overrated

Final Fantasy VII Elongated

by Jed Pressgrove

Note: This is the final essay of a seven-part series on game remakes. Check out the rest of the series here.

Video games — they once resembled dreams stitched together by sorcerers and madmen. This was still the case when Final Fantasy VII became a phenomenon in 1997. That sixth sequel impacted the presentation of turn-based combat forever with a camera seemingly possessed by a restless demon. As players transitioned from screen to screen in Final Fantasy VII, they never knew from what angle they would observe a new segment of an expansive world. The combination of crude polygons and pre-rendered backgrounds further cemented the unorthodox nature of the game’s visual style, as evidenced by the moments when one, in attempting to locate the path forward, would have to stare at the screen for a bit or perhaps fidget about in order to identify a stray piece of debris over which the avatar could traverse. Even at its worst, Final Fantasy VII transfixed me like a beautiful nightmare. If escapism is the only goal of video games, Final Fantasy VII extended a surreal vision that could sweep us away from our cares on Earth.

Final Fantasy VII Remake, on the other hand, has the ever-present stench of reality and conservative logic. The very design of it reminds us that, in this era, big games must fit into big trends in order to make the most profit. The camera, the most revolutionary part about Final Fantasy VII, is the most predictable aspect of Final Fantasy VII Remake, because the game intends to be more like a typical 3D action title. Now we, the players, wield significant control over perspective, as demanded by recent tradition. Gone also are the strange makeshift pathways of the 1997 original — the predictable trails of Final Fantasy VII Remake scream that they were put in place by a game development company, as opposed to sparking our imaginations about the idiosyncratic characteristics of the dystopian setting. And without the dynamic framing of the original, a warehouse looks like just another warehouse, a sewer looks like just another sewer, and so on.

Even though random encounters where two parties stand on opposite sides of the screen were a long-established staple of RPGs by 1997, Final Fantasy VII made every battle appear like a thrilling riff of a larger operatic conflict, with its ever-shifting vantage points and the unmistakable melodramatic flare of Nobuo Uematsu’s theme. But for not insignificant stretches of time, combat in Final Fantasy VII Remake struck me as disposable, familiar, emotionally inert. Before I started Final Fantasy VII Remake, a friend told me the game’s action recalled the work of Platinum Games. I found his comparison fitting but also a bit charitable during the first 10 hours of my time with the remake, as I spammed a rolling attack and triple slash technique with Cloud, obliterating most obstacles without having to think. The traditional turn-based system of Final Fantasy VII was never that mindless or soulless for any extended portion of the experience, but the modern audience has been conditioned by the game industry and the lapdog press to put up with a game that takes 10 hours to have a semblance of strategic depth.

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For decades, the game industry has propagated the notion that more hours equals more epic. As a remake of one of the most epic RPGs of the 1990s, Final Fantasy VII Remake finds comfort in this widely accepted lie, for the lie allows Square Enix to cling to a simple type of PR. That is, the public, in all likelihood, won’t accuse Final Fantasy VII Remake of being less epic than its predecessor. What took five hours in Final Fantasy VII takes, at a minimum, 30 to 40 hours in Final Fantasy VII Remake. Nevermind that Final Fantasy VII Remake holds the dubious distinction of rivaling the pretension of Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit film trilogy, which transformed a 300-page children’s book into an eight-hour cinematic endurance test. In the 21st century, content is everything, and everything is content.

Let us count some of the ways that Final Fantasy VII Remake is needlessly longer:

The principal characters don’t shut the hell up. Simply put, if you gleaned from Final Fantasy VII that Barrett (who still evokes racial stereotypes) loves his daughter and hates corporate power, you will really glean from Final Fantasy VII Remake that Barrett loves his daughter and hates corporate power. Key to my irritation here is that I don’t know these characters any better than I did before. They’re just more garrulous. Final Fantasy VII’s terse dialogue — epitomized by Cloud’s self-centered, apathetic style of communication (“It’s not my problem”) — carries greater psychological force.

Throwaway characters are treated like figures of intense fascination. Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie have expanded roles, yet they don’t translate into something more than another guy, a joke, and a female horny for Cloud, respectively. In particular, it’s embarrassing how the game struggles to give Wedge purpose. In one preposterous scene, we are to believe that Wedge, a non-threatening individual in every respect, intimidates two soldiers to the point where they open a gate that they’re supposed to guard with their lives.

