World of ruin: Final Fantasy VII (1997).

Not coming to a theater near you.

It's got snowboarding, giant robots, ancient prophecies, prostitution, ninjas, genetic engineering, vampires, cross-dressing, televised executions, Korean BBQ, astronauts, and the apocalypse.

It's a game about casting magic spells that also features minigames for doing squats and performing CPR. It's a story about a grotesque Elder God threatening to wipe out humanity, a plot which frequently takes a backseat to an anime love triangle and bird racing.

It's one of the most loved, hated, mythologized and misunderstood games of all time, and strangely enough, it's one that very few people seem to remember accurately. And with the recently-revealed remake on its way and the HD version available on PS4, there's never been a better time to revisit Final Fantasy VII.

(Note: I have attempted to avoid major plot spoilers in this post, despite this being probably the most-spoiled video game of all time, because my main point here is that You Should Play Final Fantasy VII.)

There's also a My Bloody Valentine reference within the first hour or so. And this was in 1997, before everyone knew they were cool.

In this era of video games as blockbuster entertainment, returning to FF7—itself one of the first modern gaming blockbusters—is a bracing experience.

Modern games are frequently big only in the most nominal sense, offering up expansive playgrounds filled with copy-pasted tedium and checklists of cookie-cutter content. But Final Fantasy VII is something different: it's a strange, sui generis epic with Promethean ambitions and a ton of heart.

Even with its super-deformed characters (whose dated animations still have more personality than a lot of today's HD automatons), it's hard not to be swept up in FF7 right from the opening scenes. Storming Shinra headquarters and escaping in a motorcycle chase straight out of Akira could've been the white-knuckle conclusion to any other game; here, it's just the opening act.

One of the best moments in all of video games is coming to the end of this weird, wonderful caper and realizing it's only a cold open, with a whole world left to explore.

FF7.jpg

FF7 has fallen victim to its own legend, which has come to overshadow and obscure the actual game. This is pretty ironic, since the fallibility of memory plays such a crucial part in the game's story.

Geek commonplace holds that Cloud, the game's spiky-haired protagonist, is the mopey emo wimp that ended a proud tradition of happy-go-lucky JRPG heroes. But that's revisionist history: Cloud spends most of the game throwing out snarky one-liners and acting like a smug, mercenary asshole. He's the lovable rogue to Barret's po-faced hippy moralizer. For most of the game, Cloud is much closer to Han Solo than Shinji Ikari.

But he's also not the only character bowdlerized in the popular consciousness. Aeris, the flower girl from the streets of Midgar, is often depicted as a delicate, ethereal princess, for reasons I will avoid discussing. But this caricature has very little in common with the worldly, self-possessed, and impishly mischievous heroine encountered in the game; in her interactions with Cloud, she's Han Solo. (After all, he's just a bumpkin from Nibelhim; she grew up in the slums.)

Tifa, the game's other major female character, is precisely the opposite. Like her contemporary Lara Croft, Tifa is often remembered as a spunky sex symbol thanks to her considerable polygonal assets, but the real Tifa is much more complex: a wistful, romantic bundle of trauma and frustrated longing who just happens to beat up monsters with her bare hands. And even with all her mistakes and hang-ups, she steps capably into the role of leader when the heroic protagonist loses his nerve.

Tifa is one of the most interesting video game characters there is, and the fact that almost nobody ever notices is entirely in keeping with her role in FF7.

To be fair, she has help from Cid, whose character concept is basically "Chuck Yeager crossed with Billy Bob Thornton in Bad Santa." FF7's cast is full of characters like this: huge amounts of personality crammed into a handful of polygons.

The writing is much better than it gets credit for, and the game's uniqueness still shines through a notoriously dodgy translation (which often serves only to make the game even more endearing, in the classic Final Fantasy tradition). Even in English, there are powerful moments; in a chilling turn of phrase, a particularly terrifying monster is referred to as "a calamity from the skies."

Yes, FF7 is a JRPG, complete with amnesia, mysterious evil, and a motley group of heroes on a quest to save the world, but it also sidesteps cliché in interesting ways. After all, it's a rare game that has its tough guy hero start cross-dressing before the intro is over.

And every "badass" character in the game is deconstructed somehow: the Turks, the game's slick, modish Men In Black, are also incompetents who gossip like the cast of Mean Girls; Vincent, the shape-shifting vampire gunslinger, is a sad sack goth dork who gets mercilessly roasted by a teenage girl. (Note to anyone revisiting the game: keep Yuffie in your party, she has a lot of the best dialogue.)

The cross-dressing episode is actually the tamest part of the Wall Market section, much of which plays out like Mac and Dennis' discussion of bears, twinks, and power bottoms from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Note: the characters on the sign over the gym read "MEN MEN MEN". 

Just as FF7's characters have been distorted by time, the details of its plot have collapsed into a blur of vague concepts: giant weapons, an evil corporation, the end of the world. But here, too, the reality is much more interesting.

At the core of FF7's mythos is a simple but poignant fable about the Faustian bargain of civilization. The Planet was once inhabited by a nomadic race called the Ancients, who lived in harmony with nature and traveled from place to place in search of a fabled Promised Land. (The game strongly suggests that the Promised Land is not a literal place, and that the search is what really matters; it's a bit like the Kingdom of God in Christianity, in that it suggests a variety of possible meanings that vary with time and place.)

One day, some of the Ancients decided to stay in one place and build settlements, forgoing their spiritual quest in exchange for a life of convenience, and becoming human in the process. This shift to settled life (which mirrors early man's transition from hunter-gatherer to agriculturalist) begins a spiral of ruin that culminates in the industrial dystopia of Midgar, a stratified city of polluting Mako reactors and abject human suffering. And the few surviving Ancients, who can literally hear the whispers of the Planet, find that these voices grow increasingly distant.

Later in the game, you discover that Mako energy comes from the Lifestream, a continuum of the souls of living beings; this means that Shinra is in the business of literally harvesting souls and processing them into fuel. Enron, eat your heart out.

Shinra is the classic cyberpunk megacorp by way of the traditional Japanese zaibatsu: a vertically integrated "power company" with its own private army, bioweapons research division, and space program. (See also: Weyland-Yutani, similarly redolent of the "Japan Inc." era.)

At the beginning of the game, Cloud joins AVALANCHE, an ELF-style group committed to destroying Shinra. He joins for purely mercenary reasons; like Han Solo at the beginning of Star Wars, he's not interested in revolution. And AVALANCHE's opposition to Shinra is largely materialist, rooted more in the bleakness and misery of the Midgar slums than the legend of the Ancients and the Promised Land.

