Super Smash Bros. Brawl
Nintendo, Inc
For Wii, $49.99
Different men have different theories about the origins of the modern sausagefest—prehistoric hunting parties, Athenian symposia, and surreptitious post-work outings to "watch the game" at 1960s strip clubs all come to mind. But all could surely agree on their objectives: to blow off steam after suffering the trappings of work; to engender a spirit of platonic yet masculine love; to embody, in short, the dictum "bros before hos." And what better way to do this than through video games? Specifically, the Nintendo classic Super Smash Brothers.
In retrospect, the 1999 Nintendo 64 version — old, clunky, with primitive graphics that nevertheless caused the processor to creak and groan — seems antiquated, but back in the day it was not only more addictive than its successors could ever be (for what else was there to do then?); it was also novel. In a fan-service tour-de-force, Nintendo brought together its best-known heroes and villains to fight one another atop ships, castles, and Poké-metropolises in absurdist head-to-head combat. Smash was, in essence, a giant meta-joke, juxtaposing characters from different Nintendo universes against nonsensical backdrops, with a result not dissimilar to college basketball mascot fights. Pikachu vs. Mario, Link vs. Samus Aran, Kirby vs. Jigglypuff: the Achilles vs. Hector of a later generation.
For the laymen: the end goal of any Smash match is to hit your opponents off the stage before they do the same to you. Games generally last about five minutes and the ability to react quickly is of the highest importance, as is an inherent "feel" for the game. Back in 1999, few ten year olds had either. Occasionally, the fates would intervene and Donkey Kong — my lousy, preferred character — would prevail, but my friends were far better than I was, and a hierarchy of skill and social standing soon asserted itself; Smash, we thought, was a better way of evaluating one's worth than grades or girls.
When the next incarnation of the series, Super Smash Bros. Melee, appeared for GameCube, in 2001, it instantly supplanted its predecessor as the game of choice — really, the activity of choice. Our purchasing power buoyed by allowances that increased in concert with our ages, we bought seven million copies of the new Smash, outstripping the original and making Melee the best-selling GameCube game of all time. There were more characters, more stages, more permutations of ridiculousness that occupied the teenage mind and aroused its spirit.
Melee remained a fixture of post-prepubescent existence. It solved decisively the age-old debate between going outside or staying indoors, and, later in life, the debate between "going out" or "staying in." We remember the exhortations of our friends' mothers: "do something with our lives"; "stop wasting away in front of the TV"; and we remember the old T.S. Eliot rejoinder which was your mantra: "time you enjoy wasting, is not time wasted." When we dispersed to schools across the Eastern seaboard, our new effortless, collegiate social lives didn't quash the phenomenon; they inflated it. Far more than abortive forays into the outer boroughs, Smash gave floormates some common ground, a shared pastime. At the end of an evening of drinking, Melee provided a comforting coda to even the most awkward of outings.
We would still be playing Melee today had not a new version, Super Smash Bros. Brawl, been released for the Wii this March. Brawl ingeniously both refines and expands upon the mechanics of Melee. It is not only a gaming triumph but also a viable alternative to a night of the inexorable strike-out at 1020.
As soon as it was released, Brawl redefined and reconstructed social groups and dissolved social boundaries, at least for a time; men who scarcely knew one another reveled in the brotherhood of skipping class for meaningless fun, and old friends from freshman dorm floors reconvened for hours of inane gratification. Thousands found their latent love for video games revived as Brawl instantly burrowed its way into the collective unconscious of campus. What really titillated addicts above all else, though, was the inclusion of online play: for the first time ever, it was possible to compete against members of our high school diaspora, to reconnect from afar with old video-game buddies.
Unfortunately, the online play is disappointing for two reasons. One is the lag (the split-second gap between your pressing a button and your character reacting), a regrettable deficiency in Internet technology; neither side can be on its A-game. Two is that there's no voice chat: aside from a well-timed taunt, in-game communication with friends is impossible; it's just you, them, the game, and the silent indifference of the universe.
The new game introduces a number of innovations: the concept of a "Final Smash," which is a one-time deal activated through whacking a floating ball in the midst of combat, for which all competitors vie; Samus' laser, which obliterates everything in its path, including its shooter's clothes; Kirby's cauldron, which sucks up opponents and regurgitates deadly chili. More important, though, is the fact that Brawl, a decade later, presents yet another opportunity to reunite with scattered friends and lost traditions, if only over the Internet.
O Donkey Kong, thee monkey spawn!
Thy form all brawn and polygon;
Descend from ether to the firm,
Alight! And make thy foes so squirm;
A throw, a toss, and in the air,
A headbutt serves to lay them bare.
A mighty slap, a muscled punch,
A creatine banana lunch.
The flurried fists, the pound of ground,
The sound of apes once clashed and crowned.
When vanquished foes fall off the course,
Thy hands go up, thy roar is hoarse;
The tie that splits thy bulging chest,
Evokes the might of who's the best.
O Donkey Kong, thee monkey spawn,
Thy form all brawn and polygon!
