From Zombos' Closet

Young Kids and Horror Movies Don't Mix

When I recently attended a very late showing of Dead Silence, I was amazed, appalled, and annoyed that a couple had brought in their baby. A baby. I wasn't annoyed that the baby cried now and then, I was annoyed that they thought it's okay to bring a baby to a horror movie.

It's not. Even if a baby isn't fully conscious of the action on screen, he or she can still hear it. And many horror movies, especially R-rated ones, are very loud and filled with unsettling music and noise that's simply not healthy for a baby or young child to experience.

Dumb and dumber doesn't even cover the mindlessness of parents taking babies and very young children to horror movies, let alone R-rated ones.

When I read this Arizona Daily Star article on the subject, I couldn't help but think how scared that 4-year old boy was, and probably will be for a long time. It's judgment-impaired parents like these that give horror movies a bad reputation.

Movie Review: The Flesh Eaters (1964) The First Gore Film?

Zombos Says: Good (but just barely)

Back in 1964, The Evil of Frankenstein, 2000 Maniacs, and Black Sabbath flickered across theater screens, as well as other notable horror movies. Then there's The Flesh Eaters; a B-Movie that, while not very good, is not all that bad. Written by Arnold Drake and directed by Jack Curtis , it combines pulp-dialog with a minuscule budget confining action to a small tent, a Long Island beach, and a few over the top characters.

With its neo-Nazi marine biologist, Professor Bartell, played with malicious glee by Martin Kosleck (I doubt he could play any other type of role), an All-American pilot named Grant Murdoch (Byron Sanders) who keeps taking his shirt off, Omar the beatnik (Ray Tudor), and glowing parasitic flesh-eating nasties stripping flesh from bone faster than you can yell “that's gonna hurt!” the movie is a fast and fairly fun 87 minutes. It's also touted as being the first gore movie by some reviewers, though that's debatable.

It opens with two frolicsome young people going for a dip, only the dip goes for them and they wind up picked clean down to the bone. Cut to the big city and Laura Winters (Rita Morley), movie starlet and lush, who, along with her comely assistant Jan (Barbara Wilson), needs a quick flight to Provincetown for one of her few acting gigs.

Enter Grant Murdoch with his square jaw, v-shaped torso, and cocky attitude. He piles the dames into his sea-plane and off they go, right into a bad storm, with a frozen gas line, too. He needs to land the plane fast and any island will do. He picks the one with the anti-social marine biologist and his parasitic pets. Murdoch moors the tipsy Ms. Winters on the beach first, then moors the plane. Bartel pops out of the water wearing his wet suit and frightens the melodramatic actress. Then she finds finds one frolicsome young person's skeleton on the beach, reigniting her melodramatics. Murdoch becomes suspicious of Bartell after the professor blames it on sharks.

They need to secure the tent against the coming storm. A few stock footage shots of crashing ocean waves later, Murdoch and Jan go for the luggage as the storm lightens up. Murdoch, in-between putting the moves on the curvaceous Jan, notices Bartel going the long way for supplies that were supposed to be just in back of the tent.

Winters, who desperately needs her ‘glass bottle’ luggage, designed by the Jack Daniel's company, slips into something a little more low-cut. Bartel starts putting the moves on her with a flat real-men-are-neo-nazi-marine-biologists line. She calls him a tin god. At this point, the dialog becomes either what did he say? bad or man, that's so bad it's funny bad.

She runs away from him and heads to the plane to slosh more liquor. More pulp-dialog kicks in again as she goes into a maudlin soliloquy Hamlet would be ashamed of. Finishing the booze she dozes on the beach. Bartel, meanwhile, continues his gloating when he comes across a lot of glowing fish skeletons. He also unties the mooring lines to the plane.

The next morning, Murdoch and Jan find Winters and the fish skeletons, prompting Murdoch to blame the actress for untying the plane in a drunken stupor, and telling Bartel "face facts, professor, we stumbled onto a living horror!" Winters, taking her dramatic cue, runs away in shame and grabs her luggage floating in the water. Murdoch races to stop her. She freezes on top of some rocks jutting out into that parasitic smörgåsbord and can't jump back over to him. Mr. All-American jumps over to her. He picks her up and attempts to jump back over the water-filled gap in the rocks—with her added weight. Bartel comes running over with a knife to slice off the chunk of Murdoch's leg skin which is now smoking and bloody and hurting like hell after he slips into the hungry devils . An unexpected gore effect and effective.

Gilligan—I mean Omar—the kooky beatnik now shows up on his rickety raft.

Is it me or do also think he looks like Tony Timpone from Fangoria magazine?

He sailes right into the flesh-eating parasite-filled water. They go after his beatnik sandals as Murdoch yells at him to "shut that big mouth of yours before you become a skeleton!" He makes it to the beach sans sandals. "Boy, that's one lovin' appetite, man," he remarks. Bartell becomes annoyed by Omar's jive talk.

Don’t we all.

Later, Murdoch and Jan come across a huge solar battery. Murdoch questions Bartel on its use and he tells them it's to power his equipment. Bartel suggests shocking the parasites with it and demonstrates the effect electricity has on them. He knows the effect is only temporary, but with the parasites stunned, he plans to leave the island. Alone.

Huge positive and negative cables are quickly run down to the water in preparation for electrifying the entire ocean with the 10,000 volt battery. While others are running cable to the beach, Bartel gives Omar a parasitic-cocktail. Omar's indigestion soon bubbles out of his gut in a bloody scene, ending his beatnik days for good.

As Bartel rigs up a fake death for Omar to fool the others, Winters discovers the shocked parasites in the tent are very much alive, and growing into something nasty. She knows Bartel knows, but now he knows she knows.

He kills her and buries her in the sand, but she still has one more performance in her.

A sailor approaches the island in a small boat only to get a splash of parasites in his face. Scratch one sailor. Another good gore effect, but randomly inserted into the story.

Murdoch and Jan confront Bartel. He pulls out a German Luger.

It’s at this point in the movie I realized Murdoch doesn't grow facial hair and Jan stays fresh as a daisy.

Bartel, now gloating over his success as an evil Neo-Nazi marine biologist, monologs about the Nazi experiments he researched on behalf of the U.S. government. (Included on the DVD is the cut flashback sequence illustrating those evil experiments with unclothed, nubile young woman, of course.)

Murdoch takes his shirt off again—not sure why—and Jan is sent back to the tent to get the lead containers the professor needs to store parasite samples. She see's the unexpected effect electricity has on the parasites as they: "have mutated into a monster beyond belief. A slimy, bloated thing!" but is too late in warning them not to shock the entire ocean.

In proper horror movie fashion, while impending doom approaches, they fight among themselves. Meanwhile, a way is discovered to kill the creature; Bartel gives some cockamamie pseudo-scientific "nucleus sensitive to hemoglobin" explanation. They create a weapon to deal with the creature soon to appear.

Then they go back to fighting among themselves.

