Chris Redfield narrowly qualifies for a protagonist in Resident Evil’s peculiar character-switcheroo universe. He was present at the exemplary opening of the series, and continues to prominently feature today. (The man’s dubious appeal seems eternal, like a remarkably resilient case of crabs. Redfield is indeed the ball-itch that never goes away. Alas, no amount of antibiotics to the penis will expunge this tedious meathead.) I’ve noticed, though, an odd process of metamorphosis taking place as the series advances. Not in the character-development department (he exudes all the personality of a skid mark, as ever), but something rather more insidious and disturbing.
In the original Resident Evil, we met a standard-human-sized, albeit somewhat muscular, STARS member. ( Logically speaking, that’s human-sized in the peculiar four-inch homunculus dwelling in a television set sense, but we shan’t be pernickety.) He could kick my ass, sure, but he didn’t look anything out of the ordinary at this point. Moreover, my ass was recently kicked by a terrifying tag-team of a small girl with a jump rope and her pet mouse, so I’m not the best strengthometer. (In my defence, that was undoubtedly the most belligerent rodent I’ve ever met. I can still hear Nancy and her pigtails of impending violent death taunting me: “Go, Sharon! Rip his balls off! Get your tiny fangs right in there!” Quite possibly the smallest creature that ever made me shit myself. And in a flash of pain, shame and mangled testicles, I swore never to pass the infant school again.) Hastening back to the point, Redfield was content to indulge in a spot of the most excruciating dialogue ever conceived. Case in point: the defeat of the mutated Plant 42, and “We got to the root of the problem.” Inexplicably, the reply “For the sake of Satan’s scrotum, Chris! Whenever you open your mouth, moron comes out!” (It really does, this is actual knowledge-fact. It’s positively palpable, like the mist that forms with your breath on a cold day. Except instead of pretending to be a dragon and/or illicit smoker, you instead make everyone within earshot want to vomit. In your mouth. Before crapping in there. They’d have right on their side if they did, what with your heinous language-crimes and pitiful puns) was cut from the game. It’s truly nut-numbingly awful voice acting throughout. Go and take another look at the hilarity-infused encounter between Chris and Wesker, you’ll shit.
For his appearance in the fifth game, Redfield has apparently spent the intervening years in the gym. Not even stopping for a dump. (Although he did pause to touch himself whilst admiring his own visible-from-space, ungainly mega-biceps in the mirror once or twice.) Why this Hulkification (begone, spell check! This is no business of yours!) was deemed necessary, I can’t imagine. It does seem rather in keeping with his tenuous new action-hero status. After all, that bigass three-tonne boulder isn’t going to punch itself, is it? ("Indeed I am carrying a myriad of high-powered weaponry. Theoretically, they could remove this obstacle without me resorting to such illogical shenanigans. But I ask you, hypothetical conversation dude, would I get my own wtf did I just see? cutscene that way? Would I? I would not. Therefore... TASTE MY RIGHTEOUS FIST OF AIN’T-GOT-TIME-TO-BLEED, TESTICLES LIKE CANNONBALLS POWER! REVERE ME, LOWLY MORTALS! Are you revering? Show me your revering face. A little more... Put your balls into it, man! A little more... perfect.”) At this juncture, Sheva stealths away from the bathroom doorway, distinctly disturbed, having heard Chris bellowing this to himself while taking a piss. In seconds, she’s on the phone seeking a transfer to another assignment. Next, she sends the guys with the white coats and gigantic butterfly net after Redfield. He’s soon ensnared, caught by a combination of their fiendish machinations, a bear trap, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. As we know, crazies love cheese and onion.
So, onto my question. Why the dumbbell-flailing change? Perhaps he pumped himself with a dangerous assortment of experimental narcotics, in the hope of developing some of the Matrix-skills Albert Wesker employs. He idolises the dude, secretly. There’s a poster of him above his bed (festooned with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and plastic for when this huge bastard wets the bed), and an action figure that’s involved in all kinds of dubious deeds. He has to wash the toy regularly, an odd dichotomy of mortal embarrassment and pleasure on his face.
Whatever the deal may be, our steroid-addled friend is surely here to stay. Check him out below, cackling with schadenfreude while delivering pure leaden-buckshot-pain to the delicate facial region of some harmless half-wits:
His mother watches with pride. And cake. Major asshole-ery is always awarded with baked confection around these parts.
Article by Chris Littlechild
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