Zombie Apocalypse Now

Anyone who knows me is aware of my borderline unhealthy obssession with zombie films, and that it was only a matter of time that a post regarding the 'horror film staple that natural preservation forgot' made it's way into my blog space.

Why the obssession?

Well, for a start the often excellently executed gore effects (signature decapitation-by-rotor blade in Geroge Romero's Dawn of the Dead http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55fMHSA-16c, a scene that rises to the plate pre-CGI era in a triumphant meeting of real head+animated blades) and more often than not, the laughably terrible audio dubbing (particularly in the Italian-American joint-produced productions such as Zombie Flesh Eaters, The Zombie Dead, Zombie Nosh, Zombie Flesh Eaters 2; I think you see where this list is going).


But for me, the real crux of my fascination is the implied effect that a real life 'outbreak' would have on a society increasingly preoccupied with bursts of uncontrolled consumerism (vis a vis our current economical climate), whilst evermore relying on happy shiny technology. In some ways, a zombie buffet seems like the best solution for a modern problem such as ourselves, a species famous for fucking ourselves in the proverbial in the name of progress.
What if the errors of our ways were only realised when the problem quite literally, and most definitely painfully, bites us in the ass?

Im not trying to preach. But as anyone who has looked into films such as Dawn of the Dead (CLUE: the analogy here is capitalism) can see, if the mindless shopper driven by the bargain were replaced with similarly 'one-track-minded' decaying hordes driven by demand of a different kind (cadavers at knockdown prices), would anyone even notice? Would people begin queuing behind said hordes thinking Harrods were finally having their sale?

Most definitely food for thought.

It could happen....

Movie Review: Night of the Living Dead (or if Michael Moore made zombie movies)

These days, finding a decent zombie film is the proverbial opposite to shooting fish in a barrel, more like shooting one fish. In a lake. From a helicopter. With a potato gun. There are literally thousands of zombie films cluttering up various shelves in the deepest, darkest bargain sections of Blockbuster throughout the land.
There is a broad range in quality, from the fun (Return of the Living Dead, 1984) to the serious (From Beyond, 1979) to the downright ridiculous (Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, 1981). But when it comes to the debate of content over style, George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968) is bar one the film that shaped zombie films as we know them.

In an age where horror is largely popularized via numbers of fresh-faced American teens being dispatched by Lithuanians, or bastardized ‘cut and shut’ jobs on remakes of J-horror classics that maintain the visuals but lose the chills, Night of the Living Dead bares testament to that old maxim that Hollywood tends to ignore; LESS IS MORE.

Shot in grainy black and white (a choice of budget restriction rather than style) Night is significant for a number of reasons. Effectively the first film that gave us the ‘flesh eater’ zombie, as opposed to the schlock styling of the ‘Voodoo zombie’ toiling aimlessly on the plantations under the watchful guise of their master (Bela Lugosi, in the case of White Zombie, 1930). Night also marked the first central performance of a black actor in a horror film in the form of Duane Jones (Ben). Place this into the socio-political context of the burgeoning civil rights movement, which was at full flow around 1968, and it becomes difficult to see why the zombie film evolved into a form of entertainment seemingly meant only for drunken teenagers looking for kicks, and make-up laden Cure fans.

Romero has laid claim to the fact that Richard Matheson’s vampire masterpiece I Am Legend (now a major motion picture) acted as the basis, along with the real life newsreels that were delivering the play by play atrocities taking place in Vietnam at this time. This is echoed in the film, as the survivors pensively receive updates, via radio and television, on the bizarre and brutal situation taking place around them. In an age where we receive much of are information without even leaving our house, or buying a newspaper, due to developments in internet technology and having about a million channels devoted to news, Night of the Living Dead suggests that reliance on truthful media is no less significant now.

As for the zombies themselves, yes, it is very obvious that the budget for special effects make-up stretched as far as several kilos of foundation. It is also particularly notable that Romero’s creatures might place silver or even bronze next to their 21st century counterparts, the ‘running zombie’ (think 28 Days Later), guaranteed to get the adrenaline and legs pumping in equal measures. Romero’s zombies rely on danger in numbers, and the real fear comes from the bleakness of the protagonists’ situation, and the conflict within the house amongst them.
Never has the expression ‘rag-tag’ been used to better effect.
Romero maintains to this day that any issues of racial tension unfolding within his seminal film, as Ben comes up against opposition from the very white and prideful Mr Cooper (Karl Hardman, also a producer), can be attributed to the casting of Jones being coincidental on the basis he was the best actor the director knew.

