue Beetle will feel overly trite at times, but it (mostly) has the fortitude to step up to the plate. 

Sometimes, you just need a reminder of why you like all this geeky superhero nerd stuff in the first place. Blue Beetle does that and, in a way, serves as a painful reminder of how much better DC’s characters could be when they aren’t tied down by the endless promise of more. And, for me, it’s just as cool to see a character share my last name and Hispanic culture as it is to meet a new hero with his own lore to explore. Maybe, just maybe, a back-to-basics approach is what the genre sorely needs.

Blue Beetle ⭐ (3 of 5)

Blue Beetle hits theaters on August 18.

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When you hear the word “scarab,” there’s a good chance you think of scary little buggers. Perhaps you grew up watching the Brendan Fraser masterpiece The Mummy and can only think about the grotesque ways they can eat people. Thankfully, when it comes to Blue Beetle, this scarab is not one of those terrifying creatures. We all know that the Scarab is vital to Jamie Reyes’ live-action origin story in Blue Beetle; however, those who aren’t comic fans may not fully understand the details about it.

What makes Blue Beetle’s particular Scarab different? How is the Scarab connected to this hero? Put on your fandom cap and gown; it’s time for an exploration into the realm of comic book lore!

Where Did Blue Beetle’s Scarab Come From and Who Created it in the DC Comics?

Unlike the aforementioned Mummy flick, the Scarab is actually a piece of alien technology. It is used by an alien race known as The Reach, and their name certainly matches with their tradition of conquering planets for the sake of profit. First appearing in 2007’s Blue Beetle #7, The Reach are kind of like the Borg in Star Trek, having conquered around 10,000 planets. 

They’re a hive-mind with technology far surpassing anything of Earth or most other planets, and all of their ships have warp-drive capabilities. The Reach have Negotiators, who make the decisions on whichever planets they have conquer, and commanders who lead sieges. In the comics, the legendary Green Lantern Corps—a group of green, will-powered lads dedicated to protecting the universe—were able to halt The Reach from, excuse the pun, expanding their reach. This came after a massive war nearly 40,000 years ago, and eventually resulted in a peace treaty that barred The Reach from invading planets. 

Instead of direct takeovers, The Reach created Scarabs as weapons to send to other planets.

Blue Beetle’s Scarab Khaji Da and Other Scarabs’ Powers, Explained

The Reach’s Scarabs are genetically modified living weapons used as parasitic technology. The scarabs would find a host, and control them as part of a hive-mind. Basically, The Reach developed their own way of ensuring a sort of Manchurian Candidate situation to sneakily aid their conquering efforts. After a civilization achieved a certain level or technological advancement, the Scarab’s programming takeover the host fully and then, in effect, the planet.

Blue Beetle’s particular Scarab is Khaji Da. (We will touch on their history in a moment.) It gives its user an array of special abilities to handle nearly any situation. The user essentially has a weapon wheel, like in a video game, and can use different tools/enhancements to become superpowered. Khaji Da allows Blue Beetle to increase his strength and speed to superhuman levels. This Scarab can create many materials like swords, wings for flying/shielding, energy blasts, and pyrotechnic weapons. It can also generally shifting into objects that the user projects. 

A Scarab acts as an assistive artificial intelligence for the user to handle nearly any scenario, including interpreting different languages, tracking systems, and uh …other things. It can even resist some level of telepathic manipulation, which was shown at the early stages in 2007’s Blue Beetle #2. It is, in a word, quite powerful.

The History of the Khaji Da Scarab and Its Hosts in the Comics

Jamie Reyes will become Blue Beetle in the Blue Beetle film. However, he was not the Scarab’s first host in the comics. Thousands of years ago, Pharaoh Kha-Ef-Re—who first appeared in Secret Origins #2 (1986)—used the Scarab’s power to rule his kingdom and protect it from enemy nations. After the Pharaoh’s death, the Scarab remained buried with him for many years. Eventually, archaeologist Dan Garrett (who debuted at the same time as the Pharaoh) discovered it and became the second host. He is known as the first Blue Beetle.  

Interestingly, some magical energies affected the Scarab during that long burial, preventing the new user (Dan) from The Reach’s corruption. Dan went on to use its power to fight villains and monsters, as one does. Despite his good intentions, Dan Garrett died just a year later in Blue Beetle #18. 

