Back in the 90s, my parents were fervently against my playing of any Resident Evil games, deeming them too violent for my soft and easily impressionable brain (but of course that didn’t stop me from playing Resident Evil 2 at sleepovers, oops). A demo disc in my monthly Playstation Magazine revealed a new game from Resident Evil creator Shinji Mikami, transposing the horrors of a zombie-infested town into drab isolated offices filled with freaking dinosaurs. And for whatever reason, the blood and gore of dinosaur violence got the thumbs up from my folks. I slammed my collected allowance and chore money at the Funcoland over 45 minutes away (remember Funcoland?) to clutch a copy of Dino Crisis in my talons.
To those at the intersection of dinosaur kid and horror fan, Dino Crisis can feel like a small miracle in retrospect; dinosaurs had never really been granted a genuinely terrifying presence in media although when you take into account everything we actually know about them, the reality of a dinosaur would be goddamn frightening. And I’m not just talking about carnivores either; I don’t care who you are, if you looked outside your window at night and saw a Deinocheirus staring back, you’d easily void your bowels.
With the now massive cult classic returned to our attention after a surprise release on the Playstation network for digital download just months ago, I wanted to revisit Capcom’s long ignored ‘dead’ franchise, take a look at the welcome rise in dinosaur terror from independent artists and developers, and roar in as polite a manner as possible: “Where the fuck is the remake?” Let’s begin with some lore for the young’uns.
Dino Crisis: Welcome To Ibis Island
Dino Crisis centers around Ibis Island where a mysterious Dr. Kirk, presumed dead, has been leading a secret weapons project, and a team of special operatives is sent in to take him into custody. You play as Regina, a no-bullshit badass with just the right amount of sass, with her team of Gale (hardened militaristic “nothing matters but the mission” archetype), Rick (wise cracking, queer coded hacker), and Cooper (super dead).
The facility is eerily vacant, with scattered remains of scientists ripped apart dotting the landscape, and Regina soon comes face to face with a raptor ready to make a meal out of her. It becomes clear that the facility is overrun with prehistoric predators, from tiny hordes of Compsognathus to a ferocious lumbering T.rex. As it turns out, the very much alive Kirk was experimenting with something he dubs Third Energy, creating a pocket of space between two points in time, bringing what was on the island 65 million years ago to the island of today (which, honestly, would be my first move as well).
The big reveal, to Regina’s dismay, is that her team was sent in not to apprehend Dr. Kirk, but to retrieve his research in order for the US government to wield Third Energy in warfare. After finding a way to overload the facility’s reactors, and ensuring they don’t become dinner, the group can leave with nary a limb lost.
Resident Evil But Dinosaurs
Dino Crisis is usually summed up as “Resident Evil but dinosaurs,” and it’s not hard to see why; special forces investigating the mishaps of a mysterious location, weaponized scientific discovery, limited inventory spaces forcing you to decide between ammo and health, oddly specific puzzles, and on and on and on. However, replaying Dino Crisis as an adult has me rethinking this comparison. In fact, I think the game not only stands on its own, but is actually a much scarier experience, and an elevation of the survival horror DNA that Resident Evil birthed.
For one, these aren’t mindless shambling zombies you’re up against; these are problem-solving predators, capable of not only tracking you but following you from room to room. Over 20 years later, it still makes my heart race to realize that the room I thought I was safe to retreat to was anything but.
Dino Crisis also includes a bleed mechanic, where you not only have to keep an eye on your health but also your blood loss, as the smell of blood can attract a toothy predator. And then there are the jump scares, resulting in a ‘danger’ mode that you have to furiously scramble out of by mashing those buttons. These would run the gamut from a raptor suddenly leaping through a window in order to pin you to the ground, to a pteranodon scooping you up to drop you into a giant fan (Capcom chose to market Dino Crisis as “panic horror” rather than survival horror).
The one moment that sticks out most in my memory is the first T.rex encounter; as you walk through a small and unassumingly quiet office to retrieve a keycard, a huge fanged head bursts through the glass and gulps you down in one bite.
A Creepy, Liminal Setting
One of the most important characters in any survival horror game (or really horror media in general) is location, and the locale of Dino Crisis is ultimately bleaker than anything in Resident Evil. From the midwestern dwellings of Raccoon City to the rustic European villages to the muck of the Baker house, the decades-long Umbrella saga has always married B-movie sci-fi with folk horror and gothic aesthetics, resulting in locations that are not only pleasantly familiar but artistically grandiose. There’s great beauty to be found whether in the creaky bar room of a labyrinthian mansion, the marble corridors of a decadent castle, or a moldy bayou.
Dino Crisis, however, strives for none of that beauty, favoring instead the cold and clinical monochromatic hallways of a sterile lab, not only sparse but virtually inhuman. It’s as unfamiliar and liminal as visiting a surgical center off hours. There is a pervasive dread of feeling cornered, of being unwelcome no matter where you go (the smattering of half-chewed employees certainly adds to that effect).
This isn’t to say the facility at Ibis Island comes off as unintentionally bland. Quite the contrary, it pushes the horror further into the territory of the Nostromo or Outpost #31, because there is nothing in the landscape to ground yourself to for safety or comfort. Very notably, Dino Crisis separated itself from its survival horror siblings by presenting these locations in fully 3D environments as opposed to pre-rendered backgrounds, allowing for a more cinematic experience and smoother reveals of action and setting.