Numerous segments of the game force the avatar to walk. One of the silliest things about contemporary games is their insistence on taking away the player’s ability to run while certain narration occurs, as if the mechanical restriction somehow deepens one’s sense of immersion or one’s appreciation for the storytelling. Final Fantasy VII Remake employs this constraint so frequently, so gratuitously, that a significant amount of time could have been saved by eliminating or amending every such sequence. (Also note the bizarre scenario in which we can only take slow steps as Aerith when she attempts to save Marlene. Here, the mechanical limitation clashes with the supposed dramatic urgency of the moment, raising the following questions: “Does Aerith actually want to save Marlene in time? Or is she just an imbecile?”)

Cloud’s mental instability is comically, tediously overstated. In its first five hours, the 1997 original contains instances where Cloud appears to experience either flashbacks or hallucinations, but these jarring segments are spaced out so that you can almost forget that they even happened until the next one springs up. This restrained approach builds gradual intrigue. Final Fantasy VII Remake spoils the concept, however, by liberally peppering the proceedings with TV static to depict Cloud’s mental status. This cliched, risible visual technique would only be acceptable during a show-and-tell session for an elective course at an unaccredited institution of higher learning. Furthermore, the incessant Sephiroth references are overkill at worst and fan service at best. None of these scenes have the sobering, mysterious effect of the theatrical angle from which we witness Cloud succumbing to the attack of a ghost version of himself in the &$#% Room of the 1997 original.

Obligatory fetch and extermination quests have been included to check a box. Planescape: Torment and The Witcher III have proven that we can do much better than Final Fantasy VII Remake’s side missions, none of which lingered in my mind after I completed them. More insulting than the banality of these quests is the “mommy says” patronization of Tifa. “It’s all right,” she tells Cloud. “All you have to do is do good work. It’ll all pay off, I promise.” Of course, some desperate fan might defend the inorganic busywork as an illustration of Cloud’s mercenary status, as if any intelligent person would need a plethora of dime-a-dozen sidequests to understand that part of Cloud. The quests’ primary purpose is to reinforce the marketing illusion that Final Fantasy VII Remake is “bigger” and “different” than its predecessor.

Scenarios are stretched out for no good reason. Earlier I implied Final Fantasy VII Remake is cut from the same cloth as The Hobbit film trilogy. Indeed, transforming the cross-dressing episode from the 1997 original into a bloated series of events — which includes a multi-stage arena tournament (reminiscent of an entire chapter in Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door), an anti-climactic meeting at Don Corneo’s mansion, and an over-the-top dance number — reeks of Peter Jackson syndrome. Or how about the expanded train graveyard level? There, we are treated to a laughable, unnecessary tale about ghost children that just want to play with someone (a far cry from Final Fantasy VI’s ghost train story, which homed in on the tragic grief of the knight Cyan). We also get to see a tired sexual fantasy in motion: Tifa and Aerith hold onto Cloud’s arms in fear. The fantasy is amplified by the fact that Cloud proclaims his lack of interest in ghosts and doesn’t want to be touched by either woman. The classic chauvinistic tautology says that men shouldn’t care about the lowly concerns of women, who, paradoxically, throw themselves at men that much more when men don’t care. While the 1997 original featured a love triangle of sorts, it wasn’t as regressive as the Tifa-Aerith-Jessie fan club in the 2020 revision, where Cloud is almost like John Holmes in a 1970s porno: a man wanted by all.

Upgrading weapons is presented as an activity of cosmic proportions, rather than as a simple submenu. Do we need a sort of mini-tribute to the sphere grid of Final Fantasy X just to take advantage of skill points? This criticism might seem petty, but I loved the economy of the 1997 original’s menu system, where windows open and close with efficiency, where I don’t have to wait for an extra screen with complex imagery to modify equipment.