In the kooky climax, Bartel gets his comeuppance, and Murdoch and Jan square off against the much bigger, terrifying-tentacled-ocean-monster. Be prepared to be amazed as you watch Murdoch standing in front of the creature's mouth. Its eye is about three stories above him. How he plunges his little weapon into it must be seen to appreciate fully.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you, anyway.

 

Movie Review: Dead Silence (2007) She Can Hear You Scream

Zombos Says: Good

The integration of J-Horror's ghost-styling with American Gothic picks up steam in Dead Silence. With a vengeful spirit ready to rip your tongue out if you scream, a cast of 101 nattily-dressed vent dummies, a decrepit theater, a cursed town with a dark secret, and classically-creepy, Dark Shadows kind of art direction filled with stone gargoyles, swirling fog, rainy nights, and rustling curtains, director and co-writer James Wan almost pulls it off. Almost.

Little things are missing; like some good old common sense motivations in-between all the game-styled imagery, and better performances from Donnie Wahlberg as Detective Jim Lipton and Ryan Kwanten as Jamie Ashen. Wahlberg plays Lipton as the standard wise-ass, I've-got-my-eyes-on-you detective, and Kwanten should have staid home and let his wife go for the Chinese food.

Opening with a retro-styled Universal Studios logo, and a scratchy opening credits montage dramatically scored by Jonathan Goldsmith, the film hits all the right artistic notes. Sound, from the memorable music to the distortion and fadeout of all sound just before a supernatural event, is used to wonderful effect here. Like a William Castle gimmick, it heralds the arrival of Mary Shaw or Billy, her insufferable best-boy dummy. I half-expected to see a flashing "cover your mouth now" message at the bottom of the screen.

Then there's the little ditty about Mary Shaw that's repeated onscreen, reminiscent of Curt Siodmak's 1941 The Wolf Man pseudo folk saying. It doesn't quite have the roll-off-the-tongue rhyme of Siodmak's, but it's not too shabby.

All these elements combine to make a visually enjoyable, if not quite sensible story. It all begins with a rainy night and a large package delivered to Lisa and Jamie. When Jamie opens it, they find a really creepy dummy inside. Right, then. Jamie's soon off to get some take-out even after both of them recall that whole Mary Shaw legend thingy that was used to frighten little kids in their home town of Ravens Fair.

Queue the thunder and lightning now, please. Lisa tosses a cover over Billy the dummy, but soon the dead silence comes and he's tossing a cover over her — and, oops, she screams, so out comes her tongue in nicely done J-Horror fashion. When Jamie returns with the food, he suddenly remembers all about that Mary Shaw legend. Great timing there, Jamie.

With Detective Lipton not buying Jamie's story about the legend, Jamie heads back to Ravens Fair to look for answers. Of course, instead of tossing that hideous reminder of his wife's death in the trunk, he props the little guy up in the front passenger seat so Billy can enjoy the view. You just know that little creep's eyes are going to move, too.

When Jamie hits Main Street, Ravens Fair is obviously a town on the skids and a place Lovecraft would call home. Jamie's apple-red car stands out against the blue-tinted color that permeates the town — and the entire film — as he heads to his family's estate. Barnabas Collins should have it so good. His family home is a Gothic mansion, flanked by gargoyles, fog, and inclement weather.

The meeting with his dad is brief and not very warm, and he declines to stay. He heads to the local Motor Inn, props Billy on a chair by the window, and nods off to sleep. Swear to god. You know what's going to happen, right? Queue the dead silence as Mary Shaw's corpse-like countenance (rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?) is glaring at him from behind a curtain.

He gathers his wits about him when the sound returns, and at the funeral for his wife, he meets the undertaker and his slightly daft wife Marion, who likes to hide from Mary Shaw in the crawlspace under the funeral parlor. She tells him to bury Billy pronto. Again. Apparently Mary Shaw had all of her dolls buried along with her. He drives to the cemetery, at night of course, and finds Billy's tombstone. A little dead silence doesn't stop him from burying Billy, but the little bugger refuses to stay buried.

Back at the Motor Inn, Lipton confronts Jamie and confiscates Billy, but in an incredible example of bad policing, Lipton, who took the room next to Jamie, leaves his door unlocked and Jamie takes Billy back and drives over to Henry, the undertaker, for a chat.

In a stylish flashback, we learn the story of how Mary Shaw performed at the old Guignol Theater on Lost Lake, got into a spat with an annoying kid at one of her performances, and was soon killed by angry townsfolk after the boy went missing. Judith Roberts as Mary Shaw is a classic monster in the making, and her Guignol Theater haunt is effectively imagined with lots of decay, cobwebs, and dark, secret places.

Henry's information sends Jamie to the abandoned theater on Lost Lake. While he's there, he discovers Mary Shaw's rooms, and more about the boy that dissed Mary Shaw's performance. Returning to his father's home for answers, a phone call from Henry sends Jamie back to the Guignol Theater with Lipton in hot pursuit. Or was it Henry?

Both men confront each other, and Mary Shaw, in the well-paced thunder and lightning climax at the top of the old Guignol Theater. Will Mary Shaw tongue-lash the both of them, or will she finally get her comeuppance? And whose hand is up whose back as Jamie comes to a horrifying realization about his part in all this?

Filled with classic imagery and moody set-design that is the hallmark of Universal Studios horror, Dead Silence is an effectively creepy and entertaining romp with a new and memorable monster. Hopefully, they'll put a little more commonsense storytelling in-between those imaginative scenes for the sequel and think of a more sensible ending, too.

But I'll hold my tongue until then.

Interview: Amy Gretch

An interview with author Amy Grech...

Why use literary horror as your writing voice? Why not sci-fi?

I’ve actually written some sci-fi stories with horrific elements, of course! My story EV 2000 is a futuristic horror story inspired by my fear of giving blood. I hate needles. I don’t discriminate! I write horror because fear is an emotion everyone can relate to — everyone gets scared — some people are afraid of rejection, or death, or thunder…Fear drives my characters, it’s a powerful motivator — it drives them to act on their primal instincts for better or worse.

I’ve also noticed that when a story is going well, my characters will take over and call the shots; more often than not, they do bad things, breaking more taboos than I can fathom. I’m just along for the wild ride as an innocent bystander.

You said "most of my stories focus on subtle horror." Can you explain what subtle horror is, and give us some examples, perhaps from cinema and literary sources?

Subtle horror typically involves a descent into madness, a gradual progression into the unknown. It’s important for my readers to relate to my characters before bad things start happening, that’s why I make sure all of my characters have their share of flaws and quirks. No one I know is perfect. Why should my characters be? I want my readers’ sense that something isn’t quite right to build gradually, so they’re not immediately aware of when the threat will appear.

