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Review: Ninja Turtles ‘Shredder’s Revenge’ is more than cool retro

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For Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fans, the new game “Shredder’s Revenge” will be a dream come true. After all, the work honors the original 1987 animated series, as well as the popular 1991 Super Nintendo game “Turtles in Time”. They are turtles at their best – playful, chaotic, humorous and approachable. And all of this is delivered in bright, loud pixel art style.

But it’s not the sentimentality of the late ’80s and early ’90s that makes the game work as well as it does.

It’s the modern boom, whether it’s journalist April O’Neill using broadcast equipment as a weapon or a bounty of cute animations that his followers engage in before the brawl begins. Within minutes of starting “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge” I smiled, amused at the way the evil Foot Clan besieged the news station, and immediately began working behind the reception desk and in the recipe kitchen, rather than destroying the place.

Nostalgia is an important component of ‘Shredder’s Revenge’, but revival-inspired video games do best when they’re outdated without Feeling retro. This was the specialty of Montreal-based Tribute and Paris-based Dotemu games, which combined talent to make an old version of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles feel fresh again. Rather than trying to reboot the series, like modern movie and TV shows, the studios instead took influences from not only decades-old Nintendo games, but also long-stalled ’80s and ’90s games, as they wanted the game to enjoy the charming family – A friendly call to spend time in the digital playgroup.

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There are fundamental motivations for the game of course. There is no doubt, for example, that the contemporary Nickelodeon brand keeper wants intellectual property to remain his top priority before a new animated movie appears on Netflix later this summer. But for Tribute and Dotemu, “Shredder’s Revenge” is another example where they can preserve life – and reintroduce – outdated pixel art styles. While pixel art is heavily used in indie games and local studio Yacht Club Games has found great fame Crafting love letters to the 8- and 16-bit eras of the past, with “Shredder’s Revenge,” Tribute and Dotemu set out to revisit, renew, and improve the games of their youth.

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge” is a mixture of chaotic action and hilarious animation.

(Greetings Games / Dotemu)

“People will compare it to the arcade games of the 80s and 90s,” says Tribute Games co-founder Jean-Francois Major. “People have flawed memories of that era. If you’re going to play any of the old Nintendo or Super Nintendo games, they’re very difficult. The controls aren’t intuitive. There are a lot of quality-of-life things we’re used to doing today with modern games. We needed to make it look It’s like a game from the ’90s, but with an update.”

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“What I find really interesting about video games is that the gameplay is a language that you learn through time and evolve through time,” says Cyril Imbert, CEO of Dotemu. “We don’t speak the same language we did when we were younger in video games. As a creator Content, even if you’re working on a game that looks like an old game, you’ll need to make your current language work within the game.”

There were many other challenges. Modern games tend to focus more on story than in decades past, and studios aim to balance narrative animation and the chaos of playing with up to six players. Encouraging players to replay the game was a primary goal, as “Shredder’s Revenge” should be completed in under three hours. This means making sure that each character has a unique feel and that narrative elements don’t get in their way. Then there were decisions to be made about what to keep – and what to update – from the previous Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles work.

This is where the lessons from the team’s previous game projects began. Perhaps best known now for “Streets of Rage 4,” Dotemu is a revival of the beloved brawler of the Sega Genesis era, Tribute Games was founded by a team of former Ubisoft employees who worked on “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World: The Game” before forming their company. Own and craft original titles like “Metal Slug” – influenced by “Mercenary Kings.” It’s worth noting that back at Ubisoft, some Tribute team members worked on the Game Boy Advance title “TMNT” based on the 2007 movie of the same name.

“Turtle games weren’t all about one-on-one combat,” Major says. “It was about crowd control. When we brought back the old games, we counted the number of enemies that entered the screen, and we tried to match speed and tempo.” This is very different from Streets of Rage 4, which is more one-on-one combat, and “Scott Pilgrim,” whose tempo is in the middle, he said, explaining that “Scott Pilgrim” is faster than “Streets of Rage,” but still slower than a game. “TMNT””.

