I’m playing through the GameCube remake of Resident Evil, which has been rereleased on the Wii this week. I don’t have much to say about it as an overall experience: I’m fascinated by a game with the core mechanic of walking in circles — or, to be more charitible, a game built around pacing thoughtfully — but I’m rather certain an astute and curious terrier would beat this game faster than I. Rather, what strikes me most about this Resident Evil and its Zeldarian re-imagining in Resident Evil Zero are the paintings that hang on the walls of these mansion crawls.
Woman begs forgiveness in front of a crowd, is the approximate description of one out-of-focus masterpiece in the Spencer castle. Oh, yes I see it now, I ruminate to myself, as if a Magic Eye rendering has suddenly leaped out at me. (Full disclosure: I have never once seen the fruit of Magic Eye.) That smeary white blob in the middle is the woman. And that gray, darkish matter to the right is the crowd, clearly a collective of repressive masuclinuity in whatever woeful stage in European suffering, er, HIStory this is from. A fine piece, Oswell. I can’t say it directly pretains to my situational-terror as I stand in this dimly lit room. But I can tell that it speaks to the greater truth of Capcom’s long line of Girls in Trouble.
I’m being specious, perhaps, but only slightly. The truth is, whenever I enter a new room, the first thing I do is dart around for paintings. The second thing I do is reflect on the painting in some obnoxious manner akin to the paragraph above. The message is clear: Your pointed loneliness is one bead in a long chain, and, sister, it’s only gonna get worse.
This condition is identifiable, even if the in-game painting’s fidelity is less than so. “The paint is dry and cracked” or “all the faces have been painted out” are fine, but a little over the top. No, I’m looking for the tableau. I’m looking for that scene that informs and affirms my new life as circle-walker, a mystery-of-the-golden-emblem solver, a zombie-runner-away-fromer.
If only my undead friends, the corpuscles (or should I say corpses-uscles! hah!) that wander the veins and arteries of this repugnant palace, could reflect on these works with me. Surely, they too must feel alone, even when collected in great mass.
They are alone with their singular desire, and no amount of STARS meat will free them from that burden. But they needn’t feel that way. They could be woman begging for forgiveness. And when they’re at my throat, Lord knows I should be.
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