A game designer told me recently that he dislikes cinematic games, labeling them “content-delivery machines.” That phrase also neatly describes adaptations like Halo: The content they deliver is the rush of recognition, nostalgia for when they last got to play the protagonist.Īs Halo (the show) begins, the audience is introduced to a colony of rebels, stuck in the middle of some forever war over something called deuterium. Halo’s creators stress they’ve written a new story, but, as is typical of these adaptations, the show still progresses like a long, clichéd cutscene. All the writers must do is arrange callbacks in just the right order-what would normally be called plot is, in this case, nothing more than hiding Easter eggs. They seek to please one type of fan, who will recognize, and be thrilled, by every nod aimed in their direction. A uniquely obsequious kind of entertainment, they spend their time onscreen yoked to their lore. They serve, first and foremost, to expand the universe of the game. At best it’s emblematic of the peculiar way these adaptations are made.
No game has ever been turned into a compelling movie or TV show, and (on the evidence of the first two episodes, at least) this one, which drops Thursday, is no different. Halo finds itself atop an unenviable heap: the carcasses of failed video game adaptations. We wait with bated breath for the Master Chief to teabag a dead Elite. The first episode closes with the iconic Gregorian chant of the original soundtrack, which, the internet has noted, was not present in the original trailer. Paramount shelled out $10 million an episode to adapt Bungie's first-person shooter for the screen, and with every knowing wink, the message gets louder: This show is for the fans. Battle rifles, Phantoms, Cortana-for those in the know, the references come thick and fast in the new Halo series.
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