But as Cloud and company get outside the city, leaving industrial modernity behind, they encounter the forgotten history of the Planet and reconnect with the sacred search that their ancestors abandoned. It doesn't seem accidental that a character who provides a crucial cosmological lecture to the heroes on this journey is named after Johannes Bugenhagen, Martin Luther's pastor in Wittenberg and a key figure in the Reformation. 

There are other intriguing allusions, like a giant artillery cannon called the "Sister Ray" and a pagoda filled with martial artists named after Russian authors. And perhaps most significantly, there's a high-ranking Shinra apparatchik named Heidegger. The fact that the character is a boorish, vulgar toady could be a jab at the great thinker, or simply ironic. (His association with Shinra might suggest the real Heidegger's complicity with Nazism, given the low value Shinra places on human lives.)

Still, invoking the philosopher's name at all serves only to highlight the themes the game shares with his work: human existence as inextricable from a world that tasks us with taking responsibility for our own lives; and the dismantling of contemporary assumptions to rediscover questions posed by the Ancients.

"Have you lost your way? When that happens we each have to take a good long look at ourselves. There's always something in the deepest reaches of our hearts. Something buried, or something forgotten."

Like (the real) Heidegger, Cloud and company do not advocate a simple return to the ways of the Ancients, if such a thing were even possible; they are not "fundamentalists." Instead they practice a kind of archaeology, uncovering ways of thinking and modes of existence that have been concealed by modern assumptions.

"Archaeology" is actually a strong recurring theme in FF7. Cloud and company's "archaeology of knowledge" (a la Foucault) is typically metaphorical, but it's often literal too; the game frequently has you exploring sealed and forgotten ruins in search of lost knowledge and buried secrets. And archaeology is also referenced in one of the game's key events: how Shinra discovered the lifeform known as Jenova "in a 2,000 year old geological stratum."

As they travel the world, Cloud and his party discover the origins of Shinra hegemony in places like North Corel, a mining town brutally subjugated by Shinra troops; Gongaga, a tiny village decimated by a Mako reactor explosion; Rocket Town, a kind of rust belt hamlet left to rot when Shinra abandoned its space program; and Cosmo Canyon, an ancient adobe city outside Shinra's dominon, devoted to the study of the Planet. Each destination reveals the history that gave shape to the present, and alternative ways of living that have fallen into eclipse thanks to Shinra 's dominion.

Along the way, a world without such wanton environmental destruction becomes thinkable, and a world order that once seemed inevitable and unchanging is revealed to be the contingent product of a traceable past. The train of Midgar, which "can't run anywhere except where its rails take it", is left behind; the journey itself opens up new territory and new possibilities. (As anyone who remembers Barret's dialogue can attest, train metaphors abound in FF7.)

"In its essence, technology is something that man does not control."

[Side note: the process of liberation for Cloud and company is still bound up with technology, with more of the world map opening up as you acquire new vehicles: a dune buggy, a seaplane, a submarine, etc. However, it's worth noting that the ultimate vehicle is not the magnificent airship Highwind, but the gold chocobo; the only vehicle that can go anywhere in the game is a living creature.]

This process of archaeology becomes particularly literal toward the end of the game's first disc, when Cloud physically digs up the Lunar Harp in Bone Village and opens the passage to the Forgotten Capital, where one of the game's most memorable scenes takes place. (I'm gritting my teeth trying not to reveal what happens to the 0.0001% who don't already know.)

Barring the party's journey towards enlightenment is Sephiroth, the game's ultimate villain and a dark mirror of Cloud. Sephiroth also despises Shinra, but he takes AVALANCHE's environmentalism to its most radical possible conclusion: the only way to redeem the Planet is to remove mankind and civilization from the equation.*

"Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor, and something terrible—though I know not in what proportion—still remains."

This reasoning is not so far removed from that of deep ecologists like Pentti Linkola, who believe that without a mass die-off of human beings, environmental catastrophe will continue indefinitely.  As another fictional villain from the same era put it, "human beings are a disease; we are the cure."

Both the heroes and the villain accept that the present structure of civilization is evil; in a sense, they only differ on the question of how deep the rot goes. Pretty intense themes for a video game about ninjas and talking stuffed animals—especially circa 1997.

* When Bugenhagen discusses the Planet's survival with Cloud later in the game, he leaves open the question of whether or not such a future would include humanity. The following is a spoiler for the game's ending sequence, but it really demands mention; highlight to read. FF7 preserves this ambiguity right through its final scene: 500 years after the events of the game, a much older Red XIII and his descendants watch over the ruins of Midgar, now covered with overgrowth and being reclaimed by the Planet.

Only two years separated FF7 and The Matrix. Much has been made of the film's similarity to Grant Morrison's classic comic The Invisibles, but it also has a lot in common with FF7. Then again, perhaps all three just tapped in to the collective unconscious of the 1990s.

Of course, Sephiroth's motivations are not really altruistic, and as the game goes on you discover that he is less interested in restoring the Planet than harnessing its energies for his own purposes. In this, he is much like Shinra, viewing the Planet and the Lifestream as resources to be exploited rather than shepherded.

But whereas Shinra at least has an interest in keeping its customers alive to extract money from them, Sephiroth has no such restraint. He aspires instead towards godhood—and as any JRPG fan knows, the ultimate genre cliche is the ending where you have to kill a god. The possibilities inherent in this final confrontation are outlined in Heidegger's famous 1966 interview with Der Spiegel:

[All merely human meditations and endeavors] will not be able to bring about a direct change of the present state of the world...Only a god can still save us. I think the only possibility of salvation left to us is to prepare readiness, through thinking and poetry, for the appearance of the god or for the absence of the god during the decline; so that we do not, simply put, die meaningless deaths, but that when we decline, we decline in the face of the absent god.

Much of the party's journey consists of preparing and readying themselves for this confrontation, and significantly, the only power capable of stopping Sephiroth's "ultimate destructive magic" is called Holy.

This willowy anime heel has usurped the power of a god. Are you a bad enough dude to defeat a god? (URL: videogamesandthebible.com)

So yeah, FF7 is a JRPG. And like all JRPGs, it's a long game. But when this epic length works, as it does here and in games like Persona 4, it recalls Kenneth Turan's description of The Seven Samurai:

It allows us to observe each of [its] many characters in the round, from every angle, to view them as individuals with their own backstories, philosophies, martial arts skills, and reasons for being there. We get to know them naturally, the way we get to know our friends: by putting in the time.