With this in mind, the shock ending still manages to raise an eyebrow, whether you are looking for a message or not.
Though modern audiences may be used to zombie horror at a breakneck speed, ‘Night’ provides that rare combination of fear and philosophy. If you like your satire with a bit of extra bite, look no further than Romero.

A Novel Idea (or how Adam learned that a little ambition is only as good as his output).

So I decided that maybe my ticket out of this less than one horse town might be to try and conjure up some kind of creative powers and write a book.


Yeah, just like that. Its really that simple.



It isnt like I dont have time on my hands right now.

All you need is an idea,and by Jove I think I have one, or at least a cohesion of themes, situations and kooky characters, that could potentially become a new literary darling, a pulpy face-slapping, kick in the ass for the British writing community.

But why stop there.

Time to go global I think.

Here is the opening extract:


CHAPTER ONE


It’s funny, the random bits of information and nuggets of nothingness that you can recall at the most inopportune of moments. Like whimsical lyrics that remind you of a stolen kiss, with whatsherface in that place, or that piece of advice your parents gave you that you disregarded, in favour of the clearly more superior opinions of teenage counterparts, which will inevitably bite you in the ass when you’re doing something completely unrelated in your later years, like shaving or avoiding charity workers in the street.
A good story needs just two things; a girl, and a gun.
However intrinsically unrelated to my life this sentence was at the time, it has certainly just taken on a whole new poignancy, like a DANGER: SUDDEN DROP sign, noticed with an irony more painful then your physical state i.e. from the bottom of the cliff.
Where I heard it, I couldn’t tell you.
Just like I probably couldn’t tell you why a fully grown man is hiding out in a fridge, in a Swedish pantry, as a stray .45 hollow point (oh yeah, extensive firearms training, me) has just burrowed its way into a pound of butter on a shelf above me, whilst the woman I love is waging war outside on those who used to ‘own’ her.
Actually, I probably could tell you that, but the girl and the guns come much, much later.

* * * * * * * * * *
“Mr Patrick...”
I hear the voice, but my mind is over the hills and far away. I'm Dorothy, seeing Oz in all it's glory, with newly Technicolor-tinted eyes. I'm Hunter S Thompson at the wheel of a Cadillac. Hell, I'm Diana Ross in an airport security holding bay.
“Mr Patrick..”
Yeah, there he is again. Why can't I just answer him?
Nod. Wink. Give the kind of acknowledging cough that would be welcome in Parliament; agreement and the sense of disenfranchise in equal measure. Maybe I can stay in this mental limbo if I just nonchalantly reach into my pocket, pull out a fiver, and hand it to the man. Is that enough money for someone to forget your name? Or is even small-time bribery living under the gun of inflation?
Just five more minutes... I like it here... Put another golden oldie on the jukebox...
“Mr Patrick!!”
I'm up, I'm up. And boy do I instantly regret the wake-up call.
Ruby slippers dissipate into the furthest recesses of my head, and are replaced by my dog-eared trainers, upright and stood to attention. Of course. I remember. On this day in reality, I'm being psychoanalysed on that most fabled of settings, the psychiatrist's couch. Yeah, there's always room for a well placed stereotype and a well placed nod to the populist cult of cliché.




PLOT:



The main character is a man on the edge, who seemingly has nothing, emotonally as well as physically.

The opening chapter finds him on the psychiatrists couch, as he is either about to make an attempt on his life, or already has.

After repeated suicide attempts and none more successul sessions, his aptitude for failure is fully realised, and he goes about planning to end his life the only way that seems definite.

A hitman. A contract organised by him, on himself. Surely a professional isnt going to miss the mark?

But wait.. who have 'the agency' sent to carry out this human functionality-ending deed.

She's a trained killer going through her own existential crisis, who is wondering how the hell a nice girl with a non-complex upbringing has found her way on a blood-drenched path of commercial murdering (an increasingly booming industry, no less).

She observes her target, yet whistfully sees something within him that makes that extra pound per inch of pressure on the trigger so hard to apply.

As their two lives become intertwined, and long dead emotions are felt that have long been dormant, how far must the pair go to escape those who are funding the agency?

Are the ends of the Earth far enough?


***********************************
Im curently seeing it as a dark-comical amalgamation of Nick Hornby (Long Way Down) and Chuck Palunhiak (Fight Club), with some Luke Reinhart ( The Dice Man )thrown in for good measure.

Watch this space.

