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| Night of the Living Dead (Directed by George Romero) |
Director George Romero had a remarkable start with his first feature, Night of the Living Dead (1968). With a cast of Pittsburgh unknowns and a budget of under $70,000, it went on to become a horror cult classic, grossing more than $10 million and establishing Romero as a master of the genre.
Romero followed Night with It's Always Vanilla (1970) and Jack's Wife (1971), two films that were not widely released and now largely overlooked. Romero remained in Pittsburgh, concerned about being stereotyped as a horror filmmaker. Despite this, he continued to work, producing advertisements and sports specials for television. His next feature The Crazies has always been overshadowed by his zombie films, yet this pandemic thriller is possibly Romero's most daring investigation of his central theme: the breakdown of social order.
The film's unsettling concept must have had a resonance in the crisis-ridden early 1970s. A military jet crashes in western Pennsylvania, unleashing an unknown virus into the water supply and rendering the locals violent. The administration moves into denial mode, contemplating unleashing a bomb on the afflicted town. The virus was being researched as a biological weapon. Soldiers in hazmat suits and gas masks storm the scene, and gun-toting residents quickly retaliate.
The basic paranoid theme of "The Crazies," which recurs in the cycle of plague films, can be traced back to Don Siegel's 1956 sci-fi classic "Invasion of the Body Snatchers": How can you know if someone is infected? Also, how can you avoid becoming infected?
The action switches between a scientist (Richard France) working on an antidote and a ragged band of holdouts lead by a firefighter (W.G. McMillan) and his pregnant girlfriend (Lane Carroll). However, among the survivors, mistrust and terror quickly set in.
When the calamity is a communicable virus, the feeling of community that often arises in disaster films is significantly undercut. Romero, like in “Night of the Living Dead” (1968), questions the purity of society's most basic unit: the nuclear family.
Martin (1977), his comeback to the horror genre, garnered critical acclaim, telling the tale of a young man who believes he is a vampire, who moves to a Pennsylvania town to live with his elderly, cousin and try to satisfy his bloodlust.
This was followed by the seminal Dawn of the Dead (1979), in which the undead now roam the whole continent of America, feasting on the flesh of the living. In a desolate retail mall, TV reporter Francine (Gaylen Ross), her boyfriend Stephen (David Emge), and two SWAT team police seek sanctuary. Despite their best attempts, their brief shelter is jeopardised when a group of raiding motorcyclists destroys the barrier, allowing the undead to enter the retail centre.
The following interview for Twilight Zone magazine is from 1981 and was undertaken during the release of Romero’s Knightriders, about modern-day knights who joust on motorcycles.
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| Night of the Living Dead (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: You’ve been making movies ever since you were young. Were you always interested in horror films?
Romero: I loved all genre films—horror movies as well as war pictures and cowboy films. Whenever one was at a neighborhood theater or on television, I’d watch it. That’s the way I learned how they worked. However, it was just circumstance, the fact that Night of the Living Dead was my first picture, that I got a reputation as a director of horror films. I chose the genre because I liked it, and because I wanted to do something commercial.
TZ: Night of the Living Dead has come to be considered a classic independent film. How did you make it for so little money?
Romero: First of all, it was based on a short story that I wrote. I didn’t have to buy the rights. Then a friend of mine and I collaborated on the screenplay. The production was also very simple. At the time, I had a small film company going. We were doing commercials primarily, but we had all the hardware and a crew of people, and that’s what we used to make the film. Plus we used a lot of friends in the cast—even some of the advertising people we were working with in Pittsburgh. They came out to play the zombies. There was a great deal of local cooperation, because we were the first feature film based out of Pittsburgh.
TZ: Were the actors professional?
Romero: Three or four of them were. But as professional as you can get as an actor in Pittsburgh means doing radio or television. Primarily the cast was friends and people who showed up.
TZ: I’ve heard you were unable to get a major studio to distribute the film. Why do you think you had so much trouble?
