Gunman Clive's first playthrough will barely break an hour. The risk of design failure is minimal when each moment is fleeting. While few decisions are particularly brave, the diversity and range offered is clever. These sit between mine cart chases, icy escapades, gravity lifts, early industrial Americana, and a growing rebellion of steamy robotics.
Three intersecting 3D stages offer third-person rides on horseback (into a beautifully cliche and hazy sunset), an early wooden flying machine, and eventually a chummy Pterodactyl. Outlandish as it is, Gunman Clive has the sense to revel in the weird without restraint. It's all so cheerfully stupid.įrom an (almost) one-man crew comprised of Swede Bertil Horberg, Clive becomes a lean run through marginally treacherous territory. It makes sense for Clive's adventures to reside here on portable hardware. In actuality, the mellow pace recalls a suite of Ocean Interactive's early European delights, including Robocop and Navy Seals on Game Boy. Of course, this is a video game too, one which appears at a glance to mirror Konami's flamboyant 16-bit Sunset Riders although the comparison would only be relevant to the Western themes. Further, this mish-mash is rife with the idiosyncratic nature of early theater's chapter-based serials, and the price mirrors the shared entertainment value, albeit with inflation: $3.
Clive's tussle with a stone kicking Tyrannosaur leeches the cowboy-versus-Allosaurus scuffle from Warner Bros.' 1969 cinematic classic, The Valley of Gwangi, for inspiration. There is some level of fetishist love for eccentric film. In its own distinctive way, the look is charming. Gunman Clive appears like an elderly example of film's early colorized bastardizations, as if each frame is hand painted – i.e. The wild international zeitgeist which powers Clive is often colorful, more so than the scattered application of faded pastels which loosely fill in the sketchy aesthetics.
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