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Analysis

DmC: Devil may Cry and the 10/10 Story

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**This article is intended as further justification for the 10/10 score for story in OnlySP’s recent review of DmC Devil may Cry and contains major spoilers for the game.**

In my recent review of DmC Devil may Cry, I made the decision to grant a perfect score to the story. My first such, and not a decision that I came to lightly. Indeed, I agonised over that factor more than any other, trying to work out if I could justify it to myself, before being able to do so to the readers. A large part of that indecision was down to the fact that the narrative presentation of the game does not align with my ideals of what constitutes the best possible implementation of storytelling within the medium. Bearing this in mind, along with the dialogue issues and lack of thematic depth that I mentioned in the review, the question inevitably arises of what it is that prompted the bestowal of that coveted 10/10.

Now, I took pains within the review to canvas this, but even though I feel that I was thorough, I do not believe that I was able to fully justify my reasoning and nor was I able to give a completely balanced view, due to the nature of reviews, which precludes discussion of topics only partly related to the subject. As such, I have elected to reiterate some of that, and go more in-depth in this editorial, but to do that effectively will require the citation of specific story beats and, thus, major spoilers. Read on at your own discretion, for there will be no further warnings.

Many so-called “fans” of the earlier games feel betrayed by Ninja Theory’s take on the series, believing that the team has crossed an intangible line in the severity of their subversion of the universe. It seems that many of them have latched onto a particular scene in which a wig, an approximation of the original hairstyle, lands upon Dante’s head prompting him to quote, ‘not in a million years’ in response to his appearance, as a symbol of the contempt with which they have approached the property. There is no getting around the fact that the new continuity is very different from that of the original, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it is disrespectful. For example, viewed from another perspective, the aforementioned scene could be construed as a light hearted in-joke intended to poke fun at the immediate dissent that arose upon the first unveiling of the game.

It’s an isolated incident of self-awareness but it isn’t the only way, from a visual perspective, that the game pays homage to its predecessors. Look closely during one of the cutscenes and you will find the return of the neon girl that has featured subtly in every prior entry and accompanied the logo of the first game and also a change in Dante’s hair from black to the more familiar platinum as the story progresses. And these, working in conjunction with the relative faithfulness of the characters and relationships, point to a healthy respect for what Capcom’s internal studios did previously. You can argue that Eva’s alteration from human to angel, and the consequent Nephilim status of Dante and Vergil is a bastardisation of the original continuity, but the truth is that they are still born of a miscegenous relationship and are the only ones with the power of defeating Mundus, though for different, equally bizarre reasoning.

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There are more examples of this kind of homage to be found, but I don’t want to continue these comparisons because DmC is best viewed standing alone and it is not perfect. As mentioned in the review, however, it is very much a “Hero’s Journey” with clearly defined character and narrative arcs. Combining this with the study of a multilayered character in the form of Dante, and doing so with excellence, is what ultimately elevates the game beyond its competition. The introductory scene is schizophrenic; pounding music accompanies quick cuts as we see Dante in a nightclub before taking home a pair of girls dressed as angels. By reflecting the habits of many people in the 18-25 age range, he is made relatable to them, but this also helps to set the stage for his purposelessness, a depiction that is later reinforced by his flippant interactions with Kat and Vergil. Similarly, the first mission shows off his arrogance through his refusal to accept Kat’s help with the Hunter demon and to escape Limbo. Added to the bluster that he shows in the face of his immense opposition, he isn’t a very likeable character in the beginning. But things change.

The discovery of his lineage, and the murder of his mother at the hands of Mundus galvanises him and gives him a direction: revenge. From this, we see subtle alterations in his character as he sheds much of the immaturity that he displays in the beginning, while retaining the light-heartedness. The final stand-off against Vergil cements this new outlook as he defends humanity against his brother’s insistence that the Nephilim must rule over humans for their own good. Dante’s ideals, realised throughout the game, are in opposition to Vergil’s and it makes for an interesting exchange, with a similarly philosophical bent as was seen in the closing moments of Enslaved: Odyssey To The West (Ninja Theory’s previous game).

