Every month, we invite elite art critic Braithwaite Merriweather to evaluate the box design of the latest game releases. In between the time he spent wandering the halls of culture, Merriweather writes independently for various publications, including Snitters and Nuneaton à la Carte. If you don’t know your skill, you can be sure; he is on a crusade to educate the dirty. In short, he is a man who needs no introduction.
Hello friends! I find myself thrown back into the waves of nostalgia, adrift in a sea of memories. I dream of galleries! Of those thug security guards at the Courtauld Gallery, times are clearly tough that you should look fondly upon those Neanderthals with even the slightest mist of pleasant feeling. I miss my makeshift paving galleries, created by an imaginative whim, to inspire audiences, get them out of their opioid stupor and energize their minds! I miss those long and long lazy days on South Bank, in the summer company of passed out tourists off Tate, their faces blank when I motioned for them to tell them why It is best to avoid the latest installation of Tracy Emin.
But, in an attempt to encourage me and, perhaps, to offer a feeling that stimulates the spirit, there are some things that I not lose. The London Underground, for example, in which the juice of humanity is pushed and emptied onto the tracks, and we end up with harsh specter carriages, arriving at their destinations in a state of depravity, hungry for any reminder that They began their travels in a state similar to civilized. On top of that: having to talk to my local council (about issues like my makeshift paving galleries), and thus remember that government glue, which holds societies together, resembles real glue: thick, oozing employees whose stupidity seems to cling to everything around him. Then, of course, there is my ex-wife: the banshee with the power of attorney who tried to scratch the clothes on my back. Do not miss it!
I think this venerable website, to which I present my humble copy as if a gunner were throwing a noble iron ball into the dark muzzle of a canon, to be thrown onto the battlefields of art criticism, is trying to give me good cheer up. This first work, titled (somewhat puzzling) “Star Wars Episode I: Runner”, is an escape, a call to adventure, an exaltation of the spirit. In our current collective situation, the idea of movement, much less the youthful and playful high-speed brand that abounds in this work, is one that rusts with each passing day. How sweet to feel the surge of sucrose not only from frivolity at top speed but also from reverence, reverence for the moments when art and vehicles have met and melted.
I’m thinking, of course, of Vettriano’s “Bluebird at Bonneville” (1996), in which a group of passers-by in hats worships a car that looks like a partial shark, whose shirts are the same blinding white as the surrounding desert sand . But also, I remember the BMW Art Cars, in particular Alexander Calder’s “3.0 CSL” (1975) and Roy Lichtenstein’s “320” (1977). I like to imagine that these artists, when approached by the German giant, imagine what could happen to their paintings and their passions by roaring at one hundred miles per hour. I once tried something similar when my father took us on a family excursion to Brands Hatch. I tried to embellish the runners’ hats with the newly hatched designs of my own brand, and the security staff stopped me. It was a day that changed me forever: the first time I faced the full force of the Philistines, long before I realized they weren’t obstacles; they were ramps!
This work, titled “Maneater,” seems to be a bold Damien Hirst rebuttal, and I always play for a Damien Hirst rebuttal, bold or otherwise. “The physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living” (1991) for which he made a tiger shark fish off the coast of Queensland, dipped in formaldehyde and placed in a glass box, remains the saddest excuse for art I’ve seen. The poor beast, a vision of frozen fury, crumbling with each passing hour in the acid surrounding it, is a situation that I am deeply familiar with, having been married to my ex-wife for a few years. The artist behind this work clearly means subverting Hirst’s banal message, and he does so with explosive flair.
Look at this poor man, upside down and in the air in the midst of a flood of incarnated death (those on the St Martin’s College admissions board will know it well), and about to be devoured by the manifestation of the indifferent fury of the nature. It could almost be called “The physical certainty of death in the vicinity of a shark ready to break the water for the express purpose of dismembering you.” Of course, that would be too long a title, and the game box should be configured in a landscape format to facilitate that. In greeting this work, whose arrogant thrust is directed at someone else’s jugular, on their own terms, I find little to talk about. A slightly pleasant strip of blue, while the sea, the smoke and the sky surround the central explosion, there is nothing to highlight (although clearly I am).
This curious work seems to be a pastiche of “The Son of Man” (1964), by René Magritte. Only, when Magritte blocked his subject’s face with a green apple hanging in midair, the artist behind this word, titled “John Wick Hex,” has slashed his subject’s head in half with the top of the framework. What’s more, the right gentleman and Magritte’s soft colors have been replaced by an armed guy, equally elegant dress, and a bath of delirious purples and pinks. Perhaps a more ironic title would have been “The Weapon of Man”. In any case, this “John Wick Hex” doesn’t leave much of an impression; looking at its creepy nuances produces the feeling of a slight hangover, now there is One thing I don’t miss: foolishly looking at the light of day, trying to shake off the headache spell from the night before.
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World news – US – Game Box Art Critique May: Star Wars Episode I: Racer, Maneater, John Wick Hex – NewsDio