This is a big part of FF7's enduring appeal: it's a game about deeply flawed and very human characters (even the non-human ones). They're a band of criminals, failures, thieves, outcasts, weirdos, cowards, and frauds—and they're the only ones who can save the planet, which itself is sick and coming apart.

For once, the Kabbalistic allusions so beloved by Japanese developers (there's a villain named Sephiroth, after all) aren't just for show. At heart, this is a game about healing a broken world.

Or, in Aeris' immortal words: "this guy are sick."

Here's my advice: play Final Fantasy VII. Play it now, for the first time or the tenth. Don't wait for the remake. Hopefully it will be great, but even if it exceeds all expectations it will still be a different game, because things have changed a lot since 1997. When FF7 was made, video games were still a niche hobby only just making the leap into 3D graphics, with stories that rarely went beyond "the princess is in another castle."

FF7's TV spots trumpeted a "multi-million dollar budget" and "years of development", things which are now de rigeur for every major release—but at the time, FF7 was a moonshot, and it shows.

PS: I haven't even said anything about the music. Nobuo Uematsu is perhaps the most beloved of all video game composers, and everyone has a different opinion about his best work—but the evocative power of FF7's soundtrack is undeniable. It's impossible to hear "Underneath the Rotting Pizza" or "Anxious Heart" and not be instantly transported back to Midgar. I'm also particularly partial to the haunting music that plays in the Forgotten Capital, building anticipation for one of the game's climactic moments. Add in the insanely hype boss music, and it's 1997 all over again.

Eternal Bad Luck Charm: Nothing Bad Can Happen (2013), The Gallows (2015), and Phantoms (1998).

Nothing Bad Can Happen (2013)

Apparently based on a true story, Nothing Bad Can Happen feels like a very precise mix of Let The Right One In and The Snowtown Murders—and as inspirations go, you'd be hard-pressed to find better ones.  (The comparison to Martyrs on the poster is misplaced; this is barely a horror movie.) It's the story of Tore, a homeless Christian punk living in Hamburg, and how he moves in with a family living on an allotment garden. From there, as with any horror movie, bad things do in fact happen. What's really interesting about Nothing Bad Can Happen is that, unlike Snowtown, it's not a portrait of psychopathy; Benno, the film's antagonist, certainly behaves monstrously, but he's no John Bunting. This film is really about the delicate power dynamics of families—especially ad-hoc, improvised ones—and how easily they can be disrupted by petty jealousies and resentments. As a persistently irreligious person myself, I found myself occasionally bristling at Tore's casual outpourings of faith, just as Benno and his family do—which made me feel bad, since Tore is more or less the sweetest guy in the world, rewarded with nothing but cruelty and torture. (Remind you of anyone?) I wonder about the title: I don't speak German, but "nothing bad can happen" seems like a broad translation of Tore Tanzt, which I kept thinking had to be a Biblical allusion of some kind. Very interested to see what director Karin Gebbe does in the future.

The Gallows (2015)
Execution is everything. A lot of horror is basically just riffing on Beowulf, and that's fine, because there's a reason we're still telling stories that have been around thousands of years. There are countless horror movies with prosaic setups (e.g. "vacation goes awry"), but there's a world of difference between Vacation Slasher 2349 and, say, Wolf Creek. But The Gallows actually has a really cool premise: the title is the name of a high school play that ended with its lead actor dead by hanging, and 20 years later the same school is ready to try again, despite the objections of the school board. The Gallows absolutely nails the high school milieu, with a setting that looks real and a believably teenage snottiness; the kid holding the camera is a colossal dick who reminded me a little of Dennis from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. The friend that I saw it with said that, at first, it felt almost like a dark version of Glee—but once the horror movie stuff starts happening, it takes a sharp turn into mediocrity. I haven't soured on found footage, and I maintain that most of its detractors probably haven't seen the best it has to offer (e.g. Trollhunter, The Bay, Lake Mungo) but The Gallows definitely feels like FF by the numbers. Which is too bad, because it also feels like it could've been great.

Phantoms (1998)
Phantoms is the best Resident Evil movie ever made. Forget about Paul W.S. Anderson's overwrought films, because this one captures the gleeful, gruesome spirit of the original PS1 games much more successfully. It actually hit theaters in the same week that Resident Evil 2 (recently greenlit for a remake!) arrived in stores, which feels more like fate than coincidence given their similarities: a ruined town menaced by impossible creatures; soldiers in gas masks storming through damp sewer tunnels; a cop and a pair of civilians trapped in the middle. And like RE, Phantoms is a B-movie at its most joyfully unpretentious; it's not often you get to hear Peter O'Toole bellow lines like "This thing is what wiped out the dinosaurs—it's a pretty tough fucking customer!" (And Liev Schrieber, eternally professional, also embraces his role as a scenery-chewing grotesque without a hint of ironic distance.) It loses a little steam once all the questions have been answered, but along the way it's a hell of a lot of fun, and some of the effects hold up surprisingly well given their vintage. Plus, the "Ancient Aliens" style ending is a riot—hey Hollywood, how about a reboot?

Just to get away: It Follows (2014).

It Follows isn't just the best horror movie of 2014; it's the best horror movie of the last 20 years. It's a love letter to the genre, bursting with subtle and overt nods to the classics, but it's no postmodern pastiche. Elements feel familiar, but the parts that count—the scary parts—feel startlingly fresh. It's a gorgeous, vivid, wide-angle nightmare.

Believe the hype.

At times, you could be forgiven for thinking It Follows was the work of John Carpenter, come screaming out of retirement to deliver one last opus. Although Halloween was shot in Pasadena, the leafy Michigan suburbs where It Follows takes place could double for Laurie Strode's hometown of Haddonfield, and the whole film is laced with a wonderfully ominous, throbbing synthesizer soundtrack in the style of Carpenter's own sawtooth symphonies.

It Follows also suggests the golden age of end-of-the-century Japanese horror. Its central conceit—a lethal, unyielding supernatural contagion that operates according to a strange and unsettling set of rules—fits squarely in the tradition of Ringu and Ju-on, and the film's tableaux of crumbling Michigan houses and vacant public spaces recalls Kiyoshi Kurosawa's unique genius for finding the perfect abandoned Japanese buildings to get murdered in.

