Welcome to the (tragic) family, son
There is no definitive limit to our physique; it’s always “moving in and out of focus”.
Image credit: Polygon
Upon discovering post-humanism, I’ve come to learn that there are little to no differences between our physical existence and computer simulation, cybernetic mechanisms, or biological organisms. Our bodies are constantly interacting with and reliant on technology to function every second. In fact, it has become such an integral part of our lives that it can be seen as a part of ourselves — a prosthesis that is not just an extension, but the very constitution of the human body. Thus, there is no definitive limit to our physique; it’s always “moving in and out of focus”.
In Julia Ducournau's film Titane, I was in the mind of a woman with a titanium plate in her head who developed a peculiar attachment to automobiles. In Jenny Hval's short novel Paradise Rot, I was in the mind of a woman exploring her sexuality inside a rotting apartment, bombarded by nauseating imagery of fungi and an obsession over bodily functions. It was within these narratives that I discovered a fascinating, uncanny interchangeability between living beings and the boundaries of existence.
It indeed takes guts to immerse oneself in a terrifying dimension where humans lose control over what they create. But for those who dare, there are treasures to be found, and few gems shine as brightly as Resident Evil 7. Unlike the aforementioned media which takes just a few hours to experience, RE7 is a masterful, 25-hour subversion of classic horror tropes and lays the groundwork for a new kind of terror. At the heart of the franchise is a whole new outlook on the limitations and fragility of the human form, which got me contemplating on its depiction of post-humanism.
The RE series begins with a virus outbreak caused by the unethical pharmaceutical giant, Umbrella Corporation. The games leading up to and including RE 6 revolve around heroes affiliated with the Special Tactics and Rescue Service (S.T.A.R.S), namely Chris, Leon, Claire, and Jill, who face off against hordes of zombies, mutant creatures, and mad scientists in various locations worldwide.
In RE 7, we are introduced to new faces. Eveline, a mind-controlling bio weapon disguised as a little girl, is being transported by agent Mia on a cargo ship. A violent hurricane disrupts their plans, leading Eveline to worm her way into the Bakers’ isolated ranch. Trying to satisfy her desire for love, she manipulates the once-perfectly normal family members Jack, Marguerite, and Lucas into grotesque beings so they’d obey her commands. And that's where we come in, playing as Mia's average joe of a husband, Ethan, who comes to rescue her from the demented, now-posthumous family who’s been keeping her captive. A Resident Evil game where there are actual evil residents, who would’ve thought?
The line between human and monster is tragically blurred, but still exists, as they are trapped in a cycle of decay and regeneration that renders them nearly invulnerable. As Ethan, I could only carry so much ammunition, run for so long, and every injury sustained had a real and lasting impact on my ability to survive. As for my main antagonists, the Bakers, these limitations are even more pronounced. Their mutated forms are a physical manifestation of the limits of the human body.
This corresponds with the Bakers’ self-sufficiency in regenerating lost limbs and healing injuries at an insanely rapid pace, at the sake of transforming them into unrelenting killing machines. In the game, viruses act as the “prostheses” that exploit bodily limitations and exponentially enhance physical abilities, yet result in gruesome consequences as they meddle with the delicate laws of nature. Conversely, in real life, viruses affect our bodies in ways that disrupt our normal bodily functions, sometimes surpassing our immune system's capacity to cope. However, this parallel highlights a middle ground: humans are often left feeling powerless as they witness their bodies succumb to foreign internal agents.
At the tail of post-humanism lies the equilibrium of human elements and inhuman actions. Audric Figueroa of the Escapist Magazine notes that the game is ultimately “a grounded story about literal and metaphorical broken homes.” The Bakers are also victims of the circumstances, much like Ethan, Mia, and even Eveline who only ever wanted a family. This is exemplified when Ethan finds himself seated at the family's dinner table, confronted with the horrors of being force-fed human entrails. Marguerite, who is deeply hurt by his rejection, exclaims, "He's not eating it! I made that for him!"
Similarly, when Mia desperately tries to escape, she cries out in anguish, "What have I done to deserve this except open my home and feed you? She [Eveline] loves you. She wants us to be a family." These moments underscore the unsettling nature of the ordeal, leading me to ponder their true desires and the inherent paradox in their behaviour. Yet, it also serves as a reminder that they, too, were made prisoners of their foundational human desire for love and belonging in the physical form of monsters. Everyone's a victim and I couldn’t help but empathise — it was enough to make me want to call my own family and give them a big hug.
Today, with the growing popularity of post-humanism, I believe our accomplishments as human beings are not solely derived from technological advancements or biotechnological wizardry; there is art in love, appreciation, and other virtues that define humanity. You’d imagine the smell of smoke, decay, and moss as soon as you enter the family’s decrepit grounds in rural Louisiana, but what the dilapidated mansion really has to offer is poignant human touches and remnants from the Bakers’ happier past, such as family portraits or fairly ordinary bedrooms. These details do not detract from the sheer terror; rather, they add a layer of complexity and tragedy to the plot, as they are inhabiting a human home while quickly losing the human within themselves.
Through Ethan, I experienced the tragedy of human frailty. Every wound sustained and loss suffered felt like a stark reminder of my own mortality. The constant struggle to maintain my health, the scarce availability of weapons and first aid supplies, the minimal capacity to carry all those items, then having to sacrifice and discard crucial resources; these made my heart race erratically as I progressed through the game. But it's this very sense of vulnerability that makes the Bakers’ tale so compelling and memorable many years later.