Bye Sweet Carole plays a devious trick when first booted up, lulling you into a false sense of security and giving off a deliberately misleading impression.
In case you’re not aware, the whole shtick of this indie puzzle-platformer is that it’s been painstakingly drawn by hand, with the talented illustrators over at Little Sewing Machine employing old-school techniques to produce everything the eye can see here. That includes the detailed character sprites, the expressive NPC animations, all of the interactable assets, and the lavish environments that you’ll be exploring over the course of your 6–7 hour adventure. Suffice it to say, the end result is consistently impressive, and you can tell that real blood, sweat and tears (as well as long, long manhours) went into bringing this pencil-sketched diegesis to life.
But more important than it just looking pretty is the fact that it’s an instantly reassuring aesthetic for anyone who’s been weaned on the classic animated flicks of yesteryear. Indeed, if you squint hard enough, you could almost be fooled into thinking that Bye Sweet Carole is some long-lost Disney princess movie that never got released from the company’s vault. And not one of those slick CGI takes on the genre that dominate multiplexes nowadays, but something much closer in spirit to the works of the medium’s oft-touted “golden age”. You know, the kind of artisanal projects that Walt himself would have overseen back when he was calling the shots (ala Bambi, Cinderella or Pinocchio).
This evocation of childhood favourites begins from almost the very second that you hit the start button, as a sweeping overture ushers you into a gorgeous, watercolour landscape that looks like it could have been ripped straight from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It’s an utterly transfixing frame and one that calibrates your expectations for a very specific kind of fairytale plot — seemingly teeing up those familiar tropes of chivalry, enchantment and true love’s kiss that we’re all well acquainted with.
Simulating the look of a multiplane tracking shot, the camera then glides over this lush rural scene towards a stately home sat atop a verdant hill, through that building’s ornate windows and towards a storybook that suddenly flickers to life (as if manipulated by Neverland fairy-dust). As you’d expect, we’re then whisked into the pages of this tome to begin our narrative proper. It’s all very traditional place setting that’d feel right at home on the House of Mouse’s popular streaming service.
With our framing device now established, we’re promptly introduced to our plucky heroine (and playable character): Lana Benton. Blessed with the rosiest of cheeks, immaculately styled hair and striking doe eyes, she certainly looks the part of an archetypal maiden fair and ticks the rest of the fairytale protagonist boxes as well.
Not only is she an orphan with a deep affinity for woodland critters (watched over by a trio of primary-coloured songbirds that recall Sleeping Beauty’s feathered friends) but, when we meet her, she’s lost in a state of wistful daydreaming by a babbling brook. It’s such a quintessential Disney princess moment that it feels like she’s all but guaranteed to burst into her obligatory “I want” ballad at any given minute.
Yet before that anticipated Broadway number has a chance to kick in, Lana is distracted by a bespectacled bunny that entices her into the nearby forest. If you know your Victorian literature, you might think you can tell where this is all going. But don’t get ahead of yourself!
You see, instead of leading Lana down the rabbit hole and into a fantastical wonderland of charm and whimsy, this mischievous Lepus sets her on a much darker path. Towards a realm of hideous monsters, possessive suitors, intense psychological torment, and repressed pain brought kicking and screaming to the surface.
It’s then that you realise Little Sewing Machine has well and truly pulled the rug (or, perhaps more appropriately, the magic carpet) out from under you, and that this ain’t gonna be your typical fairytale romance after all.
A Whole New World
Granted, those iconic Disney outings from the ‘30s and ‘40s that Bye Sweet Carole is invoking had their share of traumatising material too. Lest we forget Dumbo’s surrealistic encounter with the pink elephants, Fantasia’s no-holds-barred “Night on Bald Mountain” sequence, the Evil Queen’s terrifying metamorphosis into an old hag in Snow White, or that one bit in Pinocchio where a bunch of kids are turned into braying mules and sold into slave labour.
Yet while you can’t (in good faith) accuse these older films of pulling their punches, the light does outweigh the dark in every single instance. They were primarily intended for family viewing, after all, and so a big part of their tacit promise to the audience was that a “happily ever after” was always going to be just around the corner. No matter how tough things might get for the protagonists.
Bye Sweet Carole, on the other hand, welches on that deal, offering only brief flashes of hope and catharsis in a story that is, otherwise, pretty damn bleak. Even its somewhat compassionate resolution merely serves to soften the blow of an emotionally devastating reveal that precedes it, while the best solace it can offer to its lead heroine is a bittersweet moral lesson about coming to terms with tragedy.
To be absolutely clear, then, this is not the comforting princess fable that it initially presents itself to be, so much as it is a twisted mockery of one. A psychological horror that has sliced the face off another hand-drawn fantasy, stapled that bloody mess to its own kisser, and now parades it around as some kind of ghoulish skin mask with which to frighten small children.
Exploiting its appealing art style to catch you off guard, before then plunging headfirst into seriously adult territory, the game is proof of that old adage that appearances can be deceiving. In fact, it’s got far more in common with the giallo-inflected Perfect Blue than it does the cheery musical stylings of Frozen, as it unflinchingly deals with themes of internalised misogyny, psychosis, obsession, subjugation, child abuse, loss and the unrelenting march of time. Not to mention, it also chucks in some very distressing imagery along the way that’s liable to get under your skin (trigger warning for rabbit lovers: you’ll need to brace yourself for Watership Down levels of upset here).