Romero: Well, for one thing, I really didn’t know what I was doing. After I made the film, I literally threw it in the trunk of the car and brought it to New York. The first studio I called was Columbia, and I was surprised when they told me to come on in with the film. They held it for three months. They kept saying, “It’s great” and “We’re thinking about it.” But finally they turned it down, because the film was in black and white, and it was hard to get drive-ins to play black and white pictures. The next studio I went to was AIP. They said, “Change the ending, and you’ve got a deal.”
Romero: I loved all genre films—horror movies as well as war pictures and cowboy films. Whenever one was at a neighborhood theater or on television, I’d watch it. That’s the way I learned how they worked. However, it was just circumstance, the fact that Night of the Living Dead was my first picture, that I got a reputation as a director of horror films. I chose the genre because I liked it, and because I wanted to do something commercial.
TZ: Night of the Living Dead has come to be considered a classic independent film. How did you make it for so little money?
Romero: First of all, it was based on a short story that I wrote. I didn’t have to buy the rights. Then a friend of mine and I collaborated on the screenplay. The production was also very simple. At the time, I had a small film company going. We were doing commercials primarily, but we had all the hardware and a crew of people, and that’s what we used to make the film. Plus we used a lot of friends in the cast—even some of the advertising people we were working with in Pittsburgh. They came out to play the zombies. There was a great deal of local cooperation, because we were the first feature film based out of Pittsburgh.
TZ: Were the actors professional?
Romero: Three or four of them were. But as professional as you can get as an actor in Pittsburgh means doing radio or television. Primarily the cast was friends and people who showed up.
TZ: I’ve heard you were unable to get a major studio to distribute the film. Why do you think you had so much trouble?
Romero: Well, for one thing, I really didn’t know what I was doing. After I made the film, I literally threw it in the trunk of the car and brought it to New York. The first studio I called was Columbia, and I was surprised when they told me to come on in with the film. They held it for three months. They kept saying, “It’s great” and “We’re thinking about it.” But finally they turned it down, because the film was in black and white, and it was hard to get drive-ins to play black and white pictures. The next studio I went to was AIP. They said, “Change the ending, and you’ve got a deal.”
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| Night of the Living Dead (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: How did they want it changed?
Romero: They didn’t want the hero to die. But I refused to do it. It would have changed what the picture was about. By this time, five months had gone by, and I decided to forget the major studios and get my own sales rep. Finally the Walter Reade-Continental chain made an offer, and I took it.
TZ: Were you surprised when Night of the Living Dead became such a success on the midnight cult circuit?
Romero: Very much—although that was in its second wave. The film was an immediate hit on the drive-in circuit. That’s what a lot of people don’t realize. It made a lot of money right away. In fact, the only money that it ever returned to us was during that first nine months. After that, the film sort of dropped out of existence for about a year and a half. Then Walter Reade released it on a double bill with a film called Slaves. Rex Reed and some of the other critics wrote that it was better than Slaves. Then the Elgin and the Waverly and a couple of other theaters started to play it at midnight. It began to get international press, and that really surprised me. I knew that it was a good horror film, but by this point, all I could see in it were the flaws, the things I wished I could go back and correct.
TZ: Despite your own dissatisfaction, the film’s success was certainly important to your career.
Romero: Yes and no. I was able to raise the money right away to make more movies. But in retrospect, I think it happened too quickly. Though I did have ideas for other films, I had no idea what the business was about. I was just a guy making beer commercials in Pittsburgh.
TZ: I’ve read that you were reluctant to do another horror picture right away, for fear you’d be typed as a horror director.
Romero: That’s true. So what did I do? I went and made two films that probably six people saw—It’s Always Vanilla and Jack’s Wife. I learned a lot from them in terms of developing as a filmmaker, but what they really taught me was the nature of the film business. I learned that the film industry is not going to accept serious little dramas from some upstart in Pittsburgh—especially if the films have no stars. As they say in the biz, there’s no bottom-side protection. Those two films taught me what the odds were against that kind of small personal film. I still don’t think those films are bad, I just think they were the wrong kind of film to make at that stage in my career.
Romero: They didn’t want the hero to die. But I refused to do it. It would have changed what the picture was about. By this time, five months had gone by, and I decided to forget the major studios and get my own sales rep. Finally the Walter Reade-Continental chain made an offer, and I took it.
