Ma, Cyberpunk, and Filling the Silence
I recently watched Princess Mononoke for the first time, and was struck by its beauty and sincerity. My first thought was that contemporary fantasy cinema, as much as I like a lot of it, often shies away from being direct and open in its themes…in a non-jokey, post-Buffy way. It's hard for me to imagine a piece of contemporary American fantasy cinema featuring Mononoke's frank discussions of hatred, revenge, and what it is to live a good life.
I was reminded, also, of director Hayao Miyazaki's explanation of the Japanese concept, ma. It's been written about elsewhere, and I'm loath to go on at length about it here; but my understanding is that Miyazaki builds in moments of peace in his stories, pauses in the narrative that allow "breathing space" and not just "busyness." It's not hard to find these in Princess Mononoke, a story that is at times quite violent but also features some of the most beautiful landscapes I've seen in animation, and time dedicated to showcasing them.
During the winter break between teaching semesters, I realized I had seen a few other great moments of ma. At least one of these may or may not have been intentional.
A few weeks back, I finished Cyberpunk 2077, on loan from my best friend. Much-covered bugs aside, I thought it was a grand send-up of the titular genre. It also had a fun–and instructive–way around fast-travel between missions.
Some missions require you to meet them yourself, traversing Night City on foot or, more likely, driving around in one of the many vehicles available to the main character, V.
Other story missions, however, see V riding along in someone else's car. For example, a few levels see V riding shotgun next to Panam, a nomadic woman living in the deserts outside the city. Together, V and Panam traverse blasted highways, cruising past gigantic wind farms, occasionally encountering hostile gangs out in the wastes.
A lot of story and characterization gets conveyed in these moments, chatting between V and whoever is driving. But sometimes they are traveling for several kilometers to their destination, and there is not enough audio to fill the entire ride. Silence descends. The game gives you the option to "Skip Ride."
But, wisely, it doesn't skip automatically.
If you want, you can ride shottie with the various hackers and mercenaries that populate Cyberpunk's main story missions. You get to see them driving, once you've run out of things to talk about. You listen to the moody soundtrack and watch the Night City–a mash-up of tropes lovingly borrowed from the likes Blade Runner and The Matrix, Akira and Ghost in the Shell, itself the main character of the game, in some ways–pass outside your window.
I like a good fast travel mechanic, and I make liberal use of it in any open world game I play. I am always short on time, and it makes me impatient with my entertainment; I teach seven days a week. When I play a game, I want to get to the good stuff.
But for some reason, I found myself sitting longer in the passenger seat than was strictly required. I watched the little "Skip Ride" option show up and…I ignored it.
The developers of Cyberpunk puts lots of more intentional moments of ma in the game's main story. There are mini-games, conversations over beers, little character-defining scenes that take place between missions. Without spoiling too much, one of the game's best sequences basically involves helping someone record a swimming trip. It's beautiful and exciting and doesn't include a lick of combat; it's barely cyberpunk, in many ways.
But riding shotgun with an interesting person is one of those things that struck me as particularly…fun? Nostalgic? Maybe it's because I am a proud pedestrian, and I drive as little as possible. Maybe it's because so much of my teenage years were spent aimlessly driving around with friends, and some deep sense-memory associates the act with good music and simpler times.
But I don't think that's it. I think that the game gives you room to fill in characterization even when none is "happening." The silence when a conversation ends, the ease or discomfort that you see between people when they are out of words but still have miles before them… It feels full rather than empty. And, more often than not, knowing that some dystopian trouble awaits V when you arrive at your destination imbues these quiet moments with meaning, whether intended or not.
I'm still thinking about Cyberpunk, and everything I liked about it. It had a surprising and welcome amount of Keanu Reeves in it. The crafting was easy to understand and fun to use. And while Cyberpunk did not come close to the freedom in "immersive sim" games like Dishonored, most missions still offered some level of choice regarding how you wanted to complete them.
But what I'll probably remember most, weirdly, are the moments in the passenger seat, when I was barely playing a game at all. I don't think that's a knock. Maybe it's a commentary on how little freetime we have in our real lives–and so when a piece of entertainment gives us an opportunity to experience it through someone else, we reach for it in desperation.
Most of all, though, I think it speaks to the way silence and time can combine to be meaningful, to create a sense of connection…or something else. I imagined V slowly coming to like Panam when they were riding together. With other characters? I imagined V's suspicions coming to the fore, along with my own, the longer the trip went on.
When writing and reading, I think I'll be newly open to the idea of "breathing room," even outside of visual mediums like film and video games. It might run counter to what many writing teachers–myself included–teach in fiction workshops: rising action, escalation, compelling conflict.
There are times, perhaps, when you should sit back and let the reader fill in the silence.
When you should let them, as it were, in the driver's seat.