Boss battles are overused and overstuffed. A number of bosses are quite inspired in Final Fantasy VII Remake. I’m thinking of adversaries like Eligor, who brings gravity to an otherwise perfunctory level; Arsenal, who, more than any other opponent, requires timely character switches in a memorable duel of attrition; and Tonberry, a classic WTF foe from the 1997 original that becomes a greater annoyance. Other high-profile battles should have been deleted or made more concise. The Hellhouse, for instance, is part of the cross-dressing quest, which worked much better in its shorter, quirkier form in the 1997 original. I found Sephiroth underwhelming — he never defeated me despite his multiple forms, and I merely reused strategies that proved fruitful against previous bosses. The greatest offender, though, is Whisper Harbinger. I don’t see the appeal or accomplishment in beating the same crap over and over again in multiple overblown phases. The battle also involves unskippable cutscenes, which is unforgivable whether one survives or not. Certainly, when one locks horns with a physical manifestation of destiny itself, one should expect a huge conflict, but Whisper Harbinger is a candidate for the most monotonous boss battle in history.

I could go on about more, like the awkward, poorly designed bike-riding mini-games, or the longer distances between locations and how, to avoid the utter boredom of on-foot travel, the player must pay for Chocobo rides. But I now want to conclude by focusing on a provocative thematic thread in Final Fantasy VII Remake, an idea that had incredible moral and political potential.

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As with other elements mentioned above, the introductory Mako Reactor mission is lengthier in Final Fantasy VII Remake. But the extension is warranted, particularly after Cloud is separated from Avalanche. Here, through Cloud’s eyes, we can grasp on a more personal level the human misery caused by Avalanche’s actions as a political group. This is where Final Fantasy VII Remake’s more grounded depiction of Midgar and lack of a dreamlike aesthetic can register as an artistic advantage.

The 1997 original suggests more than once that Avalanche’s violence should raise moral questions. If you speak to a youngster outside the Seventh Heaven bar, the person mentions that innocents were killed due to Avalanche’s mission. Another notable observation occurs before Jessie’s death, when she says, “Because of our actions … many … people died … this probably … is our punishment.” The problem is we don’t see much suffering after the Mako Reactor explodes, so we are allowed to acknowledge the philosophical dilemma without feeling uncomfortable.

This is not the case in Final Fantasy VII Remake, where the increased number of NPCs hammer home the consequences. There is injury, traumatization, confusion, hopelessness, and a general feeling that Hell has come to Midgar. Frankly, I was stunned. At the time, it seemed the “Remake” phrase in the title was partially referring to a more visceral confrontation with the sociological ramifications of a revolutionary’s fantasy. I wondered, “Where will the game go from here?”

The answer is that Final Fantasy VII Remake, unlike Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta (forget the movie!), goes on to pay less attention to the lives destroyed by the explosions and such, and Avalanche stumbles upon a rather easy way to brush aside the suggestion that what they’re doing might be immoral. After the plate drops on Sector 7, Tifa begins to suffer from guilt about the lost lives. “It was us,” she says. “We did this.” Later, Barrett puts an end to this kind of self-reflection when he says, “But if we stop now … they’ll never let us live it down.” The heroes’ ultimate justification is that even if they are wrong and need to rethink their strategy, they can’t let the corporate powers that be spin the narrative. Additionally, none of the Shinra villains are people that we can identify with. They’re one-dimensional monsters, and players are supposed to feel righteous as they defeat everything in their path in the closing chapters.

To my even greater disappointment, the game’s main storytelling achievement ended up being more about a promise regarding possible deviations from the established mythology of the 1997 original. Because Cloud and company defeat destiny itself — the very thing that presumably controlled the events of the 1997 original — we learn that characters like Biggs, Wedge, and Zack don’t have to die like they once did. I’m sure this revelation has Aerith fans drooling over the prospect of Aerith avoiding that fatal blow from Sephiroth. My reaction, however, to Final Fantasy VII Remake’s conclusion was “That’s it? A sort of comic-book retconning is supposed to be impressive?”

So now, after the elongated version of Final Fantasy VII’s first five hours, we are all supposed to wait, like good little consumers, on the fulfillment of a promise that things can be different in Final Fantasy VII Remake. But I must ask: Why does anything need to be different? And does “different” even mean “worthwhile”? Any remade art must answer those two questions. Final Fantasy VII Remake, as a whole, could make us wait years for the answers. I find that monumentally ridiculous.

