ghost writers in the sky

O.k, so on monday my friend called to inform me she had tickets to a screening of Rusty Nails’ documentary (still a work-in-progress), Dead On:. The Life and Cinema of George A. Romero at the Melbourne international film festival, and that I should get my ass on a tram a.s.a.p. Old George is one of my idols for life, purely on the strength of his incredible Dawn of the dead, which, as you know, is the quintessentially definitive zombie film, and the high-water mark by which all others shall be judged.

I didn’t know that there was a Romero retrospective as part of the festival (actually I didn’t even know there was a festival on at all, having only been in Melbourne for, like, five minutes), and looking out at the darkened, unfamiliar suburbs gliding silently by the tram, I excitedly (and drunkenly) imagined shambling hordes of the flesh-hungry undead dragging themselves through the streets. Sitting down in the cinema, we were informed that Tina Romero, daughter of George was in attendance, and would be presenting her student short film, Rainbowarrior. As a New Zealander, the name Rainbow Warrior has a particular resonance, given that it is the name of the greenpeace protest vessel that was bombed and sunk in Auckland harbour in the eighties by the French government, a peculiar incident of state-sponsored international terrorism that killed one of the ship’s crewmembers. The incident is described rather entertainingly on the New zealand Police’s official website here, and rather dryly on wikipaedia here.

On taking the stage (the admittedly cute) Tina, seemingly oblivious of her title’s relevance, informed us that her film was named after a Cocorosie song (bleargh), and that it contained no zombies. She warned us that it was in an unfinished state. And it was. Tina’s film was bad by student film standards, and I’ve seen a lot of student films. Every aspect of the editing and sound was unpolished, the framing was apalling, the acting terrible, transitions cut to loooong black and the script seemed to describe the pseudo-lesbian psychic liberation of unattractive girls at a totalitarian girls school through an interpretive dance which makes the flowers grow throgh the snow outside. Woah. Fuck it was so bad, it was all I could do not to laugh during it. Sorry Tina, I’m sure you’ll do better in the future, but an international film festival was no place for that effort, especially with no sound dubbing or music cues.

Then Rusty Nails took the stage to introduce his documentary, warn us that it was in an unfinished state, and tell us that he wanted us to tear it to pieces in the q and a that was to follow.

And what a fantastic and entertaining piece of work it is! Tracing George’s film career right from the start (the early beer commercials are brilliant), and sewn together from film clips, hugely extensive interviews with George, and other related figures (most enjoyably John Waters, who should be a standup comedian, Stephen King, Tom Savini, Dennis Hopper, Dario Argento, Wim Wenders, Quentin Tarantino, Kevin Smith and many other relevant and irreverent people). George drinks beer and smokes endless camels throughout the film, which deals with each of his features in a chronological chapter arrangement.

smokin’ George

In the interviews Romero comes across as a candidly irascible, politically motivated nonconformist, who’s only measure of his work’s success is whether or not he likes the finished product personally. He is very cynical with regard to the american film industry (owing in part to his terrible treatment following the unexpected success of Dawn of the dead), and offers some pithy and critical observations about american life in general (drawing scattered applause from the audience at several junctures). The documentary maintains a respectful disinterest in his personal life, which suits his cautiously private, slightly suspicious demeanour. All in all though, under Rusty’s loving scrutiny (he told us that “the whole film is me hugging George”), Mr Romero is a fascinating and righteous dude, with some great stories.

The film, at this stage by no means a finished and polished product, is an affectionate homage to Romero’s life and work, seeking to redress a deficit of serious critical attention in his filmmaking, and install him in the canon of the auteurs. That his patchy career has denied him this is one of the main lessons of the film, as we observe how George’s humble disinterest in self-aggrandization has all but sabotaged his success in the cannibalistic hollywood environment.

The editing is tight and logical, the interviews well-paced, and the somewhere-over-two-hour running time seems to fly past. The one thing about the film I felt was lacking was a portrait of Romero’s wife, who, while tantalizingly mentioned in passing, is never discussed, despite the fact that she has always been intimately involved with his filmmaking, and was by his side through some really tough times. I wanted to raise this point in the q-and-a that followed, but Rusty was such an enjoyable raconteur with his stories of the three year plus journey of making his film that I forgot about it. I am sure it’s probably an editorial decision, recognising the Romero’s intense privacy, because let’s face it, how many how many death metal fans must have crawled out of their mother’s basements, donned zombie makeup and harassed Mr and Mrs Romero over the years?

Rusty comes across as a great guy (he’s one of us), taking off his marvel zombies hoodie to reveal a frickn sweet vintage captain america t-shirt. He talked about wanting to sneak a bit more punk rock into the film (at this stage there’s one Ramones song), and teased us with the identity of a famous indie director who will do the finished voiceover, another area in which the film was ocasionally lacking.

About fifteen minutes into the feature, I was stricken with the urgent need to urinate, owing to the piss-weak Australian beer I had been drinking earlier. I backed slowly up the stairs of the cinema, and then ran down the escalator to the bathroom, which was empty save for one cubicle, from which emanated the sounds of someone taking a piss. Standing at the urinal, I thought to myself how funny it would be if the invisible pisser was George A. Romero himself. When the toilet flushed and the door opened, I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder, and, lo and behold, there he fuckin was!! I was paralyzed by an immediate upwelling of fanboyish adulation, and tried desperately to think of something cool to say to my idol. Registering my excitement, the look that crossed his face was one of trepidation “oh god, it’s a fan”, so I looked down and studiously examined my stream of urine until he had washed his hands and shuffled out of the bathroom to rejoin his wife in the lobby.

casio :: Aug.03.2008 :: movie review :: 1 Comment »

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