Zombie Purism: My Creepy Creature Can Beat Up Your Creepy Creature!

Continuing with the theme of terrifying creatures – how about them zombies?

Particularly, how about the representations of zombies in film? Even more particularly – should zombies walk, or should they run?

Now, the debates about walking vs. running are at the surface of zombie purism, yet at the heart of it also lies the eternal question of dead vs undead. For example, certain people will scoff at you and refuse to invite you to their garden parties if you call the infected in 28 Days Later & 28 Weeks Later “zombies.”

This is because zombies popularized by George Romero (and ancient legends) have all reanimated. They were once alive, then dead, now they’re neither alive nor dead. Those infected with the Rage virus, as presented in the aforementioned movies (the idea of a Rage virus was initially conceived by the brilliant Alex Garland, of course, and it feels eerily plausible), are very much alive, just murderously enraged. And some people get murderously enraged when they get lumped in with Romero’s creation and the distinct tradition he’s coming from.

Questions about reanimation also involve the idea of who gets reanimated – all dead people? Some dead people? Dead people who died from zombie bites? Dead people whose funeral rites were not properly observed? A lot of the people working in the genre are vague on this, perhaps intentionally, because vagueness inspires a whole new level of dread.

Reading a book of early Slavic myths, I was struck by a story of a man whose body, upon death, is left in the house with his family. In the middle of the night, he reanimates and eats one of his children. His wife and other children are able to escape because they are hiding on the top level of a kind of old-fashioned bunk bed (this reanimated corpse is not particularly intelligent).

The story can be read as a kind of parable highlighting the importance of disposing of dead bodies in a timely fashion. A rotting corpse, after all, spreads disease. Yet this is just a tiny example of international zombie lore, and why it exists.

The idea of zombie-hood as an infection is also, on one level, a public health issue, and one that is especially pertinent as biological warfare seems to be on everyone’s mind these days. Max Brooks, the author of such modern classics as The Zombie Survival Guide, sticks to the idea of zombies as undead creatures, yet also specifically points out that reanimation is caused by a virus. Brooks’ zombies shuffle, awarding him extra brownie points from many of the zombie purists.

Zach Snyder’s remake of “Dawn of the Dead,” meanwhile, sticks to the idea of reanimated zombies, yet, learning from the success of “28DL,” makes the creatures cheetah-fast. Snyder strove to preserve genre convention, but he also realized that the zombie-as-Olympic-sprinter works well on film. My friends the zombie purists are split on Snyder – I have seen him both criticized and praised for this.

Maddox, the world’s leading authority on everything, thinks that Snyder is a genius for incorporating racing zombies into the narrative while not allowing the zombies to die of starvation as the infected do in “28DL.” After trawling a variety of message boards on the subjects, I’ve discovered that some people think that Snyder is just buying into the idea of instant gratification – people’s lives are speeding up, and so, consequentially, are the zombies. Though these same people tend to respect Danny Boyle’s “28DL,” as long as you don’t use the title in the same sentence as the word “zombie,” of course (and even though I just did that, I have to agree that the infected are not zombies).

A zombie is uncanny (here I go with that word again), because it was a person, it still is a person, only not really. A plot-arc of a zombie movie (or book) usually utilizes the idea of societal chaos as people face confusion: why is my next-door neighbour coming at me with teeth bared? Are my dandelions annoying him that much? By the time the populace figures things out, they’re toast (or chow, rather).

Zombie purism has inspired one of the most colourful flame-wars I’ve ever seen on the Internet. I sh*t you not, my fair friends. I’d love to point you in the direction of this particular discussion on a sci fi forum, but the discussion was erased, and the moderator specifically asked me not to mention the forum by name. That thing got so ugly, someone wished rape on someone else.

I am both a zombie purist and a zombie heretic. I *prefer* slow-moving zombies to the cheetah-legged ones (notice that in the beginning of the latest tale from George Romero, “Diary of the Dead,” young student filmmakers get into an argument about whether or not an undead mummy can chase its victim quickly), because slow-moving zombies, to me, are less scary. But people will argue that slow-moving zombies have their own entertainment value, because you can actually do close-ups of them, while the fast ones result in frenzied, disorienting action. Frenzied, disorienting action scares me more than close-ups. Similarly, viruses infecting living people scare me more than reanimation. The former is just a little too realistic for my tastes.

It should be noted, however, that while the undead need a bullet in the head to put them down, the infected are not that supernatural. If only they’d stand still more.

