Trying to recount the plot would be difficult as this is the third film -- and, er, it didn't really make any sense. I mean, the opening narration included a comment that the T-virus (the mcguffin from the films and the video games that causes the zombies/mutant creatures) "dried up the lakes and rivers." OK. How exactly is that done? Meanwhile, the balance of the film offers scenes nicked from other movies ("Hey, wasn't this in The Road Warrior? And I liked that bit a lot more in the remake of Dawn of the Dead. Man, they're stealing from the remake of Dawn of the Dead. That's desperate.) and video game set pieces that would be a lot more fun to play than watch. And the less said about the zombie clown car (well, crate) attack the better.
Which brings up an interesting point. Video game films invariably (there's an exception I'll come to in a bit) are terrible, be they big-budget exercises or Uwe Boll tax dodges. Why? They are two decidedly different art forms, no matter what superficial similarities there may between the two. Films -- well, good films -- are about drawing the audience into a new world via story, characters, acting and the filmmaker arts (lighting, sound, effect, etc.). Games also draw you in, but through your own interactions with the "world." Though there is often a story (and sometimes a quite good one), the real pleasure is drawn from how the interface -- how the controller or keyboard is used; how the gameplayer's thoughts and ideas are then translated onto the screen -- works. Ideally, the user must feel they are in control of the process. That absolutely opposite to a film, where the viewer has essentially made a contract with the creators to be entertained.
As video games have become more sophisticated (a mixture of improved technology and more experienced designers), they have also hit against this issue. Lots of games try to be cinematic, but that often comes at the detriment of the gameplay. Even while playing a game like Okami -- a gorgeous creation with a compelling plot and innovative play -- I get irritated with the "cut" scenes (non-interactive moments that advance the plot) because the game is so much fun to play and I'd rather get back to doing the thing I wanted to do with the game in the first place (this, by the way, is what drives me nuts about the Final Fantasy and Metal Gear Solid franchises; both have solid gameplay, but both are undermined by cut scenes that go on and on and on and on and on...)
This seems to be changing in the game world. More and more advance the plot via in-game events where the player at least has the pretense of control. The game considered by many (including myself) to be the best of 2007, Bioshock, told its story in this way. Much of the background of the underwater hell we find ourselves in comes out through diaries and recordings you pick up along the way. Meanwhile, the game packed quite a surprise half way in that completely turned around the player's idea of the story, and exposed that, no matter the pretense, we are still being led by the game creators. Instead of revealing that bit, I'll look at a different way Bioshock manipulated the user via the interface and the illusion of choice. For your character to advance, he needs to acquire a substance called "adam," which allows him to develop new powers and skills. The way to get the substance? Harvest it from the Little Sisters, genetically altered young girls who are essentially mules for adam. You are given a choice -- you can take a lesser amount and cure the girl; or you can take more, which kills her.
As it turns out, there is no advantage to the second, as you are rewarded for saving their lives with periodic gifts that make up for the lost adam. So it comes down to the kind of player you want to be in the game, which will effect the "ending" (there are two) you get after completing Bioshock. Multiple endings are common these days, as they give players rewards for completing the game multiple times in different ways; and they allow for different styles of gameplay. (One reason I've never been all that interested in Grand Theft Auto games is that you are pretty much stuck playing as a bad guy. It's not that I don't like playing that way, but I like the pretense of a choice.)
Which I think, at last, loops us back to films. Films don't work with multiple endings. If there are, it means that the filmmaker was 1) doing a Clue-like stunt, 2) forced to put a happy ending on by the studio or 3) didn't exactly know where to end. For this kind of storyteller, its a deadly place to be -- one that leaves the audience unsatisfied, sensing beneath it all that something is not exactly right.
Silent Hill manages to avoid these pitfalls. Now, it's not masterpiece of cinema, but it provides a few scares along the way and has an ending that truly is haunting. Part of this comes from Roger Avery's script, which takes the guts of the Silent Hill game franchise and stitches it together into a different monster altogether. The plot doesn't ape any of the games, but draws elements from them (the town, the "hell" created by the dark recesses of the mind) for its own mythology. It's a video game movie that, at last, doesn't feel like a video game.
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