分类： 赛事资讯

Sean Sawyer, age 14

In a market where originality and innovation are rare, Toby Fox’s “Undertale” achieves with one person and $50,000 what no multimillion dollar publisher could. This game is absolutely overflowing with personality, and people have taken notice. At the time of writing, this game is ranked 11th in Best PC Games of All Time on Metacritic, alongside such prestigious titles as “Half-Life 2,” “BioShock” and “Skyrim.” These are games by some of the most skilled designers, programmers and artists with practically infinite budgets, and one quirky little indie game manages to compete with them.

At first glance, the main gimmick of “Undertale” is that the player can choose to kill or spare their enemies in combat. Not unique, considering how many games have similar morality systems. “BioShock,” “Fallout,” “Mass Effect,” and “Dishonored” all come to mind, but “Undertale” manages something none of these games had. None of these games legitimately get me to be a good person, and I don’t feel bad about doing terrible things in them. “Undertale” is the first game to make it painful to be a bad person.

When I started out, I played this game like I would any RPG. I didn’t bother talking to other characters, thinking that they would probably just give me useless information. I killed the enemies that I came across, watching them disintegrate into dust in the same wholesome way that I had come to expect from RPGs. I found out later that for most people, the fight against Toriel (the mother figure who adopts you at the beginning of the story) was a turning point in their playthrough, where they started sparing everyone they could. I didn’t have that realization. I killed Toriel, not because I particularly wanted to, but because I thought it was the way to progress the story. The whole game went on like this, and the experience was short, lonely and depressing.

At this point, I looked into it some more, breaking my usual rule of not reading about a game while still playing it. I had to have missed something, right? In forum posts and reviews of the game, I found plenty of people who had done the same thing as I did. I started a pacifist playthrough, and finally I realized why people loved this game so much. The characters who I killed last time without a second thought were now friends, and the game seemed to be full of excitement and humor. There was value in being good beyond a few extra points on a karma meter. “Undertale” dismantles the fluid morality of other RPGs and replaces it with a system where the player’s actions have real, substantial consequences.

Rayna Perry, age 16

The student produced short film “Home,” recently screened at the Savannah Film Festival, follows the story of an elderly Chinese migrant worker, watching over an abandoned construction site, scheduled for demolition. On his last day at the site, a young girl wanders into his midst, and briefly breaks through the old man’s closed off demeanor. The film is entirely in Chinese with English subtitles, yet this hardly comes as a distraction to the viewer in ways that subtitles often can. The calm pacing and stunning cinematography mirror that of the lotus pond that rests in the center of the construction site, and acts somewhat as a centerpiece to the film itself.

The chemistry of the characters stems not from what they have in common, but in how they differ. The elderly man lives a life of tedium, and struggle, while life to the young city girl, no older than six, is currently one new discovery after another. “Home” takes its original exploration of homelessness and poverty in modern day China to an even deeper level, as the characters are united by a common search for love and belonging. The elderly man spends most of his time away from family due to the nature of his work, and the young girl is isolated by the unhealthy relationship of her parents.

The film attaches the audience to the fleeting bond between the main characters, but in a way that serves to share or inform, rather than relate to those watching the film. Even with the strong emotional pull, the abrupt and almost indifferent ending reminds the viewers that they are, indeed, only spectators. The conflict between the sobering reality of the characters and the audience’s desire to see them meet a happy ending truly caused “Home” to stick with festival goers, even after seeing over a dozen other short films within that hour.

The story candidly tackles universal themes of poverty, loneliness and abandonment, contrasted with those of adventure, and unlikely friendships, without rushing or overloading the viewer. The visual and written aspects of the film are balanced out, so as not to sacrifice a good plot for the sake of showcasing beautiful cinematography, or vice versa.

Not only does this standout student film expertly tell the story of a young girl and an elderly man meeting by spontaneous chance, “Home” prompts audiences to question the true definition of the word.

Matthew Mandel, age 16

As the directorial debut of Charlie Kaufman, notable writer of such universally praised movies as “Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind” and “Being John Malkovich,” “Synecdoche, New York” stands as Kaufman’s first opportunity to step out of the writer’s chair and take the reigns of an entire theatrical release, giving him full artistic license regarding the film’s story line, characters and overarching theme. Kaufman took advantage of this through his commentary on the mind-set of the information age and where society is headed into the future. “We’re all hurtling toward death, yet here we are for the moment, alive; each of us knowing we’re going to die, each of us secretly believing we won’t,” says Caden Cotard, a fragile, anxious playwright, and the protagonist of “Synecdoche, New York,” played by Philip Seymour-Hoffman.