In Shredder’s Revenge, enemies seem to come from every direction, whether one is walking through the Channel Six newsroom or skateboarding in Manhattan. They will carelessly proceed when a character enters the screen, until more enemies come in from windows, doors, or the back, and one can fend off a sudden buildup. With three difficulty levels, though, “Shredder’s Revenge” should work for casual or family gaming sessions, as well as more powerful rounds for those who want to master dozens of game moves. But be careful. If you’re like me, you’ll lose the match while you get distracted looking at parrots, hippos and giraffes in the background of Central Park Zoo level.

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“We’re back to the 87 design for the Turtles,” Major says. “If you remember the TV shows back then, they were pretty funny. They weren’t very violent. They had a humorous tone with them. We tried to work with that and keep that in mind. While you fight, we try to be reckless.”

Inspiration sometimes comes from unexpected places. “We also took a lot of influence from the toy lines of that era,” Major says, citing specifically some of the robotic car designs that came into the game. “They had some funky games. That adds to that vibe. We didn’t really mind if they were into the show or not. If it made sense, we picked it.”

Another recent invention: each turtle here moves at its own pace and comes with its own set of fighting abilities. In old arcade games, says Major, “the turtles all share their own set of moves.” But even here, the team is pointing out the old designs, going back and looking at the six-player coin-operated “X-Men,” a double-screen arcade game from the early ’90s. One of the goals, Major says, was basically to make sure the game looks different no matter how many people are playing.

“I don’t even know what magic is required so there isn’t a huge gap in the middle,” says the X-Men major. “This was something that really guided our decision-making. Can we do a six-player hit? It’s really fast-paced and chaotic. The experience is a lot different when you play with six players. It becomes more of a team game than a tactical crowd-control game. We’ve designed each level to have On different waves of enemies – different styles – depending on how many players are playing. There was an interest in this and taking into account the number of players playing the level. That was a lot of work and a challenge for us, but I think it’s something people will appreciate.”

A woman holding a TV camera like a bat, ready to strike the villain while the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fight in the street.

Up to six can play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge.

(Greetings Games / Dotemu)

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Initially, Major says, Nickelodeon approached Tribute Games to work on a different property, but Tribute was built for the original games, and Major says the studio paid for “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” if it was going to venture into licensed properties. This is partly because many of the team members have had experience with the brand since their days at Ubisoft and partly because these early Turtles games are major influences in the side-scrolling and swiping genre.

“Turtle toys left an imprint on the entire industry,” Major says. “At the time, if you had a Super Nintendo, it was the game to own it. If you had a Super Nintendo, you had to have the Turtles in Time. And we wanted to go back to the era when people were huge fans of TMNT.”

It also helps that the drug is a little weird, says Major, who admits he dressed up as operation mastermind, Donatello, as a kid on Halloween.

“When you think of Mario, for example,” says the pioneer of the Nintendo spell, “Man is a plumber. I don’t think if you introduced a plumber today, you would really succeed. But this game is iconic. The Turtles were a revelation when they were released. They hold up, and neither I even know why. There is something attractive with all the characters, and they are all very different from each other.”

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“Anyone can identify with one of them,” Embert interjects. “Everyone has their favorite turtle. They’re not perfect, which is what makes them cool. They are just teenagers, but they are also turtles.”

However, predict with “Shredder’s Revenge” that everyone’s favorite characters are probably not turtles at all. From the start, Major and Imbert say, it was critical for reporter April O’Neill to be a playable character. “It was always planned to do this,” Major says. “April, from our first pitch, was playable. I just feel like it’s time. We wanted to have a broader roster, not just the Turtles. It’s really time for April to shine and not just be a girl in distress. She’s been with the Turtles all this time. Time, it’s time for her to kick her butt.”

Consider it a decision — and a game — worthy of one of April’s signature moves: the microphone drop.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge

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A professional artist has been wrongfully accused of using artificial intelligence

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Minh An Nguyen Hoang, 30, is the lead artist at the age of three Studio Kart, based in Vietnam. Huang who makes art by name Ben MoranShe learned to draw properly in 2019, after obtaining a degree in economics.

“Drawing was just my hobby when I was a kid,” Moran said in an email conversation because they were less confident speaking English. “I started getting serious about drawing when I realized I could be really good at it. The artists who mainly inspire me are Ruan JiaAnd Huang GuangjianAnd Piotr JablonskiAll contemporary fantasy painters.

