I've stepped into the recent remake of Silent Hill 2. I've known about the series for a long time - Pyramid Head is one of gaming's most iconic monsters - but I've never tended toward the survival horror genre. However, after my roommate downloaded the game, and after I'd hit a point in Diablo IV where I was just going to be grinding out marginal upgrades, I decided to try it out.
It's kind of fascinating to see this PS2-era level and even artistic design in this day and age. While the remake's graphics are fully modern and up-do-date, the overall aesthetic feels very much of that period - the time when 3D graphics were just starting to hint toward realism, even if I think the following generation was when things started to look truly "good." Funnily enough, the game has a setting that allows you to wash out the color in the manner that was so popular in the 2000s, though I've chosen to go with basically all the defaults.
My only real experience with survival horror is Alan Wake II, a game that I absolutely adore, but haven't really felt compelled to go back and play again (though it's a game that I can watch countless YouTube video essays about, even watching them again). AWII obviously owes a lot to both Resident Evil and Silent Hill, and I'd hazard to guess more the latter than the former.
Our opening shot (iconic in gaming) is of protagonist James looking at himself in the mirror of a profoundly shitty public restroom just outside of town. The message is clear: this is about the inner life and suffering of our protagonist. The mood here is somber. There are details about the plot I'm aware of via pop cultural osmosis that haven't yet come to light: for now, all the game tells us is that James is there to find Mary, his wife, despite that being seemingly impossible for... some reason.
And it's not, apparently, his first time in town: he and Mary shared some past here in Silent Hill. This is a return.
Aside from one woman he meets in the graveyard he passes through to get into the town (in a lengthy sequence dedicated just to establishing the mood and tone with no fighting) the place is utterly abandoned. Fog chokes the town, making it hard to see more than a few doors down any given street - evidently a technical limitation in the original that enhanced the horror, and which has been carried forward here.
The town map you find upon arriving is marked with different locations, and James evidently makes notes on it, so we get a sense of what areas we've completed. Our first puzzle challenge is to play a record on the jukebox in a bar - we need to retrieve the other half of a snapped record and glue the pieces together, then find the missing button to call up that record, and retrieve a token to get the thing to play. This actually just gets us a key to let us through the back of the bar and progress us further.
It's not the most complex puzzle, but I don't mind that so much: the main thing it does is force us to read notes we find and follow the clues toward various locations on the map, during which we encounter our first monsters: these strange figures who look like they're zipped into some kind of body bag or straight-jacket (I actually think the former is the more likely explanation).
Actually, I think I was wrong: I think we do learn of Mary's fate right at the start, at least in broad terms: she's dead, taken by what James refers to as "that damned disease." Could be anything, but cancer feels like the most likely candidate.
Cancer is horrifyingly common - I believe it's the second most common killer after heart disease. My mom died of cancer eight years ago. It's a very strange thing, because it's such a common thing, but in my mind, her case was unique, its own special cruelty with no precedent.
While I don't want to get into specifics for the sake of my mother's dignity, the thing about it is that it's easy to imagine cancer as weirdly clean: it's just cells that continue to duplicate when they should stop. But the thing is that the human body is a complex machine of fluids and flesh, and that means that the disruptions to the natural functioning order that occurs when cancer spreads lead to byproducts that inspire a natural feeling of revulsion. Especially cruel is the way that chemotherapy, our pathetically most-effective treatment, also provokes these disturbing bodily processes. Vomiting, for example, is common among chemo patients because it's literally pumping poison into the body, hoping that the cancer will die before the patient does.
The body-bag enemies attack us in two ways: first by merely slamming themselves into us, and second by ejecting a dark fountain of bile. Thankfully, the PS5 doesn't have a smell generator, because I can only imagine it would be the most nauseating scent - the kind that inspires you to vomit as well.
There's zero indication that James is anything other than a normal dude. And so, we don't start with any kind of weapon. At my fairly early stage of the game, we have nothing but a plank of wood with some nails in it, torn from a boarded-up window upon the first arrival of this type of monster.
Early on, we find a radio, and the nearer we get to the monsters, the louder the static on the radio plays. This is a source of comfort, actually, as we know that when it's silent, we're able to focus merely on exploration and puzzle-solving. I strongly suspect that this is going to be subverted brutally at some point.
Most of the town's buildings are inaccessible: which is fine, because that would be a ton of building interiors to design, and might bog us down. But there are some buildings whose windows we can smash to gain access, which I found particularly useful when I was being chased by a monster from the street - as it tried to follow me over the window sill, I was able to get a few free swings at it, so that by the time it was inside with me, I could put it down quickly.
At least with these monsters, getting them on the ground makes them less dangerous, and shows you're almost done taking them down. A stomp with James' boot seems to signal that the fight is over (another thing I suspect will be subverted down the line).
One moment of horror that was so over-the-top I had to imagine it was a joke was when you have to reach into a hole in a wall. The game pauses as James reaches his arm in, first wrist-deep, then elbow-deep, and then shoulder-deep, his expression one of greater fear and disgust as he's clearly fishing around in something wet and gross. But ultimately, there's no danger: you get one of the items you need to solve a puzzle.
Does this puzzle make sense? Not really: I don't know why playing a song on the jukebox causes a key to appear. The record, mended with super-glue, shatters after playing, and I guess that reveals the key somehow? Maybe I missed something.
But I think puzzles are a staple of the survival horror genre because of what they do for pacing and mission objectives. In an action game, you go from fight to fight, even looking forward to finding some monsters to take down. In survival horror, a part of you is always hoping that the room you go into will be empty of any monsters, that you can just focus on getting that thing you need.
In that sense, it's much more relatable: if you found yourself in one of these situations, you'd try to avoid contact with any and all monsters.
One thing that's kind of funny is that the game feels like it could be very open and non-linear, but upon arriving in the town, you swiftly discover streets fully blocked off, and there are a lot of one-way passages. The PS2 era of gaming was, if I remember from my late teens and early 20s, much more linear than what we tend to find nowadays. Early on, before getting into the town proper, you pass through a ranch, and I thought "oh boy, I bet this is going to be a big set-piece location later on," and that might still be the case, but I also wonder if that whole intro area is something we'll never really come back to, pushing further and further into the town.
One last note: the town of Silent Hill feels truly depressing, and I think that that's partially informed by the way that America's small towns have been in decline for decades. I don't know if that was a theme they were looking to explore back in 2001, and even if that economic phenomenon had even hits its full swing yet at that point. Silent Hill feels abandoned, but while the supernatural fog and monsters are the obvious culprits, there's also this kind of specter of economic stagnation.
It's a funny thing: I didn't grow up in a small town. I grew up in a fairly prosperous suburb of Boston that remains quite beautiful and bustling today. I've never really lived in a truly remote, small town. But growing up in New England (and Silent Hill is set in Maine - I'd initially guessed it might be the Pacific Northwest, but I guess Maine and Washington/Oregon do share a bit in terms of vibes,) the towns there are old, and thus often have a preserved small town center of some sort. There's an old-fashioned-ness about Silent Hill's layout, with a feeling of local institutions that have been there for decades. But now it's all rusty and boarded up and decrepit - a feeling like the cruelties of time have washed over it.
One last note: barring the entrance tunnel to the town, which forces us to divert through the path to the graveyard, there's a sign that clearly once said "Welcome," but the L and second E have fallen. It might be a clearer thing if only the L had fallen, but I wonder if it's meant to be read as "We come."