TZ: Were you surprised when Night of the Living Dead became such a success on the midnight cult circuit?
Romero: Very much—although that was in its second wave. The film was an immediate hit on the drive-in circuit. That’s what a lot of people don’t realize. It made a lot of money right away. In fact, the only money that it ever returned to us was during that first nine months. After that, the film sort of dropped out of existence for about a year and a half. Then Walter Reade released it on a double bill with a film called Slaves. Rex Reed and some of the other critics wrote that it was better than Slaves. Then the Elgin and the Waverly and a couple of other theaters started to play it at midnight. It began to get international press, and that really surprised me. I knew that it was a good horror film, but by this point, all I could see in it were the flaws, the things I wished I could go back and correct.
TZ: Despite your own dissatisfaction, the film’s success was certainly important to your career.
Romero: Yes and no. I was able to raise the money right away to make more movies. But in retrospect, I think it happened too quickly. Though I did have ideas for other films, I had no idea what the business was about. I was just a guy making beer commercials in Pittsburgh.
TZ: I’ve read that you were reluctant to do another horror picture right away, for fear you’d be typed as a horror director.
Romero: That’s true. So what did I do? I went and made two films that probably six people saw—It’s Always Vanilla and Jack’s Wife. I learned a lot from them in terms of developing as a filmmaker, but what they really taught me was the nature of the film business. I learned that the film industry is not going to accept serious little dramas from some upstart in Pittsburgh—especially if the films have no stars. As they say in the biz, there’s no bottom-side protection. Those two films taught me what the odds were against that kind of small personal film. I still don’t think those films are bad, I just think they were the wrong kind of film to make at that stage in my career.
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| The Crazies (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: Is that why you returned to the horror genre?
Romero: No, because I didn’t—at least not right away. After those two films, I got involved with a small independent New York distributor, Cambist, and I made The Crazies. It’s a disaster film about a bio-weap- ons spill. This film didn’t hit, either, but in this case the problem was not with the film, but with the handling. When the distributor saw the rough cut, he thought he had Jaws on his hands. Consequently he tried to open it too big, and he spent a lot of money just opening in New York. It was a lot of money for him, but it wasn’t enough to compete with the big studios. He ended up having to shelve the film.
TZ: Tell me more about the film itself.
Romero: It was inspired by the science fiction disaster films of the 1950s. It’s about a plane that crashes, spilling a substance designed for germ warfare. Nobody knows exactly what’s going on. People are being affected by the germ, but they don’t know it. All they know is that the army has come into town and is trying to herd them all together. The soldiers are just as confused as the townspeople. There are only a few officials in the Pentagon who know what actually happened, and what results is a conflict between the townspeople and the military forces.
TZ: It sounds very political.
Romero: It is. It was made just around the time of Kent State. You remember how angry people were about the shootings on the campus by the National Guard. Ultimately, I think, the film deals with the politics a little too lightly. It has sort of an outrageous, bawdy style, and some people may have thought we were making fun of politics, exploiting Vietnam and the Kent State tragedy. We weren’t at all. In fact, The Crazies was a very angry and radical film, if one sees through the comic surface.
TZ: Who are the Crazies in the title? The soldiers or the townspeople?
Romero: The people. Once they come in contact with the bug, they go crazy. However, there’s a scientist brought in to handle the situation who observes that you can’t tell who’s crazy and who’s not.
TZ: It sounds to some extent like what happens in Night of the Living Dead, in which the people who are alive get killed and almost immediately turn into zombies.
Romero: That’s because I was dealing with the same idea in both movies—how easily the victim becomes the monster. For instance, in Night of the Living Dead, take those scenes with the little girl. Her mother’s trying to protect her, but then the girl dies, and seconds later she’s a zombie, going after her mother. What I’m trying to show is how the monster, the evil, is not something lurking in the distance, but something actually inside all of us.
That’s what Stephen King shows so well. He takes a real situation, a very mundane situation, and throws it just two degrees out of whack. It’s like Village of the Damned, where those delightful little children are really the evil ones. That’s a very scary thing. It’s like meeting an insane person on the street.