Now, within the horror genre, scary = likeable. So I guess I like athletic zombies which are the product of science experiments gone wrong. I prefer them to the lumbering, undead hordes. But I also think it’s cool to be able to combine the different elements of zombie lore as one sees fit.

Then I come across reassuring articles like this one, and start thinking about investing in a grenade launcher/personal fortress/pet dragon trained to kill on command. Considering the fact that zombie purists also differ on whether or not the zombies can act intelligently (although I hope that we can ALL agree that the z… I mean, the infected dad having some sort of Rage GPS to track down his offspring in “28 Weeks Later” was lame), it might be good to enlist a trained general or two as well. Which is why I wish my granddad was still around.

This post is dedicated to my grandmother, Tatiana Panteleevna Antonova, who turns 81 today. She’s not an expert on the undead, but she did specialize in infectious diseases.

D.C. Madam commits suicide, pigs sprout wings, and the aliens bring back Elvis

Forgive me for being just a tad suspicious in the wake of this death.

Deborah Palfrey, the famous D.C. madam, probably knew a lot of secrets. Her continued existence was inconvenient and irritating to many people. She could have easily written the sort of bestselling memoir that could make publishers weep at her feet (though she would have had to turn repentant for that, and something tells me she wouldn’t have repented).

Now she’s gone and offed herself. How convenient.

Even if Deborah Palfrey did not have any “help” when it came to ending her life, her death is still a huge indictment of our politicians and our country, a country where “bad boys” are ushered to the bosoms of their communities and allowed to go on with their lives, while women pay the price for indiscretion.

When it comes to shaming, the ladies are just as bad as the men. Self-styled feminists have no problem saying that “scarlet women” are not to be trusted, or that they are complicit in their own harassment. Celebrities who get paid big bucks for their good looks get all huffy when they notice other women showing off their charms, whether for pay or for fun. The people who amuse me most are the chest-beating madonnas who gnaw their manicured nails in terror at the thought of teenage Madison Tyler being exposed to challenging lifestyles and ideas on account of some people’s contention that women (and men) in the flesh business should be treated like human beings. The idea of raising their own damn kids never crosses their minds.

Oh God, deliver me from the stupid and the cruel. And rest the soul of Deborah Palfrey

See Feministe for more.

Colossal Squid Pulsating Through The Seas!

After the apocalypse, there will still be colossal squid. I’m not sure what they will feed on – radioactive herring grown to ten times its normal size, perhaps? I have little faith in fairness and justice, but I do have faith in the colossal squid.

In the post-apocalyptic tale, The Road, Cormac McCarthy’s protagonist wondered, looking out into the dead, lead-like waves of the sea, if there is life in there, and when he did so, he thought of squid.

When he was in the military, my father once had the (dis)pleasure to go on a training exercise in the Black Sea, in the middle of the night. He was on assignment with a partner, with diving lights, and a full moon. They never finished the exercise, because they saw something that night.

It was something enormous and, in the words of my dad, “worm-like.” My dad later theorized that decades-long pollution of the Black Sea could have resulted in seriously messed-up sea critters.

After the encounter, my dad became obsessed with sea creatures, and eventually settled on the squid as one of his favourite marine monsters. I followed suit.

Why do we love the colossal squid? Because we can marvel at it from the safety of land. The cold, slimy squid makes our beds feel warmer and our pillows, and carpets, and kittehs feel softer. And yet, there is also its sheer awesomeness, especially when you contemplate the amazing contrast between tame fried calamari on your plate with marinara sauce on the side, and the gargantuan beastie shooting through the inky waters of the deep.

The very existence of the colossal squid is a comfort to those of us who worry that our planet has become dreadfully bland as of late. Even when she is defrosted and examined on live webcam, the squid remains mysterious, unholy, and magnificent. She’s like a ghost, only tactile, a physical presence unlike any other.

I’d place the colossal squid squarely in the uncanny category – it’s the primordial slime of life, and yet intelligent and powerful and not at all the sort of creature you’d like to meet on its own turf. The colossal squid, it is said, lives at depths of 100 meters below, a place that might as well be a dark, starless void somewhere in outer space as far as human beings are concerned.

Assuming one could somehow survive the pressure, one still could not see the squid if it attacked. Only feel it.

Dum dum dum!

I think human beings are especially fascinated with deadly creatures. Mortality is like a bruise we keep fingering, and few things in life represent mortality as well as a colossal squid.

Aside from all that, it is just a perfect blend of fearsome beauty and utter grossness. It’s like the Dali of the natural world. It’s like a fairy tale come to life.

I love it, and so should you.