As a result, the Khaji Da Scarab was passed to his student, Ted Kord, who actually got his first introduction in Captain Atom #33 (1966). He made a resurgence in the DC canon around the same time as Dan Garrett became the Scarab’s host. Ted Kord took over the mantle in his own solo Blue Beetle series from 1986 to 1988. 

Ted wanted to continue Dan’s legacy, but found that he lacked the same chemistry with the Scarab. He had to find his own ways to be a superhero. Instead of the Scarab giving him powers, Ted replicated some of its gadgets thanks to his scientific background. Ted eventually hung up his cape (rather, blue costume) but it seemed that the Scarab couldn’t be passed on. Instead it would have to choose its next host.

The Scarab went missing for a time due to the Crisis on Infinite Earths event, until eventually landing with its next and most recent host, Jaime Reyes. (He made his first official debut in Infinite Crisis #3.) Unlike the Pharaoh or Dan, Jaime was a high school kid who discovered the scarab in an abandoned lot. It permanently grafted itself onto his spine, officially making his debut as the Blue Beetle in Infinite Crisis #5. 

Gross? Certainly. Undeniably cool in a comic-booky way? Absolutely.

The Scarab on TV, Blue Beetle, and the DCU Future

Blue Beetle prominently appeared in the animated series Young Justice and the Injustice video game series (with the latter having a few semi-viral lines). Much of his origin remained in tact except Jaime discovers the Scarab after an explosion at Kord Industries. This event is what causes Ted’s death. In both incarnations, he appears alongside the Teen Titans.

On top of that, Jaime’s big-screen debut will mark the first time there has been a Hispanic superhero lead for a live-action (winks at Spider-Verse) film. It was originally set to be a straight-to-streamer project for Max. So there’s reason to believe the character will play a significant role going forward.

James Gunn, the newly-anointed architect of the DCU, has stated that Blue Beetle will be part of this new plan as the first character. Interestingly, however, Gunn said that the upcoming Superman movie—Superman: Legacy, which he is set to direct himself—is the first film, which is an interesting distinction. 

We’ll have to see if Blue Beetle makes any sort of nods/set-up for the future of the DCU, if any at all. Could we be in store for a prequel to the new universe? Is there some sort of timeline-reset planned for the film we aren’t aware of? Will there be a good ole-fashioned post-credits teaser? Most importantly, how will Jamie Reyes and the Scarab cross paths in the Blue Beetle movie?

We’ll just have to wait and see when the film blasts its way into theaters on August 18th.

The post What Is the Blue Beetle’s Scarab? Its DC Comics Origins and Powers, Explained appeared first on Nerdist.

Listen here, nerds; gaming discourse always seems to go in the same direction. Everyone always talks about the best characters, weapons, abilities, or levels; never do I hear a brave soul venture to discuss one of gaming’s most ubiquitous features. I, of course, am talking about the health bar—an often underappreciated work of art.

I’ve come across many health bars in my old, decrepit, mid-twenties age. There’s something to be said for games that are able to craft their own unique health bar creation. A health bar can be remarkable for many reasons, ranging from how well it represents the general aesthetic of the game, to how informative it is in regards to your health-related concerns, to sometimes for just how irresistibly bizarre, and goofy, it looks. 

Health bars have long wished to garner the respect they so rightly deserve. I—being the oh-so merciful ruler (i.e. the biggest nerd)—will oblige. Here are seven picks for health bars that are truly the epitome of remarkable. 

Super Mario Sunshine (2002)

Kicking off the list is a somewhat controversial title, since some consider it to be the black sheep of the mainline 3D Mario titles: Super Mario Sunshine. Not to get overly political or anything, but I’m an anti-summer and anti-beach person. Super Mario Sunshine is the rare exception to this rule. 

This includes the game’s pleasant-looking, sun-inspired health meter, which looks like the sort of cartoonish sketching you’d jot down in your textbooks as you try to brave through the perils of math class.

Resident Evil (1996)

On the opposite end of the spectrum is the Resident Evil series, which is hardly a joyous or upbeat experience. While these kinds of games aren’t my cup of tea, the health bar of the Resident Evil franchise deserves praise for simply how unique it is. 

