“Bullet”Storm In A T-Cup

The gaming amnesty that we as consumers are currently experiencing is a sad reflection of the social equality of the games industry, with only cathartic premonitions of games to come alluring you with distant persuasion. The ulcerating obscurity that adorns your local retailers shelf due to a climate of modest retention of titles, leaves you with little scope other than an obligatory evaluation of your already ornate  collection of games glistening like ornamented scholars, promising answers to your gaming needs. But despite years of inflation, your myriad of acquisitions seem somehow diminished by the lack of opportunities for expansion. Your aware of the importance of adamant piety to refrain from frivolous expenditures, perennially debating every coin rattling expectantly at the bottom of your pocket–usually concealed behind a composite of varying fibres that form into a collective fluff–with weighted concern for their reveal. Any business you do to stem the tide of boredom is often riddled with precision of uncertainty, unless of course you spend £3 on a game that handles meagre commodities by diplomatically kicking such notions into the jaws of a carnivorous plant and left to ingest in acidic cavity!

“Hmm? Needs more explosives.”

This is Bulletstorm where preserving funds, delegating the excessive use of ammunition and diplomatic parity are rooted out, set ablaze with makeshift flame-thrower, manufactured from antiperspirants and a lighter, before being extinguished by the combined urination of a rugby team. Those of a sophisticated disposition remove your monocle, draw the blinds on your Venetian curtains and retract your protruding little finger from your chilled glass of vintage wine like an extension of your nobility, because your likely become enveloped in an aggressive planet basking in environmental euthanasia. Bulletstorm resonates with a cacophony of ballistic ammunition doused in whiskey, ignited by a flame throwing lion and fired from its rectum! I’ll admit to concealing corrosive reservations pertaining to its credibility–despite the seductive price, but it’s so concise in demonstrating its irrelevancy and aware enough of it absurdity to deliver insatiable satisfaction.

“In space, everyone will hear your enemies scream!”

What Bulletstorm achieves isn’t revolutionary, nor conceptually innovative;  weaponry is erratically sluggish, lacking in any varied appeal for repeated use, there are distinctively audible blemishes, the combatants are derivative and repetitive, with conceptual familiarity and only minor distinctive physicality between the aggressors. You’d think a game as obtuse, morose and even irrelevant as this that glamorizes violence more than Tarantino after watching the twilight series, would suck to such a degree that Dyson would seek to harness the raw potential of its suction capabilities. It isn’t reinventing the FPS genre with revised, innovative proclamations, but rather splintering the existing template with a barrage of intuitive projectiles, adding an exuberant cast that appear derivative in context; gruff mercenaries betrayed by their employer, stricken desperately on an aggressive planet teething with a predatory race of  amphibians. But in the broad strokes add depth and an energetic fluidity to the surprisingly gifted narrative. Its chaotic, visceral, bloody and downright stupid, with combatants dealt with in a similarly aggressive fashion.

“We are gonna need a bigger gun.”

Is a gyroscopic transportation device pursuing you with antagonized intent? Then blow it up! Too many mutated humanoids swiping vehemently at you with proposed inclinations? Then kick them into the rotary scythe of a helicopter and shower in the resulting condensed, liquidated remains! What, your low on ammunition? Then kick the desired attacker into the adjacent cacti and observe them floundering! There’s no question that is asked that can’t be resolved with an abusive hail of gun fire, a verbal exchange of antagonized expletives or simply delivering a kick to the groin and a celebratory cascade of alcoholic malcontent. Bulletstorm smashes the conventions of what a FPS should be; its insatiably chaotic, aware of its own brutal, nonsensical violence and distinctly humorous rapport with its content, with all the poise and subtlety as Jason Voorhees wielding a rocket launcher. Put simply; if Bulletstorm were a living, breathing entity it would break into your home, drink all of your alcohol, coerce your neighbours into a fight, copulate with your mother, impregnate you girlfriend, promptly kick them both from terraced window, defecate on your lawn and wipe its butt with sandpaper before incinerating your home with his pungent, auxiliary emanations and a match. Play it now you fungal, rim maggot!

Let me know what is the most graphic, over the top game you’ve played? Cheers.