David Lynch has been a great inspiration — I’ve seen all of his movies —Blue Velvet is a personal favorite of mine. One minute everything seems prefect, picturesque…Then we see a severed ear with ants crawling all over it and strange things start happening. All of Lynch’s films have a subtle, surreal feel. He does a great job of distorting reality, something I constantly strive for in my work. My stories are very visual — I think they would work well on the big screen…Hopefully some of them will be adapted for film.

Turn of the Screw by Henry James and Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein are two novels that contain evocative imagery and loads of atmosphere. Throughout Turn of the Screw references to eyes and vision emphasize the idea that sight is unreliable. In Frankenstein, dangerous knowledge is pivotal to story as Victor attempts to exceed human limits and access the secret of life. Likewise, Robert Walton attempts to surpass previous human explorations by endeavoring to reach the North Pole.

This ruthless pursuit of knowledge, of the light proves dangerous, as Victor’s act of creation eventually causes the destruction of everyone dear to him, and Walton finds himself perilously trapped between sheets of ice. Whereas Victor’s obsessive hatred of the monster drives him to his death, Walton abandons his treacherous mission, having learned from Victor’s example how destructive the thirst for knowledge can be.

I enjoy asking writers about their creative process. You've been writing successfully for a long time now. How did you finally get into the groove, and what challenges did you need to overcome to do that and stay groovy?

I grew up reading Stephen King’s novels —I got hooked at the age of 13 — and started writing seriously in high school. I studied English/Creative Writing at Ithaca College in Upstate New York. I started selling my stories to small press magazines while I was still in school —14850 Magazine was my first.

When I first started writing, rejections didn’t discourage me, especially since I started getting personal responses from Editors early on; their encouragement motivated me to find my unique voice and hone my craft, creating complex characters capable of anything.

I’m very disciplined: I write for at least two hours a day — listening to music helps me get into “the Zone,” that magical place where time seems to vanish while I’m hard at work on my latest project. I also carry a little notebook with me everywhere — it’s not unusual for me to jot down story ideas when I’ve got some downtime, I live in Brooklyn and commute to Manhattan often.

Authors, of course, are a big part of a writer's influences. But what about horror movies? Which movies do you love, which do you hate, and why

Movies I’ve seen at least 5 times because I love them so much are Blue Velvet, The Exorcist, Psycho, and the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I despise remakes — they’re usually horrible and pointless. Instead of ruining a good thing, Hollywood should re-release the classics for younger generations to enjoy.

Okay, now what about authors? Who inspires you, who doesn't, and why?

I’ve always been a fan of the Surrealists: Kafka, Lovecraft, Poe. Reading their stories always made my heart beat faster. I was hooked when my eight grade English teacher read Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart to the class on Halloween.

Several modern authors who inspire me are: Harlan Ellison, Jack Ketchum, Brian Keene, Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates; all of these writers have mastered the art of fine storytelling, breathing so much life into their characters that they feel like real people and I often find myself concerned for their welfare.

Whenever I tell people I’m a Horror Writer, some of the really misinformed individuals will smile and say, “Oh, like Anne Rice?” This causes me to shudder uncontrollably — I can’t stand Anne Rice’s writing — vampires bore me. Her characters always seemed one-dimensional to me. I know she has a loyal following, but that’s just my opinion.

Let's talk about Apple of My Eye, your thirteen-story collection. Tell us a little about the nature of the stories, what led up to them, and what it took to bring it all together.

Apple of My Eye represents 10 years worth of my stories; consequently, some of them, Apple of My Eye, Snubbed, and Crosshairs are quite extreme, while others are erotic, like Come and Gone and Cold Comfort. The rest of the stories are subtle, but they contain a few nasty surprises: Ashes to Ashes, Initiation Day, Prevention, Raven’s Revenge, Rampart, Perishables, Damp Wind and Leaves, and EV 2000.

You might say Apple of My Eye has something for everyone! The title is my twisted take on the term of endearment, “You’re the Apple of My Eye.” All of the stories explore love in all its guises.

Rejection! Lots of beginning writers face it. I'll assume you did, too. How did you deal with it and keep going?

Yes, in the beginning I got nothing but rejection letters, but they inspired me to keep writing, especially when Editors took the time to offer constructive criticism, which fortunately happened early on.

My advice to authors who are just starting out: Don’t give up — your diligence and persistence will eventually pay off, just be patient and your talent will be recognized.

I tend to think the horror writing field is an equal opportunity proposition for everyone. Am I right, or have you noticed a bloody ceiling of horror even here?

I’d definitely have to agree! One of the things I love about the horror writing field is the camaraderie — there’s a real sense of community. Horror Writers are some of the nicest people I know, mild-mannered, too! I’m an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association. I also frequent the Shocklines Message Board. All the cool writers are on LiveJournal, myself included

Don’t get me wrong, writing takes creativity, drive and ambition — every Horror Writer I’ve met so far is interested in what I’m working on and vice versa. I wish I had more money to attend conventions — they’re always a good time — I enjoy catching up with folks I already know and matching names to faces.

What are you working on now?

I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…No, seriously I’m working on several short stories. Amazon.com has a new program called Amazon Shorts; stories are available for download. Best of all it only costs 49 cents, a real bargain for some serious entertainment! One of my stories will be live on the site soon; it’s one of my quieter stories. I wrote it while I was still in college.

What's the one question you would love to be asked, and what's the answer?

What scares Amy Grech?

Lots of things: death, fear of rejection, and thunder are the big three…I’ve had a few near-death experiences — if I’m like a cat, that mean’s I have six left. I was born with my umbilical chord wrapped around my neck — I almost didn’t make it into the world; luckily the doctor did a C-Section and I live to tell the tale.

My second brush with death came on a hot summer’s day. I was across the street at my friends’ house; since it was so hot out, we were drinking tall glasses of iced tea. I remember running around with ice cubes in our mouths — not a good idea, but, hey, we were just kids. I guess we were about eight-years-old, having a good time until I choked on mine and blacked out. When I came to, my friend Karen told me my face had turned blue and her mother performed the Heimlich maneuver.

We used to have a big athletic event at my elementary school called Field Day, held at a park, which meant a break from classes and lots of fresh air. Well, I’ve always been a good sprinter so I ran the obstacle course. I had to clear some hurdles, but I missed one, landed on my head and blacked out for a second. Then I kept on running and won the race! Go team, go! Okay, lucky for me that last one really wasn’t a brush with death, but I could have snapped my neck. Landing on your head isn’t something I recommend!

Violent thunderstorms have always scared me, lightning, too. When I was a little girl, our house was hit by lightning…Thankfully nobody got hurt, but our stereo got fried. If I’d be asleep in bed and the thunder was so loud the windows rattled, I’d wake up and hide under the covers. And you wonder why I became a Horror Writer!

Visit her website http://www.crimsonscreams.com.

Book Review: Vampire Universe

Zombos Says: Very Good

There are days I wish I could recapture my youth, or maybe trade some of my heavy years now for those light ones happily spent not worrying about anything that wasn't comic book or monster-movie related. I'd trade a month here or there just to go back and hop on my red and chrome bicycle with the racoon tail, banana seat, and gleaming headlight that easily lit the dark ways of late-night rendezvous, with the neighborhood kids, in low or high beam.