The game uses an ECG (electrocardiogram) to measure the status of your character; it’s the most appropriate thing that I’ve ever seen in anything. Like, nothing—not even the casting of Ryan Reynolds as Deadpool—can hold a candle to this magnificent decision.

Pac-Man World Series (1999-2005)

Don’t tell anyone, but one of my core beliefs is that the Pac-Man World series deserves an HD remaster. There are plenty of aspects about this underrated platformer series I cherish deeply, including its simple health bar that makes me giggle with how perfect it is every time. 

Making a health bar that wasn’t based on the legendary pie design would’ve been an insult to our thick yellow boy, so this health bar is an example of when people do their one job and do it well.

SpongeBob SquarePants: Battle for Bikini Bottom (2003)

Is there anything more befitting of the sponge that lives in a pineapple under the sea? With the remaster just recently being released, I got to thinking: Has any game ever used underwear as a main commodity as much as Battle for for Bikini Bottom? 

Before any nerds reference, like, some obscure Commodore 64 game, let’s just say it’s not every day you see underpants used to tally hit points.

Kingdom Hearts Series (2002-Present)

I’m not even going to attempt to begin to explain Kingdom Hearts, but I will say that the health bars serve, in a way, as the perfect symbolism for the convolutedness of the series. This monstrosity is actually kind of hilarious to look at.

The health bar also serves as one of the better visual representations of growth in an RPG that I can think of. Seeing your tiny wedge grow into an entity longer than the equator line is immensely satisfying. 

Spider-Man on GameBoy Advanced (2002)

Not only is Spider-Man my favorite character fictional character in existence, but I remember playing this game a ton. When my mom would drive me to school, I’d spend some time trying to beat whatever level I was stuck on; I swear the boss fight against Shocker was impossible.
The health bar came in the form of a literal red web that would see chunks of it disappear. Despite how arbitrary the amount of damage you took seemed, the thing was just plain rad.

Conker’s Bad Fur Day (2001)

This should be pretty self-explanatory for anyone that enjoys good things (i.e. chocolate, which is an extremely good thing). While a lot of the jokes and crudeness of Conker’s Bad Fur Day don’t exactly age well, the boldness and “how in the world is this game real?” sentiment of the game can’t be understated. 

Honestly, I’d put forth a bill to the senate to have more games use chocolate—or any number of other delectable treats—as their health bars. 

Originally published September 3, 2020.

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I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. Sure, I’d seen all the movies and knew through conventional wisdom that being a nerd wasn’t exactly the gateway to popularity as a young buck. Whatever famous quote there is about knowledge not equating to experience is true. There’s a very specific kind of pain when the things you like—and the worlds you choose to inhabit—are deemed to be “weird” and “stupid.”

As a result, during the school year especially, I spent many weekends in my room. I’d play a game of Mario Party against nobody but the computer-controlled Waluigi who always managed to steal my stars. Looking back, I’m thankful that Ultimate Spider-Man (2000) comic by Brian Michael Bendis with artwork by Stuart Immonen and Mark Bagley—which remains my favorite fictional story across any medium to this day—became my friend when I needed one the most. 

My early childhood wasn’t awful; however, there was plenty of loneliness and self-consciousness in it. Were video games some terrible thing? Was there something wrong with enjoying that old Sonic the Hedgehog movie? Was it bad that I loved Yu-Gi-Oh! and collecting Bionicle LEGO figures? I thought I was a nice and friendly kid, but was I actually a jerk? 

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but part of the ostracization from kids partially came from being at a small private middle school with predominately white kids. But on the other side of things, being around my fellow Hispanic brethren was just a different kind of pain. I still remember the times people would mock me for “not really being Spanish” because I fancied a weekend of playing Ratchet & Clank: Up Your Arsenal over playing soccer. 

That’s where Ultimate Spider-Man—which had an iconic run from September 2000 to June 2011—comes into my life. I certainly loved Spider-Man before this comic run after first meeting the character through Sam Raimi’s films. But this was another thing entirely. My discovery of this comic series was totally accidental. My mom bought me a textbook for school with art that I didn’t recognize. I thought,” Wait, why does it say Ultimate? I want to be Ultimate!” And the rest is, as the cool kids say, history.