BOOK REVIEW: World War Z by Max Brooks

Max Brooks (yes, son of Hollywood comedy LEGEND, Mel Brooks) follows up his entertaining yet worryingly 'well researched' Zombie Survival Guide with something a little less tongue in cheek. To take a spine quote from fellow zombie-phile Simon Pegg, 'an absolute must-have... Brooks infuses his writing with such precise detail and authenticity, one wonders if he knows something we don't'.

So, what' it about?

Where his Zombie Survival Guide put pay to pop-culture myths built up around your decaying friend and mine, the zombie, as well as fathoming out the possible reality of a living dead outbreak, World War Z goes a terrifying step forward with it's 'documentation' and archiving of a full scale global battle with those kooky cadavers, from first bite to the victory of the living. Although the living never really 'win', at least not in the conventional sense.

It all starts 'innocently' enough. Rumours of another pandemic in China that resonate with the very real bird flu epidemic (luckily I have the immune system of an ox) quickly evolve into the world's inner cities becoming overrun with walking corpses, who are only after one thing. And it isnt a Subway club card.
A ten year war follows, and the more deaths amongst 'our' ranks, the higher number of members batting for Team Z, as Brooks terms them 'Zach', a deathly riff on the term 'Gerry' used during the First and Second World Wars for the German opposition.

World War Z is essentially a history textbook for weary future generations, who might wonder what it was like to walk through the streets of London or Manhattan, or the picturesque surrounds of Manitoba's National Park, without having to step over bundles of rag and teeth, ravaged by the effects of an apocalyptic battle with an enemy who isnt going to be worrying about rations, sleep, or the gal they left behind back home. Former soldiers, governmental officials, members of the public, and notable scientists all come forward with their own experiences during the 'The Dark Years' to warn following generations against the perils of playing with dead things.
The obvious fear whilst reading this book comes from the gross and physical acts of violence that natural arise when going mano ee mano with an enemy whose bite is most certainly worse than his (or her) bark.
But for me, it is Brooks' accuracy when it comes to the naming and describing of military techniques and maneouvres, and points of geographical interest that host some of the key stages throughout the decade long struggle. He has truly done his homework and implemented it with great detail and a journalistic sense of informative yet bleak narration.
Like a Soda Stream or chainsaw, every household needs a copy of this book. Because you never can tell...

http://www.thecuresafety.com/v/private%20hoserod/source%20files/4483241.stm.htm

I also heard Brad Pitt bought the rights to produce a film based on the book, so for fuck's sake read it before you see the film, in which its quite probable that the whole war wil begin in Cambodia on a routine Pitt-Jolie baby adopting mission.

Adz

TWAT OF THE WEEK #1: Father Christmas

DISCLAIMER: Adam wishes to make it very clear that this week's choice is in no way based on any religious affiliation or dislike for Yuletide. All opinions are nothing more than simply that. This week's subject is quite likely a cracking bloke.

This is a tricky one. Mr Christmas has not been a part of any direct misconduct towards myself, or any member of my family (though there was that one year that a letter I had drafted to the man in question caused considerable chimney damage when I sent it, due to the amount of liquid correctional fluid applied).
Sadly, in keeping with the festive spirit (and this is as festive as I shall be getting), I have chosen he who symbolises this holiday (him and JC, of course) as the focus for my very first 'TWAT OF THE WEEK'. He must be stopped.

REASONS

• The use of various names over the years. Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Papa Nowell. Why the numerous monikers? What is he hiding? Or is he under some kind of witness protection programme for threatening to squeal on the Easter Bunny's 'love egg' misdemeanour? Either way, can we trust him?
  
• The claim to deliver presents across the land all in one night, operating with a devil may care disregard for time zones and air traffic. Impossible? Yes. Smug tosser? Most definitely.
• Centuries old, yet has successfully cornered the youth market where John McCain failed, even in such contemporary times where an elderly eccentric with a fondness for children is generally treated with the disdain of a paedophile. But then again... hides out in the furthermost regions of the North Pole all year round, making toys, with his 'helpers'...
• Possibly entirely and soulfully responsible for the Credit Crunch as we know it. Constant pressure put upon parents by their offspring for the latest must-have item. Mr Christmas makes promises he can't keep and ultimately flakes under demands. Parents sign up for credit cards, loans, second mortgages, all because the old man couldn't deliver. Case in point: Buzz Lightyear.
  
• Insistence on using a list to determine the behavioural schematics of the children. Im assuming its just a bog standard pros and cons style itemisation. No electronic database, spreadsheets, digital tagging system. Oh, and he only fucking checks it twice. So no back-up. Im still waiting on a sodding Soda Stream and I know why as well.
  
