The opening credits of George Romero's 1979 horror masterpiece "Dawn of the Dead" materialize in front of a red background. Blurred just beyond the threshold of visibility, the surface appears to be a carpet of writhing maggots. An ominous synthesizer lays down a peristaltic pulse. The camera slowly retreats, and the teeming surface is revealed as nothing more than the shabby wall of a television studio covered in darkened Age of Aquarius earth tones. A newscast is in progress, reporting on an outburst of social unrest. Evacuations are taking place. Officials make panicked, unconvincing speeches. The dead walk the earth.
Nearly 12 years after his "Night of the Living Dead" made box office history, Romero released "Dawn of the Dead." A more elegant sequel, it marked a fruitful collaboration with Italian genre sophisticate Dario Argento and his soundtrack band Goblin, both fresh from recent success on Argento's expressionistic "Suspiria." While Romero's original film managed to capture a sensation of encroaching paranoia with amateur performers and the claustrophobic quarters of a limited set, "Dawn" unites a taut screenplay with compelling performances and social satire. Taking its outrageous conceit seriously, the film resonates with apocalyptic frisson; its ill-omened subject could easily be replaced with nuclear holocaust, urban unrest, terrorism, or any number of contemporary bugbears.
Like its predecessor, the film benefits from near-classical discipline. The cast is small, the plotting straightforward, its setting limited. The four characters come from contrasting backgrounds: Two members of a special Nation Guard Unit, Peter (Ken Foree) and Roger (Scott Reiniger), Stephen (David Emge), a traffic pilot for WGON-TV, and Stephen's girlfriend Frances (Gaylen Ross). Stealing the station's helicopter, the refugees land on the roof of a Pennsylvania shopping mall and proceed to remove the invading zombies, drawn to the location by a consumerist instinct that death itself can't kill. Undisturbed, provided with a wealth of resources, the group lives in relative luxury until a biker gang invades, reawakening the survival instincts that had been weakened by easy decadence.
In spite of its many enduring qualities, much of "Dawn" is rooted evocatively in its late seventies milieu, from its Moog synthesizer soundtrack to its primitive special effects. All of which makes the big budget 2004 remake a surprising prospect. Like John Singleton's 2000 version of Gordon Parks' "Shaft", the new film faces the impossible task of reinvigorating iconic material from another generation and fails, sometimes admirably. Forced to abandon most of the original storyline, the new "Dawn" retains the shopping mall setting, but expands its cast to nearly unmanageable size as faceless actors become zombie food in an assembly line of action sequences. Quieter moments consist of internal bickering. Conflict is constant; there is no dramatic arc. The new version does have its strengths: An inspired credit sequence backed by Johnny Cash, technically superior special effects, and an unbearably tense opening that forces nurse Sarah Polley to confront the first wave of the undead.
It's ironic enough when genre films outlive their modest ambitions and inspire continued interest. The paradox is deepened further when many pictures, from Roger Corman's B-movies to Romero's own 70s and 80s productions, appear even more daring and vibrantly original than their more commercial counterparts. Film critics have been historically tempted to promote exploitation fare as canonical art, the too-academic impulse of French writers who lionized shockers such as Sam Fuller's "Naked Kiss" as early as the 1960s. Still, there is no denying that the lower end of the industry, with its genuine whiff of disreputability, invigorating counter-cultural impulses and low box office expectations, has produced true masterpieces. Romero's original "Dawn of the Dead" lives on.
© 2003 by Sten Johnson. All rights reserved.