There was something about the look of Ultimate Spider-Man that immediately felt more relatable. He really was a teenager, which I couldn’t exactly saying for Tobey Maguire. So, whenever I felt alone, I simply viewed Ultimate Spider-Man as one of my best friends. In middle school, I loved his silly, cocky attitude, like the time he insulted the big mean bully Kingpin—a figure that my unpopular-self knew all too well. Spidey literally whipped out flash cards with jokes on them to get his point across.

I also loved when he met up with other heroes. The story was showing me a warmth and a hope that, like Spider-Man, I’d eventually stumble into “different” people like me. His many interactions with the X-Men, when the Human Torch came to Spidey’s high school and they all went down to the beach together, and even when Spidey and Wolverine temporarily switched bodies were such precious moments. Every issue felt like preparation for a fun hangout.

When I got into high school, I began to connect with the character on a deeper level than just quirky jokes and other superhero cameos. It was the Peter Parker side—the vulnerable, anxiety-ridden mess. The guy who was constantly unsure and having inconveniences that seem enormous at that age alongside genuine tragedy. His many girl troubles, class attendance worries, and even his job at the Daily Bugle struck a chord with me. I worried about girls too and I struggled with school! And I wondered, constantly, about what the heck my career would entail!

The deeper things with Peter always hit too, even beyond Uncle Ben. Sometimes, they weren’t treated in some epic, self-aggrandizing way. Peter’s frustration with how the Kingpin’s constant vindication by an unjust system, and particularly the death of Gwen Stacy by the symbiote Carnage, rang true. It seemingly came out of nowhere—almost as if the series was simply saying “s**t happens,” for a lack of a better term. 

There was even a small moment, when he and the X-Men are captured by Deadpool to compete on a life-or-death game show for mutant-hating viewers. Kitty Pryde—who shares a brief but wholesome and adorable relationship with Peter—points out how hate gets affects us after a while. This sentiment didn’t bang me over the head, because it didn’t need much explanation. It just was. 

It’s often forgotten, thanks to his plucky attitude, how dark Spider-Man stories can be. And despite all of that, Peter just keeps going. Not because he has some grand ideas about saving the world. But just because he has to try. Is it possible that it’s all pointless? Is the hate in the world too much? Probably. But we still try anyway. Even in the final moments of his life when a sniper shot from the Punisher left him bleeding, he still does everything he can to protect the people who he cares about the most. Not to save the world, just to save his family. 

I don’t want to make some dramatic statement about how Ultimate Spider-Man “saved” me from the world. I still had a couple of friends. And my unbelievably supportive parents gave me a rather privileged upbringing. Rather, it was just something that was there for me. It was a safe space. In an age where—for better and worse—superheroes have become the main fixture of pop culture, I think some of their defining messages can get lost in translation. I think, fundamentally, one of the most important takeaways is that being different is okay. 

Ultimate Spider-Man helped me realize this fact as a guiding force when folks around me ravaged the things I enjoyed. I realized that I, too, can be cool. There will be rough patches, and tragedies will come my way, but it’s okay. That’s just part of growing up. And I did indeed meet plenty of fellow super-nerds who are there for me.

At this stage of my life, I’ve come to believe that we are, indeed, likely doomed. But I try anyway, and I think anyone who reads this should, too. Because even if there’s the slightest atomical chance for a better existence, we owe it to those less fortunate than us to try. We all have great power, in our unique ways, and a great responsibility. Ultimate Spider-Man echoed this sentiment the best, and I’m glad my curious younger self discovered it. 

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Each time we broached the subject of what I wanted for my future, or girls, or my grades in school, it would be the most cursory of conversations. My dad is the type of person who, like myself, tends to be coy about their feelings. When he decided to move to Florida for retirement, I didn’t even know until a few weeks ahead of the move. Just this last month he had a major heart surgery that I wasn’t aware of until the night before. We’re not always the most transparent. Instead, we leaned towards putting on a movie, watching the Yankees, or ordering pizza. Maybe a combination of all three. We kept it simple, or—whether or not either of us chose to admit it—safe.

