Posted 12/1/2004 9:58 PM Updated 12/2/2004 11:09 AM
'I was a middle-aged zombie'
By Susan Wloszczyna, USA TODAY
TORONTO — My body is shivering hard enough to qualify as an aerobic activity. It's freezing outside. But that doesn't discourage a horde of what appear to be homeless people, in dire need of plastic surgery and a tanning booth, from gathering on a downtown side street this Saturday night.
I don't look too hot, either. My secondhand outfit of wrinkled cargo pants, tattered dirt-blue sweater and too-big sneakers could have been plucked from a roadside mud puddle. My hair is caked with goo. But my face is the real disaster, blood-splattered and pitted with rot. (Related gallery: Witness Susan Wloszczyna's, um, makeover)
I'm in a zombie movie. Not just any zombie movie, but Land of the Dead, directed and written by a man who has done more for the deceased than embalming fluid, Forest Lawn and HBO's Six Feet Under put together. To be in a George Romero zombie film, his first in almost 20 years, is like being in a Clint Eastwood Western or a Martin Scorsese gangster epic. It doesn't get much better than this.
I do have to contend with a hideous beak that monopolizes my cadaverous features and reminds me of the Wicked Witch's nose in The Wizard of Oz — after she melted. The cold air causes my own nose to run non-stop, and I dab gingerly lest stray bits of tissue cling to my spongy nasal passages. Almost as disconcerting are the full-eye contact lenses that I am required to wear to earn a camera close-up.
Having spent nearly an hour and 45 minutes in a makeup chair, breathing in noxious paint and glue fumes, I woozily rush onto the set to claim a spot. We wait. And wait some more. Someone comes by to spray mint-flavored black dye on my teeth for that dental-nightmare look. After a couple of rehearsals, a man with a megaphone at last shouts out these words of inspiration: "Remember, you're angry, you're hungry, you're dead, and all you want to do is eat human flesh."
Then he adds, "Action!"
We shamble forth en masse. Afterward, I sidle up to my fellow extras, assure them that behind this vile visage is a respectable reporter and ask a few questions. I quickly discern a distinct division among the 90 or so zombies: die-hard fans, who consider the experience a labor of love, and working stiffs, out to make a relatively easy buck.
A non-union zombie can collect $9 an hour, and $158 for a minimum eight hours if union.
Getting inside a zombie's head
Falling firmly into the first camp is a blood-streaked trio from Austin. Eric Vespe, 23, and his married friends, Aaron and Michaela McGuffey, both 26, are budding filmmakers. Their vampire short, Blind, attracted the services of Greg Nicotero, the head effects-and-makeup wizard on Land of the Dead. "When we heard he was doing this," Vespe says, "we were just like, 'Zombie duty!' He said come on up, we did, and he threw stuff on our face and made us look dead."
Michaela is a bit of a zombie-come-lately. "I wasn't into horror films until I started dating my husband." Now she isn't just into them, she is in one of them.
Landmarks of the 'Dead'
Land of the Dead grandly expands George Romero's zombie universe into an entire cityscape. Protected behind a massive barricade are the human survivors, including Simon Baker of TV's The Guardian and Asia Argento of XXX, who are rapidly depleting while the ever-evolving zombies now number thousands (digital zombies will fill in the blanks) and are learning to use weapons.
The budget is one of Romero's biggest at about $17 million, which is puny for anyone else, although financial concerns nixed the tradition of filming the zombie action in Pittsburgh.
But the trademarks that make Romero's monsters a superior breed remain:
They move slowly. Always. Never mind those MTV-era turbo creatures in 28 Days Later or the Dawn of the Dead remake.
They are fed up. Romero's cannibalistic zombies may not hurry, but they are relentless and increasingly aggressive, unlike those subservient voodoo-controlled sleepwalkers of early cinematic lore.
They can be stopped. Remember, there is only one way to halt them. As they say in Night of the Living Dead, "Kill the brain, and you kill the ghoul." A bullet in the head is most effective.
— Susan Wloszczyna
"I jumped at the chance to be a Romero zombie," Aaron adds. "It's not just about flash and gore. He puts a lot of heart into it."
Yes, and other eviscerated organs. Vespe, a contributor to the Web site Ain't It Cool News whose nom de Net is Quint, passes along these pointers for fledgling fiends: "Don't walk like Frankenstein. Everyone seems to do that. And no re-enacting the swim," which he demonstrates by rotating his arms in aquatic fashion. Instead, he says, "be very drunk and sleepy."
I stare at the tall, reed-thin gent behind me with wispy gray hair. He exudes grandfatherly ghoulishness. Asked how he is doing, Peter Schoelier, 60, of Kitchener, Ontario, gummily replies, "I'm enjoying it." He plops his teeth back in, the better to explain how he got his first movie job. "They said I have the perfect face for this role." His motivation is simple: "I'm looking for brains to eat."
