Zeldacore
ISSUE #71
I'm on vacation and on a budget, which of course means I've been playing hours and hours of The Legend of Zelda (write what you know). My car was in the shop all week, so with no means of mobility I've turned to a different way of wandering, by hiking and climbing and swimming once again through Breath of the Wild. I got the game more than two years ago and I still haven't beaten it—partly because I really don't game much—but primarily because I don't want it to end.
The true magic of the franchise lies in its music. I've often left a Zelda game on just to listen to the menus. The story of the games revolves around saving the country's temples, history's hallowed interiors, places of peace that have since been corrupted by greed. Music is tied inextricably to these temples, and each theme is so distinct that musicians have been covering them for a quarter of a century.
The games' reverence for music means you can replay them endlessly, like revisiting all your favorite albums. I've included some of their songs here—I could only find chillstep versions of some, but they aren't so bad. The rest are spiritual siblings.
It's also one of the only games I've played that hinges on the playing of instruments. In Zelda, playing music acts as a form of magic: it's a gateway to a sacred place, a way to turn back time, or take you back to places you've been before—all not so different than what music does for us in real life.
About a month before I started cramming The Odyssey, I was halfway through a pocket-sized Macmillan Collector’s Edition of The Maltese Falcon. It was my first time reading it. I’ve actually never even seen it. But! I did study Hammett in a paperback class in college—he was the genesis of hard-boiled crime fiction, which was called noir when adapted to screen. His prose could be sharp as Hemingway’s, at his best.