But It Follows is also a coming-of-age story, and it's every bit as aching and poignant as Let The Right One In. The standard horror template would see heroine Jay struggling to convince those around her that she's not crazy, but one of writer/director David Robert Mitchell's smartest decisions in It Follows is that her best friends—stalwart sister Kelly, boy-next-door Paul, and snarky bookworm Yara—believe her almost immediately, as we would hope our own friends would.

As frightening as It Follows is, it effortlessly evokes the weightlessness of drifting between adolescence and adulthood. Parents are little more than blurry background figures, but they loom large for the characters, who reference them often: "Won't your mom be mad?" Rather than the obvious readings some viewers have offered for It Follows (e.g. as AIDS allegory), the film often feels like a parable about a generation of young people adjusting to radically diminished expectations.

It helps that the whole young cast is sublime, from Daniel Zovatto's Damone-with-a-heart-of-gold to Jake Weary's anxious, apologetic Hugh, who sets the whole horrible drama in motion. The characters feel lived in, with unspoken histories between every line of dialogue.

One of the film's core themes (driven home by Yara's periodic quotations from Dostoevsky's The Idiot) is fatalism, a familiar mood for all of us marking time in a post-industrial cul-de-sac of downward mobility and paycheck-to-paycheck living. Jay's nightmare dramatizes a familiar contemporary predicament: feeling trapped in the place where you grew up, with all hopes for the future put on hold while you try and figure out how you're going to make it through another week, or another day.

But make no mistake: It Follows is a horror movie. And once it gets up and running, it ruthlessly and patiently develops its central premise, continually adding new wrinkles and raising the stakes. Like the original Ju-on, there are images in this movie that might haunt you for the rest of your life, and there are moments that will have you white-knuckling the armrest like a kid seeing The Exorcist for the first time.

After you see it, you just might catch yourself looking over your shoulder, checking the doors and the windows of the room you're in, wondering how quickly you could get away. You know, if you had to.

Is there any greater compliment to a horror movie than that?

Blood feuds: Blue Ruin (2013), Wer (2013), V/H/S: Viral (2014).

Blue Ruin (2013)
There's been some buzz online for Green Room, Jeremy Saulnier's upcoming feature that has Patrick Stewart playing a neo-Nazi. Interested parties would do well to check out Saulnier's prior offering, a festival darling called Blue Ruin. This spare, bloody film chronicles one man's quest for revenge as he finds himself pulled into an old-fashioned blood feud. It plays almost like an inverted version of Drive, where that film's icy, synthesized cool is replaced with leafy, Confederate pastoralia. Both films share the western's sense of violent grace, and its pinpoint focus on isolated outsiders who dispense a merciless form of premodern justice. But what gives Blue Ruin such a unique frisson is Macon Blair's turn as the hapless antihero Dwight: in contrast to Ryan Gosling's cool, consummate Driver, Dwight is a pathetic, marginal fuck-up, eating garbage and struggling to scrounge up enough cash for a gun to kill his enemies with. He is a figure of genuine pathos, closer to Gollum than Steve McQueen, but shot through with lethal purpose nonetheless. Blue Ruin is beautiful and strange, bloody and haunting. Highest recommendation.

Wer (2013)
Werewolves often seem to play second fiddle to vampires, but being so close to a silver medal just seems to make them hungrier, as werewolf movies often work harder to put a twist on the mythos. Such is the case with Wer, a wolfen murder mystery set in present-day France. A.J. Cook plays Kate, an American expatriate lawyer who takes up the case of Talan Gwynek, a towering, taciturn bumpkin believed to have torn a hapless family of campers to shreds. But there's more going on than meets the eye (isn't there always?), and Wer does a nice job of confounding expectations. What really puts it over the top are the startlingly violent action sequences, which are staged with a splattery, bone-crunching brutality that's downright refreshing in such well-worn mythical terrain. Wer presents the wolfman as he should be: a true force of nature, red in tooth and claw. The modern vampire has been fighting domestication ever since Anne Rice gave us the tortured Louis Pont du Lac, but Wer is proof positive that their hairy cousins remain as wild and untamed as ever.

V/H/S: Viral (2014)
I really can't say enough good things about the V/H/S series. Undeterred by the increasingly shrill horde of found footage detractors, V/H/S and V/H/S/2 not only made anthology movies cool again, but delivered a passel of stylish and imaginative shocks along the way, courtesy of young hotshots like Adam Wingard (You're Next), Ti West (The Innkeepers), and Gareth Evans (The Raid and The Raid 2). Unfortunately, many are going to point to V/H/S: Viral as the series' shark-jumping moment, but it's not nearly as bad as you might think. The main thing that separates this one from the first two is tone: where the earlier entries had a hard-edged, illicit vibe that felt like a cleaned-up version of August Underground, V/H/S: Viral is pure B-movie, drive-in cheese. Once you accept this, though, it's also a blast. The opening salvo, concerning a stage magician with a bloodthirsty enchanted cloak, is a terrifically endearing piece of schlock, and the follow-up vignette about a scientist who builds a dimensional gateway in his basement follows suit. But the best short is the third, about a group of skateboarders who travel to Tijuana and wind up with more than cuts and scrapes. It channels Larry Clark, Jackass, and Adrián García Bogliano's awesome Here Comes the Devil in nearly equal measure, and it feels closer to "classic" V/H/S than anything else here. I'll admit that I hope this is more of a spin-off, and that we get a V/H/S/3 in the gritty, analog style of the first two—but if you can accept that V/H/S: Viral is a different kind of film, you'll have a lot of fun.

Men of the people: Wolf Creek 2 (2013), The Sacrament (2014).

Wolf Creek 2 (2013)
Slasher movie villains are typically depicted as unstoppable forces of nature, but Wolf Creek 2 takes a new tack. It reimagines Mick Taylor, John Jarratt's iconic outback butcher, as a deranged nativist, purging Australia of foreigners one dismembered corpse at a time. This is inspired: Australia has become one of the premier nations for horror, and in Wolf Creek 2 Mick Taylor represents the idea of Australia as forbidding territory becoming conscious of itself, actively seeking to purify the homeland and create an Australia "for Australians." It's a wicked, mercilessly clever revision of the first film, offering a portrait of rugged individualism taken to pathological extremes. (In one scene, Taylor is recast as the Marlboro Man himself, riding nobly out of the sunset.) But for all the film's social comment, McLean doesn't skimp on chills and thrills, maintaining the first film's chokehold right through the surprising final showdown. Here's hoping McLean and Jarratt come back to complete the trilogy—perhaps by showing us Taylor's outsider campaign for Prime Minister?

