Max Payne 3's gunfights, too, are claustrophobic and tense-the impression of hot weather and not being able to cool off and get a clear breath makes them more so. The shirt that clings to his back at the soccer field and the sweat dripping from his forehead in mission five make both those environments feel sticky and close. Looking at that tired, gray two-piece, you really get the sense that Max has just thrown it on, that he's hungover, dazed, and worn out even before the shooting starts. These are tiny details, but they lend each mission ambience, a kind of mood. At the stadium, he's in a loose-fitting shirt. In the mission at Rodrigo's office, he wears a crinkled, linen suit. But you need to pay attention to Max's wardrobe.
The disciplines of costume and character design, in video games, have become synonymous with ostentatiousness and flamboyance-rather than the grungy perfection of Kane and Lynch's thrown-together ensembles, or Cole Phelps's immaculate pinstripes, hairstyles, wearable gadgets, and distinctive monsters, often from fantasy and sci-fi games, are what enthusiasts fawn over. His consistent inability to do what video games have led us all to believe men can and should do finely undercuts the typical power fantasy narrative-a hard talking, ultra-violent, muscle bound man on the outside, Max, in practice, is a tragic incompetent. Unlike a lot of Rockstar's other "flawed" protagonists, all of who are at least partway successful-like the GTA series's Trevor Phillips and Niko Bellic, and Manhunt's James Earl Cash-Max is a failure.
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