How your memory betrays you in RESIDENT EVIL 2
There’s a technique in movies called the Lewton Bus, first used in Jacques Tourneur’s 1942 horror, Cat People. It works by slowly building tension, then rapidly dissipating it with a jumpscare; in the case of Cat People, the hissing brakes of a bus. The technique, named after producer Val Lewton, has been used in countless films since.
I think I speak for all of us when I say ‘fuck this one room in particular’.
The Lewton Bus is so omnipresent, in fact, that directors now use it as a double bluff, following up a harmless jumpscare with another, more threatening reveal. Most of the Resident Evil 2 remake is one long Lewton Bus. It’s the gaming equivalent of hearing a noise which turns out to be a cute cat, which then erupts into a mewling, blasphemous malformation of claws, pus and bloodied furballs. It’s a game that plays with our collective expectations, teasing us with what we might remember from playing the original. Perhaps the best update of all, however, is how meaty the zombies feel. There was always an initial rush of fear playing Resi as a milquetoast youth, but once you’ve met Lickers and giant spiders, the shambling dead seem more like an inconvenience than a threat. It’s different here. They soak up bullets and block up corridors, like elderly people arguing with self-service checkouts. That would be unpleasant enough in a game that’s all about conserving ammo, but the constant threat of Mr X changes everything. It’s easy enough to run away from him, as obvious and cumbersome as he sometimes is, but zombies become more dangerous when you start sprinting blindly around. Combine this with the fact he’s drawn to the sound of gunfire, and you face an excruciating decision: do you risk wasting ammo, gunning down zombies to keep the corridors clear? Or do you live with a sense of u