Square Enix

But despite all that, one defining aspect of my childhood actually ameliorated some of these issues: Final Fantasy X. The game, which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year, was one of the more significant releases of the early PlayStation 2 era. Growing up, I almost exclusively played titles of the mascot platformer ilk. Think Sonic the Hedgehog, Crash Bandicoot, or Ratchet & Clank. I barely touched anything else until my adolescent eyes came across the game’s sweet box art. When you’re young, sometimes all it takes to get you invested is a guy holding a liquid blue dragon sword on a beach.

Then, somehow, both my dad and I ended up playing through this adventure together. I can’t remember what prompted it—he was probably in the room and thought the opening cutscene looked cool and decided to stick around—but it was unforgettable. You see, most of the games I played centered on action, quick reflexes, and simply blowing things up. (Don’t tell my parents, but I absolutely snuck in some Grand Theft Auto III in there.) So my dad couldn’t quite participate. Thanks to Final Fantasy X‘s turn-based RPG combat, my dad could easily get involved.

In many ways, the game was better suited to him than it was to me. I usually charged headfirst into my battles and escapades. But let me tell you, this game did not allow for such foolishness. Want to learn new special moves? You have to train your characters for hours to learn them. Want to beat that big boss? You have to strategize and, most intimidatingly, read—my young self’s kryptonite. Thankfully, my dad stayed by my side to pull me through.

Square Enix

We spent hours grinding levels, exploring the environments, and talking to every NPC we ran into in the hopes of gaining an item. My dad influenced the latter. He would make me stop every 15 minutes to check an innocuous wall because he swore that something looked off. His fascination with checking every tiny detail was actually kind of adorable. He grew up playing games with the graphical capabilities of a simple yellow circle eating pellets in a maze. Now, he got to see mythical dragons fly through the sky and characters backed by actual voice actors. 

My dad being a newcomer to the modern age of gaming combined with my lack of ability for strategy, or even critical thinking, made Final Fantasy X a true challenge. We were a not-so-dynamic duo adamant about avoiding online guides. Instead, we went into every encounter blind and got our butts kicked a disturbing amount of times before discovering what to do. Every weekend I visited my dad became a new opportunity for us to continue the adventure. Even if it was just us practicing against random enemies to level up our characters.

He even started his own save file because he wanted to backtrack through areas we might’ve missed. One time, we got stuck on a particular boss, the Spectral Keeper. It inflicted a type of damage on our party that made them unable to listen to any commands, and thus attack automatically. By the time I returned to my dad’s after two weeks, he had found the requisite abilities and armor that made fighting the boss a piece of cake. It was like we had solved the equation for life.

Final Fantasy X isn’t exactly the most beloved in the series. Many consider its main protagonist, Tidus, incredibly obnoxious. And the relationship between Tidus and the game’s other main character Yuna feels, well, awkward. The gameplay felt great at the time and served as a splendid showcase for the PlayStation 2, but it lacked the iconic characters and storytelling of previous Final Fantasy entries. But being young, such factors didn’t really affect my perception of the experience. I liked Tidus just fine, which may or may not have had to do with James Arnold Taylor performing the voice. He also voiced Ratchet in the Ratchet & Clank series, my favorite game to this day. And truly, the quality didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was a unique experience my dad and I could enjoy together.

Square Enix

Final Fantasy X served as an icebreaker of sorts for my dad and I to communicate with one another. We were both fixated on this seemingly limitless world, the weird but memorable characters, and combat system. We spent hours on end trying to master the game.

But most importantly, Final Fantasy X gave me the belief that video games can provide a fluffy cushion for any two people. It’s not my favorite game of all time, but it is a precious jewel of nostalgia that I hold very near and dear to my heart. Little did I know that 20 years ago when I first inserted the disk into the PlayStation 2, that I’d actually be going on the adventure of a lifetime with someone that matters so much to me.

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Earlier this fall, I was scrolling through Twitter (as one does), and came across a streamer’s rather wholesome reaction to the new Spider-Man: Miles Morales game. The game itself looks fantastic at a base level, but also featured some nods to Miles’ Puerto Rican heritage. This prompted the streamer’s tearful reaction. It was a rare positive moment for the bird app. It was also a moment that, not too long ago, I wouldn’t have appreciated. In fact, it wasn’t until Miles Morales and, more specifically, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse that I started to truly understand the power of representation.

