Eijo: George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead is a classic for many reasons — the graphic introduction of the modern image of zombies, a grim racially charged ending, a successful melding of horror and cinéma vérité (which would inspire the style of others including The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Alien, and Rec), and let’s not forget the classic movie line “They’re coming to get you, Barbra…” — but watching it for the gazillionth time last night I suddenly felt that there’s another reason why this film continues to haunt audiences: Night of the Living Dead is possibly one of the only films in cinema history to powerfully convey the existential horror of being “dead meat.”

We all like to believe we’re beautiful and unique snowflakes (with apologies to Chuck Palahniuk) and that our special-ness will somehow live on past death, which of course is the central concern of most religions as well as the defining philosophy behind burial rituals throughout history. (Egyptians of course had those fanciest of burials for their pharaohs, but in this day and age’s more capitalistic societies, anyone can spend cold hard cash to bury a loved one like royalty in a swank casket with hand-brushed Venetian bronze exterior, matching premium swing bars, and a hand-knit rose-tan velvet interior). So deep is the mystery of death that many of us deal with it in the only way we can, by tending lovingly to the remains of the person we once knew.

There is a dramatic (and shocking) difference between a living person and a dead body — including surprising physical changes as the nose often shifts position shortly before or after death, making the person slightly unrecognizable. And when that person stops breathing, when the heart stops beating, and the brain finally dies, there’s a definite sense that the person has left, and all that remains is a carcass. To the touch a corpse feels somehow fake.

It’s a scary thing to think that, no matter how special we are, it takes less than a moment for us to be reduced to meat and bones, and few movies have truly conveyed the horror of watching a living, vital, unique person transformed into a carcass within the blink of an eye. Night of the Living Dead makes a point of shoving dead meat right in our face.

The zombies, or the “living dead,” are themselves a slow lumbering kick to the nards of human civilization’s inherent reverence for the dead; rather than remaining in their comfy caskets where they belong, they begin walking among us, approaching us, even feeding off of us — forcing us to the tasteless task of physically fighting off our rotting neighbors or loved ones.

A news report midway through the film brings this theme front and center when a visibly shaken tv anchor interviews an uncomfortable “expert,” a government official by the name of Dr. Grimes who makes it clear that the days of respecting the dead are effectively over.

Dr. Grimes: The bodies should be disposed of at once, preferably by cremation.

TV Anchor: Well, how long after death then does the body become reactivated?

Dr. Grimes: It’s only a matter of minutes.

TV Anchor: Minutes? Well, that doesn’t give people time to make any arrangements–

Dr. Grimes: No, you’re right. It doesn’t give them time to make funeral arrangements. The bodies must be carried to the street and burned. They must be burned immediately.
Soak them with gasoline and burn them. The bereaved will have to forgo the dubious comforts that a funeral service will give. Uh, they’re just dead flesh.

Several scenes later, cute young couple Tom and Judy prove Dr. Grimes’s statement quite literally. After an intimate moment showing us just how cute and young and in love they are, Ted and Julie strike out into the night in order to fill up the gas tank of a pickup truck, but there’s an accident at the gas pump and the whole works explodes, flash frying them both in their seats. A few minutes later, the zombies stumble over to the wreckage and begin pulling the Tom and Judy’s charred remains out of the truck. We’re then treated to close-ups of zombies fighting over intestines, chewing on leg bones, gnawing the flesh off someone’s hand (not really sure if it’s Tom’s or Judy’s — am I wrong for wondering?). It’s pretty nasty stuff and a stunning display of irreverence for the dead, which even today feels downright subversive.

However, the most effective display of death’s inherent lack of sentiment comes at the very end, during the final moments of the credits when the film’s star Duane Jones, who has been mistaken for a zombie by a redneck posse and shot in the head, is lifted up on meat hooks and dumped upon a pile of bodies, then lit on fire.

While there’s certainly the racial component to the scene — Jones, the black star of the film is murdered with casual disregard by the band of gun-totin’ white boys — there is also the larger “dead meat” concept at work here: throughout the film, we’ve cheered Jones on as he’s fought to survive not only zombie attacks but also the idiotic tendencies of several of his living, breathing co-stars; he’s been innovative, brave, quick to think & quick to act, protective of other characters — in other words, a true movie hero. And yet, for all our empathy we’re rewarded with Jones’s meaningless death followed by the careless disposal of his corpse. Piled next to Jones’s body is the Cemetery Zombie, the first living dead character to appear in the film, which begs the unsettling question: an hour ago, one man was alive and the other was undead, but now they’re both just plain ol’ corpses — is there any difference between the two of them anymore? Aren’t they both, now, just dead meat?