Romero: No, because I didn’t—at least not right away. After those two films, I got involved with a small independent New York distributor, Cambist, and I made The Crazies. It’s a disaster film about a bio-weap- ons spill. This film didn’t hit, either, but in this case the problem was not with the film, but with the handling. When the distributor saw the rough cut, he thought he had Jaws on his hands. Consequently he tried to open it too big, and he spent a lot of money just opening in New York. It was a lot of money for him, but it wasn’t enough to compete with the big studios. He ended up having to shelve the film.
TZ: Tell me more about the film itself.
Romero: It was inspired by the science fiction disaster films of the 1950s. It’s about a plane that crashes, spilling a substance designed for germ warfare. Nobody knows exactly what’s going on. People are being affected by the germ, but they don’t know it. All they know is that the army has come into town and is trying to herd them all together. The soldiers are just as confused as the townspeople. There are only a few officials in the Pentagon who know what actually happened, and what results is a conflict between the townspeople and the military forces.
TZ: It sounds very political.
Romero: It is. It was made just around the time of Kent State. You remember how angry people were about the shootings on the campus by the National Guard. Ultimately, I think, the film deals with the politics a little too lightly. It has sort of an outrageous, bawdy style, and some people may have thought we were making fun of politics, exploiting Vietnam and the Kent State tragedy. We weren’t at all. In fact, The Crazies was a very angry and radical film, if one sees through the comic surface.
TZ: Who are the Crazies in the title? The soldiers or the townspeople?
Romero: The people. Once they come in contact with the bug, they go crazy. However, there’s a scientist brought in to handle the situation who observes that you can’t tell who’s crazy and who’s not.
TZ: It sounds to some extent like what happens in Night of the Living Dead, in which the people who are alive get killed and almost immediately turn into zombies.
Romero: That’s because I was dealing with the same idea in both movies—how easily the victim becomes the monster. For instance, in Night of the Living Dead, take those scenes with the little girl. Her mother’s trying to protect her, but then the girl dies, and seconds later she’s a zombie, going after her mother. What I’m trying to show is how the monster, the evil, is not something lurking in the distance, but something actually inside all of us.
That’s what Stephen King shows so well. He takes a real situation, a very mundane situation, and throws it just two degrees out of whack. It’s like Village of the Damned, where those delightful little children are really the evil ones. That’s a very scary thing. It’s like meeting an insane person on the street.
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| Martin (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: Talking about what constitutes horror, the next big feature you did was Martin. I remember the Newsweek review, which said, “Romero poses the question of whether the hero, Martin, is in fact an eighty-four- year-old vampire from Transylvania or an eighteen-year-old psychotic from Pittsburgh.” Is that how you saw the movie?
Romero: In a way. Martin is designed to show that all those supernatural monsters that are part of our literary tradition are, in essence, expurgations of ourselves. They are beasts we’ve created in order to exorcise the monster from within us. Whether it’s a monster made out of spare parts, one that grows out of us, or something we turn into during a full moon, monsters have traditionally been considered embodiments of our own evil. By distinguishing them from us, we could destroy them. I tried to show in Martin that you can’t just slice off this evil part of ourselves and throw it away. It’s a permanent part of us, and we’d better try to understand it.
TZ: Are you saying that we’re all innately evil?
Romero: “Potentially evil” is a better way of putting it. I don’t think there’s an intrinsically evil side to man. But I think all of us at certain times in our lives do things that are compromising, things that go against our conscience. There’s a line we won’t cross, and for all of us it’s a question of “Where is that line?” Sometimes we stretch it a bit. No matter who we are, and how much we’re satisfied with our own be- havior, there are always those moments we feel guilty about. That’s the guilt we’re trying to unload by creating monsters. We can then punish ourselves by punishing the monster, allowing our good side to prevail. In Martin, by showing an eighteen-year-old psychotic kid who on one hand is himself and on the other hand is this monster, I’m showing that the monster can never die. It’s like in Night of the Living Dead. You can kill the monster, but your next-door neighbor may become him tomorrow.