Despite growing up as a Puerto Rican lad myself, the issue of representation in pop culture was hardly something that crossed my mind. I certainly knew there was a disparity problem, it just didn’t occupy much space in the cobweb-littered realm known as my brain. For the majority of my life, I just grew to accept the way things were: that the entertainment industry would never actually care about my culture and rarely even acknowledge it.

Sony Pictures Releasing

In the early stages of my deeply introverted adolescence, blockbusters—and certainly superhero movies, which I loved the most—rarely gave Hispanic characters the spotlight. Most of the time, mainstream pop culture relegated Hispanic characters to tertiary roles. Or, more annoyingly, tired stereotypes. Loud, boisterous Hispanic characters—or the classic drug dealer/cartel story—felt exceedingly common. One example, from the first Transformers movie is actually an apt summation of how the culture is often treated. One character gets blown off for speaking Spanish. “English, dude, English!” is a great line to illustrate the apparent annoyance that Hollywood has with Hispanic people being proud of their culture.

The funny thing is that it didn’t trouble me much. My favorite characters were mostly white (and still are! Shoutout to Naruto Uzumaki, a true king), and I didn’t see anything particularly wrong with that. I grew up reading my beloved Ultimate Spider-Man comics, which remain among my favorite stories across any medium. I never begrudged anyone who spent their time and energy critiquing contemporary art for its lack of diversity; that was a noble cause! Rather, I was, in a word, more apathetic. I never had my “Wow, representation matters! I feel this!” moment.

Of course, as so often happens, I caught a curveball of unexpected emotions when I saw Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. Spider-Man is my favorite character ever, but I never expected the movie to be a genuine masterpiece, and universally beloved. (I’m fairly certain it’d be harder to find a dissenting opinion of Spider-Verse than the literal holy grail.) Among myriad other reasons, what made the movie so powerful was just how well it understood diversity.

Sony Pictures Releasing

My favorite scene in the entire movie is when Miles is first introduced. It’s a small, almost inconsequential sequence, in which we see Miles getting ready for school, walking down his neighborhood block, and organically speaking Spanish. It was natural, unforced, and just there. It took me back to the days when I was younger visiting my family in Puerto Rico; I didn’t even speak Spanish, but there’s just something about hearing it. Even those moments when my relatives would be obnoxiously shouting for me to do some meaningless chore came back to me, for better or worse.

Upon watching Miles casually speaking Spanish for the first time, I had the absolute cheesiest of smiles plastered across my face. That small, non-preachy gesture meant the world to me. It was a casual showcase of my culture, one that was alive, flowing right along as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. In that moment, for the first time, I felt represented. Rather than a prerecorded message on the loudspeaker blaring through the hallways of fake-wokeness, it was a gentle tap on the shoulder inviting you to the lunch table. I truly think there’s something beautiful about that.

Sony Pictures Releasing

Spider-Verse’s sensitivity and understanding of representation extends beyond just Miles and his Puerto Rican and African-American background. Thanks to the inclusion of Spider-people like Spider-Gwen (the definition of rad, by the way), the movie has a knack for diversity without making a big deal out of itself. Peter Parker is the original Spider-Man, and a springboard for the story, but there’s no true or real Spider-Man. Instead, all of these Spider folks co-exist in a way that feels natural; there’s a togetherness with them that never feels heavy-handed. (Unlike something akin to, perhaps, the “She’s Got Help” scene in Avengers: Endgame that felt more like an unearned pat on the back by Disney.)

Even on my twenty-seventh rewatch of the movie, I get choked up. Spider-Verse unlocked something in me. From then on, I started to better understand why representation mattered. My apathy towards the topic of representation dissipated, and it became something I searched more for in my pop culture consumption. White America’s ignorance of others was something I’d become numb to. These days, it’s on the forefront of my mind.

I feel a certain amount of rage towards those that seek to pedal the “forced representation” rhetoric—as if simply showing people of color, or women, or non-binary folk, is somehow a chore. People just want to be seen. And I can promise you that as a Puerto Rican lad who grew up among predominantly white characters, it’s not a herculean task to open your heart to other kinds of stories.

