Like a good ol' southern potluck, South of Midnight had me going back to play for seconds, and then thirds, thanks to all its little details
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Very rarely do I have the time or energy to play a new game more than once. Replays are usually something born from necessity, like work-related tasks, or my insatiable nostalgia for old RPGs. Anything else is an anomaly, but I'm happy to report that, at the behest of no one, I played Complusion's gothic action adventure game South of Midnight three times over the last eight months, so I reckon that means I like it.
To be clear, that's two more times than I was asked to play for our South of Midnight review. I went at it a second time at my own leisure, then followed up again with a third replay so a friend could watch me, but I'll be damned if I didn't find some easy-to-miss, tiny detail with every press of 'new game' that made me fall in love with Hazel's journey through the American South all over again.
And when I say it's in the little things, I really mean the stuff you may miss just strolling by. Hazel's journey is just as fantastical as it is familiar—I felt that the moment she went through the motions preparing for a hurricane in South of Midnight's opening moments—but the sense of déjà vu really hit me in Chapter 3. I knew I'd been to this place before, I just couldn't nail its real-life counterpart. It wasn't until my second visit that I noticed a small, painful detail in the eviction notices plastered throughout an abandoned community:
Every cruel order to vacate was issued by the Chickasaw County court. It's a tiny place in northeast Mississippi, and not one I'd expect to hear referenced by anyone not born and raised there.
When I saw it, it felt like someone knocked the wind right out of me. It's not far from where I spent a lot of my childhood summers in Leake or Leflore counties, though all of them have something in common: a shared look of inhospitable decay and hostility. It's a place you'd wonder why someone would even bother with an eviction notice, but it's still home to a lot of very real people and generations of poverty.
I had a lot of those moments where I didn't realize how far South of Midnight's authenticity extended until I stopped to inspect details hidden in the cracks. There's a later chapter when Hazel is reunited with her neighbors seeking hurricane relief at a local church, and lo and behold, what's crudely scribbled on the vessel that got them there? The Cajun Navy.
Maybe more people know that one, I think it became a more popular term following the devastation of Hurricane Katrina in 2005—unsurprisingly so. "Cajun Navy" doesn't actually refer to a formal body of relief workers; it's just an informal name for people determined to save each other in a place often abandoned at the state and federal level. I'm just more surprised someone thought to include it.
I have fewer direct ties to Louisiana, but I'd say that Cajun Navy spirit runs throughout the Deep South. I think about people like my pop, who once "borrowed" a neighbor's boat and drove down to the Ross Barnett Reservoir to rescue people trapped in their homes. The help doesn't come fast enough in Jackson, Mississippi, and the same is true in South of Midnight.
Hazel's neighbor with a makeshift rescue operation acts like he's done it before, and seeing that little boat tagged Cajun Navy hit me in a way I wasn't prepared for. Again, it's easy to miss if you're jogging by, but if you stop and inspect the broken frames of rotting structures, old mud-covered signs, or any improvised storm refuge, you'll notice South of Midnight's earnest portrayal of a place with a before, during, and after.
Of course, I can see that thoughtfulness in bigger pieces too—like the mix of Mississippi Delta and Southeastern Louisiana drawl I hear every time the Catfish talks, or in casual jokes about the Piggly Wiggly—but it really is everywhere in South of Midnight. I could chalk it up to being homesick, but I think Compulsion's thoughtful tribute to the rich mythos and resilience of the South is worth another visit or two, especially if you're from the area.
As for myself, I'm considering going back for fourths, so don't be surprised if I come running back to talk about turnip greens or Dolly Parton. Both are southern gems deserving of their own essays, but I'll holler at y'all about all that later.