TZ: In real life, who would you be more afraid to run into on a dark Pittsburgh street—the vampire or the young psychotic?
Romero: Probably the psychotic, because he looks normal, but a second later he could change. That’s precisely the point I’m trying to make. Traditionally, whenever we see vampires in the movies, we’ve come to expect a certain predictable behavior. For example, we all know that vampires are only going to frighten us at night, and that to get rid of them, all we have to do is find their casket and put a stake through their heart. What I’m trying to show in Martin is that we can’t expect the monster to be predictable. That’s also what Steve’s saying in his books.
Romero: In a way. Martin is designed to show that all those supernatural monsters that are part of our literary tradition are, in essence, expurgations of ourselves. They are beasts we’ve created in order to exorcise the monster from within us. Whether it’s a monster made out of spare parts, one that grows out of us, or something we turn into during a full moon, monsters have traditionally been considered embodiments of our own evil. By distinguishing them from us, we could destroy them. I tried to show in Martin that you can’t just slice off this evil part of ourselves and throw it away. It’s a permanent part of us, and we’d better try to understand it.
TZ: Are you saying that we’re all innately evil?
Romero: “Potentially evil” is a better way of putting it. I don’t think there’s an intrinsically evil side to man. But I think all of us at certain times in our lives do things that are compromising, things that go against our conscience. There’s a line we won’t cross, and for all of us it’s a question of “Where is that line?” Sometimes we stretch it a bit. No matter who we are, and how much we’re satisfied with our own be- havior, there are always those moments we feel guilty about. That’s the guilt we’re trying to unload by creating monsters. We can then punish ourselves by punishing the monster, allowing our good side to prevail. In Martin, by showing an eighteen-year-old psychotic kid who on one hand is himself and on the other hand is this monster, I’m showing that the monster can never die. It’s like in Night of the Living Dead. You can kill the monster, but your next-door neighbor may become him tomorrow.
TZ: In real life, who would you be more afraid to run into on a dark Pittsburgh street—the vampire or the young psychotic?
Romero: Probably the psychotic, because he looks normal, but a second later he could change. That’s precisely the point I’m trying to make. Traditionally, whenever we see vampires in the movies, we’ve come to expect a certain predictable behavior. For example, we all know that vampires are only going to frighten us at night, and that to get rid of them, all we have to do is find their casket and put a stake through their heart. What I’m trying to show in Martin is that we can’t expect the monster to be predictable. That’s also what Steve’s saying in his books.
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| Martin (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: One of the things I found most interesting about Martin, and which lends itself to what you’re saying, is the fact that he uses razors against his victims, rather than fangs. I think that makes him much more horrifying.
Romero: Visually it’s certainly more horrifying. It also makes him more mysterious. Fangs don’t come out just when he feels the need, and the need is not connected to the moon or the night. However, on the other hand, Martin’s got a very detailed and meticulous M.O. He uses syringes and razor blades. He has a little kit with breaking and entering tools, and he knows about things like burglar alarms, and electric garage-door openers, which is one of those supposedly fail-safe devices, but which he uses to get into the one house he attacks. That’s another level of Martin. It’s saying that the very things we take comfort in and feel safe because we have, like garage-door openers, are in fact not going to save us.
TZ: In the case of Martin, did you have the different levels of the film thought out in advance, or did they just develop?
Romero: I planned it all in advance. I always do that. It’s a self-preservation technique. Knowing what this business is like, I don’t like to sit down and do a final script and get all excited and emotionally involved with it until I know for sure there’s a deal. And thanks to the talents of my partner, I’ve been in the luxurious position of making all of our deals on the basis of treatments and story ideas. Consequently, all of the films I’ve made come from ideas that I’ve had for a year or more. I have little index files with story-line ideas, and I work on them a lot. But it’s not until I know the film’s definitely going to be made that I actually sit down and write the final script. I think it’s important to be in touch with the story at the time you’re doing it. I would hate to take out one of my old scripts that’s been sitting in the drawer and film it without being able to rework it.
TZ: As a novelist, I know that when you’re in the process of writing scenes that are particularly horrifying, they can sometimes have a chilling effect. Does the same thing happen to you as a director? Or because it’s a group enterprise, with so many people around, does that diminish the thrill?
