George Romero's 'Dead' Trilogy: The Evolution of a Filmmaker

How a blue-collar, low budget filmmaker honed his craft over a period of three consecutive decades.

By Josh McCormack

George A. Romero passed away due to a short, but determined battle with lung cancer on July 16th, 2017. At the age of 77, Romero left behind a large impact on the history of horror cinema due to his work on films like Creepshow, Martin, and The Crazies. But if there's one thing he'll be remembered for more than any of his other fantastic films it will be the very fact that George A. Romero created the modern zombie and the modern zombie film. 

As said by so many, Romero's zombie-infested trilogy of terror (Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead) is what gave birth to the flesh-eating, slow moving undead that we would be used to seeing in everything from Lucio Fulci's Zombi to Michael Jackson's Thriller music video to The Walking Dead. To many this trilogy is just as important in the annals of film history as that of The Godfather or the original Star Wars trilogy. 

I, like many, have a very personal connection to George Romero's zombie universe spanning nearly a decade ago. 

As an eleven year old one Halloween night with my father in 2008, I was introduced to the work of Romero through the first film in the aforementioned trilogy, Night of the Living Dead. What instantly struck me about the film was how the director made use of the film's shoe string budget. When one is to hear that news with a horror or fantasy movie dealing with such immense subject matter, such as the zombie apocalypse in this case, it may sound like the kiss of death that ends up with the director trying to show off his or her large ambitions in a manner that just turns out schlocky. Romero, however, keeps the action mostly inside an abandoned farmhouse as the characters hear the world's chaos over the radio or static-filled television sets. The paranoia of what lies beyond the barricaded door and the vast woods outside is what creates much of the tension not only within the audience, but between the frightened main characters themselves. It is a trope that Romero would become known for throughout the series' nearly twenty year history. 

Romero never seemed to get enough credit amongst journalists and film scholars for the way in which his films handle human interaction in the midst of a creature filled spectacle. In a genre where so much can be tongue-in-cheek, Romero's films never look at the zombie invasion with a sense of adventure or even sarcasm. It truly feels as if these people are a representation of the time period in which they are living and how they might react to such a large catastrophe. With Night, Romero had released the film in 1968. According to Romero himself, he was delivering the film to the distributor in his car when he heard over the radio that Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot. The timing couldn't be more perfect for the release of Night of the Living Dead. A film all about people's own paranoias, starring a black actor, and one in which the main conflict comes between a strong, outspoken black man and a paranoid, old, white traditionalist. While Romero swore his whole life that any political substance was completely coincidental, the racial undertones cannot be ignored, especially with it being released in a year that was a hotbed for the civil rights movement.

In the film's final sequence a group of hunters made up of mostly white southerners come across the house in which all of the carnage from the film's climax had ensued the night prior. Piles of bodies lay everywhere, yet inside the upstairs window is one survivor; our African-American protagonist, Ben (the late Duane Jones). As Ben stands up to go see who is outside, the hunters immediately assume its one of the undead (or "ghouls' as they're referred to in the film) and they shoot Ben in the head, killing him instantly. "There's another one for the fire," proclaims the main hunter. The final images of the film are still photographs of Ben's corpse being thrown onto a fire pit amongst countless other dead bodies. Its hard not to instantly think of newspaper images of MLK's murder or even KKK rallies throughout the early to mid-twentieth century. As I finished watching the film when I was eleven, I headed back upstairs into my bed. As I laid there looking up at my ceiling, it was the final images of our main character's corpse and its surprising realism-and not the flesh-eating ghouls that kept me up most of the night.

George A. Romero perhaps didn't set out to be a political filmmaker, but the ending of Night turned him into one in the public's eye. And Romero would not shy away from this perception throughout the rest of the trilogy. 

A whole decade passed between Night of the Living Dead and its groundbreaking sequel, Dawn of the Dead. In that time period the world had witnessed the Manson murders, an even greater disillusionment to the finished war in Vietnam, and the Watergate scandal. In the midst of all this chaos and confusion, the United States populous began to not only be distrustful of authority figures as they were in the 60s, but rather distrustful of anyone but themselves. This gave rise to the "Me Generation" which would start in the mid to late 70s and only blossom into the yuppie infested, consumer crazed 1980s and beyond. Out of this consumerism boom came the regularly appearing shopping mall, and out of the regularly appearing shopping mall came George Romero's idea for a new zombie film.

Dawn of the Dead may be the most lighthearted film of the Dead trilogy. Romero proudly wore the film's political satire on his sleeve (something he hadn't done with the previous film) and the zombies in the film almost become parodies of themselves that reflect a droning, dead eyed mall shopper who doesn't seem motivated by any emotion, other than the need to consume. One of our main characters, Peter (played by the wonderful Ken Foree), states that the zombies that have infested the shopping mall that our leads call a safe haven are doing so because its familiar to them. "They're after this place," he says. " They don't know why; they just remember. Remember that they want to be here". 

Romero's politics weren't always very subtle.

When watching Dawn, or even reading about its conception, it may strike an audience member how the film makes jabs at the self-indulgences of contemporary society, yet ironically seems to indulge in its own world to the point of near absurdity.