In the film, Caden is awarded a MacArthur grant, which allows him to finally produce a masterwork which allows him to portray a pure representation of his inner workings (much like Kaufman with this movie). Unfortunately for Caden, this feat will cost him his career and his concentration, as he attempts to recreate every real-world conflict with thousands of actors and scenes within the play. All the while, he deals with issues of romance, fatherhood and aging, fully aware of the results of his every decision and the inevitability of death. Charlie Kaufman utilizes this deeply cognizant character to reflect not only himself, but also everyone living in the information age.

In this all-too-nearing future, constant access to public opinion and social ridicule leaves Caden overly self-aware, to the point where he questions his every move and action in the entire movie. He allows his eye for perfection within his play do a number to his physical health, neglecting his humanity for the sake of that which he wishes to share with the world. Could this, too, be the fate of humanity? Doomed to inevitably create our own ideal worlds, where all conflicts reflect our own perspectives, to a degree of tunnel vision wherein we begin to disregard our surroundings? This corresponds both with the director and users of social media, as posts and statuses may be perfected to portray to the world one’s best self, whether or not this may be their candid self. A book could be written on the detailed level of allegory utilized in this film, but the best place to begin searching is within the title “Synecdoche, New York.” Caden creates his own synecdoche, or a part meant to represent the whole, within his uncannily intricate depiction of the world at large. One thing is for sure, Charlie Kaufman’s 2008 treasure is sure to perplex, and allow for some deep introspection and self acceptance.

Rachel Liu, age 13

“Will Grayson, meet Will Grayson.”

The authors David Levithan and John Green (infamously nerdy YA authors of the century) piece together the confusion of meeting someone else with your name and a hilariously realistic comedy featuring a big gay guy, his best friend, another gay guy, and the most fabulous play to ever grace the high school stage.

Will 1 is stuck. He’s stuck in school, life, and also with Tiny Cooper, who is his (only if you must) best friend. He copes by following two simple but catastrophic rules: 1 —Don’t care too much. 2 —Shut up. His views on Tiny are also simple: “Tiny Cooper is not the world’s gayest person, and he is not the world’s largest person, but I believe he may be the world’s largest person who is really, really gay, and also the world’s gayest person who is really, really large.”

Then there’s Will 2: alive, but somehow not; seeing, but somehow not. He’s “constantly torn between killing myself” and “killing everyone around me,” but surviving, solely depending on his friend Isaac for comfort.

It’s their job to turn each other’s lives around by meeting in an abandoned corner tucked away in Chicago.

There’s something magical about the book: making friends and living inside the moment and taking a risk and the feeling of being a part of something. At the same time, it’s not all rainbows and neon colored unicorns galloping across the pages. The two authors illustrate that with love comes pain, and maybe more love, and more pain. It’s a dance the characters do around happiness: it doesn’t last forever, just like Schrödinger’s Cat (another feature in the book). You either have happiness, or you don’t. But to find out, the two Will Graysons along with their friends take a leap of faith across the pages: through fights, discoveries, and the ups and downs of life.

Love is an omnipresent thing in the book. Tiny loves love. He falls in love too easily, and it’s both his strength and weakness. Will 2 doesn’t believe in love. Will 1 falls in love. Tiny sings about love in his play. But throughout the book, none of them know what it’s really about. And that’s O.K., because as Tiny said, “Just fall for once. Let yourself fall!”

Because if there’s one thing I have learned in this book, it’s that falling doesn’t mean failing. As Will Grayson 2 said, “the world is more like try-error-try-error-try-error-try-error-try-error-try…at least fifteen more rounds…then try-error-try-and finally —it.”

And it will come and hit you one day, brighter than anything you will ever see, because you will get a happy ending out of falling, and you won’t break: you’ll fly.

埃里克·法伯（Eric Farber）在康奈利剧院（Connelly Theatre）的“未来”（Futurity）中。信用朱丽叶 塞万提斯

Toby Berggruen, age 15

Imagine a man born in the Civil War who lives to see the first men walk on the moon in 1969. A fictional correspondence between a Union soldier and the first computer scientist. A steam-powered brain that brings world peace. That is the challenge of the play “Futurity,” a strange alchemy of music, history, fiction and philosophy. The premise may be absurd but the questions are urgent and real, as pressing today as they were in the 1860s.

Presented at the intimate Connelly Theater on the Lower East Side, this co-production between the Soho Rep and Ars Nova opens in the thick of the Civil War. “Futurity” tells the story of Julian Munro, a fictional soldier portrayed by its creator, César Alvarez. Through Munro, we delve into the brutal realities of wartime America, and the prescient imagination of a lone soldier. Finding himself in the midst of a world abound with pain and suffering, Munro begins to imagine a solution to human conflict, a mechanical machine that will bridge the humanities and sciences, accomplishing world peace. In his search, he begins a correspondence with Ada Lovelace, a remarkable mathematician played by the forceful, exuberant Sammy Tunis. The sagacious brilliance of Lovelace seamlessly meshes with the idealist Munro, who exudes hope and creative energy. The two grapple with issues both personal and universal as they embark on a journey into an opaque realm of invention and morality.

