Review of Resident Evil

by Roger Baldwin

Movies spun off from video games tend to have plot lines and characters as memorable on the big screen as they were at the arcade; these projects exist to plunge a viewer into the pulsating whirl of larger-landscape, playstation chase and flight, though without the benefit of free will afforded by a console in the hand. Resident Evil is overpopulated by braying zombies and mutant superdobermans in noble quest of a free lunch, that being the heroine and hero protagonists, and in terms of sparkling personalities and witty dialogue, it's something of a chore to distinguish one group from the other. This picture is primarily an escape thriller—wrapped up in the narrative trappings of an evil corporate conspiracy as enforced by and commented on by a self-protective HAL or rather GAL 2000 type computer known as the Red Queen—and it intermittently succeeds in its focused ambitions. Alice (Milla Jovovich) and Rain (Michelle Rodriguez) head up a task force of eight—initially, the attrition comes alarmingly fast—employees of Umbrella Corporation, a nightmarish, futuristic monster of private enterprise that supplies the military, owns most everything, fields few moral scruples and engages in illicit viral and genetic research in an elaborate underground high-rise compound known as the hive. A theft goes awry, a fail-safe system reacts to contain the contamination, dozens of interchangeable, Dilbert office-types find themselves in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with misplaced loyalties, like Enron workers, and a small—absurdly small and with no backup—company security team is sent in to shut down the red queen cyberbee whose purpose is to preserve the integrity of her hive. Mayhem, pounding music and miniature, clotted rivers of gore ensue.

This type of movie, like its game-cassette parent, targets horny, adolescent males, and the 15-year-old Sega nerd in us all—conquistadors in iffy-smelling T-shirts and gym shorts who crave adventure, yet don't want to stray too far from the comfort of Nacho Cheesier Dorrito's, Snapple and that spot on the sofa you've worked long and hard to mold perfectly to the contours of your ass. As such, it sacrifices a promising premise for the basic building blocks of action and tightly-clad, athletic babes in distress. The audience is granted the privilege of watching Ms. Jovovich, after appearing naked in her first scene, but demurely in a collapsed shower curtain, descend into a corporate, subterranean heart of darkness sporting little more than a scarlet teddy. Lucky for her, her worthy flesh remains unscathed, save a well-placed sexy bruise or minor cut. And we are relieved.

Michelle Rodriguez, the other principal player, is as thickly-muscled, macho and profanity-spewing as any of her rapidly-disappearing and undoubtedly-delicious male counterparts. Her ripe, overflowing lips lock into a relentless, intimidating snarl, her pupils cling in upward fashion to her eyelids in a demented recollection of Vincent d'Onofrio's Private Pyle during his final scenes in Full Metal Jacket (a look he cribbed from Jack Nicholson's brother-can-you-spare-an-ax role in The Shining). Ms. Rodriguez invests the film with its only genuine emotion, although that consists mostly of unvarying, barely-suppressed contempt. She also delivers the movie's one funny line. There is a suggestive and unresolved subplot of planting a double-mole into the machine, but in the scheme of things, who's paying that much attention? As a pandering, formulaic, B-movie genre flick, Resident Evil is kind of a hoot.

Read about Resident Evil in the Internet Movie Database

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