Guilty Parties #1: There's Another One For the Fire.

Ahh...George A Romero.

I think it's pretty fair to admit that the Pittsburgh native had a pretty big influence on my writing. That might sound a little unusual, but I promise it isn't really. Despite being a prose writer, I am usually inclined to try and visualise the work that I write, pretty much as though viewing it and I'm pretty sure I can't be the only writer (there's that word again!) who works in such a way. A series of snapshots, images or entire scenes spill their way out of my head and onto my screen. I tend to see my characters and their surroundings, before trying to summon up the right words to best describe them. So the logic should follow that I have a strong appreciation for film that is rooted in my creative side.

When it comes to Romero, I was probably a bit of a latecomer to the party. I was about fourteen years old the first time I saw Night of the Living Dead. I recorded it from a late-night television airing and, in a stroke of pure rotten luck, it overran, meaning I missed the final ten minutes. In desperation, I bought a copy on VHS from my nearest branch of Forbidden Planet (yeah, I was underage, but back then that shop would recommend and sell you anything if you looked as though you'd dig it). It was the 1986 (?) re-issue, with the really - I mean really - shitty colorisation, meaning I had to compensate by turning the colour down on my television. But at least I got to see it in its entirety.

And I was floored. Hooked. Stunned, whatever word you want to use, I was it. You see, up until that point, I'd pretty much raised myself on a steady diet of old British horror movies, mainly Hammer and their ilk. Those old Cushing and Lee vehicles still hold a special place in a dark spot of my heart, for they served as a sound introduction to all manner of things macabre. A defining factor in almost all of the Hammer movies however, along with other British horrors of the the period, was that in the final scenes, good would triumph over evil. The bad would be vanquished and the viewer would be left safe in the knowledge that they could sleep well because, for the most part, everything was going to be okay. Good and bad were clearly defined, the monster was obvious.

And then in 1968, Romero killed that notion, with a grainy, no-budget feature, filmed with mainly amateur actors, props supplied by local butchers and chocolate sauce doubling up for blood.

Right from it's understated opening title sequence, where care is taken to overlay Romero's directorial credit atop a fluttering Stars and Stripes, there is foreshadowing to suggest that what is about to follow won't be your typical movie of the period. Instead, the director is about to wipe his arse with the core values represented by the flag. The wise-cracking male who we expect to be the obvious hero is killed off within the first five minutes, whilst his female counterpart is traumatised to the point where she spends much of her remaining screen time in a state of catatonia. There is no square-jawed Superman to leap in and save the day. Instead, the story that unfolds is populated by weak characters who bicker and squabble, making dumb, albeit human decisions that lead to their downfall. They are supported by news and political types, who act as though they know much whilst contributing little, along with posses of redneck locals, who would be happy to shoot just about anything that moves, and end up pretty much doing just that.

Oh yeah and, remembering that this is a sixties movie, the main heroic figure that remains is black. Personally, I think far too much has been made of any possible racial connotations over the years, but there's no denying that it's out there.
The film holds up a mirror to society, showing the viewer violence, cowardice, stupidity and other forms of ugliness that most people would choose to ignore, regardless of their inescapable presence. In Romero's world, the coward has the best chance of survival, the hero is punished for his ultimate stupidity, the family bond is no indicator of unity. This is a world devoid of happy endings.

​And that brings me to my point.

Night of the Living Dead gave me a new way of looking at things, a whole new outlook on the possibilities within the sandbox of genre fiction. It showed me a world where there are no good guys and no winners. I've been known to joke in the past, about how I must have some sort of allergy to happy endings. Whilst this is probably an exaggeration, I am averse to what I'd consider to be the unrealistic ending, to the Deus ex Machina, where everything is resolved for the best and the slightly flawed hero saves the day, usually getting the girl somewhere along the way. In the context of the story, the climax of NoTLD and, perhaps to a greater extent, Romero's 1985 sequel, Day of the Dead, provides the only satisfying outcome. I won't spoil them if you haven't actually seen them (I'll just wonder why you haven't), but just trust me. 

Putting any well-intentioned but ham-fisted satire to one side for a moment (yeah, the anti-consumerism messages - particularly in the sequels - are pretty blatant), Night of the Living Dead succeeds because of the image it portrays of the world. It shows a world where ultimately, people are too argumentative, too stupid, too selfish to survive. It shows a world of true horrors.

Not too much unlike the real world, actually.