Those Poor Unfortunate Souls
Set at a nebulous point in the early twentieth century — against the backdrop of the British industrial revolution and the onset of the suffragette movement — the title has you taking control of the young Lana, as she investigates her friend Carole’s mysterious disappearance from the austere orphanage of Bunny Hall.
Trapped within this highly conservative all-girls institution herself, she’s not exactly having the most enjoyable adolescence. For a start, her peers are spiteful and unusually cruel in their treatment of anyone who doesn’t conform to societal norms. Meanwhile, free thinking is similarly discouraged by the scolding matrons who routinely subject Lana to oppressive etiquette lessons, are very prescriptive in their definitions of ladylike behaviour, and repeatedly hammer home the notion that finding a suitable husband is — and should be — the sum total of a young woman’s aspirations. Oh, and she’s not even allowed to venture outside anymore, on account of the surrounding estate being bombarded by incessant explosions (as part of some ongoing rabbit disinfestation campaign).
The one source of joy Lana has ever had in this miserable life was Carole, and so she is understandably determined to find out what happened to her. The chief suspects in her inquiry include Bunny Hall’s furtive groundskeeper Frank — who is already the subject of many urban legends amongst pupils — the stern Ms. Hinman — who seems intent on downplaying any evidence related to Carole’s whereabouts — and an eerie hooded figure dressed in a yellow raincoat whom Lana keeps glimpsing as she tiptoes around the boarding school at night.
As if this real-world intrigue weren’t enough, there’s also a quasi-Pan’s Labyrinth thing going on, with supernatural creatures intruding upon Lana’s mundane existence to inform her that she is, in fact, the amnesiac royalty of a faraway kingdom. Alas, not all of the subjects from this domain want to see their princess return to the throne safely, and she soon finds herself being pursued by a petrifying Crooked Man-esque usurper named “Mr. Kyn” who wishes to rule in her stead. Over the course of the ensuing journey, you’re never fully certain what is real, if Lana is going to turn out to be a reliable narrator, or if this is all just an elaborate fantasy that she has concocted in her mind to escape some depressing truth.
It’s a compelling premise that’s bursting with imagination, and you’d be surprised how well the disparate pieces all fit together by the time you reach the game’s denouement. There’s genuine pathos to the characters, a ton of original ideas, and daring exploration of some heady themes.
That being said, the script is a tad on-the-nose when it comes to spelling out its socio-political messaging in a way that leaves vanishingly little room for interpretation. In particular, it’s got an annoying habit of slipping into lengthy, heavy-handed monologues about how Victorian society needs to enforce feminine ideals in order to prop-up its patriarchy, the various different ways in which marriage can be used as a tool to cage wilful women, and the fact that the men of the era can only perceive of the opposite sex as things to be either tamed or owned.
All of which are valid observations to be sure, but they could be made more elegantly than they are here, instead of just having the cast literally saying it all out loud like they’re trying to score extra credit in an English lit class. Bye Sweet Carole’s heart is certainly in the right place. However, it doesn’t help that it’s releasing so close to the outstanding Silent Hill f, which has a surprising amount of thematic overlap with Little Sewing Machine’s title and makes some very similar points (albeit in a much more nuanced, subtler way).
I just think writer-director Chris Darril could have trusted his audience to follow what he was trying to convey without fussily insisting on holding our hands the entire time. There’s one clever visual metaphor during a ballroom sequence, for instance, that the voiceover narration kind of ruins by (ironically enough) mansplaining its significance. In my opinion, this impulse to overexplain everything just betrays a lack of confidence on the storyteller’s part. Which is a shame, because he’s got a good strong narrative here, with good strong ideas. He just needed to have more faith in them.
Indeed, I was quite gripped by the overarching yarn Darril was weaving and even found myself rather moved by its final few moments. The way it dramatizes the struggle to move on from grief is especially poignant and will stick with you, even after some of the more didactic speechifying has faded from memory.
The Fairest Game of Them All
Of course, the main draw (pun not intended) for most people interested in checking out Bye Sweet Carole will be its phenomenal art style. Much like how Studio MDHR’s Cuphead masterfully captured the look & feel of ragtime-era cartoons, this production resembles a cel-animated feature from the golden age of Disney, complete with fluid motion, rich colours, soft gradient lighting, and faux multiplane photography that gives its 2D environments the convincing illusion of depth.
It’s a very authentic homage, and you’ll find yourself compelled to put the controller down from time to time so that you can stop and gawp at all the breathtaking images. The painterly backdrops (which range from vibrant countryside vistas to stunning gothic interiors) will inevitably get the lion’s share of attention, with the spectacular cutscenes coming in a firm second place. Yet the incredible kineticism of the characters deserves a shoutout as well.