Death Stranding Review — More Stupid Than Weird

by Jed Pressgrove

The landscape of pop games is in dubious shape. There are many reasons to reach this conclusion, from the prevalence of open world ideology to the way developers flatter audiences with made-to-order remakes. At first, Death Stranding appears to avoid the cliches we’re all used to seeing, as it involves a protagonist, Sam Porter Bridges, whose main skill is carrying cargo on his back, arms, and legs. At one point, Sam bluntly explains, “Killing monsters and terrorists, that’s not what I do.” The line almost sounds sanctimonious when one considers how often “ambitious” games boil down to boneheaded violence. And yet, Sam shares this observation about himself not too long after he obliterates a phantom squid with grenades made from his own piss, and moments after uttering this dialogue, Sam can barrel through bandit-filled territory and punch the lights out of every last person who tries to steal the packages off his body. Director Hideo Kojima, famous for the Metal Gear Solid series and often pitied for his messy separation from Konami, has all the creative freedom in the world, but he can’t stop sabotaging an interesting premise with banal and laughably contradictory moments.

With Death Stranding, Kojima takes a page from modern independent first-person adventures like Proteus in which walking, as opposed to puzzle solving or combat, is the main type of action. But in a stroke of genuine design genius, Sam has it much harder than his counterparts in other traversal-focused releases. He must organize packages on his body in a manner that reduces the likelihood of him stumbling and falling as he treks across treacherous territory. If he starts to sway to the left or right, the player must shift Sam’s weight in the opposite direction to achieve balance. There’s also a stamina gauge to worry about, a meter that depletes rapidly when Sam trudges through a deeper part of a river. If you lose your footing in that situation, Sam will have to paddle himself to his feet and frantically attempt to recover goods the river has claimed. The potential for embarrassing ambulatory disaster is almost endless. With each step comes an appreciation for Sam’s immediate surroundings, whether they’re as intimidating as a steep mountainside or as seemingly innocuous as a jagged medium-sized rock on the ground.

In theory, Death Stranding is the most original and uncompromising big-budget game in a long time. This notion doesn’t hold, though, when you tally the common pop game problems that show up yet again in Death Stranding. The first and most obvious issue is unnecessary length and bloat due to a tremendous lack of editing, which has plagued games as different as Persona 5 and The Witcher 3. Kojima includes a number of missions that do nothing more than serve as contrived tutorials. Why does the simple idea of 3-D printing a bridge, for instance, have to come with its own mission that the player must find by holding down (rather than just pressing) a button near a terminal in order to open a hard-to-read menu from which you can initiate said mission? Kojima also peppers the game with cinematics that have no kinetic or thematic purpose. Why do you have to skip — which can be done by pressing the start button, then selecting “Skip” — three or four cutscenes just to accelerate the process of taking a shower? Why does an activity as boring as a shower even need a single cutscene?

Any sense of basic, decent storytelling is annihilated by Kojima’s idiotic commitment to video game norms. The main theme of Death Stranding is reconnecting a post-apocalyptic United States. To do this, Sam must visit an array of marked locations on a map and talk to holographic images of people. These individuals, with few exceptions, say pretty much the same thing — wow, I haven’t seen items like this in a long time, Sam, you’re a true legend, nothing here looks damaged, blah, blah, blah, blah. The experience is a lot like finding Toad at the end of every stage in Super Mario Bros. and being told the princess is in another castle. The main difference is Super Mario Bros. never claimed to be cinematic or a commentary on the state of a nation. What’s more, Super Mario Bros. didn’t include repetitive messages to massage your ego but to challenge you to keep going farther. In contrast, Kojima doles out titles like “Elite Handler” after a successful mission. One’s sense of self-worth would have to be beyond low to stomach such nonsense.

The nauseating ego-stroking element of Death Stranding is not an accident but a sincere part of its design. The game features a social media component wherein players can help each other by leaving behind ladders, lockers, and other tools in the wild, rugged world. From a mechanical standpoint, Kojima is clearly building on Dark Souls’ weakest concept, but he also nods to both Mark Zuckerburg and Jack Dorsey, as gamers can “like” conveniently dropped items from other gamers. In addition, Death Stranding’s fictional characters will give you “likes” for accomplishing missions. In the right hands, Death Stranding could somehow work as a satire of how neurotically obsessed our culture is with fleeting external validation, even as civilized culture crumbles around us, but Kojima plays it like a nincompoop would.