As for my reason for hunting for human snacks, well, I admit it is strange that a middle-aged woman who hardly ever goes out in public minus mascara and lip gloss has sublimated her vanity for the sake of imitating a moldy corpse.
But I hungrily plotted for this opportunity ever since learning that Romero was adding a fourth chapter to his skin-crawling saga about the recently expired coming back to life that began with 1968's cult classic Night of the Living Dead. Then there was the second, gorier helping, 1979's Dawn of the Dead. But the genre was all but laid to rest after 1985's Day of the Dead.
Who would have guessed a new day would dawn for the movie dead? First there was video-game-inspired Resident Evil in 2002, followed by the Brit hit 28 Days Later the next year. After the remake of Dawn of the Dead opened at No. 1 this past spring, Romero, who last directed the straight-to-video Bruiser in 2000, was about to see his career resurrected as well.
Expectations run high for Romero's first zombie effort distributed by a major studio, Universal, which has claimed the prime release date of Oct. 21, 2005, right near Halloween. Says Universal vice chairman Marc Shmuger, "When we read in Variety that Atmosphere (a production company) was setting up a new George Romero zombie picture, I called Mark (Canton, co-founder of Atmosphere) within seconds of finishing the article."
My personal obsession with the filmmaker's grisly fantasies began as a teen in the early '70s when I was introduced to the frightful delights of Night of the Living Dead at a suburban Buffalo drive-in. As a handful of humans took shelter in a farmhouse while zombies loomed, I was transfixed by the amateurish yet compelling performances and the shadowy terrors.
Some jokers abandoned their cars and began to imitate the toddler gait of the zombies, tapping on our windows. Never, ever had I been more scared. At home, I begged my pal Tom to help me check on my sleeping parents to make sure they weren't eaten, too. They were, of course, unmunched. But I was consumed by zombie desire and craved more. Now, I am finally getting my fill.
I find my zombie zealot match in Nicotero, who got his start doing effects on Day of the Dead and who has gone on to work with the best in the biz, from Quentin Tarantino (both Kill Bill movies) to Sam Raimi (Army of Darkness).
The onetime pre-med student, 41, turned down the chance to do Steven Spielberg's War of the Worlds to reteam with the 64-year-old horror master. His most surprising revelation: Romero doesn't bother to direct the zombies.
"If you have 60 people dress like zombies and you show them something that you like, you get 60 people doing the exact same thing," he explains. "My opinion of a good zombie walk is to loll your head as if it's a little too heavy and the muscles have begun to atrophy." I tuck the handy advice away.
My second scene is about to start. We are asked who among us has been fitted for lenses, and I raise my hand along with extra Michael Abrams, 32, of Toronto. We're trotted off to get our creepy peepers, which cause us to be half-blind as we stumble back to the street.
Besides stopping me from falling off curbs, Abrams tells me how to find your mark — pick an object as a guide to return to after each take. At least the lenses keep me focused as I hang my head and scowl menacingly while keeping pace with my silent brethren.
My taste of immortality
I feel good about this effort. Sure enough, one of the producers later informs me that, after watching the playback, Romero told him, "I want to give her a feeding scene."
Victory is mine. However, it's 11 p.m. and that means lunch. And a quick bathroom break. As I reach for the door, a woman comes out and jumps back. "You scared me," she says nervously. Her words are like an Oscar to my bruised purply ears. I look in the mirror as I wash my hands. I scare myself.
I then get an audience with Romero, my idol. He greets me warmly and shares his take on zombies: "They are just us with quirks." We chat for a while before he does a double-take and says with a snort, "It is so weird talking to a zombie." Which is like a second Oscar.
The moment comes for my "gag," or stunt. It's not so much a feeding as feeding foreplay: another female zombie and I must attack a human. Albert, aka our designated dinner, turns out to be a geek of annoying proportions as he counts down out loud how many hours are left before he can buy the DVD of The Chronicles of Riddick. Not even Vin Diesel's mother should be this eager. Then he brags about how he has found his mark. I want to say, "I've found my mark, too, and you are it, dead meat."
I enter the zombie zone and before I realize it, it is 4:30 a.m. Quitting time. Off I go to be stripped of the muck on my face, which lasts about an hour and 15 minutes.
Exhausted, I drive 90 minutes to my parents' home outside Buffalo. The sun rises as I cross the bridge. As the customs inspector quizzes me, I decide it wise to skip the deadly details of my visit. He asks what I do for a living. "I'm a reporter," I say. "Where?" "USA TODAY."
"Wow," he exclaims. "Is it fun?"
I flash my best zombie smile, remnants of dye still staining my teeth, and say: "You have no idea."
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