• Coca-Cola sponsorship. So he's a sell-out too. Ive seen it a billion times. Good guy starts off with good intentions. Then the advertising deals roll in. Merchandising. Christmas spin-off single. Anything to make a buck, yet still persists in being pulled around by reindeer.
• Makes it seem alright to be a little bit on the plump side, despite everything Jamie Oliver, Sportacus, most of my secondary school year group, and Jade Goody have done to heal obesity.
  

Though admittedly it feels a bit wrong to be having a pop at a fella who is just trying to bring a big of joy into this increasingly bleak wasteland, but if you can't say it as Christmas, when can you say it, eh?

NEXT WEEK: Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

MOVIE REVIEW: Stranger Than Fiction (or how I learned to stop worrying and love Will Ferrell films that don't contain loud noises).

I love Anchorman. You love Anchorman. I love Talladega Nights. You love Talladega Nights. I love Elf. You love... ah heck, it's Christmas. Why the hell not, eh?

The aforementioned films represent the very best of Will Ferrell's two acting approaches. Hilariously loud, or even more hilariously childlike plus a pinch of naiveity. Not to mention more golden nugget encrusted ad-libs than a certain 'almost former' President of the United States (whom Ferrell excellently portrayed on behalf of Saturday Night Live). And he has indeed cornered this particular market.
But imagine the horror and skepticism (felt by myself admittedly) to hear the beady eyed funster was going to 'do a Carrey' and attempt subtle drama.

In Stranger Than Fiction, Ferrell plays a quiet and self conscious IRS agent (AKA the taxman) Harold Crick , whose life is consumed and ruled by the numbers and routine he has imposed on himself.

Not drawing any sympathy yet? Hang in there.

Like many a narrative driven film, this production features an opening voice over (Emma Thompson) that Harold begins to hear in his head whilst performing a precise horizontal toothbrush stroke for the 19th time. This is the point where any traditional voiceover now becomes a key plot device, as it responds to each of Crick's actions as he carries them out.
Even at this point, no yelling or cowbell jokes.
Circk's thought processes then go through the processes that any of ours would, given that where our life previously might have held no meaning, it is at least narrated by a soft and somewhat sensual English accent, as opposed to German. Or Botswanan.
Harold copes with the apparent madness to a point. Until..

Kay Eiffel: [narrating] Little did he know that this simple seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death.

Harold Crick: What? What? Hey! HELLOOO! What? Why? Why MY death? HELLO? Excuse me? WHEN?

As many of us would react, perhaps, Crick visits the shrink (though I think I would by the 18th tooth-brushtroke). Once it is determined that he isnt actually insane, as the 'voice' isnt suggesting anything to him, or influencing him, he is led to literary professor 'Dave' (Dustin Hoffman). Dave concludes that Harold is the centre of a story, and his life (and death) is existing as it is being written. His meetings with Dave prompt him to decide whether his life is a tragedy or a comedy, and judging by the devloping and initially 'butting-of-the-head' relationship between him and a reluctant client, Miss Pascal (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a punky, independent baker who has no business dabbling with 'The Man', it is destined to be a tragedy. Impending death and all.
Aside from the book-within-a-film notion, Stranger Than Fiction is a wonderfully sobering piece that poses the question regarding what would you do knowing death was coming, and you could literally hear it's morosely narrated approach?
Ferrell doesnt disappoint, and even implements a touch of his trademark naiveity to the role of an unwitting literary focus who otherwise has nothing in common with the world around him. Watching his awareness of the world, relationships, and his own quietly held down dreams (in a particularly amusing scene, Harold has narrative help purchasing a guitar) is like watching Bambi take her first trembling steps, and if it doesn't at least light a flicker of inspiration within your own personally dampened wick, I deduce you are a robot. From the future.
Admittedly, the ending initially feels like a cop-out (which I shant give away), but after realising that it might be the only way to end such an existential mindbender, acceptance sets in, as it eventually does with Mr Crick himself.

Jogging

In all my modified wisdom, I recently embarked on a semi-serious health kick which involves no more chocolate, no more cheesecakes, and less beer (note my leniency on the beer policy).
I figured it would be good to drop a bit of weight for the proposed salsa classes I'm debating on beginning in the new year, and besides, all that sugar ain't good for long term friend I hate, the diabetes. And when I say friend, I mean more of an associate.
Someone who I have contact with constantly but only really present themselves when they're in trouble.
Be it money, relationships, or mars bar-induced glycoma.

So far, so good.

