Whenever I rewatch John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), I am overcome by unspeakable dread. And not because of the film’s hugely effective horror sequences or its more philosophical aspect of terror, a despairing view of humanity torn apart by paranoia and mistrust. Rather, I shudder at the thought of a brief, innocuous scene near the beginning, in which the indelible protagonist MacReady (Kurt Russell) is busying himself drinking J&B and playing chess against a computer at an Antarctic research station. Barely a minute later, MacReady finds himself checkmated, and hilariously retaliates by pouring his glass into the computer, accompanied by an expletive. It’s a splendid piece of character set-up, still amusing on the umpteenth viewing, and just one example of why I consider The Thing nearly flawless. Nearly, I say, because of one terrible blemish: the chess.
You see, during that minute, two positions are visible on the monitor of the “Chess Wizard” (in fact, an Apple II running the pioneering chess software Sargon, against which former World Champion Mikhail Botvinnik effortlessly scored a well-publicized victory in 1983): both positions are plausible enough when regarded individually, but the second can in no way follow from the first. What’s more, the moves announced by both players in between are highly illegal, beginning with a piece that is not even on the board and ending with a mate nowhere to be seen (a different move would mate in two). And this is just one example of the abuse chess has to endure regularly in its depictions in cinema.
Now, complaints by experts about inaccuracies in films, especially in fiction, are common, but this is typically only an occasional hazard. Not so for us chess players: the Royal Game pops up constantly in movies, television, etc., and each time chances are high (my gut estimation would be close to 50-50) that we will be mortally offended in some way or other. And you need not be a chess expert to be so offended, either: I was active decades ago in the Austrian Regional League and never quite reached the coveted ELO rating of 2000, but throughout my subsequent career as a film critic alarm bells went off as soon as a chess board was visible onscreen. And to be honest, Carpenter & Co., don’t even qualify as major offenders—they were probably busy with the technical challenge of synching the frame rates so that the computer image would be visible on film, and cared about the chess only insofar as it made for pungent and witty character exposition. At least they cared enough to present possible positions and moves (even if they don’t connect), because the most aggravating thing about the misrepresentation of chess in movies is the utter disdain that most filmmakers evince towards the game.
If you don’t play chess, maybe a few blunt comparisons will give you an idea of the flagrant stupidity that is so often on display here. Imagine a tennis game in which the net was stretched not across the width, but the length of the court. A gunfight in which one opponent aims at himself. A poker match in which one player holds eight cards and the other only three. Two soccer coaches debating how a corner kick should be executed as a penalty, possibly against one’s own team. A race in which one runner is several laps ahead; as he crosses the finish line, the whole stadium gasps in surprise at his victory, while his competitors break down in shock. You
