Night Of The Living Metalcore Retards.
George A. Romero
Following the pattern of the series, Day of the Dead has humanity reduced to its last dying embers, with a few soldiers and scientists ensconced in an underground bunker, struggling to cure the zombie epidemic that has already destroyed civilization. More claustrophobic and contained than its predecessor, Dawn of the Dead, the film is also more nihilistic, with a real sense of entropy pervading the film. As the zombies fitfully wander about, reduced to nothing but instinctual cues and memories of their past lives, so do the humans, going through the motions of productivity amid the ruins of humanity. But yet, it still has the happiest ending of all the films, with the altruistic heroes ending their ordeal on a sunny beach, lounging, fishing, and preparing to inbreed themselves into a new world.
What's best about this movie is, of course, the pet zombie they train, who is capable of rudimentary thought and simplistic, primal instincts. Since this movie was made in 1985, that would give the mindless hordes bred from this monstrosity time to grow up and put Atreyu in their Friend List on MySpace. It all makes sense now. The hair that looks like it was cut with a machete to crudely resemble a Motley Crue groupie from the 80s, the toothpick-leg jeans like a second, weathered skin, the shoes that look like checkered slippers so they can slide easily over feet swollen with decay, it’s all so obvious; emo kids are the undead. This explains why their entire vernacular is imitated from those 90s skatepunks who have since grown up to work in kitchens. They’re just monkeys aping zoo janitors. Their bite appears to be contagious, judging from the fact that I can't pass a radio without hearing My Chemical Romance whining about something, and that everyone on the subway at 11 PM looks like they slept outside waiting in line to get the same Avenged Sevenfold belt buckle. They stink of that foul mix of tobacco you get when you smoke whatever you can bum outside the fire doors in high school, and have that kind of carefully constructed disheveled look that speaks to either a perfectly embalmed corpse mussing its suit climbing out of a grave, or a few hours in the bathroom with a case of that Tigi BedHead mousse. And yet, with all these similarities, I'm still not allowed to shoot them in the head whenever they pull out their Blackberrys and text someone a link to a Hedley video on YouTube. Compared to Day of the Dead, this is hell.