Vergil sees less character development, but it becomes clear in the end that he is subversive. Throughout the entirety of the game, he has treated Dante as a friend and brother, utilising his skills where Vergil’s own would not suffice, but not for the sole purpose of seeing their parents avenged as he would have Dante believe. Instead, his goal is power; the very same that Mundus had previously wielded, though he intends to use it magnanimously. It’s peculiar, though, that his callousness is depicted earlier in the game, but he can still be sympathised with. You can understand his desire to remove essential information from the Order’s servers to keep their plans safe, even though it leads to the sacrifice of Kat. You can understand why he shoots the pregnant Lillith as the spawn of Mundus can never be allowed to be born. He is hard-hearted, doing what he believes to be right, even though it may cost more than he can afford to pay. He may not be the most relatable character, but it makes sense for Dante to stand alongside him due to their shared goals and that neither could succeed without the other.

Kat is another interesting character, though she doesn’t exactly subscribe to the indomitable strength of the female characters found in previous Ninja Theory or Devil May Cry games. She is balanced, incapable of fighting, though invaluable due to her ability to phase between Limbo and the real world and to open gates between them. Beyond this, there is her role as a guide and tactician for the brothers. The reasons for her loyalty to Vergil are convincing enough to rationalise her refusal to divulge pertinent information to Mundus under torture, and her ultimate act of begging Dante to not kill Vergil, even though he has shown her little but contempt in their shared quest, allowing her to be captured and willing to see her die. Important and sympathetic, she is the kind of character that is capable of being loved by the fans simply by feeling real.

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Less importance is placed on Mundus’ minions, but their flimsy power fantasies are better than many game villains who are little more than cardboard cut outs put in the player’s way as a symbol of adversity rather than the reality of it. Mundus himself is a different matter. He is almost purely representative of one in power that would do anything to retain it. He believes that, outside of Dante, there is no threat to himself, and so focuses his attention upon the son of Sparda to his own detriment. It is this single-mindedness that sees him fall.

The main narrative thread revolves around the quest to undermine Mundus’ power in order to bring about his demise and it winks at the general populace’s distrust of the media and economy to do this. Much could have been made of this satire, but it feels underutilised instead, with any intended message being lost in the shuffle. Where it succeeds in that it is straightforward and simple, void of much of the useless fluff that is so absurdly abundant in many games. Although it logically follows that the overthrowing of Mundus will free the world, that is not in the forefront of the mind of Dante (or the player). There is no grand ambition in that sense, which allows the game to be powerful in a personal way, following in the footsteps of the likes of Max Payne 3 and Uncharted 2.

The gameplay may not complement the storytelling, but DmC is an example of the times when this needn’t be the case. The characterisation is strong enough in the cutscenes to not need to be reinforced through the gameplay. The format of the plot adheres to one of the most traditional forms of storytelling, though does it in a way that is superior to any other game that I have played to date and some scenes are surprising and emotive in their turn. With a generally high standard of writing backed up by stellar acting there are very few reasons to cast aspersions upon the story of DmC and these are flimsy at best; the kind of things that mindless fanboys would latch onto in order to justify their convictions.

I’ve done my best to rationalise my judgement of my score. I can’t say whether I’ve managed to convince you. Indeed, I’m not sure that I’ve entirely convinced myself. As the opening states, it was one of the hardest scoring decisions that I have ever had to make and only further strengthens the argument, in my mind, that the story factor is such an intangible factor, particularly in gaming, that to give it an arbitrary score out of ten is unfair. A ten does not make it War and Peace, but it does make it count among the absolute best that gaming has to offer. It really is as simple as that.

Damien Lawardorn is an aspiring novelist, journalist, and essayist. His goal in writing is to inspire readers to engage and think, rather than simply consume and enjoy. With broad interests ranging from literature and video games to fringe science and social movements, his work tends to touch on the unexpected. Damien is the former Editor-in-Chief of OnlySP. More of his work can be found at https://open.abc.net.au/people/21767

Analysis

A Mind at War With Itself: Hellblade and the Lived Experience of Mental Illness

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*Note: This article contains spoilers for Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice and references to mental illness. Reader discretion is strongly advised.*

More than six months on from its initial release, Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice’s dedication to an honest portrayal of mental illness through the protagonist, Senua, ensures the game remains one of the most meaningful and affecting of recent times. While discussion of media products’ value has turned the past few years to focus on inclusive portrayals of race or gender, the mentally ill remain underserved. Too often do depictions of depression, anxiety, and psychosis latch on to the simplest and, in some ways, most offensive stereotypes. Seeing Max Payne or Sebastian Castellanos trying to drown their sorrows is a world away from my experiences. By contrast, Senua’s struggles—from both a narrative and allegorical standpoint—are more relatable. In focusing on accuracy above all else, Ninja Theory succeeded in creating a title capable of resonating with an audience normally forced to the fringes in fiction, and, for that, the team deserves to be applauded.