The Sacrament (2014)
In what may be Ti West's scariest film yet, The Sacrament offers a thinly fictionalized retelling of the fate of Jim Jones' People's Temple, where the congregants committed mass suicide in Guyana in 1978 by drinking Flavor Aid laced with cyanide. Jonestown has long since become a universal point of reference, even for people (like myself) who weren't even born yet when it happened; how often do you hear a reference to "drinking the Kool Aid"? The great strength of West's film is that it drives home the sheer visceral ugliness of the event: a sermon delivered over loudspeakers promising transcendent glory and divine sacrifice while people died in agony, their bodies sprawled out on the grass as they tried to crawl away. The notion of framing the film as a Vice documentary was also kind of brilliant, giving it a sense of verisimilitude and freshness beyond the usual handheld horror. While The Sacrament is fictionalized, a great many of the details are true to the actual events—and for anyone who's heard the ghastly audio recording of the event (what can I say, it's been sampled by punk and metal bands for years), it's eerie how closely much of the final sermon echoes what's heard there. And Gene Jones (who you might remember as the gas station owner in No Country For Old Men—call it, friendo) is excellent as "Father." The Sacrament probably won't get much recognition outside of horror circles, but remind me to scoff when Ti West's next movie catapults him out of the horror ghetto and people who look down their nose at genre cinema start talking about what a great director he is.

Also: while The Sacrament loses none of the enormity and horror of the real events, it ironically understates them: the film's final death toll is revealed in an epilogue card as 167; at Jonestown, it was 909.

It came from Netflix: Beyond the Black Rainbow (2010), Resolution (2012), Cabin in the Woods (2012).

Beyond the Black Rainbow (2010)
The suffocating debut film from writer/director Panos Cosmatos tells the story of Elena, a girl with fearsome telepathic powers held captive by a deranged psychologist. To some, Beyond the Black Rainbow is a Tarkovskyan masterpiece of glacial dread; to others, it's 110 interminable minutes of pretentious audience torture. I think it's a little of both, actually. The best thing about the movie is Michael Rogers, who plays the villainous Dr. Nyle as a kind of evil Carl Sagan, contemptuously hissing his dialogue like Agent Smith from The Matrix. The core idea—drippy Boomer acid spirituality rotting into a slow-motion Kenneth Anger nightmare—is rock solid, and at times (especially in the second half) you can just make out the great horror hidden behind a thick haze of obscuring pastiche. That's the worst thing about Beyond the Black Rainbow: too often, it feels more like a checklist of references than an actual movie. Still worth a look for those with properly attuned psyches and fully loaded bongs, and I wouldn't rule out Cosmatos doing great work in the future. Hilarious trivia: the film was financed with DVD residuals from Tombstone, which was directed by Cosmatos' father—who also made Rambo: First Blood Part II!

Resolution (2012)
At a remote cabin, Michael (Peter Cilella) tries to help his best friend (Vinny Curran) kick his methamphetamine habit by handcuffing him to a pipe. As withdrawal sets in and Michael has to fend off curious locals, he begins to suspect that someone else is watching them. Resolution creates a fantastic sense of skin-crawling eeriness without any of the usual tricks (gore, jump scares), making it a perfect film for viewers who think that all modern horror is torture porn and found footage. Resolution has been compared to Cabin in the Woods, but it's a much more subtle and provocative film, with an even more effective metacomment on the genre. It actually reminded me a lot of Lovely Molly, capturing the same numinous sense of helplessness as something uncanny and terrible descends on you. Special recognition is due to Bill Oberst, Jr., for a brief but profoundly unsettling part as an eccentric French hermit who may or may not know what's happening.

Cabin in the Woods (2012)
Cabin in the Woods is the ultimate horror movie for people who don't like horror movies: a snarky satire that gives people who look down on the genre permission to enjoy it. But the premise is a fun one, with a sinister control room (Bradley Whitford and Richard Jenkins, giving new meaning to the banality of evil) watching as a group of teens fall victim to a carefully arranged horror movie scenario. Unfortunately, the youth segment of the cast (including a de-Thor'd Chris Hemsworth, handsomely wooden as ever) leaves a lot to be desired—and the notion that they're "supposed" to be forgettable victims is a bullshit cop-out. I guess it just goes to show: they can't all be Scoobies. There's also one visual early on that totally spoils what could've been a terrific shock later in the movie; this bugged me in the theater and it still bugs me now. Despite these problems, Cabin in the Woods is a lot of fun—and ironically, viewers who already know their deadites from their cenobites are the ones who'll get the most out of it.

True crime: Longford (2006), The Snowtown Murders (2011), Heavenly Creatures (1994).

Longford (2006)
The notorious "Moors murders" committed by Ian Brady and Myra Hindley in the 1960s have been immortalized in books, songs, and even modern art. But it wasn't until 2006 that Britain saw the story on film (and there were actually two that year, the other being See No Evil, which covered the crimes themselves). Directed by Tom Hooper (The King's Speech), Longford is about the attempts by devout Christian conservative Lord Longford (Jim Broadbent) to secure the release of Hindley (Samantha Morton), and his gradual realization that she may not be the model of reform and repentance she appears to be. Focusing on this facet of the story was an inspired choice: instead of a familiar police procedural or courtroom drama, Longford is a queasy, slow-burning portrait of sociopathy. Broadbent captures Longford's essential decency and Christian compassion—which make him into an easy mark for Morton's Hindley, as manipulative and insidious as the snake in the Garden of Eden. Watch for Andy Serkis (best known for playing Gollum in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings) in a brief cameo as Brady. The DVD is only $6.99 on Amazon.

The Snowtown Murders (2011)
The Snowtown Murders is based on the most notorious serial murder case in Australian history, where a charismatic psychopath named John Bunting talked a group of friends and relatives into helping him kill eleven people, mostly by claiming that they were pedophiles. The film (originally titled simply Snowtown, as Australian audiences didn't need to be told what it was about) is a haunting depiction of how easy it is for regular people to be drawn into committing previously unimaginable crimes. It reminds me a lot of Larry Clark's Bully: aside from the plot similarities, the warm, naturalistic look of Snowtown recalls Clark's visual language going all the way back to Tulsa, and both films depict relaxed suburban idylls splintered by cruelty, violence, and terror. At the core of the film's expanding nightmare is Daniel Henshall, whose Bunting moves through the film with the cold, dead-eyed menace of a great white shark. Snowtown isn't always easy to watch, but it's a masterpiece of Australian cinema, and an uncompromising vision of evil.