I'd even trade weeks for the chance to visit Phil Seuling's comic book shop again. Just off of 86th Street in Brooklyn, it was the oasis to my daily desert-trek through Catholic school and the mundane world. You'd never quess that Phil taught English at the local High School, or that he knew so many wonderful people involved with those wonderful, spirit-lifting, awe-inspiring, and conversation-shifting movies in paper form, comic books. I'll never forget the time I met Roy Thomas either, or the issue of Submariner Number One he autographed for me; oh, and that issue of Conan the Barbarian Number One, too.

Funny enough, when I'd often bike over to Phil's shop and hang out, I'd leave with much more than just geeky chit-chat and prized copies of the latest FF, Spidey, Captain America, or Doctor Strange. Once I left with a leather-bound and really old set of Charles Dickens' complete works — needed help to get it home it was so big. Another time I left with Edgar Rice Burroughs' John Carter of Mars, Savage Pellucidar, and Carson of Venus paperbacks. They were really cheap; cover price was thirty-five cents. I still have Savage Pellucidar. Now and then I'll crack open those acid-browning pages and refortify myself by taking a good long breadth of the stuff that dreams are made of.

So you could say that Phil's comic shop was more than just comics for me. I developed a fondness for learning about new, fantastic things through books. Rummaging overstuffed shelves and boxes filled with books, and skilfully pulling books from teetering piles, all to perhaps discover a page here, a paragraph there, or luckily even a whole chapter, is an exuberance I've never tired of. When my luck would be so good as to find an entire book full of the incredible, I would snatch it up and race home in glory.

So the short of it is, that's why I like — no, love — books like Jonathan Maberry's Vampire Universe: The Dark World of Supernatural Beings that Haunt Us, Hunt Us, and Hunger for Us. It's the explorer, the discoverer in me that enjoys reading about creepy bumps-in the-night; and Maberry's book is filled with lots of these wonderfully creepy bumps and more. Jackpot!

Once Upon A Midnight Syndicate

Once upon a midnight nearing, while I bloggered weak and swearing,
Over some difficult and nagging reviews so endearing.
While I plodded long, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Which soon turned to violent rapping, rapping on my attic office window.

Tis only Mary Poppins," I muttered, rapping on my attic office window,
Soon I opened to receive my eager token, my fourth Dunkacinno and muffin.
Given to me unspoken, save for "tuppence a cup" and slight nod of the hat,
Soon off to the clouds she was in scant seconds flat.

Yes, distinctly I recall, it wasn't bleak December at all,
And each separate dying moment bled its seconds on the floor.
Leaving me to ponder, what damned thing waits yonder,
As I eagerly sought inspiration for more blogging,
Before the morrow brought more sorrow, and DVDs and books piled more deeply at my attic office door,
Beneath the pouting pallid bust of Hitchcock, perched above my file drawer.
Foreboding, tilting piles towering higher and higher, evermore.

Ah, that constant pressure to blog and better, thrilled me, chilled me,
Filled me with fantastic terrors never writ before.
So that now to still the sipping of my fourth Dunkacinno cup almost tipping,
I sat and said, repeating, "Should I buy it on Amazon, and order more?"
And add to those tilting towering piles, evermore?

Presently my blogging grew stronger, realizing now that no longer,
I sit alone on this night's UPS delivery shore.
For certainly, most faintly, sultry whispers spoke most plainly, just beyond my attic office door,
Telling me most distinctly, in words worth repeating so succinctly,
"Yes, buy it on Amazon, my precioussss, and order more!"

Suddenly there came a knocking, a peculiar sound most shocking, upon my attic office door.
Slowly it opened, and from the darkness leering, a skull and bony hand soon nearing,
Handing me The Thirteenth Hour and whispering in raspy, bony sibilance to abhor,
"Buy Midnight Syndicate on Amazon, it's a creepy, spooky score!"
Not merely this, but there is still so much more.

Back into the darkness leaving, soon I heard a creaking, stirring,
Coming from the trapdoor nestled secretly in the floor.
Up poked a scary face, one that would leave no hint nor trace of sympathy for sure,
In words softly spoken, through cracked teeth all sorely broken,
She handed me Midnight Syndicate's Gates of Delirium, and hissed "Tis no Ilium, but
It's an eerie, certainly not cheery, creepy, spooky score!
Buy it on Amazon, but not merely this, there's still so much more!"

Then there came a melody, at once compelling and mysterious, coming from the open closet door.
Followed by a stirring, as something most repelling, stretched forth its long scaly limb in colors most obscure.
Waving in my face a copy of Out of the Darkness, it implored,
With background sounds of misty nights, and tombs yet to be explored,
"Buy Midnight Syndicate on Amazon, it's a creepy, spooky score!"
What's more there's this, and so much more.

Startled at the stillness broken by words so eloquently spoken, I took the disc
And played their children's music of the night.
Then upon my fanny sinking, I sat there wondering, pondering, thinking,
Deeply listening, lost amid those symphonic sounds of charnel things I so adore.

And those piles of DVDs and books, never flitting, still are growing, still not quiting,
As the pouting pallid bust of Hitchcock pouts even more.
And his eyes twinkle with all the seeming, of a reviewer that is dreaming,
Of untold treasures whose shadows throw their promises across the creaking floor.
And my blog from out those shadows darting over the floor,
Shall be written — ah, evermore,
As I go once more to Amazon, to surely order more.

Tap Dancing to Hell and a Pot o'Gold Part 2 Black Sunday (1960)

Part 1 

Zombos Says: Classic

"Well this is just swell," I said. "Now we've lost Chef Machiavelli."

"He cannot have gone too far ahead." Zombos shone his flashlight down the tunnel on the left.

We were standing in the second large chamber of the perpendicular brick Gothic-arched basement that ran like a rabbit's warren beneath the mansion and toward the beach. Expanded by the original owner of the mansion before he went insane, the basement was a mosaic of tunnels and vaulted rooms running from and connecting to three large circular chambers with vaulted ceilings. Before the expansion, boot-leggers used the tunnels to run hootch during Prohibition, and before them, pirates used the beach tunnels to hide their rum and booty. The plumber was not in the boiler room, but the good thing was we now had heat. He must have gotten lost heading back upstairs.

"Well then, let us go this way," said Zombos. "Take a note: we really need to replace these burned-out light bulbs." He pointed to the many dark spots in the string of lights strung along the walls of the basement. There were a lot of dark spots because no one liked coming down here, especially me, to replace them.

A few yards into the tunnel he tripped over something sticking out of the dirt floor. He swung the light over as he picked himself up. It was an arm. In the clenched fist were daisies. We looked down and saw a large patch of bright yellow daisies growing all around the elbow.