Romero: It happens when you’re cutting the film. It’s four in the morning, you’re all alone working on a scene, and you finish it, shut off the lights, and play it for yourself. Those are the times one of your own scenes may frighten you. It’s happened to me three or four times. It happened with Night of the Living Dead, with a couple of scenes in Martin, and with the knitting needle scene in The Crazies. It’s a scene with a little old lady—again, it’s one of those things that are two degrees off-whack. She’s sitting in a rocking chair, knitting. A soldier walks in to take her to safety, and she lays into him with her knitting needle. That scene really got to me the first time I saw it.
Romero: Visually it’s certainly more horrifying. It also makes him more mysterious. Fangs don’t come out just when he feels the need, and the need is not connected to the moon or the night. However, on the other hand, Martin’s got a very detailed and meticulous M.O. He uses syringes and razor blades. He has a little kit with breaking and entering tools, and he knows about things like burglar alarms, and electric garage-door openers, which is one of those supposedly fail-safe devices, but which he uses to get into the one house he attacks. That’s another level of Martin. It’s saying that the very things we take comfort in and feel safe because we have, like garage-door openers, are in fact not going to save us.
TZ: In the case of Martin, did you have the different levels of the film thought out in advance, or did they just develop?
Romero: I planned it all in advance. I always do that. It’s a self-preservation technique. Knowing what this business is like, I don’t like to sit down and do a final script and get all excited and emotionally involved with it until I know for sure there’s a deal. And thanks to the talents of my partner, I’ve been in the luxurious position of making all of our deals on the basis of treatments and story ideas. Consequently, all of the films I’ve made come from ideas that I’ve had for a year or more. I have little index files with story-line ideas, and I work on them a lot. But it’s not until I know the film’s definitely going to be made that I actually sit down and write the final script. I think it’s important to be in touch with the story at the time you’re doing it. I would hate to take out one of my old scripts that’s been sitting in the drawer and film it without being able to rework it.
TZ: As a novelist, I know that when you’re in the process of writing scenes that are particularly horrifying, they can sometimes have a chilling effect. Does the same thing happen to you as a director? Or because it’s a group enterprise, with so many people around, does that diminish the thrill?
Romero: It happens when you’re cutting the film. It’s four in the morning, you’re all alone working on a scene, and you finish it, shut off the lights, and play it for yourself. Those are the times one of your own scenes may frighten you. It’s happened to me three or four times. It happened with Night of the Living Dead, with a couple of scenes in Martin, and with the knitting needle scene in The Crazies. It’s a scene with a little old lady—again, it’s one of those things that are two degrees off-whack. She’s sitting in a rocking chair, knitting. A soldier walks in to take her to safety, and she lays into him with her knitting needle. That scene really got to me the first time I saw it.
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| Martin (Directed by George Romero) |
TZ: What about when you rescreen one of your movies? Does it still have an effect on you, or have you seen it too often?
Romero: I make a habit of laying off my films for long periods of time, and then taking a fresh look. After it was first made, I laid off Night of the Living Dead for three years. Even when I would be speaking about it somewhere, I wouldn’t sit in while it was being shown. That’s because all I could see were the problems. Right now, I haven’t seen the film for four years.
Even when you’re making the film, it’s sometimes hard to tell whether it’s working. In that respect, filmmaking is different from writing. I know that when I write a script, I can lay off it for a few days and then go back and get a sense of how it’s reading. A film is different when you’re working on it, because you see it over and over. You see how the images cut against each other, and you know exactly what’s coming. You really need time away from it before you can let it affect your senses with any degree of freshness.
The impact of film is basically visceral—and that’s particularly so, with horror, as well as comedy. Whenever you’re trying to evoke a spontaneous reaction, like a laugh, a cry, or a startle, it’s a very delicate process. You don’t know if it’s working, because you yourself never get to experience it for the first time. It’s really instrument flying. You’re banking on understanding intellectually that if you connect this sound with this image, then you’ll get a rise out of the audience.
TZ: But you don’t really know until you show it to people?
