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My ever-evolving relationship with Max Payne and ambition in fiction

Does everything have to everything all the time?

Before I watched many more noir films, I considered Max Payne really cool and really important to me, but also not that deep or interesting a story. This, I think, is the common view of it; it uses all the cliches of the genre but as an empty exercise emboldened by the fact that it’s doing so in an entirely new medium – making you feel, through gameplay, that you are the noir hero, something even the empathy of films cannot do as well as video games. Max’s story is generic signifiers and purple prose carefully laid over solid gameplay.

After watching many more noir films, I’ve come to consider Max Payne an above-average example of the form. The noir writers of the Fifties would surely appreciate the solid conspiracy plot Max uncovers and the simple, direct characterisation of his villains. Most importantly, I imagine many of them would be impressed by the simple atmosphere created through mixing a snowstorm with Norse imagery to imply an oncoming apocalypse, and indeed wishing they’d thought of that themselves.

This essay is less about Max Payne and more about the way I (and therefore we) categorize and compare art. When I was a young adult, I suppose I was unconsciously comparing most shows to the ambition of The Simpsons. I’ve called this four-quadrant comedy, where it’s all at once a meaningful character drama, having something important to say, using the form to most detailed effect, and also being the funniest fucking thing ever made.

Most of my faves could be described as having that ambition; Metal Gear Solid is almost hysterical in its reaching for multiple seemingly contradictory goals, The Venture Bros comes closest to following The Simpsons in its ambitions – even exceeding it when it comes to laser focus on its philosophical points – and Community combined its sitcom goals with melodramatic therapy on the part of creator Dan Harmon.

Part of mellowing out as I’ve gotten older involved developing an appreciation for works with not only simpler goals, but singular goals – or, more accurately, admitting how much I liked them. I’ve definitely learned to appreciate comedies that only try to be comedies – in a way, The Venture Bros took the most complicated route to get to that one goal – particularly after seeing many works try and fail to imitate the complexity of my faves, doing shallow imitation of things I normally am into.

My mistake – understandable as it might be – was to hope that everything could have the scope of The Simpsons, which is obviously not possible, and perhaps not even desirable. I know there are great, emotionally resonant episodes of The Simpsons that I skip when I just want something dopamine-inducing in the background while I do chores I explicitly do not want to do. Part of my change in outlook, though, is that I have a better handle on creating the kinds of things I like. Ever since my father passed, I’ve been writing in real earnest; much of which will never see the light of day, but which brings me pleasure. 

When you’re young and, uh, lacking in knowledge, you tend to be driven by what you can consume. I know I was frustrated that I couldn’t create these things I found so wonderful; part of my love was my awe that someone was capable of making these spectacular, ambitious things. My frustration with ‘lesser’ works was frustration that the creator apparently couldn’t see that this could be better – more interesting, more creative, more moving than it needed to be.

Now that I’m the guy making things, I can take flaws in stride, even be delighted by them – I can find the gaps between what other creators have made and spin something good out of it. A work no longer has to fully reflect me and my goals; they can be smaller parts of the human experience, that I can take and rework into parts into my own work, and I can enjoy individual works as one sliver of the human experience. I can say Max Payne is the best at being Max Payne.