Heavenly Creatures (1994)
Set in 1950s New Zealand, Heavenly Creatures tells the true story of Pauline Rieper and Juliet Hulme (Melanie Lynskey and Kate Winslet), two teenage girls whose obsessive relationship leads them to brutally murder Pauline's mother for trying to keep them apart. In the wrong hands this could've ended up a dryly fascinating period piece, but Jackson gives the proceedings a crackling, hallucinatory energy, with Parker and Hulme's vivid fantasy world blooming into life around them. The film's strongest asset are its two leads: Lynskey is a bundle of sullen teen resentment and frustrated longing, while Winslet (in her film debut!) rips into her part with manic, hormonal fury. It's a classic homicidal dyad that's firmly rooted in its time and place (conservative, postwar New Zealand), but also oddly timeless. Still my favorite Peter Jackson film, and a treasure of true crime storytelling. One detail left out of the postscript is that after being released from prison, Hulme became celebrated mystery author Anne Perry!

Enemies foreign and domestic: The Unknown Known (2014), Excision (2012), and The Raid 2 (2014).

Click the titles to watch a trailer!

The Unknown Known (2014)
The main conclusion I took from Errol Morris' documentary on Donald Rumsfeld is that he's a true product of the Nixon administration, because nearly everything he says in the film can be reduced to "mistakes were made." As with his famously convoluted explanation for the paucity of WMD evidence in Iraq (from which the film takes its title), Rumsfeld explains himself with circuitous, pedantic constructions that have a superficial appearance of logic, but reveal absolutely nothing. One topic the film probes is Rumsfeld's disappointment at never becoming President himself, and he demonstrates an adeptness at evading responsibility that may have served him well in the Oval Office. The Unknown Known is very slickly produced, with cool graphics emulating scrolling microfiche and satellite photography—but viewers hoping for a real explanation (let alone an admission of guilt) for the disastrous Iraq War will have to keep waiting.

Excision (2012)
Pauline (AnnaLynne McCord) is a seventeen year old aspiring surgeon—but her bloody, sexually charged dreams (exquisitely staged grotesqueries reminiscent of Matthew Barney's Cremaster cycle) suggest darker motives. The film belongs totally to McCord, who vanishes so completely into Pauline's weird, perverse world that even Daniel Day Lewis would be intimidated. Her mix of eccentric charisma and vulnerability is a bit reminiscent of Jason Schwartzman's star turn in Rushmore, but Excision has none of Wes Anderson's quirky cuteness to soften its hard edges, and by the finish it more than earns its horror designation. Credit's also due to Traci Lords(!) in a terrific turn as Pauline's mother, and Modern Family's Ariel Winter, who plays a little sister afflicted with cystic fibrosis. (And yes, that's John Waters as a priest.) I saw Excision when it came out, but I think it's a film that just gets better every time you see it. One of the best of the last decade, easy.

The Raid 2 (2014)
The Raid: Redemption delivered brutal, visceral action in an era of tedious CGI wank and reheated superhero garbage, winning fans all over the world in the process (including yours truly). Moments after the end of the original Raid, our hero Rama (Iko Uwais) goes undercover in order to bring down Jakarta's reigning crime family, ingratiating himself with a crown prince whose ambitions are beginning to outstrip his loyalty to his father. While the story is a familiar one (bearing more than a slight resemblance to Eastern Promises and The Departed/Internal Affairs), the story of one good cop who's in too deep has never been told with such terrifying intensity. This is a blistering, furious mushroom cloud of a film, but it's also a master class in pacing, investing every smashed face and shattered bone with dramatic weight. There are too many set pieces to count, from the dazzling prison riot near the beginning to a jaw-droppingly brutal subway car melee that makes Quentin Tarantino look like Nora Ephron. And Rama's final showdown with a fearsome pencak silat master (known only as "The Assassin") makes a strong claim on being the greatest fight scene ever filmed. It's easily the best action movie since Terminator 2—maybe the best ever. And guess what? There's going to be a third one.

Who's the fairest? Oculus, Contracted, and Megan Is Missing.

Oculus (2014)
Oculus is a ghost story built on the fallibility of our perceptions, with two siblings seeking to shatter the malevolent haunted mirror that destroyed their family when they were children. It also scores major points for having a truly great heroine in Kaylie (Karen Gillan), who is orders of magnitude smarter and gutsier than anyone who's ever appeared in a Paranormal Activity film. This is honestly really refreshing, and I suspect it's a big part of the warm critical reception the film has received: it's hard not to be impressed with the rigorous and thoughtful way that Kaylie researches the mirror and plans to confront and destroy it, rather than just setting up some cameras and hoping for the best. As the film goes on, past and present blur into a surreal nightmare, but the story hangs together through the ending (which I really want to say something about but won't for fear of spoilers). And it's awesome seeing Katee Sackhoff, here playing a role that couldn't be more different than her stint as Starbuck on Battlestar Galactica. Highly recommended.

Contracted (2013)
After being date raped at a party, Samantha (a terrific Najarra Townsend) finds herself coming down with the mother of all STDs. Contracted is deceptive, though: it's a horror film that's big on metaphor, but the metaphor at work here probably isn't the one you're expecting. What really makes the film work isn't the squirmy body horror, but the way we slowly unravel the truth about Samantha's relationships; without giving anything away, there's a reason why a lot of them feel strained. Contracted is more than just Cronenberg for the hook-up era (although that would've been enough), and it even has a clever final twist that manages to tweak a pop culture cliche while also deepening the film's own themes. Not bad, right? (I also liked the fact that Samantha lives with her mom, which is a nice nod to the economic shit sandwich being fed to her generation.) It's on Netflix, so check it out.

Megan is Missing (2011)
Megan is Missing is sort of like Thirteen meets Irreversible or Martyrs, with teenagers behaving badly shading into sledgehammer shock tactics. Ironically, the best part is actually the first half, with a believably profane depiction of teenage life that carries some uncomfortable echoes of recent news items like the Steubenville rape case. Amy and Megan (Amber Perkins and Rachel Quinn) are a good girl/bad girl odd couple: proper Amy admires uninhibited Megan's confidence and independence, while Megan looks up to Amy for her basic decency and kindness. They're believable and sympathetic, which makes the film's last half hour all the more agonizing: it's a master class in cinematic cruelty, with some of the gnarliest audience abuse since Audition. Even some horror veterans may find themselves squirming (I did). But the movie also has a really subtle and wicked sense of black humor, as seen in the bit where a TV news crew solemnly interviews the airheads filming a dramatic reenactment of Megan's kidnapping. Director Michael Goi is also the director of photography for American Horror Story.

