Not Everything Is Perfect, And That’s Just Fine.

We occupy a world imbued with such a wealth of potential. A quality of such enduring reverence and one of such natural resplendence, that its almost admirable how society is so instinctively predicated to such a wanton aptitude for misery. We take such pleasure inflicting virilant apathy on other’s, that moment’s of levity foster a visible nausea of incredulity and revulsion. There seems to be a reciprocal correlation between disliking something and actively desiring this specific umbrage to fail. Preferring to deride rather than sympathise. With cynics well versed in the anticipation of failure, attaining some sort of sick satisfaction from its inevitable decline.

Take the much maligned reboot of “Saints Row”. A game that, if the reviews are to be believed, is a perfunctory reboot that relies on the derivative framework of its predecessors, while neglecting to refine its additional generic elements. A reverberating critique reciprocated by a significant portion of its fan base. Then there’s the cancellation of Netflix “Resident Evil” series. An adaptation that’s titular “evil” found itself neighbouring Dawsons Creek rather than Raccoon City. With a script as schizophrenic as Netflix series approval policy. Dialogue that permeates with all the vigor of a fallen tree branch, that’s incongruous tone implies it was written by an algorithm rather than humans, with any passing familiarity with the source material. Delivered by an insufferable cast dedicated in their pursuit to mimic the scripts baffling dissonance.

Both of these properties are somewhat deserving of there public derision and ridicule. But it’s a persecution that becomes problematic when skeptics aren’t just anticipating failure, but hoping for it. Almost relishing in the misery of others. I’m as personally ambivalent towards Saints Row, as the Tory government is towards the poor. But I certainly don’t take any pleasure in it’s perceived ineptitude. With Netflix botched Resident Evil adaptation I wasn’t encouraged by the trailers. But I was always hopeful that it was going to surprise me. Alas my low expectations were somehow under shot, once again leaving many fans bereft of a solid cinematic experience. But there is a subtle yet critical distinction between being disappointed and angry. You can be one without the other. Certainly without venting that frustration as premeditated affirmation for your own repugnant nihilism.

You have to question the mental faculties of individuals who possess such an inherent proclivity to want things, as benign as a game or television series, to fail. But it only takes a cursory search through Twitter to see the incorrigible social discourse, that generates a litany of reciprocal euphoria among the cynics well versed in the anticipation of failure. To celebrate the failure of something because of some biased satisfaction they get from seeing something fail, is worse than failure. Put the knives down and just walk away.

Oh and good luck “Rings Of Power”. Regardless of your quality, you’re going to need all the help you can get.

“Itchy, Tasty: An Unofficial History Of Resident Evil”. Review.

“Itchy, Tasty: An Unofficial History of Resident Evil” is Alex Aniel’s debut book, chronicling the inception and subsequent success of the Resident Evil series. An extensive account documenting the long, sometimes storied history of one of Capcom’s most revered gaming franchises. Alex, a long time fan and industry expert, consulted many principle individuals privy to the development of these games, including creator Shinji Mikami. With each giving a personal insight into not just the adversity of creating Resident Evil, but establishing survival horror as the standard industry epithet.

Its clear from the offset that this has been compiled by someone passionate about the franchise, particularly its formative development. Someone gifted with a knowledge that can only be obtained having survived the enduring horrors depicted in the games. You have to commend Alex’s attention to detail and extensive research, as well as his dedication to the subject. The effortless way he formulates an overarching narrative, rather than just a fastening a series of anecdotes sequentially.

What strikes me most is his fluency with Japanese, that isn’t only utilised as a means of translating conversations with the native speaking designers he interviews, but also clarify spelling or punctuation differences that has influenced the Resident Evil verbiage. Such as H.U.N.K, the clandestine special operative, being all caps. Even the forward, written by Mark Julio, another revered industry expert, reflects my own nostalgic sentiments to the point that it almost feels plucked from my own memories.

One of the most interesting aspects that the book examines is the original games prominent facile dialogue. An eminent if much maligned dialogue, ridiculed for both its intent and delivery. Though oddly enough the simplicity of the efforts was at least a partially intentional decision. One influenced by the desire to make the game as linguistically accessible to a Japanese audience as possible, due to the absence of any native dubbing.

Reading “Itchy Tasty”, it’s remarkable the number of variables required to ensure the original Resident Evil was even released, let alone the commercial and critical success it eventually became. Capcom at that time was not the multifaceted company it is today. The proposal of a “Horror” focused game like Resident Evil was an inherent risk, one that threatened to escalate potential bankruptcy already looming over the developer. A property inspired by prior ventures that had failed to capitalise on their unique, if niche premise. Resident Evil was really the delayed result of Fujiwara’s patient resolve in waiting for the industry to catch up to his vision. As up until then hardware was lacking the necessary polygons to render the kind of gratuitous horror he had envisioned.

Some of the more obscure tangents in the book include a partially deaf composer, drafted to produce a soundtrack to the re-release of Resident Evil, that were not only universally derided, but also written by a man who had for many years been taking credit for somebody else’s work, whilst also not being as deaf as he appeared. Also some of the principal character’s names were actually inspired by those featured pornographic magazines.