Kojima’s childish sense of reality is confirmed by how he frames the Kumbaya politics of Death Stranding. Throughout the game, Sam (whose last name is Bridges) works for a company called Bridges to connect the disconnected citizens of the former United States of America with digital and literal bridges. Yes, Kojima’s having fun with the dumbest wordplay in video game history, but there’s also no indication that he questions the simplicity of Death Stranding’s proposed political philosophy. Kojima’s outlook on existence itself, as expressed in Death Stranding, suggests that he does want us to grasp for any positive feeling, however silly. “Once there was an explosion,” the game states, referring to the Big Bang, and later on, another line declares the world could experience an explosion “that would be our last.” When presented with this godless and shallowly nihilistic viewpoint, it becomes harder to blame Kojima for encouraging players to cling to Zuckerberg- and Dorsey-endorsed methods of interaction. But to praise this grade-school level of thinking is far more troubling than gazing at the scorched imagery of this turgid stupid game in art-school clothing.

Hypnospace Outlaw Review — Defunct Satire

by Jed Pressgrove

In Hypnospace Outlaw, the object is to scour and flag fictional web pages for violations such as content infringement, harassment, and obscenity. The game’s puzzles, if one can call them that, recall the desk work of a technical editor, and the audiovisuals evoke social networks of the 1990s and early 2000s. Think of this title, then, as Papers, Please meets Myspace — a combination that, on a basic conceptual level, reeks of tedium.

As an enforcer of Internet law in 1999, the player must grapple with an outdated interface, very noticeable loading times, less-than-ideal navigation, and the garish, cheapo imagery of web pages created by precocious children, jealous teenagers, overbearing Christians, douchebag rock musicians, clueless businesses, phony spiritual advisers, and other groups you’ve probably already laughed at while online.

In other words, Hypnospace Outlaw’s satirical vision would’ve seemed daring if it had been released about 20 years ago. Today, this game registers more as a mildly amusing representation of the early days of user-generated profiles on major platforms. Now that we are all used to slicker-looking and more intuitive social media, Hypnospace Outlaw encourages a type of nostalgic, smug laughter. We can cherish how lame we were a couple of decades ago and how much better we look now.

It wouldn’t have been impossible for developer Tendershoot, through reference to history, to say something relevant or, more wishfully, incisive about who we are as a modern online people. But Hypnospace Outlaw mocks the utter naivety of yesteryear too much to function as a commentary on our current struggle — namely, the modern Internet user’s willingness to knowingly reject their own interests in order to have convenient access to products. That we can play Hypnospace Outlaw on Steam, a platform that exploits our culture’s apathy and consumerism (as suggested by the 2015 satire Crime Is Sexy), tells us that the comedy has no fangs.

Hollow Knight Review — Symphony of the Ninja Souls X

by Jed Pressgrove

With gorgeous art, an exquisite score, and an array of places to discover, Hollow Knight resembles a masterpiece. Indeed, the game is very good at resembling things, whether because of its focus on ruin, souls, and hollowness (Dark Souls); its level structure, wherein players can travel new pathways via newly acquired techniques (Metroid and Castlevania: Symphony of the Night); its curt swordplay (Ninja Gaiden); and its wall-jumping and dashing mechanics (Ninja Gaiden and Mega Man X). Look beyond its great looks and great sounds, and Hollow Knight more than lives up to to the first word of its title.

In a world of bugs, you play as a warrior on a vague quest in which you have many sorrowful run-ins with destitute and hostile creatures. As such, Hollow Knight is indebted to the storytelling approach of Dark Souls, but it says nothing specific about the human condition. In Dark Souls, a sense of real-world ennui pervades the proceedings as your character goes through the motions of killing, leveling up, and collecting currency, and the game is never shy about showing the deleterious effects of a decaying habitat on the mental states of the characters that you meet. In contrast, Hollow Knight’s friendly nonplayable characters, distinct in their audiovisual quirks, often display a strange level of enthusiasm considering the wretched state of their environments, yet there doesn’t seem to be any philosophy that inspires their general positivity. Worse, the protagonist is but a silent and nameless shell who moves with a ruthless type of efficiency; he’s a cold product of decades of video-game logic with no emotional meaning.