Hell awaits: 20 years of Doom.

Sure, there were first person games—and even first person shooters—before Doom. Nerds will point out Maze War or whatever, and grizzled Mac loyalists who remember the dark ages before the iPod will curse your name forever if you don't accord proper respect to Marathon. (The harsh truth: by today's standards Marathon is about as fun to play as a rousing game of "poop your pants at work.")

But in the final analysis, Doom is the ur-shooter, the primordial ancestor from which all modern day virtual gunplay evolved. It is the Sistine Chapel of blood splatter and shell casings, the Mona Lisa of circle-stafing. Doom is a symphony of crisp, frictive mechanics working in lockstep to create an experience that remains unmatched even today, two decades later. (Doom came out on December 10, 1993. Happy birthday, Doomguy.)

Booting up Doom now is a revelation. All evidence seems to suggest that a PC game from 1993 should be like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, out of place and struggling to adapt to a world it cannot understand. But Doom feels speedy, rewarding, and infinitely playable. In many ways, today's market colossi remain pale imitations, their small refinements taking place in the shadow of a towering, nonplussed Cyberdemon. To paraphrase Cormac McCarthy, Doom is the ultimate game, awaiting the ultimate player: Homo fraggus.

This is my Doomguy. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

The story of Doom is flimsy, but no more so than most games of its era. (Or today, frankly.) You are a space marine, stationed at a Martian outpost that has been overrun by demons thanks to reckless scientists opening a portal to hell. There are distinct shades of Evil Dead and Aliens (id's chief inspirations, according to David Kushner's Masters of Doom), but it all coheres into a unique vision that combines the tension and suspense of a horror movie with the nervy, twitch action of classic arcade games like Robotron 2084.

Over the course of the game's campaign—which is broken up into three episodes, the first made available via shareware—the player traversed a series of increasingly nightmarish stages, battling the forces of hell with a growing arsenal of powerful weapons, from the buzzing chainsaw to the fearsome BFG. But much like his forefathers Ash and Corporal Hicks, Doomguy would often be seen wielding the shotgun. You know, for close encounters.

Doom features one of the most iconic casts of enemies to ever grace a video game. The monsters are unforgettable, from the Cheshire grin of the Cacodemon to the purposeful, menacing stride of the Baron of Hell. (Countless players will still feel their hackles rise upon hearing the lo-fi sound of a Baron's intimidating howl.)

And then there are the weapons. The weapons! Every booming shotgun or rattling automatic heard in today's online arenas represents an iteration of Doom's simple, timeless archetypes. Call of Duty's myriad of subtly different assault rifles? All variations on Doom's classic chaingun, just like the one Jessie Ventura shredded foliage with in Predator.

They should've sent a poet.

This is to say nothing of the maps themselves, which mostly succeed thanks to John Romero's keen sense of pacing and balance. (Like countless tragic heroes, his brilliance would eventually turn to hubris—and like Icarus, he would plunge back to earth.) But one of the game's finest moments came from Romero's co-designers Sandy Petersen and Tom Hall: in "Phobos Anomaly", the final level of the initial shareware episode, our heroic marine comes to an enormous stone pentagram, where a set of doors slide open to reveal not one, but two Barons of Hell.

It remains one of the best boss encounters ever, and a perfect capstone to the first episode. After playing this, how could you not purchase the full version?

Unfortunately, as with so many shareware games of the era, id never really topped that first episode. This definitely doesn't mean that episodes two and three are bad, although you can probably find some grizzled veterans lurking on message boards who are willing to go that far (and seriously, fuck "Halls of the Damned"). It's just that id led with their best material: the first episode has a crackling sense of tension and logic to its levels, which still remain imprinted on the minds of a whole generation of players.

Gaming's greatest ever "oh shit" moment—at least until the first time you see the Cyberdemon. Or the Spider Mastermind. Or an Archvile. Lot of "oh shit" moments in the Doom games.

A term that's bandied about a lot these days in upper-level video game discussion is "ludonarrative dissonance." It refers to how the increasingly ambitious storytelling aspirations of games can clash with the act of playing them; it's when the game part gets in the way of (or is itself disrupted by) the part that's aspiring to the status of film or literature. Even the recent, critically acclaimed GTAV struggles with this, as it attempts to present a classic American crime saga on the order of Goodfellas or Heat—but at the end of the day it's still the game where you can blow up old ladies with a rocket launcher.

Although many gamers are probably loathe to admit it, this is what Roger Ebert was talking about when he denied that games could ever be art. For Ebert, art is still bound by a version of the auteur theory: it is the product of a singular, Promethean vision, and nothing disrupts that vision like allowing the viewer/reader to play a game inside of it.

Some games have acknowledged this problem: towards the end of Uncharted 2, a villainous mercenary asks Nathan Drake how many men he killed to reach this point. It's a fair question, since the wise-cracking, pulp adventure tone of the Uncharted games sometimes feels terribly at odds with the fact that you spend most of your time shooting hundreds of guys in the face. (One of my favorite Penny Arcade strips makes light of the game's genocidal body count.)

Or consider the recent Far Cry 3, which tells a story about a tender-footed, first-world college student who manages to become the most feared gunman on an island full of ruthless pirates and guerilla fighters. Although the game is at pains to continually refer to your dramatic transformation, the truth is that under the auspices of the player, the character takes to bloodshed like a fish to water. He seems like a natural born killer from the moment he picks up a gun—because you are.

Fortunately, they later made an improved version of Far Cry 3 where they replaced the undergraduate hero with Michael Biehn, and everything else with neon. Doomguy would approve.

But Doom, unlike so many of its progeny, suffers from absolutely zero ludonarrative dissonance. Some would contend that Doom is not trying to tell a particularly complex story, and of course they're right—but maybe that's sort of the point. Doom's plot may be rudimentary, but it's a perfect match for the way the game actually plays. A lot of modern game developers fail to understand that "complex" is not always better; most folktales are pretty simple too, but they get the job done.

Doom presents the player with a world in which there are only two possible responses: kill or be killed. There is no dialogue, no stealth, no "hacking" minigames, no friendly NPCs, no moral choices—there is only a threat, and the tools for an appropriate response. You are the last surviving human, surrounded by hideous ghouls, demons, and monsters from the abyss. There is no non-violent remedy to your situation, no "speech skill" to be used when negotiating with a Cyberdemon. There is only force; you negotiate with a rocket launcher. It is a Hobbesian world: nasty, brutish, and short.