Glycoma aside.Part of my foray into fitness has of course been the addition of exercise. Being a fan of the Rocky films, and indeed any film that contains an inspirational training montage (Flashdance and Footloose included) , I figured that as the world of competitively-priced gym fees restricts slightly, what could be better than the free and equally embarrassing pursuit of jogging.
Yes, placing one foot in front of the other in rapid succession for an extended period of time.
How hard can that be? Rocky did it in the snow, for Chrissakes!!

Obviously, I start the day like this... http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=3EYZCZvV7WM but I swallow them no worries.
I whack on the ipod, with pre-set banging tracks (Dead Kennedies, The Clash, some Metallica, and anything by Abba), don my new trakkies and Hi-Tecs, and hit the trail. And I'm looking GOOOOOD.
The fresh air, the wind in my face, and the Sun on my....ankles.
Five minutes in, still feeling alright. Breathing steady, but slowly paying the rising tax on oxygen.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I've done a mile, so I sit down by a babbling brook to enjoy a scotch egg and recite some neo-political French poetry (inclusion of the scotch egg removes all precociousness).
I commence running once more.
Why am I doing this?
What am I running from?
An obese Britain? I live here, so that's ridiculous.
Obese teen epidemic? No. Cant be. I was a adolescent some years ago, and I did my fat stint then.
Or am I just running from myself? Obviously not. One cannot run physically from oneself as one is oneself, and the two should never be mutually exclusive. That's like taking a break from your shadow, and I shudder to think of the paperwork involved.

I finally make it back to my car (oh yeah, I drive to my run) via walking a bit, jogging less, and walking some more.
I have managed to keep this up for a couple of weeks now, and I have noticed some considerable gains.
My French has improved, for one.
Secondly, I now associate all nice foods (and consequently EVIL) with mild asthma attacks.
Thirdly, if I ever become pregnant, my baby has less chance of inheriting heart disease. So everyone's a winner.
Any further progress will be duly noted on this very blog.

Yours Chafing-ly
Adz


PS All jog and no beer make Adam a dull but lucid boy.

My First Blog, Argentinian Gnomes, and many more.

Welcome, welcome, and welcome. What I meant to say was welcome. This is the very first post of Mr Adam Mellow; a sometime shop assistant and other time writer/dreamer. Cheesy as it is, it is true.
This blog, between now and my almost certain death (cryogenics is progressing every day, or Walt Disney hopes so), will play host to general thoughts, queries, script ideas, short stories and anything else that will either interest you, or entertain me. Or both.
Admittedly, I always held the view that a blog acted as a playground for those who have run out of things to look up on YouTube, and whom have nothing better to do. Well, I have recently found myself unemployed (I hate expressions like 'struck off', or 'made redundant'), and thus have run out of things to look up on YouTube and have nothing better to do.

Case in point:

Argentinian Gnome Sightings http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=q0fPoH2gWzc
If you haven't already viewed this clip, than I implore you to do so immediately, or at least before you pass judgment. And ignore the fact that this is an exclusive on behalf of 'The Sun'(today's 'little-person sighting' is tomorrow's chip paper, after all).
On initial viewing, I must say I found this video disturbing. Not just because it is fairly legit looking, albeit pretty grainy (of course, it would be a group of teenagers armed with mobile phones with low pixel counts that capture this mythological anonymity, as opposed to a professional television crew, in daylight, with a 3CC pixel count). But also due to the fact those young bucks in question are trying on full facial balaclavas in some kind of pre-heist pow wow. And having a ruddy good time doing it.
So I propose... that the appearance of the little fella is the latest exposition in a rapidly escalating gang situation. I'm not saying there is essentially a gang of gnomes, but maybe the other 'cholos' and what have you have sourced a tiny messenger. Either that or he is the latest efforts for the Argentinian neighbourhood watch to conform with equal opportunities legislation.

I find this video particularly amusing due to my being based in Cornwall, where the equivalent dubious 'wildlife' is the beast of Bodmin Moor. No, not a gnome, unicorn, or a plesiosaurus. A glorified moggy with no magic powers who was merely introduced into the wild due to the extravagant excesses of our 1970s forefathers.

Hai Karate in the smellies cabinet, Smash in the kitchen, and a puma in the living room. That is until it was deemed cruel and apparently dangerous to be in ownership of a largely wild predator sharing the food dish with Spot. God bless the 70s. So where do you take a 250 lb wildcat when theres no room at the YMCA?
Precisely.
The poor (yet no less toothy) buggers were unleashed into the relative wilderness of local forestry, causing problems for National Trust members all over the land ('PANTHER STATISTICS ARE NO PICNIC', read one creative and evermore witty headline)
And thats how we got our 'beast'. Or one theory at least.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed the video, and will chat soon.
Your friend and mine,
Adz