Their faces are covered as an act of intimidation and a sign of divine righteousness. The reflector shades from the early stages of our adventure have been tossed away for the goalkeeper's mask of Jason. The weapons are as sacred as any ancient named blade, and the duel's winner (hero?) has chosen perhaps the most iconic American changeling for the sword: the barrel-ribbed, big-frame revolver.
Yet Faceoff merely extends the overriding motif for all combat in Call of Duty MW3: War itself is back to the face-to-face of warrior-to-warrior. Even big battles here ignore U.S. infantry tactics and combined-arms doctrine.
Just a handful of years ago, great game franchises had a far different function. In Halo, American space marines, "the armies of the West," fought for the fate of Earth. The enemy was inhuman, and thus good and evil were etched purely and plainly. The fight was for not just a nation but for all of mankind, just as it was in World War 2. The story was the same in the early war on terror too, and it echoed in the reigning film of the day, Lord of the Rings. So many soldiers I knew then played Halo religiously. Many still do.
But things were changing. The new war was fought not by the people but by the state alone. Its battles soon were shown to be impure, and its warriors lost innocence in the eyes of the world. The wreckage of battle filled those eyes each day. The new war became old. What we feel in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 is the result of that transformation, what Wolfgang Schivelbusch calls The Culture of Defeat.
The surface story of what happens in defeat is easy. The big loser is stripped of its claim on military fashion. When North and South made war in 1861, they raised scores of Zouave regiments that paid homage to the oriental-garbed Muslim units of French colonial Algeria. But when France was defeated by Germany in 1871, the US Army threw away its képis and put on the Prussian pickelhaube.
In MW3, we see the same sort of adoption of enemy fashion and battle style. It represents an acknowledgement—as it has since ancient times—that the enemy are now top warriors and own the future of war. This is no different than Late Romans putting off their fabled lorica segmentata and putting down old gladius and scutum, and putting on Gothic trouser and spangenhelm and picking up long sword and round shield—Latin homage to Barbaricum. Today's gamers are not simply dressing up in cool fighting fashion. Rather, they are appropriating and internalizing the transcendental promise of a badder enemy other.
But there is a suggestively deeper level too. American first-person shooters have always offered a rush of combat transcendence, as described by Ernst Junger in his World War I memoir, Storm of Steel:
Bravery, fearless risking of one's own life, is always inspiring. We too found ourselves picked up by this wild fury, and scrabbling around to grab a few hand grenades, rushed to form part of this berserker's progress.
In MW3, the berserker's fury unfolds in the familiar wreckage where we fought our long war, but it also, thrillingly, comes to our own cities. Civilization everywhere hangs by a thread. But here the "good guy" player joyously engages in the wrecking as much as the enemy. Vicariously, MW3 players are living out the experience of German soldiers like Junger—defeated berserkers bringing their wild fury home. As Schivelbusch tells:
The decisive element and defining criterion of the front line was fire. By passing through it, the so-called generation of the front underwent its baptism, its salvation ritual, or, to use on of the more popular terms of nationalistic literature, its "purification" of the illusions, deformities, and pieties of prewar society.
The very texture of MW3 gameplay seems to revel in ruin, lovingly defacing and tearing down the structures of modernity with every jerk of the trigger. Our great cities are torn apart with tall towers toppling like Troy's. In the Faceoff "launch trailer," there is a lavish shoot-out in a solemn Pompeian temple, beneath an angry Vesuvius. Yet astonishingly it is not an archaeological ruin but rather ancient-pristine, at least until our fighters scar and trash its frescoed walls.