SHOOTING POODLES ON LENIN’S MOTORBIKE
An educational day out at the museum
This week I took my little brother to an exhibition about the representation of war in computer games.
My brother has just started secondary school and he knows more about Fortnite than I know about any topic in human history, except for maybe “scientific advances of the Soviet Union”. I have been an expert in the latter subject for the last five minutes, since I finished reading a book about it on the way to the museum. But because I am 30, the moment I step off the train all the facts about Soviet space travel and biomechanics are already dissolving from my brain like a half-remembered dream. By the time I reach the museum, I’m not even sure the Soviet Union was real.
This is annoying, because today I want to be the kind of of impressively wise older sister who knows about things. Instead I have all the memory skills of a goldfish in a bowl of vodka.
The gaming exhibition is upstairs at the Imperial War Museum, but we start our trip by looking at the giant machines of death in the main lobby. I feel a bit queasy about the joy people are taking in some of the exhibits. At one point, I accidentally meet the eye of a man who is caressing a tank. Never one to shy away from a robust debate about the politics of violence, I look away apologetically.
My brother, having noticed my Soviet reading material, attempts to interest me in a motorbike.
“You know, this motorbike belonged to Lenin,” he says seriously.
The wall-text says the bike was “captured” by American forces in Afghanistan in 2011, which makes me doubt this is true.
“You can’t expect me to believe this modern bike belonged to a man who died in 1924,” I scoff, congratulating myself on remembering a single fact from the book. But my brother is very insistent.
“No Zoë, this is definitely Lenin’s bike.”
I look skeptical.
“Or Trotsky’s,” he adds, before swanning off with the authority of seasoned museum guide. I’m not fooled. But I read the wall-text again, just in case.
Once we’ve finished with the authentic 2011 Soviet bike we head to the gaming exhibition. It’s called War Games and it examines how computer games have dealt with war, and even ended up with military applications themselves. Being both a games nerd and desperate to show my brother that I know the meaning of the phrase “military-industrial complex”, I’m delighted. This is my chance to be a smart sister.
The showstopper exhibit is itself a game. To play it, you stand behind a large plastic model of pixelated rifle which points towards a round screen emblazoned with the crosshairs of a sniper scope. Then, cartoon characters walk across the screen. Some are dressed in military uniforms; some are dressed in regular clothes, and some… are poodles. You can gun down any of these characters by hitting a big red button behind the rifle. Text then appears on the screen, reading YOU CHOSE TO SHOOT A TERRORIST or YOU CHOSE TO SHOOT A DOG. I thought this was great: a simple way of demonstrating how games often toy with ideas of free will, and a good conversation starter for kids to ask difficult questions about remote warfare.
I didn’t get round to saying any of this though, because the child who was playing when we entered the room immediately chose to shoot a poodle. This was met with nervous laughter from the assembled adults and children. The kid looked back at his mother to check that the bloody slaughter of a cartoon animal was ok. The mum laughed, but in a way that made it clear there would be conversations about real world violence in the car home. I mean come on, your 7 year old might spend all night on Call of Duty, but he can’t go round shooting dogs!
It was my brother’s turn next.
“Don’t shoot the poodle,” I say sternly. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a sweet kid. A sensitive, intellectual child like I was. He waits to fire until a character with a balaclava appears.
YOU CHOSE TO SHOOT A TERRORIST.
“Good thing you can tell who’s a terrorist just by looking at them, eh?” I say ironically, turning round for the approval of the adult crowd. They don’t care: they are watching a child shoot cartoon people.
Next up, a female civilian walks past. My brother doesn’t shoot. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a sweet kid. Then a male character. Bang!
YOU CHOSE TO SHOOT A CIVILIAN.
“You can’t shoot a civilian!” I shout.
My brother laughs, because he knows that this is exactly the kind of silly cartoon violence that will impress his horrible, unintelligent sister. I pretend it doesn’t. Unlike all the proper adults who are watching, who think it’s really cool. Meanwhile, their children are getting annoyed and wandering off: now someone’s already done the worst thing you can do on the game, it doesn’t seem worth playing.
I’m still keen to show I have some kind of intellectual older sister thing to say.
“Well if you’re going to shoot the male civilian, you have to be prepared to shoot a woman too. Otherwise it’s sexist.”
He ignores me, because he senses I’m trying to start a boring conversation and knows that feminism doesn’t usually involve killing women. Also he is concentrating on shooting more people.
“Shall we go and look at Lenin’s bike again?” I say. I pause, then add: “Did you know Lenin died in 1924?”
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