Moran is now at the center of a Reddit controversy, thanks to a piece they were commissioned to produce for $500 to cover a fantasy writer. Selkie Myth’s books. (Legend plans to use it for his upcoming 11th title, which he said will likely be named Heaven’s mandate.) “I ordered a lot of artwork [Moran]”Because they’re so good at what they do,” said Meath, who is 31 and lives in Nebraska. “It is an absolute steal of that quality and commercial use.”

In late July, Myth contacted Moran via email and asked them to produce work that would prove controversial. The final piece, chosen from four options, was produced by September 7 and modified by Moran to Myth’s specifications; The cover was designed by mid-October. “It takes a month to fix and complete,” Moran said.

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In late December, Moran, a rare Reddit user, decided he wanted to do some self-promotion. So they published the final design, called Inspirational in Warzonel p / art, and a subreddit with 22 million members. They were quickly banned by the moderators of the subreddit on suspicion of using AI-generated art, which is against r/Art’s rules.

When Moran reached out to the brokers to explain that they weren’t using AI, and sent them a link to their wallet, they were blown away. “I don’t believe you,” wrote one of the depositors in a message Moran posted on Twitter. They went on to say that even if Moran drew it, “it’s clearly an AI-driven design and it doesn’t matter.” The supervisor signed the letter with, “Sorry, it’s the way of the world.” They then silenced Moran, forbidding them to proceed with their case.



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This student tool detects whether essays are written using artificial intelligence

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High school English students who were hoping to use AI to write their homework have a new enemy: Edward Tian, ​​a 22-year-old at Princeton University, who built a website that can detect if a piece of writing has been created using the AI ​​tool ChatGPT. .

Meanwhile, teachers everywhere rejoice. “A lot of teachers have reached out to me,” said Tian, ​​whose recent tweet about the tool, GPTZero, went viral. From Switzerland, from France, from all over the world.

The latest version of ChatGPT, called GTP3, was released to the public in late November. The tool is capable of producing amazingly coherent writing, which has endless possibilities, starting with the cool stuff (such as allowing the The installer combines with dyslexia to connect effectively with his clients via email) to more nefarious uses.

Teachers are afraid of high school or college students may use this technology Say, for example, writing their homework summarizing the major events of the Battle of Tippecanoe. Their concerns are not misplaced: The Wall Street Journal reporter recently succeeded In using ChatGPT to help her pass the AP English test.

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According to Chalkbeat, New York City public schools blocked access to it to ChatGPT on school machines and the Internet. Anxiety comes even from within the home: A high-profile conference on artificial intelligence has been banned Submission of academic papers written entirely by AI (although it will allow some tools to “polish” the writers’ work).

“AI is here to stay,” said Tian, ​​a computer science and journalism major who coded the tool over a few days over the winter break. “AI-generated writing is only going to get better and better. I’m excited about this future, but we have to do it responsibly.”

He is not opposed to using AI tools in writing, but he sees this as a risky moment. He said “I want people to use ChatGPT”. “It will only be normalized, but it must have guarantees.”

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How TikTok’s anti-aesthetic has molded popular culture

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If Franz Kafka were to reconceive “The Metamorphosis” for our era, he might decide to ditch the novella in favor of a series of surreal TikToks — Gregor Samsa as eyes and mouth green-screened onto a picture of a roach jacked from the web.

Kafka is long gone. But thankfully, we have Kendria Bland, a Mississippi comedian who does a semiregular bit on TikTok about the travails of a pack of domestic roaches who like to party behind the refrigerator and sneak Popeyes when the humans aren’t around. One defiant arthropod, Roachkeishiana, refuses to scuttle when the lights come on and crafts a wig out of hair she finds in the bathtub. “You know how many times I got stepped on?” she says with a haughty hair toss. “I’m still here.”

The skits bring together a complex array of sight gags while winking at the tropes of ’hood films and sensationalist talk shows. But the production values couldn’t be more lo-fi: Bland plays every role with different wigs and uses TikTok’s editing tools to green-screen herself twerking on a kitchen table and fighting a pair of beetles. The crude special effects won’t win her an Oscar, but on TikTok, perfection takes a backseat to wit.