Controlling this brutal killer is pleasurable once you gain enough abilities after combing the game’s interconnected locations several times. You can double-jump to swing your sword up at an aerial enemy, then dash away toward a wall, kick off the wall, slash the foe from the side to eliminate it, dash again in midair, and use your final jump to land safely on a modest platform. You can bounce on adversaries by swinging your weapon downward at them from above. You can perform a few special moves, including a fireball of sorts and a dive-bomb, if you have enough Soul, which also allows you to heal if there’s enough distance between you and an active threat. But looking back at it all, I can’t name a single thing in Hollow Knight that I haven’t done in other games — a realization that creates a feeling of profound emptiness, especially considering the length of the experience.

It’s almost like developer Team Cherry bases Hollow Knight on a disturbingly patronizing pitch: “This time, it’s with bugs!” If all you want is to admire how intricately detailed animation and audio can make you feel as if you are among a wide variety of creepy crawlies (the game’s Deepnest region ingeniously epitomizes this sensation), Hollow Knight is the greatest platformer of all time. Outside of that, it’s simply another title, like Shovel Knight and Axiom Verge, that echoes the past with the vain hope that it too will go down in history.

Night in the Woods — Ode to Millennial Egotism

by Jed Pressgrove

As expressed in The Who’s pop masterpiece “My Generation,” most people don’t like their generation being outright dismissed or insulted. But if millennial gamers sing high praises for Night in the Woods, any defense of themselves will be hard to swallow. Writers Scott Benson and Bethany Hockenberry have created a puzzling contradiction with protagonist Mae and the small-town setting of Possum Springs: while the latter by itself has palpable authenticity, right down to the humorously varied “Get off my porch” dialogue from a grumbling male, Mae becomes more and more irresponsible as employed, stressed-out people allow her privileged behavior to grow to unbelievable degrees.

Simply put, Mae epitomizes the stereotypical millennial’s disconnection from traditional everyday toil, and the script of Night in the Woods pretends that working-class citizens would not call her out for mooching and breaking the law. In the story, Mae has returned to her hometown to live with her parents again after dropping out of college. From there, you guide Mae through a variety of self-absorbed, immoral activities that include tampering with crime evidence, shoplifting, and unearthing the coffin of a boy, all with little or no consequence. Although the anthropomorphic cast of Night in the Woods gives the writers leeway to indulge in some cartoonish, unrealistic depictions, the story suggests the supporting characters have real-life concerns, especially pulling one’s own weight, that help the player suspend disbelief. Why, then, do these people — family members, friends, and hard workers — excuse, overlook, or laugh off Mae’s flagrantly selfish and stupid actions?

At one point, it seems Benson and Hockenberry will address this glaring question through Bea, Mae’s childhood friend who has been running a business ever since the death of her mother. Bea confronts Mae’s blase attitude toward dropping out of college: “I stayed here and got older, while you left and stayed the same.” Yet Bea inexplicably goes on to support Mae’s thievery and grave defilement (and for some unknown idiotic reason, the populace of Possum Springs doesn’t care about a decades-old corpse being disrespected). Bea’s dedication doesn’t get rewarded, though: in a late scene, Mae embarrasses Bea with callous disregard, which causes Bea to bring up how she wishes she could have had an opportunity to go to college like Mae, who can’t even offer her good friend a reason as to why she quit school. Bea eventually says Mae is “genuinely a good person,” even though the story has only shown evidence of Mae taking advantage of everyone around her, with no effort toward explaining herself or making a contribution to society.

Developer Infinite Fall also excuses Mae’s deplorable acts by gamifying them. Stealing, destroying property, and stabbing are presented as fun, throwaway minigames. This design choice, coupled with the townspeople’s bizarre lack of criticism for Mae’s egomania, implies that sociopathy should be celebrated, not examined. Even if Night in the Woods had a cogent point, Mae would remain an unflattering caricature of a millennial. Benson and Hockenberry’s writing is unacceptable in light of Three Fourths Home: Extended Edition, which demonstrates how the hardships of a capitalist society give millennials and baby boomers more spiritual connectedness than many realize.

Night in the Woods is at its most tedious when Mae drags all of her friends on a ghost-chasing mission, as it’s fairly obvious from the start that there are no ghosts. Benson and Hockenberry use this setup to reveal that Mae and a clandestine Republican-leaning cult are similarly insane. For connecting mental illness to murder (straight out of Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”) and all sorts of other unsavory activity, Night in the Woods registers as pandering and cliched Democrat hate on one hand and a demented apology for millennial immaturity on the other.