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.