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Bland’s comedy represents TikTok’s promise. The app, which presents short-form videos in a frantic endless scroll, is governed by (famously creepy) algorithms that deliver posts to those deemed likely to enjoy them — which is how a one-minute cockroach skit by a comedian in Vossburg, Miss., can draw 1.3 million likes and be shared almost 90,000 times, including by me. (I am here for all cucaracha content.)

Illustration for TikTok story

Despite — or rather because of — its ubiquity, TikTok finds itself in the crosshairs. The app has long raised concerns for the ways its parent company, the Chinese tech firm ByteDance, may employ the mountains of data it harvests from its users. Just before Christmas, a report unearthed evidence that ByteDance employees — already criticized for suppressing content such as Black Lives Matter posts — had taken an even more Orwellian turn, using location data to track journalists. Some university campuses in the U.S. have banned the app from their networks and numerous states prohibit it on government devices. And a newly signed federal law has extended the ban to all government devices.

The alarm over security hasn’t put a damper on the app. TikTok couldn’t be more popular — especially among teenagers. It has had more than 3 billion downloads globally and its engagement rates outdo Facebook and Instagram. It is relentlessly sticky — addictive, one might say. And whatever its fate, it has already transformed culture: reshaping language, turning dance moves into social currency and making video into something we watch vertically rather than horizontally. When Noodle, a TikTok-famous pug died last month, obituaries proliferated across news media. The last pop concert you went to? Its set may have been inspired by the aesthetics of TikTok.

What are those aesthetics? An app as acutely atomized as TikTok can make those a challenge to articulate. So I have borrowed the format of “Notes on Camp,” in which the ultimate high-low interpreter, Susan Sontag, attempts to pin down the elusive sensibility that is camp. “Many things in the world have not been named,” she writes in the opener, “and many things, even if they have been named, have never been described.”

So with apologies to Sontag, here are my notes on TikTok:

1. The TikTok aesthetic is an anti-aesthetic.

Instagram, with its historically square frame and vaguely cursive font (formally known as Instagram Sans), is the “Live Laugh Love” pillow of the social media apps — evoking high gloss and photogenic meals. Facebook’s dull-blue interface feels so bureaucratic that critic Joanne McNeil once wrote that it looked “as if a government body were running it.”

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TikTok’s design, by contrast, is almost no design. On a phone, practically the entire window is handed over to video, with controls discreetly laid out around the right and bottom edges. There are no brightly colored frames. TikTok’s logo rarely even comes into view — usually only appearing when a video is shared.

This design reduces the presence of any one person or brand. Handles and avatars of content creators are so minimal they almost elude legibility. I am a fan of numerous creators on TikTok. I’d be hard-pressed to name more than a few of them.

If Instagram is the airbrushed influencer, TikTok is the friend you talk trash with at the end of the day. TikTokkers face the camera in bathrobes and hair bonnets while sitting in their cars or standing before their bathroom mirror. A common convention is for people to film themselves while tucked into bed.

I follow Shabaz Ali (@shabazsays) for his biting duets (these allow TikTok users to place their own video side by side with another). In his bits, Ali offers running commentary on videos that feature ostentatious displays of wealth — such as a poolside doghouse or a heated driveway. In each post he is lying down, wrapped in a fuzzy fleece blanket. If you happen to be sprawled on a couch while scrolling TikTok (which I overwhelmingly am), the sensation is of being on a video call together, sharing an eye roll over the worst rich people habits.

Except that you’re not.

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3. On TikTok, you don’t follow people, you follow an algorithm. Or, rather, the algorithm follows you.

Unlike other apps, TikTok doesn’t require you to follow anybody in order to view videos. In fact, the app undermines the practice, shooting videos straight to the For You Page (a.k.a. the FYP), which greets you every time you log on. That feed is driven not by your careful selections but by algorithms.

In 2020, TikTok offered a cursory explainer on this recommendation system, which is drawn from your device’s settings as well as your habits. “A strong indicator of interest, such as whether a user finishes watching a longer video from beginning to end,” the post explains, “would receive greater weight than a weak indicator, such as whether the video’s viewer and creator are both in the same country.”

Alex Zhu, the Chinese tech entrepreneur who devised TikTok’s progenitor, the lip-syncing app Musical.ly, has likened these algorithms to a set of “invisible hands.” But the New Yorker’s Jia Tolentino has a better metaphor: “Some social algorithms are like bossy waiters: they solicit your preferences and then recommend a menu. TikTok orders you dinner by watching you look at food.”