Mr. Alvarez deserves much praise for his impassioned performance; his display showcases wit, confidence and rich voice. The play’s music combines powerful folk song with the edge and nonconformity of a David Byrne song. Its lyrics are themselves masterful — aphoristic, poignant and true — profuse with existential questions such as, “Is morality made of information?” Directed by Sarah Benson, all aspects of “Futurity” mesh together with ease and intensity, combining effortless choreography and rich set design.

“Futurity” asks questions, questions that make us think deeply about who we really are. They are certainly too vast to list, but one question keeps ringing in my mind: How to solve unsolvable problems? Is it possible to solve the unspeakable evil of our world? How? Through a synthesis of the perfection of the mathematical world and the depths of art, as “Futurity” suggests? As the General touchingly reminds us, “I believe that this body is all I have, and that it’ll take more than a war to make it safe.” What will it take to solve racial inequality? Not just a war. “Futurity” combines a vast plethora of subjects with sensitivity and depth, from art, to science, to philosophy. It directly tackles notions of morality, time and singularity — to name a few — and leaves us asking more questions than it answers.

17岁的利比·李·麦克丹尼尔（Libby Lee McDaniel）在我们2016年评论大赛的10条获奖学生评论之一中评论了“老人无所依”。信用。。。理查德·福尔曼/米拉麦克斯

我们连续第二年挑战青少年走出去，体验他们熟悉的文化作品，然后为我们的学生评论比赛写下他们的反应和意见。超过1，250名学生提交了参赛作品。

学生可以选择《泰晤士报》评论的任何类型的创意作品，因此您可以在下面找到从“洛丽塔”到 K-pop 的所有内容;碧昂斯的“柠檬水”到优步;“卢克凯奇”到手工甜甜圈。

恭喜我们的 10 位获奖者、24 位亚军和 28 位荣誉奖，按字母顺序排列如下。您会在名称列表下方找到发布的获奖评论。

Madeline Polkinghorn, age 17

There are certain books that conjure up a world in which the reader becomes so invested the final page feels like a tearful goodbye. Frank McCourt’s 1996 Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, “Angela’s Ashes,” is one of those extraordinarily rare instances of literature.

Born in New York but raised in the slums of Limerick, Ireland, McCourt lived a childhood of near constant hunger, disease and unimaginably abject poverty. The desperate financial and political condition of post-Civil War, early 20th-century Ireland serves as the story’s main cultural backdrop. Malachy Sr., the McCourts’ father and a barely functioning alcoholic cursed with a Northern Irish accent, would often spend the entirety of the family’s welfare checks at local pubs. This left Angela, the family’s matriarch, to fend for herself; resorting to charity organizations and outright begging to support her children.

Thematically, “Angela’s Ashes” tackles vast ideas like religion and poverty with a sense of immense ease and, in some cases, profound hope. The reader gets to witness a vivid, gradual chronicle of McCourt’s religious evolution and relationship with the Catholic Church, which serves as a metaphor for McCourt’s ultimate coming-of-age and progression into maturity. The Church, an entity initially idolized by McCourt, ultimately serves to be a disappointing institution of exclusivity and disappointment. The starving McCourt family is frequently turned away by the Jesuits, who live in luxury and comfort despite their ostensible spiritual glorification of poverty. At one particularly heartbreaking moment, wherein McCourt is literally shoved out of the door by a brother, Angela proclaims to her son that he is to “never let anybody slam the door in your face again.”

This idea of Frank resisting the limitations and prejudices that surrounded his impoverished upbringing is traced throughout the memoir by slowly accounting McCourt’s endlessly painful road to immigrating to America. McCourt reiterates the importance of education and intellectual fulfillment regardless of one’s circumstances, remarking that “you might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.”

The mastery in “Angela’s Ashes” lies in McCourt’s ability to make the tragic comedic, the unrelatable accessible. Without this, the story would lose its ingenious complexity of emotion and read like a series of obituaries; unmitigatedly depressing and impossible to comfortably digest.

Instead, McCourt manages to adroitly counteract the inexplicably miserable condition of his life with wit and approachable candor. This wit is not forced; McCourt never denies the heartbreaking nature of his childhood. It is seamlessly and subtly weaved throughout the fabric of the story, transcending the rigid barriers of genre. It is neither tragedy nor comedy, nor even tragicomedy; it simply is. This brilliant, jolly rendition of sadness is perhaps illustrative of the perpetual, historical condition of the Irish: downtrodden, hopeless, and dejected, but always to tell a joke and share a pint.

Ben Miller, age 16

Libby Lee McDaniel, age 17

 

Ruiyi Li