The funny parts of Saints Row 2 shone all the brighter alongside its more po-faced aspects. This is a trilogy progression we academics call Evil Dead syndrome, and I'm not sure I like it. Saints Row: The Third drinks Wackozade from a clown shoe. Saints Row 2 leaned wackier, with a slightly unhealthy fascination with spraying poo at things other people would rather you didn't spray poo at, but was still somewhat grounded in reality at least. It wasn't exactly Homicide: Life on the Street, but you weren't gonna climb aboard any rocket-powered jet bikes, either. Now, the first Saints Row game was comparatively straight. And by "square one," I mean "seemingly unlimited access to attack helicopters." But then circumstances conspire to trap the Saints in the city of Steelport and force them to start again from square one. But being corporate whores has caused them to lose touch with all the wholesome murdering, theft, and regular ol' whores that got them to where they are today. So in the time since Saints Row 2, the 3rd Street Saints have become pop culture celebrities, with their own clothing range and energy drink. Like Coventry, perhaps, although in that case when you inevitably get bored and want to commit suicide from the tallest building you'd probably have to join a queue.
Perhaps it's time to relearn the other thing Grand Theft Auto forgot: that you could always set your sandbox city somewhere other than New York. Saints Row: The Third is set in a whole new city, Steelport, which in bold contrast to the previous city of Stilwater is called something different. A sequel to Saints Row 2? A game that I thought was more fun than an entire swimming pool full of disembodied tits because it was smart enough to remember what Grand Theft Auto forgot: that when we drive at full speed into an old lady, it's not because we want to see her sobbing in the gutter because she can't afford both a new hip and her grandchildrens' Christmas presents we want to see her rocket into the sky and concuss an albatross. You know what? I think the little worm of excitement lying neglected on the floor of my flinty, emotionless belly is the closest it's ever come to coughing up a lung with glee.
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