Hellblade’s surface-level portrayal of psychosis has been lauded from many quarters, including being named as Game Beyond Entertainment at the recent BAFTA Game Awards, yet the adventure doubles as an allegory for life with mental illness. The opening moments set the tone of the title as Senua, beset by disembodied voices, steers a primitive canoe along a fog-shrouded waterway. The tranquility of the surroundings contrasts against the maelstrom of sound, and therein lies the first hint of the game’s deeper engagement with its central topic: unlike injury, physical deformity, or racial and sexual difference, mental illness has no easily recognisable signs. An individual looking on sees only another person, while the sufferer is being torn apart by the conflicts running through their mind. However, those voices—the Furies, as Senua thinks of them—are central to more than just Ninja Theory’s depiction of psychosis and, by extension, the Hellblade experience; they are also integral to the message that the game ultimately conveys.

Senua arrives in a strange land where mutilated corpses stand as a warning of horrors yet to come. Though players do not learn it until later in the journey, the character’s quest in this faraway place is to bring her lover, Dillion, back to life by descending into the Viking underworld of Helheim and confronting its nightmarish deity, Hela. Given that the game is burdened by the weight of reality through Senua’s movement and the level of detail, the mission seems incongruous.

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However, this dissonance contributes to the allegory. Mental illness is fundamentally irrational—the sufferer episodically or eternally unhinged from reality. External circumstances may induce or exacerbate conditions, but the insecurities arising from them are rarely easily attributable to a clear source. Thankfully, I cannot claim to suffer from issues as intense as those of Senua, but I can understand her plight. We with broken minds feel disassociated from those around us and unable to relate. As such, although outreach programs are a noble endeavour, their premise is flawed. When trapped in the throes of a negative or deranged mindset, letting someone else in feels dangerous:

‘What if they don’t believe me?’

‘How will they judge me?’

‘What if I hurt them or, worse, they hurt me?’

Even knowing that such doubts are nothing more than the illusory creations of my brain, when they run rampant, I am unable to contradict them. These false realities overpower my seemingly tenuous awareness of the objective world. Finding a buoy to cling to in the storm-tossed waters of mental tumult is nigh impossible, but I have someone and Senua had Dillion.

As such, Dillion is far more than a MacGuffin; he is a symbol of the path out of the darkness that Senua had begun to walk. Therefore, her determination to bring him back to life is not just another fantasy video game objective, but a cry for help. Senua wants to be healed. However, to do so, she must undertake a harrowing journey that will force her to confront both internal and external demons.

Before Senua can pass through the gate to Helheim, she must enter the realms of the gods Valravn and Surt to make them bleed. In the story, these two beings appear as little more than obstacles to be overcome, and the puzzles that lead to them border on busywork. The aforementioned gods are of far greater relevance in the allegory as they stand in for the first phase of healing: diagnosis. Together, they reflect the lived experience of mental illness.

Valravn is a god of illusion; thus, of the two gods, he is the easier to contextualise as a metaphor of Senua’s psychosis. As players progress through this section of the game, they solve optical-illusion-based puzzles by utilising gateways that alter parts of the environment. This alignment of mechanics and the subjectivity of perception results in the level being a reflection of the struggle to recognise reality. For Senua, that means realising that the voices that plague her are not external beings, but manifestations of her subconscious and, therefore, are unable to guide her. For me, the battle is to remember that other people will not judge me negatively offhand.