When you first land on TikTok, it is a fire hose of random content. But once the algorithm plugs its feelers into your brain, it starts feeding you videos suited to your sensibilities. I currently sit at a confluence of various socially useless Toks — among them, Latin American Meme-Tok, Awkward Christianity-Tok and Rudy Valencia-Tok (the unfolding story of an everyday cuate who appears to have been busted on the app for cheating on both his wife and his mistress, inspiring telenovela levels of plot deconstruction).

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This hyperspecialization makes TikTok incredibly sticky. Imagine a TV channel geared to your most peculiar tastes. (There is, indeed, a whole corner of TikTok devoted to lampooning TikTok’s habit-forming qualities.)

But it can also suck you into an algorithmic hole. Vox’s Sara Morrison recently wrote about how TikTok’s algorithm had pummeled her with videos related to trauma and death. “What I am getting is a glimpse at just how aggressive TikTok is when it comes to deciding what content it thinks users want to see and pushing it on them.”

4. TikTok’s megastars get the spotlight, but it’s the randos who feed the addiction.

The big TikTok influencers with tens of millions of followers — such as Charli D’Amelio and Khaby Lame — are the ones who land media profiles and sponsorship deals. But ultimately TikTok’s appeal rests on that endless scroll of content being shoveled into your lizard brain. That means lots of little posts from people whose content you’ve never seen before and are liable never to see again.

A good night on TikTok — my TikTok, at least — is a thoughtful armchair analysis of Netflix’s “Harry & Meghan,” a Korean grandma transforming leftover Costco chicken into a sumptuous kalguksu and an old man riding a cow along a major thoroughfare in the Central Valley. On their own, these videos would never rise to the level of must-see anything. But in the aggregate, it becomes entertaining — like chatting with a group of witty (algorithmically selected) friends at a party: “You won’t believe it, but on the way over here, I saw a guy riding a cow.”

Naturally, this raises questions about the ways in which we all labor for free to generate content for social media companies. (That’s a story for another time.) But it’s also indicative of how a virtual nobody can become TikTok famous overnight. Put up a compelling post — say, a toddler dancing on a table at a mountaintop rave — and it will be dueted, parodied, imitated and shared ad infinitum, including by Ukrainian soldiers on the front line.

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5. TikTok prizes performance.

Kylie Jenner’s posing might work as a still image on Instagram, but it feels like dead air on TikTok. The short-form video format favors action, which is why spoofs about the Kardashians are far more engaging to watch than the Kardashians themselves. (I’m a devotee of Yuri Lamasbella (@yurilamasbella), who, armed with a few wigs and a ring light, perfectly skewers their expressionless affect.)

Commentary, comedy, music, movement, dance, clever cuts, found footage, catchy audio and animals doing funny things are all grist. Sometimes it’s a truly bizarre combination of all of the above, such as a surreal nine-second collage of tigers and a motorcycle racing through a cornfield with footage of Turkish TikTok influencer Yasin Cengiz — known for making his belly bounce when he dances — superimposed on top.

The manic nature of these short films — which began as 15-second videos when TikTok launched in 2016 and can now run to 10 minutes in length — feel like a return to the roots of cinema. Thomas Edison’s early Kinetoscope films from the late 19th century, short looped films seen via a viewing cabinet, come to mind. These mini-movies featured boxing, acrobats and a body builder flexing his muscles — films full of frenzied physical activity to convey the radical nature of the new motion pictures.

Naturally, fragments of old Kinetscope films have made their way onto TikTok.

6. TikTok prizes repetition.

Manic performance reads well on an app on which you have about six seconds to grab someone’s attention. So does repetition. If a concept or visual gag gains traction, repeating it can extend the moment.

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A man dancing in a public square in Asia set to Boney M.’s “Ma Rainey” becomes popular, so the account holder posts endless variations. Fijian TikTokker Shaheel Prasad (@shermont22) goes viral for his spoofs of runway models, strutting barefoot while bearing pieces of hardware as if they were haute couture, so he produces dozens of similar posts. “This is a trend that will be bound to end,” he told the New York Times’ Guy Trebay. “But meanwhile I will try to keep doing it as long as I can.”

