Return of the Living Dead is now and always will be patently the most explodingly brilliant survival horror comedy since I can’t recall, largely because when I’m thinking about this movie all other silly comedy splatter spoofs looks like cheap plastic replicas.
ROTLD takes viciously wild punches at most all of the standard clichéd tools used in horrific monster movies, especially those featuring flimsy teen characters prone to vice. Those wacky teenagers, an endlessly excitable bunch prone to poor decisions and quick retribution. Meanwhile every character in Return of the Living Dead lacks all motivation outside the single goal of self satisfaction — sex, drugs, violence — shortly followed by self preservation. One exception: a particularly strange punk rocker played by Thom Mathews (Freddy). Pretty much the youthful protagonist of Dan O’Bannon‘s undead melodrama — the suddenly sympathetic Fred has to deal with a world of occult flesh eaters, government cover-ups and the desires of his recent girlfriend…all this on his first day at work.
Freddy still reveals himself as slightly dumber than a box of hammers, or maybe a bowl of screwdrivers. Whatever simple machine in a container, our friend Freddy ain’t smart and neither is his friendly superior (Frank) played by Clu Gulager. Their combined stupidity is exponential and ever-expanding, especially with the introduction of Frank’s boss (Burt) a selfish dick played by the always intimidating James Karen.
Half of the movie involves these stooges try their best to maintain composure while every piece of death flesh around them comes back to life, a distracting challenge when you work in a medical supply warehouse, next to a morgue…outside a cemetery.
Our friend Freddy is persecuted, not only by his punk pals, each of them pained by reality’s lack of chaos and sententious pleasures. Even though they’re technically protagonists, you pretty much delight when the punks get attacked by the viral zombie contagion, brewed by our rather incompetent military.
Consider this — our primary fear in the 20th century…you know it. Total nuclear oblivion. The final end of human life, the trigger pulled by a willing human hand. Grab your book, El, because the zombie weapon of self destruct was inspired by plagues…AIDS, small pox, Ebola virus, etc. Something about rapid decay. Our nightmare monster shrunk from the size of King Kong to the nanometer scale. In ROTLD our antagonist originates in a spray of weaponized gas created by the corrupt military industrial complex for which we, the uneducated voting public, are responsible. The best part of all this biting commentary is that the audience sees no heavy hand, just solid comedy and gore.
Z-NEWS: On the way to Gandma’s houseparty, a car vehicle full of chums dressed as zombies wrecked a car on I-84, thus confusing Portland police and emergency response. Really? Their FX makeup must have been fan-forking-gorelicious.
Glad to hear none of these human kids got hurt. Mind you, if the real zombie infection left you intelligent enough to drive around town and socialize with friends, more folks would make the flip and voluntarily pick the zombie lifestyle.
I always had a hunch that Jesus McChrist was a super-zombie. Spear him in the side and crucify him, but he’ll just come back to life. Except Jason, Myers and the other super-zombies won’t show up to your party, daring you to stick your finger in their wound holes. Pretty gross, Son of God!
If you choose to live in superstitious fear of a resurrected monster, I would personally pick a more realistic mythology…like zombies. Honestly, the old and the new testaments both read like poorly compiled horror anthologies. And how silly and uncreative is the concept of hell? Oooh, a fiery pit of endless torment straight out of my worst imaginings: Like watching a never ending romantic comedy? Or getting trapped in a Walmart without exits? Or being forced to listen to a hateful & narcissistic televangelist drone on about who does and doesn’t hold the golden ticket to heaven? No thanks, I’d rather be a mindless cannibal.
Whether a result of radiation, rage virus or Haitian voodoo, one aspect I adore about the impending zombie invasion is the situational madlib of humor & horror that occurs when soulless monsters take the place of “normal” humans doing “normal” human activities.
For example, a clown at an outdoor birthday party seem like a childhood cliché. Cake & balloon animals. Presents with bows and colorful streamers. But when Z-Day hits, this typical suburban scene turns into an absurd and terrifying display. Cannibal children pass over chocolate ice cream for the neighbor’s Scottish terrier. A decaying grease-painted clown greedily chews at spleen of the a parent slumped over the charcoal grill. No one’s even touching the cake!
Post-invasion, traditional culture and practice are immediately subverted, while our bodies continue wearing a costume of “normal” humanity.
Smaller confines result in an even faster spreading of zombism. As a survivor, there are few places to hide and remain protected. Rural areas work until the zombie hordes see your fire, hear your generator running or simply catch a whiff of your delicious brain. Eventually they will get though the fence, window, basement, back door or just pile on top of each other like a cannibal cheerleader pyramid until they reach you in the attic. Your house is not made of reinforced concrete, so the big bad zombie wolves will find a weak point and break through.
Your best bet remains in big box stores like Target or Walmart, since they can be locked securely and tend to have a sizable stock of preservative-heavy snack foods that won’t spoil for a couple of decades. After all of the sodas, twinkles and candy bars, you may develop diabetes but you yourself will not yet be zombie food.
Ideally, you want to find a prison for it’s maximum security locks, bulk food storage and acceptable cooking/living quarters, which leads me to the irony of the prison yard. Because of the close confines, prisons are highly susceptible to mass zombie infestation. One sickly guard is all it takes. So how do you clean out thousands of shoulder-to-shoulder zombie inmates? Who knows. What if the jail is free of the undead? Now, in order to get to the most secure safe house, you have to break in and coexist with the prisoners still locked inside.
Remember, there is no safe place after the zombie apocalypse. There will never again be a safe place.
“They’re coming for you, Barbara!” – NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD
