Cyberpunk 2077

“Stand high long enough and your lightning will come.” William Gibson

The receipt comes built into the film now. You’re just a purchase tagged on the sprites, scheduling a day off from work to select which Judy Butler genital excuses your own. We’re all only being gamed in a playable cinematic. As long as our troughs stay full, this Lincoln Park cut of Blade Runner can troll itself rich across consoles. Seven years is the chemical amount of time you have to come all over someone you think you love and halfway mean it, but with an almost poetic amount of dick-beating solipsism, a hyped and ruinous mess of the memories I prefer instead has been unleashed to display some architecture designed elsewhere, by quicker and neater teams. Entertainment used to have an inkling of an impact, like the first Matrix movie. Today we are alive in the bounce house of its sequels, abandoned to the padded cell of Jupiter Ascending. Programmers / directors invested in retro nostalgia forgot the foul minimalist enmity, the pointless irreverent brutality (with accompanying sublime glee) that these portrayals of our nightmare world paralleled so aesthetically well, especially during the body count king: my beloved twentieth century (where the terms “cyber” and “punk” are from and mostly remain). What we have here is a portrayal of that portrayal in a less than meta expanse, glitched and stitched for us, the real NPCs. The new uncanny valley is between feeling violence in an ‘oh shit’ way, and a lot of annoying noise and garish scintillations that spit code when they expire (in an awkward flop). The outline of a character will gleam, as if you could highlight something in order to forget it. There are items aplenty that satisfyingly clink when collected (story of my life).

Who hasn’t submitted a creative work prematurely? Who hasn’t been a little too plain or a little too experimental under the guise of calculated relatability and / or opaqueness? These kinds of rushed mistakes usually come after a writer’s high (the only reward anymore, unless you care to get safely political and are then allowed to play with big press money (couple thousand!)). Only under a certain consensus of automatons would something this basic, a compendium of cursory glances, garner a billion dollar profit margin. Star Wars wins again, edgy or not. My diagnoses didn’t line up with the latest cash grab, but I’ll sit through anything. Is the game encouraging me to hurt myself (it doesn’t create masochists, just makes them more creative)? We can step outside, if you keep expositioning at me, bitch! (Not an in-game quote.) It’s Watch Dogs meets Dying Light with some Deus Ex and a montage of rag dolls – informative to view the innards of an interface as it splutters from immersion into technical mayhem, kinda sexy when the dainty punkettes punch themselves in the business. Scroll three thousand jaw-flapping topics of discussion with every asshole who says hi so the missions are explained incessantly (Mark McGrath’s Tron just got recalled, I offer my services on a rewrite). Painterly visuals hit here and there, when rendering, similar to how being of an age gives you the occasional functional day, but will the CIA teach me to play my foreskin like a harp in order to give the cubicle some ambiance already? Or must I turn to the movie Bloodmatch (let’s play Kirk Wong’s The Big Hit, how about American Perfekt, Lawn Dogs, A Fistful a Flies (about a young lady discovering masturbation), Holy Smoke, Zero Effect, The Ref, Suture, Normal Life, The Trigger Effect, Drive (1997), 2 Days in the Valley, Running Scared with Paul Walker, The Minus Man, Coldblooded with Jason Priestly, Attack the Gas Station, Freeway 2: Confessions of a Trickbaby, Three O’Clock High, Palookaville, I’m Bout It,  Alphabet City, Knights of the City!) instead, because it’s a wittier video game. How do I combine different versions of my life till I’ve done it better? Until then, reassign me to my own grave, please.

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Sean Kilpatrick