REVIEW: Bulletstorm




The grey factories spew miasmic floats of smoke; eruptions of oil gurgle, vomit-like, up from the crevices surrounding the citadel.

There are hundreds of guards, armed with rifles and batons and electric cattle prods. The battle chipped walls brood like tombstones o’er the miserable courtyards, where countless addicts and shrill thirteen year old dumbasses with headsets stomp and rage and throw their controls against the rocks.

They make Call of Duty inside, you see.

If you look closely you can see the evil crimson lights of Kotick’s forge, glimmering through the dusty and bloodstained glass.

The discs are being printed; the infernal anvils are pressing them into shape. Whatever shall be done? However shall such abominations be sundered?

Alas! There is a light on the horizon, a sound of thunder, a mass of clouds and lightning, the sounds of countless guns a’firin, why, I don’t believe it, it’s a storm, a storm of bullets, you might even call it a…


a review by jethrovegas

Bulletstorm smokes crack like a fish in water, running the top to the bottom and back, shootout after shootout. It flips its own flap jacks.

Its firefights (like BioShock’s, like Stranglehold’s) are orgies of senseless and chaotic mayhem, drawn into varying, mercurial structure by the player’s imagination.

Played straight, it’s just a shooter, albeit a colorful, extemely entertaining one. Played crooked, played with a circular, winding logic, the game is a ****ing win bath.

You don’t really clear an area of enemies, you circle them, you work them, you play with them like a fickle cat with its food.

The battles are an end unto themselves rather than just a means. This a meal for FPS fans, hot and warm and violent. You want to get into a fight in Bulletstorm, always, all the time.

The characters are morons, all of them; psychotic douche-bags with Grade-A futuristic weaponty working their way through a long line of other morons; mutants and soldiers and tatooed thugs.

The dialogue is ****ing ridiculous.

“Did… you… kill… MY FATHER?”

“You know, I’ve always wanted to **** you.”

That about sums up the nature of the game. Faced with notions of seriousness the games pisses itself with laughter.

To criticise it for being crude or stupid is useless; rather, fall into its stone-age, idiot rythms, allow yourself to enjoy its barbarian’s brew.

It fleshes out its environments by making them central to your methods of destruction, draws you into the foreground and paints a lovely backdrop behind it, all epic sun-drenched vistas, gleaming dead cities bathed in daylight, a parade of striking visuals.

Rebar will befriend you; the cactus will work as your ally.

In some ways Bulletstorm is comparable to Bayonetta; in the way their core gameplay offers immediate reward, without having to slog through acres of boring prattle and hoop jumping pony-show cutscenes.

The campaign of course lurches and drools here and again like a heat-stricken overfed pack mule trippin’ a **** in the back of a learjet, yet always throws down another great combat sequence right when it needs to, right when the ropes begin to strain.

I didn’t appreciate that sequel set-up horse **** at the end of the game, nor the piss-stained QTE-riddled excuse of a final bossfight, but it honestly isn’t a big deal, all things considered.

Bulletstorm gives and gives and it doesn’t ask a whole lot, just that you take the time to consider how to kill those bros running up the ramp at you, rather than just bustin’ a typical cap in they ass.

Bulletstorm is like a bra with self-unfastening straps who gets really randy from time to time.

Bulletstorm is like a funky old southtown slippery gangster who holds up a local smoothie shop in a chicken suit after smoking some ****ing crack-rock in the changing room of a public swimming pool, even though he swore he was gonna’ retire.

Bulletstorm is like a woman with a self-aware pony-tail that slaps a ***** when said ***** reaches in to cop a feel, and gots a real hardassed world-weary attitude, always talkin **** to flight attendants and swinging back and forth like a pony-tail does, though somewhat of choice, rather than just physics, but then one day she has epiphany when she gets let loose like hair ought to be sometimes, and she decides to be a nicer pony-tail and swing a little more freely, and that brings up the question: if you loose a pony-tail does it cease to be a pony-tail or does it just take on another form?

Bulletstorm is like a turkey who is about to be killed and shipped off to the supermarket, but right before they grab him to chop his head off he leaps up and says “hell naw” and slaps those mothers, then runs through the bushes and hijacks and old lady traveling along the interstate but ends up making sweet love to her like Robert Redford, and later uses her as a human shield when the cops show up and then makes another run for it and escapes to the country and runs from the cops on a bicycle through a ****ing mountain forest, and then jumps down a subway tunnel on a broken rickshaw doing three-thousand miles an hour while snorting lines of blow as long as a horse’s **** and rummaging through the baggage compartment looking for cream cheese, and then has an epic final stand inside a ****ing 747 as it takes off, and then uses a ginger-ale can as a ****ing hand grenade and blows a hole in the side and flys through the sky at the speed of a fat cat slippin’ on lemon-juice slick tile flooring and fights as he falls, and has a gun battle in middair and is gravely wounded and smashes into the top of a ****ing brick-ass belltower and destroys that **** and it bursts into flames and explodes and crashes into the top of a paper mache’ bagel shop.




So, just a couple of questions. If you answer yes to all of them then you should play Bulletstorm. If you answer no to even one of these questions, then you aren’t a real man and have no business even thinking about playing Bulletstorm.

1) Do you like rubbing cat’s tails against your ear?

2) Have you ever purposefully put pickle relish in your eye?

3) Does that mean that your eye could strike up a good conversation with a hot dog?


Now the grey factory is falling, the bricks are loosed from the walls, the ashcans in ordered ranks go tumbling then are scattered. A few of the slaves have been freed; they have been freed from their idiocy by a more natural, more noble kind of idiocy, the idiocy of pure, unadulterated action. Now they’re on a baked ride through swirls of jelly-like blood, through hails of falling digital torsos; they are power-sliding down the steps.

And yes, they all are morons, yet their idiot faces are painted not with rage, nor tired, zombie-like apathy, but rather with grins, big ol’, **** eating grins, the kind of grin a man might wear after getting a little taste of some good ****ing action after a long and **** limpening ridearound with a bunch of stiff, overstuffed, pseudo-realistic vagina fests masquerading as shooters, ehafaf, washboard-ass bunch of –



Bulletstorm is the Impact font of first person shooters.


like dipping your balls in warm apple sauce out of 10