Disco Elysium: The Final Cut, Switch Review. Giant Steps


Disco Elysium: ZA / UM Studio presents on Switch the master edition of an already outstanding game. Disco Elysium: The Final Cut is the consolidation of a resounding triumph for the studio and, above all, for the medium itself. We dedicate this text to the definitive version of Disco Elysium on Switch, although its benefits (except for the larger text size and tactile use on the laptop) can be extrapolated to the PC version and the other consoles. As everything that requires an analysis is already recorded in the magnificent text that Fran Serrano published at the time and Alejandro Castillo gave a good account of the Final Cut edition, in these lines we will enjoy enough freedom to add value from another perspective. The good (or bad, depending on how you look at it) that a title as huge as this offers is that it forces us to capture something on the blank screen that tries to keep up with it. Faced with the more than evident and undoubted risk of being beaten in such work, we began.

Oil pansy mirror

In Disco Elysium the characters crawl on scenarios that seem to have been there for decades, long before you arrived. The characters … They are also perceived as old and tired, back from everything, painted with more strokes than necessary, with thick lines that flow dense below the ones you see, like worms writhing under the grimaces that form the faces. Each one has her story, like yours, casting her deep roots behind your cracked skull. You just woke up lying on the floor of a room you don’t know. You don’t know yourself either. There are no traces of a past in your mind, but there are black clouds that tell you that you have hated yourself for a long time. You get up awkwardly and immediately put a hand to your head. An extremely intense pain seems to tell you that if you don’t, it will explode, making everything even worse than it already is. Ah yes, your face. In the bathroom you define his expression in front of the mirror and you do it with horror. What’s that? You can’t be THAT. Is it a laugh, or is it a wince? Your face smells, your mouth smells, your whole tired body does. It oozes cheap whiskey, thick saltpeter saturating dry sweat on dirty cold skin.

Disco Elysium was silent. For some time after birth. He was slow to learn to speak, and now he’s not shut up, you think. The voices come out of the depths of a psyche too annoyed by alcohol. They are guttural voices that creep out from your insides, scratching them with pain on their rise. And they laugh at you because they are you. They know you well and can’t help but humiliate you on this hangover morning. Look at you, you are sad. Without changing those boxer shorts full of ocher stains, full of you, you slip into the skin of someone you don’t recognize. Your memories have gone down the drain every time you threw up last night. No wait, they’re scattered all over the carpet too. Lumps of loose syllables, of disjointed phrases. You could spend hours lying on the floor playing with those pieces of psyche, trying to put together the puzzle that is your memory right now. There is no strength for it, and you know that you would undo the assembly by throwing it back messy through the nose and mouth. To go out, better to go out into the hall, to leave this infested hovel behind. You decide to stagger towards life. You look for the shoe you lack first. You find him on the balcony behind the broken window. He tried to run away from his owner but didn’t get too far. How naive, to think that he could escape you, that he could leave Disco Elysium behind.

You’re in a hotel, okay, and they seem to know you here. The storm clouds extend beyond you, it seems. Not only you hate yourself. Those who come across you, who know you better than you, also seem to hate you. What have you done these days, what have you done to this place, what have you done to these people … Cop, they call you a cop. And you owe a paste for countless empty bottles, also for quite a few broken bottles. You have broken a lot of things. Maybe some bone, or some heart. You want answers, but at the same time it makes you uncomfortable to realize that everyone knows more about you than you do. Then ask the hanged man who is slow dancing in the backyard, they tell you. It’s supposed to be the reason you’re here. Wait to? Today is going to be a very long day.