Almost every game in the series suffered some kind of complication: Resident Evil 3 was initially intended to be a spin-off that was later expanded. The original Resident Evil 4 became Devil May Cry. With the subsequent version enduring several drastic revisions, that eventually led to the unceremonious departure of Shinji Mikami. Resident Evil 2, my favourite in the series, was well into development when the script was amended by an outside consultant, and swiftly cancelled. Leading to a complete overhaul of the existing game, resulting in a year long delay. Not to mention a technical accident that led to Resident Evil 2 being shipped with 2 disc’s, when it was quite possible to fit on one.

We also learn about Capcom as a conglomerate and how they collaborate with each platform. The publishers agnostic approach to game development. Their rather covert development of Resident Evil offshoots. The emphasis that if Resident Evil could have been developed for toaster, Capcom would have. Censorship by newly established rating organisations that would appraise the content of these games, certifying Resident Evil as, well, evil! How they never created games exclusivity for one preferred platform. The intervening year’s proved costly, as did their unwavering commitment to Nintendo’s Gamecube. Despite the quality and quantity of Resident Evil games being exclusively developed for the failing console, it was not enough to encourage consumers buy a console solely for Resident Evil.

There is so much history here, narrated with such personable affection that it feels more like a story than archival publication. Giving a broadening context to a nostalgia I can associate with, centred around Resident Evil. If you don’t share that same enthusiasm for this series, then there is probably little incentive to read this. But as a fan, Itchy, Tasty truly illustrates the considerable efforts and sacrifices made by the people that created this series. And just how thankful I am they did!

Resident Nostalgia.

As a kid I was fascinated by the horror genre. Much of this infatuation, during my formative years, can be attributed to obsessive accumulation of R.L Stine’s pantheon of Goosebumps novels. Subsequently flourishing into other forms of media, particularly movies and games. This, an admittedly morbid curiosity, was only compounded by my mother’s persistent refusal to let me watch a film about a horribly disfigured child murderer, who in death manifests in the dreams of those that inhabit a singular suburban street in Springwood Ohio. More commonly referred to as “A Nightmare On Elm Street”.

Far be it for me to dispute the nurturing sensibilities of what I deemed to be the irrational ramblings of an overprotective mother, I complied, insisting that I wouldn’t ask again. Instead I waited until my mother was asleep before defying her very explicit instructions. Sneaking downstairs at roughly the time the movie was airing, having memorised a secure route that avoided every loose floorboard and scattered obstacle that littered the way from my bedroom. Ensuring a safe passage to the living room. Once I’d established that my clandestine descent hadn’t roused my mother from her cheese induced slumber, with her laboured and piercing snoring a clarifying indication. I switched on the TV prepared for whatever horrors await…..But I was not prepared!

I was 10 years old when I watched A Nightmare On Elm Street for the first time. Sure I’d missed the opening act. The crucial details regarding Freddy’s inherent dream invading abilities, but I wasn’t here for narrative logistics. It was the horribly mutilated facade of Freddy and his signature knife finger glove I was here to see. I didn’t have the stomach to watch this movie in its entirety though, choosing a “craven” (pun intended) abdication from the enduring terror, shortly after Tina’s misjudged Spider-Man attempt. It wasn’t until years later that I found the courage to watch Nightmare in its entirety, though by that point I was more acclimated to the evocation of fear elicited by horror movies. After a time you become desensitized by the predictability of the gore and the irritating tedium of jump scares, which sadly diminished my experience somewhat. Only 3 things since have provoked a similar emotional apprehension: Resident Evil 2, my girlfriend given birth and most recently Resident Evil 7. The “Delivery Evil” sandwhich if you will.

I felt the same foreboding anxiety that arrested me the night Freddy Krueger sadistically severed his own fingers with almost comical glee, before plunging his rudimentary talons into the gut of helpless Tina Gray, when I played Resident Evil 7. The gut crippling fear that almost paralyses you into stopping. Forcing you into brief, sporadic interactions. With the added immersion of a game that only compounds that fear. And this is probably the first Resident Evil game that actually features Evil Resident’s!

There’s something nostalgic and strangely comforting about being a 30 something year old father, curled up in the fetal position on the sofa, worried that your family, infected by a virilant mold (a legitimate fear considering we had mold in our bathroom!), that could at any moment scuttle down the stairs, babble a rasping death rattle and murder me to death! Good times.

My First Horror Game.

Did you know that the word “convoluted” didn’t exist until the creation of the Resident Evil series? It’s true. Don’t look it up of course, just take my word for it. Very few series can boast such multifaceted caveats to their own established mythology. The series could never be accused of being simple, coherent or localised to any one setting or time period. Its less Resident Evil and more Global Evil. As much as I assotiate Resident Evil with Arklay Mansion and the neighbouring Raccoon City, over the years the series has diverged significantly from its survival horror roots. Sometimes inventive, more often bloated by conflicting tones, elaberate plots and Chris Redfields “naturally” defined biceps! Somehow the series has made zombies the least nonsensical part of its narrative, boasting over 2 decades worth of genetically engineered derangements that have at times muddled the series considerable ideology. But it never leans too heavily into its nihilistic tones, instead negating this base by topping it with cheese and schalk.

