Still Terrible After All These Years: Three Decades of Crappy Games Based on Hit Movies

[caption id=”attachment_1604” align=”aligncenter” width=”555” caption=”The Texas Chainsaw Massacre…feel the fear.”]The Texas Chainsaw Massacre...feel the fear.[/caption]

We’ve become so cynical that even the most mediocre manifestation of the Hollywood marketing juggernaut—the video game adaptation of a Hollywood blockbuster—is now regarded with a shrug. Blame it on decades of desensitization to low quality and quick-buck schemes, but even the most reliable pop culture critics (I’m referring to that spicy blend of hipster, gamer, and techie) reserve their outrage for Uwe Boll instead of pointing their Doritos-stained fingers at lousy games. Why? Because they are exhausted. Too many targets tire even the most Spartan of sniping critics. Their trigger fingers are blistered and their cartridges are spent. Movies make for bad games but this doesn’t stop game adaptations, and since movies don’t show any sign of improving—Beverly Hills Chihuahua, anyone?—the snipers have packed up their rifles and trudged home. Taking potshots at Billy Mays along the way.

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Throwback Thursdays: The Perfect Sh*t Storm

[caption id=”attachment_1356” align=”aligncenter” width=”500” caption=”Insert feces where appropriate.”]Insert feces where appropriate.[/caption]

A lifetime of media consumption rarely makes up for the years wasted in front of a screen—for every episode of Freaks and Geeks, _we had to sit through Punky Brewster_, and for every John Ritter there’s a Dane Cook waiting to riff on the profundity of hamburgers and bees. But sometimes the karmic slot machine flashes cherries and rewards us with a perfect shit storm. By “perfect shit storm” I mean a perfect storm of shit, filling our eyes and ears, courtesy of any given celebrity who reaches that beautiful point in their career when the Yes-Men are in abundance, everyone is still getting paid, and childhood fantasies are finally given a chance to manifest. Of course these childhood fantasies soon become poisoned by money and power, and what emerges usually resembles those hairy lumps of fetal tissue found floating in tea-colored jars on a shelf in the Mutter Museum, next to the Elephant Man’s skeleton and Zippy the Pinhead’s teeth. Supported by fawning agents, sycophantic managers, and bottom-line producers desperate to announce their next project, these hairy lumps of fetal tissue somehow find their way into production, mix with bad scripts and bad acting, and thus we get the perfect shit storm.

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