Similarly to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and psychosis, social anxiety has been trivialised by its use in the vernacular and mistaken for a desire to avoid interaction. My experience is the opposite. I would relish the freedom to attend events or talk to people in social situations comfortably, but these things are trying, and I invariably end up drained or on the verge of tears. In a crowd, I feel overly alert for even the faintest hint of danger, and, in conversation, I am tormented by thoughts and fears of what the other party thinks of me. Though these worries make daily life difficult, I have no idea if they have a firm basis in reality. Subjectivity overwhelms objectivity, which is also true in Valravn’s realm where illusion rules over the material world.

Surt is different; rather than reflecting the experience of mental illness, his flames describe its nature. Fire makes for a powerful metaphor. When controlled, the heat and light afforded by flame is comforting, but, loosed, it becomes all-consuming. One of the most frequently overlooked qualities of ‘abnormal’ mindsets is their ability to self-perpetuate. Though they can destroy lives, the abject greyness, voices, or delusions become a solace. Far from feeling ruinous, they reassure against stressors and daily rigours. In Surt’s world, the inferno rages at the touch of an external catalyst, leaving Senua’s only option to run, terrified, towards a gate and break through to quell the flames behind her. This gameplay conceit echoes the often episodic experience of mental illness, as well as the struggle of escaping its grip. One does not simply walk out of a warped mindset—a breakthrough is needed.

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Identification is necessary before hope of healing. Overcoming Surt and Valravn reflects the former process, allowing the gates of Helheim to open so that Senua can confront her demons. At that point, the title’s focus shifts from the present to the past, beginning by revealing Dillion’s role as a symbol and, later, a guide to help Senua flee from the harmful influences that permeated her youth. The series of diverse challenges that ensue is a kind of therapy, delving into some of the watershed moments of her past, clarifying and correcting misconceptions presented earlier in the adventure. In the present, as in the past, Dillion arms Senua with the tools to challenge those people and voices who try to silence and subjugate her by revealing the truth that she is not cursed, but ill and misunderstood.

With these challenges complete and the legendary sword Gramr in her possession, the protagonist embarks on the last part of her journey. Hela’s final guardian is Garm, a half-rotted beast that uses darkness as its weapon. The implication is clear: throughout the game—as in wider discussions of the topic—Senua has referred to her mental illness as a darkness, so this penultimate battle is intended to strip away remaining misconceptions and free herself from her psychosis. Subsequent events seem to confirm her newfound freedom as she steps through a mirror and leaves behind her Furies.

Hela awaits.

However, as with everything in Hellblade, reality is to be questioned. Hela is not the goddess that Senua believes she is, but a manifestation of the core of her own psychosis. During the battle, Senua realises the unintentional evil done by her father in his attempts to expel her demons, contextualising the realms of Valravn, Surt, and Garm as extensions of his actions. According to common belief, these epiphanies should enable Senua to overcome her issues and emerge as a well-adjusted member of society. Instead, she is forced to fail and fall without ever having been able to lay her blade upon her final adversary.

In taking this approach, Ninja Theory displays both boldness and maturity. Nonetheless, this seeming death is not the end. Hela takes Dillion’s skull and casts it into an abyss, following which she transforms into Senua. By conflating the two characters in this moment, Senua’s development is emphasised; though she needed Dillion to help her see that she was not cursed, she no longer needs to rely on him.

The truth that Ninja Theory conveys so effectively is that mental illness is not an adversary to be defeated or an obstacle to be overcome. As time has passed, I have developed an awareness of the beginnings of an episode and formed an ability to analyse what in my life can be changed to mitigate its impact. Furthermore, though another person may be able to provide guidance and assistance, the struggle is always deeply personal. We can often barely describe the wars that our minds engage in against themselves, and we certainly cannot invite someone else in to fill us with rainbows and sunshine.

As the sun breaks through the clouds, revealing one of the most breathtaking sights in all of Hellblade, Senua’s Furies return, rejoicing at still being alive. The protagonist had to ‘die’ because she tried to reject them. She smiles to hear them again, having realised that they are a part of her, as mental illness always is. Living with such problems can, at times, be a harrowing, seemingly impossible task, but to deny them is to deny the self.

I could write volumes more about the levels, enemies, mechanics, and story of Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice and how all of these disparate elements work together to present a more cohesive and compelling experience than almost any other game built on the same scale. For now, though, all I have left to write is thank you to the development team for having the courage and conviction to bring this game to life.

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