Jul. 01, 2009 - Issue #715: The Bestest of Edmonton 2009
Infinite Lives: Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker
A WHOO-hoo! in memoriam
WHOO-hoo!
That unmistakable hoot-howl, at once lilting and tormented—I'm reminded
of Werner Herzog's line on the Amazon jungle: "the birds do not sing; they
shriek in pain"—is that sound that comes forth when you drop a credit
into a Moonwalker cabinet. It used to be the loudest sound in the arcade,
louder even than the theme music from the TRON game; you always knew when
some poor sucker, his curiosity having got the better of him, was about to
enter Michael Jackson's virtual futuristic dance-battle adventure. Sometimes
you'd get a savvy repeat customer, or a multiplayer group of them, who knew
what a merciless quarter-sucker the game was, stocking up on continues right
off the bat, as I'm doing right now: WHOO-hoo! WHOO-hoo! WHOO-hoo! WHOO-hoo!
WHOO-hoo! WHOO-hoo!
I'm not really standing in an arcade, and I'm not really feeding a week's
worth of allowance into a real Moonwalker machine. This is all virtual,
emulation. That's the beauty of digital media; it may exist, pristine,
forever. Long after the last physical Moonwalker cabinet is broken down and
shipped to a Ghanian recycling centre to have the precious gold acid-leached
out of its circuit boards, we'll still be able to play the game itself, on
our laptops and iPhones, on any electronic device that can be coaxed or
hacked into running an emulator, in perfect fidelity. As I am doing now. In
memoriam.
Comix-style panels fly across the screen, setting up the scenario. An
evil-grinning unsavoury type known as "MR. BIG The Boss"—I know he's
known as this because he seems to be wearing a sign to that effect—is
kidnapping children for some reason. It can't be a good reason; at best it
could be a morally ambiguous reason. Whatever, Michael Jackson's not having
any of it. Besides, as he himself said, it doesn't matter who's wrong or
right. He is going to show them how funky and strong is his fight. He is
going to Just Beat It.
A little picture of the King of Pop comes on the screen—this is 1990,
and it's weird; at that point MJ's epic self-mutation was already as
legendary and rubberneck-fascinating as his musical and choreographic
accomplishments, but I'm looking at that picture going "Michael, you look
fantastic! You can stop there!"—and registers his displeasure in a
two-frame animation. One defiant "HOOO!" later, and it is on, motherfuckers.
On the streets.
Michael Jackson's not too keen on guns or knives or swords; his weapon is
Dance itself, augmented by glowing blue-white lightning bolts of pure will
that he shoots out of his hands like a taser. He can also drop a funky Dance
Bomb on the whole place; accidentally, fumbling around the keyboard trying to
figure out the controls, this is the first move I trigger. A spotlight comes
out of nowhere—or maybe Michael has a fleet of choppers providing
airborne pyrotechnic and lighting support?—and a move is righteously
busted, its power such that MR. BIG The Boss's henchmen, a weird mix of fat
gangsters from the '20s and sci-fi jumpsuit types—are compelled to
helplessly dance along until it kills them.
Or does it? At the end there, Michael does this thing where he flings his hat
and it flies around the screen trailing magical sparks before returning to
him, boomerang-style. Maybe it's the hat that does the killing; maybe Michael
borrowed the hat from Oddjob, or bought it at an auction to add to his
Cabinet of Curiosities, knowing it would come in handy when MR. BIG The Boss
made his play for the innocent children of Michaeljacksonville or whatever
this weird city is supposed to be. Either way, I rescue a little girl trapped
by magic rings like the ones Marlon Brando used to keep General Zod in the
prisoner's box when the Kryptonian Science Council sentenced him to the
Phantom Zone. She gives me a first-aid box in gratitude—the parents and
guardians of Michaeljacksonville are really into preparedness; all their kids
are packing either EMS-grade trauma kits or Dance Bombs—and runs
off.
Dance, dance, dance; yaargh, yaargh, yaargh. These thugs go down pretty easy,
but there sure are a lot of them. Are they really mercenaries, I wonder, or
did MR. BIG The Boss just send out an open casting call and recruit every
up-and-coming backup dancer in the state? A paycheque's a paycheque when
you're struggling to the top, and some of these guy display some pretty sick
moves before the Dance Bomb (or maybe the hat) kills them for not being
awesome enough.
Hey, is that a chimpanzee in overalls and a longshoreman's jersey? It's
Bubbles! Bubbles, over here! Whaddya got for me, little buddy? Maybe some
more Dance Bombs, or ... oh. Oh, OK. You turn Michael Jackson into a robot. I
totally get it.
Michael Jackson's not too keen on guns, no. But Robot Michael Jackson? He
fucking loves guns, laser guns especially. He loves laser guns so much that
instead of hands he's got laser guns. Now he's just walking with his
laser-gun arms outstretched like a mummy or a zombie, just lasering the
living shit out of everything. BYOO-BYOO-BYOO-BYOO! It's kind of hard to aim,
but who cares? Robot Michael Jackson's got lasers enough for everybody, but
all the little kids trapped in those magic rings (note to self: MR. BIG The
Boss a Kryptonian? Investigate further) aren't even scared or anything. They
just say a cheerful thank you—very polite, these Michaeljacksonian
sprouts—and hand over their first-aid kits, happy to help Robot Michael
Jackson hand-laser his way to the end-level miniboss, which is a couple of
Tilt-A-Whirl carriages with flamethrowers where the seats ought to be.
Yeah!
Haters, step right off; Michael Jackson was fucking awesome. WHOO-hoo!
V
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