"God created man's back to carry burdens, but to think you want to pile on even more..."
What if a regenerator from Resident Evil 4 had his decaying body infused with a soul and a conscious conscience and a will to live, something to fill the absence in its complex mechanical heart, to give it life in the dirt and let it experience the first-person's recurring pains of birth, growth, lust, love, commitment; the fear, anger, decay and darkness that follows from these things. Life, but never death, because nothing could stop this bio-tin man from following the yellow paint road, an invincible soldier game to do anything for the simulated reali(ties) and fami(lies) he's lost inside his machine.
This is Resident Evil at its stupidest and its smartest, which is, respectively, saying a lot and not saying much at all, respectfully. Like VII, VIL isn't really ashamed to borrow everything and anything it wants to say and do from its own past and its shared past with its brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, cousins and children across generations and genre-nations, channeling media mediums like a medium. It goes without saying that it's a composite, a family portrait, a photo mode of itself and the evils resident within. They were stupid too, but were none-the-lesser labours of love that shifted between mocking you and terrifying you; the fact that something's camp doesn't stop it from eating you alive. All are embraced in the compost of this newly-grown decomposition. It takes a village to raise a game, after all, but the progenitor of the survival horror virus isn't willing to eradicate its parasites just yet. Chris Redfield (a mimic of Chris Redfield in the desert of the snowbound real?) doesn't start smiling until Ethan Winters cocks a 9mm and announces to his God (he has himself down as Alpha in Ethan's phonebook, for God's sake) that he's gonna march backwards into Hell while flipping the bird to the bird-lady... or he would, if he still had his middle finger.
The game is deeply dumb and it knows it. But the beauty of vulgarity and camp and the aforementioned stupidity of man is that it can skirt up against truth just as easily as intellect can, and this is, ironically, how the game shows itself most clearly as intelligent, perhaps above its more literally-minded and literary-minded peers. Virtuous lack of virtue until the very end - I've said it before, but games that steep themselves in darkness should be permitted, from safe distance, to unsafely explore the fears that darkness creates, unpleasant, unkind and unsanitary as they may be. Do you want to experience a contradiction of scenes from your storybook of mental violence and gore, or do you want to L3 sprint without introspection through an eternal funfair of funhouses, simulcra of what you experienced before? Don't worry, you don't have to think about it - it's all still here. We're giant babies confronting the possibility of a giant baby in our home. Do we have the heart to understand what that means?
Also they finally brought back The Mercenaries - that's fucking sick bro
What if a regenerator from Resident Evil 4 had his decaying body infused with a soul and a conscious conscience and a will to live, something to fill the absence in its complex mechanical heart, to give it life in the dirt and let it experience the first-person's recurring pains of birth, growth, lust, love, commitment; the fear, anger, decay and darkness that follows from these things. Life, but never death, because nothing could stop this bio-tin man from following the yellow paint road, an invincible soldier game to do anything for the simulated reali(ties) and fami(lies) he's lost inside his machine.
This is Resident Evil at its stupidest and its smartest, which is, respectively, saying a lot and not saying much at all, respectfully. Like VII, VIL isn't really ashamed to borrow everything and anything it wants to say and do from its own past and its shared past with its brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, cousins and children across generations and genre-nations, channeling media mediums like a medium. It goes without saying that it's a composite, a family portrait, a photo mode of itself and the evils resident within. They were stupid too, but were none-the-lesser labours of love that shifted between mocking you and terrifying you; the fact that something's camp doesn't stop it from eating you alive. All are embraced in the compost of this newly-grown decomposition. It takes a village to raise a game, after all, but the progenitor of the survival horror virus isn't willing to eradicate its parasites just yet. Chris Redfield (a mimic of Chris Redfield in the desert of the snowbound real?) doesn't start smiling until Ethan Winters cocks a 9mm and announces to his God (he has himself down as Alpha in Ethan's phonebook, for God's sake) that he's gonna march backwards into Hell while flipping the bird to the bird-lady... or he would, if he still had his middle finger.
The game is deeply dumb and it knows it. But the beauty of vulgarity and camp and the aforementioned stupidity of man is that it can skirt up against truth just as easily as intellect can, and this is, ironically, how the game shows itself most clearly as intelligent, perhaps above its more literally-minded and literary-minded peers. Virtuous lack of virtue until the very end - I've said it before, but games that steep themselves in darkness should be permitted, from safe distance, to unsafely explore the fears that darkness creates, unpleasant, unkind and unsanitary as they may be. Do you want to experience a contradiction of scenes from your storybook of mental violence and gore, or do you want to L3 sprint without introspection through an eternal funfair of funhouses, simulcra of what you experienced before? Don't worry, you don't have to think about it - it's all still here. We're giant babies confronting the possibility of a giant baby in our home. Do we have the heart to understand what that means?
Also they finally brought back The Mercenaries - that's fucking sick bro