During its debut week, Dino Crisis was the number-one game in Japan and went on to enjoy platinum success after being localized in the States. The possibility for a franchise seemed obvious. Unfortunately, where Resident Evil would find triumph in expanding upon its initial ideas, Dino Crisis would flounder and eventually die out.
Dino Crisis 2: Arcade Game Vs. Puzzles
Dino Crisis 2, while boasting tons more dinosaurs and gameplay mechanics, failed to be a proper follow-up for Regina and the gang. Right off the bat, the intent was to make something completely different from the original, shifting gears from survival horror to action adventure. This isn’t necessarily a bad decision, as Resident Evil 4 managed to focus on more action than prior entries while still staying true to the roots. However, Dino Crisis 2 arguably did not manage this balance as well, and reception was quite mixed over the arcade elements. Gone are the puzzles and the tension, replaced with tedious key fetching, combo points, and genuinely odd rail shooting segments.
The story, as well, doesn’t satisfy in any particular way due to overcomplicating itself with time travel paradoxes, and the overall sidelining of Regina. The game even ends on a cliffhanger that will probably never get resolved. I can’t objectively say that Dino Crisis 2 is bad, just like I can’t objectively say that Resident Evil 6 is bad. But by making that comparison I think you can catch my drift.
Dino Crisis 3: Dinosaurs in SPACE
But if Dino Crisis 2 was a leap in another direction, Dino Crisis 3 fully jumped the shark. Now, we find ourselves in space against mutant dinosaurs in a totally 3D-action setting, which on paper sounds like it should be absolutely tits (and some of the dinosaur designs absolutely are). But somehow this ends up a total drag, predominantly at the fault of tremendously awful gameplay.
Storywise, it’s virtually a mashup of Event Horizon and Alien Resurrection: a missing spaceship mysteriously reappears and is now eeeeevil, creating monstrous combinations of various dinosaur DNA (that for whatever reason is on board) and it’s up to you to jetpack around and blast ‘em. Again, on paper, it sounds great, but in practice, it’s just supremely bland. Despite the talent involved and the ambition on display, the game holds notoriety for being reviled by fans and is blamed for effectively making the franchise go extinct.
It’s worth noting that originally Dino Crisis 3 had been envisioned as a Raccoon City-style disaster of prehistoric proportions, and was awkwardly switched up after 9/11 for fear of being disrespectful. Who knows what potentially iconic survival horror game we may have been denied?
The Future of Dino Crisis?
Detested sequels, production woes, or the simple fact that Capcom didn’t want two very similar franchises competing with each other in their library—whatever the reason, since that first bright outing of Regina and her fanged foes, the concept of dinosaur horror has largely gone underutilized. Until recently that is!
The last few years have seen a renewed interest in, and a reinvention of, dinosaur horror from all sorts of independent artists and designers. Social media has become a treasure trove of analog horror and creepypasta-style photography and video, featuring more scientifically accurate renderings of raptors, rexes, and more, and placing them within the context of tried and true fears (a field on a rainy night, a foggy shipyard, a shadowed suburb). Underscoring these works are approximations of realistic dinosaur sounds, which, if you haven’t experienced them yet, are the definition of haunting.
Emerging Dino Horrors
There is also a plethora of either in development or recently released independent games about dinosaurs. Unknown Tapes, currently taking the world by storm, delivers first-person survival horror with a vintage found footage aesthetic, complete with wavy scanlines and bad audio, like Jurassic Park by way of The Blair Witch Project. Paleophage, currently in development, is being boosted as the successor to Dino Crisis, transplanting the prehistoric horrors to Wisconsin (here’s to hoping for some dinos with midwestern politeness).
The Lost Wild is an upcoming first-person survival horror that looks akin to the terror of Resident Evil 7, featuring dinosaurs with enhanced AI that will “behave like wild animals, not monsters”. And then very soon we’ll get a canon Jurassic Park survival horror game taking place within the timeline of the iconic film, generically titled Jurassic Park: Survival.
In Short: Give Us More Dino Horror!
Taking into account this renewed popularity, plus the monumental successes of the Resident Evil remakes, it seems like Dino Crisis would make perfect sense to return to—even from just a “cash grab” business perspective. Longtime fans, myself included, practically foam at the mouth at the slightest hint of possibility, even though creator Shinji Mikami doesn’t think there’s room for it because of the Monster Hunter games (which makes the same amount of sense as saying there isn’t room for a new Jurassic Park movie because of Godzilla). The most stirring news we’ve had recently was Capcom’s own announcement of re-activating dormant IPs, and if that’s going to include a new Onimusha game of all things, why not Dino Crisis?
If you want to apply your tinfoil hat with me, Playstation added the original Onimusha for download as a very clear way to directly gauge interest in the old samurai franchise. Could the addition of the original Dino Crisis be a similar strategy? Will Capcom finally read the room instead of constantly stating “surprise” at fan fervor for the red-headed gunsmith and her cretaceous combatants? Will Regina finally say “Looks like we have a crisis on our hands” before turning to the camera with “A dino crisis”? Will life, uhhhhhh, find a way?
Categorized:Editorials
