Blasphemous: 16th-17th Century Andalucía Nightmare Fuel for the Soul—now in Spanish!
By Tiffany Funk
This August, Blasphemous fans saw the release of the epic DLC Stir of Dawn. Often compared to Dark Souls for its punishing gameplay and visually disturbing aesthetic, this 2D non-linear Metroidvania was developed by Seville-based game studio The Game Kitchen and published by Team17 in September 2019 following a successful Kickstarter campaign. After showing up on numerous "best of" lists and developing a significant cult following, the DLC made good on a few improvements to the original: it provided new story content and bosses, and adjusted balance mechanics—it also added a chance-spawning puppy to pet!
But crucially, the main goal of the DLC was the release of the Spanish-language version using well-known Spanish voice actors. While new content and gorier bosses are pretty expected DLC fare, the inclusion of the Spanish language version is an absolute triumph for more equitable representation in video games.
Down with video game monocultures!
Because of funding and time constraints, the original 2019 Blasphemous release was translated into English for international marketing. The Spanish version is not only more accurate to its original creative vision, but marries an expertly researched and designed aesthetic, beautiful flamenco soundtrack (the work of composer Carlos Viola), and deeply mystical and cultish tone that revels in a specific cultural and historical moment. It's true that many of the game visuals will seem familiar to anyone that has ever taken a Medieval to Renaissance Art History course, or perused an illustrated volume of Dante's Inferno; however, the art historical references in this game are not at all the realist, architectural brand of historical documentation of the Assassin's Creed franchise; Blasphemous instead re-imagines the bizarre mystic Catholicism that took hold in 16th and 17th century Andalucía of southern Spain.
For some context, here’s a quick synopsis: The protagonist of Blasphemous, "The Penitent One," dons a helmet that consists of both a crown of thorns and capirote (a pointed conical hat used by flagellants and eventually during Inquisition punishment) and wields the "Mea Culpa," a sword adorned with enraptured and suffering religious icons.
Capirotes in the wild: The Nazarenos of the Brotherhood of the Holy Transfer in their penitential robes and capirotes in Malaga, Spain's Holy Week Procession, where more than 900 penitents parade in the streets to reflect the agony of Christ before his crucifixion. Happy Easter!
The Penitent One traverses the cursed land of Cvstodia, its inhabitants mutated and malformed due to the phenomenon known as "The Miracle," which makes manifest strange and cruel forms of penitential suffering.
Like this.
And this.
While this all sounds like pretty standard fare for fans of body horror, all of the imagery in Blasphemous quotes very specific real-life historical precedents that aren’t much less visually horrific.
To explain, here’s a quick and dirty Lesson in Spanish History:
Check out those sexy keyhole… arches.
After the death of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V (1556), his son, Phillip II (1527-1597) basically built the Spanish Empire, sending out scores of conquistadores and missionaries to the “New World” to… well, you know. He was a Fanatical Catholic, presiding over the height of the Inquisition and cheerleader to a host of Spanish Mystics that popularized particularly gruesome forms of penitence (or "mortification of the flesh": self-flagellation, extreme fasting, hairshirts and celices… you know, the height of self-harm fashion). Spain became extremely isolationist in its Catholic orthodoxy to keep out any Protestant influence. Such isolation in both religion and philosophy more than likely emphasized the more bizarre rites and customs of Reformation-era mysticism in 16th/17th century Spain—and thus its art and iconography; in addition, the art from these eras displays the influence of the remaining Muslim art and architecture that survived the Expulsion of the Moriscos, as well as the cultish and brutal pieces of Northern European Art that the Hapsburg royals collected from the reaches of their Holy Roman Empire.
Here's a well-known Spanish Mystic for you: Teresa of Ávila, whose favorite saying was “Lord, either let me suffer or let me die.” Cute!
From the capirotes and flagellants to the bejeweled exhumed corpses of holy men and saints, the Game Kitchen took their Blasphemous research very seriously. Team members went on "field trips" to historical and religious sites, and as word of the project spread through the country, more and more Spanish fans reached out: their social media was inundated with pitches describing fans' local customs and iconography and how they would serve as awesome bosses and enemies.
Most badass boss: Melquíades, The Exhumed Archbishop.
Equally badass Mary of Jesus de León y Delgado (1643-1731), “incorrupt” saint on display at the Monastery of St. Catherine of Siena in Tenerife, Spain.
It’s not hard to see through the veil of religious pomp and circumstance and recognize the horror potential of these places, rituals, and relics. I myself grew up a few miles from an international Shrine of the Virgin, a pilgrimage hotspot attracting kneeling/crawling penitents from around the world during feast days. (We had our own statue of the Virgin that—supposedly?—cried blood!) And when I studied in Spain for a year during University and spent countless hours in the Prado, King Philip II's El Escorial and the castle complex of Segovia, I like to think that I recognized what the devs at The Game Kitchen knew all along:
Spanish Art History is badass.
The Blasphemous enemy "Guardainfante" and Master M.Z. engraving of Saint Christopher (~1500). Family resemblance much?
For a relevant and timely example, I just visited the Art Institute's absolutely fantastic El Greco: Ambition and Defiance (Mar 7–Oct 19, 2020) which feels like entering Blasphemous lite.
Mask and all.
El Greco—born in Crete as Domenikos Theotokopoulos (1541–1614)—originally trained in Byzantine icon painting before studying under Italian Mannerist masters. Upon his arrival in Spain, he set up shop in Toledo and started hawking his talents to noblemen and churches. This adornment for a much larger altarpiece has your ubiquitous cherubs/putti (Cvstodia's version is called "Children of Moonlight,” FYI), but they are a framing device for the mildly gruesome veneration of Veronica's veil...
One of Cvstodia’s “Children”.
El Greco, Veronica’s Veil, part of a larger altarpiece (1577-79)
Multiple lengthened, reclining Jesus’ corpses betray a more torqued, grotesque body type than their buffed-out Italian counterparts…
El Greco, The Holy Trinity, 1577-79, and Entombment of Christ, between 1570 and 1576.
“Ten Piedad” boss and still from Stir of Dawn DLC.
And last but not least, the twisted forms of El Greco's Vision of Saint John depict a favorite subject of Catholic Mysticism, the highly surreal and mostly impenetrable Book of Revelations. While not especially gory, its story sounds straight out of a "lore" Cvstodia page:
Revelation 6:9-11
9 And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held:
10 And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?
11 And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they [were], should be fulfilled.
El Greco, The Vision of Saint John (also called The Fifth Seal), about 1609–14.
The two interpretations of this passage are historical and futurist, one pertaining to the persecution of Christians by the Romans, and the second predicting martyrdom for those who dare not bow to the Antichrist and submit to the mark of the beast.
So, yeah: apocalypse, suffering… basically, “The Miracle.”
Maybe my own isolation right now is making me pandemic crazy, but think about it—is there any more fitting video game to be playing right now? (Please, don’t send me any QAnon propaganda.)
Sorrowful be the heart, and may The Grievous Miracle bless you.