"Good lord! Pull man, pull!" We grabbed hold of the arm and pulled as hard as we could. Together we unburied the plumber.

"What the hell! I'll murderlize da bum," spat the plumber, along with some daisies. He pulled himself out of the dirt the rest of the way, spitting daisies from his mouth and brushing dirt off his clothes.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I got tha boiler workin'," said Curly Joe. "Then I'm packin' up and I hear dis voice comin’ from one of the tunnels. Nice, sexy voice, you know, just like Barbara Steele sounds like. I go lookin' and the next thing I know a little guy is cursin' me and I'm cursin' him back. Last thing I remember is I'm tellin' him he's goin' ta be pushin' up daisies if he keeps yellin' at me and bam, I'm spittin' up daisies and dirt."

"This isn't good," I said. "It sounds like—"

"Did you say Barbara Steele?" interrupted Zombos.

"Yeah, ya know that sultry knockout horror dame. I know they often dubbed her voice in those eye-talian movies, but that voice made me think of her. Just watched Black Sunday last night, too."

"Now's not the time to discuss—"

"Oh, right, The Mask of Satan, also known as Black Sunday. I say, a capital Italian Gothic horror movie," said Zombos. "In fact, we were just discussing Barbara Steele in Castle of Blood before we found you. Good thing we did—find you, that is."

"Speaking of Mario Bava's evil witchcraft-laced Black Sunday," continued Zombos, "I am simply amazed at his use of rolling camera work and cobwebbed framing to create a modestly budgeted masterpiece of the supernatural. It is the quintessential Italian Gothic. The movie is a licorice and vanilla confection, filled with sugary, gamboling fog, bitter, dark chocolate forests stuffed with dead trees whose crunchy branches clutch at unwary travelers, and landscapes overflowing with the cream of foreboding."

I looked at Zombos. Curly Joe looked at Zombos. I leaned against the slimy brick wall and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible: we were going to be there for a while.

 

Whenever you have a large muscular, sweaty guy heating up a branding iron in a brazier, other hooded guys holding smoking torches, and no marshmallows or guitars in sight, you know something evil is afoot. Princess Asa (Barbara Steele) has been a naughty witch and vampire, and her relatives have called this little crisis-intervention to hammer some sense into that beautiful, but evil head of hers. She'd rather they didn't do the hammering with that wicked, multi-spike bronze mask, of course, but family never listens, right? That chilling close-up of the inside of the mask, with all those long, sharp spikes, doesn't thrill her, either.

As the big muscular guy walks over with a hammer that would put Mjolnir to shame, the mask is held over her terrified face. Her accomplice, Javutich (the naturally creepy-looking Arturo Dominici is back again), already had his facial so he's enjoying the snooze of the damned. She, understandably, curses everybody in sight before the mask is pounded down with verve, sending blood sprays out around its edges. For the 1960s this was strong stuff, even after clipping some minutes for the American market.

Two-hundred years later, her curse is about to descend on her descendants as two travelers— the usual academic men-of-science who are also quite clumsy—stumble on her tomb and unwittingly release her vengeful spirit.

Where would horror movies be without them?

Making their way through the dark, mist-shrouded forest, a wheel pops off the coach. To kill time while the coachman attends to the ‘flat,’ they explore the surrounding woods and come across the ruins of an old church and cemetery. Dr. Gorobec (John Richardson) and Dr. Kruvajan (Andrea Checchi) find Asa's tomb and dutifully remove all the protections that have locked her undying spirit in her crypt for two centuries in their examination of it. The scenes of the church ruins, the cemetery, and the crypt are scened like illustrations in a child's sinister fairy tale. They are surprisingly ‘literary,’ effectively dismal, and eerie as the rim of the somber sky merges into the bleak forest. When the two doctors enter the crypt, the camera swings three-sixty to highlight the decay, cobwebs, and charnel artifacts of her abandoned resting place, bringing out every decrepit nook and cranny to perfection before returning to them.

Before leaving, Dr. Kruvajan makes sure to cut his hand and bleed over the princess' exposed corpse, releasing drops of blood that will start her revivification. Mario Bava's practical use of special effect lighting makes the transformation of the putrid corpse to voluptuous witch-woman—even with those large holes in her face—a morbid delight to watch. Egg yolks, rice, and lighting filters to highlight different colored makeup layers on her face create an inexpensive but highly effective transformation. A similar process was used on Frederick March in Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde for his startling change into the amoral Hyde using color makeups, undetectable in a black and white movie.

The beautiful Katia (Barbara Steele in a dual role) greets the two doctors as they exit the tomb. Bearing a striking resemblance to her ancestor, Asa, she will become the target for the evil witch's rebirth. Cue the romantic music first, however, as Dr. Gorobec immediately takes a fancy to her. In no time at all, the evil Asa revives her cohort, Vivutich, and begins her plan of revenge.

Her first order of business is to frighten the life out of the current prince, Katia's father, who holds title to the family castle, then lure Dr. Kruvajan to her and wring the rest of his blood from him. With them under her control she will possess the body of Katia. While she's still reviving in her tomb she sends Vivutich to do her dirty work.

The attack on the prince (Ivo Garanni), Katia’s father, begins with the large fireplace opening to reveal a secret passageway to Princess Asa's tomb. The spectral presence of Vivutich charges forth, knocking down the suits of armor lining the hallway as he invisibly makes his way up to the bedroom where the cowering prince waits in dread for the evil by night. The prince wards off the attack with a crucifix, but he's driven nearly insane by the encounter.

Next, in dreamlike slow-motion, Vivutich races through the mist-choked forest in a black rococo-styled coach to bring Dr. Kruvajan to Asa. The good doctor falls into the trap, and after a bumpy coach ride, he is led, unknowingly, through the castle and the secret passageway, back into the tomb where it all started. This sequence, with Vivutich leading the way holding a lantern, from beginning to end, encapsulates the gloominess of Gothic horror with its stark black and white imagery depicting the eldritch tableau, with Dr. Kruvajan running to catch up only to find the lantern no longer held by Vivutich, but hovering in mid-air as the door to Asa's tomb slowly opens. Kruvajan never knew what hit him.

Princess Asa executes her final plan of conquest. The castle is overrun with evil as servants are killed and Dr. Gorobec and Katia's brother square off against Vivutich in a final confrontation involving a big nasty hole in the floor. Meanwhile, Katia is lured to and trapped in the witch's tomb, while angry villagers, in grand Universal Studios horror tradition, light the torches and storm the castle to confront the evil in their midst.

 

"I say, what is that?" asked Zombos.

"What?" I said.

"There, at your feet." Zombos pointed. A little opening had appeared where I was leaning against the wall. My shoulder must have pressed some hidden mechanism.

He shone his flashlight into the opening. I reached in and pulled out a wooden box. I opened it.

"How odd. They are tap dancing shoes," said Zombos, holding up the pair of shiny black shoes. "They look like my size. I do not know why, but I simply must try them on."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Didn't you see Red Shoes?" He didn't listen.

