“I feel like a kid running away from his first molestation at Boy Scout camp.” That did it. I cringe back into my theater seat, feeling a patina of filth gather on the back of my throat. It’s done. It’s over. It was a nice try, but Let’s Plays have just lost what good will they could muster with the cinephile crowd. [pullquote]When we commit ourselves to showing this one narrow slice of Let’s Plays made of molestation jokes and volunteer sales pitches […] we’re doing a disservice to a lot of creative people behind many, many screens.[/pullquote] It’s been
“Johnny, did you want to say something?” That’s gone and done it. Saints Row 2 has violated the One Steve Limit, and at the worst possible time. On the radio, a chipper woman is speaking on behalf of her overmedicated son on the effects of a new prescription pharmaceutical. In the back seat of my convertible, Johnny – that is, Johnny Gat – is bleeding out all over the leather, mumbling slurred promises to a dead girlfriend.