 Dawn of the Dead is certainly the least structured of the three films. Once our four main characters are introduced and they escape the initial outbreak in downtown Pittsburgh, they immediately find solace in the Monroeville mall where the horror of the outside world is countered with that of a fairytale-like wish fulfillment of being surrounded by so much material and no authority figure or monetary value to hold one's self back. This allows the film to be more character driven, rather than plot-driven, which is probably why this is regarded as the best film of the series by many. Zombies almost become glorified target practice for our heroes and they're world becomes their personal playground that they use and abuse over the course of the film. Each actor is fantastic and the looseness of their conversations is a true highlight. While there certainly are stakes, including the death of one of the four members, clearing zombies out of the stores and parking lot, and a dangerous biker gang that eventually destroys the mall's safety barriers; these sequences always seem to be punctuated with some kind of chaotic indulgence.

Romero obviously became more confident behind the camera in the ten years between the two films. Not only because he was a more experienced filmmaker at this point, but because the tools available to him became an essential part of his filmmaking process. The mall itself is used to its full extent. Motorcycles are driven around it, zombies get shot off large balconies, and extras get their bodies torn away from IV machines. With the help of legendary make up artist Tom Savini (whose zombie make-up is slightly simplistic and cartoonish to his later work, but still effective), Romero was able to produce a film that felt like Night of the Living Dead on steroids. Bigger setting, bigger budget, bigger body count. 

Perhaps the film's overstuffed tone was intended by Romero to comment on our society's need for more, or maybe it was just because the cast and crew had enough time, money, and resources to express their desires for more horrific lunacy mixed in with the dark subject matter. I can't think of another film in which a sequence involving a main character forced to kill his recently infected friend is followed by a zombie getting a pie to his face not thirty minutes later. 

However, eight years after the release of Dawn of the Dead, George Romero would find nothing to laugh about in 80s America.

In 1985, Romero unleashed his third installment in the Dead trilogy,  Day of the Dead. While not as fun or overtly satirical as Dawn, Day of the Dead was instantly bashed by many film critics as nothing more than another gore fest. It was mean and didn't seem to wink at its audience the way the prior films would occasionally do. If Night of the Living Dead was about racism in America, and Dawn of the Dead was about the rise of consumerism; what the hell was Day of the Dead about?

In this author's mind, Day of the Dead is about giving up. Giving up on unity, giving up on progress, or giving up on any semblance of change. In the midst of the Reagan-era, perhaps Romero himself felt like giving up. It was sometimes impossible to be heard as a left wing, progressive when the world around you was on the other side, drowning you out with blind nationalism, corporate overreach, and a rhetoric for the country based more on emotion rather than statistics. These themes are dealt with in Day of the Dead when we see the destructive conflict between the fear-mongering soldiers and the consistently frustrated scientists. When both of these factions are put in an underground bunker together with the constant threat of zombie invasion, sparks (and tons of body parts) are going to start flying.

On a purely technical level, Day of the Dead is the best of the franchise. After making larger budgeted films, such as 1982's Creepshow, Romero truly began to show the makings of a masterful force behind the lens. The larger budget also provided actors who were more than just Pittsburgh locals, and Tom Savini was able to create the make-ups for some of the all time greatest looking zombies. The synth-based soundtrack by John Harrison is also a highlight.

The true standout of Day of the Dead though is "Bub", a zombie played by Howard Sherman. "Bub" is the most intelligent zombie we have seen up to this point in the franchise. He can sound out a few words, can perform mundane tasks, and even reload a gun. "Bub" seems to be the start of finding some sort of common ground not only between the living and the dead, but between the trigger happy soldiers and the scientists. However, it is not to be. When chaos reins in the final act of the film, "Bub" seems to forget all of what made him so special, except how to fire a gun. The only thing he learns from human beings is the way in which we kill. 

The end of Day of the Dead features our main heroes escaping the carnage and fleeing the sight of all of their anxieties. And in 1985, you get the feeling that the film's director wanted to do exactly the same thing.

George Romero's zombie trilogy is what will immortalize the director in pop-culture. But it isn't just because of the state-of-the-art special effects. It also isn't because it inspired the structure for many low-budget horror films to come. And it isn't even just because it created the modern zombie. The reason I, and so many fans keep coming back to those three films is because they are opinionated, stylish, and raw reflections of the time the decade they were each made in. Romero was more than just a horror director; he was a socially conscious film buff (one who favored Tales of Hoffman over any horror flick) who looked at movies as a way to express his feelings of the often overlooked everyman within society. He used his art form in the same way Bob Dylan used his...just with more blood and guts.

In March of last year, I had the honor of meeting Mr. George A. Romero. It was brief, nothing more than a handshake, an autograph, and a picture. He was also quite frail at the age of 75, showing early signs of his illness. Yet, no matter how brief our interaction, I was still in awe of him. He smiled a genuine smile. I could hear him laugh with a genuine heaviness that had been commented on many times by the ones who were closest to him. He still wore his army-style vest, as if it was still the remnants of a rebellious young man from the 60s who still dwelled within. 

 Before meeting him, my father and I were in line with plenty of fans also anxious to meet their filmmaking hero. I looked upon the faces, young and old. For many, he was what started their love affair for horror. For others, he was a filmmaker who touched many social activists with his masterful political undertones. And for some, he was a low-budget filmmaker who inspired many other aspiring directors, writers, and actors, telling them that you didn't have to go to Hollywood to touch people with your work.

George Romero. A master of horror. The godfather of the zombie. A voice for the oppressed. An artist who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. A rebel who made his movies on his own terms. An inspiration to so many, like myself.

Thank you for the scares, George.