A lot of the early dialogue between Barbra and her brother, Johnny, pivots around the fact that it's the first day of Daylight Saving Time. Barbra wishes this early Spring day could count as the first of Summer, while Johnny grouchily bemoans the hour of sleep he has lost. Later, brother and sister are attacked by a monstrous man who leaves Johnny out cold, and Barbra flees and finds refuge in a farmhouse with Ben, a man who has stumbled across the same place that she has, and for the same reason. As he barricades the house, a calendar set to December can be seen on the kitchen wall. Its prominent location in this home suggests that updating it could not have been something easily forgotten, and that roughly three months have passed since it was last in date. In the living room, photos of an absent family line the mantelpiece and taxidermied animal heads line the walls, while an anonymous corpse decomposes at the top of the stairs. Something terrible has happened in this house, and something terrible is happening again. In Romero's America, nothing is ever really gone. What was true in the past will continue to be so in the present and the future. "The unburied dead are returning to life." There's no escape from history.
Saturday, 11 May 2019
Night of the Living Dead | George A. Romero, 1968
A lot of the early dialogue between Barbra and her brother, Johnny, pivots around the fact that it's the first day of Daylight Saving Time. Barbra wishes this early Spring day could count as the first of Summer, while Johnny grouchily bemoans the hour of sleep he has lost. Later, brother and sister are attacked by a monstrous man who leaves Johnny out cold, and Barbra flees and finds refuge in a farmhouse with Ben, a man who has stumbled across the same place that she has, and for the same reason. As he barricades the house, a calendar set to December can be seen on the kitchen wall. Its prominent location in this home suggests that updating it could not have been something easily forgotten, and that roughly three months have passed since it was last in date. In the living room, photos of an absent family line the mantelpiece and taxidermied animal heads line the walls, while an anonymous corpse decomposes at the top of the stairs. Something terrible has happened in this house, and something terrible is happening again. In Romero's America, nothing is ever really gone. What was true in the past will continue to be so in the present and the future. "The unburied dead are returning to life." There's no escape from history.