My introduction to the series came courtesy of a defective copy of “Crash Bandicoot 2”. Having purchased Crash the week before from a stall at my local Sunday market, I returned it citing the persistent crashing (pun totally unintented!). To my surprise the vendor — that I have now permanently visualised as the merchant from Resident Evil 4 — was happy for me to trade the game for something of equal or lesser value, or pay the difference. With no money or sapphires to trade I perused his displayed wares, my gaze drawn towards what appeared to be the severed head of some decaying, skeletal figure. I was fixated, but concerned. With the game being rated 15 and myself being a mere sprig of a boy, I was convinced that the proprietor would deny my request for what was clearly an age inappropriate game and report me to the local PEGI authority. But to my surprise, and as I would discover in the proceeding teenage years, that — much like my local pub — independent retailers and people in general consider game ratings as more of an advisory than a law. So having successfully acquired what was my first “Horror” game I took it home and spent the entire evening draped in a duvet to ensure some kind of security from the hordes of undead that would no doubt sneak up behind me in my own room and gnaw on my tender flesh!

My first playthrough on the “Leon A” scenario had probably taken in excess of 10 hours to complete, simply because I had to take regular breaks to compose myself. Everytime I successfully negotiated even the most modest of challenges, like unlocking a door or converting various herbs into one “medicinal” powder I would pause, considering that a worthy stoppage point for a much needed sabbatical. It was just so intense that finding the courage to just walk around a corner required considerable resilience. Taking those awkward tentative steps, that echoed through the dim confines of the seemingly deserted corridors, hoping there wasn’t some dormant creature waiting for my cowardly behind. I don’t think I’ve experienced such visceral fear before or since. It wasn’t just the zombies, the mutated abortions that would impede your progress or the lingering fear that some corporate, pharmaceutical institution could in theory commit similar atrocities as those perpetrated by the fictional interpretation of them. But the silence. The distant shuffling of some unseen zombie. The creaking floorboards above. The isolation!

Resident Evil 0, Remake, 3, 4. I played them all. Though the rigours of its absurdity eventually diminished my interest over time. The ever more ambivalent mythology, coupled with the series penchant for action only compounded my intrigue. By the time Resident Evil 6 came out, a particular low point in my opinion, I’d had more than enough Jill sandwich. And yet despite this, I’m still invested. For the most part. It’s bit like your child drawing shapes in pen on your cream carpet. Your mad, disappointed even. But eventually accept that you will have to forgive them at some point. And I feel like this might be the right time to rekindle that lost affection with my first. Or perhaps that should be infection?

What was your first Horror Game? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.

Loading….

Ah loading screens. The time honoured transitional that disguise the initialisation in a game. Sometimes benign. Often infuriating. These laboured compliances have endured as a necessary intrusion that have impeded player progression for decades. Though far less prevalent now, or at least not as extensive, these customery intermissions could become a thing of the past. A primitive function ridiculed by future generations. Studied by archaeologists the same way they’d examine ancient Eqyptian tombs to understand how primitive civilisations lived. The advent of the PS5 boasts an impressive custom SSD so advanced that it could potentially end load times as we know them. No more agonising delays during an intense boss fight you’ve already failed against. Having to wait and rectify that mistake. Almost instantaneous gameplay. And I’m okay with that.

Its hard to feel particularly nostalgic about an antiquated system that, though essential does somewhat slow the momentum of a game, thereby blemishing the experience. There’s nothing evocative about waiting for my shower to warm up or my food to cook. But the issue not only lies in games that boast huge environments that can be approached objectively and freely. Propagating fluidity and personal autonomy in a fully immersive explorable terrain, but also in linear narratives. Having a prohibitive interim of loading screens that perennially slows down the momentum of the story every time you die reduces your participation for protracted stretches. I’m reminded of my time in Skyrim. The anxiety of entering burial crypts guarded by ancient Draugr, wielding rustic weapons to defend their tombs. Opening a door to the next ritualistic passage, waiting patiently as the loading screen depicts the static image of a dragon, nestled atop of a protruding spire. It’s wings sprawled, bracing for an attack from some unseen adversary. As the camera slowly zooms in enhancing the dragons malicious features, stopping just close enough to see it’s dark, lifeless eyes. Until you realise that the game has failed to load for the fifth time in an hour! Good times. Well memorable at least.

There are rare instances where these laboured interludes have become somewhat indelible. The slowly creaking doors in Resident Evil for example are iconic. Some even offer an interactive experience like “Ridge Racers” Galaxian mini games or even “FIFA’s” practice arena, that allows players valuable respite to practice key skills. Most however are simply logistical obligations. Content to display static images or animated symbols until its finally time for you to take over again. Though they’ve been an inherent part of gaming for longer than I’ve been playing, there absence won’t be missed. Much.