"Incredible. They are absolutely comfortable. I almost feel like I could tap dance forever in them. I have always wanted to tap dance, you know, ever since I was a little boy. Father would have none of it."

His right foot started first, then his left, and pretty soon he was doing a paddle and roll.

"I thought you said you didn't know how to tap dance?"

"I do not!" Zombos was now doing the shim sham shimmy.

"You better take those off."

"I cannot! I cannot stop myself!"

I motioned to Curly Joe to grab him around the arms while I reached for his shoes, but Zombos was already shuffling down the tunnel to the Susquehanna three-step before I could untie them.

"Zoc, Zoc, stop these crazy things!" he cried as he disappeared into the distance.

Curly Joe and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and raced after him.

Part 3

Tap Dancing to Hell and a Pot o'Gold Part 1 The Living and the Dead Castle of Blood (1964)

Zombos Says: Very Good

"More hot chocolate please," I said to Chef Machiavelli.

He put down the large and very sharp looking knife he was using to fillet the eel for his incredible eel livornese and refilled my cup. His hot chocolate is exquisite; filled with little lumps of white vanilla, a little anisette, and lots of dark, sweet chocolate. It's the perfect warmer-upper. I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for the plumber to find the problem with our recalcitrant boiler. He was sure taking his time.

"I will take a cup, too," said Zombos joining us to bask in the warmth coming from the brick oven. "I wonder what's taking the plumber so long."

"You did give him the map?" I asked.

"Yes, of course. I do not want to lose another plumber down there. They are skittish as it is. Lucky for us this fellow is new." He sipped his hot chocolate.

It was so hard trying to get plumbers to come out to the mansion; even harder keeping them once they saw our basement. The labyrinthine passages and rooms below us would give even Erik, the poor suffering Phantom of the Paris Opera, a run for his money.

While we waited, I looked at the long, gleaming knife Chef Machiavelli was using. I found it fascinating that a sharp implement can slice through atoms and molecules, severing their tenuous connections so easily—and the whole concept of self-sharpening was beyond me.

"How is the time doing?" asked Zombos.

We looked at our watches.

"Merda!" cursed Chef Machiavelli. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his eel-skin wallet. He handed Zombos five dollars.

"I'm still good," I said as Zombos tucked the fiver into his shirt pocket with a grin.

"We will see about that," he said.

We had placed bets on when the plumber would be done and Chef Machiavelli's chosen time had passed. I was still on target, though. I crossed my fingers. I really hate losing a bet to Zombos: he was rich enough.

"This wagering reminds me of that horror movie, Castle of Blood, where the journalist bets he can stay in a haunted castle for the night," I said.

"I remember that movie." Zombos sipped his hot chocolate. "Barbara Steele is in it."

"Yes, and gamboling fog as the journalist enters the Poor Devil Inn—how apropos," I continued. "When he comes upon the table where Edgar Allan Poe (Silvano Tranquilli) and the owner of the haunted castle are discussing the reality of the supernatural, he can't help but listen and take the wager of staying overnight in that place where no one has survived the stay. Soon they're off to the castle and the journalist's misadventure with the undead begins."

 

Early Italian supernatural horror movies are often atmospheric and filled with dread, from the music to the melodramatic storyline, and Antonio Margheritti directs Castle of Blood with classic Gothic imagery in vivid black and white to increase the menace.

Arriving at the castle, the stalwart journalist Alan Foster (Georges Riviére), a man of reason and science, is about to have his wits reshuffled. Bad enough he has to spend a night in a decaying castle on All Soul's Eve, but after pushing his way through the tall wrought iron gate, he has to walk through an overgrown and fog-filled cemetery to make his way to the castle entrance.

What the hell is that black cat doing jumping in between the tombstones?

Playful black cats in cemeteries in the dead of night are always unsettling. The movie hasn't kicked quite into gear yet and already my pants would be flying through the air and out the gate--with me in them.

Foster continues onward and pokes around in the empty horse stable for a few minutes. Riz Ortolani's music rises and falls in strident tones from somber, foreboding strings as Foster methodically makes his way through the cemetery, the stable, and eventually into the castle. In this opening sequence, the Gothic images of death, bad luck, and wind-tossed barren tree branches merge into a dark, spook show chiaroscuro.

Ignoring all these dire portents, he finds a taper, lights it, and boldly proceeds up the front steps into the dark recesses of the castle. Doffing his cape and lighting candles, he begins to explore. The absence of music as he walks through the rooms allows his footsteps to be heard, accentuating his aloneness.

Suddenly the grandmother clock—its pendulum unmoving—chimes the half-hour before midnight. He goes to investigate and is puzzled to find no movement or ticking sound from the clock. The sounds of a party coming from the other room draw his attention, but he finds only an empty room with a dust-covered clavichord. He lights more candles. Yeah, I'd light more candles, too, at this point.

He tickles the keys on the clavichord. Why does everyone in a haunted house or spooky castle movie always insist on playing the cobwebbed piano or organ, or clavichord in this case, after some phantom melody plays? Elizabeth’s (Barbara Steele) hand on his shoulder startles him. Here begins the true art of the Italian ghost story movie: the soap-opera relationships and bawdy entanglements leading to sinister and tragic events.

She tells him about her brother, the man he wagered with, and why her brother does it—to make sure she has a companion for one night out of the year. She, apparently, is "looking for happiness with the man I love." Foster falls for her seductive charms hook, line, and sinker, then Julia (Margarete Robsahm) shows up. The women start fighting over him, so he retires to a bedroom, wondering at his newfound popularity with dead women.

Of course, he doesn't know they're dead until Elizabeth sneaks into his room and they start kissing passionately while Julia steams outside, listening to their ardor. When Foster can't find a heartbeat, Elizabeth let's him in on the secret: she's dead and has been for ten years. Before it all registers, Herbert, the strapping beefcake stable boy barges in and stabs Elizabeth to death. Foster whips out his pistol (shame on you for thinking that!) and shoots Herbert dead. The stiff upper lip of the journalist finally starts to tremble as he blinks and finds himself alone again, with no bodies sprawled on the bedroom floor. Frantically searching for Elizabeth he runs into Doctor Carmus (Arturo Dominici).

Carmus tells Foster about death and dying and the restless spirits of the castle: Elizabeth, Julia and Herbert. We and Foster see events replay themselves, revealing the macabre dance of death that has doomed the castle's over-heated ghosts to walk its empty hallways for one night every year.

Now take a deep breath. Ready? Here we go.

Herbert and Elizabeth had a love affair going on while Elizabeth's husband was away. When he returned, she told Herbert they couldn’t see each other anymore. He gets mad and tries to murder Elizabeth and her husband while they're making love. Julia barges in and murders him before he can kill Elizabeth. With two male bodies on the floor, Julia puts the moves on Elizabeth, prompting Elizabeth, who’s also been doing a little dallying with Julia, to end that relationship abruptly. Three bodies are now sprawled on the floor, but there’s still one more to go.