Romero: That’s right. And sometimes it’s a very rude awakening. The first time you have it is in front of forty people. If everyone sits there and the suspense or horror doesn’t hit them, you know it’s not work- ing. You can just feel it.
TZ: Do you make a point of seeing the films of other horror directors? Romero: Sure. I go to see everyone else’s work. I like John Carpenter a lot. He’s really very skilled at frightening you, and I think Halloween is beautiful. I also think David Cronenberg does a good job. I like both The Brood and Scanners. Another favorite director of mine is Roman Polanski. I thought Repulsion was incredible, especially the scene with the mirror. Catherine Deneuve opens a door that has a mirror on it, and as the door is moving, there’s maybe a frame or two where you see, in the mirror, a figure standing behind her. There’s not even a sound, but it’s a real heart-stopper. The film itself is beautifully crafted. It tightens all your nerve endings and makes you ready for something horrifying.
Romero: I make a habit of laying off my films for long periods of time, and then taking a fresh look. After it was first made, I laid off Night of the Living Dead for three years. Even when I would be speaking about it somewhere, I wouldn’t sit in while it was being shown. That’s because all I could see were the problems. Right now, I haven’t seen the film for four years.
Even when you’re making the film, it’s sometimes hard to tell whether it’s working. In that respect, filmmaking is different from writing. I know that when I write a script, I can lay off it for a few days and then go back and get a sense of how it’s reading. A film is different when you’re working on it, because you see it over and over. You see how the images cut against each other, and you know exactly what’s coming. You really need time away from it before you can let it affect your senses with any degree of freshness.
The impact of film is basically visceral—and that’s particularly so, with horror, as well as comedy. Whenever you’re trying to evoke a spontaneous reaction, like a laugh, a cry, or a startle, it’s a very delicate process. You don’t know if it’s working, because you yourself never get to experience it for the first time. It’s really instrument flying. You’re banking on understanding intellectually that if you connect this sound with this image, then you’ll get a rise out of the audience.
TZ: But you don’t really know until you show it to people?
Romero: That’s right. And sometimes it’s a very rude awakening. The first time you have it is in front of forty people. If everyone sits there and the suspense or horror doesn’t hit them, you know it’s not work- ing. You can just feel it.
TZ: Do you make a point of seeing the films of other horror directors? Romero: Sure. I go to see everyone else’s work. I like John Carpenter a lot. He’s really very skilled at frightening you, and I think Halloween is beautiful. I also think David Cronenberg does a good job. I like both The Brood and Scanners. Another favorite director of mine is Roman Polanski. I thought Repulsion was incredible, especially the scene with the mirror. Catherine Deneuve opens a door that has a mirror on it, and as the door is moving, there’s maybe a frame or two where you see, in the mirror, a figure standing behind her. There’s not even a sound, but it’s a real heart-stopper. The film itself is beautifully crafted. It tightens all your nerve endings and makes you ready for something horrifying.
Alien did that, too. Alien is an example of how a film can create tension regardless of its story. If you really think about it, we’ve seen that kind of plot, before. What gives the film its tension is the sight of those empty halls, plus the steam and the noise, all of which has a very visceral impact. It wasn’t the jumps that were particularly effective.
TZ: What do you mean by jumps?
Romero: Jumps are when you manipulate the audience into literally jumping in their seats. Anybody can do them. You can make an audience jump with ninety minutes of black leader in which, at random intervals, you’ve put a white frame synchronized with a loud noise. That’ll make them jump. Of course, it’s not the same thing as really putting the audience on edge and holding them there.
– Revealing the Monsters within Us by Tom Seligson/1981. From Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, August 1981, 12–17.
TZ: What do you mean by jumps?
Romero: Jumps are when you manipulate the audience into literally jumping in their seats. Anybody can do them. You can make an audience jump with ninety minutes of black leader in which, at random intervals, you’ve put a white frame synchronized with a loud noise. That’ll make them jump. Of course, it’s not the same thing as really putting the audience on edge and holding them there.
– Revealing the Monsters within Us by Tom Seligson/1981. From Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, August 1981, 12–17.