Indeed, the sprites all feel very much alive in gameplay. Whether you’re scrutinising an enemy’s patrol, performing some dexterous platforming, or simply allowing Lana’s idle cycle to run its course, their movements are all expressive and flow nicely into one another. There are bespoke animations for different outfits, for trudging through water, for shimmying along precarious ledges, and for being attacked by different creatures. Not to mention, there are a few context-specific “game-over” cinematics that are so well done you’ll almost want to get Lana killed on purpose, just to make sure that not a single frame of them goes unappreciated.
The character designs are also uniformly top-notch. Again, they wouldn’t feel out of place in Snow White or Pinocchio, what with their strong silhouettes and distinguishing features that tell you everything you need to know about the larger-than-life personalities to whom they belong. As mentioned up top, Lana could easily pass for a Disney princess, while the rest of the supporting cast fit the bill too.
The pop-culture referencing Mr. Baesie — whose rubber hose limbs and slapstick antics provide a great contrast to the more realistically proportioned characters — is a worthy tribute to other shapeshifting comic reliefs like Aladdin’s genie. Meanwhile, there are several menacing adversaries for you to contend with.
You’ve got the main big bad Mr. Kyn: a spindly, top-hatted bogeyman that’s guaranteed to set your hairs on end. Then there’s his avian lieutenant, Velenia: a malevolent owl that takes on an uncannily-human physiognomy when shrouded in a veil and perched upon a pair of stilts. And perhaps most intimidating of all is the startling Ms. Fisherin: a rabid anthropomorphic bunny that wants to cave you’re skull in with a meat tenderiser!
They’re all great antagonists who could give the likes of Maleficent or Captain Hook a run for their money in the villain department. And it helps that they’re not given a chance to outstay their welcome, because they’re largely confined to appearing in just one level each.
One Jump, Ahead of the Monsters
Speaking of which, Bye Sweet Carole is neatly divided into ten bite-sized chapters that have their own unique settings, enemies and mechanical gimmicks. So, there’s no danger of it ever getting stale!
The experience can broadly be described as a puzzle-platformer with horror elements but, honestly, it’s quite hard to classify because the game has so many different facets. The tutorial, for instance, makes it seem like you’re in for a straightforward experience in the vein of Limbo — wherein you are pursued through linear stages by threats that can kill you with a mere touch — only for the very next level to introduce a complex adventure-game scenario that has you backtracking between areas and trying to figure out how to solve a series of interconnected, escape-room riddles.
After that, the third chapter confronts you with a patrolling stalker that you must evade at all costs, and it turns into an intense Clock Tower pastiche for roughly 30 minutes. Suddenly you’re forced to use stealth, hiding spots and a breath-holding mechanic so as not to give your position away.
As soon as you’ve had a chance to get used to that helpless horror dynamic, though, the developers change the rules on you yet again by giving you the ability to fight back and indulging in an extended hack-and-slash gauntlet. And then, there’s an ingenious time travel section that has you switching back and forth between distant epochs in order to obtain assorted key items that you need to progress.
Lots of points for variety then. Hell, there’s even a segment where it decides to become a rhythm action game seemingly on a whim! But it’s crucially more than just a case of the developers throwing a bunch of stuff at the wall and seeing what sticks. On the contrary, these surprising mechanics are all introduced at the moment that makes most sense for them in the story and are sufficiently fleshed out in their own right.
The puzzles are probably the most substantial bits, however. In addition to the standard adventure game headscratchers (you know, the kind where you’ve got to figure out how a mechanical mouse, some poker chips, a punch bowl and a rabbit’s foot are supposed to help you get past an overzealous doorman), there are also some logic problems that will require you to coordinate the simultaneous movements of Lana and her trusty sidekick Baesie. The former can transform into a bunny to squeeze through tiny crevices and leap over tall objects, whereas the latter can either electrify of immolate himself depending on what the situation calls for.
To spoil how these abilities complement each other would be a disservice to the clever challenges that Little Sewing Machine have devised here. Suffice it to say, there are some very satisfying “eureka” moments scattered throughout Bye Sweet Carole, and I never once felt like the solutions were too easy or too obtuse. Rather, they hit that Goldilocks sweet spot 90% of the time.
The only real downside to the gameplay is that it can occasionally verge on frustrating when the game wants you to do something hyper-specific and punishes you with an instant fail state if you aren’t able to intuit that desired course of action within a nanosecond. There was one particular sequence involving a murderous doll that, although initially creepy, really started to try my patience for that exact reason. Luckily, the checkpoints are distributed generously enough that death never sets you back too far, and you can always resort to good old-fashioned trial and error to overcome a barrier.
Small niggles like that aside, Bye Sweet Carole is an excellent title bursting with artistry. We haven’t even mentioned the stellar orchestral score by Luca Balboni, which nails the sound of those rousing Alan Menken compositions that defined the likes of The Hunchback of Notre Dame or Beauty and the Beast. So, if you’re in that niche target audience of people who like survival horror, meaty brainteasers, classic Disney animation or preferably all three, then this is one twisted fairytale that you won’t wanna miss.
Bye Sweet Carole will release on PlayStation 5, Nintendo Switch, Xbox Series, and PC via Steam on 9th October. Review code provided by publisher.
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