Doctor Carmus tells Foster he must escape before the sun rises, otherwise the dead in the castle will feast on his "fountain" of blood so they can spend another night viva la dead loco. Elizabeth, who started this whole mess, wants to help him escape. She rushes to Foster's side as the others try to trap him in Herbert's crypt, with the deadly ghosts appearing from mist entering through the gap between the locked crypt door and the floor. Will Foster escape? I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.

 

"I say," said Zombos, "it is getting rather late. We better go find that plumber and make sure he has not gotten himself lost."

We grabbed flashlights from the cupboard. The basement lighting was terrible in some spots. Chef Machiavelli grabbed his biggest, sharpest knife.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"Molti ratti," he replied, swinging the knife up and down.

Zombos looked at me. We looked at Chef Machiavelli.

"You go first," we said together.

Part 2 

Night of the Living Dead (1968) When the Monsters Are Us

See the movie pressbook and insurance policy.

Zombos Says: Classic

"What is it about zombies?" asked Zombos. He put aside his cup.

"I'm not sure I follow you," I said. Shadows from the long day drifted lazily on the floor of the solarium. I had been trimming the corpse plants and orchids while he sipped his late afternoon coffee. Philosophical musing can be a dangerous thing, especially when rattling around in a head like his with nothing to cushion its impact against the inside of his thick skull. The vision of a ball-bearing cracking the side of a glass sprang uppermost in my mind. I'd rather be a poor servant to a poor master then have to listen to Zombos' philosophical ruminations, rare though they are.

"Who would have thought," he continued, "that zombies, those rotting corpses prone to consuming mass quantities of, well, mostly living people, would provide such a large pile of compost to fertilize thought and discussion."

"Take individualism or community in George Romero's movies, for instance," said Zombos. I accidentally snipped the rare marifasa lumina lupina in half. I wisely put down my shears as Zombos continued. A cold chill ran down my back as clouds blocked the sun and the complacent shadows on the solarium floor scattered to oblivion.

"Individualism does contribute to higher body counts in horror movies," I said.

"Let me think. The zombies consume people, the people are themselves consumed by fear, which makes them ad hoc a social contract that, due to their individualism, they ineptly engineer. In the end, unable to become a living community that can defend itself against the more socially-bonded—but dead—growing community of zombies, the hasty and shaky social contract crumbles, leaving the dwindling living community to revert back to their ineffective individualistic states of actions, which backfire and they all end up being eaten in no time. I say, Zoc, good call on that one. It does appear that community is the better way to go when surrounded by zombie hordes."

"Good evening," said Uncle Fadrus, joining us. I poured a cup of coffee for him, relieved he would now take over the philosophical dialog with Zombos. I turned my attention back to trimming the plants.

"Thank you, Zoc. What happened to that beautiful marifasa orchid? You didn't let Zombos trim it, did you?" He laughed. "Zimba is going to show me your wonderful Long Island shopping malls today."

"Speaking of malls," said Zombos, "that reminds me of the consumerism innuendo Romero plays with in Dawn of the Dead."

"Yes, that's quite an image, isn't it? The dead dying to get in, though they don't know why, and the living just dying to shop." Fadrus was also an ardent horror movie fan. “I suppose if I were doomed by a zombie apocalypse I’d want to be holed up in large shopping mall. Go down shopping, that’s for me. Better a mall in Texas, however, as I’d like to have sufficient ammo and guns, too. May as well make a good fight of it. Have you thought about the paradox inherent in all this zombie business?”

"What paradox?" asked Zombos.

"Death, my friend. The grim blackness of no return. The great question mark of life. The paradox is why we embrace death's imagery so avidly where zombies are concerned. Posit this: which is worse, death being the end of all things for you, or death leading to an endless, consumerist, mindless need, never satisfied? Made worse by partial memories of your living life gnawing at you while you rot away forever."

Zombos rubbed his chin. "Heidegger's angst, eh?"

"A little, perhaps.”

"I think I understand,” said Zombos. “You mean the value of personality when it no longer exists, or partially exists in another form that is more alien than familiar. Like a person suffering from Alzheimer's disease or mental disease. What of the soul, then? Is it there, where does it go? How does it survive the physical and mental battering of life? That uncertainty can be overwhelming."

The long day turned grayer. Zimba's voice called to her uncle, and soon they were off to the malls. Zombos sat quietly in his chair, looking into the dusk, hoping to see well beyond it. I poured another cup of coffee for him, and continued to trim the orchids as long as the fading light permitted.

 

The year 1968 was filled with tumultuous change. Political and social unrest divided the country, and the violent change brought about by assassinations, riots, and a war that provided no avenue for victory would alter American culture and thinking in ways both better and worse in the years to come. The horror movies at the box office included The Conqueror Worm with Vincent Price, Rosemary's Baby with Mia Farrow, Dracula Has Risen From the Grave with Christopher Lee, and Night of the Living Dead with zombies.

Lots of them.

In 1968 I was twelve years old. At the time, I didn't realize how important that movie was and still is, or how it would change forever the pantheon of fictional monsters to create a sub-genre that would provide the fodder for legions of undead, flesh-eating ghouls to roam across the landscape in countless movies. Zombies have been parodied, satirized, gory-ized, psychoanalyzed, sexed up, sexed down, and alternately made mindless and mindful ever since, but it all popped from those rotting heads in 1968.

I wasn't prepared for the sudden turn in cinematic horror from "rubber monsters, cardboard gravestones or hands groping in the shadows" as Alan Jones describes it in his book, The Rough Guide to Horror Movies. Up until then, I had watched in cozy comfort as man-made monsters, vampires, and various aquatic wild-life tried to wreak havoc in an ordered universe; only to be stopped in the end by the triumph of scientific reason, religious belief, and when all else failed, a pointy piece of wood, or the trusty military might of the army, navy, or air force.

But director George Romero and writer John Russo changed all that. No longer could the monster be contained, controlled, or avoided by day. The ordered universe was no longer neat and tidy, and it refused to be subject to man's laws or scientific codexes or heroic deeds.

And the monsters were us!

We were mindlessly devouring each other and infecting each other in gruesome ways in a suddenly nihilistic universe governed by godless quantum shifts.

I first watched Night of the Living Dead at an evening showing at the Benson Theater in Brooklyn. Afterward, the long walk home was fraught with shadows of zombies lurching from every doorway and side street. For the next two weeks I took baths at night with the door locked. I became one of those kids Roger Ebert wrote about when he watched the movie for the first time, in a theater packed with kids. I don't think we really knew what hit us. No ghouls before this had eaten people, leaving a bloody mess behind that could stand up and start walking. This was little girl ghouls killing and eating their parents. Worst of all, even the hero got killed. Real terror was felt in movie theaters across America. We weren't prepared for this. Frankenstein was undead, but at least he didn't go around eating people. Dracula was undead, but he just sucked the life blood out of you without chewing a body part or two. These ghouls were next-door-neighbor ghouls, they were unrelenting monsters beyond all hope of redemption. And religious icons, voodoo rituals, wolfbane, military might, and scientific knowledge were powerless against them.

