In a moment of weakness, I watched Resident Evil: The Final Chapter without having seen any of the previous 5 films, though I doubt that had much effect on this movie’s intelligibility (or lack thereof).
Here’s what appeared, to me, to be happening. Milla Jovovich (or as I call her, Schlocktakovich) plays this indestructible woman, presumably because she’s made entirely out of spandex so bullets bounce right off her. She’s in Washington DC, which is overrun with zombies (tell us something we don’t know) due to an outbreak caused by The Umbrella Corporation. It looks like they didn’t spend very long thinking up names; “Right, we need a name for some sort of umbrella corporation… I’ve got it!”
Then that hologram kid from Duh-minator Genisys appears and tells her to go to The Hives. I’m not sure how a Swedish rock band are supposed to help her but she seems to know what she’s doing. So she fights her way to Raccoon City (another terrible name), which I guess is a bit like Flamingo Land. Disappointingly, there are no zombie raccoons, but there are plenty of zombie dogs, so this is worth a watch if you like that sort of thing; not so much if you’re into storytelling, acting and knowing what the fuck’s going on.
It is, however, vastly more entertaining than Underworld: Blood Wars, the latest entry into the rival franchise. They’re both about scantily clad women battling the undead, but Blood Bores consisted solely of characters tediously explaining the plot (of Twilight) to each other in poorly lit rooms. At least Paul W. S. Anderson has the good sense to realise people are here for ridiculous action and bloody violence. And although he’s an awful writer and inept storyteller, he is a competent, if derivative stylist, aping Mad Max in a slightly more effective way than Neil Marshall managed in Doomsday.
But in the end, Resident Feeble: The Final Chapter (incidentally, Mark Kermode did a good blog about film titles repeatedly misusing the word “Final”) is as dumb and incoherent as video game adaptations are wont to be. It reminded me of when I used to go round my friend Edward’s house after school and watch him play computer games. Equally, it brought to mind the time he mixed together a melted blue ice pop and an orange ice pop, drank it and then threw up, inadvertently creating the kind of neon mess that Paul W. S. Anderson continues to churn out every couple of years.