Featured Image: Sony Pictures Releasing

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You know that feeling you get when you’ve just finished a lengthy story you care about so deeply? Often times, it’s a bittersweet feeling, as you know the characters you’ve grown to appreciate have — for better or worse — completed their journey. This, I find, is an especially profound feeling when the ending you received didn’t give you a great amount of blissful pleasure; instead, it’s something far more somber and nuanced.

The Last of Us Part II is the latest such story to make me feel this way. The game, which has sold okay (read: it broke records), has sparked plenty of conversations given how multi-layered its narrative is. Some of this has resulted in some unhealthy, toxic discourse, but I found it to be one of the most interesting, daring, and complicated stories I’ve ever played in a video game; I loved it. 

But The Last of Us Part II didn’t end in a way that made me think “Wow, that was great!” but rather “Oh man, I know that was great, but I’m going to need some time to process and accept it.” I promise those are two very different things, and such an ending — in more ways than one — brought me back to when I first finished another story I cherish deeply: Cowboy Bebop.

Separate Worlds, But Equally Complicated

Naughty Dog

On the surface, The Last of Us Part II and Cowboy Bebop couldn’t be more different; one is a survival-horror video game, the other a Japanese anime about space bounty hunters. Basic premise aside, the former is also far more violent, with a surplus of excessively violent scenes that make The Walking Dead look pedestrian by contrast. Even the music choices are drastically different. 

They both clearly exist in different worlds on an aesthetic level, but they are each more deceptively complex than they initially let on. The Last of Us Part II gets touted largely as a revenge story, while Cowboy Bebop is more of a spontaneous adventure series following an unlikely mixture of crew members. But they’re so much more than that. In fact, they’re both so complicated that it’s a disservice to view them as anything less than that. 

The Last of Us Part II, while centralized around hatred and revenge, is also about consequences, forgiveness, and even religion. Cowboy Bebop, on the other hand, deals plenty with nihilism, revenge, and shades of environmental politics. You could conceivably talk about all these respective aspects for hours; they both can mean different things to different people depending on who you ask. However, the theme that stuck out to me, and has stayed with me far more than I expected, is the idea of the past and how it defines us — especially in the ending.

Sunrise

Desperate Pleas On Deaf Ears

The final acts of these stories both center around our main characters — Ellie and Spike, respective — going on one last crusade because of their inability to move on. Ellie, unable to come to grips with the people she’s lost due to Abby’s actions, ignores the sentiment of her partner (Dina) to go on one last spree for vengeance. Spike, who we  see throughout the series is incapable of getting over his past, ignores Faye’s pleas for him to stay. Instead, he leaves the safety of the Bebop in order to exact revenge against Vicious and the Red Dragon syndicate for everything they’ve done and, especially, for what happened to Julia.

In the end, both characters have their desires met — at least somewhat. Ellie has her chance with Abby to resolve things, while Spike does manage to kill Vicious and put an end to the Red Dragon Syndicate’s schemes. But at what cost? Ellie left the quiet, peaceful life she had with Dina and the daughter they were raising together, ending up alone; Spike presumably dies, having been unable to start a new life with the Bebop crew.

Sunrise

While the personalities of the two protagonists are completely different, the endings for them feel eerily similar. It’s the kind of ending that sticks with you; you can’t quantify the decisions as simply right or wrong. The entire thing makes you think. It’s tragic, yes, but also feels appropriate. Perhaps it’s best summarized by one Steve Rogers in Avengers Endgame: “Some people move on, but not us.”

Unable to Let Go

It’s a surreal experience to see two characters I love struggle with that same thing I struggle with: Letting go, and overcoming, the past. There are people who are “family” that I would rather not bestow with that honor. So I don’t. I have trouble coming to grips with my family, my relation to them, and their past; watching other characters go through that struggle is an incredibly poignant, powerful, and relatable thing to witness.

Naughty Dog

I think our past—our heritage, and the mistakes we make along the way—is something with which we actually all struggle. Most of us, I like to imagine, are able to come to peace with those things in time; we grow, adapt, and move on. But what makes The Last of Us Part II and Cowboy Bebop so special is that it shows us what happens when you don’t; sometimes people can’t just let whatever happens, happen. 

Featured Image: Naughty Dog/Sunrise

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