You bet we were terrified.

Much has been written on the racial and cultural overtones—or supposed overtones—in the movie, even though Romero and  Russo may not have been fully cognizant of them at the time. In Pretend We're Dead: Capitalist Monsters in American Pop Culture, Annalee Newitz builds a solid case for drawing parallels between Night of the Living Dead and DW Griffith's 1915 film, Birth of a Nation :“Night is in many ways an updated version of Birth, except this time around the upwardly mobile black man is the film's hero, rather than its locus of evil and terror... Ben is a black man with power in a white-dominated society; he is also, like Silas, ultimately destroyed for it.”

Take away the racial overtones and capitalistic corporate undertones that permeate the film (how many cubical zombies surround you?) and what you’re still left with is palpable horror. The horror of the unknown suddenly reaching out for you, unreasoning horror that knows no surcease for sorrow, no pitying the fool, and no god to succor you. It’s horror twisting your daily routine into a hopeless knot, leaving you with no sun-will-come-out-tomorrow to look forward to because Little Orphan Annie would be a zombie, too.

The movie starts with Johnny and Barbra, brother and sister, driving to a bleak and deserted cemetery to lay a wreath on their father's grave. The eerie, cobbled together music, bits and pieces of existing music were used, warns you this will not be a familiar horror movie. When Johnny's "they’re coming to get you Barbra" joke backfires, the action quickly escalates from the cemetery to the bleak, isolated house in the woods. Black and white, grainy texture, and the closeness of the scenes exacerbate the “realness” and seriousness of the walking corpses congregating at the small house.

But it’s not only a practical refuge; it represents the American dream of home and security and the happiness you’re supposed to get from attaining it. Romero films the house in noir style with ominous shadows lurking in every corner and stark contrasts accentuating the dire situation. This house is not a safe haven. It’s a potential death trap, slowly surrounded by lumbering corpses looking for their next meal. At least with vampires you have to invite them in before they can attack.

Barbra meets Ben at the house. Ben is the only African American in the film, and he has to contend with an all-white zombie jamboree outside, and more distraught white people hiding out in the basement of the house. He happens to be the only rational, cool under fire individual in the group, too. He forages around to find whatever he can to board up the place, all the while dealing with an increasingly catatonic Barbra, and a really annoying white guy named Harry, whose wife and daughter are holed up in the basement, along with a young couple. Harry's daughter was bitten by one of the undead, so you know where that is going to lead; but back in 1968, we didn't know. It’s when Barbra climbs the stairs and discovers the home-owner, or what's left of her, that I and every other kid realized this was not going to be a fun ride. There would be no safe thrills and chills here. No Ed Wood undead Tor Johnsons or Vampiras shambling about. The situation grew grimmer by the minute and there was no Van Helsing in site, no Castle gimmick to chuck popcorn at.

Harry's one great idea is to stay locked in the basement. Ben wants to fortify the house, and have avenues of escape if necessary. Outside, the zombies gather in greater numbers, waiting, while the two men bicker and fight for control of an uncontrollable situation.

Throughout this ordeal, key icons of control and salvation come into play: the radio, the television, and the gun. More than once "we'll be all right until someone comes to rescue us," is spoken. In today's post-Katrina world, we know differently; but back in 1968 we didn't know.

Romero closes in on the Zenith radio as the news (horror host Bill “Chilly Billy” Cardille plays a field reporter) describes the growing civil disaster as a mass murder spree by persons unknown, and the bodies of victims are found to have been partially eaten.

I really wanted to go for popcorn then, but I was too afraid to leave my theater seat.  I wonder how many kids pissed their pants that day?

A television set is soon discovered, and everyone eagerly gathers round to listen and watch as newscasters discuss what the hell is happening with concerned scientists, the puzzled military, and local good-old boy militias. A humorous, and still timely scene has the news reporter hounding a scientist and military commander leaving a high-level Washington meeting, only to have the scientist warn about the seriousness of the situation, while the military person  downplays it with a "we don't really know yet" attitude. Boy, how often have we heard that even today?

The television provides an anchor of technology in a world gone mad, and they cling to it for succor; as the mother observes, as long as there's "some kind of communication, authorities will send help." Pretty soon the situation escalates to the point where the newscaster reverses his first recommendation to stay put, and tells listeners to head to a safe location near them as soon as possible. The National Guard protected locations are flashed at the bottom of the television screen as Ben devises a plan to take the truck and gas up from a pump just a few feet away. There's just the problem with those two dozen or so zombies standing in the way to be taken care of. Tom and Judy, the young couple, argue over why Tom has to be the one to help Ben. Tom puts it rather well when he says "it's not like a wind passing through. We've got to do something and fast." He hops in the truck to drive it to the gas pump, while Ben wards off the undead with a flaming table leg used as a torch. Judy decides at the last minute to join them, but things go from bad to worse when the truck catches fire. Tom and Judy wind up barbecued in the ensuing fireball as Ben hustles back to the house, only to be locked out by Harry. He breaks the door down to get back inside, and shoots Harry for almost getting him killed.

Now comes the Tom and Judy a la carte scene, and it is here that horror films were forever changed. In a graphically gory scene by 1968 standards, the zombies reach into the truck and grab a hand-full of roasted human remains, then chow down in stark, nauseating close-ups. I was glad I didn't go for that popcorn now. With the taste of human flesh in their mouths, the zombies head for the house and start breaking in. Mom retreats to the cellar, where she is promptly killed by her daughter with a trowel, in a brutal scene that was quite shocking for me and the other kids to witness. The fact that she was snacking on her dead dad before she kills her mom was also another taboo broken. Barbra, in yet another taboo-breaking scene, is pulled through the door to her doom by her now undead brother, the one person she apparently relied on for her protection and security.

And Ben, who did not want to retreat to the basement, now has no other option and locks himself in the basement.

He has to shoot mom and dad as they become hungry undead themselves. Society and its precepts fall apart as the zombies fill the house, looking for their next living victim. When morning comes, Ben is still alive, but in an ironic twist of faith, his rescuers, the all-white militia patrolling the woods to kill zombies, kill him with a bullet to the head in the mistaken belief that he is a zombie. So no one survives; not even the upwardly mobile and educated Ben.

That was a real downer.

I left the theater that evening shaken, and no longer secure in the commonplace. George Romero had brought ghastly horror home, both figuratively and literally, and the course of future horror films would follow the same path, to the dismay of parents and censors in the decades since then, and probably for the decades to come. Night of the Living Dead stands as a classic horror film because it deals with social and cultural themes as they existed in 1968, and more importantly, as they still exist today, but didn’t realize it at the time.