Repetition moves across accounts too. A popular tune — say, a remix of Busta Rhyme’s “Touch It” or Armani White’s “Billie Eilish” — can become a staple for videos featuring smash-cut wardrobe changes. Songs, settings, movements, dances and concepts are relentlessly rehashed, wringing a measure of soothing predictability from TikTok’s general anarchy. It also creates a low barrier for entry: Users don’t have to be original to achieve prominence; all they need is a clever spin on a trending hashtag.

Ultimately, the endless repetition can feel like a trap. I’ve seen some creators repeat concepts to the point of exhaustion. It brings to mind an early episode of “Black Mirror” in which Daniel Kaluuya plays a man in a technological dystopia: Suffering a break over the exploitative practices of a nameless entertainment state, he threatens to kill himself with a shard of glass during a live broadcast. This reckless act of candid expression proves so popular that he is condemned to repeat the act every night.

7. TikTok is an ouroboros of looking.

On Instagram, if you feel passionately about a post, you can leave a comment. On Twitter, you can retweet and add a comment. But TikTok is unique in its duet function, which has spawned a near-infinite array of reaction videos commenting alongside other posts — like a hall of mirrors, or that Greek snake of antiquity eating its own tail.

A staggering number of duets involve one person commenting on the kitchen prep of another. (TikTokker @chefreactions is a master in this category, a professional chef known for verbally dismembering hack recipes: “That looks as if E.T. ended in a tragic house fire.”) And, of course, there’s the duet train, in which one user pairs her video with another who pairs it with another and another — like a digital exquisite corpse. The format was employed to terrific effect on the sea shanty “Soon May the Wellerman Come,” which went viral last year, allowing performers to add successive layers to the original song.

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The duet is one of the most intriguing aspects of the app: a form of looking that is far more active than clicking “like.” Even more intriguing: Many duets are very simple in nature, featuring one person quietly observing rather than offering a judgmental reaction. These calm expressions of looking rarely go viral. But there is something affirming about them.

It recalls a point once made by critic John Berger. “Soon after we can see, we are aware that we can also be seen,” he wrote. “The eye of the other combines with our own eye to make it fully credible that we are part of the visible world.”

8. TikTok is real life.

If all of this seems irrelevant because you aren’t on TikTok, well, TikTok has found its way to you regardless.

The TikTok effect has sent Big Tech back to the drawing board on long-established apps. In July, a Google exec revealed at a conference that, according to internal studies, 40% of young people turn to TikTok or Instagram when looking for a basic service like lunch — not a search engine like Google. Since then, Google has made user reviews much more prominent on its maps and now delivers many more images, graphic text boxes and social media feeds in its results.

Illustration for TikTok story

And the influence extends beyond the internet. TikTok has inserted new slang into the language and generated new works of theater. (Remember the fans of Pixar’s “Ratatouille” who essentially crowdsourced a musical that wound up on a New York stage?) And the app is a juggernaut in the music industry, where new songs and old ones alike can become hits — like Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” which became a cultural touchstone after being resuscitated by an Idaho skateboarder with a taste for cranberry juice in 2020. Now performers such as Megan Thee Stallion collaborate with TikTok to test the waters on singles releases.

But the TikTok effect goes beyond basic virality; its aesthetics manifest within the literal architecture of art.

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Rosalía‘s Motomami tour featured a stripped-down set with three vertical screens that projected live images of the singer and her dancers. Green-screen effects were employed, showing the singer playing piano, for example, against a backdrop of rolling green hills. (Very TikTok.) The climax was the moment Rosalía launched into the hit “Bizcochito.” The choreography begins with a familiar viral gesture of the singer standing with her hand on one hip, pretending to chew gum while looking annoyed.

When I attended her concert in October, this pantomime had been all over TikTok for weeks. When the sequence began, the crowd roared in response. Cellphones went up. And the young woman seated in front of me recorded the sequence and uploaded it to TikTok. TikTok came to life, then promptly became more content for TikTok.

To TikTok, we submit our gaze. And through the filter of the algorithm we find it projected back at us — broken down and commodified into bite-size morsels that might feel like the intimate dispatches of a thousand individuals but, in the end, are simply the output of an opaque, all-knowing machine.



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