101.
(see Version 1.1 of this card)
It’s like paradise here. Everything seems pastel-hued as you drive by, with the radio on. The car is stolen, but so long as the police didn’t see you, it won’t matter. You don’t really have to be anywhere or do anything. The hotels and condos are comfortable and discreet. If you need money, mug someone. The body makes a satisfyingly squishy sound when you kick it. There are adventures. You get to meet some interesting people. It is a city of gangsters, hustlers and honeys. It’s all tourism, drugs, guns, cars and personal services. Nobody makes anything, except maybe ‘ice cream’, porn and counterfeit money. Everybody buys, sells or steals. Vice City is a nice place. It is not quite utopia. And nor is it some dark dystopia. There’s no storyline here, where paradise turns nasty, in which the telling early detail turns out to be a clue to the nightmare beneath the surface, the severed ear of Blue Velvet. Without the possibility of dystopia, there’s no utopia either. Terry Eagleton: “All utopian writing is also dystopian, since, like Kant’s sublime, it cannot help reminding us of our mental limits in the act of striving to go beyond them.” In Vice City there is no ‘beyond’. As one would expect in a high end land of vice, its offer is all inclusive.*
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