I mean really, how much context do you need to know that you're supposed to shoot this thing? (Then again, good monster design is something of a lost art these days too.)

Doom's violence was sensational and controversial at the time of its release, and its brutal (if primitive) death animations retain a queasy power even today. But viewed another way, it's a little hard to see what the fuss was all about—not just because games since have upped the ante in so many ways, but because of what the violence is targeting.

Mapmaker Sandy Petersen, a Mormon, made this same point to John Romero, who worried that the hellish imagery would offend him. But why, Petersen countered, would he would be offended by a game about fighting demons?

Doom is much like Black Sabbath, whose piously Christian, resolutely antiwar lyrics are often overlooked: it's a game about combating the devil, by any means necessary. (Of course, Romero and artist Adrian Carmack—no relation to John—reveled in the game's demonic aesthetics, like any good headbanger.)

Before DLC and microtransactions, there was only huge guts. (From the one-issue Doom comic, which is totally as ridiculous and deranged as this excerpt suggests.)

Despite the simplicity of its plot, Doom still tells stories. It mostly does this through the maps themselves, many of which have small arcs of their own. Doom II in particular does this, and sometimes at its own peril—but when it works, it really works.

A good example is "Tricks and Traps" by the aforementioned Sandy Petersen, which begins in a circular room with eight doors. Each one leads to a setpiece monster encounter, such as an enormous and seemingly empty hall filled with alcoves that house Cacodemons. In another, you encounter a horde of dormant Hell Barons with their back to you, and one angry Cyberdemon at the far end. Your natural impulse is, as always, to start shooting—but this is the worst thing you can do, since the best option is to let infighting weed out some of the demons first.

As with any Doom map, your mileage may vary; some Doomers hate "Tricks and Traps" with a passion. But plenty of others love it—and to me, it's a grisly setpiece as memorable as anything in Uncharted or Mass Effect.

(Despite triumphs like "Tricks and Traps", Petersen is a controversial figure in the Doom community, mostly because his levels are designed around making you feel like Samuel L. Jackson in Jurassic Park, staring at a finger-wagging Nedry, scolding you that "you didn't say the magic word.")

You know that level of Doom 2 where you get sick of its shit and stop playing? Regardless of which one it is, Sandy Petersen probably made it.

Doom's 3D labyrinths, potent weapons, and imposing enemies guaranteed it would be a huge smash. Gone were the interchangeable, right-angled mazes of Wolfenstein, and even though by today's standards Doom's maps only vaguely resemble the locations they're supposed to represent ("Nuclear Plant", "Toxin Refinery"), by 1993's standards it might as well have been virtual reality.

And for those who wanted to create their own maps, Doom has also proven to be one of the most user-friendly games ever—and this, as much as anything else, is the true secret of the game's longevity.

By the time id's newest game came out (be it Doom, Quake, or whatever), graphics wizard John Carmack had typically long since moved on to the next thing—and in 1997, he made the Doom source code freely available. (Carmack's influence on video games and shooters is truly incalculable: although it is certainly distinct at this point, the Call of Duty engine was still built on Carmack's technology.)

Even today, the Doom community continues to crank out new maps and gameplay mods for this infinitely durable, 20-year old game. As recently as 2012, Doomers saw one of their best years ever, with at least three landmark creations: Doom the Way id Did, a fantastic set of levels designed to emulate the style of the original Doom episodes; Winter's Fury, an intense and atmospheric campaign featuring new monsters, textures, and a full-fledged story(!); and Reelism, a madcap, ludicrously entertaining mod that turns Doom into a Smash TV style postmodern slot machine.

Oh yeah, Winter's Fury also has cutscenes. CUTSCENES. And they're actually pretty good!

And the year before that, Doomers saw what may well be one of the biggest, most popular, and most controversial Doom mods ever: Brutal Doom, the work of one Sergeant Mark IV. In his own words:

Brütal Doom takes Doom into a whole new level. It makes the game much more violent than before. There's much more blood, plus it adds unique gibs, death animations, dismemberments, headshots, executions, fire and explosion particles, flares, shadows over all objects, and much more.

That's really just the tip of the iceberg though. Brutal Doom is a version of the game that's been retooled from the ground up, without losing the spirit of what makes id's masterpiece what it is. With new weapons and harder-hitting monsters, it makes Doom feel brand new—gorier, louder, and nastier than ever.

My favorite BD change is that the invisibility orbs become captured Marines; if you liberate them with a swift kick, they become bloodthirsty, AI-controlled buddies who rampage around the map at lightning speed (which just means they move at the same speed you do) firing a randomly generated weapon at any demon in sight. They can and will catch you in the crossfire, although I found it hard to stay mad at them. Still, if one spawns with a rocket launcher—run.

But a YouTube video is worth a thousand words:



Some Doom grognards hate Brutal Doom because its numerous gameplay tweaks (all of the weapons have been redesigned, for example) make classic Doom megaWADs* like Deus Vult or Alien Vendetta virtually unplayable for all but the most superhuman of Doomers. This outrage is actually pretty understandable: Doom has an exquisite sense of gameplay balance, and for Doom fans it's not something to be meddled with lightly. 

(If you've never played a WAD like Deus Vult, watch this video to get an idea of just how frantic these maps can be, even playing with vanilla Doom. Also, marvel at the epic architecture built using the humble Doom engine! And a WAD, in case you're wondering, is a Doom file. A megaWAD is just shorthand for a collection of levels—a full-fledged episode, or a whole campaign. The file still ends in .wad. WAD stands for "Where's All the Data?")

Still, Brutal Doom's sheer scope and Sgt. Mark's unrelenting commitment to turning Doom into a literal reenactment of Slayer's "Raining Blood" can only be described as sick as fuck, and if you like Doom and have never heard of Brutal Doom before, I'll understand if you're frantically rushing to play it after watching that video.

War ensemble, burial to be.

Doom is a lot like Tetris, if Tetris still had a vibrant community cranking out game content that went far beyond anything the original creators could have imagined. From fun and challenging campaigns like Scythe, to mind-boggling "slaughter" WADs like Sunder (where some levels boast a monster count in the thousands), to ridiculous and over-the-top game mods like Brutal Doom and Reelism, there's never been a better time to play Doom than right now, on its 20th birthday.

What are you waiting for? Hell awaits.