Diary of the Dead — he said, she said — movie review
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HE SAID:
Ty Burr of the Boston Globe said Diary of the Dead played “like Cloverfield for grad students.” I’m sorry to say, Ty, if this is your idea of grad school argument, you’d better ask for a refund on your college tuition. As far as social commentary is concerned, Diary of the Dead is freshman coffee house denizen grade — painfully blatant, even for Romero. The arguments are about as focused and well thought out as your average LaRouche tract, the dialogue equally “well written.” Not helping the matter is the fact that the film’s cast of hipster youth can’t act a lick, their presence proving by and large annoying (though the Texas girl is kind of cute). The hand-held cam thing is a bit preposterous as well (What kind of asshole films his girlfriend crying, and later, being hit on by another guy?) though there are a few choice zombie kills caught in wandering frame. A brief and amusing stint at an Amish Paradise helps bolster the films sagging middle, but by and large this is Romero’s worst film in years. Sad too, because I’m an honest to goodness fan of the guy.
SHE SAID:
Ugh. It should have been Diarrhea of the Dead; it stunk! An hour and a half of unaffected, affluent kids (that are all surprisingly accurate marksmen) babbling in the back of a Winnebago is not a horror movie, but a form of torture. The real horror is that these incredible boring scenes were interspersed with well orchestrated (if not tidy and convenient) kills, almost dulling the craftsmanship.
George Romero is known for his inventive spatters as well as his philosophic intentions. Although rather obvious in his portrayal, I still applaud his efforts. In Diary of the Dead, amongst the droll dialogue, there was a lot of pro-black, anti-brown commentary, including a lot of illegal immigrant slights that were lost on the predominantly Hispanic San Jose audience.
I tried to defend Romero, desperate to salvage his message of exposure vs. overzealous journalistic responsibility, restoring faith in humanity, oblivion in total awareness, although cringing at the blatant torn American flag in the girl’s dorm to hoping that was a Mason’s symbol in the Winnebago… or maybe even an Anheuser Busch logo. I got to thinking that maybe these kids were the worst zombies of all, mopey and jaded, the typical film student vibe and mantra “if it’s not on camera, it’s not really happening”. And that’s the mantra I was moaning during and after I saw Diary of the Dead “it’s not really happening… not really happening.”
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